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The hawthorn wand thrums in Harry's hand when he reaches the compartment he's been looking for. He rubs his thumb over its dark surface until the magic prickles under his skin.

Deep breath. 

Something in him rebels against every step he takes towards Draco, and it tastes like fear. Ridiculous, isn't it? After all that he's been through. Giving up the wand that saved his life is the one thing that leaves him terrified. It’s frustrating. Ginny says it's impossible to control it when something triggers his… problems, but he tries anyway. He walks inside. 

The murky green scenery speeds past the train under a grey sky, and Draco sits slumped by the window, watching it pass. Escaping from behind his ear, silky hair tumbles down to tickle his jaw. His fringe is one smooth wave to soften his sharp angles. He's alone, but Parkinson's handbag is on the seat across from him and the smell of her expensive perfume lingers in the air. 

"Back already?" Draco turns with a smile that fades from his face when his eyes land on Harry. In his deep blue sweater, he reminds Harry of fading stars and the night sky, and the gentleness of that image is disturbing. Malfoys shouldn't be associated with such pure thoughts, he's sure.

"Hi." Harry croaks, willing himself not to have a flashback to that moment in Malfoy Manor, the last time he held Draco's gaze without either of them breaking the spell. 

Draco's spine straightens. "Potter."

"I've come to give this back." Harry forces through clenched teeth. He holds out the wand. Sweat beads in the fist he keeps in his pocket. "The Ministry wanted to display it in a museum or something, but I thought - well, it's yours." He finishes lamely.

Draco looks lost. "It does belong in a museum." The light in his eyes dulls to match the dirty raindrops rolling down the window. "I have a new wand. It's not the same, but…"

"Come on. It’s yours." Harry repeats, despite the possessive beast trashing in his heart.

Draco considers him for another moment, then takes it. When his neat fingers wrap around the wood and graze Harry's palm, the wand deserts Harry in a shock of static current that stings Harry’s skin. Draco snatches his hand back as if it burned.

"All right." Harry mumbles, staggering from that ghost of a touch, then turns on his heels. The pounding in his ears almost drowns out Draco’s tentative words.

"Thank you."

The loss of that wand is an acute pain in Harry's chest. He misses having it there when he needs to touch something different. His Mind Healer suspects he’s longing for the hum of another person’s magical core, but Harry doesn’t think about her theory because the last time he considered what it means, that he’s missing the horcrux, he transformed one acre of wheat into flour in a burst of accidental magic. Ginny's presence was the lifeline that helped him through the rest of the summer after that realization. But she's not his girlfriend, and Harry can't keep burdening her with his incessant needs, so he tries to content himself with touching his friends and watching the wand from afar.

It’s only a matter of time though that watching the wand becomes watching Draco, and that’s when a whole new set of problems start.

If he's bored or tired, Draco props his head up with his left hand, the heel just under his jaw and his slim fingers curled against his cheek. Once in a while, he slips the tip of his pinky between his lips until he realizes what he's doing and pulls it out. A single pockmark mars the skin under his left eye. He hides it with make-up charms, but one morning, Harry catches a glimpse of him without them and he almost laughs. It's refreshing to find an imperfection in Draco's polished facade, even if it just makes Harry want him all the more.

Draco always eats like the aristocratic prick he is, with measured bites and lazy poise. He spears his strawberries with a fork and pulls them off carefully with his teeth, and it looks so prim compared to Ron's table manners that Harry just wants to mess him up. He wants to suck the sweetness right off his thin lips until they're bitten-red like the fruit. It's not a new desire, but may as well be for how violent it is and for how readily it feeds on the hatred Harry can't feel for Draco anymore. How long did it lie dormant in his chest? If, after only two weeks of surreptitious staring, it's a blazing fire?

For his part, Draco's quiet this year. He doesn't go out of his way to antagonize people anymore but confrontations seem to find him anyway. And when they do, he fights back.

"They bully him sometimes." Ginny says when it comes up one evening in the common room. "Some of the sixth-year boys." 

She jerks her chin at the raucous group stumbling through the portrait hole just then. Raising his head from her shoulder, Harry watches them shove a first-year out of their way and his jaw hardens. "I'll talk to them."

"Mate, no." Ron lays one of his big hands on his shoulder. "Leave it. The ferret won't thank you for it."

"Besides, it's just a taste of his own medicine." Ginny adds with a shrug, and she's not wrong, but Harry can't help the thought that it's still not right.

When he catches those boys in the act, they scamper away. As if the sheer rage in Harry's eyes were enough to obliterate every Gryffindor characteristic they may have ever possessed. Good riddance. Draco stays on his knees in the middle of the corridor, gathering his scattered things while the torn shoulder of his sweater knots back together under the hawthorn wand's magic. In stark contrast with his ashen skin, his nose is oozing blood until he flicks a nonverbal spell at it and the crimson flow stops.

Breaking from his stupor, Harry crouches down in front of him and collects the last few items on the floor. An iridescent quill, a book, a photo of his mum. Draco snatches them out of Harry's grip and stuffs them into his bag. There's blood on his lovely, infuriating sweater, and smeared on his left cheek. Harry can't help but reach out to wipe some of it away. Seeing Draco bleed doesn't evoke pleasant memories.

However, as soon as his fingers brush Draco's cheek, Draco's open expression shatters into seething rage. "Don't touch me." He hisses.

"I - I didn't mean -"

"Do you think being the Chosen One gives you the right to grope whoever you want?"

"Of course not." Harry protests, indignant. "For fuck's sake, Draco. Don't be an arse. I just wanted to help."

"I don't need your bloody help! Leave me alone." The anger in his voice sounds more like panic now.

Nevertheless, Harry's pissed off. "Oh, so next time I see them bullying you, should I just let it happen?"

"Yes! They can off me if they dare, I don't care, but I'm not going to be your next charity project, so go look for a pity fuck elsewhere." Draco spits out and stands on unsteady feet.

It hits a bit too close to the truth for Harry's liking. What the hell is he doing? This is Malfoy, he can't just assume they buried the hatchet after one civil conversation and three weeks of one-sided obsession. Their animosity runs deeper than that. Harry's problems may have scrambled his emotions with his longing for Draco's magic, but his rational mind knows that it's wrong. So wrong. 

Mind made up, Harry jumps to his feet and storms off without a word. He needs to get his head back on straight. 

It takes him five minutes to realize that Draco was shaking the whole time.

"What did you do?" Ron asks him through a mouthful of mashed potatoes during dinner that evening.

Harry spears a piece of sausage, steadfastly avoiding everyone's eyes. "Nothing."

"Malfoy looks like he wants to set that table on fire." Ron muses as he looks across the Great Hall, and Hermione follows it up with her own addition.

"No one gets that kind of reaction out of him nowadays."

Harry sighs. He has to tell them something, even if he can't figure out what went so horribly wrong. "I just helped him out of a tight situation. Then he blew up in my face when I touched him."

Ron cringes in sympathy. "Wanker."

"He looks…" Hermione worries at her lip.

"What?"

"Shaken. Not angry."

Ron frowns at that. "Do you think he has a problem with, you know. Touch." He says, with too much stress on the last word.

Harry scoffs. "Never did before."

"Living in a house full of Death Eaters can do that to a person, Harry." Hermione says with a look that should hold some significance but Harry can't put it together.

He's too angry and confused for sympathy. "You forget that he was one of them too."

Ron and Hermione exchange a glance, but they leave it alone.

Despite himself, Harry’s intrigued. Does Draco have a problem with touch? Sounds unlikely. But it is true that he hasn't been anything like his old self lately. He keeps to himself and doesn't talk to anyone aside from Parkinson and Zabini. He isn't popular anymore but neither is he ostracized, so it doesn't make sense for him to be that reserved, does it? He should be gathering his new posse. Instead, he spends his free time holed up in the library. Why did he recoil from Harry like a wounded animal? Is there such a thing as touch phobia?

Unsolved mysteries never leave Harry alone. He falls asleep thinking about it and then wakes up from a nightmare where the hawthorn wand snapped in his hand and all the warmth seeped out of it right before Voldemort raised his own wand and aimed. 

"Fuck." Harry shudders. 

His loneliness pulls his skin tight like ice, and he wants so desperately to crawl into Ron's bed and press against his magic that it hurts. But he can't do that anymore. He can't burden his friends with this shit. They love him, but no one understands what this hunger is like, how the missing weight isn't freedom but abandonment. Bile rises in Harry's throat. He runs to the bathroom and makes it just in time to throw up in a sink. Noisy, ugly sounds echo between the tiles. As if vomiting could expel the tainted hollow the horcrux left beside his soul.

He cleans up and goes for a walk. Wanders aimlessly around the castle, mending small cracks they overlooked during the reconstruction, and he's not surprised when he ends up in the Astronomy Tower. The place where, he thinks, his childhood ended for good. He's quite a bit more taken aback though when he finds Malfoy, of all people, leaning on the banister there. Looking down at the patch of grass where Dumbledore fell that night.

"What are you doing?" Harry demands. It comes out harsher than he means it to, and Draco startles, almost dropping his glowing wand.

"I could ask you the same." He snaps, but the words fall apart halfway in the air. There's a dawn in his silver eyes, red-rimmed, glittering brightness above the dark shadow of a sleepless night smeared on his skin. Why is it that Harry finds him the most compelling when he's broken?

"Are you okay?" He walks closer. Draco may look upset beyond belief, but his magic is comforting. Harry's tempted to wrestle the hawthorn wand out of his hand again just to feel more of it.

Draco sneers, either at the stupidity of the question or Harry's presence in general. "Sod off."

"What happened?"

"None of your business."

"I haven't seen you cry since -" 

"Since you almost killed me? A nice memory, I bet." 

Harry wants to smack himself. He doesn't want to fight Draco anymore, but if he keeps hitting at the sorest spots, it's the only way this conversation can unfold. Deep breath, he reminds himself. "Since Dumbledore's death."

The rosy splotches left by his tears drain from Draco's face. "Right."

"We've never really talked about -"

"- anything." Draco glares. "So let's not break that lovely tradition. We're not friends."

"We could be."

With a bitter laugh, Draco sinks down against the banister and puts his forehead on his drawn-up knees. "Fuck you."

Harry ignores Draco's defensive hostility. "Can I, er. Can I hold your wand for a moment?"

Draco's head snaps up. "Are you out of your mind?"

It's stupid, so stupid, but Harry needs it tonight. "Probably."

"Why?"

"I want to check if it's properly yours now." Harry lies.

"Yeah, sure, and I'm an innocent little angel. Zero points for creativity."

Harry flaps his arms. "Look. I don't - I had a nightmare about Voldemort, and holding it for a moment would help." He goes with a half-truth. Perhaps it will wear Draco down.

To his astonishment, it does work. Draco scowls at him for another minute, but eventually, the fight leaves him, and he lets his head drop back against the stone behind him in defeat. "Whatever."

Careful not to give his relief away, Harry sits beside him and pulls the wand gently out of Draco's hand. Their fingers brush. Warm honey trickles into Harry's stomach. 

"It still hums." He mumbles reverently.

Draco's marble eyes are fixed on the stars, and his voice rings empty. "They tore the Manor down."

Harry stops his selfish exploration of Draco's wand to look at him. At his straight jaw, his pointy nose, the unhappy line of his mouth. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." Draco mutters, but he shifts until their shoulders press together.

The warmth in Harry's body pulses. It's almost better than holding the wand. He sucks in a breath, then lets it out slowly. "I'm sorry that you're in pain."

"Save your pity, Potter."

"I don't pity you." Harry says firmly. "But you've been punished enough. And… I know what it's like, not having a home."

