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.

14. Chapter 13: Fall Into Me

Okay, girls, guys and non-binary pals! I'm updating early because I'll be away tomorrow lmao trust me to never stick to my update time schedule lmao. Also look, another mammoth of a chapter! We're officially over the 200k threshold and oh boy when I tell you we are still over 50k away from the end AHAHAHA help, I have absolutely no control. I love writing these two idiots.

CW/ homophobic language and slurs, mentions of rape/sexual assault, internalised homophobia.

Also, if you want to read the uncensored chapter that includes a pretty graphic s3x scene (and thus, makes it like another 5k) please head over to the Archive of Our Own page for this fic, under the same name, by Saladita12, as I don't want to make the Wattpad Gods angry at me.

..

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the gravity of what they had just survived hanging thickly in the air between them. The house, once a place of suffocating shadows and gloom, was now eerily quiet, the oppressive atmosphere lifting as if it, too, was releasing a breath it had been holding. The walls, no longer seeping with darkness, seemed to hum faintly with renewed energy, a soft, almost comforting vibration that echoed through the room. Harry let out a shaky laugh, the sound shaky and raw, but full of release. It mingled with the quiet hum of the house, a fragile yet hopeful note in the stillness. Despite the lingering ache in his chest, the exhaustion that seemed to settle into his bones, he felt something shift within him—a subtle change that filled him with lightness, a sense of freedom he hadn't realized he'd been craving. The weight of everything he'd lost, the pain and fear, still lingered, but now it felt manageable, as though he could breathe a little easier.

Draco let out a low, breathless chuckle, breaking the fragile silence. "Well, that was sufficiently traumatic. Remind me to never come work for you again, Potter."

Harry barked another laugh, the sound strange and foreign in the aftermath of everything, startling even himself. Relief surged through him, an overwhelming rush that drowned out the exhaustion and fear they'd been navigating for almost a week, leaving only the dizzying sensation of relief.

He turned to Draco, and for the first time, he truly looked at him—not as an enemy, not even as an ally, but as something else, something he wasn't quite ready to name. Nevertheless, there was a warmth in Harry's gaze now, something unspoken yet undeniably present, and it made Draco falter mid-smirk, his usual cheekiness dulling into something softer, more uncertain and almost hopeful. Harry wasn't sure what possessed him—maybe it was the lingering adrenaline, or maybe it was the way Draco was kneeling next to him, breathing just as hard, looking just as shaken—but before he could stop himself, his fingers reached out, brushing against Draco's cheek. The touch was light, fleeting, but impossibly real, grounding him in the strange, heady reality of what resided in his chest.

Draco froze, his breath hitching, his mouth half-open as if caught between words. Whatever sharp, teasing remark he had prepared died before it could reach his lips, and for once, neither of them seemed to know what to say

Harry smirked, his voice low and teasing. "So that's how I shut you up."

Draco's eyes narrowed, but the usual iciness in his gaze lacked its usual edge. Instead, there was something unguarded in the way he looked at Harry, something hesitant, almost fragile, as if he wasn't quite sure whether to push Harry away or pull him closer. Then, slowly, he before he closed his silver eyes, the blonde let out a soft sigh and leaned into Harry's touch, just the barest shift of weight, but enough to send Harry's pulse into a wild, uncontrollable tattoo against his ribs.

Draco's eyes opened again, and this time, they were different—unguarded in a way that stole the breath from Harry's lungs. There was no challenge, no snide remark, no mask to hide behind. Just quiet surrender, quiet trust.

For a moment, Harry's world shrank to just this—the warmth of Draco's skin beneath his fingertips, damp with sweat and adrenaline, the faint tremor in his frame that betrayed just how shaken he was, and the stillness that settled between them, charged and fragile all at once. Harry couldn't bring himself to pull away, even as the words he had buried in denial and confusion threatened to rise, pressing against the back of his throat. He swallowed them down, unwilling—unable—to let them out and change his life as he knew it. His heart pounded, but not with fear.

No, this was something else entirely, something far more exhilarating, something that made his fingers twitch against Draco's skin, his breath catch, his stomach flip.

He needed to saysomething. The silence between them was thick, humming with something expectant. It pressed against Harry's chest, climbed up his throat, an ache, a pressure, a storm of emotion that threatened to burst free if he didn't find the right words—any words—to break it. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to say, only that if he didn't, if he let this moment pass without acknowledgment, it would slip through his fingers like fine sand, leaving him grasping at something that had never truly been his to hold. His fingers twitched against Draco's skin, and his breath hitched.

Say something, his mind urged,before whatever this is swallows you whole.

"Alright, I'm willing to admit it," Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Draco's eyes fluttered open, meeting Harry's gaze with warm, silver eyes. "Admit what?"

"That you're the reason I'm still alive," Harry said, his voice steadier now, though his cheeks flushed. "And… you're not so bad."

Draco blinked, his pale complexion betraying a faint blush, though his eyes looked almost disappointed.

"Well," he drawled, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably, his eyes searching Harry's own. "I suppose that makes me your saviour, doesn't it? You'll be naming your children after me next."

Harry laughed, the sound full of genuine affection, unbridled. "Don't push your luck, Draco."

But as the words left his lips, something fragile inside him cracked open, and the laughter faded as quickly as it had come. The significance of everything—the battle, the dark magic, the fear, the relief—settled deeper, pressing against the walls of his chest, demanding to be felt. And for the first time, he let it.

He sat there, staring at Draco, his mind an unsteady mess of thoughts he didn't want to examine too closely. Because if he did—if he let himself truly look at what was unfolding between them—he'd have to acknowledge that terrifying truth of it. That this was something different. That this was something real. And that it had always been there, waiting for him to stop running.

Harry had never thought of himself as anything but straight. It was one of the few things about himself that he had never questioned, never dared to. He already felt like he didn't fit, already bore the burden of being the Saviour, the Boy Who Lived Twice, the one everyone looked at just a little too long. The idea of being anything more different, of being seen as even more of a freak—it made his stomach twist. But here, with Draco's breath fanning against his skin, his sharp edges softened by exhaustion and something warmer, something precious—Harry couldn't deny it any longer. What they had survived together in the labyrinth—its suffocating darkness, its twisting corridors that tried to break them, the creatures born from their worst fears—had changed something between them. The maze had stripped them down to their barest selves, had forced them to rely on each other in ways Harry had never imagined. It had tested them, pushed them past the brink, and yet, here they stood.

Alive. Together.

As much as Harry was scared about this part of himself, Draco felt inevitable now. Inevitable and sweet, like something carved into his nature long before Harry had the sense to recognise it. As if every careful denial, every refusal to see what had been building between them, had been leading him here—to this impossible, terrifying clarity. The labyrinth had unravelled them, but instead of leaving him hollow, it had revealed something real, something Harry could no longer pretend wasn't there.

After a moment, Draco's beautiful eyes met his, unguarded and waiting, and Harry felt the last of his resistance crumble. He could spend forever questioning, running, telling himself that this wasn't happening.

Or he could take the chance staring him in the face.

Draco, who must've noticed the change in Harry's expression, tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in concern. "What is it?" he asked quietly, his voice much softer than usual.

Harry shook his head, his lips trembling as he felt the weight of the world lift for a moment while he instinctively pulled Draco into a quiet embrace. His hands, shaking but sure, moved to wrap around Draco's lithe waist, drawing him closer. The other froze for just a heartbeat, shock flickering across his sharp, flushed features, before he allowed himself to relax into Harry's touch. His mercurial eyes opened wide for a moment, as though questioning if this was real, before he pressed his face against Harry's neck, the steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat offering a strange kind of comfort. They stood there for a long moment, just letting themselves breathe, the world around them fading into the background.

The silence between them felt fragile yet appropriate, perfect, allowing them both to process everything that had just happened. The labyrinth, the battles, the danger, the overwhelming relief—and the new, unspokensomethingbetween them. Draco let out a shaky breath, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Harry's shirt as if grounding himself in the warmth of Harry's flickering presence.

"I—" Harry began, his voice rough, unsure. He cleared his throat, feeling the totality of the unspoken words pressing against him. "I don't want to lose you, Draco. I can't. Not after everything."

The words felt strange on his tongue, but the sincerity in them was undeniable.

"I don't know what I would have done if you— I—"

Draco's eyes flickered, a slight tremor in his jaw as if he were holding back something—perhaps the same truth that Harry felt too scared to show. But then, to Harry's surprise, Draco reached up, catching his wrist gently and guiding Harry's hand back to his cheek. Before Harry could say anything more, Draco leaned in close, his voice a soft whisper against Harry's ear.

"You won't," Draco said, his breath warm against Harry's skin. "You never have to," he murmured, his voice raw, thick with emotions Harry hadn't expected to hear from him—emotions he hadn't expected to feel in return.

Harry's breath hitched, his chest still tight with the aftershocks of what they had just faced. The labyrinth had nearly swallowed them whole, had tested them in ways that left them stripped bare and raw, but here, at this moment, he felt something he hadn't in years—safe. Slowly, hesitantly, he pressed his face into Draco's hair, the scent of blood and something citrusy and undeniablyDracogrounding him. The weight he had carried for so long, the loneliness he had never dared to name, slipped from his shoulders like an old cloak finally cast aside.

It wasn't perfect—God, it was messy, fragile, raw—but it wastheirs. And for the first time, Harry let himself believe that was enough.

Draco remained silent for a beat before continuing, his voice softer now, and somehow, more sincere.

"You're not alone," he said quietly, his face still buried against Harry's shoulder, his words a gentle promise. "You've never been alone, even when you thought you were. And you're not losinghimeither—not really. Sirius wouldn't want this for you. He wouldn't want you to hold on to something that's hurting you."

Harry nodded, a lump forming in his throat as the weight of those words hit him hard. He didn't trust himself to speak right away, so he simply whispered, "Thank you."

The moment seemed to stretch, the two of them just holding each other, lost in the aftermath of everything they'd just survived. And for the first time in so long, Harry allowed himself to think about what it had all meant—what it meant for him, for Draco, for everything they'd been through. The world outside the room felt like a distant memory, as though the battle was a lifetime ago. In this space, it was just the two of them, and that was enough.

"I—" Draco hesitated, his voice low, a tremor of uncertainty threading through it. It was unlike anything Harry had ever heard from him. "I don't want to lose you either, Harry. I don't want to go back to how it was. I can't."

Harry's heart skipped a beat at the words, each syllable sinking into him like a load he didn't know he was carrying. His chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, he spoke the truth he'd buried for far too long.

"I guess, I've never been able to live without you," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse.

