Under Crete Lies a Labyrinth

by Saladita12

Five years after the war, Grimmauld Place lies in ruins, its magic unpredictable and restless. Yet Harry refuses to let it go—it's the last piece of Sirius he has left. Desperate to restore order to the chaotic house, he turns to the one person who might be able to help: Draco Malfoy, who the house recognises as the Black heir. Big mistake.

15. Chapter 14: Stuck in Reverse

I can't even stick to my own bloody schedule, Hecate help me, I'm too impatient LMAO Whatever xD at least I'm updating weekly and not leaving you guys to dry in the sun, I guess.

Anyways, on we go with the fic. Pansy is back and we have another sex scene that had to be edited out!

..

Ron and Hermione's little flat was nestled in one of the oldest parts of Marylebone, London, and Harry had always thought that it was too quiet for comfort whenever Ron and Hermione were away at work. Every creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of traffic filtering in from the bustling streets below, everything seemed louder than it should have been, echoing through the silent space. The Georgian building was charming in the way only British flats could be—high ceilings with crown moulding, tall sash windows that overlooked the neatly lined streets, and an unfortunate tendency for drafts no matter how many heating charms were cast. But today, the charm of the flat seemed dull, as though the quiet had sucked the life out of it.

The flat was Muggle, but Ron and Hermione had done more than their fair share of work to adapt it to their wixen lifestyle throughout the years. It wasn't glamorous, but it had a certain charm that reflected both of them as a couple. The living room was a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture they had transfigured as they needed it, with cosy armchairs and a worn-out sofa that seemed to have been in the Weasley family for several generations. Hermione, ever the not-so-little bookworm, had turned one corner of the living room into a veritable library, shelves crammed every which way, with well-worn tomes and the occasional enchanted one that shifted its cover when no one was looking. The titles ranged from advanced spell-work and magical theory to Muggle novels she pretended she didn't like. Ron, on the other hand, wasn't known for his tidiness. His clutter was everywhere—mostly piles of orange Quidditch paraphernalia, empty snack wrappers, and the odd magazine he'd picked up at a news-stand near the park. His things tended to spill over into places they didn't belong, like the bathroom or even the outside hall, much to Hermione's dismay. He'd also taken a liking to bringing magical gadgets from the shop, though they often malfunctioned and created more mess in the flat. One of the most prominent was a self-stirring cauldron, which had a tendency to spin a little too wildly, sending splashes of potion across the kitchen counter.

In the kitchen, it was a constant balancing act between Ron's half-hearted attempts at cooking—though he was certainly the only one who managed toactuallycook—; and Hermione's meticulous attempts to keep everything organised, though even she couldn't prevent the occasional accidental explosion from one of Ron's attempts at experimenting with new recipes from the Weasley family cookbook.

Crookshanks, though, was the undisputed king of the flat, and ruled it with an iron paw. The half-Kneazle often perched atop the highest shelf in any given room, surveying the chaos below, his fur sticking up in all directions as if he had seen something unpleasant. He also seemed to like to settle in the sunniest spot of the room, but only after making sure his presence was known by swiping at anything within reach. Hermione had tried to train him to stay off her beloved crocheted throw blankets, but Crookshanks had a mind of his own and was not to be contained. In fact, when he was in one of his moods, he would even knock over a stack of books just to watch Hermione scramble to fix it.

Despite their differences, their home had become a perfect blend of their personalities. It was lived-in, comfortable, and full of reminders of their journey together—both the successes and the messes that made up their life. It was the kind of place where, no matter how chaotic, there was always warmth and a sense of belonging. It reminded Harry of The Burrow.

Not that any of that gave Harry any comfort right then.

A half-drunk cup of tea sat abandoned on the small kitchen table, the steam long gone and the liquid cooling into an unappealing shade of murky brown. Next to it, a plate with a slice of toast sat untouched, its edges curling in resignation at the lack of attention. Not that it mattered; the idea of eating felt like a chore, an obligation to appease Ron or Hermione's never-ending fretfulness. He supposed he could try to eat it, if only to stave off the inevitable barrage of questions from Hermione when she returned, but he couldn't muster the energy.

Outside the window, Nottingham street bustled on, oblivious to the war raging inside his head. Taxis honked as they trundled down the road, pedestrians scurried past clutching their bags and coats against the dreary October drizzle, and somewhere nearby, the faint sound of a baby crying drifted up. The mundane nature of it all grated against his spirit. It felt wrong, somehow, that the world could carry on so effortlessly when his own had become so bloody complicated.

With a sigh, Harry took the dry toast in his hand and attempted to nibble at it, without much success and even less enthusiasm.

An itch had started in his chest, just under the ribs. It had been bothering him for a couple of days, now, a maddening, insistent sensation that refused to leave him alone, no matter how much he tried to ignore it. It wasn't physical—not really. It wasn't like a rash or a scrape that could be spelled away and forgotten. This was worse, because it sat somewhere deep, scratching at him in ways he didn't know how to fix.

Three bloody days.

That's how long it had been since the whole ordeal at Grimmauld Place had finally ended; since the doors of the house had swung open to reveal a very awkward reunion with his friends and, more importantly, the slow unravelling of whatever had started with Draco Malfoy.

The connection—or whatever it was—that they had forged inside his crumbling house had lingered long after they parted ways. It wasn't like a regular connection, the kind you feel when you meet someone interesting or make a friend. It wasn't just physical, either, though Merlin knew that was a delicious part of it. The memory of Draco's skin underneath his hands, his supple lips, his warmth—all of it was seared into his mind, a kaleidoscope of sensations he couldn't shake. But it was more than that. There was something about the way Draco had looked at him, the way he'd been so vulnerable yet so unyielding. No, this was something that felt like it had been etched into his very being, burning into his skin like an ancient rune carved too deep to fade. A bond made out of hurt and longing. It had felt like… like Draco saw him. The real him.

And that was terrifying.

The guilt crept in then, like it always did whenever he thought about Draco, a familiar old enemy slipping through the cracks. It wasn't just about the hand-holding incident, though that had been bad enough. It was everything. The way he'd hesitated, the way he'd let Ron's stupid remarks slide without saying anything to defend Draco.

The way he'd let him walk away without stopping him.

The toast sat forgotten in his hand as Harry leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. The stubble on his jaw felt rough, another reminder that he hadn't bothered to shave in days. What was the point? The only person he wanted to see him right now was probably doing his best to avoid thinking about him altogether.

The itch flared up again, stronger this time. It wasn't just in his chest now; it spread across his skin like a phantom ache, like an invisible tether pulling him in a direction he didn't dare follow.

He wanted to go to him.

He wanted to march straight to wherever Draco was holed up—probably some impossibly posh manor with enough expensive furniture to make Grimmauld Place look like a Muggle charity shop—and say… what?

Sorry for being an absolute tosser? Sorry for dropping your hand like a coward? Sorry for letting my overthinking steal you away from me before I even knew what we were?

None of it felt sufficient. None of it could erase the way Draco had looked at him that evening, the way his expression had shifted from cautious hope to guarded hurt. The thought of seeing that look again, of watching Draco's walls snap back up, made his chest ache. But the thought of not seeing him at all was worse.

A knock on the entrance to the kitchen snapped him out of his spiralling thoughts. Hermione didn't wait for a reply before she stepped inside and sat in front of him, her face set in that no-nonsense expression she seemed to have perfected during their Hogwarts years.

"You look awful," she announced, not unkindly, as she set a bag of groceries next to her on the table. "Have you even left the flat since we brought you here?"

Harry scowled, but didn't bother denying it. What would've been the point? She was right.

"You're not going to get any better if you just sit here and brood," she continued, her voice softening just a fraction. "You need to do something, Harry. Anything. Go for a walk. Come with me to the Ministry. Hell, you could even write to Malfoy if that's what's bothering you."

His head shot up at that, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of Draco's name. "I'm not writing to Malfoy," he muttered, his voice sharper than he intended.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms in that way that made her look like she was about to give him a lecture, and looking thoroughly unimpressed with Harry's antics.

"Why not? It's obvious you've been thinking about him."

"I haven't—"

"Oh, spare me," she cut him off, rolling her eyes. "I've known you since we were eleven, Harry. You're an open book, and this—" she gestured vaguely at him, sprawled in his chair like a particularly dishevelled, disgruntled cat. "—is you sulking, and I'd be willing to bet my entire library that it's because of him."

Harry looked away, heat creeping up his neck. The idea of seeing Draco again made his stomach churn. It wasn't that he didn't want to—and, Merlin, he wanted to—but the thought of facing him after how he'd acted was unbearable. What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound hollow or insincere?

"I don't know what happened between you two," she continued, her voice softer once again. "But whatever it is, it's clearly bothering you. And the only way to fix it is to actually talk to him. You can't just sit here and hope it'll go away."

Hermione must have seen the hesitation on his face, because she scooted closer and placed a hand on his own.

"You're allowed to make decisions that make you happy, Harry. And if this thing with Malfoy is important to you—"

"It's not a'thing,'" he cut in, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Hermione's expression softened further, the sharp edges of her bossiness melting away into something kinder. "It's okay to care about him, you know. And it's okay to want to fix things. But you have to actually do something about it."

The thought made his stomach churn. Caring about Draco was easy, so painfully easy, even if it didn't make any sense. Doing something about it, on the other hand, felt like trying to navigate Grimmauld's labyrinth blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back.

"Just… think about it," she said finally, her voice soft but firm. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, her touch grounding him in the midst of his swirling thoughts. She could tell he needed space, but also a little nudge to move forward.

Without waiting for a response, she picked up his abandoned tea and toast, the small act of care almost automatic, as though she were used to handling these moments with him.

"I'll take care of the washing," she added with a gentle smile, her eyes meeting his with quiet understanding. Harry opened his mouth to protest, but the look on her face told him it was pointless. He knew it wasn't just about the dishes. He watched her move about the kitchen, the rhythmic clink of the dishes providing a comforting backdrop.

..

Hermione had always been annoyingly good at persuasion, and today was no different. Despite his reluctance, Harry found himself agreeing to her invitation to visit the Ministry, if only to get her off his back. The idea of seeing Kingsley and getting an update on Grimmauld Place felt less daunting than facing the silent loneliness of the flat for another day. It was an easy compromise—or so he told himself as they flooed into the Ministry's grand atrium, the noise immediately startling Harry into regretting his decision.

The usual bustle of witches and wizards going about their work filled the space. Tall, Floo chimneys flared green with arrivals and departures of Ministry workers, and the gilded statues of magical creatures in the fountain gleamed under the enchanted ceiling. Hermione greeted a few familiar faces with polite smiles and nods as they passed, but Harry kept his head low, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He was not in the mood to deal with the stares or the whispers of sycophants.

