Like a monsoon, summer swept through and fall rolled in. The brilliant pastels and hazy golds, the fluorescent purple of row after row of lavender tumbled into deep auburn, a honeyed amber, and the elves set to work with the grape harvest.

Nothing had ever been said, nothing had ever been asked, but late one August morning, when Draco had woken up first, he insisted Harry had to stay until at least October.

"What's in October?"

"Tromfluffles."

Harry blinked at him, and Draco, preoccupied with trying to feed his venomous tentacula, did not expound. It wasn't until they went foraging in the woods for squishy trombone tubers that he would find out what magical truffles were and the amusingly sad whomp-whomp they made when pressed too hard.

It wasn't so much an invitation as it was an excuse, for both of them. An answer Harry gave to his friends when they asked why he was extending his summer, not that any of them ever really did.

"Really, Harry? Oh, that sounds fun. You'll send us some won't you? I can't wait to try them. You know, I once read about a muggle king in the twelfth century who went to war for a tromfluffle patch."

Or:

"Mate, Harry, it's a bloody riot, doing a stake-out with Finnegan. Did you know he could finish a whole kidney pie in like, a minute flat? Who gives a shit about defeating You-Know-Who, Seamus Finnegan's my hero."

Life around Harry was happening, day after day, like he was waist deep in the sea, the tide ebbing around him unbothered. Ginny was traveling with the Harpies and Hermione was reorganizing the Ministry; Ron was catching bad guys and complaining about the mountains of paperwork, and Harry– Harry felt sometimes that he'd all but faded into the background of his own life, left to laze about in the sun or listen to Draco read some archaic text he'd unpacked from a Manor box.

And Harry found he liked it that way. In one short summer, he'd faded into the oblivion that swallows all legends and stories and heroes, and somehow happiness had become a given and life had become real once more. He was free, and he was in love, and everything was perfect.

Some time in November, there was an owl at the window of Draco's study, a room off his (their) bedroom, and it was addressed to Harry. Not an abnormal thing, really, Harry getting mail, but he was immediately on edge, the wax seal gold and shiny and obstinate with its hard capital M.

The Ministry was calling. Harry probably should have seen this coming when he didn't show up for work three– five– oh, bugger it– however many months in a row.

"Unbelievable," laughed Draco. "Only you could skive off for half a year and still have the Minister himself asking when you plan to come back." He was busybodying about, doing Draco things, digging through drawers looking for what-have-you one minute and carrying out a whole skincare routine the next, and Harry was having a minor life crisis. No, not minor. A bit bigger than minor. But certainly not major. Probably not major.

He'd been so pleased, so content, and he'd never really even had to work for it, it had all just happened– the seasons had changed and he'd met Draco and no one had asked why he hadn't been at Grimmauld since July. But no, now the ruddy Ministry needed an answer, demanded to know: are you the Savior you promised us, or not?

Harry was being a tad melodramatic. Shacklebolt's actual words had been: The next round of training for aurors starts right after New Year's. If you're still keen, Harry, Robards is holding a spot. Anyway, how's France? Did you make sure to try some of this year's new wines?

"An excellent idea from your Minister there," said Draco, withdrawing from where he'd read the letter over Harry's shoulder. Draco proceeded to call for Dobby to bring in the latest and greatest bottle. He went to dig around for two glasses as Harry, numbly, read the letter again. "Harry, get the corkscrew, will you? I've it sealed up in the drawer of that cabinet over there–" still staring at the letter, Harry made his way over towards where he vaguely saw Draco gesture– "Just be careful with it. It's got a rather nasty temper–" Harry, rereading the letter once more, patted at the drawer absently, his hand finding the knob, pulling it open. He went digging for the corkscrew, failing to heed Draco's warning–

"Ow! Bloody fuck!" he snapped, dropping the letter, attention now firmly fixed on the corkscrew growling at him. "Fuck– Draco! It bit me!"

"I did warn you, didn't I?"

"Well, how am I–"

"Play it some music, Harry, hum it a lullaby. How else would you calm something down?"

"Why the fuck we have to have a bleeding sentient corkscrew," Harry muttered, but before he could even begin to sing, something red and glittering caught his eye. He didn't quite believe it at first– surely, he was dreaming, a nightmare– a tame one, but a nightmare nonetheless– a letter from the Ministry and this, in one bloody evening?

Ignoring the way the corkscrew, its spiral primed and ready, lunged for his hand, Harry reached in and snatched up the stone. He didn't notice the way his skin was caught, a thin red line, wet with a drop of blood, adorning the scar I must not tell lies like a halo.

"Harry, love, the corkscrew–"

"What is this?" Harry asked. He didn't look over at Draco, but Draco looked up at him.

"What is– Merlin, Harry, I said calm it down, not flay yourself–"

"Draco." Harry bit his tongue at the harshness of his voice, which he clocked only from the way Draco froze, and he inhaled a steadying breath. "What is this? Why do you have it?"

"I– It's a rock, Harry. A gift someone gave me years ago, I've just got it for sentimental reasons. Harry, your hand–"

"Why do you have it?"

"Your hand–"

"Why do you have the stone, Draco?"

There was a long heartbeat before Draco answered. "It was gift, Harry," he repeated. Another pause, and Harry's breathing was getting short. "What do you mean, the stone? It's– it's just a rock, there's nothing special about it–"

"This," Harry interrupted, because he believed Draco, because this was his Draco, who didn't know a thing about the war or Voldemort or just how many times Harry had almost died before he finally did, "is the Philosopher's Stone. It– It should have been– Snape ought've– Dumbledore said it was destroyed." He lifted his hand ever so slightly and the stone caught the flickering of the fireplace, nearly iridescent in its glow. It glittered the same red as the pin's width line of blood running down his wrist.