The words hung in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken emotions, a truth neither of them had dared to say aloud—even now. The labyrinth had forced them together, had tested them beyond reason, but Harry realised, with a quiet sort of awe, that this was no longer just about survival. It wasn't just about fighting side by side, about keeping each other alive. It was about something deeper, something far more undeniable. They had both endured so much—loss, fear, the burden of expectations neither of them had asked for—but they had never been this close. Not like this.

Harry felt as though he were seeing Draco for the first time, not just as the sharp-tongued, impossibly stubborn Slytherin he had spent years obsessed with, but as someone who hadbeen there. Someone who had fought beside him, pulled him from the brink, stood in the fire with him without hesitation despite his fear. Maybe it had to happen this way. Maybe they had to be broken down, had to face the darkest parts of themselves, to trulyseeeach other for who they were. And maybe—just maybe—that was what made thisreal.

Minutes passed, and as they stood there, holding onto each other, the room around them seemed to shift, as though exhaling after years of holding its breath. The heavy darkness that had clung to Grimmauld Place for so long began to ease, peeling away like old, heavy curtains finally drawn back to let in the light. The once-stagnant air, thick with sorrow and the weight of too many ghosts, now stirred with something different—something almost expectant.

The housefeltwhat they had done. Harry could sense it in the walls, in the way the space around them seemed to breathe. The maze, which had twisted into something cruel and confusing, began to pull back into its original form, its tangled corridors realigning, its warped edges smoothing as if the house itself washealing. And yet, despite the newfound lightness, something lingered—a peculiar stillness, a hushedawareness, as though Grimmauld Place itself waswatching. The suffocating weight was gone, but in its place was something new, something more alive than Harry had ever felt in this house before. It wasn't just relief. It wasn't just peace.

It wasanticipation.

The air thrummed with it, with an eagerness that prickled at Harry's skin, making his pulse quicken. As if the very magic woven into the foundation of this place had been waiting for this moment, for thisshift—for them.

Draco was still pressed against him, his arms loose around Harry's neck, his cheek resting on his shoulder. He felt impossiblyat ease—as if, for the first time in longer than either of them could remember, he could breathe without dread. Harry wasn't sure when he had moved his own arms from his lithe waist to his hips, fingers curling into the fabric of Draco's tattered green jumper, but he didn't let go. The weight of him, the warmth of him, wassteadyingin a way Harry hadn't expected but now craved.

For long moments, neither of them moved, caught in the fragile calm left in the wake of everything they had lived through in this haunted house. Harry closed his eyes, his own breath syncing with Draco's, matching the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was grounding, this closeness—this quiet, wordless truth that they had survivedtogether, that neither of them had to stand alone anymore.

But all too quickly, reality began to seep back in. The magic in the walls still hummed with restless energy, the echoes of Grimmauld Place shifting and settling around them, waiting. The importance of what had just happened—what itmeantfor the house—pressed at the edges of Harry's mind, insistent and unrelenting. And beneath all of that, there wasthis, the way Draco fit against him like something that had always been inevitable, and the terrifying realisation that Harry wasn't ready to let go.

Draco stirred slightly against him, his warmth still grounding, stillreal, and for a moment, Harry let himself stay there, caught between what had been and whatcouldbe.

Harry opened his eyes, his gaze drifting across the dimly lit room. The once-ominous gloom that had suffocated Grimmauld Place had eased, but not entirely—it clung to the corners, lingering like the last traces of a wound that refused to fully heal. The house had changed, hadshifted, but its ghosts had not yet let go. He knew just by the way his magic felt amidst the house's, and he knew Draco could feel it, too. A breath he hadn't realised he was holding slipped from his lips in a quiet sigh. The importance of it all—the past, the magic that still pulsed through these walls, the fractured pieces of himself he wasn't sure how to fit back together—settled heavily in his chest. His eyes landed on the antique tapestry, its sprawling, intricate lines woven with centuries of blood and history.

The Black Family Tree.

To Harry, it had always been as gaudy and self-important as the family that had created it. The massive tapestry spanned nearly the entire wall—save for the door itself—, its embroidered branches stretching outward in intricate loops and snarls, every name meticulously stitched into the fabric. Even now, in the dim light, they glimmered faintly, as if the magic woven into them was stillalive, stillwatching. For the first time, he could see why it might be called beautiful. The craftsmanship, the delicate precision of each thread—it should have symbolised love and unity, a testament to history, to belonging. To family. And yet, it was nothing more than a monument to everything that hadrottedinside the Black family for generations. Centuries of hatred. Of blood purity. Of power hoarded and wielded not to protect, but to destroy.

A quiet shift against him pulled Harry from his thoughts. Draco.

He hadn't stepped away, but his body had gone a little stiffer, his breath a little shallower. Harry glanced at him, finding his gaze already fixed on the tapestry. Draco's expression was unreadable, but his eyes—mellow like molten silver, unflinching despite their quiet slant—held something else entirely.

Recognition. Resignation. And something that looked a lot like grief.

Harry moved back, just enough to trulyseehim, to give him space. Draco didn't move. Didn't look at him, but also didn't move away from Harry. He only stared ahead, and for a moment, Harry wondered if the names embroidered there weighed just as heavily on him as they did on the house itself.

"You feel it too, don't you?" Draco's voice was quiet, his usual sharpness softened by exhaustion.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. It's still holding onto something."

Draco's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "The heart of the house. The source of all its rot," he tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. "It has absorbed centuries of pain, and now…"

Harry followed his line of sight, his stomach twisting. The tapestry had always unsettled him, its looming presence a reminder of Sirius's misery and the house's history of bigotry. But now, standing there with Draco, he could feel it more acutely than ever—the malevolent hum of the magic woven into its threads.

"It's alive," Harry murmured.

"Not alive, exactly. But it's the nexus, after all. The house's power flows through it. Destroy this, and we destroy the last of its grip."

Draco sighed, finally shuffling out of Harry's hold, and the loss was immediate—tooimmediate. The warmth, the quiet weight of him, the steady presence Harry had unconsciously anchored himself to—it was all gone in an instant, leaving behind an ache that Harry wasn't sure what to do with. Harry shifted, pushing against the cold floor to stand, his legs wobbly, unsteady after all the exercise his unfit body had done since they'd been trapped. He turned to help Draco up—only to realise too late that Draco was already trying to rise on his own.

Draco barely made it halfway before his body betrayed him. A sharp, pained hiss escaped his lips as his trembling, bloodied thighs gave out, sending him stumbling forward. His knees buckled, his balance lost. Harry lurched forward, catching him just before he hit the ground again.

"Shit—Draco," Harry breathed, heart hammering. His hands gripped Draco's arms, his stomach twisting as he finallysaw—reallysaw—the extent of Draco's injuries. His right shoulder was an angry mess of bruising and torn fabric, his chest slashed with a shallow but steadily bleeding wound, and his thighs—Harry swallowed hard—were streaked with blood, the cuts there deep enough that it was a miracle Draco had been moving at all.

How could he forget?

"Merlin, I should've—fuck, Draco, I should've helped you sooner—"

"You're an idiot," Draco rasped, his voice hoarse but carrying the barest trace of amusement. He was pale, his breath too shallow, too fast. "I could've told you I wasn't fine, don't worry your pretty head about it."

Harry felt sick. He had been so caught up in everything—the magic, the fight, the way Draco had looked at him—that he had missed this. He had let Dracobleed. Again. The realisation clawed at his chest, sharp and unforgiving. How could he have been so careless? Draco had fought beside him, hadtrustedhim, and Harry had been too wrapped up in his own emotions to see the pain written in every strained breath, every unsteady step. Guilt settled like a stone in his stomach, heavy and cold, and yet familiar like a long-time friend. He should have noticed.

"What do I do?" Harry asked, voice strained. "Tell me what to do, Draco."

Still on the floor, Draco exhaled sharply, trying to straighten up, but his body refused, trembling with the effort. He scowled, whether at himself, the pain, or the situation, Harry didn't know. His breath came in uneven bursts, his usual sharp poise crumbling under the weight of his injuries, frustration flickering across his pale face.

"I'll heal myself," Draco muttered, lifting his wand with a trembling hand. "Just—give me a second—"

He barely got through the first syllable before his wand slipped from his fingers, his strength failing him entirely. The wand clattered to the floor, forgotten, as Draco's body swayed like a tree in the wind, his legs buckling beneath him, and panic gripped Harry's chest like a vice. He could feel Draco's weight leaning heavily against him, the once-fierce Slytherin now trembling.

"No," Harry said quickly, gripping Draco tighter. "No, don't—don't youdarepass out on me, Draco—"

Draco let out a weak, breathless chuckle. "I wasn'tplanningon it." He swallowed, his eyes fluttering open again, barely. "Fine, you do it.Vulnera Sanentur.You can do it."

Harry stiffened. "Draco— I've never even attempted that spell."

"Youcando it," Draco repeated, more insistent this time. His voice was strained, but there was trust there, quiet and unwavering, and so important that it made Harry's heart hurt. He wet his cracked lips and added, "Please."

Harry clenched his jaw. His fingers trembled where they pressed against Draco's side. Healing magic—realhealing magic—wasn't something he had ever studied properly. He had seen it, sure, hadfeltit when others had healedhim, but to wield it himself—

What if he did it wrong?

But then Dracoshivered—his body barely holding itself together—and Harry's fear was shoved aside, replaced by something stronger, somethinglouder.

Harry raised his wand.

The incantation left his lips like a promise."Vulnera Sanentur."

Magic surged through him, not hesitant, not uncertain, butpowerful—like itwantedto obey, like itrefusedto fail him now. The tip of his wand glowed with a soft golden light, warmth bleeding from it in slow, deliberate waves as the spell took hold. Draco gasped, his body tensing for a moment before slowly, gradually, his breathing steadied. The wounds on his chest began to close, the bleeding from his thighs slowing as the magic wove itself into him, sealing skin, knitting flesh.

Harry didn't let go. Not until he knew Draco wasn't slipping away. Not until the pale, trembling man in his arms looked a little less breakable, not until he felt the steady rise and fall of Draco's chest beneath his hands. When the spell faded, Harry let out a shaking breath, barely realising how hard his own heart was pounding, his chest tight with adrenaline. His hands trembled, but they stayed firm against Draco, unwilling to let go of the precious warmth they'd shared.

Draco exhaled, his eyes fluttering open, searching for him.

"Told you," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "You could do it."