The lift ride to Kingsley's office was mercifully short, though the silence that settled between him and Hermione was anything but comfortable. She didn't push him further—likely sensing that he was teetering on the edge of legging it back to the flat—but her expectant glances spoke volumes. He couldn't avoid doing her bidding forever, but he knew she'd bring his sulking up again the moment he lowered his guard.

Kingsley's office was as stately as ever, a mixture of dark wood and deep blue accents that gave the room a grounded, almost regal feel. Although Harry had always thought that the blue was Kingsley's discreet way to show Ravenclaw house pride. The Minister himself stood as they entered, his tall, broad-shouldered frame cutting an imposing figure behind the desk in his colourful Kente traditional robes. His face broke into a warm smile as he saw them, though Harry noticed the seriousness in his gaze, a clear indication that this wasn't just a casual visit.

"Harry, Hermione," Kingsley greeted amicably, gesturing for them to sit. "It's good to see you both. I was beginning to think you'd gone into hiding, Harry."

Harry gave a weak chuckle as he settled into the chair opposite the Minister. "Something like that.

"Well, you deserve the rest, after the ordeal you have gone through," Kingsley's smile faded slightly, his expression growing more serious as he leaned forward. "As you know, I sent a team of Unspeakables to investigate Grimmauld Place after you notified me about its… peculiarities and what happened due to them. They've since returned, and I thought it best to deliver the report to you personally."

Hermione perked up beside him, her curiosity visibly piqued. Harry, on the other hand, felt a knot form in his stomach. The thought of Grimmauld Place still sent a shiver down his spine, even after all that had happened.

"The house's magic appears to have stabilised," Kingsley began, his deep voice calm but measured. He looked down at his desk, where a bunch of parchment—Harry assumed them to be a report—lay scattered around. "The Unspeakables found no residual signs of the dark magic you described. Whatever you and Lord Malfoy did—it worked. The nexus of the house's sentience has reverted to what one might consider its default state. Its magical awareness is now quite limited, no more than that of a typical wixen residence. In layman's terms, the house is back to square one."

Hermione nodded along, her brow furrowed in thought. "And the dangerous rooms? The creatures?" she asked. Much to Harry's amusement, it looked like she was taking notes.

"Ah, yes." Kingsley reached for a scroll on his desk, unrolling it with a practised flick of his wrist. "The Unspeakables located the Chimaera that you warned us about, Harry. It had grown dangerously agitated within its confinement, I imagine it was not amused by your and Mr Malfoy's intrusion, but they were able to lure it into a magically reinforced containment space. The space itself is an experimental piece, enhanced with an Undetectable Extension Charm and numerous habitat and protective spells. The original model was conceptualised and pioneered by Newton Scamander during the thirties, and has only been improved upon since; so there is no need to worry about the creature," he said, looking at Hermione, who shut her mouth with a click, her dark cheeks flushing. "It has been relocated to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures while the Greek Ministry approves of its transfer and release into the wild."

Harry let out a small breath of relief at that. That Chimaera had been a living nightmare, and the thought of it roaming free in Grimmauld Place had worried him for days. The least he wanted was to be sleeping peacefully one moment and be devoured by the beast the next.

"As for the other rooms—particularly the hall of mirrors, you were most worried about, Harry—they could not be located," Kingsley continued, his eyes scanning his files. "The Unspeakables believe that the spell you and Mr Malfoy performed may have broken those constructs entirely. They were likely magical manifestations tied to the house's unstable core. With the nexus reset, the rooms ceased to exist, likely absorbed by the house itself to replenish its magic."

"That's… good news, isn't it?" Hermione asked, glancing at Harry, who shrugged.

"It is," Kingsley agreed. "However, the house will need to be surveyed for any unusual activity in the coming months. The Unspeakables have placed several monitoring spells and wards around the property to ensure it remains stable. In the meantime, you are free to move back into Grimmauld, although the Unspeakables do suggest you carry your wand at all times and request you inform us of any suspicious or worrying events."

Harry nodded absently, his thoughts drifting. Grimmauld Place might have been stable now, back to being a partially sentient house much like the Burrow, but it didn't feel like a victory. Not when Draco was still haunting his thoughts, his absence a constant ache that Harry couldn't seem to ignore. And he was sure that going back to Grimmauld would only make the guilt festering in his stomach all the more difficult to ignore.

Kingsley's voice broke through his reverie and, as if he had read Harry's mind, he said, "On a related note, the Unspeakables were particularly interested in Mr Malfoy's involvement, or rather, his actions. Alas, they were quite impressed by the accounts of his magical talents, especially given his role in stabilising the house's magic and the unravelling of the core."

Harry's stomach twisted like it always did at the mention of Draco's name. He nodded stiffly, unsure of where this was going.

"Alright… sure? I guess? What of it?"

"They've been wondering if he might consider joining their ranks," Kingsley said, his tone carefully neutral, his keen dark eyes observing Harry for any kind of objection or unfavourable reaction. "The Department of Mysteries operates largely independently within the Ministry. Given Mr Malfoy's rather… unique circumstances regarding his status as Marked, it might be an ideal fit for him if he wishes to make a career out of this particular set of skills of his."

Hermione's eyes lit up with curiosity, and Harry knew it was due to her once interest in becoming an Unspeakable before she had decided to become a legislative attorney focused on policy change. She had said that it was the most direct way she could think of to exert change within the Ministry and the wixen world at large. Harry had no doubt she'd be aiming to become Minister for Magic sometime in the future.

"That's fascinating. I imagine Malfoy would be intrigued by the idea, though I can't speak for him," she said, her eyes sparkling with interest, and Harry had to bite his tongue to keep himself from correcting her.

Not now, idiot Potter.

Kingsley turned his attention back to Harry. "Do you know how to contact him? The Unspeakables are eager to extend an offer to Lord Malfoy."

Heat crept up Harry's neck, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked down at his hands, folded in his lap where his fingers fiddled with one another.

"I… I don't, actually. Not directly. The only way I've ever contacted him is by owl."

Kingsley's brow furrowed slightly, but he didn't press the issue. "Very well. If you happen to speak with him, do pass along the message. We will try to contact him either way, as the Unspeakables aren't known for their patience, but they're willing to wait for an answer."

Harry nodded again, though the thought of reaching out to Draco made his chest tighten. He couldn't imagine how that conversation would go, not after everything that had happened. And yet, the itch beneath his skin—the one that had been plaguing him for days—seemed to flare at the mere thought of speaking to the blonde.

"Sure, sir," he said, softly.

Kingsley nodded before he set the scroll aside, his sharp gaze sweeping between Harry and Hermione. "That should cover the formalities for now," he said, leaning back in his chair, his smile more affable and relaxed now. "Harry, I trust you'll think carefully about what I said. Grimmauld Place may feel stable, but I'd rather not take unnecessary risks. Report any anomaly to us before things get as bad as they did before, yeah?"

Hermione nodded fervently, as if Kingsley's words cemented her earlier disposition regarding his house. Harry, however, felt a flicker of irritation prick at his nerves. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the concern, but the idea of having to report on Grimmauld's ever-shifting moods until the Unspeakables chucked him into Ron and Hermione's again was not exactly appealing. He was grateful, sure, but it was cramped enough as it was without him moping about in the living room.

"I understand," Harry replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. "But it's not like Grimmauld's going to try to kill me now, is it?"

Kingsley's expression didn't waver. "It's not about what it will or won't do—it's about making sure you're safe, Harry. You've had enough brushes with death for one lifetime, don't you think?"

Hermione shot him a pointed look, her lips pressed into a thin line that spoke volumes. "Youaredoing what the Minister is telling you, Harry James," she said firmly. "No arguments. I don't care if Grimmauld is the safest house in all of Britain. You're not keeping quiet about it this time around if I can help it."

Harry slumped back in his chair, feeling like a child being told he couldn't have pudding until he finished his vegetables. "Alright, fine," he muttered, though he could already feel the itch to be somewhere else—anywhere else.

Kingsley seemed satisfied with that, his mouth curving into a faint smile. "Good. I'll have the Unspeakables keep me updated on the house. If there's anything urgent, you'll be the first to know."

Hermione leaned forward, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Kingsley, do you really think Malfoy would consider working with the Unspeakables? I mean, it's not exactly… traditional employment, is it?"

Kingsley chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. "No, it's not. But Lord Malfoy's background is… unique. He's got the pedigree, the training, and—if what Harry has told me is accurate—the skill to match. The Unspeakables don't care about blood status or past affiliations, true, but his background makes him quite adept at dark magic. The department cares about results. If he's willing, it could be a good fit for him."

Harry shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Draco's name again, wishing both Kingsley and Hermione would let the subject rest so he didn't need to feel his shame poking at his gut. He could see the hurt in Draco's mercurial eyes when he'd dropped his hand outside Grimmauld Place every time his name was mentioned. The memory made his chest ache, a sharp reminder of how he'd managed to muck things up yet again.

"Malfoy's always been a bit of a mystery," Hermione mused, her tone thoughtful. "But I suppose that's exactly what the Department of Mysteries is looking for."

"Precisely," Kingsley inclined his head. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'm sure you've got plenty to discuss."

Hermione stood first, smoothing down the front of her robes. "Thank you, Minister. As always, you've been incredibly helpful."

Harry followed suit, though his movements were slower, more reluctant.

"Yeah, thanks," he said, his voice quieter.

Kingsley gave him a firm pat on the shoulder as they moved towards the door. "Take care of yourself, Harry. And don't wait too long to sort things out. Life has a way of moving on whether we're ready or not."

The words, a little too pointed and on the nail than Harry felt comfortable with, lingered in his mind as they left Kingsley's office and made their way back to the lift. Hermione pressed the button for the atrium, her brow furrowed in thought and her foot tapping anxiously on the floor.

"Well, that was certainly illuminating," she said as the lift began its descent. "I'm glad the house is stable now, but it's a bit concerning that they couldn't find all the rooms you mentioned. Hopefully, the Unspeakables are right about them being re-absorbed into the house."

Harry grunted in agreement, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The mention of Draco's potential recruitment by the Department of Mysteries had stirred something in him—something he couldn't quite put into words. Was it intrigue? Worry? Both? Either way, it made him huff in disapproval. Biting his lip in contemplation, Harry looked at the outside beyond the glass. While just a few days ago he'd have thought these feelings were rooted in the idea of Malfoy holding a respectable job despite his past; he now knew and admitted that he was just worried over the idea of Draco accepting a job at the Department of Mysteries when Harry knew very well his dreams lay somewhere else.

"You're awfully quiet," Hermione remarked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "What's on your mind?"

