Thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows!

Dear Harry Potter,

We're out of milk again.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

"Did you get the morning paper?" Draco asked, stirring his tea.

Harry held up the letter. "Don't you ever wonder if this mysterious Harry Potter is going to write you back?"

"I'd prefer he did something else with his hands."

They had been doing a lot of that lately. After Draco had been discharged from the hospital, Harry had requested a week's worth of vacation leave from Robards, who, like everyone else in the department, assumed he would be spending the time with his new godchild. In fact, he would be seeing Rose for the first time since St. Mungo's tonight. The best way to make up for all the months of secrecy, he and Draco had decided, was to host a get-together for all of their friends and at some point start making out in front of everyone. Or maybe making a small speech. He and Draco still disagreed on that point.

Harry took a seat beside Draco. "What are we cooking for tonight?" The first thing Draco had done after agreeing to the get-together was insist on making dinner himself. It was that or use Kreacher as a food taster, which would probably offend Hermione even more. Which was probably the point.

"Depends," Draco said. "What's the Weasel allergic to?"

"Don't push it. Last time he drank something from you, it almost killed him."

Draco's face soured, and Harry wished he hadn't brought it up. But if they were going to live together for what Harry hoped would be the rest of their lives, it was best to get all of the unpleasant memories out of the way sooner rather than later. They wouldn't sting as much the second time around.

Switching to a lighter memory, Harry added, "Of course, he did try to get you to eat slugs."

"I like escargot."

Harry snorted. Leave it to Draco to turn a sophomoric prank into something that sounded like it belonged to the Queen of England. "Please tell me that's not on the menu tonight."

Draco shook his head. "I was thinking fillet mignon with haricot vertes."

"So fish and green beans?"

"That would be leaving out the secret ingredient."

"What's the secret ingredient?"

"The name. Give something a French name and pretend that it's a secret ingredient. People will always say it tastes better."

"Yes, except for the five-year-old who refuses to eat anything he can't pronounce."

Draco snapped his fingers. "I know! Why don't we serve the Weasel— wait for it— WEASEL?"

Both of them burst out laughing.

"We need something simple," Harry insisted when he could breathe again. "What did you eat when you were Teddy's age?"

"Well, there was this one pasta dish we sometimes had when Father was away on business trips. Dobby got it off some Italian street vendor. Actually, I think I still have the recipe back…" Draco trailed off. "Never mind."

Harry laid his hand over Draco's. "Mentioning Dobby doesn't upset me. Hermione would be overjoyed to have his food."

"It's not that."

Harry waited for Draco to elaborate, but the blond seemed to be content to watch Harry's fingers as they stroked his hand. This was going to take some prodding, Harry realized. The strokes stopped abruptly. "What is it then?"

Draco opened his mouth, then shut it. "I don't have the recipe."

"You just said you did."

"I was wrong."

Doubting that Draco would lie to him so blatantly after the letter ordeal, Harry retraced the blond's exact words. "You don't have the recipe because it's back at Malfoy Manor?" Draco refused to meet his eyes, confirming his suspicion. "We have time to apparate over."

"No." In his haste to answer, Draco dropped Harry's hand and nearly knocked over his tea.

Harry frowned. "Draco, when was the last time you were home?"

Draco took a careful sip of his tea and slid his hand back under Harry's. "I'm home now."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Last week. I was there last week. I had to get my birth certificate to fill out paperwork for the day job."

For Harry's purposes, that didn't count. "And before that?"

Draco shrugged.

"But didn't you get your stuff when you moved in here?" Now that he thought about it, even in their redecorating spree, Draco hadn't added much to the house. Just a closet of clothes and his toolbox. Certainly none of the riches Harry imagined Draco had grown up with. "You weren't living in Malfoy Manor?"

Draco shrugged. "Everything was broken. I nearly went mad trying to put it all back together. Eventually, I realized it looked better when it was covered in dust." He closed his eyes. "That sounded very pretty, didn't it?"

In the silence, Harry could hear Buckbeak stomping around upstairs, probably chasing the mice that still lived in the walls of Grimmauld Place. Sometimes, at night, Harry swore he saw one that was missing a finger, that looked like a rat in the shadows.

Hesitantly, Harry put his hand on Draco's shoulder. "You're proud of your family. I know you are. There must be some moments you want to remember. And don't say I'm your family now."

"You are," Draco insisted. "And Teddy and Andromeda and my mother. A stupid house is not my family."

