a/n: last chapter, folks! Thanks for reviewing, following, favouriting, and generally being so really effing nice! (And again, characters are not mine.)

Draco

"Harry," Draco breathed, his heart still beating like a maniac in his chest. "Don't just say something like that, you utter bastard! You can't come into my house, bugger in with your mudded shoes dripping all over the carpet and expect me to believe your complete and utter lies -"

"Lies?" Harry's voice was soft. "Why on earth would I lie to you about something like that?"

Draco snorted. "Yeah - because we've always been the absolute best of pals in the past, I should've instantly believed you and not expect any kind of trap at all!"

The other boy sighed, and dropped his head in his hands. It seemed like such a childish and defeated gesture, that Draco had to fight the urge to hug him. "I know we've never been friends. I don't know. Maybe we are? I mean, we haven't fought this year and -"

"Merlin, Potter," Draco said, faking calm by rolling his eyes, "If you think not cursing each other is a token of friendship, I do worry about your current friendships, and your mental health."

Harry looked up, his eyes turning to a full glare. There was the Harry he knew and lo- uh, liked? "Oh, sod off, Malfoy. You know what I mean. You've always been at the center of my attention -"

If Draco hadn't been sitting down, his knees would've given away.

"- ever since that first meeting on Diagon Alley -"

Was Harry trying to murder him on purpose?

"- and I only just today realized that it wasn't just, you know, hate and frustration - but a crush. Well, truth be told," Harry laughed, "I didn't figure it out, Hermione did. Big surprise there."

I can't breathe.

"But, anyway, my point is..." Harry took a deep breath, as if to steady himself, and focused his eyes on Draco's. "It's not a lie, Malfoy. I know you don't feel the same, I know you don't even like.. boys, that way, but it's okay. I just needed to tell you because -"

"Shut up."

Funnily enough, Harry didn't listen. "No, you shut up and listen to me! I wasn't finished -"

"Shut," Draco repeated again, slowly standing up from his seat with his hands balled at his sides, "up."

This time, Harry did, and his eyes widened comically behind his askew glasses.

"You - you utter and complete prick," Draco said low and menacing, "you're in love with me? For real? And you have been for years? Damn it, Potter, you could've just said so, and could've ended this stupid feud years ago! And what's that rubbish about me not liking blokes?" Draco laughed, enjoying the way Harry's breath completely left him due to temporary shock, "are you mental?"

"But -" He spluttered, "But you've always said you weren't -"

"Well, I wasn't going to shout it about, was I?" Draco rolled his eyes. "Blaise had always had his suspicions, sure, but the only people I've told were my mother and father. Mind you, they weren't the happiest people when they found out, but that is irrelevant to my point. You still are one of the most oblivious people I've ever met, and you probably always will be."

"Hey," Harry called out, some spirit back in him, "You're quite the oblivious ponce too, aren't you? You hadn't noticed I liked blokes, too."

"Yeah, but you didn't know it before you kissed me." Then something just called out a Lumos in Draco's mind, and this time he had to sit down. "Our kiss didn't make you gay, did it?"

A beautiful blush crept up Harry's cheeks. "Sort of."

For the first time in Draco's life, he felt the urge to cry tears of joy. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "And what about you? Had you ever done.. that.. before?"

"Yes." Draco answered truthfully - because he had kissed Theodore once on a stupid bet when he was seven. But then.. "No."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. "Yes or no?"

"Not like that."

"Not with a boy?"

Draco's eyes fell down, as did his heart. "Not when I really wanted it."

Harry

Draco was really, really pretty when he was smiling.

And Harry was also really, really gay.

And somehow, that thought wasn't nearly as disturbing and nauseating as he'd initially thought. He certainly didn't feel like drowning himself (something which Vernon would always wish upon the queer people he saw on the street), and he didn't feel like running away, either.

Though the genuine and wide smile Draco was giving him every few seconds, alongside that embarrassed blush on his white cheeks, certainly helped loads.

"So," Draco said after a while of silence, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. "Let's get you out of those clothes."

Harry lifted one eyebrow, and started laughing. "If you insist."

He hadn't even lifted the hem of his shirt when Draco jumped up, spluttering like a maniac. "No! Not like – that's not – don't." His entire face and neck were red at this point. "I meant that you should put on some dry ones! Not – uh…"

Harry smirked, letting go of his shirt. "Pity."

Some of Draco's color pitifully disappeared, and he snorted. "I feel like I've asked you this already, but when did you get so cocky?"

"Murdering the madman who's hunted me ever since I was born definitely helped," Harry said casually, jumped up, and strutted to one of the black closets. "Is this one for your clothes?"