Draco's hand shakily reached for his wand, and Harry immediately steadied him, his fingers brushing over Draco's arm. It was almost too easy—too natural—this instinct to make sure Draco was okay, to keep him from stumbling or falling. As Draco took hold of his wand again, Harry caught a glimpse of the exhaustion in his face, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. With Harry's help, Draco slowly pushed himself upright, gritting his teeth as he shifted his weight. Harry kept close, supporting him, a silent reassurance. Draco stood a little taller now, though he still looked a dreadful mess, unsteady, his clothes rumpled and bloodstained, but even that seemed to add to the significance of everything they had just survived.

Well, he could do without the blood.

Draco winced as he tugged at his shirt and jumper, adjusting them, trying to make himself presentable again despite the pain. His hands shook, but he didn't let it stop him. The movement was stiff, the effort too much to bear, but Harry couldn't look away—couldn't stop the flood of protectiveness that surged through him. He wanted todosomething, anything, to ease that pain, to make Draco feel even just a little bit better.

Standing upright, Draco caught his gaze, and Harry was startled by the softness there. The walls between them had crumbled, and in that raw, unspoken space, Draco's eyes spoke more than words ever could.

"We need to finish what we started," Draco said, his voice still rough, but steady in its resolve. He didn't sound like he was asking for permission—he was stating a fact. A quiet urgency tinged his words, something that went beyond the battle, beyond the fight they had just faced.

Harry nodded, though part of him was still caught in the aftermath—the way his heart beat differently now, how his chest tightened when Draco so much as brushed against him. The need to care for him, to stay close, tomake sureDraco was alright—it hadn't faded, it hadn't evendiminished. It was all Harry could focus on now, that nagging, unrelenting urge to protect and care for him, and in a way that made his chest ache with something far more powerful than the fight they had just endured.

"We do," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying a quiet, determined weight.

Harry's hand brushed against Draco's again, the now familiar heat of his skin grounding him, and for a fleeting moment, Harry felt as though everything else—the dangers, the battles, the past—faded into the background. The only thing that mattered, the only thing thathadto matter, was this moment. And Draco.

With slow, tentative steps like he was approaching something dangerous, a wild animal that might lash out if he made the wrong move—which wasn't far off from the truth, really, Harry mused—, Draco moved closer to the tapestry. His posture was tense, shoulders drawn tight, but there was no hesitation. Just a quiet, measured determination, as if he had been bracing for this moment long before they ever stepped foot in this house. Harry swallowed hard, resisting the instinct to reach for him again. Instead, he watched—watched as Draco took in the names, the tangled web of his bloodline stretching before him in gold-stitched permanence. The dim light flickered over his profile, casting shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones, but his expression remained unreadable.

Harry steeled himself, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. "So, what do we do? Just set it on fire?"

Draco shot him a look over his shoulder, one eyebrow arching. "Of course not, you pillock. Do you think centuries of Black family magic can be undone with a bit ofIncendiohere and there? I already tried with a special spell that burns away magic, anyhow." He shook his head, turning back to the tapestry. "No, it has to be unmade. The threads unravelled, the names erased. Completely."

Harry rolled his eyes at his prickly mood, immediately missing the softness of moments prior. "And how do we do that?"

Draco reached into his pocket, pulling out his wand. He twirled it absently between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the tapestry. "There's an incantation… I read about it in the Malfoy family grimoire. It's supposed to unravel magic."

Harry blinked. "The what?"

Draco gave him a playful smile. "What, you thought that the Blacks were the only lunatics to record all of their living history?Please."

Harry smiled as he rolled his eyes, but didn't bother arguing, especially not when a warmth dangerously close to affection began burning at his chest. "Fine. What's the incantation, then?"

Draco's expression grew serious. He stepped closer to Harry, holding out his wand. "It has to be done together. Two casters, at the very least, united in intent. Otherwise, the magic won't be strong enough."

Harry hesitated, glancing back at the tapestry. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, the enormity of what they were about to do settling in his chest. Destroying the Family Tree meant destroying more than just a tapestry. It meant tearing down the foundation of everything the Black family had stood for—their pride, their power, their legacy. It meant rewriting the house's very essence.

And it meant letting go of Sirius, in a way Harry wasn't sure he was ready for.

Draco must have sensed his hesitation because he stepped closer, his voice soft, but firm. "It's the only way, Harry. If we don't do this, the house will never be free.Youwill never be free."

Harry met Draco's gaze, the conviction in the other man's eyes steadying him. He took a deep breath, nodding. "Alright. Let's do it."

Draco's lips twitched into a small, approving smile. He turned back to the tapestry, raising his wand. "Repeat after me. And mean it."

Harry lifted his wand, his grip steady despite the turmoil churning in his chest.

Draco's voice was clear, strong, as he began the incantation. "Filum retexere, magicam exurere."

Harry followed, his voice firm. "Filum retexere, magicam exurere."

The room seemed to shudder, the very walls vibrating with an ancient, unyielding energy. The air thickened with magic, a suffocating presence that pressed against Harry's chest and made his breath hitch. It was as if the house itself had come alive, unwilling to surrender its secrets. Above them, the chandelier trembled, its crystals chiming softly, eerily, like a warning. The floor beneath their feet felt unsteady, as if protesting the spell that was being cast. The gnawing force of Grimmauld's magic pressed in, urging them forward.

"Reparare quod nunc fractum est, pone vae quiescere."

"Reparare quod nunc fractum est, pone vae quiescere," Harry echoed, his heart pounding.

Draco's voice rang out, steady and commanding, cutting through the oppressive atmosphere like a well-placed arrow. The incantation rolled off his tongue easy as water, each syllable thrumming with power, reverberating through the very structure of the house. Every bit of magic in the air recoiled from it, crackling like a storm; the force of it rattling through the ancient bones of Grimmauld Place. And yet, despite the suffocating atmosphere pressing down on them, Draco did not falter. His spine remained straight, his gaze fixed on the tapestry as if daring it to resist him. And Harry followed his lead, putting every bit of magic into the spell. The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows over his face, illuminating the fierce determination carved into his beautiful features. He stood as though he were not merely fighting against the house's lingering curses, but against the centuries of bloodline expectations and poisoned history that had tried to define him. And at that moment, Harry really saw him—not just as Draco Malfoy, but as someone rewriting his own fate, unyielding in the face of destiny itself.

The tapestry's threads quivered violently now, writhing like serpents caught in a net. The embroidered names and dates pulsed with an otherworldly light, flickering erratically like a heartbeat out of rhythm. It no longer looked like just a piece of fabric—it resembled something alive, infused with centuries of magic, blood, and unyielding pride.

It did not want to be undone.

The spell surged against the core of the house, its resistance almost tangible, pushing back like a tide refusing to recede. The air crackled with unrepressed magic, the walls groaning as if the house itself was in pain. Dust rained down from the high ceilings, and the chandelier swayed dangerously overhead, casting fractured light across Draco's flushed face. Yet still, he did not falter. His voice cut through the commotion, unwavering, his sheer resolve forcing the incantation forward, bending the tapestry's magic beneath his command. And Harry, standing beside him, could only watch in awe as Draco fought against history itself.

The blonde glanced back at him, his voice rising. "Familiae nexus delere!"

And Harry joined, their voices blending. "Familiae nexus delere!"

The final word left their lips, ringing out like a crescendo in the still, magically charged air. The tapestry flared with an almost blinding light, each thread igniting as if set ablaze from within. The colourful yet dull embroidery, once woven with centuries of pride and prejudice, began to unravel at an impossible speed, the delicate threads curling and blackening before disintegrating entirely. Each name, once etched with dignity and unyielding tradition, burned away one by one. Narcissa. Regulus. Walburga. Hesper. Sirius. Their legacies, their power, their burdens—everything that had been held sacred by generations of Blacks—was consumed by the unrelenting force of their spell. The house trembled with it, as if mourning the loss, as if resisting even now. Shadows recoiled from the blazing magic, twisting and thrashing before dissolving into nothingness.

The magic surged wildly around them, a maelstrom of defiance as Grimmauld Place fought to keep hold of its cursed legacy. The walls groaned, the floor quaked, and the air itself seemed to howl in outrage, mirroring the raging hurt within Harry's chest. But Harry and Draco held their ground, their wands still raised, their faces illuminated by the raw, wild energy that had overtaken the room.

Then, as though the house itself truly, finally yielded, the energy shifted. The storm of magic that had threatened to engulf them settled into a soft, steady hum, like the contented exhalation of something ancient finally laid at rest. The last threads of the tapestry glowed a brilliant golden before curling in on themselves, collapsing into nothingness. What remained fell to the floor—a heap of ash, grey and insubstantial, like the long-forgotten remnants of a fire that had burned too hot for too long. And when it was over, all that remained were empty spaces where history had once clung stubbornly, gaps in the fabric like wounds torn open.

The sheer totality of it settled over them like frost during winter—final, irreversible. Around them, the room seemed to sigh, a breath of relief that echoed in the silence. The hostile energy that had seeped into every corner of Grimmauld Place seemed to fade entirely, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost sacred in its fragility. Stale air smelled faintly of soot and something sweeter, like wildflowers blooming in a long-abandoned garden. And the once heavy darkness that had always weighed on the house's atmosphere was finally gone, replaced by something lighter—something free and hopeful.

Harry glanced around, his heart pounding in his chest. The whole room felt unfamiliar, as though he were seeing it for the first time. Tall walls, now stripped of their sinister magic, seemed brighter, warmer. Beneath them, the warped floorboards had stilled, the chandelier hung steady and brighter than ever. Grimmauld Place, for the first time in what must be centuries, was simply a house—not a prison, not a relic of dark magic, no longer a mausoleum of pain and ghosts, but a space that could finally belong to the living.

Draco's voice broke the quiet. "Well," he said, brushing ash from his sleeve with an air of casual disdain, though his trembling hand betrayed his exhaustion, "that was dramatic, wasn't it?"

Harry laughed, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably, a release of tension that left him breathless. He lowered his wand, his chest heaving, and bent down to scoop up a handful of the tapestry's ashes, letting them trickle through his fingers. The walls of Grimmauld Place seemed to exhale just then, as if releasing a tension that Harry hadn't realised had been suffocating the house—and him—for years. A faint hum reverberated through the structure a few moments later, not ominous or oppressive but warm, like a melody heard through a half-forgotten dream. Harry blinked as he noticed something remarkable: the cracked plaster along the ceiling began to smooth, the jagged lines mending themselves. Splintered furniture creaked softly, righting their broken legs and arms, as though the house had decided it was finally ready to put itself back together. The air was different now, lighter, almost kind.