He shrugged, his hands stuffed into his pockets. "Just… thinking."

"About Malfoy?"

The question was so direct that it made Harry flinch. He shot her a glare, but Hermione remained unfazed, her expression expectant and transparent on the fact that she was not willing to put up with his nonsense.

"I don't know," he admitted after a long pause. "Maybe."

Hermione sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as the lift came to a stop. "Harry, you're not going to get any answers by avoiding him."

He didn't respond, instead stepping out of the lift and into the bustling atrium. The noise of the crowd was a welcome distraction this time around, and he let it wash over him as they made their way towards the Floo grates.

Hermione didn't push him further, though he could feel her disapproval and exasperation radiating off her in waves. By the time they reached the grate, he was itching to leave—to get back to the flat and bury himself in something mindless like disorganising Ron's chocolate frog cards just to annoy him.

"Go on, then," Hermione said, gesturing towards the green flames. "I'll see you at home."

Harry hesitated, his gaze flickering towards her. "You're not coming?"

"I've got a few errands to run here still," she replied, her tone firm but gentle. "Don't worry, I won't be long."

He nodded, stepping into the grate and calling out the address of their flat in Marylebone. The familiar pull of Floo travel enveloped him, and he closed his eyes against the swirl of green fire. When he stumbled out into the flat's small living room—and promptly fell on his arse. God did he hate Floo travel he let out a sigh of relief. The space was quiet as ever, save for the faint hum of traffic outside the window. Ron's ratty trainers were still by the door, and the faint scent of whatever potion Hermione had brewing in their room lingered in the air.

Dropping onto the couch, Harry ran a hand through his hair and let his head fall back against the cushions. The itch under his skin hadn't gone away—it had only grown worse the more everyone around him decided to talk about Draco. And no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the thought of the blonde lingered in the back of his mind like an unspoken question.

He didn't know what to do. But he knew he couldn't keep running from it forever.

..

The flat felt smaller than ever that evening, though it was not for lack of space. Ron and Hermione's warm hospitality had been unwavering over the past few days, and yet Harry couldn't shake the tension coiled in his chest like a spring. He knew it made him snappy and irritable to be around, made him isolate himself. It was his least favourite side of him, one that had been born from Cedric's death and the constant torture of Voldemort in his head during fifth year. He was just glad his best friends knew it wasn't their fault—far from it. It was his own head that had turned into a maze that felt far more chaotic than the one that had created this; looping endlessly back to a pale figure with sharp features, silver-grey eyes, and a voice that could cut as deeply as it soothed.

Dinner that evening was another of Hermione's attempts to make Harry feel at ease, though he couldn't help but notice the careful way she watched him, as if trying to read his mind. The food that evening was simple enough, though Ron—the only one in their relationship capable of not burning down the flat when cooking something more complicated than a cheese toastie— had gone to some effort to make it special—a hearty chicken pie from Molly's recipe book, roasted vegetables, and a bottle of wine he's managed to coax Hermione into opening. The table was small, squeezed into the corner of their kitchen, but the familiarity of their company and the warmth around the place made up for its lack of grandeur. Crookshanks dozed in the corner, atop his very worn cat-tree, his tail twitching occasionally as if in a dream. Everything about the night gave off a homey sort of energy that spoke of comfort and normalcy.

Harry wished he could feel either.

"More pie?" Ron asked, as he munched on a piece of sourdough, which he washed down with a big gulp of wine. He was speaking through a mouthful of food, which earned him a pointed look from his girlfriend.

"No, thanks," Harry mumbled, poking at the remnants of his first serving with his fork. He wasn't really hungry; the heavy feeling in his stomach had little to do with food.

Bundled in a mustard yellow jumper that looked gorgeous on her, Hermione sat across from Harry, her brow slightly furrowed as she watched him pick at his food. Ron was halfway through his second or third helping, blissfully unaware of the tension brewing in the room.

"Harry," Hermione began, her tone gentle but insistent. She was looked pointedly at him, reminding him that she already knew what was wrong with him. Kind of. "Are you alright? You've barely said a word since we got back."

Harry's wine glass froze halfway to his mouth. He hesitated, his eyes flickering to Ron before returning to his plate. "I'm fine," he said quickly, the lie sounding weak even to his own ears. "Just tired."

Ron snorted, shoving another forkful of pie into his mouth. "Tired? It's not like you've been running around fighting Dark wizards or anything. You've done sod-all since you got back from Grimmauld, mate."

"Ron," Hermione said sharply, her eyes narrowing at him.

"What?" Ron shrugged, oblivious. "I'm just saying, he's been acting like he's got a niffler up his arse ever since he got back. If it's about us being away all day, just say so. Or is this about Grimmauld? Because I'm not exactly thrilled about that, either."

"I said I'm fine," Harry cut in, his voice sharper than he intended. He set his fork down with a clatter, his appetite officially gone. He wished his friends would leave it well alone, give him time to process things. Though he supposed that last time he had kept things to himself, everything had blown up in his face spectacularly.

Ron blinked at him, clearly startled by the outburst. "Blimey, sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to touch a nerve. You're as much of a drama queen as the ferret."

The room fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the faint sound of Crookshanks snoring in the corner. Hermione glanced between the two of them, her brow furrowing in concern.

"Harry," she said carefully, "is this about Grimmauld Place? Or…" she hesitated, her eyes searching his face. "You know, are you still upset about Malfoy?"

Harry felt his stomach twist, the knot of emotions he'd been trying to suppress all evening tightening unbearably. "It's not—" he began, but the words caught in his throat. He couldn't lie to her, not when she was looking at him like that. She already knew part of the answer, anyhow.

Ron let out a low groan, rolling his eyes. "Oh, for Merlin's sake. What's Malfoy got to do with anything? He's not worth thinking about, anyway."

The words hit Harry like a slap. His grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles whitening. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply, his voice more aggressive than he had intended.

Ron blinked, clearly puzzled by the edge in Harry's tone. "Bloody hell, calm down. I'm just saying—if you're angry about something he did, I get it. I wouldn't want him in my house either, and Merlin knows you must've been sick of his mug after having to spend so many days trapped with him. I don't know how you did it, mate, it must've been the worst. Plus, it's not like he's—"

"He's not what, Ron?" Harry cut in, his voice rising. He set his fork down with a clatter and leaned forward, his eyes blazing. "Not worth being in the same house as me? Not worth—what? Existing? You don't know a damn thing about him, Ron, so shut it already."

The room fell silent. Hermione's eyes darted between the two of them, her expression unreadable, her worry only betrayed by the way she kept playing with the sleeves of her jumper. Ron looked genuinely taken aback, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"Bloody hell, alright, whatever," Ron said finally, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Didn't realise you were so bloody defensive when it comes to the ferret. What's your problem, anyway? It's not like you're friends with him or anything."

Harry hesitated, the words catching in his throat. His heart pounded against his ribs, and for a moment, he considered lying—brushing it off as nothing and letting Ron think whatever he wanted. But the thought of Draco's face, that flicker of hurt when Harry had dropped his hand, pushed him to speak.

"It's not that simple," he said quietly, his voice strained. "You don't know him like I do."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "And how's that, then? What, did you two have a heart-to-heart while you were stuck in Grimmauld? Did he try very hard to make it look like he was one of the good guys?"

"Ron!" Hermione snapped, her tone sharper than before.

But Harry didn't let her mediate this time. "Yes, actually," he shot back, his eyes fixed on Ron. "Ididsee another side of him. He's not the same person he was at Hogwarts. He's changed. And maybe if you weren't so bloody stuck in the past likeIwas, you'd see that."

Ron looked as though he'd been slapped. "Changed?" he repeated incredulously. "This isMalfoywe're talking about, yeah? The same git who called Hermione a—you know—and spent years making our life hell? Forgive me if I'm not jumping at the chance to roll out the welcome mat for the faggy git."

"I'm not asking you to," Harry snapped. "But I am asking you to stop acting like he's some kind of leper. He's been through more than you know—more than I even knew. And he doesn't deserve the crap you're throwing at him. And for fuck's sake, stop with the barbed jabs at his sexuality, you sound ignorant."

Hermione's gaze softened, a flicker of affection passing across her face. There was a lack of surprise in her eyes that told Harry he had been right in his suspicions about Hermione having seen through him on the Draco issue. At least she was being kind about it, unlike Ron's dramatic outburst a few minutes ago.

"Harry…" she began, her voice quiet. "Are you saying you…?"

The question—or rather the implied words behind it—hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Ron's eyes widened, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. Harry felt his face heat and his hands tremble with anxiety. His heart pounded against his ribs, and for a moment, he considered lying—brushing it off as nothing and letting them think whatever they wanted. But the thought of Draco's face, that flicker of hurt when Harry had dropped his hand, pushed him to speak, the words clawing their way out of him with a startling force.

"I don't know what I'm saying," he admitted, running a hand through his hair. This was it then, he was finally speaking up about hissituationwith Draco. He just hoped he still had his two best friends after this. "I just… I care about him, alright? And I think… I think I might feel something more than that. I don't know what it is, exactly, but it's there. And it's real. And I mucked it up because I was too scared to—"

He stopped, his throat tightening. The words felt like they were being dragged out of him, raw and unpolished. He had never said them out loud before, not even to himself.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Ron's face was a study in conflicting emotions. Shock, disbelief, disgust, and something else Harry couldn't quite place. "You're… you're serious," he said slowly. "You're not just taking the piss."

Harry shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I'm not joking, Ron. And I don't care if you don't get it, but I need you to—"

"Need me to what?" Ron interrupted, his voice rising. "To just pretend like it's fine? Like it's normal that you want to bugger the git? This isMalfoy, Harry! Good for nothing, Death Eater scu—"

"People can change, Ron," Hermione cut in, her voice firm and sharp, like a warning knife to the neck effectively cutting off Ron's outburst. She turned to Harry, her expression unreadable. "You've seen it, haven't you? That he's not the same?"

Harry nodded, swallowing hard. "He's… different," he said quietly. "He's still a prat sometimes, yeah, but he's… more. He's brave, in his own way, and funny, and… kind, too. He's not like he used to be when we were young. He's been through hell, Hermione. And he… he's made me feel something I've never felt for anyone before."

Ron groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "This is mental. This iscompletelybloody mental. You've gone round the twist, mate."

"Maybe it is mental," Hermione said calmly. "But it's not our place to judge, Ron. Harry, if this is what you want—ifhe'swhat you want—then we'll support you. Won't we, Ron?"

Ron looked as though he'd just swallowed something particularly unpleasant. He avoided Harry's gaze, muttering under his breath. "Yeah, fine," he said finally, his voice grudging.