If Draco was fazed by his casual mention of Voldemort, he didn't show it. "Yes, it is."

Harry pointed to the other closet. "And that one?"

"Also my clothes –"

"And that one?"

A sigh. "That's also a wardrobe, yes."

Harry whistled. "If I'd known that, I would've known you were gay long before now."

"Just because you like to dress in absolute and disgusting rags," Draco pointed to Harry's muddy and baggy clothing with a grimace, "doesn't mean every hetero guy does."

"You're not hetero."

"Quite the opposite, in fact, but I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

Harry gestured wildly, almost smacking off his own glasses in his enthusiasm. "You're gay. You dress nice. Case closed."

"Case open," Draco said with a small smile, opening the smallest closet, which apparently contained about fifty green pajamas and black robes. "You're gay. You don't dress nice."

"Shut up," Harry said, and smiled when he saw that every single set in Draco's closet was identical. "Merlin, you're such a cartoon character."

"A what?"

"It's a muggle thing." He ignored Draco's theatrical sigh. "It's when all the characters always wear the exact same thing, and when you open their closet –"

"Very funny," Draco snapped, before grabbing a green pair hastily to throw it in Harry's hands. "Now change, you ponce, before you catch a cold."

Harry smiled brightly at him, and for a second it looked like Draco had frozen on the spot. "Nice to know you care."

Harry turned around to find a bathroom to change in, and walked away too fast to hear Draco's soft whisper; "Merlin knows I always did."

Fifteen minutes later, and they were both sitting with crossed legs on Draco's bed, staring at the other while awkwardly trying to deny the fact that, well, they were supposed to sleep. On one bed. Together. After they'd just sort of confessed they were gay. (And in love, on Harry's part.)

"So," Draco muttered, "I can't really put you in the guest room, since… well, the Ministry has closed down almost every single guest room there is in case there's any… you know, evidence, left. So you either sleep here, or with my parents."

Harry snorted. "I'd rather sleep with you than with Lucius, thanks very much."

Draco raised an eyebrow, before snorting loudly. "I'd rather hope so, seeing as that'd be quite the headline if someone found out."

"Shove it," Harry smiled, shoving Draco backwards playfully.

"You shove it," Draco retorted, pushing back.

Instead of falling backwards, however, Harry just grabbed Draco's hands tightly instead, holding them close to his chest.

"Harry…" Draco said, softly, his jokingly pretense suddenly gone. "What are we doing?"

And honestly… he had no idea. He had flown all throughout England – and he knew it had been a bad idea, not that he was going to admit that to Draco any time soon – in the sodding rain, without leaving a note or anything for his friends. His wand was still on his nightstand, and he knew that people were going to talk like crazy the second he'd get back to Hogwarts, the second they'd found out he'd gone through all that trouble just to see Draco.

Draco Malfoy.

All Harry did know, however, was that he hadn't felt this happy and content in months, holding Draco's hand, watching the cold and rigid ice prince turn redder and redder with every breath he took.

"I don't know," Harry said at last, tracing Draco's fingers with his thumb. "I just – I just needed –"

"Yeah." Draco took a deep breath. "Me too."

Harry grinned at him, and without a break, Draco smiled at him, too.

Draco

At last they decided that Draco was going to sleep on the couch, and Harry on the bed. (At first Harry had, quite persistently and stubbornly, refused to take Draco's bed. It wasn't until after Draco had shown him how comfortable his couch was that he'd relented.)

They hadn't even been lying down for more than half an hour when a soft snoring indicated that the savior had fallen asleep.

Almost immediately Draco turned around, to his side, to be able to stare at the open and quite vulnerable face of Harry.

His mouth was hanging open slightly, and the fringe that Draco so badly wanted to touch was hanging between his eyes, not quite covering his lightning bolt scar. The boy was clutching Draco's sheets, the rest of it tangled between his legs.

Why did Harry make him so happy?

Why did staring at Harry's sleeping state made his chest feel so heavy and content?

Last he checked, he wasn't a Hufflepuff.

I think I'm in love with you.

Draco pulled a face, resisting the urge to slap himself over the head to get Harry's voice out of his head. This was ridiculous! They were supposed to be enemies, arch-enemies in fact, not hold hands and grin like bloody toddlers in love!

All he needed to do, Draco thought with a shuddering breath, was make a list of all the things he hated about Harry. Every single thing that had bothered him through the years.

Draco exhaled again, feeling his heartbeat slow down.

Yes. He should do that.

