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.

16. Chapter 15: All I See At Night

When the first weekend of November finally arrived, and as Harry stood at the entrance of Grimmauld Place, he couldn't decide if he was nervous or excited. A bit of both, probably. Today was the day. He and Draco had decided to begin the long-overdue process of renovating and cleaning Grimmauld—with help, thankfully. Hermione had practically ordered Harry to recruit friends after he'd let slip that the house still had 'rooms with questionable temperaments', as she'd put it.

"You can't do this alone, Harry," she'd looked at him like he was an idiot, which was entirely fair, seeing how everything had started out in the first place.

So he'd relented, and now the plan was in motion. Grimmauld would have people in it again—laughing, swearing, bickering people—and for the first time in a long while, Harry wasn't dreading it.

Draco arrived first, of course he did. It was only natural that he'd want to oversee the process—supervise, as he put it—since, for some reason, he was more invested in the house's aesthetic than Harry. Harry had stood in the ground floor parlour one evening, looking around and asking, 'What's wrong with it?' only to be met with a look of pure, offended disdain. Draco had promptly listed every stain, mismatched fabric, and unsightly curtain he could see.

Harry decided to allow him full reign over the appearance of the house after that.

"I'll make this liveable for you, Potter," Draco had said, with all the gravity of someone swearing an Unbreakable Vow. "Merlin knows you can't be trusted with it yourself."

Now, Draco stood in Grimmauld's entryway, looking impossibly posh despite the casual clothes he wore—a pair of Harry's denims, forgotten at Cliffside; an oversized white shirt and his oldest working boots. Harry, on the other hand, already looked like he'd been dragged through the Floo backwards, his jumper old and rumpled, his hair more disastrous than usual from when Draco had run his fingers through the curls as they snogged, minutes before.

"You're late," Draco said, though his tone was more fondly exasperated than scathing.

Harry snorted. "I live here, babe."

"Doesn't change the fact that you're late," Draco replied airily, stepping further inside and surveying the hallway like he was assessing a crime scene. He turned to Harry with a pointed expression. "Do you ever clean, or is that a foreign concept to you?"

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. "It's been a busy week. I didn't realise you were coming with your magnifying glass, Sherlock."

Draco ignored the remark entirely. "This carpet is offensive, and those cobwebs? I can't even look at them without wanting to set the entire house on fire. Who's arriving first?"

"Hermione," Harry said with a sigh, because of course Draco wasn't finished nitpicking yet. He was just grateful he was only this nitpicky with aesthetics and work. "She'll be here soon."

"Good. She's sensible." Draco turned on his heel, his gaze sweeping up the staircase. "We'll need a plan, Potter. A house this old doesn't give up its secrets easily, and if we're to banish every last trace of my family's questionable choices, we'll need strategy. Wardrobes first, then the rooms. I'm assuming you haven't checked for hidden compartments in any of the furniture?"

Harry blinked at him, momentarily distracted by how quickly Draco slipped into leadership mode. "Er, no?"

"Of course not." Draco sighed like this was a personal affront. "It's a miracle you've survived as long as you have. Right, we'll start upstairs with the bedrooms. We'll work our way down."

"Hang on," Harry said, trailing after him as Draco strode determinedly toward the staircase. "Aren't we supposed to wait for everyone to arrive first?"

Draco turned and levelled him with a flat look. "If I wait any longer, I might start foaming at the mouth, darling. This—" he gestured broadly to the house—"hurts me. I'm taking action."

Harry didn't argue. Truthfully, he wasn't even actually bothered. There was something deeply amusing about Draco taking Grimmauld Place's decrepitude so personally. It also made Harry feel lighter, knowing he didn't have to tackle this alone.

..

Draco had only been gone about ten minutes when the Floo in the sitting room roared to life, spitting Hermione out into the dusty hearth. Harry grinned at the sight of her—hair windswept and wild, sleeves rolled up and dungarees clean; a determined look on her face that spelled trouble for whatever cobwebs were in her path.

"Harry," she greeted warmly, brushing ash from her clothes before stepping into the room proper. "Is Malfoy here yet?"

"Upstairs," Harry replied, jerking a thumb toward the ceiling. "He's already gone full diva over the state of the house."

Hermione chuckled, though her expression turned slightly impressed. "Well, you'll need someone who knows what they're doing. Honestly, Harry, you've let this place go to ruin."

"I know," Harry groaned, running a hand through his hair, but unable to keep the smile from his face. "Trust me, I've had it pointed out enough times now."

Hermione smiled knowingly, then glanced around the sad room with the critical eye of someone mentally preparing a checklist. "We'll need more supplies—I'm sure basic cleaning charms won't work for some of this. You have half the dust of London settled in here, not to mention lingering magic that needs dispelling."

"We've got our work cut out for us, haven't we?" Harry muttered.

"It'll be worth it in the end," Hermione said firmly. "And I think it's good that Malfoy's helping. He's... thorough."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. "That's one word for it."

Hermione tilted her head, studying him curiously. "You seem happy, Harry. Really happy. It's nice to see."

Heat crept up Harry's neck at the words, though he managed to shrug casually. "It's... good. Yeah. Things are good."

"They are," Hermione agreed softly.

Before the conversation could linger any longer on Harry's personal life, there was a loud crash from upstairs, followed by Draco's affronted string of curses. The blonde hadn't stopped complaining since he arrived. His voice echoed faintly through the upper levels of Grimmauld Place as Harry and Hermione waited downstairs in the kitchen for the others to arrive.

"Honestly, Potter," Draco had said at some point during the week, practically dragging his feet through the dust and grime. "I'm not sure this isn't a health hazard. I should have brought a breathing mask."

"I'll get you one for Christmas," Harry had replied dryly.

Now Hermione's voice cut through Harry's thoughts. "Is he always like this?" She smirked, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes.

"You have no idea," Harry replied, shaking his head fondly, a sappy smile on his face.

The Floo flared to life, interrupting them, and the pair turned toward the sound of someone arriving. Ron stumbled out of the fireplace, landing on the sitting room's floor with a loud thump as he fell on his arse. He was covered in a thick, slimy residue that clung to his hair, jumper, and even a portion of his shoes.

"What the—Ron!" Hermione gasped. "What happened to you?"

"Don't ask," Ron groaned, peeling something that looked suspiciously like an octopus tentacle off his sleeve. He shoved it in the bin and wiped his hands on his trousers. "Bloody shop experiment went rogue, didn't it? George owes me a bonus."

Harry choked back a laugh. "You're not going to help much if you're dripping slime everywhere, mate."

"Oi," Ron said, pointing at him accusingly. "I'm here, aren't I? Besides, Malfoy's just going to stand around bossing people about while the rest of us do the real work, anyways."

"I heard that, Weasley!" Draco's voice echoed faintly from upstairs.

Ron scowled at the ceiling. "Course he did. What is he, a bloody bat?"

Before Harry could comment, the Floo burst to life again, and out stepped Pansy Parkinson like a grunge magazine had exploded into the room. She looked spectacularly, almost offensively, out of place amidst the dusty and grimy room in her sleek, sinfully short skirt that clung to her hips, towering black heeled boots that clicked against the wooden, and a muggle crop top so tight it made even Harry pause, eyes widened. The top left very little to the imagination. Her glossy black hair was artfully mussed in soft waves, and her makeup was simply flawless—all sharp lines and bold lips, as if she were prepared for a muggle concert instead of manual labour. She swept her gaze around the room, chin tilted just high enough to emphasise her disdain, like the sitting room's very existence was an affront to her sense of aesthetics. With a flick of her wand, she took off her coat and vanished it— to the cloak room in the foyer, Harry assumed.

"Well, well," she drawled, one perfectly arched brow lifting as she took in everyone in the room. Her gaze lingered on Ron, looking him up and down with contempt. "Looks like someone needs a shower."

Ron flushed red and opened his mouth, presumably to retort with an insult of his own, but Hermione stepped in. "Parkinson, thank you for coming. I wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't either," Pansy said airily, striding across the room to perch herself on the edge of the couch. Her skirt rode even higher as she crossed her legs, showing dangerous amounts of thigh, and Harry heard Ron splutter beside him. "But Draco insisted, and I'm nothing if not generous with my time." She smirked at Harry. "You still owe me, Potter."

"Noted," Harry replied, holding back a groan. "You're dressed for housework, I see."

"Oh, darling, I don't do manual labour. I'm here for moral support."

As it was now custom, apparently, the Floo flared again before Harry could respond, and Ginny stepped out with the casual confidence of someone who could land a broom mid-blizzard. She looked relaxed and healthy, her toned frame a testament to endless Quidditch drills and training sessions. Her bright orange hair was pulled into a high ponytail that swung like a flame with every step, and she was dressed in comfortable clothes that somehow made her look effortlessly cool, however that happened. She surveyed the dusty room they were all congregated at like she'd just walked onto the pitch, ready to win whatever game Harry had pulled her into. Pansy, who had been idly inspecting her manicure, looked up and eyed Ginny appreciatively, her lips curling into a smirk.

"Hmm," she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Harry to hear. He ignored it, but Ginny, oblivious to the scrutiny, grinned when she spotted him.

"Harry!" she said warmly, striding over and pulling him into a hug. "Merlin, it's been ages. What's wrong with you, not coming to see me?"