The room fell into a silence immediately after, the kind of silence where everyone present knew it was too fragile to risk it. Harry fidgeted with his fork, moving it back and forth between his fingers with practised ease, just like he used to do with his wand during class. Hermione was the first to speak again, her tone calm but firm.

"But, Harry," she said softly, "why didn't you say anything to us? You've never been one to care terribly much about what other people think. Why are you so scared of this?"

"Because it's different," Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just about me. It's about him. And if people find out—if they start talking—it'll be worse for him than it will be for me. Plus… I—I have no delusions about who he was—whathe was. You saw how Ron reacted, I didn't want to alienate literally everyone in my life."

Ron's expression was unreadable, a mixture of displeasure and something else Harry didn't dare name. For a long moment, he said nothing, his eyes fixed on the table, his fork spearing through his pie.

"Listen, I'm not saying I get it," Ron said finally, his voice gruff. "And I'm not saying I'm happy about it. Even if what you're saying is true, I still have no idea why you'd risk so much for a cockroach like him… but if this is what you choose, then… we'll back you up, won't we? Just don't expect me to be his mate or anything, and don't come crying to me when he turns out to be a right git again."

Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "I'm not asking for that," he said quietly. "I just… I needed you to know."

Hermione reached across the table, placing a hand over his. "You've always had our support, Harry," she said warmly. "No matter what. And if Malfoy's changed, then he deserves a chance to prove it."

Ron muttered something under his breath, but when Harry looked at him, there was no anger or animosity in his expression—just a grudging acceptance.

"Thanks," Harry said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

For the first time in days, the weight on his chest felt a little lighter.

..

The next morning dawned grey and cold, fitting perfectly with Harry's mood. The street just outside the flat was unusually quiet for London as he prepared to apparate out of Ron and Hermione's home with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, the unfamiliar weight of it almost grounding him. They had both already seen him off with encouraging words—Hermione's much more articulate than Ron's gruff'Don't do anything stupid'—and though Harry appreciated it, the strange, hollow feeling in his chest had refused to fade.

Grimmauld Place stood tall in front of him as he apparated onto his front step. The old house appeared the same as ever, its dark facade blending into the surrounding row of buildings. But something about it felt different now, and not just because the magic was supposedly stable again. Maybe it was the absence of the tension that had once been so tangible, or maybe it was the absence of the person who had shared it with him.

Maybe it was his own perception of the house.

The door creaked as he stepped inside, and Harry shivered, though it wasn't cold. The silence inside was unsettling, stretching out in every direction like a suffocating void. He dropped his bag in the hall and stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning the dimly lit space. The house had been cleansed of its darkness, its heavy weight lifted after centuries of it choking every living being that resided within, but that only left an emptiness in its place. He wandered first into the sitting room, his footsteps echoing faintly on the floorboards. The furniture had been righted, the dust magicked away, but it still felt like a shell of a home. Memories of the past few days lingered in the corners of his mind, unbidden. The way Draco had scowled when Harry suggested something particularly stupid or rash. The rare, soft smile he'd worn after their spells had worked. The heat of his hand, firm and steady, when he'd held Harry's hand.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair as he sank into the worn sofa. He knew that the emptiness he felt wasn't just in the house; it was in him. It was ridiculous, really. Three days apart—after just a couple of days together, no less—, and he already felt like something vital was missing. Like his skin itched with the absence of Draco's magic near him, and his thoughts were stuck on a loop, replaying every glance, every word, every fleeting moment they had shared. He had tried to push it down, to convince himself that it didn't mean anything. That whatever had happened between them in Grimmauld Place was a product of the situation, of their shared trauma and isolation. That it would soon go away, and he just had to wait until things went back to normal.

But that was a lie, and he knew it. They had always been inevitable, drawn to each other like moths to an open flame. Sure, for years, it had manifested as hatred and the chasm between their ideologies. But now those things were gone, no longer an obstacle between the undeniable magnetism between them, leaving a tainted but blank canvas behind. The connection they had forged in the depths of the belly of Grimmauld wasn't something that could be explained away. It was real, and it was raw, and it terrified him.

The worst part was that he didn't even know where they stood. They had left things so unfinished, so undefined before the world had caught up to them, and Harry hated it. He hated the way he'd dropped Draco's hand bust because of the way he'd let his fear get the better of him. He hated the look on Draco's face when he'd done it, the flicker of hurt that Harry couldn't seem to forget.

He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning softly. He could try to talk to Draco. He could owl him and try to explain himself. But what would he even say? Sorry for being a coward? Sorry for caring too much and not enough all at once? It wasn't enough. None of it was enough.

Kreacher appeared in the doorway then, his large eyes peering at Harry with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Master Harry, welcome back," the elf said, bowing low. "Is there anything Kreacher can do for you?"

Harry shook his head, forcing a small smile. "No, Kreacher. I'm fine."

Kreacher hesitated, his ears twitching slightly. "The house feels… different, Master Harry," he said carefully. "Empty, but not just in the way of rooms. Does Master Harry feel this too?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "Yeah," he said softly. "I feel it."

The elf nodded solemnly, as if he understood far more than he let on. "If Master Harry needs anything, Kreacher will be in the kitchen. Will Master Draco be joining us for lunch?"

Harry flinched at the question, the dagger of guilt in his ribs twisting. "No, he will not be joining us," Harry said, watching as the elf disappeared back down the hall. "Thanks, Kreacher,"

Left alone again, Harry leaned back against the sofa, his head tilting up to stare at the cracked ceiling. The reality of the situation pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating, and he felt entirely lost. It felt as though he was back at square one, but now instead of a chaotic house trying to kill him, it was the reminder of just how turbulent his whole life was.

He missed Draco. It was as simple and as complicated as that. The thought of him was a constant presence in Harry's mind, like another shadow he couldn't escape. And the worst part was that he didn't even know if he could fix this. Or even if Draco felt the same.

But deep down, Harry thought he might. He thought of the way Draco had looked at him, the rare moments of vulnerability that had slipped through his carefully constructed walls. He thought of the way their magic had intertwined, the way it had felt so natural, so right.

The way he had felt as they lay in each other's arms as their heartbeats slowed down after their climax…

Maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to face whatever this was, no matter how terrifying it might be.

Still, it wouldn't be today. Today, he needed to sit with the emptiness, to let himself feel the ache of it. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would find the courage to do something about it. For now, he simply closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him, trying to find some semblance of peace in the emptiness.

But even as he sat there, alone in the house that no longer felt quite haunted, he couldn't shake the feeling that the longer he sat in inaction, the farther that missing piece in his chest was getting away from him.

And he didn't know where to find it.

..

Eight days of stubborn self-flagellation passed before Harry finally cracked.

The days following his move back into Grimmauld Place had been maddeningly monotonous. He'd cleaned, rearranged, even gone through the books in the main library alphabetically—anything to keep his mind from drifting to Draco Malfoy. But it never worked for too long. The thought of Draco had settled in his chest like an itch that couldn't be scratched, a relentless hum in his brain that no amount of busywork could drown out.

And then, last night, he'd dreamt of him. It hadn't been a nightmare or some magical premonition—just a memory, sweet and simple. They were in that sitting room at Grimmauld Place, laughing over something ridiculous that Draco has said. Harry couldn't even remember what it was. All he could remember was Draco's laugh, soft and real in a way he'd never heard before, and the warmth in those grey eyes, before he kissed Harry.

When he'd woken up, the ache in his chest had been unbearable.

So now he was standing in front of the gleaming, imposing building that housed the offices of theDaily Prophet. Harry looked up at the structure, sunlight bouncing off its mirrored surface, and felt a deep sense of foreboding. He hadn't interacted with Pansy Parkinson much outside of the chaos a few days ago, but her reputation preceded her. Parkinson was sharp as a blade, brutally vicious, and apparently fiercely protective of Draco. There was no way this was going to be a pleasant conversation.

TheDaily Prophetwas more overwhelming than Harry had anticipated. The building itself looked innocuous from the outside—another respectable brick facade nestled in the heart of Diagon Alley—but stepping inside was like walking into the belly of some great, ink-fed beast. The interior of the building was a hive of activity, bustling witches and wizards in tailored robes moving purposefully from one end of the lobby to the other. The air hummed with a frenetic energy, a constant buzz of quills scratching furiously on parchment; owls swooping overhead with messages tied to their claws; enchanted paper airplanes zipped overhead, carrying messages from one floor to the next; and irritated witches and wizards barking over one another at their desks. A large, enchanted clock hung on the wall, its hands not pointing to the time but instead to the status of various ongoing news stories:BREAKING,IN REVIEW,PRINTING.

Harry pushed his way through, clutching his cloak tighter around himself as reporters bustled past him. The walls were lined with framed headlines of yesteryear—'YOU-KNOW-WHO RETURNS!'and'BOY WHO LIVED AGAIN, TRIUMPHANT!'leered down at him from ornate frames, mocking reminders of a past he still wasn't sure he could escape.

"Er, excuse me?" he asked the witch behind the desk, a young woman with sleek blond hair and nails painted a glittering pink. "I'm here to see Pansy Parkinson."

She glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. "And you are?"

"Harry Potter," he said, bracing himself for whatever reaction would follow.

The receptionist's brows shot up, her glossy lips opening up on an'O'shape and her face flushed as she looked him up and down for a second, but she eventually masked her surprise.

"Ms. Parkinson is on the fourth floor. Office 417." She waved her wand, and a small golden token appeared, hovering in front of him. "Take this. It'll let you through the security wards."

Harry nodded his thanks, took the token, and headed for the lifts. The ride to the fourth floor was mercifully brief, though the soft hum of the lift's enchantments did little to calm his nerves. When the doors slid open, he stepped out into a corridor lined with frosted glass panels atop warm wood, each etched with theDaily Prophetlogo. Pansy Parkinson's office was at the far end of the hallway, and Harry was met with suspicious glances and more than a few hushed whispers as he made his way down the cramped hallway.

When he reached the door—a golden plaque that readPansy A. Parkinson, Feature Editorin crisp lettering—he hesitated for only a moment before knocking.

"What?" a sharp voice snapped from the other side.

Harry pushed the door open and stepped inside, barely ducking out of the way as a floating quill and a stack of papers zoomed past his head. Parkinson's office was exactly what he'd expected: small but impeccably organised even within the chaos. Filing cabinets were crammed full of neatly labelled folders; shelves teemed with colour-coded Muggle binders, stacks of books precariously balanced next to tea cups with long-dried rings of forgotten tea. A cork board dominated the far wall, covered with pins and clippings—everything from gossip columns to scribbled notes on high-profile Wizengamot cases.