Draco's lips wobble. He closes his eyes. "I don't want to talk to you."

Harry nods, but he stays there, pressed to Draco in silence until the sun rises.

How many tragedies does it take to become wary of happiness? How many more until you ignore all sense of foreboding because you just want to enjoy it while it lasts? Harry can't pinpoint when he tipped over the line into the latter, but nowadays, he doesn't care whatever the hell they think about his actions. He deserves to be a little selfish, he tells himself as he marches into Charms resolutely and plops down next to Draco in the back of the classroom.

He can't decide who's more outraged, Ron or Draco himself.

"They can't gawk at me if I'm behind them." He offers a hasty explanation before Draco could stop spluttering and bite his head off. Over Draco's shoulder, he sees Parkinson's look of horror and almost laughs.

"That's Blaise's seat." Draco's voice is low and dangerous.

"He's late, so it's mine now." 

Zabini isn't technically late, but by the time he arrives, Harry has already put his stuff all over the desk to make sure neither his, nor Draco's friends dare remove him. The only risk is Draco himself taking off, but as the room fills with the rest of their class and he still doesn't move, Harry relaxes. He can feel Ron stare but something shiny catches Harry's eyes and he focuses on that instead.

Hidden partly behind a curtain of blond hair, a tiny silver snake curls around Draco's ear. Its eyes are glittering emeralds. As Harry watches, gaping, the magical jewelry raises its head and regards him curiously between two strands of Draco's hair. Harry's tempted to hiss something teasing at it, but the last thing he wants is to scare Draco away with his weirdness. Or worse, have his bollocks hexed off.

"You have a piercing?"

Draco's head whips around. "No."

"Then what -"

"It's called an ear cuff, Potter." Draco informs him haughtily, then he colours. "Don't give me that look. It's a useful tool."

Flitwick chooses that moment to enter the room, and the class falls relatively silent as he launches into some complicated lecture about weather charms. Five minutes later, Hermione's hand is in the air and Harry's ready to settle into a comfortable slumber with open eyes. Even from an arm's length away, he imagines he can feel the languid pulse of Draco's magic, and he breathes his warm scent in. It's both exciting and oddly familiar. He watches Draco's ear cuff until it lets out a hiss, 'sleepy', and freezes.

Magic never seems to stop surprising Harry. He jots down a quick note to pass to Draco. 

"useful how?"

Draco doesn't answer at first, just vanishes the note, but when Harry keeps prodding him with an elbow, he cracks. With a withering look, he tucks his quill behind his ear and the little snake curls around it instantly, holding it in place.

"nice. I still think you just like the look though"

Draco removes the quill and all but stabs Harry's piece of parchment in irritation. "So what if I do?"

"then we agree on something"

The corners of Draco's lips curl up before he can get them under control again. In a carefully nonchalant way, he gathers a loose lock of his hair and tucks it behind his ear, and the snake wraps around that too. Under the silver, the tip of his ear flushes bright red.

It's the image Harry thinks of when he lies restlessly in bed that night. Eyes blind to the world and heart wrenched open, he imagines putting a dried flower into the little snake's clutch in Potions and he goes warm all over. He's doomed.

Two weeks after Harry began his quest to befriend Draco for all too selfish reasons, Draco falls down a flight of stairs and breaks both of his legs. Although it's nothing life-threatening - certainly not as bad as losing all the bones in one's arm - it still warrants an overnight stay at the Hospital Wing, Harry knows. His instincts scream at him to go and make sure nothing else happens while Draco's there. Only an idiot wouldn't put two and two together. Draco isn't a clumsy person, and he's a decent dueller. It must have been one hell of a fight that knocked him down those stairs. Or, and Harry feels that this must be the case, someone attacked him when he thought he was safe. The memory of those sixth-year bullies swim in a rage-tinted haze before his eyes.

It's a torture to wait for Ron to begin snoring and for Seamus' chatter to die down, but as soon as the sight is clear, Harry gathers the Cloak in his arms and tiptoes out of his dormitory. He hopes Draco won't hex him into smithereens.

The Hospital Wing is empty, but notes of a corny melody drift over from the curtained off bed in the far corner. Harry pads over there and peeks in through a gap between the curtains. An old-fashioned, minuscule record player drones on from the bedside table where a single candle burns. Draco lies on his back, bruised all over, and he rubs at his throat with an expression that radiates pain. A binding charm glows softly around his legs to keep them immobile, and there's an array of potions on the tray beside him. His hair is fanned out on his white pillow as he stares at the ceiling. Transfixed by the sight, Harry creeps as close as he dares before pulling the Cloak off.

"Hey." He says quietly.

Draco jumps, but he must be drugged to the gills with Calming Draught because he relaxes immediately. His thin hand flops on top of the blanket. “Ah, Saint Potter to the rescue.”

Harry frowns. "Why do you sound like that?"

Draco touches his throat again, but it doesn't erase the raspy, weak quality of his voice. “Botched Silencing Charm.” He says. "They didn't want me to scream."

"Fuck."

"Quite." Draco smiles without humor. "Pomfrey says it's going to take a few days to heal."

A muscle tenses in Harry's jaw. "I'm going to -"

"No." Draco cuts him off. 

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He looks around for a chair, but upon finding none, he sits on the edge of the mattress and gives Draco a hard look. "This has to stop."

"How righteous of you. Standing up for a Death Eater." Draco's lips twitch. He tugs at the sleeve of his pyjamas. "Need a reminder?"

"No." Harry says dryly. "I know. I don't care."

Draco blinks, and his eyes widen with equal amounts of puzzlement and wonder. They stare at each other for a drawn-out moment until the record player starts a new song. 

“Could you please kill it?" Draco inclines his head at it. "I hate old Muggle music.”

Then why were you listening to it, Harry wants to ask, but he bites his tongue. Fumbling, he turns the device off and sits back down. Candlelight flickers in Draco's grey eyes. He closes them slowly, then forces them open again, fighting sleep, and Harry can't stop watching the way those fine eyelashes flutter in their struggle. He hears a metallic, serpentine sound from Draco's ear cuff in the awkward silence, 'pleased'.

Oblivious, Draco sighs. “What do you propose we do now?”

"Um." Harry didn't plan this far ahead. Panicking, he empties the pocket of his hoodie and finds an old pack of cards. "I can teach you some Muggle card games."

Draco rolls his eyes. "Salazar, have mercy."

"Do you have a better idea?" Harry retorts, but Draco just laughs at him. It's not the mocking glee of the past seven years, nor the bitterness that tainted the past few months, but something pure and sweet. The Calming Draught must have lowered Draco's guards, it's the only explanation for his sudden openness. If Harry knew this smile before this year, punching Draco wouldn't have been so high up in his list of desires, he thinks with a jolt. He doesn't dare admit to himself what would have replaced it.

"Can I touch it?" Draco pulls him out of his reverie, glancing at the Cloak bunched up on Harry's lap.

After only a moment's hesitation, Harry nods and pulls part of the fabric closer to Draco. 

"How soft." Draco whispers as he strokes it, then sticks his hand under it, and a suddenly invisible finger pokes Harry's leg. Harry glares. Draco's nice laugh makes another appearance.

Five minutes later, Draco falls asleep. His blanket rises and falls with his peaceful breaths, and the bruises on his sallow skin begin to fade as the potions work. He must not have been sleeping well recently. In the shimmering light, he looks sick and fragile, but he'd probably transfigure Harry into a toad even in his sleep if Harry told him that. 

"What am I doing?" Harry mumbles, stomach roiling. 

He can't fall for Malfoy, the person who he considered his enemy for six years, who broke his nose and hurt him, the person he sliced open at his lowest. He can't. Why can't his heart settle on someone sweet and kind, someone who won't break it? Does it work like the horcrux does, that he longs for the pain just because it's what he's grown used to? The unfairness of it is a punch to the gut. He blows out the candle and moves to leave, but something compels him to glance at Draco once more. Unbidden, his hand rises to touch the invisible lump under the Cloak. He traces the lines of Draco's bones through the fabric.

Whether he wants it or not, he's falling.

"I'm going to talk to McGonagall." He says resolutely, then freezes. Draco's hand moves under his. It slides into visibility and rolls until it brushes Harry's thumb, his index finger slipping into the dark groove between Harry's palm and the sheets. Silence reigns. Harry's blood turns into sparkling water in fright, but Draco doesn't wake. 

When Draco learns that Harry notified McGonagall, he doesn't talk to Harry for a week. He's careful to sit bracketed by his friends in class and Incendio-s every single note Harry smuggles over to him without reading them. He's so proud in his pain that Harry can't figure out how to break through to him. What's so wrong with wanting to help?

He asks Hermione about it, and while she doesn't know the answer, she does tell him she's proud of him for the way he dealt with those bullies. Not with brute force and rash action, for once. Harry's not above exploiting that a little.

"Absolutely not." Hermione crosses her arms when he explains his plan on a quiet afternoon in the common room.

"Please, Hermione." He begs. "If you go over first, he won't run away. I just need an in."

"I don't know why you think he'll tolerate me, but it's not going to work."

"He told me he's your partner in Arithmancy."

"There's only four of us in N.E.W.T.-level Arithmancy!"

"Still. You have an excuse."

Hermione sighs. She looks over at the cozy fire and her favourite place on the sofa, then back to Harry's pleading face. After a moment, she purses her lips and wrangles her thick locks into a bun, all business. "I swear to you, Harry, if he's going to -"

"Thank you!" Harry cuts her off with a hug, grinning ear to ear. "I owe you one."

"You so do."

The plan is the following: Hermione corners Draco in the library and convinces him to let her study at his table to compare notes. Harry waits until Draco's engrossed in one of those extremely swotty discussions Hermione says they have sometimes, then he ambles over. They study together, with Harry sitting next to Draco with a little luck, and Draco gradually defrosts. It sounds good in Harry's head.

What actually happens though goes nothing like that, because Draco spots him through a row of books and across the aisle as soon as he enters. So, when Hermione approaches him, the first thing out of his mouth is "I thought Potter was allergic to books."

"You're not wrong…" Hermione says, but Draco's eyes have already left her and are now fixed on Harry as he emerges from the other aisle. It would be futile to keep to the plan at this point.

"Excuse me, Granger." Draco stands up, gathers his stuff and tries to escape into the belly of the library where the smell of old books is thick as a Stunning Spell. Undeterred, Harry marches after him and manages to intercept him by a shelf filled with dusty editions of wizarding art manuals. He puts a hand on Draco's elbow, on Draco's amazingly fluffy blue sweater, but Draco whirls on him so suddenly that he has to take a step back.

"What do you want?" Draco scowls. 

"To talk."

"About what? Your weird wand kink?"

"I don't have a wand kink."

Draco snorts, but he looks tired now, the flame in his eyes dimming. "Fine. Talk."

"I'm not going to apologise. What those boys did was - It wasn't the world I fought for and I couldn't bear it. So, there. I did it for a selfish reason."

Draco's mouth thins. "I know you did it to help me."

Harry's shoulders sag. "Why does it bother you so much?"

"Because it implies that I'm not your equal."

It's said with such raw desperation that Harry can't help but squeeze both of Draco's elbows this time, he wants to shake some sense into him.

"That's a load of crap." Harry hisses at him. "And before you start on this, you don't owe me anything. Relationships don't work like barters."

Draco looks stunned. His right hand rises and hooks onto Harry's arm. "Relationships?"

"Yes." Harry lets his arms drop. His left hand brushes Draco's all the way down to his wrist. "Friends don't keep tally."