"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly. "Been busy."

"With what, you muppet? You do nothing but laze around," Ginny teased, pulling back to study him, her strong, calloused hand pinching his cheeks. "You look good, though. Happy." Her gaze flicked over his shoulder, and Harry turned to see Draco coming down the stairs.

Draco stood where he had paused halfway down the stairs, frozen for the briefest moment, his expression unreadable as his sharp gaze flicked between Ginny and Harry. The shift in his posture was subtle but unmistakable—shoulders tensing, jaw tightening just a fraction—before he quickly schooled his features into cold indifference. Harry caught it immediately: the faint tinge of jealousy flickering in those sharp grey eyes, despite Draco's best efforts to hide it. It was so hilariously obvious that Harry couldn't help but bite back a besotted grin, though his heart gave a funny little thud. Not wanting Draco to stew in whatever ridiculous jealousy he'd conjured up in his head at seeing him with his ex, Harry moved across the room and slid a hand onto Draco's waist once the blonde arrived, squeezing gently.

"Relax, it's just Ginny," Harry murmured, close enough for only Draco to hear.

Draco's gaze cut toward him, as cutting as it was defensive. "Just Ginny?" he echoed bitterly.

Harry rolled his eyes, stepping closer. "Stop it. She's like a sister to me," he grinned mischievously. "You're the only one I'm interested in kissing these days."

Draco blinked, caught off guard for a split second before his face flamed, pink spreading across his cheeks. He opened his mouth as if to retort, but Harry beat him to it, brushing his thumb briefly against Draco's lower back before stepping back. Draco glared at him, though his expression had softened considerably. Still, Harry thought he heard him mutter something like 'idiot' under his breath as Harry turned back toward the group, his grin widening.

"Ginevra," Draco said coolly, stepping closer to Harry.

"Malfoy," Ginny replied just as smoothly, though there was a sparkle of mischief in her eyes that Harry was weary of. She turned back to Harry with a wink. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

The group had just begun arguing over who would take which room when the soft crackle of the Floo caught their attention again. Harry glanced toward the fireplace once again, expecting another wave of chaos, but instead, Luna Lovegood daintily stepped through with her usual serene grace. Her pale blue pinafore fluttered around her like drifting clouds, mismatched socks peeking out from beneath the hem as if they were intentionally part of some grand artistic statement. She moved with dreamlike purpose, her silvery gaze taking in the room as though it held secrets only she could see.

She carried with her a small wicker basket filled with what looked suspiciously like orange turnips, their oddly vibrant colour contrasting with the dimness of Grimmauld Place.

"Hello, friends," Luna announced in her airy voice, her tone carrying the usual certainty that only she seemed to understand. She handed the basket to Harry, who accepted it with a bemused smile.

"Dirigible plums," Luna explained, her eyes lighting up with quiet enthusiasm. "They're very good for warding off Wrackspurts. They love dark corners, you know, so this house must be full of them."

"Thanks, Luna," Harry said, glancing down at the plums. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd do with them, but the thoughtfulness of the gesture made his grin widen.

"You're welcome," she replied serenely, already drifting toward one of the dusty chairs, completely unbothered by the grime that had sent Pansy into fits of horror earlier. "The energy here is quite interesting. It feels like the house remembers everything."

"That's comforting," Ron muttered under his breath, earning an amused snort from Hermione.

Pansy, who had been fiddling with her nails again, looked up and eyed Luna with a mixture of curiosity and faint approval. "I like her," Pansy said to no one in particular, leaning back against the table. "Quirky, but she knows how to make an entrance."

Harry turned to Luna with a curious smile. "So, how have you been, Luna? Still hunting for magical creatures?"

Luna's placid expression brightened, as if Harry had just reminded her of something delightful. "Oh yes," she said dreamily. "Rolf and I have been cataloguing sightings of Moon Frogs in Eastern Europe. They only appear during full moons, you know? Quite fascinating creatures—they glow faintly blue when the moonlight hits them, and are known to hum melodies when they're happy."

"That sounds amazing," Harry replied earnestly, though he wasn't quite sure if Moon Frogs were real or just one of Luna's eccentric beliefs. Since she'd begun working with Rolf Scarmander, the line between real and not real had blurred quite a bit. "Have you had much luck?"

"Some," Luna admitted, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Though, they're shy creatures. Rolf and Mr Scamander think they may have an aversion to the colour green, so we've been trying to test the theory." She paused and then turned to Ginny. "Oh, Ginny, hello!"

Ginny didn't hesitate—she strode right up to Luna and kissed her affectionately all over her pale face, grinning. "You're as mad as ever, aren't you?" she teased fondly, her voice full of warmth and affection.

Luna only beamed. "Thank you."

Parkinson, who had been lounging near Draco and eyeing the house with visible distaste, perked up at the display. Her sharp gaze flicked from Luna to Ginny with open interest, her lips quirking into a smirk.

"Well, that was unexpected," Parkinson murmured, more to herself than anyone else, but Draco snorted quietly, having clearly heard her. Harry noticed her lingering looks but chose not to comment. He wasn't sure Ginny, particularly, would appreciate being part of whatever mischief Pansy Parkinson might be cooking up.

Meanwhile, Hermione and Draco had drifted into their own discussion next to Harry, with Hermione gesturing animatedly. "The kitchen will need some heavy, specialised spell-work," she was saying. "The floors especially—they've been untouched for decades. And I am sure the cupboards are probably cursed, knowing the Black family."

Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "Cursed? The cupboards? Honestly, Granger, don't be so dramatic. A few basic cleaning charms and a bit of elbow grease—"

"Don't even try to pretend you'll be scrubbing anything, Malfoy," Hermione interrupted with a pointed look. "If anything, you'll find some excuse to 'supervise' while everyone else does the work."

"Supervision is a critical role," Draco shot back, his tone lofty, making Harry chuckle. "Someone has to make sure Weasley doesn't blow up half the house."

Ron, catching part of the exchange, made a noise of protest from where he was still cleaning his shoes. "I heard that, Malfoy!"

Before Draco could retort, the Floo flared to life once more. The crackling green flames spilled onto the hearth, and Neville Longbottom stepped out of the fireplace with a cheerful grin and his familiar, warm presence. He looked fresh-faced despite the long hours he must've been pulling at Hogwarts, where he'd been apprenticing as Professor Sprout's assistant.

"Neville!" Harry greeted, genuinely pleased. It was impossible not to feel more at ease when Neville was around, like his very presence made everything a little steadier, and it had been months since he had seen him. Neville beamed as he clapped Harry on the back with a solid thud, his strength apparent even in the friendly gesture. He was almost as tall as Ron now, Harry noted with jealousy.

"Harry, it's good to see you," Neville said warmly. His gaze swept around the place, and he quirked a brow as he took in the peeling paint, dusty counters, and lingering stench. "This place looks like it's seen better days."

"That's the idea," Harry replied with a grin. "We're fixing it up, yeah?"

Neville chuckled as he nodded, and then turned to greet Hermione. She smiled brightly, and Neville pulled her into a brief, brotherly hug. "You look good, Neville. Hogwarts treating you all right?"

"Better than I thought it would, honestly," Neville said, rubbing the back of his neck with a shy grin. "Though the seventh years still look at me like they're waiting for me to blow up another greenhouse."

Ron snorted. "Another? Not much has changed since school, then."

Neville rolled his eyes but laughed good-naturedly. "Better the greenhouses than the dungeons. I'm just happy Sprout's trusting me with the teaching end of things now." He turned back toward Harry, his gaze flicking briefly to Draco—who was pretending to be very interested in the far wall—before looking back at Harry with an appraising glance. "So, is this everyone who's coming?"

"Not yet," Harry said, just as the Floo crackled again, signalling yet another arrival.

The last to arrive were Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, who stepped through the Floo one after the other. Like Parkinson, Nott looked distinctly out of place, dressed in neat but mousy robes, his expression harried and uncomfortable. He peered around the room like he expected something to leap out at him, his pale face framed by dark hair that always seemed a little too messy for his usual pristine appearance. His deep brown eyes flickered nervously, darting from corner to corner as if seeking an escape. His posture was tense, his hands fidgeting with the edges of his robes, the only thing denoting his nervousness. Zabini, in contrast, was the picture of exuberant confidence. A little taller than Draco, his dark, flawless skin seemed to glow against the sharp lines of his finely tailored robes, which were far more extravagant than the occasion called for. And, for a moment, Harry couldn't help but wonder if someone had told him this was a Gringotts gala instead of a renovation. The warm hazel of his eyes gleamed with an easy cockiness that Harry didn't remember ever seeing in school.

"This is ridiculous," Theo muttered, brushing soot from his sleeves. "I don't know why I agreed to this."

"Because you have no spine," Zabini replied smoothly, his accent still present despite the years, and looking perfectly at ease amongst the babble of Gryffindors he used to hate. He smirked as he caught sight of Draco, who was now leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "Now, Potter," he said, turning his attention to Harry. "I have to admit, I'm intrigued. You've managed to drag Draco into this den of misery and dust. I'm almost impressed."

"Shut up, Zabini," Draco snapped, though his cheeks coloured slightly.