"Harry," started Draco softly, patiently, "there's no such thing as–"

"Don't!" snapped Harry, and, finally, he locked eyes with Draco, just a few paces away, but this was unfamiliar territory to them. It wasn't often that they actually let the war in this far. "Don't you dare tell me it's not real."

Draco's lips tightened together. "Alright, how– how do you know it's the stone, then?"

"Because I stole it– Hermione, Ron and I, we kept Voldemort from getting it–"

"Bloody hell–"

"In first year," Harry finished. "Dumbledore said he got rid of it. That Flamel destroyed it. Or Snape, maybe. I don't know."

Because, clearly, they'd failed. Dumbledore had lied (shocker, that), and somehow it was here, in this place that seemed somehow to exist outside of time– did it, though? Hadn't it been warm and sunny and stormy before? Now it was cold, and dark, and–

Suddenly, Harry remembered fully what was in his hand. This was the Philosopher's Stone. He could– he could do anything with this. It had allowed Flamel and his wife to live longer than any person ought to, rumored to turn anything to gold, to cleanse the soul, bring people back to life–

"Harry, I'm not going to take it from you," Draco said, and Harry noticed he'd taken a tentative step closer, "but I do think you ought to put the stone down."

Harry did the opposite, his fist tightening around it and his arm drawing in a bit closer to his chest.

"Harry–" Draco started.

"Who gave it to you?"

"Snape did. I told you he was my godfather, remember?"

"Why would Snape give it to you?"

Draco raised a brow. "What godfather doesn't give their godson the secret to immortality? That's a joke." Harry didn't react. Draco, now far more exasperated than serious, straightened, and put his hands on his hips. "Honestly, Harry, who knows? Maybe he gave it to me because I am an alchemist."

Harry blinked. "You are?"

Draco huffed. "Yes, Harry. Certified in Europe and Great Britain– honestly, what did you think I do for a living?"

"I don't know! Something– something with plants and– and potions–" wait – "So you know how to use it?"

Draco was quiet, and Harry, pulled by the warmth of the stone in his hand, closed the space between them.

"You know how to use it?" he asked again, quietly, inspecting the stone. He was close enough to Draco now that he could smell the sea on him.

"Harry, it's a tool that violates the most basic principle of alchemy. It disregards exchange as the natural law of the universe. No one knows how to use it, not really." Harry wanted to counter that Flamel clearly did, but that wasn't Draco's point, not really. It didn't matter if one knew how to use it, it was that one shouldn't.

Oh, but the things Harry could do with it–

"Harry, there's two things even us wizards know not to mess with: time, and death. And that right there ignores them both."

So had Harry by the time he was thirteen.

Suddenly, the stone was too hot to touch, a star in his fist. Harry dropped it with a yelp. It bounced soundlessly against the pink shag carpet, and before Harry could snatch it back up again, Draco had his hand, palm up, the skin of his worried hands rough and grounding against Harry's own.

"Merlin's bloody– Harry, if it hurt why didn't you put it down–" Harry's palm was blistered, red like a sunburn and glistening, like the stone had rubbed off on him.

It had burned Voldemort, too, Harry remembered– or no, wait, he'd thought it was the stone. His hands had burned against Professor whatever-his-name and at the time he assumed it was something, some transfer from the stone, but then Dumbledore had explained his mother's protection, which Harry was sure had ended when Voldemort had died because– because– well, because it was only really Voldemort himself that couldn't have killed Harry, wasn't it? A stray diffindo, or slipping on a wet tile floor could kill the Chosen One, if executed (im)properly. A ruddy case of the fucking flu, even, if that's the way he wanted to go. Harry Potter was perfectly mortal and perfectly human and very, very fallible, thank you very much.

Harry's gaze dropped down to where the stone, beautiful and dark, glittered amongst the plush, warm rug.

Had he actually thought he could use the stone? How could he have actually wanted to mess with things; how could he have been okay irrevocably damaging the little happiness he'd won? Had he already forgotten what pain was like? What was wrong with him?

He pulled away from Draco sharply– Draco let out a choked whine of protest– and he kicked the stone, sending it skittering off the carpet and onto the chilled marble floor. It tinged like glass, but it did not shatter.

Harry's wand was in his hand and he was shouting– "Reducto! Bombarda! Bombarda Maxima!"

Draco hollered, "Harry!" and when the stone still lay there on the marble, unmoved despite the sea of ash and scorching, Harry tried a feeble evanesco, willing the thing into a void, but it did not budge. Falling back on what had worked for humankind forever, he reached for something– it turned out to be the wine bottle that had prompted this whole fiasco– transfigured it into a sledgehammer and brought it down hard atop the stone, cracking the charred marble and making the room shake.

It didn't work.

"Bloody hell, Harry. If you'd wanted to destroy a house of mine, I'd have offered you the Manor," snapped Draco as he stepped up beside Harry. He wrenched the sledgehammer free and returned it to its proper form, inspecting the bottle for cracks and leaks (there weren't any, they were talented wizards, thank you), before reparo'ing the floor and scourgifying away the ash.

As if Harry's outburst had never happened, the stone sat there, mocking and smug.

"Can you get rid of it?" he asked. Draco brushed his fingers against the back of Harry's hand, still red and stained.

"I'll take care of it, Harry. Don't worry."