(It was a lot simpler to think about that, anyway, rather than why he so badly wanted to wrap his arms around Harry and never let go again.)

Number 1: Harry's awkward tan lines from Quidditch. That had always bothered Draco, that slightly-more-brown than crème tan line on Harry's neck, the uneven patch of color almost tempting everyone to rip off Harry's shirt to check if his chest was the same infuriatingly bronze color.

2. His knuckles. Draco's gaze left Harry's face to watch his knuckles, and he instantly grimaced. The knobbly knuckles of Harry, a clear sign he'd used his hands so much, the rough callouses on his fingers from gripping his Firebolt too tight.

3. The way you could see sweat trickle down the back of his neck when it got too hot. (He could see it now, actually. Disgusting. Draco should just get up and lick it – uh. Never mind.)

4. His tie. He wasn't wearing it now – fortunately – but on every other day it infuriated Draco to no end. For some reason it was always askew – and always a bit to the left, as if Harry was always in a too great hurry to pay attention to his tie. (He probably was, the git.)

5. His clothes. Merlin, his clothes. They were either always too big for him, with the sleeves falling over his thin hands, or too dirty and worn-out, with scuff marks on his shoes that he always fiddles with but didn't ever bother to Reparo. (Of course he doesn't. He's Harry Potter, he quite clearly doesn't even know the way the spell's cast.)

6. His smell. Draco could smell it even know, from this distance. It was the minty and fresh smell of either his cologne or his shampoo – though Draco suspected Harry never washed his hair. The smell was distracting. He'd never been able to concentrate while Harry was in the same room. (The ponce.)

7. His glasses. There was just something so Potter about them, that it made something deep within Draco's gut twist violently every time he saw them. And then the annoying lick Harry'd always do when he would push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It was this unconscious, infuriating lick of his lips, and Draco was convinced Harry was doing it on purpose to annoy him.

8. His hands. Yes, his knuckles were already annoying and distracting as anything, but his long and thin fingers, like everything else about Harry's body, always tainted from ink – Harry was quite possibly the sloppiest writer in all of wizarding history – or another disgusting substance. (And every time he'd readjust his glasses, he'd smear it all over his face, too.)

9. Treacle Tart. It was Harry's favorite dish, and every single wizard and witch in Hogwarts knew it. You could even hear Harry's groans and above all moans all the way in the Slytherin dungeon whenever he was devouring it. And dinner, every single night, was tainted by Harry's quite appalling eating manners. There was something disturbingly addictive in watching him eat his treacle tart, him looking at the treat as if it was his long lost love, licking his fork for longer than humanly possible as if to savor every single last taste. (Pansy had stabbed Draco with a fork once to stop him from staring with an open mouth. He couldn't help that Harry had been so obscene, moaning with an open mouth and his neck thrown back.)

10. The way he drums his wand against his leg subconsciously when he's talking or just listening in class. (Draco had to keep an eye on him all the time because of that – what if he'd accidentally set it off and blasted them all to bits?)

11. His magic. Draco tore his eye away from the sleeping boy – with more difficulty than he'd dare admit – and glanced around the room. Even now, when Harry was sleeping, the air around him seemed to be buzzing. The power the Savior of the Wizarding world wielded was infuriatingly great, and Draco wanted so badly to smother him with a pillow for it. Harry was so powerful, and he had no idea. (And, well, that's just frustrating.)

12. His laugh. It was too loud, too sudden. It distracted Draco from, well, anything, and made his stomach feel all Hufflepuff-y.

13. His –

A loud and low moan suddenly disrupted Draco's thoughts, and he stilled. Harry's mouth was hanging wide open now, leaving nothing about the inside to anyone's imagination. (Not that Draco had thought about the inside of Harry's mouth. Surely not.)

Draco stared for a few more seconds, to make sure Harry wasn't awake, and then turned his back to the other boy.

This is ridiculous, he told himself for the millionth time, closing his eyes as if to shield himself for it all. It wasn't as if he'd never slept with another boy near him. Another gay boy, in fact. Harry wasn't going to molest him in his sleep – and he was fairly certain he wouldn't do the same to Harry, too.

Still, he couldn't help but feel on edge all night long, watching the room around him turn more and more light while listening to the comforting and low breaths of Harry, falling asleep just as the clock struck five.

Harry

When Harry woke up the next morning he had a few moments of difficulty remembering why he was staring at a ceiling painted with silver peacocks.

Then he heard a soft groan of someone clearly dreaming deeply, and he couldn't suppress a smile before turning on his side to watch Draco sleep.