He turned to Draco, a tentative smile breaking through his exhaustion. "It's over," he murmured, his voice filled with awe and disbelief. "We actually did it."

Draco's lips curved into a smirk, though his eyes were soft. "Of course we did. We're brilliant."

Harry laughed, the sound full of relief and something else—something lighter, freer. The tension that had settled in him since he first set foot in Grimmauld Place had lifted, as if the very house had finally let go of its ghosts. For the first time in what felt like forever—and it probably was, for him—Grimmauld Place felt like a home. He stood there, turning in slow circles to take it all in, his heart pounding with the sheer enormity of what they had just done. Suddenly, he felt Draco step up beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. A quiet presence, steady and certain. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the events they'd lived through and the depth of what they'd just accomplished settling heavily between them. It was monumental, terrifying, exhilarating. Harry exhaled slowly, still alight with awe.

Draco broke the silence first, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "It's… changing. The house, I mean. It feels lighter."

It wasn't just the house that had changed—it was… everything.

Harry nodded, unable to look away from the shifting glow of the newly mended chandelier above them. "It's like it's healing itself."

Draco's hand flexed at his side, and Harry caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. A restless, unconscious gesture—like he was reaching for something but stopped himself at the last moment. The tenderness between them felt tangible, humming in the air like a spell not yet spoken, a fragile bridge connecting them in a way that made Harry's chest ache and his head spin. The house seemed to tremble slightly around them, no longer resisting them, no longer a place of burden but of possibility. And yet, all Harry could focus on was the ghost of warmth between them, the quiet, hesitant energy in Draco's stance. His own fingers twitched, an unbearable urge rising within him—to reach out, to reassure, to see if Draco would lean in or pull away.

It was Draco who finally moved, brushing a lock of ash from Harry's tee before giving him a sideways glance, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

"So, what's the plan now, fearless leader? Still determined to turn this dump into your charming fixer-upper?"

Harry snorted, his tension breaking like a dam. "Why not? Apparently, it has a flair for DIY renovations. Saves me the trouble."

Draco's laugh was quieter, light as a feather, but no less sincere. "Well, don't expect me to pick up a hammer. I'm strictly decorative labour."

Harry smiled, endeared despite himself. In silent agreement, they started to move, their feet organically falling into step as they exited the room and wandered through the halls near the tapestry room. The dark atmosphere that once clung to the place was gone, replaced by a strange sort of quiet that felt like hope, fragile but persistent. As they walked, Harry noticed the little changes: faded wallpaper regaining colour, a door that once hung off its hinges clicking into place, the faint scent of something warm—wood and parchment, not decay—beginning to seep into the air. It was as though the house, like them, was finding a way to move forward, hesitantly shedding its past but unable to forget it completely. He glanced at Draco, who walked beside him with an unreadable expression, his fingers brushing lightly against the wall, as if testing the shift in the magic, as if feeling it breathe.

"I'll still need to do some repairs and renovations," Harry said, half to himself. "There's no spell for everything, and some things need more than magic to fix."

Draco hummed in agreement, his tone almost teasing. "You sound like a motivational speaker. Is this the part where you convince me to 'put in the work' and 'manifest a brighter tomorrow'?"

Harry shot him a look, grinning despite himself. "I'll leave the manifesting to you, Malfoy. I'm just trying to make this place liveable."

"Liveable?" Draco repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Darling, you're aiming too low. With my taste and your stubbornness, we'll turn this dreary pit into something vaguely tolerable."

Harry laughed again, his heart feeling lighter with every step they took into the house, as if the weight he'd carried for so long had finally lessened. They moved from room to room, their banter flowing easily, but the silence between words felt just as comfortable—settled, like the house itself was exhaling. Harry didn't recognise much of the layout now; the house had changed, its long-forgotten spaces unfurling like pages in an ancient book. Doorways he had never seen before stood open, and dust-covered corridors stretched out in unfamiliar directions. It meant they had to navigate blindly, once again, but at least this time, they weren't alone. He just hoped the chimaera and the shadow birds were well and truly gone, that Grimmauld Place had finally decided to let them breathe.

At some point, they ended up side by side near what he assumed to be the main staircase, their shoulders close enough to touch. Draco's hand brushed against Harry's once again, a fleeting moment of contact that neither of them acknowledged at first. But neither of them pulled away, either. The meaning of it, small and insignificant though it seemed, settled between them like a stone dropped into still water. The tension in the air shifted, charged and electric, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Harry glanced sideways, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. Draco's expression was carefully blank, but his cheeks were pink, and his hand remained close, his fingers brushing Harry's with an almost deliberate slowness. It felt like gravity, pulling them closer despite the unspoken rules they'd been following until now.

"Draco," Harry murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't a question, nor was it a command. It was something in between—a tentative step forward, an invitation to close the space between them.

Draco turned to him then, his grey eyes soft and unguarded in a way that Harry had rarely seen. "Potter," he replied, his voice low and steady, though there was a faint tremor in it.

Harry swallowed, his pulse loud in his ears. The air between them felt charged, thick with unspoken words and something deeper, something Harry wasn't sure he had the courage to pronounce, even when every particle of his being was pushing him to take a leap of faith. It wasn't just the remnants of magic lingering in the house—it was them, raw and exposed in a way they had never been before. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, a rapid, uneven rhythm that made him feel both reckless and terrified.

Draco's gaze didn't waver, waiting, expectant, as if he knew Harry was on the precipice of something. Finally, Harry took a breath, steadying himself before his voice cut through the quiet.

"I think we're past Potter and Malfoy, don't you?"

Draco's lips quirked up in a small, genuine smile. "Fine. Harry."

The sound of his name, spoken so softly, so intimately, sent a shiver down Harry's spine. He stepped closer, closing some of the distance between them. The world around them seemed to fall away, the house holding its breath as the awkward silence finally gave way to something fragile, something honest and precious. The moment stretched, every second weighted with a tension that felt almost uncomfortable. After a still moment, Harry looked up and his breath hitched as his gaze met Draco's, the silvery grey of his eyes now unguarded, and almost too much to take in. There was something raw there, a kind of hope that made Harry's chest ache with the need to rush forward. His own emotions swirled uncontrollably—fear, yes, but also a fierce yearning he'd kept buried under layers of denial for longer than he was willing to accept right now.

Draco's lips parted as though to say something, but the words never came. Instead, the silence between them grew louder, charged, and electric like magic. Harry could feel the pull, a magnetic force that drew them closer without either of them moving a muscle. Finally, for a second, Draco leaned in, just slightly, as if caught in the same gravity Harry felt. His breath ghosted over Harry's nose, sending a shiver down his spine. But then, just as quickly, he turned away, his shoulders drooping, his jaw tightening. It wasn't rejection—no, something more akin to dejection and what looked like a fear Harry recognised all too well.

Without thinking, Harry reached out, his fingers brushing against Draco's cheek, halting his retreat just so. The touch was instinctive, desperate in a way that startled even him. He didn't know what he was aiming to say, didn't even have the words for the emotions storming inside him, but he needed Draco to understand. Understand what, he wasn't sure—only that this moment mattered, that whatever had changed between them wasn't something he could let slip away.

In a slow movement, Draco turned back to him, his big, silver eyes wide—hopeful, searching, so painfully open that it made Harry's chest feel tight, too small to contain whatever was happening within. The storm of emotions in them was evident, and for a second, Harry thought Draco might say something, might finally give voice to whatever had been building between them. But then, Draco's flaxen lashes fluttered, and he closed his eyes. A slow, shaky sigh left his peachy lips, his breath warm against Harry's fingertips. The way he leaned into the touch—just slightly, just enough—made Harry feel like he was standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying.

Harry's breath shuddered as he hovered there, caught between immense want and crippling hesitation. Was this right? Was he really doing this? He was Harry Potter, he was not sure what doing this might enact upon them, not when he was who he was; and Draco was… Draco Malfoy. A boy raised in wealth and bigotry, sharp edges and arrogance. A boy who had once spat his name like a curse and now—now stood before him, eyes closed, face tilted just slightly into Harry's touch, his breath uneven. Uncertainty clawed at him. It would be so easy to step back, to shove this moment away and pretend it never happened, to thank Draco and never see him again. He'd spent his whole life being the Chosen One, the one who had to be good, had to be right.

And this—this didn't fit into the narrative of who he was supposed to be.

His fingers twitched against Draco's cheek, the warmth of his skin grounding and impossible to ignore. He hadn't expected Draco to feel like this—real and fragile and steady all at once. Green eyes drank in the faint furrow in his brow, the elegant slope of his cheekbone catching the dim light—Harry's breath caught. He had never let himself look, not like this, not fully nor this close. And now that he had, he didn't know how to stop. Then Draco sighed again, soft and barely audible, his brows drawing together as if he were steeling himself for disappointment.

That was all it took.

Something in Harry cracked. His hesitation snapped like a frayed rope, and before he could think better of it, before he could talk himself out of what he wanted, he moved.

Rashly, instinctively, he leaned in.

The world seemed to tilt on its axis as Harry leaned in, tilting his head up as his heart began hammering so loudly he was sure Draco could hear it. Harry barely registered the moment he fully closed the distance between them—only the warmth of Draco's skin, the quiet hitch of his breath, the faint scent of something undeniablyDracothat had somehow survived the chaos of their imprisonment. His mind screamed at him to stop, to think, but his heart had already made the choice for him.

When they finally came together, it was a culmination of everything—their shared history, their pain, their longing, and their undeniable affinity for one another. Carefully, his chapped lips brushed against Draco's pink ones, hesitant at first, a question in the softness of the touch. For a fleeting moment, time stopped, the universe narrowing to just the two of them. In front of him, Draco froze, his breath catching, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he sighed deeply before he leaned in, almost overwhelming Harry in his enthusiasm to kiss back.

At first, the kiss was almost achingly soft—tentative, searching, a breath shared rather than taken. Harry moved slowly, lips brushing against Draco's with the kind of delicate reverence that made his chest ache. Maybe waiting years for this—this quiet moment of sweetness, the warmth that spread through him like a spell finally taking hold—had been worth it. Draco tasted of exhaustion and something deeper, something distinctly him and yet completely new. And Harry thought, just for a second, that he could stay here forever. But then Draco made a quiet sound against his mouth—a faint, needy exhale that sent a shiver down Harry's spine—and something inside him burst forth, unleashed.

Suddenly, the kiss deepened, blossoming into something fierce and all-consuming. It wasn't just a kiss anymore—it was a release, a pouring out of everything they'd held back: fear, anger, relief, and something more intimate, more profound.

