Drip, drip.

Water splashed from a faucet carved into a phoenix head, its beak opening over the porcelain sink. This room was the most opulent bathroom in the manor - the one adjoining the master bedroom.

Drip, drip.

Draco moved the handle carefully; he had to get it in an exact spot to stop it from running. He succeeded on the first try and was rewarded with silence. The white marble of the room gleamed in the sun streaming through a skylight, illuminating colorful toothbrushes clustered by the sink, a few of Teddy's bath toys jumbled in a wire basket next to the same enormous tub Narcissa had once washed Draco's hair in.

The memory of his mother from all those years ago, when they were both kinder, made Draco close his eyes.

Est-ce que tu es heureux, mon petit dragon?"

"I don't know," Draco said to no one and looked at himself in the mirror. Mussed hair, shadowed eyes, forehead lined with all the emotions swirling inside him for the past couple of weeks. Shame for wishing his father dead. Guilt for leaving Harry behind. Anxiety for coming to terms with being stuck in a job poisoning him from the inside out. Just like the Dark Mark.

Draco looked down at his forearm, where the black snake's coils had been marred with red, raised lines, parts of them crusted with dried blood. He'd done it out of pure spite, with the same razor he used to shave. It was mania and anger that poured out of the cuts and dripped onto the tiles that he'd had to clean thoroughly, lest Teddy see. Self-harm, though only half of it was self-hatred. The other half was a lead-heavy fear of the thing on his arm, feeling as if it was beginning to wrap around his soul.

Draco braced himself against the sink and exhaled slowly. I'm okay now. He knew how flimsy that phrase was, how vague and uncomforting. But his cuts were healing, and the urge to reopen them had passed. Draco had spent days in his childhood home, curled up in old sheets as his thoughts flew back and forth like a doped Seeker. He put on a cheerful façade for Teddy, then cried on the floor of the bathroom. Andromeda had been a gift from gods, making Draco eat, walking with him in the garden as he rambled, not asking questions. She'd found a potion for him, too, a calming draught with Celtic Spinning Lavender to alleviate symptoms of anxiety.

"I'm okay," Draco said aloud. "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." He believed it and was grateful for believing.

Andromeda was waiting for him outside of the bathroom, her gray-streaked brown hair plaited and her eyes wide with worry. "Draco, there's someone at the door for you."

Draco adjusted his sleeve. "Did you let them in?"

"He's in the foyer."

Draco felt a twinge of disappointment; he'd been hoping it was Luna, whom he'd written a letter to yesterday. He'd sorely missed her, but he knew how busy she was studying botanical magic in Iceland. "Do I know him?"

Andromeda bit the inside of her cheek, and Draco recognized the gesture from his mother; she was thinking of lying.

"Merlin's sake. It's Harry, isn't it," Draco groaned.

"Just go, Draco," Andromeda pleaded. "Talk to him. I've told him you're here. No more hiding."

A million emotions had been stirred up again, irrational anger on the surface. Didn't Harry know Draco was sick of being an Auror? Did Draco seriously need to spell it out for him - he didn't want to return to Cambridge and be his little sparring partner anymore. The prick. But despite it all, Draco loved Harry, and he knew it, and some part of him ached for the opportunity to see and hold him again. As long as Harry didn't say anything stupid. Which was certainly not impossible.

Draco gritted his teeth and strode down the corridor, heading for the stairs, Andromeda close behind. "Try not to break any furniture," she chided. "I'll be in the garden with Teddy." She left as they reached the living room, and Draco walked into the foyer.

Harry Potter stood immediately from a sofa, eyes shining like emeralds, brows crinkled. His hair was messier than ever, his Muggle shirt wrinkled as if he'd slept in it. Draco had been planning to shout at him to get out, but the sight of him after weeks drew all the breath out of Draco's lungs. He didn't look helpless, nor desperate, but relieved. Draco suddenly remembered something Harry had once said to him in eighth year, about not needing him but wanting him more than anything. Harry did not depend on Draco for survival. Perhaps Draco had begun to learn that skill, too.

"What are you doing here?" Draco asked evenly.

"What am I…?" Harry trailed off, shaking his head disbelievingly. "I had to see if you were okay. You disappeared, Draco. You scared me."

Draco's hand, on instinct, floated to his left sleeve. Harry's eyes tracked the movement.

"Is it-"

"Doesn't matter," Draco said shortly, clasping his hands behind his back. Harry took a few tentative steps forward, arms drifting as if to hold him. "I can handle it myself."