A beat of silence passes, then Draco exhales. "Circe, you tire me out, Potter." A reluctant smile graces his face. "Come along then, Granger wants to discuss our Arithmancy assignment."

Shit. "Er..."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Or you can go back to the Weasel, see if he wants to crush you in chess, your choice."

Harry may just write his Transfiguration essay a whole two days before it's due then. "I'll stay."

Faking indifference, Draco saunters back to Hermione and sits beside her. She seems relieved to see them come back in one piece. After a quick exchange of pleasantries with Draco, she throws herself into their work with renewed enthusiasm. Resolved to two hours of utter boredom, Harry plops down opposite them and opens his Transfiguration textbook at a random page.

'Kehler's theory of limestone to marble transfiguration in eighteenth-century town halls led to…'

He sighs and chances a glance up. He finds Draco watching him back.

The next weeks pass in a blur. The seat on Draco's left is suddenly free again in every class they share, and more often than not, a charmed paper bird finds its way into Harry's bag during breakfast, bearing teasing insults or comments about his hair. Harry can't quite figure out the game but he rolls with it, filching Draco's quills and ink pots in retaliation just to hear him complain, and then laughing when the items appear right in front of him again. They bump into each other on the Quidditch pitch one time and spend hours lying on a sun-warm stand high up, facing opposite ways but close enough that Harry feels Draco's hair tangle in his when the wind blows. They talk until the sun sets. The first stars blink at them from the sky when Draco finally confesses that he hasn't been able to fly since Crabbe's death, but he's trying.

The morning before Seamus' inter-house Halloween party, they're waiting for Sprout by the greenhouses and Harry can't stop yawning. He watches Draco from afar. His squinting, pale eyes in the sunshine, the strands of white-blond hair caught in his eyelashes as the wind whips around him, the woolen scarf he tucks his chin into. If it wasn't for a half-asleep Parkinson hanging off his arm, Harry would go over and check if Draco's lips are as cracked dry from the chill as his own.

He barely hears Neville talking to him and Ron by the locked greenhouse door.

"...and did you know that Wiggentrees -" Neville's monologue comes to an abrupt stop. "You're not even listening, are you?"

"Sorry, Nev. I tried, honest." Ron yawns. "It's too bloody early to think."

"Never mind. I'm used to it." Neville pats both of their shoulders. "Watcha looking at, Harry?"

Harry isn't fast enough to turn away. They both follow his gaze to Draco, who chooses that moment to glance up. He scowls when he catches them staring and makes a rude gesture. How pathetic is it that Harry's heart flutters with warmth?

He fights back a smile. "Er…"

"Not this again." Ron groans.

"What?" Neville asks in confusion.

"He's obsessed with that foul git."

"I'm not." Harry denies vehemently. "And I was right about him last time, anyway."

Ron fixes him with a concerned stare. "Have you been stalking him again?"

"No! Of course not." He scuffs his right shoe on the half-frozen ground. "We're friends. Kind of."

Ron narrows his eyes at Draco. "Sounds dodgy. First Hermione, now you. He's up to something."

If this is what Harry sounded like in sixth year, he doesn't blame his friends for thinking he's gone crazy.

"People change." Neville muses. "He might have too."

"Pff." Ron glares. "Do you think they're coming to the party? The Slytherins?"

Neville shrugs. "Seamus is pretty sure about Blaise. I don't know about the rest."

Harry's mind races. As they enter the warm respite of the greenhouse at last, he pulls out a piece of parchment and charms it to fly his question into Draco's hand. When Draco glances at him and smiles, his heart trips over a beat. Although Halloween will always remain a somber day to him, Seamus' party is technically on the 30th. He can join the celebration this one time, can't he?

It's a costume party, not that Harry puts a lot of effort in his. He charms an elaborate fake scar over his actual lightning bolt, wraps tape around the rim of his glasses and finds one of Dudley's old plaid shirts that's still a bit too big for him. With his sneakers and an old, ripped pair of jeans that are slightly tight on his thighs now, it looks disheveled in a hopefully sexy way.

When Draco catches sight of him from across the classroom they appropriated for the occasion, he bursts out laughing.

"Do I get points for creativity?" Harry grins at him as he approaches.

"I can't decide whether it's a ten or a minus ten out of ten." Draco smiles back. He's flushed from the drink in his hand. Chances are on Firewhisky. In the low, colourful lights, his hair seems to glow. With his silver dress robes and the glittering jewelry in his ear, he looks cold and ethereal.

Harry clears his throat. "What are you supposed to be?" 

"Nothing." Draco shrugs. "I didn't have a costume. Though I've been told I look like an elf from something called Lord of Rings."

"Lord of the Rings." Harry smiles. "It must be the hair."

"I should have it cut."

"No!" A terrible blush scorches Harry's cheeks. "I mean - this is a good length. Er, for you."

"Is it?" Draco takes a sip of his drink, watching Harry above the rim of his cup. "Well, count me flattered, Potter."

Harry shoots a glance at the crowd writhing on the dance floor. He can spot Seamus in a dragon tamer costume putting on the charms for a curvy girl, Ron and Hermione jumping up and down and then snogging - ugh - at appropriate parts of the song. Neville is either a Tentacula or one of those trees he's been gushing about, and he's dancing in a circle of familiar faces, including Luna and Blaise. That looks relatively safe. Harry could... stand beside Draco there and pretend he can dance.

He gathers his courage. "Would you like to dance?"

Draco bites his lip and looks at the dance floor. Something flashes across his face. "I've seen you dance, and I'd rather keep my toes intact, thank you."

It should be discouraging, but Draco's eyes don't stray from Harry, and he doesn't look like he intends to brush him off. The image of Draco's reaction to Harry's fingers on his cheek comes to Harry's mind - it must be the crowd. Yes, that's it. Draco doesn't want to be touched by them.

"Do you wanna get out of here then?" Harry snaps his mouth shut, horrified that he managed to phrase it like a come-on, but Draco's smile is relieved.

"I could be persuaded."

Harry puts a hand on Draco's elbow. "Let's go."

They sneak out to the grounds and walk around among the dying leaves and the ever-green patches of grass that roll down the hills like a carpet. Draco does a warming charm for both of them and conjures a little bird that makes a nest in Harry's hair before vanishing when Draco laughs. Harry pushes him into a puddle in retaliation. Draco's complaints about having to dry his wet shoes don't cease until they stop by the lake. It's dark, but the golden light from the Castle's windows reflects in it like a myriad of floating lanterns.

Harry picks up a stone and skips it on the water, watching the wet shimmer flicker three times. 

Draco snorts. "Weak." He tries to skip one too but it sinks after the first bounce.

A triumphant smirk curls Harry's lips. "You were saying?"

Draco's eyes narrow. "Best out of five."

They finish three rounds before Harry concedes that he's been played and that Draco's the sodding ducks and drakes champion. Draco crows in delight and spreads his arms, long and thin all over, imperfect, and yet he might be the most alluring thing in the world in Harry's eyes. 

It's almost curfew when they decide to head back.

"There's an eyelash on your cheek." Draco observes as they trudge back towards the Castle and its light illuminates Harry's face.

Harry brushes a hand over his skin. "Did I get it?"

Draco makes an exasperated noise and stops him. He's close enough now that his clean scent tugs at the desire coiling in Harry's belly, that one step forward would be kissing him, and breathing means sharing his air. Anticipation sparks in Harry's fingers, and he knows he's going to lean in and go for it if Draco doesn't. He's going to press his mouth to the place where Draco's lips are the plumpest and bite. 

While he watches with wide eyes, Draco reaches out and plucks the eyelash off Harry's cheek. 

"Do you know what Muggles do with these?" He says in a strange, low voice. Upon Harry's blank look, he closes his eyes and blows on the fallen eyelash as he lets it go.

This is the point where Harry's brain finally enters the conversation again and sobers him up. "Did you wish on it?"

Draco shrugs mischievously. To Harry's chagrin, he backs away. "We'll see if it works soon."

"What did you wish for?"

"For you to fall over in your shoelaces."

"Mature."

They resume their walk back, but as they thread across a thick growth of grass, Harry feels an invisible rope around his ankles and he faceplants on the ground. A nonverbal Trip Jinx.

Draco, the bastard, laughs the sweetest laugh Harry's ever heard him make. "Wishes do come true!"

"Oh my God." Harry groans and throws a handful of grass at him. He's hot and cold all over from yearning. "Give me a hand up, will you?"

Draco dithers, but takes Harry's outstretched hand after a moment. It's a mistake - Harry pulls, and he's stronger, heavier - enough to overpower Draco's attempt at resistance and have him tumbling to the ground. Draco lands with a soft groan, just a few inches away, and Harry turns on his side to see him better.

Draco mirrors him, glaring. "If you ruined my dress robes, you'll wake up covered in boils."

Harry snickers, then slowly quiets down. He watches Draco and thinks that if he leaned in to kiss him now, Draco might let him. He reaches up to pick a leaf out of Draco's hair, but the look in Draco's eyes stops him. His arm drops back down.

"Does it bother you when I touch you? Your other friends cling to you all the time."

"Other friends? Salazar, do you think we're friends?" Draco pillows his head on his arm. The warmth of his breath fans Harry's lips. "Are you jealous?"

"Yes. Don't change the subject." 

"Yes, we're friends or yes, you're jealous?"

"Both."

"Oh." Draco turns his gaze away. "It doesn't bother me when you touch me. If anything, I -" He swallows, then gives Harry a threatening look. "If you use this against me, I'm going to kill you."

When Harry holds a hand up in surrender, he goes on. "Since. Well. Since my trial, I've been experiencing some curious illness, so I went to Mungo's, and they diagnosed me with -" He takes a fortifying breath. "- Crucio-induced skin sensitivity and a resulting tactile deprivation. My friends help with my recovery."

It takes Harry a moment to parse out the true meaning of that sentence. "Um, are you touch starved?"

Draco makes a face. "In essence."

"But you avoid my touch."

There's a long pause. "I think I'd overreact to it."

"Don't you always?" Harry teases, but he doesn't like the wan smile he gets in response. He puts a single fingertip on Draco's knuckle, more serious now. "I wouldn't mind."

Draco turns away and pulls his hand back, but the silver snake in his ear looks at Harry mournfully and hisses, 'ssscared'. Harry furrows his brow. He needs to think.

Three days after that incredible, confusing, maddening night with Draco, Harry tracks Draco's best friend down at the end of her free period, when he knows Draco's still in Arithmancy. The Map leads him to a random supply closet in the dungeons which turns out to be a secret den when he steps into it. There are cozy cushions everywhere in the small room and an ornamental window lets the familiar green glimmer in from the lake. Charmed fairy lights decorate the low ceiling. Parkinson's curled up on the loveseat crammed into a corner, reading.

"Potter!" She drops her book and squeaks when she sees him enter. "How - How did you find this place?"

Not particularly fond of her, he sticks his hands in his hoodie pocket. "I have my means."

She collects herself, straightening up just like Draco did back in September on the train. "Did you want something or do you expect me to grovel at your feet first?"

"Is that what you think you should do?" Harry asks back, then sighs at the stricken look on her face. "Sorry. This wasn't the best of starts."

"No." She says quietly.

He walks closer and lowers himself to a tentative perch on the sofa cushions. There must be an Extension charm on them, because the seat widens automatically. "I'm not ready to let things go yet. But - We can give each other a chance, I guess."

"Okay." Her brown eyes bear into his in scrutiny. "Did Draco put you up to this?"

Harry frowns. "No, why would -"

"Because I'm. I'm messed up about it." She sniffs. "I truly am sorry. I was terrified."

