Draco's room at Rosebury House had begun feeling more like his own than the one he slept in at Ashcroft Manor. His father seemed to have abandoned all of his other projects in favor of the urban expansion frontier, and the Malfoy family had been spending more and more time at Rosebury as Lucius and Lord Granger discussed and oversaw their shared end goal. He must really want this, Draco thought, for him to spend so much time with Lord Philip, for whom Lucius had never hidden his distaste. There really must be money involved in expanding to the city. Draco's last stint in London had certainly shown him just how much the city had swollen into something larger-than-life and absolutely dynamic, and its pull seemed inescapable, even for aristocrats used to the old life as he knew his family to be. Even his Aunt Bellatrix had a London home— she, who was the most invested in the 'old traditions of the House of Black' only after her Aunt Walburga! Of course, it was time for them to modernize, and it seemed that modernizing was to take place while they were long-term guests of Rosebury House.

Living at Rosebury had its perks, of course— for starters, it was much more full of light than Ashcroft was even on its best days. And the house was warm, welcoming, and just walking into the foyer gave Draco the illusion of an embrace. The staff was friendly, Orlando was excellent company, and the dinner table was always lively. But Draco had been unable to fully enjoy the warmth of Rosebury House because it was laced with tension. Lord Philip had asked Lord Sirius Black to come for an extended stay, to serve as guide and counsel for his and Lord Malfoy's project, and of course (of course) his ward had come in tow.

Draco and Harry hadn't spoken since the disastrous night at the motor club. Draco had turned it over in his mind at least a thousand times in the days since, and it had dawned on him how out of line he'd been. He'd thought about calling Harry to apologize every day since, or to just turn up at the door of Grimmauld Place to see him, but his pride had stopped him. Let him come to you, something in the back of his mind had whispered, and Draco attributed that to a certain Malfoy pride, because to admit the truth —that he wanted Harry to come to him because it would reassure him that he was still wanted, that he was still cared about— would make him more vulnerable than he was willing to allow himself to be. And now Harry was here, in the same space, and though they crossed paths every single day (in the halls, at the dinner table, in the smoking lounge), they hadn't crossed a single word. Draco lay in bed and yearned to see the doorknob to his guest room twist to let Harry in, but it remained stubbornly closed every night— the same stubbornness that kept Draco from just going up to Harry and talking to him.

So Draco had gone out to the sprawling gardens for a stroll this morning, hoping the walk would do something to either quell his thoughts or give them a solution of some sort. He'd stayed away from the splendid rose gardens and from the beaten paths, however, and walked to the farthest end of the west end of the estate, where the lush flora tapered off into a modest blend of greens. There was a corridor between two tall walls of shrubbery, and at the very end was a small gate that Draco supposed was a more formal passage for the farmers, stable boys, and pig keepers when they left the estate for the pastures immediately beyond it. Draco let himself out of the gate, pushing it open with just a nudge of his hand. Out of the estate, he felt something lift from his chest. He leaned against the hedge, which was surprisingly sturdier than it let on, and slumped down until he was sitting on the grass and looking out at the expanse of the farmlands before him.

He sat there in silence and found himself craving a smoke. His fingers automatically drifted toward the inside of his jacket before he remembered he had left his cigarette case and his matchbox in his bedroom back at the house. The walk back was just too long, and a measly cigarette didn't merit it. No, he'd have to sit still and try to keep his hands from shaking. He knew smoking was a bad habit, but it calmed him, even just to have something to do with his fingers, to infuse purpose in the form of smoke into his breathing in and out. He put his face in his hands, elbows against his folded knees, to shove the thought of a cigarette out of his mind.

He was brought out of his stupor by the faint sound of the gate creaking behind him. He lifted his face from his hands and craned his neck slightly to look at who it was that had followed him all the way out here. He didn't know whether or not to be surprised when it was Harry.

"Hi," Harry said softly, walking slowly toward the hedge Draco was leaning against. He took a seat next to him but with enough space between them to confirm the tension that still hung between them, to give it the place it still occupied.

"Hi," Draco responded. All his thoughts had balled up and traveled down to his throat, where a knot of all the words he had wanted to say to Harry in the past few days made it hard to breathe. He took air in through his nose and tried to push it through his mouth in the shape of an apology, but nothing came out.

Harry seemed to be having the same problem. His mouth was slightly open, his lip drooping slightly under the weight of something just hanging on it waiting to be said. He looked at Draco, but Draco kept looking straight ahead, fearing something in him might break if he looked at Harry. Harry finally drew his gaze away from Draco and cast it forward, and only when Draco stopped feeling the familiar touch of Harry's eyes on him did the jumble in his throat unravel.