Zabini's smirk widened, his gaze flicking back and forth between Harry and Draco with interest. "You know, Draco, I always suspected your little crush on Potter would turn into something thoroughly entertaining one day."

The room went still. Harry blinked. "Wait... what?"

"Blaise," Draco hissed, his voice dangerously low. His face had gone beet red, and he looked ready to murder his friend.

"Oh, come on," Zabini said, entirely unbothered by Draco's fury. "Don't tell me you didn't know, Potter. At least half the year knew Draco's been pining after you since fourth year. Flying against that Dragon really did a number on him, you see. It was pathetic, really. Moaning your name behind—"

"Blaise Francesco Zabini!" Draco screeched, pushing off the wall and advancing on him.

Harry's cheeks were burning, his mind reeling. He turned to Draco, stunned and a little awe-struck. His voice soft, he asked,"That long?"

Draco froze mid-step, his mouth opening and closing as though searching for a response. He looked utterly betrayed, shooting daggers at Zabini before reluctantly meeting Harry's gaze. His face was the colour of a tomato as he gave the faintest, most reluctant nod. Harry's heart clenched, and something warm spread through his chest. Smiling softly, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Draco's forehead before leaning in and kissing the side of his head, their first public display of affection.

"My bad for being so slow, then," Harry murmured.

The room was silent for a beat, and then Zabini clapped his hands together, breaking the tension. "Well, that's settled, isn't it? Shall we start cleaning now, or are we still pretending this isn't a social experiment in group tolerance?"

"I hate you," Draco muttered, but he didn't move away from Harry.

..

They eventually managed to move from the sitting room to what was to be their first mission: The Kitchen. Hermione had taken charge of their remodeling efforts, of course she had, armed with a long list of cleaning charms, renovation spells, and structural tweaks. She barked orders like a seasoned general, but her grin softened the edge of her commands. "Ron, start with the cupboards. Ginny, can you tackle the walls? Draco, you—"

"I told you, Granger, I'm supervising," Draco interrupted lazily, leaning against the counter-top with his arms crossed. "I'm very good at it."

"Oh, no, you are not," Hermione shot back. "You're scraping the grime off the range."

Draco made a face that could only be described as aristocratic horror. "Granger, I didn't come here to be treated like a house-elf."

"And yet here you are," Harry said, smirking as he handed Draco a bucket of soapy water and a rag with a kiss on the cheek. "Consider it character building."

Draco scowled but didn't argue, though he muttered something under his breath about how he should've stayed home. Harry caught the faintest hint of a pout on his lips and had to bite back a laugh.

Alas, it wasn't long before the drab room was buzzing with the sounds of activity as everyone settled into their roles. Draco and Blaise immediately began assessing the ancient cooker, while Harry and Hermione took charge of sorting through the clutter that had accumulated over the years. Ron, ever the practical one, started moving furniture out of the way with a few enthusiastic flicks of his wand, knocking the dust off old surfaces and covering them all in it. The atmosphere had shifted, losing some of the awkward energy from earlier as the group began working together to prepare the room for renovation. Even though the old house seemed reluctant to give up its ever-present gloom, laughter, and banter echoed through the walls like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Hermione, her sleeves rolled up and hair slightly askew, offered a running commentary on each object she found, making light of the bizarre assortment of old cookware as she commanded her quick-notes quill to take inventory. Ron laughed along, joking about how the house seemed to be stuck in a different era—which was not wrong, seeing how most of the wixen world seemed to have stopped advancing sometime during the Edwardian period. Nott, though usually quiet, was beginning to crack a few wry smiles as Blaise teased him about his tendency to overthink every spell he pointed at the cabinets.

Meanwhile, Neville and Nott had been assigned to strip the kitchen cabinets of their old, peeling paint and varnish. Neville, ever the diligent worker, was carefully applying an abrasive charm to the old, peeling wood, his brow furrowed in concentration so as not to carve a hole into the old wood. The transformation was slow but steady, the smooth coat of old grey slowly disappearing and revealing warm wood undernath. Nott, on the other hand, seemed less invested in the task, his wand flicking lazily as he glanced around the room, his gaze drifting over the worn surfaces as if searching for something more interesting. He barely seemed to notice when a patch of peeling paint landed on his shoulder, brushing it off with a shrug. His mind appeared elsewhere, his dark eyes flickering occasionally to the others, but his focus never fully settling on the task at hand. Neville, sensing the lack of enthusiasm, shot Nott an occasional glance, possibly wondering if he was going to have to handle all the work himself. Despite the lack of cooperation, Neville pressed on, determined to get the cabinets done, silently hoping that Nott would eventually contribute more.

"You missed a spot," Neville pointed out, nodding toward the corner of one cabinet.

Nott sighed dramatically. "I'm a wizard, Longbottom, not a carpenter."

"Well, you're not much of a wizard either if you can't manage a simple spell," Neville retorted with a grin.

Nott's eyes narrowed. "Oi, is that a challenge?"

Before Neville could respond, the shorter man peeled a large flake of paint from the cabinet and flicked it toward Neville. It landed on his nose, leaving a faint blue smudge.

"Really mature," Neville said, raising an eyebrow and blowing the flake off but smiling nonetheless.

Nott shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It's better than actual work, isn't it?"

Neville, chuckling, peeled a larger piece of paint and threw it back at Nott. It smacked against Nott's chest, leaving a satisfying mark on his expensive cashmere jumper. Within minutes, the two were engaged in a ridiculous back-and-forth of flinging old bits of paint at each other, their laughter punctuating the quiet hum of work around the room. By the time Hermione noticed, both of them were lightly dusted in peeling paint, their hands frozen mid-throw as she fixed them with a stern glare.

"Honestly!" Hermione scolded, hands on her hips. "This isn't a playground!"

"You're just mad we're having more fun than you, Granger," Nott quipped, earning a snort from Ron, who was now elbow-deep in scrubbing out one of the grimy lower cupboards.

Across the room, Parkinson seemed to have appointed herself as Ginny and Luna's shadow. Despite her earlier claims of not doing any manual labour, she had somehow managed to attach herself to whatever task the two women were currently working on, though her contributions were questionable at best. At one point, she was holding a broom, seemingly ready to help with sweeping the floor, but her movements were slow and exaggerated, as if she were more focused on maintaining an air of helpfulness than actually getting anything done. Then, when Ginny started sorting through a pile of old, dusty dishes, Parkinson hovered nearby, offering unsolicited advice on how to organise them, though her suggestions were entirely impractical and mostly humorous. Luna, who seemed mostly unbothered by the interruptions, simply smiled at Parkinson's attempts and continued working with a quiet efficiency. Ginny, on the other hand, exchanged a glance with Harry from across the room, her expression a mixture of amusement and dismay. Parkinson's presence, while not exactly helpful, seemed to have a strange effect on the mood—and Harry was nervous about it, but not enough to say anything. He was scared enough of Parkinson without the woman deciding to castrate him for pointing out that her flirting was probably not going the way she wanted.

Looking at Draco over the corner of his eye, Harry began to wonder if all Slytherins annoyed their romantic interests into attraction; because it couldn't be a coincidence.

"You missed a spot," Parkinson said, pointing at the section of wall Ginny had just finished cleaning.

"I did not," Ginny replied, glaring at her.

"You did," Pansy insisted, smirking. "Right there."

Ginny rolled her eyes but reached up to swipe her cloth over the supposed missed spot. Harry didn't want to know what Parkinson was planning to do there, but the way she leaned over Ginny, pressing her impressive set of tits to the redhead's back, couldn't mean anything good. Meanwhile, Luna had taken it upon herself to 'bless' the house with her dirigible plums, placing little orange fruits in strategic corners to 'ward off Wrackspurts'. Parkinson, of course, followed her around with her predatory eyes even as she rubbed herself all over Ginny, offering commentary that ranged from mildly curious to outright sarcastic.

"So these plums," Parkinson said, watching as Luna placed one on the windowsill. "They're supposed to do what, exactly?"

"Protect against Wrackspurts," Luna replied serenely. "They're invisible, you know, but they can cause quite a lot of trouble if left unchecked."

"Fascinating," Parkinson drawled, though her tone suggested she thought it was anything but. Still, Luna didn't seem to notice the sarcasm behind her words and accepted Parkinson's 'help' whenever the taller woman offered it. She didn't stop following Luna with her sharp eyes, and every now and then, Harry caught her smiling in a way that seemed almost genuine. All the while making a nuisance of herself over Ginny's work, of course.

Meanwhile, Zabini had stationed himself in the corner, where he alternated between charming the dust off old cupboards and furniture, and regaling the group with stories of Draco's childhood misadventures. Much to Draco's obvious embarrassment and displeasure.

"Did you know," Blaise began, a wicked grin spreading across his face, "that Draco once got stuck in a tree for three hours because he was too scared to come down?"

Draco, who was scrubbing the stove with the air of someone being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment, stiffened. "Blaise, I swear—"

"He cried until his mother came to get him," Blaise continued, ignoring Draco's warning tone. "She had to levitate him down while he clung to the branch like a terrified Kneazle kitten."

Harry bit his lip, trying and failing to suppress a laugh. The mental image was too cute for him to contain.

"It was a very tall tree," Draco snapped, indignant, his cheeks turning pink. "And I was five."