Exhilarated, Harry's hands found their way to Draco's waist, gripping tightly as though he were afraid to let go. Keening, Draco responded in kind, his fingers tangling in Harry's hair with a desperation that mirrored Harry's own. The warmth of their touch spread like wildfire, melting away every barrier that had once stood between them. Soon enough, the kiss grew hungrier, more intense, and Harry felt his knees weaken as Draco pressed closer. It was overwhelming—the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he kissed like he was drowning and Harry was the only air left. Every touch lingered, deliberate, like they were trying to memorise each other, to make up for all the time they'd wasted.

When they finally broke apart, gasping for air, Harry rested his forehead against Draco's, his eyes still closed as he tried to steady his breathing. The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable, the force of their emotions hanging in the air like a tangible thing.

Draco's voice was a whisper, his breath warm against Harry's lips. "Well, that was… unexpected."

Harry laughed softly, his chest still heaving. "Unexpected? Really? Because I think we've both been building to that for years."

Draco bit his red lips, his cheeks flushed. "Maybe. But I insist you do have a terrible sense of timing."

Harry chuckled, his hands still resting lightly on Draco's waist. "Timing be damned. I'm not sorry."

"Good," Draco murmured, his expression softening into something Harry had never seen before—something tender, almost reverent. "Because I'm not either."

For a moment, they simply stood there, holding each other as the house hummed faintly around them, its warmth seeming to cocoon them in a way that felt impossibly right. Harry knew they'd have to talk about this eventually—what it meant, what came next—but for now, he let himself enjoy the quiet contentment of being exactly where he wanted to be. Yet already, a restless ache had begun to settle beneath his skin, a yearning that refused to fade even after having kissed Draco. The taste of him lingered on Harry's lips, intoxicating and unforgettable, and he found himself wanting more—craving it in a way that felt as natural as breathing but also magical and exceptional. He tightened his hold on the blonde's soft waist, as if anchoring himself, as if keeping Draco close would somehow soothe the feverish need curling in his chest.

The moment hung heavy in the air, the charged silence between them almost unbearable as they breathed each other in. Their breath mingled, and the tension—years in the making, like Harry had said—snapped as Harry leaned surged once more, his lips brushing against Draco's in a kiss that felt was softer than the previous one but also more insistent. It was as though the world around them ceased to exist; the magic of Grimmauld Place, the destruction of the tapestry, and the lingering remnants of the battle melted away into insignificance. This time, Draco responded immediately, his hands coming up to clutch at Harry's shirt, pulling him even closer, as if fuelled by the need to merge into him. What began as tender grew rapidly into something more urgent once more, the heat between them igniting like a spark catching fire. Harry's hands found their way to Draco's face, cradling his jaw with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his kiss. Draco's lips parted, and Harry deepened the kiss, pouring every ounce of his bottled-up emotions into it: the fear of losing him, the relief of survival, the undeniable pull he could no longer deny, pride and paranoia be damned.

The air around them seemed to hum, vibrating with an unspoken energy that matched the wild beat of their hearts. They stumbled backward, their movements clumsy yet filled with purpose as they sought something to anchor themselves to. Harry's hands slid from Draco's face down to his shoulders, then lower still, gripping his waist once more and then down to his bony hips, pulling him flush against him. The contact sent a tangible shiver down Draco's spine, and he made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan that had Harry's stomach twisting in the most pleasant way imaginable.

"Merlin, Potter," Draco breathed when they broke apart for air, his voice low and ragged. "You're insufferable."

Harry laughed, the sound raw but filled with affection. "And you're impossible," he shot back, his voice shaky but teasing.

They shared a brief moment of levity, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Every couple of breaths, one or the other would grow impatient and leaned in to steal one or three little pecks against the other's tender lips. But the heat between them, smouldering like a roaring fire, pulled them back in time and time again in its attempt to pace themselves. Though to Harry, it seemed like a losing battle, his fingers already itching to explore. As it was, Harry's hands didn't leave Draco's waist, his grip so strong he was afraid he was going to leave bruises on Draco's ivory skin; and Draco's fingers curled further into the fabric of Harry's shirt as though letting go was not an option.

"We should stop," Draco said half-heartedly, voicing Harry's thoughts, though there was no conviction in his tone. His molten silver eyes searched Harry's face, and whatever he saw there made his breath hitch.

Harry tilted his head, his green eyes dark and determined as he bit Draco's jaw. The suddenly noticeable tightness in his pants made it difficult to think of what to say. "Do you want to?" he asked, his voice raspy and barely more than a whisper.

He didn't know what he would like the answer to be.

Draco's reply was immediate. "No."

..

They collapsed against each other, their bodies tangled, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they basked in the aftermath. As their high began to dwindle, it was as though the magic in the room exploded outward, a wave of warmth and light that seemed to cleanse the house of its remaining shadows. With a sudden burst of wild magic brought out by their passions, the worn sofa beneath them emitted a loud, splintering crack. The ancient frame gave way, collapsing with a dramatic creak as both men tumbled into the broken mess of cushions and wood. Draco froze for a split second, his eyes wide with surprise, before a breathless laugh escaped his pink lips. Harry, sprawled awkwardly atop of Draco; and he couldn't help but join in, their laughter filling the room like a release of all the tension that had built between them over the years.

"Brilliant," Draco managed between chuckles, his voice tinged with affectionate sarcasm. "Truly the height of romance, Potter."

Harry grinned, his cheeks flushed, but his eyes alight with amusement. With one hand, he pinched Draco's left nipple, making Draco yelp indignantly. "Well, you always did have a flair for the dramatic, Malfoy."

Draco sneered, but the moment of levity didn't last long. Harry reached for him, pulling him close once more, their laughter fading into something softer, more intimate. The broken sofa was forgotten as their lips met again, the connection between them reigniting with renewed intensity. They rode out the afterglow together, clinging to each other as if afraid to let go. With careful movements, Harry wandlessly cleaned the both of them up before rearranging their positions, so Draco could rest atop him.

Satisfied and sleepy, Harry pressed a kiss to Draco's temple, his hand tracing soothing patterns on his back. Draco let out a contented sigh, his head resting against Harry's chest as they lay together amid the wreckage of the sofa. For the first time in years, Harry felt whole, as though the pieces of himself he thought he'd lost had been returned to him.

Draco's voice broke the silence, soft and teasing. "You know, Potter, you're not half-bad at this."

Harry laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "I'll take that as a compliment coming from you."

Draco smirked, but his eyes were filled with that softness Harry had rarely seen. "It was meant to be."

They lay there for a while longer, their hands entwined, their bodies pressed close as the magic of Grimmauld Place settled around them, a quiet reminder of the transformation they had brought to the house—and to each other. Eyes roaming around the room, Harry couldn't help but notice the change in the atmosphere around the house. The tense weight that had pressed down on them since they'd the house had trapped them inside its labyrinth had been completely lifted, replaced by something softer, warmer—a strange kind of peace. The ever-present whispers in the walls had stilled, and the groaning floorboards now felt solid beneath them. The house no longer seemed alive with malevolence; instead, it felt like it had exhaled, finally releasing the centuries of tension it had harboured.

It felt new, as if the house no longer had memory of the pain it had saved and guarded for hundreds of years.

Harry turned his head slightly, glancing down at Draco, who was lying with his head resting on Harry's still naked chest, his platinum hair a stark contrast to Harry's flushed skin. Draco's breathing was even—although Harry could tell he wasn't asleep—, his expression unusually serene, his usual sharpness softened into something… warm. Harry didn't know if he'd ever seen Draco look like this—unguarded, completely at ease. He'd seen him vulnerable, and even soft, numerous times throughout the days they'd explored Grimmauld—and Merlin, had it only been a handful of days? Really?—but never like this. Never so completely relaxed and mellow. He, too, felt lighter than he had since… well, since he was very young. It was as though the house's transformation had seeped into both of them, washing away the edges they'd both carried for so long.

For once, Harry didn't feel the compulsion to speak, to fill the silence with awkward words or deflect with humour. He simply rested a hand on Draco's back, tracing aimless patterns along his supple spine, and let himself savour the peacefulness that now surrounded them. His thoughts were uncharacteristically calm. The usual storm of guilt, uncertainty, and self-doubt had quieted, replaced by the steady rhythm of Draco's breathing and the warmth of his skin against Harry's.

Eventually, Draco shifted slightly, lifting his head to peer up at Harry with those piercing silver eyes, bright and breathtaking as if made from pure starlight, that never failed to bewilder him—except, perhaps, now. There was no challenge in them, no mockery or derision, just something Harry couldn't quite recognise, but that made his chest tighten all the same.

He feared that his own green eyes reflected the same.

"The house already feels… different," Draco murmured, his voice low and slightly hoarse, perhaps from screaming too much earlier. The thought made Harry blush.

Harry nodded, his hand stilling on Draco's back. "Yeah. It's… calmer. Lighter. Like it's… I dunno, not angry anymore," he frowned slightly, trying to find the right words to describe the change.

Draco hummed in agreement, his gaze flicking briefly to the surrounding furniture—it had repaired itself at some point—before returning to Harry.

"It's not just the house, though," he said gently, almost tentatively.

Harry swallowed hard, the weight of Draco's words settling over him. He wanted to argue, to downplay it, to brush it off with a joke about the house finally getting bored with trying to kill them—but he couldn't. He knew Draco was talking about him and… them, about the way their relationship had changed, and suddenly a small wave of panic surged through him, drowning his thoughts. What were they now? Friends? A couple? Neither seemed accurate, and yet neither felt like the right word to describe what they had become. They weren't strangers; they'd known each other since childhood, after all, which meant they had history behind them. And suddenly Harry was left bereft of an explanation. They certainly weren't enemies, not anymore, although the thought of calling Draco a friend didn't sit entirely right with Harry either. Something had changed between them, something fundamental and raw, but Harry wasn't sure what to call it or what he wanted to do with it. At once, he felt as if he was trapped in quicksand. What was going to happen now? They couldn't stay in Grimmauld forever, both of them were sick of the house and wanted to breathe fresh air more than anything. But… what were they outside of this house? How was this going to proceed? The mere thought of walking around Diagon Alley with Draco, hands entwined, made Harry's stomach drop to his feet, and he wasn't sure if it was because of elation or… trepidation.

Draco must have sensed his abrupt change of mood, because he lifted himself off of Harry's chest and propped himself up on one elbow, fixing Harry with an intense stare that bordered on a glare.

"What are you thinking, Potter?"