Harry frowned. The portrait of Draco would have never called the house stupid. "But it's still part of your history."

"Frankly, I'm more concerned about my future," Draco replied, leaning in to kiss Harry.

Harry pushed him away gently. "Me too. But I don't want to forget everything that happened either."

Draco scowled. "Of course you don't. I thought you would at least understand why I would want to."

"No," Harry said honestly. "Our history is what makes us as strong as we are. I fell in love with the boy wearing the Potter Stinks badge long before I fell in love with you."

"Oh yeah? Well, I fell in love with the Boy Who Lived long before I met you!"

They both stopped to register what the other had said.

"In love?" Draco repeated. "With...?"

Harry blushed. "I had stupid fourteen-year-old fantasies about what you used the picture on the badge for." Judging by the expression on Draco's face, they weren't as stupid as he'd thought. "What about you? You mean this year, before you got to know the real me, right?"

Draco lowered his eyes. Harry's breath caught in his chest. "Please don't tell me..."

"No," Draco interrupted. "I didn't— I wasn't in love with you. I was eleven, for Merlin's sake. I would have thought you'd caught cooties from Granger if you'd made a pass at me. But— I did want— I really wanted you to shake my hand." He pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "I fell in love with newspaper clippings. And Witch Weekly spreads. And possibly a Chocolate Frog card…"

Harry frowned. He hadn't realized how much wank material of him was out there.

"But I love the real you much more," Draco finished.

This time, Harry let him land a few kisses before ruining the moment. "You're afraid to go back to Malfoy Manor, aren't you?"

"I am not!" Draco pushed his chair back. "I just didn't think you would be so insistent about visiting the place where your archenemy slaughtered people, your best friend was tortured, and your favorite House Elf died. You wouldn't like it if I suggested we go to Privet Drive, would you?"

"Privet Drive isn't my ancestral home," Harry replied. He took the teacup from Draco's hand but didn't let go. "And it doesn't contain the recipe for the best pasta in the Western hemisphere."

Draco glared at him. "Fine. We can get the recipe. But we can't spend more than an hour there." By the look on Draco's eyes, one might think an hour was an eternity. "The pain á l'ail might burn."

Harry accepted the conditions with a kiss, then hurried off to get dressed.

~D~H~

They arrived at the house around noon, but it always felt like midnight at Malfoy Manor. An invisible gloom hung over the estate like Dementors on a warm summer day.

While Draco headed up to his room to gather some of his belongings, Harry searched for the recipe. "Excuse me," he addressed one of the paintings. "Could you tell me where the food is stored?"

The painting— a balding aristocrat that eerily reminded Harry of what Lucius might have looked like had he lived long enough to lose his hair— snorted. "You Aurors are never satisfied, are you? You can't desecrate our house on an empty stomach?"

"I'm not an Auror," Harry said. "Er, I am an Auror, but I'm not here on a raid. I'm fetching something for Draco."

In a portrait next to the aristocrat, an old lady watering tulips put a finger on her lips. "You have to give it to him, Tiberius. He is rather fetching."

The aristocrat huffed. "Coming from my wife, that makes me even more inclined to turn him away. Good day." He returned to preening himself in his mirror.

The old lady winked at Harry. "Take two lefts, go down the flight of stairs, and you're there."

It wasn't until Harry was descending a familiar set of stairs that he froze in his steps and recounted his words to the aristocrat.

Where the food was stored. Not the kitchen. The cellar.

No, the dungeon. But it had been a cellar when Draco had penned that first letter to him fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago, the contents of this cellar— probably something pompous, like boar— had ended up on Draco's dinner table. That hadn't changed seven years later. Just the menu. And the one who dined at the table was a different kind of snake.

Anger boiled up in his chest. Draco had sat at that table and watched it happen. Maybe he hadn't held a knife and fork, but in many ways, he was still a cannibal. A real Death Eater. At least the stupid name finally made sense.

The rational part of Harry knew that if Draco had acted, he would have been Nagini's next meal. Or worse, his mother would have been. And then another Death Eater would have been sent to take Harry's pulse, or maybe Nagini would have become the master of the Elder Wand, or something equally bizarre. In all probability, one or both of them wouldn't have survived the war to become what they were now. All because Draco was a coward.

Of course, there was a kind of sick bravery in becoming a monster, protecting one's family at all costs. And even more bravery in living with the aftermath and becoming something better.