"Adorable," Harry said, grinning at him. He leaned against the counter, watching as Draco's blush deepened. There was something incredibly endearing about seeing Draco so flustered, and Harry found himself smiling more than he had in months—years, even.

..

Despite the chaos, progress was being made.

The dark, depressive atmosphere of the kitchen gradually gave way to something brighter and more welcoming. The walls, once coated in years of grime, gleamed with fresh base plaster, ready to be adorned with new tiles and wallpaper. Old wooden cabinets had been stripped of their old paint and varnish, and were now a dusky pale mint that reflected the light streaming from the windows, free of dust, and adding a touch of elegance to the room. The previously aged, scuffed countertops had been wiped clean, and a few stray shelves had been carefully reattached to the walls. Even the floor, after a long time of scrubbing and polishing, seemed to shine—its original wooden planks now visible beneath layers of dirt and wear, adding a warm, inviting glow to the space. The transformation was tangible, the air filled with a sense of accomplishment as the group surveyed their work, realizing that, despite the mess, the kitchen was no longer a gloomy, forgotten space, but one ready for a new beginning.

By the time they stopped for a break, everyone was tired but in high spirits, visibly proud of their hardwork. They gathered around the now-clean kitchen table, sharing sandwiches and butterbeer that Hermione thoughtfully had brought from home, each of them laughing and chatting about the progress they'd made. To Harry, the atmosphere between them had obviously shifted, the initial tension replaced with tentative unity as they enjoyed the simple comfort of food and drink, feeling the satisfaction of a job well done. Even the house, as if acknowledging their efforts, seemed to relax, the gloom all but gone from the room.

"You know," Harry said, looking around at the group, "I wasn't sure this would work. But it's... nice. Having everyone here."

Draco, sitting beside him, raised an eyebrow. "Nice? That's the best you can come up with?"

Harry shrugged, smiling. "What would you call it, then?"

Draco considered for a moment, then smirked. "Tolerable."

Blaise snorted. "High praise, coming from him."

As the group laughed and chatted, Harry felt a sense of warmth and contentment settle over him. For so long, Grimmauld Place had been a symbol of pain and loss, a reminder of all the things the family had endured, him included. But now, surrounded by his friends—this strange, mismatched group of people who had somehow ended up together despite the odds through him and Draco—it felt like something new. Something brighter.

Harry wished Sirius could've been here to see his ancestral home come to life like this. Would it have made him happy? Forget all the hatred he had learnt in here? Harry certainly hoped so. He hoped this new Grimmauld Place could've given respite to his godfather, just like it was giving him. Harry didn't think he'd ever felt so at home in his life.

Not even at Hogwarts.

After lunch, the work continued with renewed energy. The kitchen was declared mostly finished, and Hermione immediately moved them to the adjacent sitting room, her eyes already scanning the space for what needed to be done next. Unlike the kitchen, which had simply been neglected over the years, the sitting room was still covered in Black family heirlooms, most of them decidedly unpleasant. The room was filled with dark, old furniture and odd trinkets that seemed to reflect the family's penchant for the morbid and disturbing. Ornate, heavy portraits lined the walls, many of which seemed to sneer down at anyone who dared enter. A few of the items were undeniably valuable, but they were clearly out of place in a room that had long been abandoned and forgotten. Even the thick curtains, now faded and moth-eaten, seemed to loom over the space, remnants of a darker time. Hermione, though, wasted no time, rallying the group with her usual fervor, determined to make the room as liveable as the kitchen by the end of the day.

"What is that?" Ron asked, pointing at a taxidermied creature that looked like a cross between a fox and a bat.

"A Shrivelfig Beast," Luna said cheerfully. "They're quite rare. I'd keep it, if I were you."

"We're not keeping that," Harry said firmly, levitating it toward the throw-away pile. With a loud pop, Kreacher appeared out of nowhere, catching the item mid-air with a horrified expression.

"Master will not throw away Black family treasures!" Kreacher croaked, clutching the grotesque thing to his chest as if it were a priceless artifact.

Harry sighed. "Fine, Kreacher. You can keep it. Just... put it somewhere out of sight."

Kreacher muttered something that sounded an awful lot like 'ungrateful master' before scuttling off with his prize. After that, and Hermione's pointed glare, Harry decided to let the cantankerous old elf keep whatever weird or horrifying Black 'treasure' they found, as long as it wasn't cursed or dark.

..

By the time the day ended, the group was thoroughly worn out, their bodies aching and their minds buzzing from the day's labour. Harry looked around the sitting room, eyes droopy but appreciative. They'd made good progress, but it was hard to ignore the sheer amount that still needed to be done. As everyone started gathering their things, preparing to leave, Draco lingered behind, a mischievous gleam in his eyes that did nothing but get Harry all kinds of randy. It was ridiculous, really, how easily Draco managed to get him going. The others were distracted, still chatting about their plans for tomorrow, trying to make the best use of their weekend as they could; but Draco wasn't in a hurry to join the conversation, not when he had a Harry to rile up.

When he finally approached the kitchen table, Harry was just finishing off the last of his second Butterbeer, the tiredness evident in the slump of his shoulders. Draco leaned casually against the table, smirking as he watched Harry, a knowing look in his eyes that told Harry he meant trouble.

"You know," Draco began, his voice smooth but carrying a hint of amusement. "I think you deserve a bit of a reward for your efforts today," he ran a finger along the edge of the table, his gaze never leaving Harry's.

Harry raised an eyebrow, his mouth going dry and his heartbeat accelerating inside his chest. "Oh? And what did you have in mind?"

Draco's smirk widened, and he leaned in just a touch closer, the tension between them building in the quiet kitchen. "Well, I'm sure I could come up with something... a little more personal than an award."

For a moment, there was only the sound of Harry's breath, unsteady and almost audible in the silence that had settled between them. The room, now quiet except for the soft rustle of the others preparing to leave in the sitting room, seemed to hold its breath, waiting for what he imagined would come next. With slow, purposeful steps, Draco slid up next to Harry, pressing a pale hand to his chest, surely feeling the staccato of his heart going wild within. He pressed close enough for his warm breath to tickle at the sensitive skin below Harry's ear, sending sparks down his spine and making his cock twitch in anticipation.

"Wouldn't you like to see me on my knees, sucking you off, while the rest of our guests are in the next room?"

Harry let out a shaky sigh, unable to stop his hips from jerking forward ever so slightly. Bloody hell, what was with Draco and the risk of getting caught? And why did the idea of Draco sucking him off with people just a room over get him as hard as it did?

"Fuck, Draco," Harry swallowed thickly, licking his suddenly dry lips as he nodded, a slight flush crawling up his neck as Draco chuckled under his breath. "Here?" He asked, his voice more like a squeak.

"Allow me to give you your reward."

Draco gave Harry no time to protest before he slid down to his knees, his body now obscured by the kitchen island, cold hands dragging across Harry's thighs in his descent. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, until Draco let out a loud hum of appreciation, no doubt eyeing Harry's half-hard erection through his dirty trousers. A wave of heat flooded Harry's body at the sight of Draco on his knees for him; and when the blonde finally touched him again, pulling down his zipper and tugging him out into the open air, he couldn't help the moan that escaped him.

"Shhh," Draco teased, pressing his fingers to Harry's lips. "We don't want anyone figuring out what we're up to, do we?"

In the distance, Harry could hear Hermione announcing she was going to the loo, and Pansy saying something cheeky to Ginny, earning herself a snort and a laugh. Gods, but the fact that they had to be careful only made him harden in Draco's hands. They were so going to get caught, Harry just knew it. And yet, he had no intention to stop Draco from doing what he was planning to do to him.

He bit back another moan as Draco began stroking him lazily, teasing his head with kitten licks and hot breaths. It was maddening, all this teasing, but bloody hell if he didn't love it. He could feel Draco smirking against him, undoubtedly aware of how much Harry enjoyed their game of cat and mouse. His cock twitched in Draco's hand, drawing an appreciative hum from the man between his legs, who started nuzzling against him like a contented cat who was getting the cream.

"You know," Draco murmured, pressing a kiss to the side of Harry's erection before licking a long stripe along the underside. "I've been thinking about sucking you off after all that manual labour for hours."

Harry groaned, remembering Draco's lingering gazes throughout the day, particularly whenever Harry forgot he was a wizard with magic and simply decided to do things by hand, like lifting heavy furniture. Then, unbidden, he remembered how soft Draco's hair had been beneath his fingers when he'd pushed Draco down onto his bed the day before.

Draco spent a long time teasing him, so long Harry was genuinely getting nervous about their friends coming over to check on them, his touch both light and firm, alternating between long strokes and tiny kitten licks to the tip of his cock. But by the time he finally took Harry in his mouth, he felt like he'd been tortured for hours. The moment those gorgeous, warm lips wrapped around his cockhead, Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, gripping the edge of the countertop so tightly his knuckles turned white. Oh, gods, it felt so good. So hot and wet and perfect, like everything he hadn't known he needed after a long day of hard work.