Potter, earlier it had sounded like a… pet name of sorts. Teasing, warm. Now, it sounded guarded and defensive, like it often soundedbefore. His tone was gentle, yes, but there was an edge to it, like he was bracing for Harry to laugh off the question or make a joke about the whole thing.

"Nothing," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "That I feel it too."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy or awkward, but it was charged with something unspoken, something fragile and new.

Draco broke the stillness first, a small, wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, the sharpness in his eyes all but gone, replaced by the same silvery gaze that Harry had grown so attracted to. The blonde rolled his eyes, there was a flicker of amusement in them that made Harry's heart clench.

"You're ridiculous," he muttered, but the words were accompanied by a faint smile that took any sting out of them.

They lay there for a while longer, neither of them in any hurry to move. The room, and the house itself, seemed to hold them in a gentle embrace, as though recognising their part in its healing and offering its gratitude in the only way it could. Eventually, though, the reality of their situation began to creep back in. The house might be calmer now, but there was still much to do—questions to answer, a house to exit, friends to soothe, a Kreacher to find.

In reverse order, preferably.

Understanding this, Draco sighed, sitting up reluctantly and running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "We should probably… you know, get dressed. Before the house decides to reward our efforts by disappearing our clothes to do some laundry or something."

Harry chuckled, though he knew Draco had a point. The house might be more stable now, but it was still Grimmauld Place, and he doubted it would ever be entirely predictable.

"Yeah," he said, sitting up as well and reaching for his discarded clothes. "But, uh… thanks. For… everything. I don't think I could've done this without you."

Draco paused in the act of pulling on his trousers, his expression unreadable as he looked at Harry. For a moment, Harry thought he might make some snide remark or brush off the sentiment, but instead, Draco nodded, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips.

"You better not be thanking me for sex, Harry," he said quietly.

Harry choked, his face darkening as he blushed deeply.

"I'm not!"

Draco let out a joyous bark of laughter right then, doubling over to grab at his underwear. The sight of his backside as he bent over bade Harry stop in his tracks and stare, his sight growing fuzzy with the strength of his blush. For a second, the thought of going for round two appeared in his mind, and he had to squeeze his eyes to calm himself down.

Later, maybe,he told himself. It was right then that Draco, naturally, turned around and smirked mischievously at Harry.

The bastard knew what he had been thinking, of course he did.

..

When the two of them left the drawing room, now fully clothed—albeit Harry's underwear felt a tad stiff—, the first thing he noticed was the huge change that had happened within Grimmauld Place as they had been… otherwise preoccupied. For the first time since he'd set foot in the blasted house back when he was fifteen, the place looked, well, liveable. Homey, even. Almost. He blinked up at the neat walls at the end of the living, faint sunlight filtering in through the no longer grime-streaked windows.

"Harry," Draco mumbled, his voice sounded tired, sleepy. They hadn't rested much in the last few days, and they had been awake and food deprived for far too long. What time was it, even? "You're staring."

"I wasn't staring," Harry muttered, quickly averting his gaze and scrambling to look away. "I was preparing to leave."

Draco raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but didn't comment further. He stretched languidly, like a cat, before brushing his clothes and running a hand through his hair.

"The house should be easy to traverse now that it's no longer murderous and evil," he said, his voice teasing and light. Harry couldn't help but stare at his pink lips for a second before moving on. "We should see if we can find the way out. Assuming the house isn't planning on keeping us here forever."

Harry nodded, tugging his jumper over his head. "Yeah. The floor plan is a little different from the one I remember, but it must not be too difficult to get around," he said, contemplating. "I want to find Kreacher first, though, make sure he's okay."

Draco hummed in agreement, his expression open and relaxed. It made Harry's heart skip a beat in his chest, and, with absolutely zero self-control, Harry leaned in to capture Draco's sweet lips into a chaste kiss. The blonde startled slightly, but immediately reciprocated, moving his lips expertly against Harry's chapped ones. Merlin, but it felt good to kiss Draco, to have him pressed against him. Not wanting to get even more distracted, Harry ended the kiss a few seconds after he started it, their lips warm and wet against the other. They composed themselves quickly and made their way through the hallways, which now looked less twisted and more typical, though still faintly decrepit. Like Harry had said before, the house would still need some renovating to make it look good. And Harry prayed that, this time, the renovations will stick, he thought as he looked at the ceiling with suspicion.

It wasn't long before they found themselves going down what must be the family staircase—winding and hidden behind a door—and down into the kitchen, where a familiar, lonely figure was pacing anxiously by the lit fireplace.

"Kreacher!" Harry exclaimed, relief flooding him.

The old house-elf froze mid-step, his large, watery eyes snapping up to meet Harry's. For a moment, Kreacher looked as though he might burst into tears, his lip quivering as he stared at Harry and Draco. Then, with a strangled cry, he threw himself forward, clutching at Harry's leg.

"Master Harry!" Kreacher croaked, his voice filled with emotion. "Oh, Master Harry, you are alive! Kreacher thought—Kreacher feared—oh, Kreacher is so happy to see Master Harry!"

Harry felt a pang of shame as he gently patted the house-elf's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Kreacher. We got trapped in the house's magic, and… well, we didn't know if we'd make it out. I'm very sorry that we couldn't get to you sooner"

Kreacher sniffled, pulling back slightly to look up at Harry and then at Draco. "The house feels different now," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "It feels… clean. New. No darkness. No pain. Kreacher has not felt the house like this in his lifetime."

Harry crouched down to meet Kreacher's gaze. "I'm glad," he said softly. "We tried to—well, we tried to fix things. To make it better."

Kreacher shook his head vigorously, his ears flapping. "No, Master Harry did not just try. Master Harry and Master Draco saved the house. Saved the ancestral home of the Blacks. The masters are truly the greatest wizards of our time."

Harry blinked, startled, and glanced at Draco, who was standing stiffly behind him, his cheeks faintly pink. "Er, Kreacher," Harry began, scratching the back of his neck, "we didn't exactly—"

But Kreacher cut him off, his voice resolute. "It must be that Master Harry and Master Draco did not fight for the house. They did not claim it for themselves. They came together as one to share it."

Harry choked on air, his face heating up as he quickly straightened. "We—wewhat?"

Draco, for his part, looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon, his face now a violent shade of red. "That's hardly—Kreacher, that's not—" he stammered, his usual composure utterly shattered by the elf's insinuations.

And, well, they had no defence to that, did they? Theyhader… come together as one earlier.

But Kreacher simply nodded sagely, as though he hadn't just dropped the most mortifying statement either of them had ever heard. "The house can feel it," he said. "The harmony between the masters. That is why it is at peace."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it. What was the point? The house-elf seemed determined, and besides, he wasn't entirely wrong. Harry and Dracohadworked together—begrudgingly, yes, but still—on top of their more… er,pleasurable, exploits. Maybe that had been the key to calming the house's magic aside from destroying the tapestry and the multiple monsters within the house. It had been their joint spells that had done the deeds, after all.

With a jolt, Harry pinched the bridge of his nose.

The tapestry, right.

"We, uh… we also destroyed the tapestry," Harry offered awkwardly, regretfully. He was also quite desperate to change the subject away from him and Draco.

Kreacher's face fell, his shoulders slumping. "The tapestry," he repeated mournfully. "Kreacher is sad to hear this. It was… it was the history of the family."

Draco cleared his throat, finally regaining some of his usual composure. "The tapestry was… tainted, Kreacher. It had absorbed too much pain and dark magic," he said, his voice truly regretful. "I'm afraid it had to be expunged of it. But the history isn't lost. It's still here—in the house, in the grimoire."

Kreacher sniffled again but nodded. "Oh, yes. Kreacher understands. It was the right thing to do. Masters know better," he straightened suddenly, a determined look on his face. "Kreacher will prepare a feast to celebrate! Master Harry and Master Draco deserve it, for saving the house!"

Harry smiled faintly but shook his head. "Thanks, Kreacher, but… I need to let my friends know I'm alive first. They're probably worried sick, since I skipped on our lunch like… five? Days ago."

Kreacher hesitated, a bitter retort ready on his mouth, but instead he bowed deeply. "As Master Harry wishes."

Harry glanced at Draco, who gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, and together they turned to leave the kitchen. The house felt decidedly warm around them now, the shadows no longer threatening, the air no longer heavy. It was as if the house itself was bidding them farewell, grateful for what they'd done.

As they climbed the staircase back up, Harry couldn't help but glance sideways at Draco. He looked so beautiful right now, under the bright light of the sconces, his features soft and warm. It made Harry itch to take his hand and caress his face.

With a slight cough, he turned a cheeky smirk at Draco and asked, "So… does this mean we have joint custody of Grimmauld?"

Draco groaned, scrunching his nose in mock distaste. "Don't start, Potter."

Harry continued to smirk. For the first time in what felt like forever, he didn't dread what lay inside his home. Grimmauld Place was healing.

And maybe… well, maybe he could start healing as well.

..

The two of walked side by side through Grimmauld Place's first floor, their steps slow, their shoulders brushing occasionally. The house was unrecognisable now—to the point where Harry kept openly gaping like a fish at just how different it all was. The walls, once heavy with dark magic, felt lighter, as though they were breathing for the first time in centuries. The dark shadows were gone, replaced by soft, unassuming light that filtered through the old windows. There was no grime, no missing steps or hidden swarm of doxys ready to attack them. It felt so… optimistic that Harry was frightened that it was all a dream.

At some point during their walk from the kitchen to the foyer, Harry's hand had found Draco's without thinking, his fingers lacing through pale, elegant ones. And Draco didn't pull away, not at all. Instead, his grip tightened, his thumb brushing against Harry's knuckles in a way that made something warm and unfamiliar blossom in Harry's chest.

The two of them were bone-tired, every muscle aching, yet neither spoke of it. The silence between them wasn't awkward or strained but full of unspoken tenderness. It scared Harry how natural it all felt with Draco, how comfortable he felt. This was a man who had seen the absolute worst in Harry—just how Harry had seen the worst in Draco—and yet he looked at him with his silver eyes full of acceptance. Harry never knew there could be something as unconditional acceptance from people. Even Ron and Hermione disapproved of certain things about Harry, and they let him know. But Draco… it felt as if he accepted Harry, horrors and flaws and all, without question or reproach. A part of Harry felt grateful and cared for, but another… another felt overwhelmed, scared of how this was going to go. Just the thought of the Daily Prophet hounding them about their… situationship made him shiver. He knew it didn't make sense to be so scared now, not when they had finally done it. Against all odds, they had faced the house's tormented magic, laid its demons to rest, and survived. Together. There shouldn't be any cause for fear now, not when everything felt as if it had finally fallen into place, all the parts of his life finally tucked in where they belonged.