Harry wishes he could say it's okay and mean it, but he's not ready yet. "I know."

She nods, and the tension between them eases. Harry fiddles with his fingers. "What do you know about Draco's problems?"

Her eyes narrow. "What do you?"

It's reassuring to know that, at least, she's a true friend. "I want to know how to get him used to my touch."

"Planning on touching him a lot, are you?" She comments shrewdly. Harry purses his lips but says nothing. "He needs to see that you're going to touch him, and you can't do it too lightly because that feels more sensitive. Apply pressure."

"Okay. I can do that." He breathes out, glad to have some clarity at last. "What about his hair?"

"His hair?" Parkinson gives him an odd look. "It's fine. You can touch it if he lets you."

"Does he like -"

The door opens.

"Pansy?"

"In here, darling!" She calls out, and a second later, Draco appears from the doorway.

"Potter." He falters in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Er..."

"He gave me some pointers on my Patronus Charm." Parkinson improvises. "You know how long I've been trying to get it right!"

"I see."

Afraid that if he lets the silence linger, Draco's going to work out the actual reason for his presence, Harry blurts out a question. "What's your Patronus?"

"It's a -"

"Secret, Pans."

Parkinson shrugs. She stands up and, with a quick look at Harry, she puts a hand on Draco's chest. Firmly. "Are you coming to Hogsmeade on Saturday? We could go to Honeydukes."

Draco glances at Harry, then averts his eyes when Harry raises his eyebrows. "I have to work on my assignments. Vector expects twelve feet on Monday." He squeezes Parkinson's shoulder. "Another time."

"All right." She sighs. "Dinner?"

Draco nods. "Yes. Let's go."

Harry's next mind healing session starts like every other, a dose of his weekly anxiety potion and five minutes of silence that Harry should but doesn't break. He examines the carpet, the trinkets in McGonagall's office, the tea on the small table between him and Greta, his Mind Healer. There's still some Floo powder on the sleeve of her robe. Does Draco have a Mind Healer? They didn't talk about it. Does McGonagall let him have his therapy here?

"What would you like to talk about today, Harry?" Greta asks him eventually.

They go through this every week, and Harry still hates it. He doesn't want to talk or he wants to but doesn't know how, and he has to force the words out. 

"I don't know." 

"Have you been sleeping well?"

His hand flops on the arm of his comfy chair. "Better than before. I only had the usual nightmares this week. Falling into Fiendfyre, snapping the hawthorn wand, Voldemort."

"Did you have any good dreams?"

"Yes. One." He smiles a little. "I can't remember much, but I dreamt that I was holding something soft -" Draco's sweater. Maybe. Probably. "- and I didn't feel as hollow as usual."

"What did you do on the day before that dream?"

Harry thinks of Halloween, the lake, wishing on an eyelash. "There was a party."

"Did you have a good time?"

"I guess." The truth comes tumbling out before he can think it over. "I realized that I'm falling in love."

Her smooth, accepting expression warms a little. "How do you feel about that?"

"Like my skin is too small. I want to touch him so bad." He crosses his arms and shields his eyes with a hand, embarrassed by his confession. 

It's a testament to Greta's professionalism that she doesn't bat an eye that Harry Potter has just come out to her. "I think this is a good thing, Harry. You told me you hadn't experienced any attraction since your sixth year. This is progress."

"I know."

"But?"

He rubs the stubble on his jaw. "What if it's like the wand? That I just want to fill the hole the horcrux left in me?"

"When you're together, do you still long for the wand?"

Harry thinks and finds that yes, he is. Even if Draco is distracting enough that he usually forgets about it. "Yes."

"That might be your answer then."

"Do you think it means that my feelings for him and the wand are separate?"

"I think that you can tell the difference between longing for something that's missing and wanting something new."

"I don't think about the wand or Voldemort all that often anymore."

"Not being preoccupied with it is a step in healing."

"Am I healing?"

At this, she smiles. "Yes, Harry. I'm positive."

On the Hogsmeade weekend after the party, Harry sleeps in. He luxuriates in the quiet, the warmth of his sheets and the weight of a long, peaceful sleep in his eyelids. A night without bad dreams is an excellent start to the day. And a good sign, he decides. He smiles into his pillow and reaches for the Map.

Unsurprisingly, he finds Draco in the library, in a small nook hidden between the History of Magic II and the Art shelves. This is where he must have been headed the last time they met here, Harry realizes with amusement. There's only one table and two chairs, a padded one and an ancient hardwood monstrosity. Draco, of course, sits in the former, leafing through a tome that should be classified as restricted based on its size alone. It's doubtful that any regular human could put it back on the shelves without a Levitating Charm. The window on Draco's left lets a stream of sunshine pour on the book and Draco's hair, highlighting the dust particles that float in the air around him. Harry imagines sitting by his side and kissing the sun's warmth off his cheek while Draco pretends to keep studying, and the thought makes him sigh. He's been doing that so often lately that Hermione called him out on it yesterday.

"Hey." He greets Draco with a smile and slips into the free seat across from him.

"Hi." Draco smiles back. Judged by how pleasant he is already, he must have had a nice morning too. "How come you braved this dangerous, uncharted place again? I thought you'd be escorting girl Weasley to Madam Puddifoot's today."

No, you didn't, Harry thinks with a mental eyeroll. "I didn't want to go out." He says. "And you know very well that I'm not dating anyone." Yet, he hopes.

Draco shrugs it off. He writes something down in his notes. "You could have gone to the Three Broomsticks with your entourage."

This time, Harry does roll his eyes, even though Draco doesn't look up at him. "It's busy on Saturdays. Everyone stares at me."

"Poor you." Draco smirks at his parchment. "Do they ever try to slip you love potions?"

"All the time. I have to take a preemptive antidote before entering any pub." Harry props his head up in his right hand and watches Draco's laugh lines deepen. "It's not funny."

Draco looks up and raises his left hand to rest his chin in it. "You know me. I delight in your misery."

"Did I interrupt your date with that monster -" Harry gestures at the book. "- or are you free right now?"

Draco's hand lowers to the table again. A terrible temptation. "Depends."

Sometimes, Harry's a weak, weak man. Careful not to surprise, he curls his fingers around Draco's loose fist and shakes it. "Fancy a Seeker's game?"

Draco glances at their joined hands but doesn't pull away. After a moment, he looks longingly out the window. "I might not be up for that yet."

"We can work up to it." Harry says, unsure if they're still talking about flying or not.

"Tell you what." Draco draws his hand back. "I'll finish up my 'date' with this one, then we'll go down to lunch and then you can take me flying. How about that?"

A few dreadful hours in exchange for a whole afternoon with Draco? Harry doesn't think he's ever agreed to anything faster in his life.

Despite Draco's earlier reservations, Harry does manage to coax him up into the air after a good half hour of struggling. First wobbling and then gaining more confidence, Draco follows him in a circle around the pitch until a dam breaks in him and his old ease comes back. He speeds past Harry and spins in the air, laughing, shooting high up into the clear blue sky. Harry rushes after him, and they play with an old, sluggish Snitch until the light turns marigold and Harry feels like his face has caught on fire in the sunset's blaze.

They stop high above the pitch, where they see most of the grounds. The students returning from Hogsmeade are tiny ants dotting the rust-brown paths. 

Draco smiles and closes his eyes. "I missed this." 

"Me too." Harry agrees, and watches Draco's hair as the wind combs it to one side then straight back, a glowing counterpoint to Draco's blue sweater and the flushed carnation of his cheeks. "What's in your pocket?"

Draco glances at his trousers and what he pulls out is a tangerine, barely bigger than the Snitch in Harry's palm.

"Ah, I was going to eat this after lunch." Draco muses, then shoots a playful glance at Harry. "Do you remember Longbottom's Remembrall?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. Before Harry could so much as blink, he pulls his arm back and throws the fruit far into the distance. Harry's instincts are faster than his comprehension, and he's already in pursuit by the time he realizes what he's doing. His eyes zero in on the rapidly falling dot in the sky and he zooms after it, faster than the wind and feeling light as a feather.

He catches it, as he knew he would. Not even fighting a war and dying could take this away from him. It's exhilarating.

He floats back to Draco slowly and throws the fruit back to him, shaking his head when Draco smirks and begins peeling it with a charm. In this golden hour of the day, Harry barely feels the chill that creeps into the afternoon. He lets his eyes linger on Draco's long legs braced on the broom's foot grips and smiles when Draco makes the peeled tangerine skin spin in the air like some odd windchime.

"You were such a mean child."

"I was a stupid child." Draco says after he swallows the segment in his mouth. "I thought I was cool."

"I thought you were a ponce."

"Not anymore?"

Harry smirks. "Now, you're just a weirdo."

Draco throws the tangerine skin at him, and Harry startles, spluttering. They both laugh at how ridiculous it all is until Harry drifts close enough that his knee bumps into Draco's outer thigh. Bursting into another fit of giggles, Draco pushes him away with a hand on Harry's thigh, and the butterflies in Harry's stomach flutter. He stills. His heart isn't set out to torture him with more pain, he knows now, because when they're alone, Draco's different. He's soft and playful and abruptly whimsical, and Harry thinks that Greta's comments about trauma and healing are neither here nor there, because it doesn't matter why he likes Draco. He just does.

"Can I kiss you?" It comes out before he can do anything about it.

Draco looks gobsmacked. "What?"

Harry's face burns. No going back now. "I'd like to kiss you." 

Draco takes a deep breath, another, then a smile begins to play about the corners of his lips. "Then catch me."

He flees towards the ground and Harry chases him through the blinding sunshine, past the Quidditch pitch, out of sight from the Hogsmeade road. They land on a patch of browning grass by a sunlit Castle wall, and Harry expects Draco to continue running on foot, but instead, he throws his broomstick to the side and lets Harry catch him around the waist like it's all he's ever wanted, and then they're kissing, out of breath and full of life. Harry pulls Draco flush to his body and devours all the affection Draco offers to him, hands fisted in Draco's soft sweater, shaking. Draco tastes like oranges and the fresh autumn air. His nose is cold where it digs into Harry's cheek but his mouth is hot and wet, and his hands are gentle on Harry's flushed neck.

"Good game, Potter." He smiles, unable to stop long enough to let Harry explore his mouth. There's glittering joy in his silver eyes. "I was afraid I'd fall off my broom if we did this up there."

"You're smarter than I am." Harry grins into the next kiss. "We should play more often."

"Agreed." Draco mumbles against his lips, and they kiss until the shadows quench the sunlight on the wall. 

It's wonderful. Nothing could trample Harry's good mood, not even double Potions on Monday, especially not when Slughorn instructs them to work in pairs. He acts as Draco's assistant, chopping and crushing away distractedly while Draco makes the potion and tries not to blush under Harry's intense gaze. It's a miracle that they get anything done at all, but Draco's talent pulls them through. They finish before the rest of the class, and as a reward, Slughorn lets them leave early. To Ron's half-hearted glare, Harry responds with a shrug.

"How should we spend our minutes of freedom, I wonder?" Draco slants a look at him as they walk down the empty corridor, then makes a small noise of happiness when Harry pulls him into an alcove.

"I have an idea." Harry smiles and captures his lips.

It's only after several long, blissful minutes of snogging that he notices that Draco can't stop trembling.

"You're too gentle." Draco winces and squirms, shying away from the hands Harry has been stroking up and down his sides, over his thin shirt. "Use deep pressure, okay? I didn't tell you, but you can't do - that." He gestures at Harry's hands, his expression desperate. "I'm sorry, I'm not well enough yet."