He didn't look much like a rigid Slytherin prince now, Harry mused, with his silver hair disheveled, his mouth open and his breath sounding oddly like a snore.

What are we doing, Draco had asked him last night.

He still didn't know. Part of him wondered if he ever would. One thing he did know, however, was that he had never been this happy to watch someone sleep before, and that he desperately needed to kiss Draco on his forehead.

Harry, never one to be able to restrain himself, got up without making a sound to do just that, smiling when Draco just mumbled incoherently in his sleep.

His skin tasted like lemons and something sweet. (Not fair. Why did everything about Draco have to be perfect?)

Draco looked far too peaceful to be rudely awakened, so Harry grabbed one of Draco's black robes before strutting away awkwardly.

Sure, he could've waited in Draco's bedroom until the other boy was awake, but he had never been patient. That, and his stomach was growling like crazy.

The moment he closed the door behind him and looked around, however, he regretted it. Everything about the corridor was dark and gloomy, with dim-lit candles casting ominous shadows across the hall. Every door except Draco's seemed to be locked down with heavy shackles – Draco hadn't exaggerated the Ministries' interference with their home. Last night it all had seemed more welcome then this. (Though Harry hadn't really been attention to his surroundings then.)

He took a deep breath, and started walking to his right. He had no idea where he was going, but he must run into someone at some point, right? How big could this manor be?

After half an hour of strutting around, running stairs up and down, getting blocked by a door or an appearing wall – it had come out of nowhere, nearly knocking Harry off his feet – Harry came to one simple conclusion: very, very big. Who could ever be in need of such a big house?

"Hello?" He finally called, having arrived at the gallery of fair-haired family portraits. Again. For the fifth time now. "Anyone up?"

Nobody answered, except one of the painted Malfoy's staring at him accusingly. Every single man painted in the pictures had white hair. For a second or two Harry wondered if the rumors about the Malfoys being Veelas were true, when a loud clang caught his attention.

He started running, desperate to get out of the maze that was the Malfoy manor, when he stopped abruptly in front of an open door.

Inside, he could see Lucius Malfoy raging a war on dirty dishes, foam flying everywhere, his hair in a braid and a bright pink apron strapped to his chest.

For a second Harry wanted to laugh, but he swallowed his shock and said, gingerly, "Good morning."

"What on earth –" Lucius turned around, splashing water everywhere in his wake. His annoyed expression turned dark. "Potter. What do you want?"

"I want to put you in prison, to be honest," Harry said, not caring in the slightest that Lucius balled his fists at his side. "I don't care about your probation. You're the one who dragged your family down the pit that was Voldemort –" he ignored Lucius flinching at the name "- and you're the one who almost got Draco killed. There's very little holding me back now to hex you to bits for that alone."

Lucius sneered. "Do it then, you little brat, if you so desperately want to. I've got no wand, as even a half-blood like yourself can see. What's holding you back?" When Harry just stared at him, he snorted. "Don't tell me it's your Gryffindor, chivalrous heart. Afraid to hurt an unarmed man? I suppose it's not in your character…"

"Oh, it is. With you, however, I have no such restraint. You did nearly get Ginny killed, and every other muggle-born in my school during my second year. You tortured muggles for fun, and you laughed alongside every other Death Eater when Voldemort tortured me on that graveyard. You are no innocent man, Lucius."

Draco's father groaned distastefully, and he waved around. "Look around you, you blind fool! I'm paying for every single of those deeds!"

"By doing the dishes?" Harry snorted. "So very good of you. I expect you to be pardoned by every single person you've hurt any day now."

"Don't talk to me about redemption, Potter." Lucius turned away from him, abruptly throwing plates into the sink, not caring foam flew even higher. "You've inflicted your fair share. After all, if you had come to Voldemort sooner, not everyone would've been –"

"Shut up, before I really do hex you." Harry threatened, before taking a deep sigh and running his hands through his hair. "Listen. You dislike me, I dislike you."

Lucius laughed without humor. "Stating the obvious now, are we?"

Harry ignored that. "But I know Draco still loves you, deep down." Lucius had stopped smashing plates and silverware, and taking this as a good sign Harry stepped forward. "And if I am to woo your son, I don't think fighting you is the best way to do it."

"Woo my son?" Lucius turned around, an incredulous expression on his face, his mouth twitching as if Harry had just told him a joke, until he caught the boy's expression. "Oh." His face fell. "Right."

"Right, indeed." Harry picked up one of the plates Lucius hadn't smashed to pieces yet, grabbed a sponge, and started cleaning it without further ado. "I really like Draco. And my hatred for you… I just can't let that get in the way."