That was when Harry knew that he'd fully forgiven Draco. For opening the door that mauled Bill Weasley's face and pushed Dumbledore off the edge of the astronomy tower. For poisoning Ron and listening to Hermione scream. For being afraid. The cellar was empty now, and Harry sure as hell didn't want to live in it.

He wandered around, looking for the kitchen, when he heard a familiar drawl behind him.

"Oh, Merlin. Please tell me he didn't actually will the house to you."

Harry turned to find Draco's portrait staring at him in horror. "Draco's not dead."

Malfoy looked a little surprised. Although, maybe that was his way of containing his allergic reaction to the word "Draco." "Then why are you here? Do you have a warrant?"

"I'm here for a pasta recipe," Harry answered honestly.

Malfoy's mouth dropped open. "Aiding you in a criminal investigation wasn't enough? Now you want to start a gourmet club? And don't say pasta, say 'rigatoni' or 'lasagna bolognese.' Pasta sounds utterly plebian."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Malfoy. Would you kindly direct me to the kitchen? Or shall I say, la cuisine?"

Malfoy turned away. "Take a right, then a left, go up the staircase and down the hall."

Harry opened his mouth, ready to argue, before he registered that Malfoy had actually answered his question. That was far too easy. "Er… thanks?"

Malfoy merely smiled and leaned against the fireplace mantle. Harry was surprised an artist hadn't provided him with a sofa, given the amount of soot Malfoy was bound to get on his robes. There were those Parisian pillows on the ground, but Harry supposed Malfoy would look a little foolish sitting on those. A more practical artist wouldn't have wasted so much space on such a useless object. Unless…

Harry's breath caught in his chest. Unless those weren't just pillows. Maybe they weren't just decorative. Maybe they were for a pet to sit on. A Crup.

Malfoy noticed him staring. "What, Potter? Cat got your tongue?"

"Not a cat," Harry said. "A Crup."

Malfoy didn't react, a sure sign of guilt— otherwise, he would have made some sarcastic comment about Harry's stupidity and general lack of sophistication. "I didn't think you brought your beast with you."

"Except it's your beast, isn't it, Malfoy?" Everything was starting to make sense. Of course he hadn't been able to replicate the spell that had transformed Toothless into a real Crup, because it hadn't been a spell at all. It had been portrait magic. Just like the peacock whose feathers George had used. "Toothless belongs in your portrait. That's why he was playing with your frame earlier. That's why you said you owned a Crup in George's letters. Draco didn't, but you did."

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Malfoy demanded.

Harry jabbed his wand at the portrait. "You're the Animal Artist. You're the one who's been trying to attack Draco." Harry wanted to hit himself. That's how Malfoy had known to enchant the knight in Draco's hospital room. Harry had led him right to Draco. "But why would you attack yourself?"

Malfoy's face darkened. "We're not the same person. You said it yourself. He's the real Draco Malfoy."

"Are you jealous?"

"Hardly." His lips twisted into a grin. "Not after what's going to happen to him."

Harry's heart raced. "What are you going to do to him?"

"I won't do a thing," Malfoy sneered. "Believe it or not, Potter, those attacks were my attempts to save him, not destroy him. He thought he could escape and leave me behind. But there's only one way to escape." His eyes glistened. "I suspect he's finding that out about now."

That was when Harry heard Draco scream.

~D~H~

His Auror instincts kicked in. He ran towards the scream, but already, it had turned into an echo, going every which direction. When he called Draco's name, only silence greeted him. Why did Draco have to have such a large house?

Take a right, then a left, go up the staircase and down the hall, Malfoy had said. If he had set a trap, it was sure to be there.

Sure enough, the route led to Draco's room, although the blond was nowhere in sight. Judging by the mess— robes sorted into piles on the bed and a cardboard box with papers spilling out of it— Draco had been here recently.

In a room down the hallway, Harry heard something crash. "Draco?" He ran forward, only to come face to face with the blond. There was something in Draco's expression that screamed Azkaban— maybe the wild hair or the tense brow. In that moment, Harry swore Draco looked more like Sirius or Bellatrix than his father.

Then Draco raised his wand. "Stupefy!"

Harry expected the curse to whiz past him and hit some monster standing behind him. At the last second, he managed to duck as the curse nicked the tips of his hair and rebounded against the wall. He barely had time to raise a shield before Draco fired again, this time straight at Harry's chest. It was undeniable: Draco, for whatever reason, was aiming for him.