"It's okay." Harry hurries to reassure him. It's his fault, he should have paid more attention to follow the tips Parkinson gave him. He just didn't get it, did he, the true extent of Draco's problems. He knows better now. He leans in for another kiss, harder than before. "Sorry. I'll stop it. Is that why you're shaking?"

Draco nods. At Harry's forlorn look, he steps closer and wraps him in a tight hug.

"You do it too lightly. My skin expects pain." He breathes in deeply to calm down. His hair tickles Harry's neck. "You know, just. Just before a Crucio hits you, there's some kind of charge in the air that feels like…"

"Like a caress." Harry whispers. He knows. 

Draco leans his head against Harry's. "My body got used to it and tries to avoid it. It's called tactile defensiveness. So I have to - uncondition it. That's what my Healers say."

"Okay."

"It has to be gradual."

"Got it." Harry squeezes Draco's waist with newfound determination.  "We'll make it work."

Harry's limited experience with relationships didn't prepare him for the constant, dizzying arousal he feels for Draco. It's like an addiction, the more he gets to touch, the greedier he gets. They don’t even need to be in the same place - Harry might just be hanging out with his friends in the common room and going through Ron's Quidditch magazine and he gets assaulted by filthy-hot mental images of Draco on a broom. His ultimate kink, as he's starting to discover. It's so distracting that he mentions it to Greta, then regrets it immediately when she suggests he act on it. He can't. He can't touch Draco like that until he's sure it's not painful, and how could he be? Besides, what if… what if he’s so bad at it that Draco will break up with him as soon as they get to it?

“Stop thinking, you’ll hurt yourself.” Draco mumbles into the pillow under his head. He’s stretched out on the sofa in what he calls his “lair”, the Slytherin den Harry discovered a few weeks ago. They’ve spent a lot of time here since their first kiss - snogging, mostly. And doing some kind of touch therapy that Harry half-suspects is just an excuse for Draco to get free massages every day. Not that Harry minds.

He shifts where he’s straddling Draco’s legs and rubs the small of Draco’s back on either side of his spine. “I could do this so much better if you took your shirt off.”

“So you keep saying.” Draco sighs. “What’s on your mind? Don’t tell me it’s Quidditch again.”

Sex, Harry thinks, a vicious heat rising to his cheeks. He goes with his usual deflection. “I can’t believe the Cannons won a game.”

“Right?” Draco perks up, forgetting his previous complaints. “Weasley must think he ascended to heaven.”

Harry chuckles. “He and Hermione are going to visit her parents over the holidays, so no, not so much.”

“Why? Ginger war heroes don’t suffice for Granger Senior?”

“They live in Australia. And Ron’s scared of spiders.”

Draco laughs, a low rumbling under the palms Harry slides up and down his back. “I’ve been to Brisbane, once. Tell him he has every right to be scared.”

“Tell him yourself.”

“And be on the business end of his fist?” Draco turns over, the fading echo of a smirk around his lips. He picks Harry’s left hand up and traces the scar on the back of it, lost in thought. When he looks up at Harry, his expression is completely somber. "My mother asked me if I wanted to go home for the holidays." 

"What did you tell her?"

"That I don't have a home anymore."

Harry freezes. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing, not now. He thinks of Draco crying in the Astronomy Tower, his vicious replies whenever Harry asks after his parents, his stiffness when he opens his letters in the Great Hall. 

"That must have hurt her." He settles on saying at last. He waits. For a chance to talk it over, for Draco to finally open the door to the tar of hatred and pain pooling in his stomach, but it doesn't happen. When Draco’s silence stretches into awkwardness, he decides to move on. He slides his free hand up from Draco’s stomach to his chest. Apply deep pressure, he reminds himself. "Are you really going to stay here?"

"Yes."

"Then I will too."

Draco keeps staring at Harry’s scar, barely breathing. "Don't be daft. The Weasleys would miss you."

"They'll understand."

His grey eyes flicker up to meet Harry’s. "Are you going to tell them about us?"

Harry can’t help but wince at the thought. "Not yet."

"They hate me. With good reason, of course, but…" Draco broods. "The public will be out for my blood when they find out."

“I don’t give a fuck about the public.”

It’s said with such heat that they both still. Slowly, with his eyes locked on Harry’s, Draco slides his fingers under Harry’s tie and tugs. Their lips meet in a messy kiss, too hungry for any semblance of decorum, and Harry’s thighs shake with the effort to keep from tilting his hips and finding some relief.

Draco’s arms snake around his middle. "Come here, lie down on me." 

"I don't think that's a good idea." Harry confesses, mortified when Draco looks down. There's no mistaking the bulge in his trousers, but Draco’s embrace doesn’t move, and his gaze, when he raises it again, swims in desire.

"I need more cuddles. Healer's orders."

"You're just looking for an excuse to embarrass me." 

Draco pulls the tail of Harry's shirt out of his trousers. His left hand slides under it, up Harry's naked back. "I like it when your whole body touches me."

Fuck. Harry exhales. “I want to have sex with you.”

Draco's smirk slides back into place. “Do you?”

“Don’t tease.”

“I wonder what's with you and your habit of dramatic confessions."

"Honesty isn't dramatic. Look into a mirror if you want to see some real drama."

Draco covers his face with his hands and laughs. "You've always been so easy to rile up. Okay, how about this?" He scoops his wand up from the floor and turns the overhead lamp off with a flick, so that only the fairy lights stay on. "Now, lie down on me."

At last, Harry does. 

"Is this okay?" He wants to ask, but Draco's mouth steals the words off his tongue, and then he forgets to speak.

It's over before it could truly start. Draco tilts his hips just right for Harry to grind against him and he kisses Harry with a ferocity that leaves them both breathless. Within minutes, Harry feels all his pent-up frustration rise like a tide and he wants it to last but there's no holding back. He grabs at the hand Draco still has curled around the hawthorn wand and comes in his pants. 

With his free arm, Draco hugs him tight as a vice. "Good boy."

Harry groans. "I hate you."

Draco shoots a cleaning charm at him. The familiar magic stings Harry's arm from the fingers he has around Draco's grip to the back of his neck. It has been so long since he held Draco's wand that the sudden surge of magic is like a wound ripped open. Harry grits his teeth. 

"Can I ask you to do something for me?" He asks, raising his head. He can only hope that Draco attributes the strain in his voice to his embarrassing display a few minutes ago. "When you're with me, use your other wand."

Draco frowns. "Why?"

"I just want to make sure about something. It's hard to talk about."

Draco stares at him for a long time before he answers. "All right, Harry."

Harry. For the first time. Just Harry.

It makes something fundamental in Harry glow. If he were to cast Expecto Patronum now, he'd be able to clear Azkaban of dementors for good, he thinks.

"What are you smiling at?" Ron nudges him during one of their reluctant study sessions in the common room. It's just the two of them - Hermione abandoned them in favor of the library, an idea they both found repelling enough to stay and do some actual work here.

Harry has written one miserable foot of his Potions homework before his mind began to wander. His and Draco's free period coincided yesterday, and they spent it hiding in an alcove behind a tapestry on the second floor. He kept kissing the little mark under Draco's left eye until Draco confessed that he got it when he was eight. He sneaked into the Muggle village near the Manor and contracted chickenpox at the playground. 

"I convinced the elves not to tell my parents." He said. "Father was furious when they found out. It was my first lecture into 'why Muggles are inferior'. Lovely anecdote, isn't it?"

"I have a chickenpox mark too." Harry said without thinking and took off his shirt. For the first time in front of Draco.

"Just thinking." He tells Ron in the present. "What would Hermione like for Christmas?"

Ron's sigh comes from deep in his chest. "Merlin knows. I'm doomed. It's our first Christmas, you know, together. I have to get it right." He gives Harry a lopsided smile. "You have it easy, mate."

Somehow, Harry isn't so sure about that.

“Sweet Merlin.” Draco murmured, stroking up and down Harry’s naked back, neck to ribs to waist. They had started hugging almost as soon as Harry's shirt hit the ground, and he still sounded blissed out from it. "Harry."

"How does this feel?" Harry asked and ran his hand through Draco's silky hair, then down his neck. His only answer was a hum. No flinching. "You're getting better."

Draco buried his face in Harry's neck. "I still feel deprived though." He dug his fingers in. "I want my Christmas present to be a permanent ban on your shirts."

"You don't have as many nightmares nowadays." Ron says, making it sound like a question.

Harry gives him a glance, but finds nothing but earnest concern in his face. "Yeah. Greta says I'm healing."

Ron smiles and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm glad."

Their first fight is, of all things, about Patronuses.

"I don't know why you're so bloody secretive about it." Harry says as he follows Draco up the stairs to the Astronomy Tower. He doesn't know why they're going up there again, but he suspects that Draco's trying to shake him off and run away from the conflict.

"Not everyone's is as meaningful as your familial love declaration!" Draco snaps. Behind him, outside the window, the gloomy drizzle of rain seems to echo his dark mood.

"Everyone's is meaningful, in different ways!" 

"I don't want to show you. Just accept it and move on."

"Fine. So you don't trust me."

"No, I fucking don't!" Draco yells, and they both stop in their tracks. When he turns, his eyes look shattered, stricken. "Harry…"

"What's wrong with you?" Harry hurls the words at him, because if he doesn't speak, he's going to cry.

Draco laughs, but it's the nasty one Harry recognises from fifth year, before Draco changed. He takes a step down, looming over Harry from above. "No, what's wrong with you? You're addicted to my wand."

"Don't." Harry clenches his jaw. "Don't bring our issues into it."

"Our issues now, is it?" Draco sneers, pouring as much contempt into his voice as he can, but it still doesn't mask his desperation. "Since when is it my problem? Why should I care?"

It's harder than facing a dragon, but Harry stands his ground. He knows the words are intended to hurt him. "Because you're my boyfriend."

"Tell me something. Is my wand the only reason why you bother with me?"

Realization dawns on Harry like liquid dread. "No."

"Oh, so there are others as well?"

"Do you realize what you're doing? Asking questions without a good answer, you want to - you want to drive me away. Yes, I can see it in your face, you - fuck you, Draco, I'm not going anywhere."

Draco shrinks into himself after that outburst, looking very much like he's about to hide and cry his eyes out. "You should."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know why you wouldn't!" His mouth wobbles, just like it did when Harry found him crying over the Manor. "There's nothing in it for you, except for the wand."

Harry breathes out. Breathes in. Out again. Some of the fear drains from his chest. "Do you want a list or will you believe a simple 'I like you'?" When no answer comes and the dejected expression stays, he pulls out his wand. "Okay. Look. Expecto Patronum!"

Bright silver bursts from his wand, shapeless mist at first that begins to take shape, and instead of antlers, it forms a tail, in the place of hooves, paws appear. After countless excruciating days spent with Mrs. Figg, Harry knows that the fluffy, graceful animal between him and Draco is an Angora cat. It pads over to him and starts doing figure eights around Harry's legs, looking up at him with wide, almond-shaped eyes.

Draco stares. "That's not a stag."

"No."

Another moment of silence passes, then Draco takes another step down and shifts to stand in Harry's space. Just like a cat angling for affection, Harry thinks giddily. "How long?"

Harry gives him a sheepish look. "Just now? I wasn't completely sure it would be different, but - I felt something change when - when you yelled at me."

Draco watches the cat a little longer, then looks back up at Harry. His eyes are almond-shaped. "I didn't mean what I said."

"I think you did a little." Harry tells him with a sad smile.

Sighing, Draco bumps their foreheads together. "Mine has been a bloody stag since I first cast it in October."

Harry drops a kiss to Draco's brow to hide his smile. "And you say that's not meaningful."