"I'm sorry," he said, and put out one of his shaky hands to seize Harry's, which lay on the grass between them. Harry didn't yank his hand away, but he didn't return the hold either. Draco pushed forward: "Harry, I'm sorry. What I said— what I did— I know now how childish I was. And how wrong. I can't say I didn't mean it, because at the time all I felt was anger, but I can say I wish I could take it all back. And I mean that."

Harry still didn't squeeze his hand back, but Draco heard his breath hitch beside him. Is he going to cry? He'd scarcely thought that when he felt his own eyes begin to prick with tears. With his free hand, he hastily wiped his eyes before they could pour down in earnest, and kept talking in hopes that it might hold them back. "I can't justify what I said or what I acted, and I know that I ruined a perfectly good night for you and for the sisters. So I'm not asking you to forgive me, or tell me what I did was alright, but I wish you could understand me, Harry. I know it was my idea to ask the girls to come out with us, but once I was there, seeing you be so free and giddy around Parvati... it felt like you were—" He choked now, unable to finish the thought for fear that it might be true. All he could eke out was, "Are you?"

"Am I what?" now Harry spoke, slowly but deliberately.

Draco could barely squeeze out the words. "Ashamed of me."

The tension then became oppressively heavy, and Draco thought it might keep expanding until it burst. But then Harry's fingers came to life and curled around Draco's. The tension melted, and only then did Draco turn his head to the left, where he met Harry's gaze halfway.

"I'm not ashamed of you," Harry said, and his grip on Draco's hand got stronger. Draco thought he might cry at the kindness in the green eyes locked with his. "But I am scared. You were right, Draco. It is scary. It's frightening."

"What is?" Draco prompted him, bringing his other hand across to clasp Harry's between both of his.

Harry's hand twitched between his, and he closed his eyes and paused before continuing. "This. Well, not this, but what it's growing into. What it's becoming."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm in love with you, Draco." The words spilled out of Harry's mouth, the green eyes widening with the force of what he'd said. "And it's a beautiful thing. It truly is, and I feel fuller and happier than I have in a very long time. But it is scary, because, after all, you said it— it comes with consequences. It means hiding, and whispers about unconventional lifestyles, and sneaking around and always having to concoct explanations for it. But I'm willing to do it all for you, because I'm in love with you— and I think the magnitude of that is what's frightening. It's frightening because it's serious. This isn't a boyish dalliance anymore— it's serious. Or at least it is to me."

"It is to me too," Draco hurried to say, his hands grasping Harry's with even more fervor. "Harry, I feel just the same. And thank you— for reassuring me that I'm not a shame to you, that I'm not the only one whose delight is mixed with terror."

"You most certainly are not the only one," Harry chuckled grimly. "But I think I could learn to be alright with it."

"How so?"

"If we went through it together. We know we've got each other, and that's the only way I could do it."

"I think I could, too."

"But we have to talk, Draco. No more little spectacles like the one at the motor club the other night. We communicate, and we confide in one another, and we let each other know how we feel. Otherwise we're going to tire one another out very quickly, and there'll be no good to go with the bad."

"I can do that," Draco said. Something stirred in his chest— hope, was it? Whatever it was, it was new, and it was unfamiliar, but it was oh so welcome. "I will, Harry, I promise you that."

"Then I think we can do this," Harry said, and now his own free hand joined Draco's to fully intertwine them. "I think we can do this after all, my love."

The term of endearment brought tears to Draco's eyes. "Okay," he said, his voice wavering through his happy tears. "I think we can."

Harry gave him a smile and pulled him to his feet. He let go of Draco's hands and dusted off his trousers. "Now come on. We'd best get back to Rosebury House. It is almost time for dinner and I don't think Lady Amelia would appreciate it very much if we turned up at her table in our grass stains."

Draco laughed feebly, dusting off his own trousers as well. "No, I don't think she would."

"Go on, then," Harry said. He put his arm around Draco's waist and led him toward the gate, and pushed it open with his other hand. But he didn't let go of Draco even as they walked down the path leading back to the house, and somehow that certainty —that Harry was beside him, and that his arm remained steadfastly around his waist— made Draco giddier than anything else had that day.

Feeling lighter, he ventured to ask, "So, can I expect you in my guest room tonight?"

"Cheeky," Harry laughed. "We'll see about that."

And then Draco felt even giddier, because he knew what that meant— and what it meant was yes.