And yet, Harry still felt a little lost.

They passed familiar rooms as they walked together—rooms that no longer seemed to whisper threats or exude menace. The formal dining that looked out onto the sad garden, a small library next to the foyer, even the hallway where Walburga's portrait had once loomed like a malignant spectre—all of it felt cleansed, renewed.

Finally, they reached the foyer that held front door. The worn wood seemed to gleam faintly now, no longer shrouded in gloom. Harry stopped, and noted with disgust that the god-awful troll leg wasstillthere. Harry groaned and kicked it with a decidedly resentful look. Draco let out a delighted snicker, clearly enjoying Harry's tantrum and ill-fated luck. With a wave of his wand, the blonde vanished the offending monstrosity, before turning towards Harry to kiss him lightly on the cheek. That made Harry feel better, but only just.

Maybe he needed another kiss to—

Harry wasdoomed, wasn't he?

With no ceremony, his free hand rested on the doorknob, and turned to look at Draco.

Draco met his gaze, his face pale as always but calm, his grey eyes softer than they had ever been during his years at Hogwarts. They said nothing—there was nothing left to say. Their hands remained clasped, steadying each other in the quiet moment.

When Harry turned back to the door, the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips as he pushed it open. Together, still hand in hand, they stepped out into the bright, welcoming light of the world beyond, exhausted but victorious.

Grimmauld Place was free for the first time in a long time, and now, so were they.

..

Ron stood with his arms crossed, his face screwed up in mock frustration as he argued with Hermione.

"You're mad if you think the Cannons' new seeker doesn't have what it takes! Did you even see him last season?" he said, gesticulating wildly.

Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh, her arms folded as well, but in that infuriatingly composed way she had mastered. She hated talking about Quidditch, she really did, but they had exhausted most of their conversation topics a few many days ago; and now Ron was all worked up because Parkinson had made an off comment about how she was shagging a Quidditch player from the best team around, and Ron had immediately jumped at the topic.

Of Quidditch, not Parkinson's shags.

"Yes, Ron. Weallsaw him. Dropping the quaffle mid-match doesn't exactly scream 'star player,' does it?" said Hermione, her voice irate as she glared at Ron from where she was knitting something resembling a mitten.

Parkinson snickered from her perch on the low wall next to the gate. She was donning another stunning outfit today, her boots a salacious red that matched her lips once again. "I don't know why either of you bother arguing. The Cannons are rubbish, and you know it."

Ron whirled on her. "Oi! They're not rubbish. They're just… rebuilding!"

"Oh, is that what they're calling it these days?" Parkinson teased him with a venomous smile, running a gloved hand through her sleek hair and inspecting her nails with exaggerated disinterest right after. "They've been'rebuilding'since they started the team."

Hermione rolled her eyes at both of them but stopped mid-scoff as the sound of the door to Grimmauld Place creaking open caught her attention, like a bullet being fired. Hermione's sharp intake of breath was the first sound to break the silence that followed. Her hand flew to her mouth, but her eyes remained fixed on the two figures emerging from the shadowy threshold of Grimmauld Place. The street light, pale and weak as it was in the dreary London evening, seemed to cling to Harry, making his tousled hair look even messier. Malfoy, on the other hand, looked impossibly pale, his sharp features carved in stone as he stepped hesitantly onto the cracked pavement. The two of them together, side by side, was a sight none of them had expected.

Harry looked startled, his green eyes wide behind his glasses, and almost immediately, his hand slipped from where it had been holding Malfoy's.

Next to him, Malfoy froze for a split second, his fingers twitching as Harry pulled away. A flicker of hurt crossed his face—so subtle that anyone who didn't know him well might have missed it. But Hermione saw it. So did Parkinson, Hermione could tell by her widened eyes and the twist of her red lips. Harry, on the other hand, looked away, a suspicious flush creeping up his dark neck, as though he couldn't quite bear to meet Malfoy's eyes.

Snapping out of her surprise, Hermione stood up from her conjured chair and dropped her knitting in a rush.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, her voice trembling with relief as she rushed forward. She threw her arms around him with such force that he stumbled slightly, her bushy hair smothering his face. "Oh, thank Merlin! You had us worried half to death!"

Ron was just a second behind her, his face red and glowering—half from worry and half from indignation. "Where the hell have you been, mate? You had us bloody worried about you! Do you know how long we've been—?"

"Ron," Hermione interrupted sharply, though her arms remained tight around Harry. "He's out and alive. That's all that—"

"I'm fine," Harry interrupted quickly, though he looked anything but. His eyes darted towards Malfoy, who stood a few steps back now, his expression carefully withdrawn, except for the mercurial shadows in his eyes. "Really, I'm okay. Everything's fine now."

While Ron and Hermione fussed over Harry, Parkinson had zeroed in on Malfoy with the agility of a fox. "Draco Malfoy," she scolded, her voice brisk but undercut with a genuine note of concern. Her sharp gaze swept over him, taking in his tired eyes, his dishevelled hair, and the faint shadows smudged beneath his cheekbones. "You look dreadful," she declared, but the words were softened by the gentle way she cupped his face.

Malfoy arched an elegant brow, his cool façade returning in the face of Pansy's dramatics. "Thank you, Pansy. As ever, your observations are a source of great comfort."

"Hush," she chided, her voice eerily similar to how Hermione's got when she fussed. Then, to everyone's utter astonishment, she cupped Malfoy's face in her hands and planted a series of loud, dramatic kisses all over his cheeks, leaving traces of her lipstick behind. Malfoy winced, trying to lean away, but she followed, her lips landing just beneath his nose.

"Pansy, for Salazar's sake—" Draco began, his voice edged with annoyance, but she ignored him, pulling back with a triumphant smile even as he attempted to squirm away. Still, she held him firm, leaving behind faint traces of her berry-coloured lipstick.

"There," she declared, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Much better."

Hermione, Ron, and Harry all stared, their reactions ranging from baffled to amused—though Harry's smile faltered as his gaze lingered on the faint marks of Pansy's lipstick against Malfoy's pale skin. Something unpleasant twisted in his chest, a sharp and unfamiliar pang that Harry chose to try and ignore. To no avail, really. His face darkened as he couldn't help the spark of jealousy that flared in his chest at the sight of Pansy's kiss marks on Draco's pale skin, of their closeness. He clenched his jaw and looked away, hating himself for the irrational feeling. He had no right over Draco, not when he had stepped away from him the moment they'd been out of Grimmauld.

After all, he wasn't his… anything.

"Blimey," Ron said, finally pulling back from Harry. "What the bloody hell happened in there? We've been losing our minds waiting for news. It's been days! The bloody house wouldn't let us even pull diagnostic spells on it and then, a few hours ago, we felt when something happened to the house's magic. It nearly knocked us out, it did, but we still weren't able to go into the house no matter how much we tried. What happened, mate?"

Harry hesitated, glancing at Draco. For a moment, the blond looked as though he might answer, but he remained silent, his eyes roaming Harry's uneasy face before fixing themselves on the ground. Something pulled at Harry's heart at seeing Draco be so… closed off. It was different to how he was with Harry, much more so now. He wanted to reach out and touch Draco, reassure him somehow, but one look at Ron and Hermione made his hand still.

"It's a long story," Harry said finally, running his hand through his hair instead. His voice was steady, but the troubled look in his eyes betrayed him. "But it's over now. We're okay."

Pansy looked between them suspicious, her lips curving down into a distinctive, unhappy frown, while Hermione regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and wary disapproval.

"Itisa long story," Harry maintained, shifting uncomfortably. He was still acutely aware of the space between himself and Draco, of the way Draco's gaze lingered on him for a moment before sliding away. "We… uh, we destroyed the Black Family Tapestry."

"What?" Hermione's voice was sharp with shock. "But Harry, what about—"

Harry held up his hands. "It's not as bad as it sounds. The tapestry was full of dark magic—it was feeding off the family's pain and grief for centuries, making the house worse. We had to destroy it to… to set things right."

Ron's brows shot up. "Bloody hell. How did you manage that?"

Harry hesitated, glancing at Draco, who remained stubbornly silent.

"It wasn't easy," he said finally, running a hand through his messy hair. "The house fought back. Hard. It was…" He trailed off, his throat tightening as he remembered the tar monster and its whispers, the cold, the crushing weight of his own mind.

Draco, perhaps sensing his struggle, spoke this time, though his voice was detached and icy in a way that made Harry startle.

"The house's magic was unstable because it didn't know who its master was," he explained, his voice steady but quiet. "It was torn between Potter and me, and that imbalance was affecting it to the point where the dark magic began leaking out and harming the house, making it extremely unstable. Destroying the tapestry solved most of it," he paused, his eyes flicking to Harry for the briefest of moments. The use of his last name made Harry's stomach drop to his knees, his heart constricting.

It felt wrong.

"So, that's it?" Pansy echoed, her brow arching.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "Yes," he said simply, his tone making it clear that he wasn't going to elaborate further.

Pansy's lips twitched with dissatisfaction, her eyes as suspicious as Hermione's, who was giving them both a searching look, her brow furrowed in thought. Ron, oblivious as ever when it came to human emotions, just looked impressed.

"Fair enough," Ron said with a shrug. "Sounds like a bloody nightmare, though. You two must be knackered."

"Exhausted," Harry admitted, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Well, Draco's alive," Parkinson said, her voice suddenly softer. "That's what matters to me," she said offhandedly, and then glanced at Draco, her sharp eyes softening for a moment. "You did good, Draco."

Draco gave her a faint smile, one corner of his mouth lifting in that characteristic Malfoy smirk. "Of course I did."

Hermione then wasted no time in asking rapid-fire questions about their whole ordeal. What was the trigger that trapped them? What had happened? Did they know if the ownership of the house had been solved? Did Kreacher suffer while he had been retained under the house? All good questions, but questions Harry was too tired to respond on his own. And Draco was no use, his face was closed off and his posture stiff like a statue. He did so, of course, lest he bring Hermione's rage upon him, but his replies were inadequate and almost monosyllabic. Meanwhile, Ron leaned against the rail, fiddling with a stray fallen leaf; while Parkinson perched on the edge of a step, elegantly aloof as ever, though her sharp eyes flickered to Draco sporadically, checking on him in a way that didn't seem overtly caring but undoubtedly was.