With a hint of reluctance, Harry agrees to go to the Three Broomsticks on the last Hogsmeade weekend before the holidays. It's crowded, and people stare, but his friends surround him like a protective bubble and save for a few photographs, he's left alone. Ginny links their arms together and flips off the Prophet vultures trying - unsuccessfully - to follow them into the pub. It reminds Harry of what he always liked in her, the fire and the irreverent way she treats his fame. Something she shares with Draco, he thinks.

It's a good day, even though the love potion antidote has a funny aftertaste and he has to ask Neville to do some of his Christmas shopping. He's sure that even his mundane purchases would make the Prophet's front page. He doesn't dare think about what the media would do if they found out what he bought for him and Draco through anonymous owlpost.

They enter Honeydukes at the same time that Draco leaves it, and their eyes meet for a moment before Draco turns away, face carved from stone. He greets Hermione with a polite smile that Ron honors with a suspicious look, then he's on his way, and Harry's left staring at the hard set of his back as he passes through the gathered reporters. He doesn't have a ring of friends to keep them from touching him, Harry realizes. Protectiveness surges in his chest.

"Ron." He tugs at Ron's sleeve. "I want to head back."

"Okay." Ron's answer is immediate. "I was going to buy some Sugar Quills, but we can go."

"No, you stay. I'll use the Cloak." Harry reassures him. Having Ron there wouldn't be a wise strategy to help Draco relax.

"Are you sure? Feeling okay?" 

"Yes, just… tired."

"All right."

With Ron's help, he manages to slip under the Cloak unnoticed, and he runs after Draco with a sense of excitement bubbling in his chest. It feels like getting away with something. It gives him a rush reminiscent of all the secret little missions he, Ron and Hermione went on together.

He catches up to Draco on the path back to Hogwarts just as Draco shoves half a bar of some expensive chocolate into his mouth. When they're side by side, Harry pulls the Cloak off and smiles.

"Hey." 

Draco chokes on his snack.

"Shit, sorry." Harry tries to put on a contrite expression but his lips keep twitching into a smile. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Red-faced, Draco glares. "Do you do this on purpose?" He croaks, then clears his throat. "Last time, I almost fell out of bed and broke my legs all over again."

That's a rather dramatic take on it, Harry thinks. "You remember that?"

"Of course." Apparently recovered from his shock, Draco gives him a sly smile. "You held my hand."

Harry blushes. "I so didn't."

"You did." Draco laughs as they continue down the road. It's still early enough that the path is deserted. They're alone. "I was half-asleep but I could feel it."

"You don't know what you felt."

"I think I can tell when someone holds my hand."

Defiant, Harry grabs Draco's gloved hand and pulls it into his jacket pocket. "This is what it feels like when someone holds your hand."

"Oh?" Draco raises his eyebrows, even as the pink on his cheeks deepens. "They shove it in their pocket?"

Harry looks resolutely ahead. "I don't have gloves."

"Hopeless." Draco takes his hand away, but before Harry could begin to wallow in the bitterness of rejection, he puts it right back into Harry's pocket. Without a glove this time. His warm fingers curl around Harry's ice-cold ones as he heaves an exaggerated sigh. "The lengths I go to…"

Harry snorts.

By now, Harry should know that peace, where the media is involved, never lasts long. When he goes down to breakfast on Monday, he finds Ron in a strop and Hermione giving him the silent treatment. Opposite them, a strangely subdued Seamus spoons cereal in his mouth.

"Cheerful." Harry comments after a few minutes of quiet chewing. The only reaction is Seamus' tell-me-about-it expression. With countless memories of his best friends' fights in mind, Harry shudders. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Ronald is delusional." Hermione snaps.

"Ronald?" Harry mouths at Ron, and they share a look of understanding. Ronald means trouble.

"Skeeter came up with some utter tosh again." Seamus informs Harry and pushes a slightly wrinkled Prophet in front of him. From the fifth page, a disturbing headline blinks at him, along with a photo of Draco and Hermione smiling at each other in front of Honeydukes while Ron scowls in the background.

"Ex-Death Eater in Love Triangle with War Heroes?" Harry reads in disgust. "This must be a new low. Did you seriously get into a fight over this?"

"Ron thinks I should stop 'giving Malfoy ideas'." Hermione says in a sharp tone. "He thinks that I need his protection."

"I didn't say that!"

"You implied it."

Harry interjects before the situation escalates into a full-blown fight. "Ron, I can assure you that Draco isn't attracted to Hermione."

"How do you know? Did the ferret say that?" Ron asks.

Harry falters. He can't very well come out and say that Draco has been too busy snogging him to look at girls. "He, uh, he has a crush on someone else."

Seamus' eyes light up. "Mate, that's gold, who's it?"

"Er, I can't tell you."

"Come on, Harry, I promise not to pass it on."

At that, Harry laughs. Seamus is an incorrigible gossip.

"Does he really have a crush?" Ron asks in a hopeful voice. When Harry nods, he sags in relief, putting a hand on Hermione's back. Mollified, she doesn't pull away. "Poor sod. Fending Malfoy off must be a nightmare."

"Who said it's not mutual?" Harry says lightly. "And why do you think it's not a girl?"

"Have you looked at Malfoy lately?" Seamus gives him an incredulous stare. "I mean, it was always there. But now that he's out of Daddy's iron fist, it's kind of obvious."

"He's not like you and me, mate." Ron adds, forgetting that five minutes ago he was afraid Draco would cozy up to Hermione.

"Right." Harry says, stunned. At Hermione's shrewd glance, he turns back to his breakfast.

It's only a short paragraph of an article, but something in it must have hit a sensitive point because Draco doesn't turn up for breakfast and he misses their morning classes as well. Worried that it may not be because of the Prophet after all, Harry seeks him out on the Map and finds his dot unmoving in the dormitory. When it still doesn't budge by dinnertime, he decides to check up on Draco in person.

With his Cloak, it doesn't take long to get into the Slytherin common room, and from there, it's only a matter of finding the right dorm. He steps inside as silently as possible, surprised to find only two beds in the room. He doesn't know why he expected something different - he knew that the only eighth-year boys who returned were Zabini and Draco.

From the bed closer to the door, Draco's voice calls out, muffled by the drawn curtains. "I told you, I'm fine, Blaise."

Harry takes the Cloak off. "It's me."

The curtains flutter open, and Draco's surprised face appears in the gap. "I won't even ask you how you got in here." He's in monogrammed silk pyjamas, Harry notes with amusement. He gestures at his mattress. "Do you want to sit down?"

Harry nods and settles down beside him. As the silence stretches on, he reaches up to touch Draco's face gently, but Draco winces at the contact. 

"Sorry." Harry grimaces. He squeezes the back of Draco's head instead. "Better?"

Draco nods and kisses him.

It's sweet and slow until salt melts on Harry's tongue and Draco's exhales against his cheek begin to stutter. When he pulls away, Draco's face crumples. He lists forward and breaks into a sob against Harry's shoulder.

"Hey, shh." Harry rubs Draco's back awkwardly. He doesn't know how to comfort people. He has never been comforted as a child. He wouldn't even know how to help himself. Ron likes to be distracted and Hermione always wants to talk it out in a rational way, but he has a feeling that Draco needs a drastically different approach. "What's wrong?"

Draco just cries harder, limp in Harry's arms. "Maybe… maybe we should lie down." Harry suggests.

He toes off his shoes, removes his glasses and shifts back on the bed, pulling Draco with himself until they're lying on their sides, Draco's face pressed to his chest and soaking his clothes. With some fumbling, he manages to extract his tie and throw it on the floor, but his damp shirt stays on and sticks to his skin. It feels weird to lie in a clean bed in his uniform. It reminds him of the first exhausted sleep he took after the war, dirty and wrenched open, but he forces himself to stay put. He holds Draco as gently as he dares until the tears dry out.

"Harry." Draco hiccups when he finds his voice again. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything. All the shit I've ever said to you, for hurting you, for breaking your nose, for - fuck, for Granger -"

"It's okay." Harry whispers and finds that he means it. Who cares about childish rivalries anymore? "I forgive you."

"I've always liked you." Draco shifts until they're nose to nose, looking at Harry with a dim light in his eyes. As though he's confessing something horrible. "Even when I hated you, I wanted to be close to you. It wouldn't have mattered whether you won or lost the war."

Harry frowns, unsure where this is going. "Okay…"

"You're not - To me, you're the boy who didn't take my hand in first year, who always got the Snitch before me, who cut me open - You're not a hero."

Harry raises his eyebrows. "That's not the best track record for a boyfriend."

Draco bursts into a wet laugh. "What I mean is that it doesn't matter to me what you did in the war. My… my feelings -" He takes a steadying breath. "- aren't based on that."

Harry puts a firm hand on Draco's waist. "I still don't get it."

Draco's wet eyelashes, clumped together, lower, then rise again. "Did you read the Prophet's article about me?"

"That rubbish on the fifth page?" Harry mutters. All this because of a Rita Skeeter article? He's going to hex that woman to St Mungo's if they ever meet again. "Only the headline."

"Well." Draco fixes his eyes on Harry's neck. "They said I was looking for absolution for my crimes."

"You were acquitted."

"It doesn't matter. They speculated that I wanted to crawl back into society by dating a war hero."

And just like that, Harry gets it. "Oh."

Draco gives him a fierce look, despite his tear-stained cheeks. "I don't want absolution. I want you to know that I'm aware of - of what I've done and - You're not a hero to me."

Harry shakes his head. "Draco, I don't believe the libel in the papers." He steals a quick kiss. "I know what we are to each other and the war has nothing to do with it."

Draco searches Harry's eyes for another moment, then wipes his face. "I suppose I overreacted."

"A little bit." Harry laughs. "But I guess we had to start talking about it one day."

Draco closes his eyes. "Do you know what Father told me when they destroyed the Manor? That it would have been better to die." He puts his hand on Harry's at his waist. "I don't think so."

A strange tranquility washes over Harry. "I know what it feels like to die."

After that, the words come out in a flood. His worst memories, the days of tense boredom camping with Ron and Hermione, killing horcruxes, using an Unforgivable, facing evil ready to die… and Draco listens. He matches Harry with his own terrors until the gaps between them begin to fill with something that pulses like trust. A new, tender connection they didn't dare reach for before. Until, at long last, Harry tells him why he wants to touch the hawthorn wand. "Sometimes, I miss the horcrux." He confesses through a ragged exhale. "Not the - not the evil, of course. Just. Fuck, I can't explain."

"Try."

It takes a long time to find the words, but Draco waits it out. "The weight. Having something to hold close. Something magical. It's like a hollow place inside me."

A moment passes as the knot in Harry's guts loosens.

"Well." Draco starts with faux-nonchalance. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I can be pretty clingy." He rubs the tips of their noses together. "And I may not be heavy but I'm taller than you, so it evens out." 

When Harry smiles, he mirrors it with his own. "And some say my mouth is magical."

"Hm, is that so?" Harry grins and tilts his head into the kiss Draco lays on his lips. "I think they're onto something."

They make out in blissful silence. With their legs tangled and sighs intertwined, they hold each other close and bask in the spell that fell over them since they began to talk. Doing it in Draco's bed feels different, more intimate than the den, so when Harry's hand slips under Draco's shirt, neither of them moves to stop it. Harry rucks it up a few inches.

"Let's take this off." He nips Draco's neck. Under his palm, he can feel the thin trail of hair leading a path down from Draco's belly button, and he traces it to Draco's waistband. There's a break in it there, a spot of completely smooth skin.

Draco grabs his wrist in a vice-tight grip. "I have scars."