And there, seated behind a glossy mahogany desk cluttered with parchment, was Pansy Parkinson.

She was sitting in her ostentatious chair with her heeled feet atop her fancy desk, her dark hair styled into her signature sharp bob, and her frosty dark eyes narrowing as they landed on him. A charmed quill scribbled notes on a floating scroll beside her, and an array of framed photographs hung on the wall behind her, most of them showing Pansy at various events with a glass of champagne in hand and a self-satisfied smile on her lips. Some others, showed her with friends, Draco the most prominent one.

"Potter," she drawled, voice dripping with disdain. "What anabsolute treat," her quill scratched one last furious line across a parchment before floating neatly into an ink pot. She leaned back in her chair, lowering her feet to the floor, and crossed her arms in front of her, an infuriating smirk playing at her lips. "To what do I owe thehonour? Come to give me an exclusive? Another sordid scandal for me to print?"

"Parkinson," he began, his voice tight with nerves, "I need to talk to you."

"Lucky me. I thought we'd moved past this era of you stalking Slytherins, Potter. Why don't you do us both a favour and piss off?"

"It's about Draco."

That got her attention. Parkinson's smirk vanished, replaced by something colder and sharper. She stood suddenly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor, and moved around her desk with the predatory grace of a jaguar. Before Harry could blink, her wand was in her hand and aimed exactly at his crotch.

"Is it, now?" she snapped. "I'll give youpreciselyfive seconds to explain yourself before I hex your bollocks off and mail them to Draco in a velvet-lined box. Start talking."

Harry froze, his hands instinctively flying up in a gesture of surrender, his voice coming out in a rushed stream. "I—I just want to apologise to him!" he blurted out, his voice higher than he would've liked. "I want to see him—to talk to him. I was a coward, alright? I messed up, and I want to make it right."

Parkinson didn't lower her wand an inch. Her lips curled into a sneer. "A coward, were you? That's sograciousof you to admit. It still doesn't explain why you're here, contaminatingmyoffice, instead of grovelling at Draco's feet like you bloody well should be."

"I—" Harry faltered, choosing his words carefully. "I didn't want to send an owl. It didn't feel right."

Parkinson's wand twitched, and Harry winced. Merlin's beard, she was terrifying when she wanted to be. Her dark, piercing eyes bore into him as though she were trying to sift through his soul for lies. And for a terrifying moment, Harry thought she might actually go through with her threat and put an end to the Potter line. But then she lowered her wand, though she didn't step back.

"Talk," she ordered, crossing her arms over her chest. "And it had better be good."

He let out a shaky breath, feeling like he'd just dodged a very literal bullet. "I'm sorry for how I treated him," he said earnestly, meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry I pulled away when he needed me to stand strong, and I'm sorry I didn't have the guts to stand up for him. I really do want to talk to him, in person, and apologise properly. But I don't know where he is."

"Merlin's saggy tits, youareserious." The wand finally disappeared into the sleeve of her flowy blouse, though she didn't move back. Instead, she poked a perfectly manicured finger into his chest. "Do you have any idea what you've done to him?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "I know I hurt him."

"Oh,hurtdoesn't even cover it, Potter." Parkinson's voice sharpened to a hiss, her glare as cutting as a scalpel. "Draco's spent half his life being abandoned or betrayed by people who claimed to care about him. And now you, of all people—after everything you two went through—you toss him aside like a bit of rubbish the moment someone might see you two holding hands? You disgust me."

Harry flinched at her words, guilt flooding his chest. He didn't try to defend himself; she wasn't wrong.

Parkinson turned abruptly and stalked back to her desk, where she sat with a huff. "You've got some nerve showing up here, Potter. If I had it my way, I'd slap you with a permanent hex that made your dick shrivel every time you eventhoughtof Draco."

Harry couldn't help but grimace. "Can we not talk about my prick?"

"Oh, shut it," Parkinson snapped. Finally, she gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk. "Sit," she commanded.

Harry obeyed quickly, taking one of the rickety chairs in front of her desk as she returned to her own chair. It groaned under his weight, but he didn't dare complain.

The air between them was tense, and he felt like he was being interrogated by a particularly unforgiving Auror.

"What the fuck is your problem, Potter?" she demanded, fixing him with a glare that could curdle milk. "Do you have any idea how much of a mess you've made? Draco's been miserable since that day at Grimmauld Place. What's your excuse?"

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, trying to gather himself, but he just ended up wincing. "It's not an excuse. It's the truth. I panicked. When Ron and Hermione saw us… I don't know. I'd just gotten used to everything feeling right with Draco, and suddenly I realised how much more complicated it would be outside Grimmauld Place. How we would be… seen. I got scared. Of what my friends would think, of what the press would say, of… everything. And I handled it like an absolute prat."

Parkinson clicked her tongue. "Understatement of the year."

"Iknow," Harry said firmly, meeting her gaze. "But none of that matters right now. I just want to fix this. I need to fix this. Need him to know I'm not scared anymore. I just… I need to find him."

Her eyes didn't soften as she looked at him, but then she looked away, her gaze settling on a golden frame atop her desk. Something in it made her close her eyes and exhale. When she spoke, her tone remained firm but softer.

"And what exactly are your intentions with him? Because if you're not serious, if you're just going to mess with his head, I swear to Salazar—"

"I'm serious," Harry interrupted, his voice steady. "I don't know where this will go, but I know I care about him. I… I've never felt like this about anyone before."

"If you're lying to me, Potter—if you hurt him again—Iwillfind you, and I will not be merciful. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Harry said earnestly.

That seemed to satisfy her, at least for now. She leaned back in her chair, tapping her long nails against the armrest thoughtfully. "Alright, Potter," Parkinson said finally, and reached for a piece of parchment to scribble something down. "He's at the Black estate in Northumberland, Cliffside it's called. The estate is heavily warded, but you should be able to get through well enough. Just don't expect a warm welcome."

Harry took the parchment, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of Draco's address in Parkinson's neat, loopy handwriting. "Thank you."

She looked him up and down once again, eyes narrowing. "I mean it, Potter. If you're just going to mess with him—"

"I'm not," Harry interrupted, his voice firm and steady. "I swear to you, Parkinson. I care about him more than I can even explain."

Parkinson studied him for another beat before finally sighing dramatically. "Circe, you're a disaster. Go on, then. Get out of my office before I change my mind and hex your bits into oblivion."

Harry didn't need telling twice. He stood quickly. "I understand."

She waved him off with a flick of her hand. "Yes, yes, now fuck off. And for Merlin's sake, don't screw this up."

He stood, muttering another quiet'Thank you'before turning to leave. As he reached the door, she called after him.

"And Potter?"

He glanced back, meeting her sharp gaze.

"Don't just say you're sorry. Prove it."

With that, he left the office, his heart pounding as he stepped out into the corridor. The weight of what lay ahead settled heavily on his shoulders, but for the first time in days, he felt a spark of hope. He knew where Draco was. Now, he just had to summon the courage to face him.

He stepped into the nearest empty room, closed his eyes, and focused on the name and address on the paper.

With a sharp crack, he disapparated.

..

The estate sprawled out before him, its grandeur nearly overwhelming. The towering stone façade of the mansion was framed by rolling green hills and thick woodlands, a place that seemed entirely out of time. Cliffside—he remembered the name from a book Hermione had once shoved in his hands when they had read about the numerous Black estates years ago. It wasn't amongst the few estates he had inherited from Sirius, but back then Hermione had theorised that it had been sold.

Apparently not.

The Black estate was a testament to old wealth, and the sheer opulence of the place made Harry's throat tighten. It was a far cry from Grimmauld Place, with its grim and narrow halls. This was something entirely different—a castle built to impress, to intimidate. Why Grimmauld was the Black's ancestral home when they had a handful of bigger, more beautiful estates in the United Kingdom and Germany, Harry had no idea.

A glass conservatory jutted out from one side of the castle, glinting in the pale sunlight as if daring the world to doubt its beauty. A pair of stone staircases curved up to a grand entrance, where intricately carved doors loomed large and imposing. Beyond the mansion, the estate's grounds seemed endless—vast gardens spilling with blooms, paths winding through thick trees, and even a glimmer of water that might have been a private lake or pond in the distance. Harry had to stop for a moment just to take it all in, his breath misting in the crisp northern air. It wasn't just the scale of the place that struck him; it was the sheer upkeep it must've required. With only Draco working—and the Malfoy fortune long since seized by the Ministry—how did they manage all this? He couldn't imagine Narcissa pruning hedges or Draco pulling weeds. Were there still elves in the family? Were they hiding wealth somewhere? The thought of it made him pause, uncertainty creeping into his resolve.

If Draco lived like this, did Harry really belong with him? Would he ever?

With a deep breath, he shook out his arms, trying to rid himself of his insecurities. He couldn't back out now, not when he knew he was being unfair to Draco. And to himself. Letting the air out, he squared his shoulders and marched up the stone steps. His trainers made muffled thuds against the immaculate stairs, and his heart raced in anticipation. He reached the door, its ornate carvings depicting serpents and dragons intertwined with rose vines, and raised a hand to knock. But, before his knuckles could meet the wood, the door creaked open, revealing a tiny, wizened house-elf with wide, suspicious hazel eyes.

"Who is now disturbing my masters' afternoon?" the elf snapped, her voice surprisingly sharp for her small frame. She squinted up at Harry, her nose wrinkling as though she'd caught a whiff of something unpleasant. "Oh no, no, no. Mitty isn't just letting anyone into Master Draco's home. Away you go, wizard."

"I'm not just anyone," Harry said, his frustration bubbling up as he ran a hand through his hair. "I'm Harry Potter, and I'm here to see Draco."

Mitty crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Mitty is knowing who you are. That isn't meaning you is welcome. Master Draco isn't needing visitors who is making his life more difficult."

"I'm not here to make his life difficult—"

"Lies! That is being what they all is saying," Mitty interrupted, her small hands planted firmly on her hips. "Harry Potter is not seeing Mitty's master!"

"Please, I need to speak to him," Harry said firmly, though he could feel his cheeks flushing with guilt. "It's important. Please, just—tell him I'm here. He'll understand."

Mitty snorted. "Oh, Mitty is not thinking so. Master Draco is having no reason to seeing the likes of you."

Before Harry could argue further, a calm, melodic voice floated through the air, cutting through the tension. "Mitty, do let Mr Potter in."