Lucius was staring at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, and Harry plundered on with his rant, cleaning one plate after the other. "Draco will forgive you in time, if you let him see you are sorry, and I refuse to be the reason he won't. If you keep on hating me, and I keep on hating you, he'd be torn between two sides… I mean, if he does like me back like I suspect." A blush crept up Harry's cheeks, which he pointedly ignored. "He needs to be happy, and he isn't without his dad." He gave the cleaned plates to Lucius, who took them by instinct. "You need to show him remorse, even if you don't feel it. Draco is your son, Lucius, your only one, and I want him to be happy. So if you can be civil, I can be too. For Draco's sake."

Lucius placed the plates on the kitchen gingerly, before turning to look at Harry again. "You want me to tell my son, to lie to him as you very well know, that I regret my decision? That I should have never joined the Dark Lord?"

"Yes." Harry took a deep breath, ignored his gut twisting like crazy that this was all wrong, and put out his hand.

Lucius looked at his hand as if it were cursed. "You want me to shake your hand on it? Your hand?"

"Yes. My hand." Harry cocked an eyebrow. "It's not infected."

"Of course it's not, you just cleaned the plates with soap." Lucius scowled. "But you can't deny that you're the Potter boy, Potter. A boy. And you wish to…"

"Make a truce to be able to date your son without him being unhappy, yes."

Lucius swallowed, looked around as if to check they were really alone, before taking Harry's hand into his own and shaking it so quickly it was as if Harry had imagined it.

But he hadn't.

And he couldn't help but smile. "Now, then, Mr. Malfoy," Harry said formerly, gesturing to the pans and silverware, "let's clean the rest of this shit before your family wakes up."

Draco

Draco had been pondering all night whether he really liked Harry Potter, too – or if they'd all just been cursed by someone as a horrid joke – racking his mind to remember every horrible fight they ever had, making it clear to himself that Harry could never truly like him, nor forgive him for everything he'd done.

But when he walked into his kitchen, every thought of reason evaporated.

For his father, ex-convict Death Eater and sure murdered, was wearing identical aprons with the Savior he had so desperately tried to kill. Harry and his father were both covered in foam, bickering without calling ugly names, working together to clean the dishes that hadn't been cleaned in over a week.

For a minute Draco considered making a run for it to St. Mungo's to admit himself for going crazy and seeing hallucinations.

Instead, he started laughing.

Harry instantly turned around at the sound of his laugh, his face breaking in two when he smiled. "Good morning, Draco."

"You're doing the dishes," Draco just said, still laughing. He hadn't laughed this hard in ages, and certainly not with his father in the same room. "You're doing the dishes with my father. And you're wearing my mother's apron."

Harry's eyebrows knitted together. "To be fair, it's more of a battle with the amounts of foam. I haven't seen this much foam ever since my aunt –"

The rest of Harry's sentence was cut off when Draco leaped forward without warning, hugging the other boy tightly.

"Oh," Harry said in surprise, but instantly hugged him back.

There was a light flutter in Draco's chest, and he held on even tighter. Harry probably had no idea how happy he was, how shocking this was, how much it meant to him.

Because Harry was being civil to his father, while they were supposed to hate each other. He was being civil to the man who had so desperately tried to kill him and every single friend of his. He was being so selfless, so good, so anti-Draco and so, so very much Harry.

(And if his father and Harry could get along without getting shipped off to the Auror's office, who said they couldn't, too?)

Draco leaned back, and ignored his father scratching his throat for his attention. All he could see were Harry's green eyes staring up at him. "I don't know what we're doing," he whispered finally, his heart fluttering in his chest with excitement and nervousness, "but I don't want to stop it."

Harry's arm dropped to his sides, where he hold on tightly. A Slytherin-worthy smirk treated up Harry's lips. "Let's do this properly, then. Draco Malfoy, will you pretty please make me very insanely happy, and be my boyfriend?"

Draco laughed. Never on earth had he expected this to happen. (Certainly not with his father throwing foam at them to get them to stop being so very gay in his presence.) "Of course I would." Harry's beaming smile was infectious, and so Draco quickly added to stop Harry from turning him into a giggling Hufflepuff, "If just to see the Weasel's expression when you tell him."

Instead of turning mad or calling him a prick – as Harry would have normally done – he started laughing. It was a surprised, chirpy laugh, that did funny things to Draco's tummy. "I'll take it."

And Draco could do nothing else but kiss him feverishly.

(That was, until Lucius decided enough was enough and doused the two boys with a bucket full of dirty dish-water, foam, and an alarmingly large amount of swearwords.)