"I suspected." Harry says quietly. "I'm so sorry."

"I just don't want you to be repulsed."

"Repulsed by a scar? Me?" Harry smiles and receives a faint one back. "I wish I could go back and stop myself." 

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay." Harry says. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the scar. "Can I keep my hand here?"

Draco hesitates, then nods, but he doesn't take his shirt off. He kisses Harry's chin and turns around so that they're spooning, as if settling down to sleep. Harry doesn't want to sleep though. This is the first time that he got to touch Draco under his clothes, and he wants more. So much more.

He curls his left arm under Draco’s head and waits until Draco snuggles back into him before he pushes the tips of his fingers under Draco's trousers. It's warm in there, and the silk is a smooth veil on his knuckles. 

"Harry?"

He nuzzles the hair away from Draco's neck to mouth at Draco's skin. "Can I?"

The breath trembles in Draco's chest, but his answer is steady. "Okay."

As far as hand jobs go, Harry doubts it's anything to talk about, but he revels in every second of it. Draco's cock is long and heavy in his hand, so similar to his own and yet completely different. It hardens in the circle of his fingers as he touches it. He tries to keep his grip firm from the beginning and jerks Draco off from root to tip, playing with his foreskin and listening to his breathing change. Within seconds, Draco's so wet with precome that he doesn't even remember to ask for lube.

Draco twists at the waist so that they can kiss, and Harry obliges, opening Draco's lips with his own and swallowing his small sounds of pleasure. Draco curls his left hand behind Harry's nape to draw him deeper into the kiss, then lets it drop to rest it on Harry's fist as it moves up and down, up and down. Harry tightens his grip, and a moment later, Draco's breath leaves him in a shaky rush, while Harry's strokes become wetter and wetter until he realizes that Draco has come. 

He made his boyfriend come.

"You're amazing." He murmurs into Draco's neck, in awe.

"I didn't even do anything, you lunatic." Draco pants, but he's flushed and happy, and Harry's in love.

On the last day of classes before Christmas, someone decides to charm a corridor to set off fireworks whenever a person says Christmas in it. It's intended as a harmless holiday prank. No one realizes that it would be a good idea to at least warn Harry about it. This is why, when the spell goes off above his head, he's caught in a flashback so severe that his accidental defensive magic carves a hole into the wall. 

It's Hermione who brings him back, who strokes his hair until Harry remembers where he is and what he's done. Embarrassed, he lets her pull him up from where he's been huddled on the floor and lets her hold his face to her neck until his heartbeat slows down. There's a hand on his back too. Wide and heavy - it's Ron's. The firework spell is removed, and nobody present mentions it again.

When Harry comes back to it fully, he sees Draco's distressed face on the other end of the corridor but, of course, he can't go over to him for a hug. One more reason why fame is more of a curse than a blessing. He hugs his stomach and avoids everyone's eyes. 

A charmed paper bird flits through the air and sits in his hand. "Okay?"

Harry shakes his head. He should talk to Draco, tell him in words, but he can't get away from Ron's protective presence long enough to offer an explanation. He follows his friends down to the dungeons and into Potions without further messages.

It feels like he might not make it through the class after that incident, but just before Slughorn shows up, a heavy bag thunks down on the table beside him with a finality that's very unlike Harry's usual Potions partner. Across from him at the same worktable, Ron and Hermione stare.

"This was the only free seat." Draco declares, which is a blatant lie, but no one calls him out on it. Ron tries to chase him away with hostile glares and insults, but Draco doesn't budge. He's willing to battle it to provide Harry some comfort, and if that's not a declaration, Harry doesn't know what is.

Harry gets the first blowjob of his life in the den hidden in the recesses of the dungeons. It's the first day of the holidays, and they have just come back from the station, seeing their friends off. Their cheeks have been pinched red by the chilly winter cold, and Harry's limbs sting from the change in temperature. They're sitting side by side on the sofa, with Harry's arm around Draco's shoulders. It would be the perfect time to have a nap. Instead, Draco looks at him and pushes Harry's knees apart.

"I've been thinking." He says, palming Harry's inner thigh. "I think you deserve an early Christmas present."

"I do?" Harry asks hopefully and bites his lip when Draco's fingers dance over his crotch.

"I thought, since you like my mouth so much…" Draco trails off, but his hand opens Harry's trousers and pushes inside.

"Yes." Harry groans. "That would be - please. Yes."

Draco's expression is amused, but he schools it into something haughty. "Well, then. Give me a pillow."

"Okay."

Draco kneels on it, tucked close between Harry's spread legs, and Harry's breath catches in his throat. The golden-green light of the stained glass that looks over the lake makes Draco's skin glow. He pulls Harry's trousers down and kisses his knees, then his thighs before taking his underwear too. It's only when he's faced with Harry's aching cock that he falters.

"This pillow is lumpy." He grumbles, stalling, and points his wand at the plain cushion until it turns into ivy green velvet. Then, after a brief pause, he casts a cleaning charm on Harry's dick.

"Shit." Harry gasps at the cool sensation, erection flagging a little. "I'm not dirty, you tosser!"

Draco glares up at him. "Forgive me if I don't trust your standards."

"Way to kill the mood."

"We can't all be bloody cavemen, can we?"

Harry rolls his eyes, then curls his fingers around Draco's chin. "You're nervous. You don't have to do it, all right?"

"No, I want to. I do." Draco dips his head to kiss Harry's thumb. He seems to brace himself. "Don't pull my hair."

Which, Harry understands, is an invitation to put his hands right into those spun gold locks. He takes it. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Draco does an amazing job. Harry doesn't have anything to compare it to but he can't imagine anything better than this, the all-encompassing warmth, the tingling, the slick sounds, Draco's tongue, God, it drives him insane. Draco flutters between confidence and trembling uncertainty, and Harry loves that they're exploring this together, that he gets to see Draco grow comfortable and find his flow, even if it means a bit more enthusiasm on Draco's part than perhaps advisable. 

When Harry comes, it happens beyond his control and without warning, accompanied by a moan so loud that he wants to hide his face in a pillow. He rides the high for a long beat, blissed out, and then Draco pulls off and coughs, and his lips and chin are a mess, curses fall from his mouth. Everything's awkward and hilarious and fun. Harry laughs. In retaliation, Draco bites his thigh.

On the 23rd, they get caught up in an impromptu snowball fight with some of the other students who stayed for the holidays. Snow flies in every direction and no fortress is safe. It's a moment of chaotic joy. There are flakes melting in Harry's hair and his hands are red and numb, but he takes on a group of first-years on his own anyway. Draco charms a snow dragon into existence to help him out and his laughter is louder than their delighted shrieks as it chases them around. Harry gives him a winning smile, then shoves a handful of snow down the back of Draco's neck, and then it's an all-out war. Wetness seeps through their clothes, but neither of them cares. They don't leave until Harry's hands threaten to fall off.

On their way back to the Castle, their arms brush with every other step they take, and Draco's smiling at nothing. The tips of his hair curl up under his knit hat. Harry watches him tilt his face up into the languidly falling snow and hates himself a little for what he's about to do, for ruining this happy moment. But he doesn't know if he'll ever feel strong enough again to do this. He stops at an intersection of paths and turns to the one leading to the Forbidden Forest.

"Draco?" He asks quietly, the mist of his exhale coming out of his mouth in puffs. "Would you walk in there with me?"

Draco looks between him and the looming treeline, torn between his fear and Harry's request, but he nods. He doesn't ask where they're going. Perhaps, he doesn't need to - it must be written in Harry's expression, in his blanched skin.

As they near them, the trees creak, and the breeze picks up to carry their mysterious whispers to Harry's ears. He wonders if the Forest swallows lost souls and absorbs them into the dark leaves, the branches, the dead ground under the roots. Did it keep Voldemort's victims too? Does it remember the evil that tainted the earth here? 

At the treeline, moss-covered rocks pile up under a rowan tree like an abandoned fairy ring. They step over them and leave the blinding white grounds behind, turning to the shadows. Deeper in the depths of the woods, the bushes around them shake, birds crow and screech in fright, never having seen a human before. Nature reacts to their presence with rustling noise. Until, suddenly, all the sounds stop.

Harry's heart races wildly in his chest, trashing to remind him how much he wants to be alive, just like it did before he died. He never did manage to count how many beats it took until Voldemort raised his wand and said the curse.

"I can't." Harry whispers, eyes wide and staring at the empty clearing where Voldemort held court.

"Of course you can." Draco's voice tells him from behind. Harry doesn't dare look at him - what if he's just an illusion of the Resurrection Stone?

"No." He shakes his head.

There's a pause. Then, slowly, Draco skirts around him and saunters ahead. When he turns, his face is bleached white from terror but his voice doesn't shake. He spreads his arms. "Come on, Potter. Don't tell me you can't do it when I can." 

Harry looks into his silver eyes. It's a challenge, and he can't back down. He can't give in now. He's a Gryffindor, and he has seen death - there's nothing on that path that he can't brave now. He steels himself and follows Draco as he backs away, deeper into the polluted forest, until they reach a singed spot on the ground. And Harry knows. He didn't get to see it that day after he came back, but this is it, he knows. The place where the green light hit him, where he stared down Voldemort and accepted the end.

Draco comes back to him and touches his sleeve. "You did it."

"Look at the grass." Harry says in a voice he doesn't recognise. A raindrop falls from the sky, then another. It takes a few more before he realizes he's crying. "It's dead."

Draco's hand moves to his back. "It will grow out again. It just needs some time."

Harry wipes his nose and lets his lungs fill with the cold, musty air. "He drove the life out of everything he touched. Listen. You can't even hear any birds, just like that day."

Long moments of utter silence trickle down when nothing but their breathing ruffles the air. Then Draco steps away again. "Well, what if we do something about that?"

Harry blinks at him. The dried tears on his face tickle. "Like what?"

"Like this!" Draco yells, startling Harry badly enough that he draws his wand. "Come on, Harry!"

Harry frowns. "Stop goading me into things."

"Stop being a coward then!"

Harry's anger rises. "I'm not a coward!"

"Show me!"

"You're an idiot!"

"Yes, I am!"

To Harry's complete astonishment, he feels the beginnings of a smile. "Draco!"

"What?!" 

Draco's chest heaves. He looks alien here, in his soft hat and immaculate clothes, with his frightened eyes, and it's all Harry needs to rewrite some of the horror he witnessed in this place. He laughs. "Oh my God."

"Do you feel better now?" Draco marches back to him. 

"Yes. Thank you."

As soon as the words are out of Harry's mouth, Draco takes off towards the Castle at a brisk pace. "Good, because I'm fucking terrified, and if a werewolf kills me, I'll haunt you to the grave." 

And if death is loud, life is quiet. On Christmas Eve, Harry takes Draco up to his empty dorm and plays silly party games with him under their miniature Christmas tree until they're sprawling side by side on the floor, looking up at the fairy lights among the pine leaves. Draco's freshly-washed hair spills over Harry's new Weasley sweater where he pillows his head on Harry's arm. 

"Merry Christmas." He grins at the magical baubles above.

"Merry Christmas." Harry echoes and turns to his side, reaching out. Under the red-gold glow of the holiday, for the first time, he manages to caress Draco's cheek.

"You know -" Draco begins with a nervous little glance at Harry's face. "- it wouldn't be practical for me to go back down to the dungeons now."

"Yes. Very impractical." Harry mumbles. His index finger moves down Draco's throat, enchanted by the way it feels to touch his skin so tenderly. "We have plenty of beds here. You can choose."