"Fascinating," Hermione said at last, her voice laden with an almost academic curiosity. "The idea that the house's magic responded to the shared ownership between you and Malfoy—well, it's incredible. I don't think there's ever been a documented case of something like this happening. I'll need to do some research, of course, but—"

Ron groaned, cutting her off mid-ramble. "Can we not get into research mode just yet? Harry's been through hell. Last thing he needs is you badgering him about magical theory and ancestral magic, 'Mione." He cast a wary glance at Harry, who was sitting against the railing next to him, slouched and visibly exhausted.

"I'm not badgering him," she shot back, affronted. "I'm trying to understand what happened. If we don't figure it out properly, who knows what could go wrong next? That house could still be unstable," she turned to Harry, her eyes narrowing in determination. "You shouldn't stay here tonight. It's not safe."

The words hung heavy in the air, and a faintclackof a high-heel hitting the cement broke the silence as Pansy uncrossed and then crossed her legs.

"I'll be fine," Harry mumbled, his gaze fixed on the Draco's Oxfords, on how they reflected the little light around them. He wanted to get Draco alone once more, so they could talk, so Harry could explain.

"Harry James Potter, you will not stay in that house," she retorted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We've just seen how volatile Crimmauld's magic can be. The last thing we need is for it to start acting up again, especially if you're there on your own. No, you're staying with Ron and me."

"I don't want to—"

"You're staying with us," she interrupted, her voice firm and dangerous, making Harry retreat and look around, hoping to find something to cower behind. There was no fury like an incensed Hermione Granger. "At least until the Ministry sends someone to assess the house. It's not up for debate, Harry James."

A sigh escaped his lips, more weary than defiant. There was no point in arguing; Hermione had already made up her mind, and when she got that particular look in her eye, resistance was futile and often painful. He might as well be asking a snitch not to flap his wings.

As Harry looked down and nodded his head in defeated understanding, Hermione turned her attention to the Slytherins in their midst, satisfied that the matter was settled. Parkinson, meanwhile, had turned her focus back to Draco, who was sitting a little stiffly on the step between Harry and herself.

"Honestly, Draco," she said, her voice lilting with mock exasperation. "You've been through hell and back, and yet you refuse to say a word. What's going on?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he drawled, though he didn't meet her eyes. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the sleeve of his jumper, betraying his usual cool composure. Then, his silver eyes darted towards Harry.

Harry knew that look, it meant that Draco was sad, vulnerable. And he hated that he knew why, but still hadn't found the strength to erase it.

Ron, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up until now, suddenly smirked, his gaze flickering between Malfoy and Pansy. He leaned back where he stood, a slow, shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

"Speaking of aPansy," he drawled, deliberately emphasising the name just enough to make it sound like an insult, "you should've seen the letter Parkinson sent you the day you two buggered off, ferret. Real touching stuff." He smirked, letting the moment drag before continuing, "Went on for a bit about how you needed to get properlyshaggedand—get this—how, and I quote, she hoped her letter found youthoroughlyfucked into the mattress. Guess she always knew you weremadefor it, yeah?"

He said it casually, all offhand amusement, like it was just some crude joke between mates. But the implication was sharp, deliberate—mocking in a way that made it clear he didn't just find the idea of Draco taking it funny, he found itdegrading. Like it was the punchline. Like Draco himself was.

Harry winced.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Ronald!" Hermione cut in, her cheeks burning red. "Don't be so vulgar!"

Malfoy's face turned a violent shade of red, his glare at Ron hateful and angry. Harry stilled where he sat, his eyebrows going all the way up to his fringe. Fuck, that was bad, Ron had fucked up. It was obvious, from the way Malfoy looked as if he were going to jump Ron any moment and murder him in cold blood, that Draco hadn't appreciated what Ron had said. Not one bit. To top it off, Ron's words made it sound as if doing that was bad. As if the issue was that Draco was the one getting fucked by another man. Harry felt his own cheeks heat up, not knowing how to take the insult. Should he say something? He should, right? Draco being fucked certainly pertained to him, now. The insult had felt barbed enough that Harry felt like it could apply to him, too.

But before he could open his mouth to speak—to say anything—Pansy beat him to it, a vicious sneer marring her features.

"Oh, shut up, Weasel," she spat, eyes flashing dangerously as she shot daggers at Ron. "At leastheisn't so painfully repressed that he has to make a joke out of someone else's sex life just to feel like aman. Honestly, Weasley, it's always the loudest ones, isn't it? All that talk about who's taking it up the arse, and yet I highly doubt you've ever been able to find Granger's clit with both hands and a bloody map," she sneered, crossing her arms. "No wonder you're so bloody obsessed withwho'sfuckingwho—compensation, is it? Or are you just jealous Draco's getting more than you?"

"Pansy," Draco finally cut in, though his voice was rough as he looked at Harry instead of his friend.

Ron's face turned a deep, blotchy red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, unable to formulate a retort. Hermione gasped audibly beside him, scandalised, while Harry pressed a hand over his own mouth, unsure whether to laugh or sink into the floor and die on Ron's behalf. Most of all, he felt ashamed of not being the one defending Draco. The area fell into an uncomfortable silence, the only sound coming from the fire crackling in the hearth, casting shadows over their faces. No one seemed eager to break the tension, but no one wanted to speak either.

The tension in the room was palpable, thick enough that even Ron seemed to sense he'd taken things a step too far. He cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The silence stretched between them, each second feeling like an eternity as they waited for someone to speak, to break the tension.

Finally, it was Pansy who spoke once again, her voice tinged with disdain: "And here I thought you were supposed to be a good person, Weasley."

This comment seemed to break whatever spell had settled over them, and soon everyone was looking away. Everyone except Draco, who was still looking at Harry with hurt in his eyes so obvious that Harry had to clench his fists tightly to stop himself from embracing him. Harry could tell—it was obvious—that he was still bothered by Ron's comment. And more so by Harry's inaction against his friend.

Harry, meanwhile, was staring at the floor, his lips pressed into a thin line as though willing himself to disappear. The tension around them all thickened, hanging like a storm cloud ready to unleash a monsoon, as Draco finally looked away from him, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation while his eyes shined perilously.

Draco scoffed under his breath, his jaw clenched, so tightly Harry thought it might crack. "Should've known."

Harry flinched at the tone, his guilt magnifying tenfold as Draco's gaze flickered toward him one last time—cold and distant and so very different from the tender softness he had seen in his silver eyes just hours prior.

And so very hurt.

Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. His throat felt tight, as though invisible hands were closing around it, strangling any protest before it could form. He wanted to tell Draco that Ron was an idiot, that none of this mattered, thathe—Harry—didn't care what anyone thought. But the words tangled in his chest, held hostage by his own insecurity, his own pathetic fear.

Because saying something now meant admitting what he hadn't been brave enough to before. It meant defending Draco not just from Ron, but from himself—from the part of him that still hesitated, that still questioned whether he even had the right towantthis, to wanthim.

"Don't let me keep you, then," Draco said suddenly, his voice venomously cool as he stood abruptly and rubbed at his eyes with a shaking hand. "I'd hate to delay you lot from discussing my sexuality behind my back."

The blonde then shook his head, more to himself than anything, as if disgusted for expecting any different. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked off, his steps clipped and precise, like he was holding himself together through sheer will alone. Harry's stomach twisted painfully. He hated himself at that moment. Hated that he had let Ron's words slide, that he had let Draco's hand out of his. That he was going to let walk away now, wounded and thinking he was not desired, when all Harry wanted—all he had ever wanted—was topull him back.

He stopped for a second, and Harry dared to hope that Draco had reconsidered, but instead he just turned his head back towards Parkinson, the pain in his mercurial eyes lingering, his posture rigid. "Shall we, Pansy? I'm sure you're as tired of this dreary little place as I am."

She nodded, rising gracefully to her feet, and took Draco's arm without a word. The pair disapparated with a sharp crack, leaving behind a heavy silence that weighted on all of them like lead.

Ron was the first to break it, letting out a low whistle. "Well, he's still an arse, isn't he?"

Hermione shot him a disapproving glare full of anger that promised a thorough reprimand later on, but it was Harry who winced visibly, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of the remark.

"Dunno how you haven't strangled him yet, mate," Ron added, clearly unfazed. "Don't know if I'd have the patience, to be honest."

Harry didn't respond. His eyes remained fixed on the scuffed front steps, the heaviness in his chest growing with every passing second. He should've said something to Ron, it didn't matter if his best friend… assumed something from Harry's defence of Draco, it had been shit of him to simply remain silent. He owed as much to Draco, no matter if Ron hadn't exactly meant anything deep by it, it had still hurt Draco. And Harry, to be honest. The silence stretched again, this time more suffocating than before, until Hermione cleared her throat and nudged Ron pointedly.

In silence, the three of them disapparated and apparated into Ron and Hermione's cosy little flat. They stayed standing there for a couple of minutes, Ron looking confused but also exasperated; it was clear he wasn't very sure about why Draco had been so offended at this comment. Harry hoped Hermione would give him a lashing for it, still.

"Come on, Ronald. Let's give Harry some space," said abruptly Hermione, startling the two men

With a final glance toward his best mate, Ron grumbled something incoherent under his breath and followed Hermione towards the kitchen, where they set about cooking supper.

Left alone, Harry exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair, and sat on their sofa. The events of the day replayed in his mind like a broken record—particularly Draco's pained expression when he dropped his hand, the cold bite of his parting words, the way he'd disapparated without a second glance at Harry.

Merlin, just how long had he been awake?

..

Somewhere in Northumberland, Draco sat in the sitting room of his mother's Black estate, Cliffside, Pansy beside him as she patted his hair in a rare display of genuine sympathy. Unfortunately, her words and actions barely registered. All he could think about was the look on Harry's face when he let go of his hand as soon as they saw their respective friends—the way he wouldn't even meet his eyes after that. How he had looked away when Weasley had mocked Draco.

The ache in his chest was a foreign thing, sharp and unrelenting, as though something vital had been torn away.

For a moment, the anger burned bright, but it ultimately fizzled into something much more sorrowful. Harry didn't want to hold his hand in front of his friends, didn't want them to know aboutthem, that much was clear. Would there even be athemafter this? Was there ever athem, in the first place?

With a resigned sigh, he turned his head around and buried his face into Pansy's stomach, hoping his tears didn't ruin her dress.

..

Filum retexere, magicam exurere. Reparare quod nunc fractum est, pone vae quiescere. Familiae nexus delere.: Untangle the thread, burn the magic. Repair what is now broken, lay the woe to rest. Destroy the family ties.

Oh boy, do yall hate me for the cliffhanger? Lmao it's not a drarry fic without Harry being an absolute idiot, am I right? Listen, I love me Harry hurting Draco, what can I say?