The house-elf froze, her eyes darting nervously toward the source of the voice. It was then, when Narcissa Malfoy appeared in the doorway behind her, her pale blond hair adorned with pearls, that rested over her shoulder, her presence as regal as ever. She hadn't changed much over the years—she was still impossibly elegant, a figure of calm, composed power. Her pale blonde hair was swept into a low plait and resting over her shoulder, not a strand out of place, and her sharp features were as striking as they'd ever been. And, for the first time ever, Harry could see where Draco got his beauty from; he had always assumed him to take after his father, but now he could see the resemblance in their countenance and delicate features. Still, there was something different about her. Something in her eyes. Sadness. Or maybe tiredness, though it was buried deep beneath her cool veneer.

Her gaze settled on him, and Harry felt the stress of it immediately. It was not cruel, but it was scrutinising, assessing him with the kind of discernment that could cut right to the bone with surgical precision. For some reason, she looked as though she had been expecting Harry, though whether she was pleased or displeased by his arrival was impossible to discern.

"Yes, Mistress," Mitty mumbled, stepping aside with great reluctance. She shot Harry one last warning glare before scurrying off down the hall, muttering something about'troublemaking wizards'under her breath.

"Mr Potter," Narcissa said, her voice neither warm nor cold. Just… polite. Detached. "What brings you to Northumberland?"

Harry stepped into the grand entryway, his boots sinking into the plush Persian rug beneath his feet. The interior was as magnificent as the exterior—vaulted ceilings adorned with crystal chandeliers, marble floors gleaming in the sunlight streaming through massive windows. It was all so pristine, so refined, and Harry suddenly felt like an intruder, his scruffy jumper and old boots entirely out of place.

Looking at Narcissa once again, Harry's throat went dry. For a moment, his carefully rehearsed words seemed to scatter like dust. "Er—" he began, his voice cracking slightly. He winced.Get it together, Potter."I… I came to see Draco."

Narcissa arched a pale eyebrow, her expression giving nothing away. "Draco is at work. He won't be home until late this evening."

"Oh," Harry said, and he shifted awkwardly, stuffing his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. He felt foolish. Of course Draco wouldn't be here—he hadn't thought this through at all, had he? Why had he forgotten that Draco had a day job? He had suffered Pansy's wrath for nothing. "I—um—well, I don't mind waiting."

She blinked, her gaze sharpening just slightly. "Here?" she asked, and though her tone was perfectly neutral, the slight lift of her brow made Harry's cheeks heat with embarrassment.

"Yeah. Here," he said, clearing his throat awkwardly. "I mean—if that's okay with you?"

There was a long pause. Narcissa regarded him with that same piercing, unreadable expression, the silence in the room suddenly oppressive. Harry stood there, feeling very much like a child being scrutinised by a professor who already knew he was guilty of some prank. He shifted under her gaze, his heart thudding loudly in his chest.

"Indeed. Follow me," she said simply, turning on her heel and gliding down a hallway. Harry followed, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet beneath them. They walked in silence, past portraits of grim-looking ancestors and ornate vases that looked too expensive to even glance at for too long.

It figured that the Malfoys would land on their feet even after losing everything.

Narcissa led him into a sitting room that was both grand and somehow intimate. A crackling fireplace cast a warm glow across the room, its mantle adorned with delicate silver ornaments. Plush armchairs and a sofa were arranged around a low table, and heavy velvet curtains framed the tall windows. It was the kind of room that seemed designed for hushed conversations and unspoken tensions.

"Sit," Narcissa said, gesturing to one of the armchairs. Harry obeyed immediately, feeling awkward and out of place as he perched on the edge of the seat, not daring to make himself comfortable. Draco's mother sat across from him, her back perfectly straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her legs crossed at her ankles daintily. She regarded him with the same inscrutable expression, as though she were appraising him, trying to decide whether he was worth her time.

For several moments, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, awkward and suffocating. Harry opened his mouth to say something—anything—but before he could, Mitty appeared with a tray of tea. She set it down on the table with a clatter, her glare making it clear that she still didn't approve of him being in the presence of her mistress.

"Tea, Mistress Narcissa," Mitty said, her voice deferential but tight, her eyes narrowing at Harry.

"Thank you, Mitty. That will be all," Narcissa replied, her tone dismissive but not unkind. A welcome change, in Harry's mind. Mitty bowed deeply before she disappeared with a pop, and Narcissa began pouring tea for the two of them with practised elegance. She handed a cup to Harry, her movements precise and measured, before taking one for herself.

"Thank you," Harry said awkwardly, cradling the delicate china in his hands. He took a sip, the rich, aromatic brew warming him from the inside. But it did little to ease the tension that hung in the air.

"I must admit, I'm curious," Narcissa said at last, her voice smooth and composed. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish by coming here, Mr Potter?"

"I…" Harry hesitated, unsure of how much to say. Narcissa's piercing gaze made him feel like a schoolboy caught out of bounds. "I need to apologise. To Draco."

"An apology," Narcissa said finally, her voice soft but cutting. She tilted her head slightly, and Harry didn't miss the subtle coolness that crept into her tone, the way her clear blue eyes frosted over. "Forgive me, Mr Potter, but I wonder what could you have done to my son that warrants such a personal visit?"

Harry swallowed, and looked away, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. He could feel the heat crawling up his neck as shame pooled in his stomach. "I—" He paused, exhaling heavily and clearing his throat. "I hurt him. I was… a coward. I need to tell him I'm sorry. Properly."

Narcissa's gaze didn't waver. She was still and silent, like a predator sizing up its prey. For a moment, Harry wondered if she was going to tell him to leave, to leave her son alone. And then, after what felt like an eternity, her lips curved into something that might have been a smile—though it was humourless, a thin, sharp thing. She sipped her tea, her movements as graceful as ever. "And you believe that simply coming here and saying you're sorry will suffice?"

"No," Harry said quickly, his grip tightening on the cup. "But it's a start."

That, it is. My son is stronger than most give him credit for," she said softly, and Harry could hear the faint edge in her voice now, the quiet warning that lurked beneath her polished words. "But I don't enjoy seeing him sad, Mr Potter. It doesn't become him."

Harry's stomach turned uneasily. He looked up to meet her gaze, and for the first time, he caught a glimpse of something aggressive in those blue eyes, so different but so similar to Draco's own silver. Something protective. It wasn't overt—it was subtle, like a blade hidden beneath layers of silk. A warning. She didn't need to say it outright for Harry to understand what she meant.

"Neither do I," Harry said quietly, and he meant it.

The room fell silent again, but something shifted in the air. She regarded him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable once again. Narcissa studied him for another long moment before finally, with a soft sigh, she gestured toward the biscuits on the tray. "Do sit comfortably, Mr Potter. It's no use sitting about like a reprimanded child."

Harry nodded quickly and allowed himself to sit back into his chair as Narcissa kept drinking her tea in small sips, her movements graceful and deliberate. Harry followed suit, though his hands were still shaking slightly. The quiet clink of porcelain was the only sound in the room for a moment.

"Why now?" Narcissa asked suddenly, her voice calm but pointed.

Harry looked up, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Why come now?" she clarified, her expression still unreadable as she regarded him over the rim of her teacup. "You've had ample time, I presume. Why today? Why at all?"

Harry hesitated, unsure how to explain. 'Because I miss him'felt far too raw and too honest to say to Draco's mother. Instead, he took a breath and settled on, "Because I realised how badly I messed up. And I couldn't let it sit any longer."

For a moment, Narcissa said nothing, simply watching him with that sharp, appraising gaze. Finally, she set her cup down on its saucer and inclined her head just slightly, though her expression remained neutral.

"I see," she said softly.

They fell into another moment of silence after that. Harry sipped his tea, the warmth calming his nerves somewhat, though the quiet between them was heavy. Narcissa didn't speak again, nor did she ask him any more questions. It was as though she had decided she had said enough, and now it was Harry's turn to prove himself—or to sit in the silence and let it swallow him whole.

Eventually, Narcissa rose to her feet, smoothing an invisible crease in her gown, her movements as fluid as water. "I will leave you here to wait for my son, Mr Potter," she said, her tone cool but not unkind. "I trust you'll remain… civilised while you wait."

Harry stood quickly, setting his teacup aside. "Of course," he said, though his voice cracked slightly.

Narcissa regarded him one last time, her gaze lingering on him as though she were committing him to memory. "Mr Potter, Draco has endured much in his life. More than most people realise or are willing to recognise. If you truly wish to make amends, tread carefully. He is not as unfeeling as he pretends to be." she said, and he turned back to find her watching him with an expression that was almost… pitying. "Do not disappoint him," she said softly, and though her words were gentle, they carried a weight that made Harry's chest tighten.

Without another word, she turned and swept out of the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor, leaving him alone once more. Harry sank back into the armchair, exhaling a shaky breath. He felt as though he'd just walked out of a duel, despite never having drawn his wand. Narcissa Malfoy was not someone to trifle with—that much was clear. But she hadn't turned him away. That had to count for something, didn't it?

He glanced at the clock on the mantel, the hands ticking slowly forward. Draco wouldn't be back for hours. He had plenty of time to sit with his thoughts, to second-guess everything he'd come here to say.

"Brilliant," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hands over his face. "Just bloody brilliant," he hadn't even seen Draco yet, and already he felt like he was in over his head. But there was no turning back now.

Not when he'd come this far.

The seconds stretched into minutes as Harry waited, the quiet of the sitting room amplifying every tick of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner. He glanced around the room, taking in the opulence that seemed characteristic of everything in the estate. Even the tea set, gleaming in the firelight, looked like it had cost more than all of the Burrow's furniture combined. It probably did, if he was being honest. His palms were clammy against the delicate cup, and he had to remind himself to loosen his grip, lest he accidentally shatter it and end up owing Narcissa Malfoy more money than he could earn in a lifetime.

The house itself, though stunning, felt cold—like a museum more than a home. Even the warm glow of the fireplace seemed unable to chase away the chill that clung to its walls. It was a stark contrast to the messy, imperfect comfort of the Burrow or even the dreary familiarity of Grimmauld Place. He wondered, not for the first time, what it must have been like for Draco to grow up in places like this—surrounded by beauty, yes, but also by expectations and rules as rigid as the ancestral portraits hanging on every wall.

Had it been lonely?

Harry set the tea down carefully, unable to sit still any longer. Standing, he paced the room, his eyes flicking to the windows where he could see the sprawling grounds of the estate. The manicured gardens were immaculate, not a single leaf out of place, and yet they felt almost as cold as the house itself. He couldn't imagine Draco here, not really. The Draco he'd come to know over the years—arrogant, sharp-tongued, but also fiercely loyal and unexpectedly kind—seemed too vibrant for a place like this. And yet, where else would he go? The world outside these walls had ceased to be kind to him.

The creak of the door opening made Harry spin around, his heart leaping into his throat. But it wasn't Draco who stepped in—it was Mitty, her wide eyes narrowing as she caught him mid-pace.