"Right." Draco pulls himself to his feet and pats one of Harry's bedposts. "What if I want this one?"

Harry follows him. "Then we'll have to share."

"Oh." Draco's flirting gaze drops to Harry's mouth. "However will we manage?"

They move to close the distance at the same time. Draco's lips open at the first touch and invite Harry in, and they kiss standing there for long, languid minutes, with the certainty of what they're about to do warm in the air. When Draco's arms wrap around his waist, Harry tucks Draco's hair behind his ear and nudges the snake ear cuff.

‘Come now.’ He hisses in Parseltongue. It slithers onto his finger, and he puts it on the bedside table, along with Draco's signet ring and his own watch. He holds Draco's hands to his chest and kisses his way down to Draco's neck, where the skin is supple and smells like the olive body milk he uses. He sucks, and Draco moans.

The Weasley sweater ends up on Harry's trunk and Draco's soft blue one follows, then Harry's belt, his shirt. When Draco pulls away to start on his own buttons, there's defiance in his eyes. Harry focuses on the small red mark he put on the porcelain skin of his neck and waits until he hears the soft swish of fabric hitting the ground to look down. As he feared, the scarring is extensive, criss-crossing Draco's torso like an abstract painting, and it stabs Harry on the inside, but he doesn't show it. He knows that Draco would hate him if he made it a big deal, the same with his Mark. No. If that's what it takes, Harry will kiss that ugly tattoo marring Draco's arm and he'll pretend it's just a simple patch of skin he happened to graze with his lips.

He strokes a palm down Draco's chest. "I think you're beautiful."

Draco's laugh sounds like someone's first breath after breaking a lake's surface. "Because you're fucked up."

"Do you care?"

Draco's eyes blaze. "No." 

They kiss again, chest pressed to bare chest, and Draco runs his fingers through the dark hair on the unblemished skin around the locket's scar. "Maybe I'm just as fucked up as you are." He mumbles into Harry's mouth.

Harry smiles and slowly, carefully, draws Draco's belt out of its loops. It clunks on the ground. His fingertips slip under the waistband of Draco's trousers. "I'm nervous."

Draco's chuckle shakes almost as much as his fingers do when they pull Harry's fly down, over the hard ridge of his cock, a loud zip in the silence. "Astonishing. Did I finally find something that makes our fearless Saviour falter?"

Harry's cheeks burn. "Shut up."

A hot exhale blows over Harry's lips. "Shut me up." 

They spend that night warm between the sheets until Harry's arms tremble from exhaustion and Draco's hair sticks to his sweaty forehead. When Harry flips them over so that Draco's on top, they laugh into each other's mouths. It's awkward, slippery and amazing. The fingertip bruises on Harry's back ache, and he takes, takes, takes. The hollowness eases away.

Later, while the weak moon paints shadows on the floor, Draco tells him a story about a charm that captures that light in stone. About his mother's ridiculous wizarding romance books and moonstone rings, and he sounds mocking, but his ear cuff whispers 'wants', and for the first time since the war, Harry thinks years into the future. Hopes. He presses kisses to Draco's fingers, one after the other. 

The sky is more purple than black in that eclipse period between midnight and dawn when he turns Draco on his stomach and slips back into him again, pushing a gasp past Draco's kissed-raw lips.

"That's good." Draco's breathing hitches in rhythm, fast and startled. "That's really good, Harry."

"Yes." Harry pants and slides his palms over Draco's hips.

It's frighteningly easy to keep it a secret even after the holidays. Ron and Hermione are busy with each other and no one else dares question Harry's state of mind since he "rid the world of that noseless psychopath", as Draco puts it. They don't need to sneak around much. By mutual agreement, Blaise turns a blind eye so that they can use Draco's bed when they want, and it's getting increasingly hard to leave it before curfew. By February, Harry's taken to leaving the common room almost every evening and no one bothers to ask why, no one stops him. He can spend the whole night in Draco's embrace and none of his friends miss him in the morning. Strangely enough, it frustrates him.

"Ah, your inflated ego strikes again." Draco drawls, flopped in a careless sprawl on the sofa in the den, shirt unbuttoned. "Not everyone's world revolves around you."

"Does yours?" Harry gives him a challenging look.

"Please." Draco scoffs, but when Harry climbs over him and lays his head on Draco's chest, he combs a hand through Harry's hair. "Don't worry, you'll sooner lose your fame than your friends."

"McGonagall says there's a chapter about me in the new edition of History of Magic."

"See what I mean?" Draco snorts. "Even your tiny brain would get it, Potter."

"Remind me again, why am I dating you?"

Draco's lips brush his forehead. He hugs Harry a touch tighter. "I don't know. My arse?"

"You are an arse." Harry says, intelligently.

"Your arse." Draco retorts, then dissolves into a fit of inelegant giggles. It's mesmerizing.

Giving a coming out speech in the Great Hall would be preferable to some of the conversations Harry has with his friends after that. Ginny gives him a hug, then punches him in the shoulder in some weird show of support. His Mind Healer asks if sleeping with Draco - in the sexual sense - keeps the nightmares away. Luna catches them making out behind a tapestry one day and informs Harry that Draco's hair isn't long enough to hide the marks on his neck. It's embarrassing. The worst, though, is Hermione.

"Oh, Harry." She sighs as if she has known it all along and promises not to tell Ron until Harry does it himself. 

It's great. Emotional, even, until she pulls a book titled A Witch's Guide To Expert Wandwork out of her bag and explains, red-faced, what a useful resource it was when she and Ron decided they were ready. Harry thinks he will die on the spot. He doesn't tell her that Draco's pretty much the antithesis to the sheltered Pureblood stereotype that Seamus blathers on about sometimes. He doesn't tell her that innocence is now a long-gone concept and he doesn't mind it one bit. He keeps silent about it, but when he strokes Draco's touch-starved skin that night, he tells him he's glad that they were each other's firsts.

Draco's old habit of name-calling takes a new shape after Valentine's Day. Mean words begin to come out fond and sweet, and he doesn't seem to notice. He calls Harry Tart-head when Harry eats treacle tart for every meal for three days straight, then switches to Jelly Potter after Harry throws a minor tantrum upon seeing Blaise draped all over him.

"Your pet names are ridiculous. And embarrassing." Harry grumbles one day while they're in the nook behind the History of Magic II shelf in the library. His arm is draped over the back of Draco's chair. He's been 'Jelly' not five minutes before and the word grates on his nerves. It's a horrifying name evolution, and he dreads the next stage of it. Besides, he's not that jealous.

Draco sniffs in disdain. "You never give me any, so you don't get a say."

"I'm worried for your mental health sometimes." 

"Touching. I might just weep from the sentiment."

Harry shakes his head, then pauses. "Wait. Do you want me to use a pet name? Is that why you're doing this?"

Draco sighs, all humor gone from his face. "I don't know, Harry. I just like doing it, it amuses me. But I'll stop." He looks at Harry's tie to avoid his eyes. "If you want."

Harry can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. "I can come up with something good for you."

Draco's eyes narrow. "No."

"Yes." Harry grins. He pulls Draco closer by his shoulders. "Fair's fair."

"Such a Gryffindor expression." Draco mutters but lets Harry kiss him and lick into his mouth. "All right, I'll tone it down."

"Thank you." Harry kisses into his ear. The little jewel-snake tries to bite the tip of his nose.

"Oh!" Someone squeaks behind Harry, and he finds a frightened third-year girl gawking at them when he turns. He can only imagine what goes on in her head - Harry Potter kissing his boyfriend! 

"I - I'm sorry!" She says and runs away. 

Harry drops his forehead to Draco's shoulder. "I need to tell Ron before he hears it from someone else."

Draco hums. "I expect fresh roses on my grave each day after he kills me."

"Your melodrama's going to kill me first."

Harry doesn't know how it took him this long to notice that Draco's a lightweight. He supposes he should have realized after Halloween, at least, but it's Seamus' April Fools' Day party in the Gryffindor common room that reveals it to him. Tipsy and comfortable, Draco giggles at every joke Dean tells him where they stand by the makeshift bar. Laughter spreads slowly through his face, pinkish, curving, ringing like ripe peaches, and Draco's shoulders hunch. He's ungraceful in his mirth and all the more gorgeous for it.

Some old disco classic pumps from the charmed speakers, and Draco taps his foot to it. The giddy thought that his hate for Muggle music is like his hate for Harry doesn't fail to make Harry's grin wider as he watches him from a few feet away. As proud holder of the Worst Dancer title, he remains sitting on the couch and listens to a drunk Ron wax poetic about Hermione's spider-crushing skills. 

The next time he looks up, it's at the delighted cheering that ripples through the room. 

Draco has taken Hermione to the tiny dance floor, and they're good. They move in surprising harmony together. That posh upbringing had to be good for something, Harry thinks in amusement, as Hermione throws her head back to laugh, and Draco moves her around, this way and that and into a twirl until it seems like they flow along with the music. He even dips her.

"Over my dead body, ferret." Ron growls beside Harry and stomps over before Harry could stop him.

It doesn't unfold the way he expects it to, though, because Draco's sloshed. It's a miracle that he's able to keep himself upright. He sees Ron and grins at him, and next thing Harry knows, Draco's tugging Ron into a circle dance holding both his and Hermione's hands until he realizes that the free seat next to Harry looks more attractive instead.

He collapses on the sofa and stretches his arms over Harry's shoulders, his hair a static mess on one side, and kisses Harry square on the mouth.

Harry kisses him back.

"Mate!" Someone cries, and cheers break out through the crowd, catcalls whistle in Harry's ears. Draco chases the taste of Firewhisky on Harry's tongue.

The next morning materializes around noon with a splitting headache and the vague sense of regret. Harry drags himself to the bathroom and resuscitates himself with the hangover potion he found on his bedside table, then splashes cold water on his face and crawls back into bed. It's only then that he realizes that Draco's there, dressed in Harry's boxers and a t-shirt, and the curtains aren't drawn. One bed over, Dean gives him a tired smile and goes back to sleep.

"Harry, get me a new body, please. This one's beyond recovery." Draco moans at him without opening his eyes. 

Harry grabs his outstretched hand. It hangs limply in his grip until he finds another vial of hangover cure to press into it. He settles back down on his side while he waits for it to take effect and flicks the curtains closed with his wand. He watches Draco's sleep-creased face. The faint mark under his left eye, the knots in his hair, the ear cuff he forgot to remove last night. Even hungover, he finds him attractive.

He reaches under Draco's shirt and strokes down from his collarbones over his thin, scarred chest to the edge of his pants, light as the wind, and Draco shivers only once before he relaxes again. His silver eyes open to blink at Harry in the tranquil quiet.

'Lovesss', the silver snake hisses in Parseltongue.

Harry bites his lip. "Draco?"

Draco stretches and cuddles closer to him. "Hm?"

"Does your ear cuff do anything else besides holding stuff?"

"Well. Actually, Mum bought it at Mungo's. It was very expensive." Draco sighs, nosing at Harry's shoulder. "I didn't want to tell you. There are mood detecting and stabilizing charms in it, that's why I started wearing it. It helps." 

He stops squirming when Harry's arm curls around his back. He picks up Harry's free hand instead. "Why?"

"No reason." Harry takes a deep breath. 

"I love you." He whispers, so that it's just for them to hear. When no reply comes, he presses his lips to Draco's forehead and holds them there for a long time. "Love you."

"You're a sentimental fool." Draco murmurs. He stops playing with Harry's hand to press it flat against his own chest. His shirt is body-warm and thin enough to let his heartbeat drum against Harry's palm. "But I may be one too."

Harry tightens their embrace and smiles. 

~End~