"What are you doing?" he shouted. The Auror in him was already compiling the possibilities: the Imperius curse, Polyjuice potion, a mental breakdown…

Draco froze as his last spell rebounded off Harry's shield. "H-Harry?"

Harry nodded but didn't lower his shield.

The Slytherin stared at him for second before racing into his bedroom and slamming the door shut. Harry could hear him collapse to the ground and barricade the door with his back.

Harry pounded on the door. "Draco?"

"No, no, no," came a whimper from inside. "Don't come in."

"What happened?"

Draco didn't answer. Harry could almost feel the blond's deep breaths through the door.

"Draco?" Harry repeated, unable to prevent irritation from seeping into his tone. He was about to threaten to blow the door to oblivions if Draco didn't open it in the next three seconds when he heard a voice from inside.

His own voice.

He heard Draco jolt up. "How did you get in here?"

"Don't you want me here?"

Harry frowned. Yes, that was definitely his own voice coming from inside the room, but not his words. There was always the possibility that he would discover a Time Turner in the next few minutes, and this sound-alike was a future version of him who had gone back in time to prevent Draco from doing whatever foolish thing he was about to do. Somehow, Harry didn't find that likely.

"That's your problem, isn't it?" the Harry sound-alike—Potter?—continued. "You've always wanted me more than I've wanted you."

To his credit, Draco didn't sound convinced. "If you were really Harry, you would know that's not true."

Potter laughed. "Remember last week when I told you I was acting more like an Auror than a boyfriend? Let's just say it was a little too close to the truth."

How had this imposter overheard what he'd said to Draco? Harry swore. The bloody portrait in Draco's hospital room. The second knight must have reported everything he'd heard to Malfoy.

He pounded on the door and called Draco's name. He insulted the Malfoy pedigree. He announced that he had sex fantasies about Rita Skeeter and enjoyed wearing women's underwear. It was no use. Someone had cast a silencing charm; Harry could hear what went on in the room, but they couldn't hear him.

"I don't believe you," Draco was saying.

"You believed me when I told you all of your murders were just nightmares." Potter was laughing at Draco's reaction. "If I had known sleeping with you was all it took to turn you into a Hufflepuff, I would have done it ages ago. You'd have enjoyed it too."

"Shut up!" Draco shouted as the blasting charm Harry had sent at the door came flying back at his face. "You're not yourself."

"Sorry," Potter replied unapologetically. "But I am. Not that I didn't enjoy sleeping with you, but work before pleasure." Harry wondered if this was what he would have sounded like had he been sorted into Slytherin. "Malfoy Manor was the last piece I needed to land you in Azkaban for the rest of your life. Right where you belong."

Draco let out a whimper. Harry didn't want to know what Potter had done to provoke it. Heart racing, he tried stronger variations of Alohomora on the door. Nothing. Spells that usually had more explosive results had no effect either. Kicking the door only gave him a stubbed toe. Spell after spell fell against the door, and all Harry could do was listen:

"That— that can't be true," Draco stuttered. "You said—you said I didn't hurt anyone…"

"Oh, was I supposed to arrest you then? Before I had enough evidence, so the Wizengamot would have to set you free?" Potter sneered. "I counted on you being cowardly enough to try to save your own skin rather than face the truth."

"I'm not a coward!"

Harry banged his head against the door—which, unsurprisingly, didn't work. That wasn't what Draco was supposed to be arguing against.

"Oh, yeah?" Potter dared. "Then go with me quietly."

"I will," Draco snapped. "And Weasley will see that you've been enchanted, or possessed, or…" His breath caught in his throat. "…something…"

"Yes?"

"Yes." A quiver of doubt laced Draco's voice.

"Then why are you raising your wand?" Potter sounded like he was gloating. "Oh, and I'm not talking about the one in your trousers."

"I almost stunned you before," Draco warned. "I can do it again."

"Oh?"

"Once I remember the words…"

Potter's voice got louder. "You want me to go away? Make me."

"I won't do it." Panic seeped through Draco's tone. "I love you. Even if you hate me, I love you. I love—"

"Make me!"

Draco's voice trembled, choking on every syllable. "Av— Ava— Avada—"

"MAKE ME!"

"AVADA—"

I couldn't finish the story without leaving you with one last cliffhanger! The next (and final) chapter will be released on Valentine's Day.