For a moment, Draco merely teased him, sucking gently at the sensitive skin covering the head of his cock, playing with him for a bit longer, before swallowing him down completely, and this time, Harry couldn't hold back a loud moan. Panicking, he slapped his left hand over his mouth. Draco was amazing at sucking cock; he knew just what to do with his tongue, how hard to suck, how to draw little noises of pleasure out of Harry almost effortlessly. And then, as Harry buried his free hand in Draco's hair, trying not to pull too hard, Draco reached up and guided his hands more firmly, encouraging him to thrust into his mouth, which he did without much hesitation.

"Fuck," Harry panted quietly, leaning heavily against the kitchen island, his hips moving so he could fuck Draco's mouth. "Fuck, your mouth..."

Draco hummed in approval, his eyes falling closed as he let Harry fuck into him, his pace slow and leisurely, clearly intent on drawing it out for as long as possible, their friends be damned. Every now and again, he would moan around Harry's cock, sending vibrations down the length of him, making him shudder with pleasure. As the heat built inside him, growing stronger with every passing second, Harry began picking up his pace, fucking into Draco's mouth faster, desperate to come down his throat. His ears picked up some of their friends saying their goodbyes, and it only made him fuck into the blonde's willing mouth faster. After a particularly harsh thrust, Draco opened his eyes to look up at him, a sultry look about him that only spurred Harry on, his body tense and ready to burst as he defiled Draco's willing mouth.

Harry's toes curled in his trainers, the warmth of Draco's mouth driving him mad. He knew he wouldn't last, not when Draco was looking up at him with such hunger, such desire. His orgasm came upon him fast and unexpected, the pleasure coursing through his veins like a wildfire, hot and consuming until nothing remained. A muffled groan escaped him as he fucked into Draco's pliant mouth, coming hard and heavy down his throat. He could feel Draco's throat constricting around his girth, the movements milking him as he shot his load into him.

The moment it was over, Harry slumped sideways against the kitchen island, panting quietly as he looked down at Draco, who slowly pulled off, licking his lips as if savouring the taste of him.

"Well," Draco said, grinning wickedly as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I hope you enjoyed your reward."

Harry could only nod, still feeling a little light-headed after coming so hard, unable to form words just yet.

"Harry?" suddenly came Ron's voice from the sitting room, dispelling Harry's post-orgasmic bliss like a fan at full power. "You alright mate? I thought I heard you make some sort of weird noise."

Harry gulped, his mind going blank. What the fuck was he supposed to do in a situation like this?

"Er, yeah! Yeah, I'm fine," Harry called back, trying to sound as casual as he could while stuffing himself back into his pants, zipping his trousers and praying to whatever gods were out there that Ron wouldn't decide to walk into the kitchen for any reason. "Just, erm... stubbed my toe."

"Oh. Alright then!" came Ron's reply, followed by Zabini's snort and Pansy's sniggering.

"Smooth, Potter," Pansy teased, her amusement clear in her tone, even if she was not in the room. "Well, hurry up then, we're about to leave."

Draco pulled himself up, his obvious erection partially hidden by his untucked, long shirt, a self-satisfied smirk playing at his red lips. And Merlin, was Harry eager to bend him over the island to eat him out. The man had just given him a brilliant blowjob, and Harry needed to return the favour in kind. They hadn't been together for long, but Harry had already learnt that Draco quite liked having something inside of him when he came—fingers or a tongue would do, but Harry knew he'd like it best if it was his cock buried deep inside him instead.

Before he could make good on his lust, however, he caught sight of the clock and remembered what they were actually supposed to be doing at this very moment. Their friends were all waiting on them so they could say their goodbyes. His business with Draco would have to wait until they were gone, it seemed. With a sigh, he adjusted himself away properly, knowing that their little game of hide-the-erection would have to wait until everyone was out, and they had time to themselves again.

"Sorry, Parkinson," Harry said as he gave Draco one last appreciative once-over before walking around the kitchen island. "Be right there."

Once they got to the sitting room, he was faced with the three Slytherins giving him pointed looks, their expressions mischievous and knowing, but thankfully none seemed to want to tease him about whatever he and Draco had done in the kitchen for so long. At least, not yet. He wasn't sure he could deal with another round of Parkinson's teasing. One day she would probably do something that would embarrass Harry so much he'd never want to show his face in polite society again, he knew, but today wasn't that day, it seemed; which meant he was free to enjoy the rest of their visit without wanting to hand himself from the master bedroom balcony.

They made quick work of saying goodbye to his friends, hugging them tightly and wishing them safe travels home. It wouldn't always be this easy for them to get together, not with how busy they all were with their own lives; so when now that they did manage it, he wanted to make sure they knew how much he appreciated it, particularly because they'd come to help him make his horrid house more liveable. Ron clapped him on the back as he made his way out of Grimmauld Place, smiling widely and thanking Harry for hosting them for the weekend. Zabini followed closely behind, his arm wrapped loosely around Parkinson's shoulders, who winked at Harry as she said her goodbyes to Draco.

One by one, they all left through the Floo, just like they had arrived.

The moment the hearth returned to its usual orange, Harry turned to face the blonde, lips twitching upwards in anticipation but a little awkward, not knowing how to go about starting another round.

"So," Draco drawled, stepping close enough to press their bodies together, his arms coming up to wrap around Harry's neck. He could still feel his erection through his denims, though it had gone down a bit. "What are you thinking about in that little randy brain of yours, darling?"

Harry grinned wolfishly, his face heating as he settled his hands comfortably on Draco's hips. "Er, well..."

The blonde smirked, leaning closer to whisper into his ear. "Come on, say it."

With a low groan, Harry pulled Draco down by his hair and pressed their lips together, their tongues tangling in an age-old dance of lust and desire. He felt like he was drowning, swept away by a current too strong to escape from, and he didn't even want to try. Every single touch sent sparks of electricity through him, the heat between them growing more intense with every passing second until Harry couldn't take it anymore.

He tugged Draco closer, pressing their hips against each other, feeling their cocks through the fabric of their trousers. That earned him a breathless moan from the blonde. Harry let out a low groan, feeling his cock swell once again within its confines, straining against the material. Fuck, he wanted to bury himself inside Draco, to fuck him so hard neither of them could walk straight for days.

But first...

"I really want to eat you out," Harry whispered against Draco's mouth, biting down on his bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue. "Would you like that, babe?"

Draco whined, his hips rocking forward slightly as though seeking friction. "Merlin, yes," he gasped, leaning in once again to kiss Harry deeply, one of his hands trailing lower to cup the outline of Harry's erection.

"Let's go somewhere I can bend you over, then," Harry said in a rush, his voice strained with renewed lust.

"Fuck yes," Draco agreed eagerly, grabbing Harry's hand and tugging him towards the stairs. "Now hurry up and get these clothes off me already, Potter."

They managed to stumble up the staircase without falling flat on their arses, although not without incident—at some point during their journey up to the master bedroom, Harry's t-shirt ended up discarded somewhere, while Draco lost one sock. Harry was certain it had been flung across the corridor and into a random room in haste, landing somewhere near an old, abandoned chest of drawers. He didn't particularly care where it ended up, not when he was about to ravish Draco like he deserved.

By the time they reached the bedroom, Harry's cock was fully erect once more, eager to be buried deep inside his lover's warm body. But first things first.

"Bed, now," Harry whispered softly, pointing to the large bed behind Draco.

"Bossy," Draco gave him a crooked grin, walking backwards slowly until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, legs spread invitingly and his erection visible through the material of his trousers. With a flick of his wrist, Harry summoned a cushion from the chair by the window and threw it at Draco, who caught it easily with a laugh.

"Make yourself comfortable."

The blonde winked, placing the pillow underneath himself before lying down on his back. For a moment, he merely lay there, his eyes half-lidded and his breathing steady. But then he lifted his hips slightly, reaching around to undo the zipper on Harry's old jeans and pull down the fabric along with his underwear just enough to free his erection, which sprung up eagerly. It made Harry groan quietly, watching Draco lick his lips hungrily as though looking upon something delicious, and then the bastard had the audacity to moan loudly, throwing his head back onto the mattress.

"Get on with it already," Draco whined impatiently, wiggling his hips for emphasis. "Stop staring at my cock and eat me out, Potter."

Harry rolled his eyes, endeared by Draco's apparent penchant to call him Potter as a flirting strategy to get what he wanted, but did as demanded. Kneeling between Draco's legs, he pressed a soft kiss to the head of his cock before moving on to press kisses to the insides of his thighs. He heard Draco gasp quietly when his tongue traced over the sensitive skin, goosebumps spreading along the path his tongue took, the hairs standing up under its heat. He licked and sucked at the skin covering Draco's inner thigh, marking him with dark bruises that wouldn't fade come morning. When Harry moved onto the other leg and repeated the process, he could feel Draco trembling beneath him, his breath coming out in shallow gasps. He was always so sensitive there, on the inside of his thighs, and Harry revelled in marking him up every time he had the chance.

He continued like this for a little longer, occasionally nipping gently at the pale flesh and enjoying the way it made Draco squirm beneath him. Then he finally moved on to his main goal, sliding his hands underneath Draco's hips and pulling them up to rest on top of his shoulders.

"Ready?" Harry whispered, his lips brushing against the smooth skin of Draco's arse-cheek before kissing it tenderly, leaving yet another mark behind.

"Yes, fuck, please just put your mouth on my arse already," Draco moaned impatiently.