"Mitty is not liking you wandering around Mistress Narcissa's sitting room," she said sharply, her small hands clutching a stack of neatly folded linens. "You is sitting down and waiting like a proper guest, or Mitty will be making you sit."

"I wasn't—" Harry stopped himself, realising there was no point in arguing with the elf. "Fine. Sorry."

Mitty huffed, muttering something about'lack of manners befitting his blood'before disappearing through another door. Harry sank back into the armchair, his fingers tapping nervously against the armrest.

The hours dragged on with an excruciating slowness that made Harry feel every tick of the grandfather clock in the corner like a physical ache. The room itself was grand, like everything in this home seemed to be, all dark wood and ornate furnishings, its vastness somehow making him feel even more like a child. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting moving shadows on the walls, but it did little to chase away the chill of his nerves. He shifted in his seat for the hundredth time, stretching his legs out before quickly pulling them back in, afraid that Mitty might suddenly appear to chastise him for being too comfortable. Various bookshelves loomed against the walls—tall, stately, and absolutely mocking him. Row upon row of old, leather-bound volumes sat there, their spines promising some kind of distraction,anydistraction, from the creeping boredom gnawing at him. But Harry couldn't bring himself to stand up and take one. For all he knew, the moment he touched a book, Narcissa would glide in, all cool detachment and faint disapproval, and ask what in Merlin's name he thought he was doing with her family's private library.

Or worse, Mitty would come back and launch into another tirade aboutmanners.

So Harry stayed put. He shifted. He tapped his fingers. He sighed loudly to himself. He watched the fire and then the clock and then the fire again. Occasionally, he thought about pacing the room, but somehow that felteven worse. He'd just end up looking like a madman when Draco finally arrived. That wasn't exactly the impression he wanted to give.

How long does it take to get home from work?Harry wondered, his frustration mounting as the hours crawled by. He wished he could just disappear into the floor and save himself from the sheer awkwardness of being found waiting here like some pathetic lost puppy waiting for its owner.

When the sound of the front doorfinallycreaked open somewhere in the house, Harry jolted upright, his heart leaping into his throat. Footsteps echoed in the hall—firm and deliberate—and then the sitting room door swung open.

Draco stepped inside, still wearing his work robes, his hair mussed as though he'd run his fingers through it one too many times. He looked tired, the sight of him making Harry shiver, his fingers itching to get to him, to run his thumbs over the dark circles under his eyes. Draco's sharp grey gaze landed on him not a second later, and he froze. For just a second, shock flashed across his face—his brows lifting, his pink lips parting slightly. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by something colder. His expression shuttered, his gaze narrowing as his posture stiffened.

"What the fuck areyoudoing here?" Draco's voice was sharp, slicing through the silence like a knife.

Harry got to his feet, feeling thoroughly unsteady. "I—uh—I came to see you," he said, his voice far too quiet. He cleared his throat. "To talk."

Draco let out a mirthless laugh, tossing his money sack onto a nearby table with a clatter. "Oh,to talk, is it? Well, that's new. Didn't realise we were doing that these days."

Harry winced, guilt knotting in his chest. "Look, I know you're angry—"

"Oh,do you?" Draco cut him off, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He stepped closer, his sharp gaze locked on Harry's. "What gave it away? The fact that you dropped my hand like it was on fire? Or maybe that you spent over a bloody week pretending I didn't exist?"

"That's not—" Harry began, but Draco's glare stopped him in his tracks. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to keep calm. "I came to apologise."

"Apologise?" Draco's lips twisted into something that might have been a sneer, but Harry caught the hurt lurking beneath it. "Well, aren't you noble, Potter. I'm absolutelythrilledthat you came in here to settle your guilty conscience before fucking right off once again."

Harry bristled. "Would you stop being a git for five seconds and justlistento me?"

Draco's eyes flashed, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. You've got five seconds. Go."

Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair. "You're not making this easy, you know."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I supposed to bend myself over and open my legs for you? Because the last time I checked, you didn't exactly earn that."

"That's not fair," Harry shot back, the defensiveness creeping into his tone. "You didn't come looking for me either, did you? I had to bloody askPansy Parkinsonfor your address—do you know how terrifying that was?"

Draco's brow furrowed, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his expression. "Pansy gave you my address?"

"Yes," Harry said, exasperated. "And she nearly hexed my prick off before she did, so don't act like I've had an easy time of this."

That earned him the faintest twitch of Draco's lips, though it disappeared as quickly as it came. Draco turned away slightly, his shoulders stiff, and Harry's heart sank. The silence between them stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

"Why are youreallyhere?" Draco asked finally, his voice quieter now but still tense. "You said you wanted to apologise, but why bother? What does it matter to you?"

Harry hesitated, shame twisting in his gut like a knife. "Because itdoesmatter," he said quietly. "Because I hurt you, and I hate that I did. And I—" He stopped, swallowing thickly. "I don't know where I stand with you. I don't know what weare. But I know I don't want to lose… whatever it is we have. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was a coward."

Draco turned back to him, and the hurt in his grey eyes was impossible to miss now. "And what exactly are you afraid of, Potter?" he asked bitterly. "That people might know? That they mightseeus together? Because I can tell you now, that's not exactly reassuring."

"It wasn't about that," Harry said, though the words felt hollow even to him. "I mean, it was, but it shouldn't have been."

Draco scoffed. "That's very comforting. Truly."

"Stop. Stop lashing out to push me away," Harry said, his voice cracking slightly. He stepped closer, desperate to make Draco understand. "I was scared, okay? I—I left my bravery somewhere inside Grimmauld, and I got too wrapped up in worrying about what other people might think. I got scared when I should've been thinking aboutyou. About us. About howwefelt. And I'm so sorry for that."

Draco turned his head away, his jaw tight, but he didn't pull back when Harry stepped even closer.

"Look at me," Harry said softly, his voice almost pleading. When Draco didn't, Harry reached out hesitantly, cupping his cheek and turning his face toward him. Draco's eyes flickered to his, and Harry's breath caught at the vulnerability he saw there—the faint crack in Draco's carefully constructed armour as tears threatened to fall from the starlight in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, and he leaned in, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to Draco's lips.

For a moment, Draco didn't move. But then Harry felt him relax, his tense shoulders sagging slightly as he kissed him back—slowly, hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure if this was real. When Harry pulled back, his hand still cradling Draco's face, he looked into those beautiful grey eyes and felt his heart squeeze.

"I wasn't lying," Harry murmured. "I missed you. And I'm done being scared."

Draco stared at him for a long moment, searching his face, as though trying to decide if he believed him. Finally, he exhaled softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're such an idiot."

Harry smiled faintly, his thumb brushing over Draco's cheek. "Yeah, well. I'myouridiot, if you'll have me."

Draco chuckled, a laugh so warm that Harry felt himself melt at the sound of it. This was the Draco he had grown to know, to miss. The sharp, sarcastic edge was there, but it was softened by years of familiarity and the gentle warmth of something deeper that had blossomed between them. He kissed him once more, pressing his chapped lips flush against Draco's soft, pink ones. They fit like they belonged, like one was a perfect fit for the other. A perfect match.

And Harry supposed it was true.

For all the years of tension, of bitterness, of misunderstandings, they had finally found each other in quiet, intimate moments like this. The world around them seemed to pause, the noises fading into the background as their lips moved in sync, a silent conversation that only they could understand. It wasn't about words, or apologies, or explanations. It was about this—about the way Draco's hand cupped the side of his face, the way Harry leaned into the touch, the way their hearts seemed to beat in time with each other.

Harry had always thought he knew who Draco was. But now, at this moment, he realised that he was still discovering him.

Soon enough, the kiss shifted, something breaking loose between them—something raw, urgent, and unstoppable. Draco's hands tangled in Harry's hair, pulling him closer and pushing his body flush with Harry's, as though he couldn't bear the distance between them any longer. Harry let out a soft, desperate noise into Draco's mouth, his fingers curling around Draco's narrow hips, clutching him like he might slip away again if he let go. The previous tenderness of the moment was gone now, replaced by something hungry and needy. Harry kissed him harder, his lips parting as he chased the warmth of Draco's mouth, tasting him with a need he hadn't realised had festered so deeply within him. And Draco responded in kind, a low groan vibrating against Harry's lips, reverberating against his chest, his hands already tugging at the hem of Harry's jumper in needy little pulls.

"Draco—" Harry mumbled against him, breathless and half-laughing, "—your mum—fuck— your mum could walk in on us any minute."

Draco pulled back just enough to shoot him a petulant glare, his cheeks flushed and his breathing uneven. "Do youeverstop talking?" Before Harry could protest, Draco gripped his waist tightly, and, with a sharp crack, they disapparated.

Harry barely registered the world twisting around them before he landed, disoriented, on something soft. Draco was sprawled half on top of him, and Harry blinked, realising they were now in a bedroom—Draco's bedroom, if he were to guess. A canopy bed, draped in deep blues and silvers, framed them, and the faint scent of Draco—citrus and something clean, somethinghim—clung to the sheets.

"Warn me next time!" Harry blurted, his voice strained.

Draco smirked, but there was something wild in his expression, something that made Harry's pulse quicken and him harden in his denims. "Stop protesting."

The next kiss was all-consuming, searing Harry's brain into something wordless and desperate. Draco's hands moved over him with purpose from where he sat on Harry's lap, pushing his jumper up until Harry wriggled out of it, desperate to shed the layers between them so they could feel each other's hot skin. His own hands found the buttons of Draco's crisp shirt, fumbling in his haste. Soon, the fabric gave way beneath his fingers, slipping down Draco's shoulders and leaving him bare to Harry's hungry gaze.

God, he's beautiful.The thought flashed unbidden through Harry's mind, and it made his throat dry. Pale skin stretched over lean muscle, numerous scars breaking the smooth perfection of Draco's chest—a physical reminder of the mark they'd left in each other. Harry brushed his fingers lightly across Draco's collarbone, over the end of a particularly gnarly scar, feeling Draco shiver beneath his touch.

"Are you going to just stare at me?" Draco muttered cheekily, his hips grinding down onto Harry's groin, though his voice was husky.

Harry grinned faintly. "You're so impatient, my God."

Draco's reply was lost as Harry pressed his mouth to his neck, kissing his way down the smooth line of his throat. Draco gasped, his fingers gripping at Harry's bare chest as he arched into the sensation. It spurred Harry on—he needed more, needed to hear Draco make those sounds from their first time together again.

They stripped each other hurriedly after that—clothes tossed to the floor, forgotten. Skin met skin, every brush of contact electric, setting Harry alight. He rolled them, pressing Draco back against the mattress, his body fitting so perfectly between Draco's downy legs that it made him wonder how he'd gone so long without this—withouthim. Draco's feet tangled behind his back, pressing against his arse, his breath hitching as Harry kissed him deeply again, stealing whatever biting remark might have been on the tip of his tongue.