Harry stopped, and Draco caught the flash of disbelief across his face. "All right," he relented, "But that doesn't change the fact that you hid from me."

Draco snorted. "Hid? All I did was go to my house and not tell you about it, Potter. I'm my own person. I can go wherever I want."

"I know that," Harry said hurriedly, "But you didn't leave a single hint behind. What if Rabbit followed us back and attacked you? What if, Merlin forbid, Death Eaters resurfaced and captured you? I had no way of knowing!" His voice shook, his fists clenched by his sides.

Everything he said was true, and Draco knew he'd been unfair to him. "You don't trust other people to take care of themselves," Draco snapped. "That's your problem."

Harry bristled. "Is it wrong to protect who I love?"

"I don't need your protection!" The bellowed words echoed through the marble foyer. Draco closed his eyes briefly, listening to how much they hurt. Of course, he'd rather have Harry by his side as they fought in rain and moonlight, dueling enemies, riding dragons, confronting monsters. But he didn't want that life in the first place. He wanted Harry to come home to him in a safe place, one that Draco could make his own.

"I know." Draco opened his eyes again, watched as tears slipped down Harry's cheeks, unbidden. Harry made no move to wipe them away. All these years being battered by the world, and he still wore his heart on his sleeve. "I know you can take care of yourself, Draco. It's just hard for me to let you. I… I blame myself for those around me that fall." Harry drew near, spreading his hands, the ones that could fill with power. "It's stupid. I shouldn't."

"It's not stupid," Draco said quietly, and his hands came down to his sides before slipping into Harry's. How long had Draco blamed himself for things that weren't his fault? His parents' dissolving marriage, Lucius becoming a Death Eater, Crabbe's death.

"I'm sorry, Draco." Harry's fingers were still, nothing but warmth emanating from them. "If you want me to leave or stay, talk or listen, it doesn't matter. I'll do it. I want to help you on your terms."

Draco nodded. He leaned down, pressing his lips against Harry's forehead, feeling him melt slightly in the closed gap between them. Every feature of him was close, his locks of mussed hair, soft lips, brown skin interrupted by the jagged slash of the pale scar. But Draco valued Harry's words and the heart he spoke them with more than anything else.

"I need my mother out of Azkaban."

No trace of surprise showed on Harry's face at the words.

"But I can't do this indentureship anymore," Draco added. "There's got to be a better way to come back from…what I've done. Who I was."

Harry was quiet for a moment. His thumbs brushed gently over Draco's knuckles. "For three years, I thought you were ready. I thought you wanted this. I'm not accusing you of anything, I just…."

"I know. I thought I was ready, too," Draco said. "Will you still be an Auror?"

"Yes," Harry replied immediately. "This is my way to fight back." Against people like Voldemort. Harry didn't have to say it; Draco knew what he was thinking, that his natural kindness and courage were intertwined with a single thread of vengeance.

"You're stronger than I am."

"It's a different kind of strength," Harry replied. "It takes just as much to step up as it does to step down."

The gleam in his eyes told Draco that he genuinely believed that. "When did you get so wise?" Draco asked teasingly.

Harry shrugged. "Hanging out with a hundred-year-old wizard for six years will do that."

Sunlight receded slowly from the space between them. Twilight was on its way. Draco watched the shadows on Harry's face; he slid his hand over his jaw, rough and unshaven.

When Harry kissed him, Draco was caught off-guard by the soft press of his mouth, the gentleness that spoke less of needing than he expected. Harry broke off quickly.

"I'm sorry, I should have asked…."

"It's fine," Draco said breathlessly and pulled him in again, fingers threading through his dark hair. Harry smelled of laundry detergent and gardenias and of home, the miraculous place they'd built together in a tiny flat in Cambridge.

Somehow they made their way to the sofa, and Draco was struck by the irony of leaning against Harry, limbs and hands tangled in this place where Lucius used to scold him if he laid down.

"You've been using my shampoo," Draco remarked.

"It reminded me of you," Harry mumbled; even at twenty-two, he blushed like a teenager. "Draco… We'll get you help, okay? Whether we talk to Danjuma or Hermione or the Minister himself, we'll get your mum out. She's served enough time already."

Draco nodded. He turned his head, kissed Harry's shoulder. "Thank you," he said softly.

Harry's hand ran absentmindedly through his hair. "For what?"

"Everything."

[Translations from French:

Are you happy, my little dragon?]