Smiling to himself, Harry grabbed a firm hold of Draco's cheeks and spread them apart, exposing his twitching, pink hole. With a murmured wandless spell that he had learnt after a very awkward trip to the red section at Flourish and Blotts, he sanitised the area. His breath ghosted over Draco's hole as he leaned down to lick a long stripe from the tip of his spine up to the base of his balls. Draco inhaled sharply, his body tensing momentarily. But he relaxed again as soon as Harry began lapping gently at his entrance, licking circles around the tight muscle, occasionally pushing at the muscles to slide his tongue inside. He teased him like that for a while, savouring the taste of him and the way Draco shivered under his touch, before he started pressing deeper inside him, exploring every inch of his lover's arse until his tongue was buried completely within him. The sound Draco made then was unlike anything Harry had heard from him before. It was somewhere between a gasp and a moan, accompanied by a series of breathy whimpers that went straight to Harry's cock, making it twitch painfully in his boxers. He reached down to palm himself through the fabric, moaning quietly into Draco's skin as he fucked him slowly with his tongue, enjoying how hot and wet it felt inside the blonde. When he looked up, he saw Draco biting hard on his bottom lip, his face flushed red, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

Harry pulled back slightly to speak. "You're so beautiful," he whispered reverently against his hole before going back to laving his tongue all over it.

Draco's only answer was to let out another loud moan. Harry smiled before slipping one finger alongside his tongue into Draco, pushing past the ring of muscles easily enough. Once he felt comfortable enough to move forward, Harry removed his finger and replaced it with his tongue, this time thrusting faster and deeper into his lover. At the same time, he continued to stroke himself through his underwear, groaning into Draco's skin. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside him but knew he wouldn't last if he did it now—he had to keep his composure or risk disappointing Draco. And he definitely didn't want to do that.

So instead, he kept up the steady pace he'd set until Draco seemed to grow impatient again. He rolled his hips against Harry's face, urging him to go harder, faster, deeper. Harry complied gladly, increasing his speed as best as he could until he heard Draco gasp loudly, followed by a strangled cry that sounded like "Oh fuck!" as his body trembled beneath him.

"You like that?" Harry asked teasingly, not slowing his pace in the slightest. Instead, he moved his mouth upwards slightly, licking and sucking at the underside of Draco's balls before moving on to suck on his taint, pushing at it with his tongue, relishing the way it made Draco writhe underneath him.

When he glanced up, he saw that Draco was now gripping tightly onto the duvet beneath him with both hands, his knuckles turning white. He didn't respond verbally, but Harry could tell from the look on his face that he was enjoying himself immensely, so he kept going. His own orgasm built slowly but steadily as he pleasured Draco, his balls slowly clamping up and tightening into his body. His hand moved fervently at his cock, his thumb pressing at his slit when he got to his cockhead and twisting. The sensation of it being pried open while fucking Draco with his tongue and fingers sent shivers down his spine, causing Harry's hips to jerk involuntarily. He thrust roughly into his fist, letting out a loud groan. He felt his orgasm building quickly as his tongue fucked Draco relentlessly, the sound of their erratic breaths echoing around the room.

"Harry, fuck, just like that," Draco cried out suddenly, his voice hoarse and breathless. "Don't stop. Don't—ah, please!"

The desperation in his tone made Harry speed up even more, feeling himself teeter close to the edge. With one last thrust of his hips, he came hard into his fist, his vision whiting out for an instant. When he recovered, he realised that Draco was coming too, his finger pressing on his prostate like a vice, spurting hot and heavy across his stomach, sliding onto the duvet beneath him. His hole tightened around Harry's tongue as he continued to lick and suck at him, drawing out his climax as long as possible before finally pulling away completely, knowing how Draco got overstimulated quickly after orgasming. They collapsed together onto the mattress in a heap of sweaty limbs, panting heavily.

Draco rolled over onto his side to look at Harry properly, smiling tiredly up at him with half-lidded eyes. "I guess your mouthiness does have its perks," he sighed contentedly, running a hand through Harry's messy hair.

Harry laughed softly, leaning forward to kiss Draco gently. "You enjoyed yourself, then?"

Draco hummed in agreement before letting out a quiet yawn, snuggling up against Harry's chest and closing his eyes. His voice trembled the next time he spoke, the kind of tremble that let Harry know he was feeling vulnerable and just a little raw.

"Harry... can I stay the night?"

Harry kissed him again, nodding. "Of course."

..

The days turned into weeks, and Grimmauld Place began to look less like an abandoned structure and more like a home. It wasn't an overnight transformation, of course—no grand magic spell could accomplish the kind of change that unfolded within its walls. The shift came gradually, in the scent of fresh paint mingling with the ever-present aroma of freshly-brewed tea, in the way sunlight began to filter through newly-cleaned windows, chasing away the gloom that had lingered for far too long.

And the people who frequented the house seemed to mirror the house's revival. Most often it was Harry alone—with Kreacher as an ever-present critic—who worked on the house during the mornings, as he was the only one in his group of friendly-renovators who didn't have a job to take up his time. But Draco would come by almost daily, if only to 'supervise' Harry or get into his pants. Not that Harry was complaining, not at all—he loved Draco getting into his pants and encouraged him constantly.

The weekends, however, were when Grimmauld Place truly came to life. More often than not, at least two or three of their friends would pop in to help at one point of the day, with Ron and Hermione being almost as constant with their visits as Draco himself. At first, the rhythm of work had been awkward, stilted, like an old, rusty machine groaning back to life after decades of desuse. But soon, the grinding silences were replaced by the steady hum of activity—scraping, scrubbing, painting—and punctuated by bursts of laughter, teasing arguments, and, occasionally, the kind of heartfelt, long overdue conversations that left a quiet echo long after they ended. There was something almost cathartic about the shared labour, as if every stroke of a paintbrush or swipe of a cleaning cloth was not only restoring the house but chipping away at the walls they'd each built around themselves. It was in those little moments—Harry muttering curses under his breath as he untangled himself from an overly enthusiastic mop charm, Draco criticising everyone's technique while doing the bare minimum himself—that the house truly began to feel alive again.

And so, the days blurred together, a steady stream of activity and connection.

But it was in the very early mornings, when Harry would find himself lying in bed, sunlight spilling through the frayed curtains in golden streaks, that he felt most at peace. More often than not, he wasn't sure what would wake him, but his gaze would always inevitably fall to the figure beside him. Draco was typically still asleep when Harry woke, his hair a soft mess of pale strands a halo against the pillow, catching the morning light streaming through the windows. His features, usually so discerning and sharp, softened in sleep, giving him an almost ethereal quality that made Harry want to encase him in a stasis charm. Most mornings, Harry couldn't help but stare, his breath catching in his throat. It felt obsessive to look, and yet he couldn't stop himself. There was something about the stillness of those moments, the quiet intimacy of them, that made his chest ache with adoration. Draco's lips, usually pressed into a sardonic line, would then part slightly in a pout, and his pale lashes casting delicate shadows against his rosy cheeks.

He always looked beautiful.

In the afternoons, a faint hum of activity lingered in the air even on days when it was just the two of them. The kitchen had quickly become their favourite spot, a warm and lively haven in an otherwise still-transforming house. Weekend mornings often began with Harry perched at the battered wooden table, cradling a cup of tea as he blinked sleepily at the world, his hair mess that no spell could fix, like a particularly defiant bird's nest. Across from him, Draco would sweep in with an air of effortless poise, as though the dilapidated kitchen were just another grand room in Malfoy Manor.

Draco's mornings were a study in contrast to Harry's. Where Harry stumbled in half-awake, wrapped in a well-worn jumper that might have belonged to Mrs. Weasley once upon a time, Draco swanned in as though he were still living at the Manor, impeccably dressed even in his most casual clothes. They would bicker about breakfast—whether the eggs were too runny or who had burnt the toast the previous morning—until Harry inevitably gave in, muttering under his breath as Draco, with an infuriatingly attractive smirk, made a show of preparing the perfect oeufs cocotte. And yet, once the initial banter dissolved into quiet, their silence was never awkward. It held a kind of unspoken ease, the kind that suggested they had finally learned how to share a space without walls rising between them.

That morning in particular, Draco had been lounging on the newly upholstered sofa, a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee, while Harry sat cross-legged on the floor next to him, sorting through a box of Sirius's old muggle records. The rain pattered against the windows, a steady rhythm that made the room feel cosy despite the grey skies outside.

"You know," Draco began, his tone almost too casual, but his eyes were hesitant, "I never did properly apologise for trying to hex you into oblivion back at school."

Harry glanced up from the stack of records and twisted his head to the side to look at Draco, his brow furrowing. "You mean when you tried to Crucio me, and then I scarred you for life?"

Draco's cheeks turned pink, though he tried to cover it with a dismissive wave of his hand as he turned to examine the ceiling. "That's the one. Though, in my defence, it wouldn't have worked properly. You've got to mean it for an Unforgivable to actually work."

Harry's lips twitched as he fought back a smile, understanding what Draco was telling him underneath the casual tone. You've got to mean it. "Oh, well, that makes it all better, doesn't it? 'Sorry for trying to Crucio you, Harry, but don't worry, I didn't mean it!'"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to let me apologise, or are you going to make sarcastic remarks?"