"Harry…" Draco whispered, the word breaking like a plea, and Harry felt it sink into his bones, shaking him to his core.

..

They cleaned themselves using various cleaning charms, but not without difficulty because neither wanted to move from each other. When they finally finished, they lay side by side under the covers, naked and exhausted, with Draco curled up against Harry's chest, his head resting on his shoulder as he nuzzled into Harry's neck affectionately.

The room was quiet save for the rustling of sheets, the ragged breaths they shared, and the soft murmurs of each other's names—like a promise spoken in the dark. Everything else—Harry's guilt, his fear, his hesitation—melted away. All that mattered was this—Draco's hands on him, Draco's body pressed so close, Draco's lips whispering against his own.

And, as they slowly drifted off, for the first time in days, Harry felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

..

Soft golden sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, pooling lazily across the bed as the morning crept in. The warmth woke Harry gradually, his eyes fluttering open to find himself wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. Within his arms, Draco slept on peacefully, his pale hair splayed against his warm skin like strands of silver. Harry smiled faintly, his chest feeling far too full as he took in the sight—Draco's brow smoothed, his breathing steady, his face so at peace that Harry hardly recognised it.

He could get used to this.

He didn't want to move, didn't want to disturb this rare quiet, but as he shifted slightly, his arm numb, Draco groaned and buried his face deeper into his chest.

"Are you staring at me?" Draco muttered, his voice husky from sleep.

Harry chuckled softly, nervous at having been caught. "You'd know if I was."

Draco peeked at him through one half-open eye, his lips curling faintly. "Oh, I know. I can feel it. You're unnervingly obvious."

"Am not," Harry shot back, grinning now, though he couldn't help himself as he brushed his knuckles lightly over Draco's cheekbone. Draco's skin was warm, soft beneath his touch.

Draco hummed, turning his face toward Harry's hand as though indulging in his touch before his lips quirked smugly. "If you're going to look at me like that, you could at least kiss me properly."

"Demanding little thing first thing in the morning, aren't you?" Harry teased, but he was already leaning in, pressing his lips softly to Draco's.

The kiss was languid and sleepy, a slow exploration that sent a comfortable warmth spreading through Harry's chest. It wasn't hurried like before—no desperation, no urgency—just Draco, the soft press of his lips and the hum of contentment that vibrated softly against Harry's mouth. They broke apart after a moment, foreheads brushing as they lingered close.

Draco opened his eyes fully this time, studying Harry with a lazy curiosity. "You look pensive. Dangerous territory for you."

Harry groaned, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand through his hair. "It's just… Grimmauld Place. I don't know where to start. The whole thing's a mess, and even though the Unspeakables cleared it, I can't shake the dear that it'll fight back again."

Draco turned onto his front, propping himself up on Harry's chest to look at him. "You're hopeless," he said with a smirk, poking Harry in the ribs for emphasis. "The answer is painfully obvious."

Harry glanced at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you need me, obviously." Draco waved a hand grandly, as if this was common knowledge, but the faint blush on his pale cheeks betrayed him. "You can't be trusted to decorate a room, let alone restore a whole house. I have impeccable taste, and you have…" He trailed off deliberately, letting his gaze wander over Harry's old, crumpled jumper lying across the spinning globe next to a sofa. "Well, whateverthatis."

Harry laughed, a real laugh that made his stomach hurt. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Draco tilted his chin up in mock arrogance. "If you've resigned yourself to failure already, you might as well let me save the day again. Imagine how elegant Grimmauld Place could be. You'd even owe me."

"And what would that cost me?" Harry asked dryly, though his grin lingered.

"Oh, I'll think of something suitably extravagant," Draco drawled, flopping back against the swell of Harry's pec with dramatic flair. "For now, I'm content with watching you flounder."

The teasing earned him a playful jab in the ribs, which only made Draco laugh softly. They stayed there for a moment longer, wrapped in the light stillness of the morning, before Harry sighed.

"Breakfast?" he asked, a little hesitant, like he wasn't sure Draco would still want him to stick around.

Draco stretched lazily, arching like a cat, before glancing at Harry. "I'll allow it, provided you don't embarrass yourself if Mother shows herself to us."

---

The gardens were far more picturesque than Harry expected—wild hedges in warm colours, clusters of early November blooms brightening the pathways, and small wrought iron tables set up neatly under the trees. The faint hum of bees drifted through the air, mingling with birdsong as the morning grew warmer. Harry hadn't realised how much he'd missed being outdoors until now. Grimmauld had felt like a prison at times, even after it was cleansed. Although, he supposed it was his fault for enshrining himself in the house out of guilt and longing.

Oh, well.

He and Draco sat together at one of the tables, plates of sourdough bread, cold meats and cheese, and a fruit spread between them. Mitty had been leery of Harry's presence, but she begrudgingly served him breakfast after Draco insisted on it, assuring her that Harry had no intention to harm him or his mother.

Draco sipped at his tea—strong, no sugar or milk—with deliberate care, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Harry watched him, chin propped on his hand.

"So," Harry ventured, "what would you be doing if…" He trailed off, uncertain of how to phrase it without prying.

"If the world hadn't gone to hell?" Draco finished for him, arching an eyebrow.

"Something like that."

Draco didn't answer right away. His fingers tightened briefly on the handle of his teacup, his gaze sharpening like he was considering brushing the question off entirely. But then, he sighed.

"I think I mentioned in… well, I wanted to be a Healer," Draco admitted softly, eyes still focused somewhere beyond the garden. The admission confirmed to Harry what he knew. "I thought… well, I thought it would be good. Something useful. Fixing people. After everything…" He swallowed, his voice lowering. "And I'm good at it, as you saw. But it'll never happen."

"Why not?" Harry asked, confused. "You're smart enough. You could—"

Draco snorted bitterly, cutting him off, his movements sharp as he buttered a piece of bread. "You think St. Mungo's is going to take me on? Or any apprenticeship programme, for that matter? I don't even have the option to go study abroad—not that I could afford it now, anyway—because my sentence says I can't leave the country for another five years."

The words landed like a stone in Harry's chest. He opened his mouth to protest, but Draco waved him off.

"Don't bother, Harry," Draco said, his voice cool, but not unkind. "It's done. I've made my peace with it."

Harry frowned, unable to shake how wrong it felt. "You shouldn't give up, though."

"Spare me the Gryffindor pep talk," Draco smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't have the luxury of being idealistic, anymore."

Silence stretched between them for a moment, but Harry couldn't let it sit. He reached out instinctively, brushing the hair away from Draco's face with a tenderness that surprised even himself. Draco blinked, startled by the gesture, but he didn't pull away. His expression softened as Harry leaned in and kissed him—slow and gentle once more, like he was trying to convey something he couldn't say out loud.

"You're more capable than you think," Harry murmured against his lips. "Don't let anyone—anyone—convince you otherwise."

Draco stared at him, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his usual mask. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he huffed softly, shaking his head as if Harry were the most ridiculous person he'd ever met.

"The Unspeakables reached out to me, you know," Draco admitted after a moment, returning to his tea. "They want me to work for them."

Harry blinked, suddenly remembering his talk with Kingsley. "Already?"

Draco nodded, though his lip curled slightly in distaste. "Apparently my skills are'promising.'" He made a face. "Not that it matters. I'm not going anywhere near dark magic again."

Harry hesitated, his brow furrowing. "You don't have to, you know. There's more you can do in the Department of Mysteries if you accept."

"Tell that to them," Draco replied wryly. "It seems everyone else is determined to define me by it."

Harry watched him for a long moment before speaking softly. "Then don't let them."

Draco looked at him again, his grey eyes lingering on Harry's face like he wasn't quite sure what to make of him. Finally, his lips twitched into a ghost of a smile.

"You're insufferable, Potter."

Harry grinned. "And you're not?"

Draco rolled his eyes, though he looked strangely content as he reached for a slice of toast. "You're lucky you're cute."

..

Harry had never thought that something with Draco Malfoy—Draco bloody Malfoy—could ever feel easy. Even now, as he strolled up the winding pathway to Cliffside Castle with the faint evening sun stretching long shadows across the stone walkway, the realisation still knocked the wind out of him sometimes. It was strange how natural it felt, how seamless it had become to leave Grimmauld around sundown, Apparate to Northumberland, and spend the rest of the day bickering with Draco over nothing or lounging together in the gardens. Or, you know, shagging in every empty room they could find away from Mitty and Narcissa.

Easy, he thought again, as he shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, his lips quirking faintly.

Though Narcissa's sharp glare from a few days prior still haunted him like a particularly judgmental spectre; it had certainly done a number of him.

"Children, do keep the amorous displays behind closed doors, if you please", she'd told them dryly, when she found them red-faced and tousled in the corridor at dawn, Draco's hand still fastened to the front of Harry's trousers, itching to go inside. Harry had stammered out an apology that sounded more like he was choking on his own dignity, while Draco stood there like a petrified statue, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor as though wishing for spontaneous combustion. Narcissa, however, had given them both a look that could have skinned a nundu alive and turned on her heel without another word.

Harry flushed at the memory of that morning, shaking his head to dispel it. It wouldn't do to get hard well before he even saw Draco.

Ever since that mortifying ordeal—so mortifying, Harry swore he could stillfeelhis soul trying to escape through his ears—he hadn't dared stay the night again. He still lingered at Cliffside for hours, though, like a stray Kneazle waiting for scraps, until Draco inevitably rolled his eyes and all but shoved him toward the Floo. It was absurd, really, how reluctant he felt to leave, how easy it would be to just stay. But Narcissa's pointed words echoed like a funeral march in his head, and Harry wasn't keen on tempting fate—or her rage—again.

Not if he wanted to stay on her good side.

Still, despite it all, the days had been good—far better than Harry had imagined. He'd never thought it would be Draco of all people who could make him laugh like this, who could tease and challenge him in a way that made everything else seem so dull in comparison. Their conversations, their silences, their passion… they all felt right. Harry wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but he was beginning to realise that what they'd built inside Grimmauld Place hadn't been a fluke. It hadn't been born out of isolation or proximity—it had been real.

Itwasreal.

..

Houston, we have a problem.

Chapter 16 (so, the "last one" before the Epilogue) is looking to be almost longer than 50k words lmao. I'm sorry I'm this unhinged alksjdas y'all didn't sign up for this (technically you did but...)

So, I have yet again extended the chapter count. At this point the fic will never end ahahaha I can't stop myself from writing these two, I'm doomed lmao