"Why not both?" Harry said, setting the records aside and leaning back against the sofa, resting his head on Draco's bony hip. "Go on, then, babe. Apologise."

There was a long pause, during which Draco seemed to be debating whether to throw his tea at Harry or just continue. Eventually, he sighed and set the cup down on the floor, next to Harry.

"Fine. I'm sorry. For trying to curse you. For... everything, really. I was..." He hesitated, his hands fiddling with the hem of his jumper. "I was a complete arse, wasn't I?"

"Absolutely," Harry said, though his tone was softer now. "But you weren't the only one."

Draco's brows shot up. "You're admitting fault? Merlin's beard, is the world ending?"

Harry rolled his eyes but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he changed positions, turning around and resting his elbows on the bit of empty space next to Draco on the sofa. "I was awful to you, too, Draco. And I shouldn't have denied your apology after the war. I thought... I don't know. I thought I was being righteous, that I was standing my ground or something. But really, I was just being cruel."

"Yes, so you said," Draco said, though his voice was quiet now. "Although, you had no reason to believe I had good intentions, at the time."

Harry winced. "I'm sorry. For that. For a lot of things, actually. I didn't... I didn't know how to let go of everything back then. The anger, the pain. It felt like if I forgave you, I'd be betraying everything I'd fought for."

"And now?" Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper, hopeful.

"Now," Harry said, meeting his gaze, "I think holding onto all that anger was the real betrayal. Not just to myself, but to you, too. We were just kids, Draco. Stupid, angry kids caught up in a war we didn't ask for."

Draco didn't say anything for a long time, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. He picked up his tea again, taking a small sip before speaking.

"Well," he said, his tone lighter now, "at least you've finally realised how brilliant I am and decided to stop hating me."

Harry snorted. "Don't push your luck."

..

The conversation stayed with them, and over the following days, it seemed to pave the way for more honesty between them and their relationship. One evening, after another long day of cleaning and renovating, Draco approached Ron and Hermione, more or less cornering them when they were tired. Harry stood at the doorway, watching with his heart pounding in his chest as Draco squared his shoulders and stepped into the kitchen where his two best friends were sitting for tea.

"We need to talk," Draco said, his tone firm but lacking its usual sharpness. He was nervous, he could see that now, and Harry's heart beat wildly in his chest with how proud he was.

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"

"Yes—I mean, if you'd be partial to it," Draco said briskly, taking a seat across from them. He looked at Hermione, then Ron, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "I... I want to apologise. For everything. For how I treated you at school. For the things I said. The things I did. You didn't deserve any of it, and I know that my upbringing... well, it was no excuse for what I did, for the hurt I caused you."

Hermione blinked, clearly caught off guard, but pleasantly so. "Oh. Well. This is... unexpected."

"It's not," Ron said, crossing his arms. "Harry's got him on some redemption crusade or something," Ron said, his tone sharp and sceptical as he folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair as if to create as much distance as possible between himself and Draco. His lips twisted in an unmistakable scowl, the distrust etched into his expression so deeply that it seemed as though years of enmity had settled there permanently.

"Ron," Hermione chastised gently, shooting him a look that could have melted ice. Her hands were clasped together on the table, but she shifted them slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach out and smooth over the tension that had descended in the kitchen. "Can you at least try to listen?"

"Why should I?" Ron replied, his voice rising slightly, though not yet at full indignation. "I mean, really, Hermione. After everything he's done? Everything he said about you, about Harry, about my family—"

"I know that nothing I say will take away what I did," Draco interrupted, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness and it just sounded defeated. His hands were pressed flat against his thighs, his knuckles pale against the darkness of his trousers. "And I... I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I need to say it. To try."

"Ron, please," Harry cut in, his tone quiet but urgent as he stepped forward from the doorway where he'd been lingering. There was a note of pleading in his voice that seemed to pull Ron's attention away from Draco, however reluctantly. "Just give him a chance to speak. For me."

Ron's frown deepened, but he exhaled heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He didn't say anything, but the gesture was enough to make Harry's shoulders relax slightly.

Draco hesitated, his pale complexion growing even paler under the stress of the moment. It was obvious to Harry—the stiffness in his posture, the way his fingers twitched as if unsure of what to do with themselves—that this wasn't easy for him. So, he moved quietly to sit down beside the blonde, his hand slipping beneath the edge of the table to rest lightly on Draco's. The touch seemed to steady him, and Draco drew in a deep, shaky breath before speaking again.

"I... I'm not very good at this sort of thing," Draco began, his voice lower now, more measured. "But I know that's not an excuse. The truth is, I was an absolute... well, there are a lot of words for what I was, and none of them are particularly kind. I was cruel, thoughtless, and... gods, just awful. And most of the time, it was for no reason other than that I could be. I was an insecure, unhappy child and I took it out on anyone I thought should be my inferior," he paused, swallowing hard. "What I said about Granger, what I did to the three of you... and others... it wasn't just petty or childish. It was hateful. And it was wrong."

Hermione's eyes softened, though she said nothing yet, her gaze flickering between Draco and Ron. Ron's expression was harder to read, but his silence, at least, spoke of a willingness to hear him out—for now.

Draco's voice wavered slightly as he continued, his hand tightening briefly under Harry's. "I can't change the things I did. Or the things I said. But I want to... I want to show you I am better now. And that starts with this. With you. I'm sorry."

The room was thick with tension, the kind that could tip in either direction at the slightest nudge. Harry's thumb brushed lightly over the back of Draco's hand, a quiet gesture of support that he hoped would go unnoticed by anyone else at the table. He glanced at Hermione first, her expression pensive but not unkind.

"I appreciate that," she said after a moment, her voice gentle and full of understanding. And that was Hermione for you. "And I believe you. For what it's worth, I think you've already started to show that you have changed since our school years. Actions speak louder than words, after all."

Draco's head dipped in a small nod, relief flickering across his face for just a moment before he turned his attention to Ron.

"Ron?" Harry asked, his tone inquisitive but earnest. "What do you think?"

Ron was quiet for a long time, his jaw working as though he were chewing over the words he wanted to say. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, his arms crossing tightly over his chest.

"Yeah, alright. But he's got a lot to prove," he said, his voice gruff. "And I'm not saying I forgive you. Not yet. But... I'll give you the chance to prove you mean it. I mean, you seem to make Harry happy, so that must mean there's something about you worth keeping around."

It wasn't an acceptance, not fully, but it was something. And as the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth, Harry found himself squeezing his hand under the table, a quiet reassurance that they were, at last, moving forward.

..

The attic of Grimmauld Place was, to put it lightly, a war zone of dust, cobwebs, and forgotten trinkets. Wooden beams stretched overhead, aged and warped, their grooves and notches carved with strange, ancient runes that gave off a faint glimmer every now and then, as if the house itself still breathed magic into even its most neglected spaces. Trunks were piled haphazardly in every corner, spilling over with scraps of fabric, cracked potion bottles, and ancient books that looked like they might crumble to dust if anyone so much as sneezed on them.

The two men were hard at work, although the term 'hard at work' was a bit generous in Draco's case, who subscribed more to the doctrine of 'hardly working'. Standing near the far end of the attic with his arms crossed, he watched with disinterest as Harry wrestled with a particularly stubborn wardrobe. The wardrobe, as expected from any piece of furniture in Grimmauld Place, was clearly cursed, as it kept growling ominously and occasionally snapping its doors at Harry's hands whenever the brunet tried to get near it.

"Don't just stand there," Harry grunted, struggling to pry the thing open. "Give me a hand."

"I'll have you know, when we got together I didn't think you'd have me doing manual labour so frequently, Potter," came the lazy reply, Draco barely making an effort to conceal his smirk. "It wasn't in the job description."

"Neither is being a prat, but you seem to be excelling at that," Harry snapped back, finally managing to wrench the wardrobe open. A puff of dust exploded into his face, and he coughed, waving his hand in front of him. "Merlin's saggy pants—what is in this thing?"

"Judging by the smell, I'd guess it's either something dead or Kreacher's long-lost relative," Draco said with a sniff, pulling his wand out and muttering a quick Evanesco. The dust vanished, leaving a clearer view of the wardrobe's contents: shelves of neatly folded, albeit moth-eaten, robes and a series of ornate frames stacked at the very back, their gilded edges dulled and flaking with age.

Harry reached out for the frames, his curiosity piqued. "What are these?"

"Clearly they're portraits, darling," Draco said, rolling his eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Did your Muggle upbringing rob you of common sense and vision?"

Harry ignored him, his fingers brushing over the gilded edges. The frames were heavy, their wood groaning in protest as he pulled them out and leaned them against the wardrobe. Most of the canvases were blank, the paint so faded and cracked that it was impossible to make out any details. But as the frames hit the floor, a soft shimmer rippled across their surfaces, and faint outlines began to emerge, like ink seeping into parchment.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered, stepping back as the portraits started to take shape.

"Language," Draco said absently, his grey eyes narrowing as he stepped closer to inspect the paintings. "These were hidden, weren't they? You can see the concealment charms fading."

One by one, the figures in the portraits began to stir. In the first one, a woman with sharp features and dark hair pulled back into an elegant bun blinked blearily, her painted fingers brushing at her face as though wiping away sleep. Beside her, a man with a thick moustache frowned, his brows furrowing as he peered at the attic's surroundings.

"Well," said the woman, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "This is a far cry from the drawing room."

"Apologies for the state of things," Harry said quickly, feeling the weight of her disapproving gaze. "We've been cleaning—"

"Cleaning?" The moustached man barked a laugh. "Looks more like you've been making a bigger mess of the place."

"Who are you people?" Draco interrupted, his tone bordering on imperious. "Why were these portraits shoved into the attic?"

"Who are we?" The woman arched an eyebrow, her expression haughty in a way that immediately reminded Harry of Draco. "Who are we? Young man, we are Blacks! And you are clearly not."

Draco bristled. "I beg your pardon—"

"Ah, but you're a Malfoy," the moustached man interrupted, eyeing Draco with something resembling distaste. "That much is clear. That hair gives it away."

Harry bit back a laugh as Draco scowled, his cheeks turning pink. "I'm as much a Black as you are, I'll have you know," he snapped. "And who are you to judge? You've been collecting dust in an attic for Merlin knows how long."

The woman sniffed, clearly unimpressed. "I am Belvina Black, thank you very much. And this," she gestured to the moustached man, "is my late husband, Herbert Burke."

Harry frowned. "Wait, Burke—as in Borgin and Burke's?"

Herbert straightened his moustache with evident pride. "The very same. Although it's a shame what that shop's come to these days. Dealing with riff-raff and half-bloods—"

"Alright, that's enough of that," Harry cut in sharply, his hand clenching around his wand. "You're in my house now, and I won't tolerate that kind of talk."

Belvina's lips pursed, but she inclined her head slightly. "Very well. We shall... reserve judgment, for now."

More portraits began to awaken as Harry and Draco worked their way through the pile. Some were older, their clothing and hairstyles indicating they were from centuries past, while others were more recent, their features bearing striking similarities to people Harry had seen in the Black family tapestry. Most of them were wary at first, their voices sharp and their words often biting, but as Harry and Draco continued to converse with them—explaining their efforts to restore the house and honour its history—the portraits began to soften.

An older man with a hooked nose and piercing blue eyes offered advice on repairing the attic's charmed beams, explaining the nuances of the runes carved into the wood. A young girl with wild curls and a mischievous grin regaled them with stories about the house's secret passageways, laughing when Harry jotted down notes like an eager student. Even Belvina and Herbert, while still prickly, seemed to warm up to the idea of their portraits being relocated to more prominent areas of the house.

It was while sorting through the final few frames that Harry uncovered a portrait that made him pause. The canvas was larger than the others, its frame adorned with silver accents that glinted faintly in the dim light. Unlike the other portraits, however, this one remained still and lifeless, its surface blank save for the faintest outlines of two young figures.

"What's this one?" Draco asked, peering over Harry's shoulder.

"I think..." Harry's throat felt tight as he traced the outlines with his fingers. "I think it's Sirius and Regulus."

Draco was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "It's not enchanted, is it?"

"No." Harry's voice was barely above a whisper. "It's just... a painting."

He stared at it for a long time, a mixture of sadness and longing welling up in his chest. He'd never had the chance to know Regulus, and his time with Sirius had been far too short. This portrait felt like a connection to them, even if it wasn't animated like the others.

"We'll hang it in the solarium," he said finally, his voice firm. "Above the Floo. Where it belongs."

Draco didn't argue, and as they carried the portrait downstairs together, Harry couldn't help but feel like the house was giving him a reward.

..

Harry thought it hilarious that the kitchen at Grimmauld Place was now the social hub of the house.

Light streamed through the enchanted windows—windows that, thanks to Draco's painstaking research, now showed views of a sunny garden instead of the perpetual gloom of the still severely neglected garden—Neville was going to help with that—and the dreary London sky. The stone walls had been scrubbed clean of soot and grime, and the copper pans hanging from the ceiling racks gleamed, their surfaces polished to a mirror-like shine. The heavy, oak table that had once groaned under the weight of years of neglect now stood proudly in the centre of the room, scattered with ingredients, cutting boards, and a recipe book that neither of them could fully understand.

Right now, the air smelled of simmering fruit and spices, of roasting chiles and freshly pounded herbs, and the warmth of the stove filled the room, pushing out the last remnants of the house's chill. Somewhere near the fireplace, Kreacher was grumbling to himself as he scrubbed a cauldron, but even his mutterings had softened over the weeks, his respect for Harry and Draco manifesting in fewer insults and the occasional nod of approval despite what they had been doing to the house.

"Are you sure this is right?" Draco's voice cut through the kitchen, high with doubt but underpinned by a teasing lilt. He stood at the counter, a knife poised over a small pile of dried chiles that looked suspiciously similar to the ones he'd just chopped.

"It's what the recipe says," Harry replied, squinting at the battered cookbook in front of him. The text was handwritten in loopy, elegant Spanish script, and while Harry had a meagre grasp of the language thanks to Hermione's tutelage and a few self-study spells, some of the instructions were maddeningly ambiguous. "'Una pizca.' That's a pinch, right?"

"Sounds like a measurement invented by someone who enjoys watching others fail," Draco muttered, slicing another chile with an exaggerated flourish. "And this?" He held up the long pepper, its wrinkled skin a deep red. "Is this the deadly one, or the mildly annoying one?"

"Uh..." Harry glanced between the chile and the recipe, his brow furrowing. "I think that's the guajillo. It's supposed to be mild."

"You think? Forgive me if I don't trust the palate of someone who once mistook tartar sauce for salad dressing."

"That was one time!" Harry protested, tossing a piece of sugar cane at Draco, who dodged it with a dramatic flick of his head. "And you said you wouldn't bring it up again."

Draco smirked, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he dropped the chopped chiles into a pot. The contents sizzled immediately, sending up a plume of fragrant steam that made both of them pause.

"Smells good," Harry said, leaning over to take a whiff.

"It does," Draco admitted grudgingly, though the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Although I'm still not convinced we're not about to poison ourselves."

"Not with this," Harry said, holding up a mug of ponche, the warm, fruity drink steaming gently in his hands. "This is foolproof."

"I'll be the judge of that," Draco said, plucking a piece of sugar cane from the pot of ponche and biting into it. His expression shifted from cautious to pleasantly surprised, and he nodded appreciatively. "Alright, I'll give you this one. It's good."

Harry grinned, his heart lifting at the sight of Draco enjoying something so simple yet so tied to his heritage. "Told you. Apparently, my grandmother used to make this every holiday season. She'd add a splash of rum for the adults, but I figured we'd keep it family-friendly for now."

"A shame," Draco said, though his tone was light. "I could do with something to take the edge off trying to decipher this," he added, gesturing to the recipe book.

They worked in easy synchrony, passing ingredients back and forth, Draco occasionally complaining about the lack of proper measurements while Harry tried to reassure him that cooking didn't always have to be an exact science like Potions. The stove, once temperamental and prone to spitting flames at anyone who dared approach it, now cooperated perfectly, its burners glowing a steady blue. The enchanted pots and pans moved with a life of their own, stirring themselves or shifting to make space as needed.

At one point, Draco tried to cast a spell to dice the charred onions, but the knife went rogue when he got distracted reading the recipe book, sending onion pieces flying across the kitchen. Harry laughed so hard he nearly dropped the pot he was carrying, and Draco, despite his initial irritation, eventually joined in, his laughter ringing out like music in the warm, lively space.

"This is ridiculous," Draco said, shaking his head as he scooped up the runaway onion pieces. "We could've just ordered takeaway, you know."

"Where's the fun in that?" Harry countered, handing him a warm tortilla slathered with a trial batch of mole. "Besides, you love my cooking."

Draco took a bite, his expression shifting from sceptical to impressed in an instant. "Fine, you win," he said, licking a bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth. "But if this doesn't turn out, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"Deal," Harry said, his voice warm and full of affection. He couldn't help but watch Draco for a moment, taking in the way his hair caught the light, the way his grey eyes softened as he focused on their work. There was something so utterly domestic about the scene—about the two of them cooking side by side, surrounded by warmth and light and the scents of Harry's lost childhood—and it filled him with a sense of contentment so profound it almost startled him.

Before he could overthink it, he leaned in and kissed Draco, his lips brushing softly against his. The taste of the ponche lingered on their tongues, sweet and spiced, but it was overwhelmed by something uniquely Draco—something Harry couldn't quite name but knew he'd never get enough of.

"What was that for?" Draco asked when they pulled apart, his voice quieter than usual but tinged with a hint of amusement.

"Do I need a reason?" Harry replied, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

For once, Draco didn't have a cheeky comeback. Instead, he just smiled back—a real, unguarded smile that made Harry's heart ache in the best possible way.

"Alright," Draco said, clearing his throat and turning back to the pot of mole with a flourish. "Let's finish this disaster before I decide to hex that recipe book for good."

Harry chuckled, reaching for the next ingredient. The moment lingered between them, warm and steady, as they returned to their work. In that kitchen—now bright and beautiful, now alive with magic and laughter—it was easy to forget the weight of the outside world. Easy to believe, even for just a moment, that the two of them had carved out a little corner of happiness all their own.

..

I just noticed how that reads like an ending lmao boooo my friends, we're still a good 60k away from the end!