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It is nearing two hours past midnight when Draco finally reaches his house. 

There is a palpable sort of weariness weighing his shoulders down, eased to some degree as he shrugs his Healer robes off and lets the front door fall shut against the cold. Draco supposes it’s a given with the winter weather, the kind of lethargy not even the sun can subdue, but it feels substantially despairing to endure after a long day full of appointments and emergencies alike, one patient (or a half, in some concerning cases) following right after the other until the very last minutes of his shift. 

Not that Draco dislikes this time of the year, on the contrary, he’s quite fond of anything and everything about Christmas time. It’s hard to be miserable when joy seems to manifest in its greatest magnitude, almost characteristic of air in its omnipresence but denser, lingering on beaming lips and laughter that echoes down every street. 

Christmas for Draco has always been a more quiet affair, festive in the way things are in the mere presence of loved ones. He’s just about done with the list of gifts he has to buy, knowing it’s only a matter of a few days till he receives a letter from his mother inviting him over to Malfoy Manor for Christmas, slightly differing versions of which will also be owled to Astoria, Blaise, and Pansy, alongside the personalized gift baskets his mother oh so adores putting together.

It’s always been this way, which is why it shouldn’t make much sense for Draco to feel like something is lacking still. Sure, his shopping list is a little shorter this time around than it has been in the past two years and he hasn’t set up his tree as yet, but that just makes it less of a headache on his part since he isn’t expecting anyone over anyways. Christmas parties are awfully tiring to organize, manage, and tend to and he’s only ever held two in this house, both with guest lists he’s never even imagined entertaining in this lifetime.

He tries not to think of how the exhaustion then was one that made his bones feel so light as though a gust of wind would whisk him away and he’d simply let it, with a laugh that swells in his chest and seemed unceasing. This very living room, the threshold of which he stands and looks into, now dull and dreary, would be so full of warmth it was nearly overwhelming.

He remembers vacantly wondering if it emanated from the fireplace or was just characteristic of the innumerable heads of red in his line of vision, when a hand would slip into his and suddenly it’s neither the people nor the fireplace or anything but him. 

A spark shoots down Draco’s spine—the way it always does at the mere glimpse of green, green eyes—and snaps him out of the reverie, doused as soon as it came and leaving him colder than before. Draco presses his palms to his eyes with a sigh and tries to quell the lingering fumes of reminiscence that follow, attempting to narrow the rush of memories he thought he’d done away with down to something digestible at this time of the night and more so in his exhausted state:

He is far too sober for this. 

He’s usually a stronger man, Draco is. He likes to think he’s miles apart from the coward he used to see himself as at the least, wearing his family name as a facade of confidence hanging off a lanky frame like clothes two sizes bigger. He’s grown into it now, made a reputable name of himself—entirely by himself, so he has no need to drink himself near death and wallow about all that could’ve and should’ve been. Yet while it far easier to never look back at his past at all, it is most prominent in the light of glory, in stark contrast where it’s tethered to his ankles as a reminder of his mortality.

The hardest part of it all however, would be the bittersweet taste of regret that lingers no matter his attempts to swill it away. It’s bitter—like the myrrh burning in his Father’s study, strong enough to condense on his tongue with every spoken word, like swallowed bile at the sight of his blemished left forearm. Sweet but in essence of what is forbidden—of nicked sherbets from the pantry past his bedtime, of kisses that taste like whiskey and promises to defy time itself. 

Before the taste can catch up to him again he thinks no further and sends the fireplace crackling to life with a wordless flick of his wand, stumbling his way towards the drink cabinet and sighing in content as heat begins to spread around the space. He crouches down with a contemplative hum, nails clinking against glass as he skims through the bottles and stops at his pick for the night. He stands up straight and reaches for a glass as he inspects the label, a drink with a faint tang of berries to it, gifted a while back by Blaise after one of his endeavors in Italy.

The drink falls into the weaker category of his collection, just enough to have him pleasantly buzzed and loose limbed. He pours himself a glass and takes a small sip of it, humming appreciatively at the way it soothes his throat. It would do good with some hot chocolate, Draco thinks, but he couldn’t be arsed to make himself a cup and finish it off at the moment so he decides a chocolate bar will have to do and trudges to his fridge in search of one.

It’s just as he turns to place his glass down that a frisson starting at his stomach rips up his spine and down his legs, ears popping open and the fine hairs on his arms raising. Draco grabs his wand in alarm and casts a quick sobering charm even though he was nowhere near the end of his first glass as yet.

Someone had just Apparated past his wards.

The house is heavily warded and placed under a Fidelius charm all done by Draco himself, and he trusts his Secret Keeper with his life, without a doubt. Pansy wouldn’t dare to reveal the information to anyone who is not meant to have it, come hell or high water. His wards are no flimsy job either, quite the exceptional spellwork in fact, so whoever has supposedly broken through has either been here before and then been warded off or possess some sort of extraordinary magical strength—

Draco falters on his way to the doorstep, grip on his wand loosening in disbelief. There was only one person he could possibly think of that fell under both categories, but there should be absolutely no reason for said person to be at Draco’s doorstep of all places, at this time or ever really, not anymore. 

For a few tense moments there is only silence, enough for Draco to wonder if he was making this all up, nothing more than an embarrassing display of his desperation for companionship fueled by his exhaustion—and then he hears knocking. 

Four short knocks—dwindling in force, the first one loud and the last a bit weaker in comparison. Three long knocks—that are more like strikes, palm against wood—then two more long knocks. Then the final knock, another short one that is loud and resounding and rings through the doorway. 

Draco reels back incredulously. It couldn’t be.

His heart is racing a mile a minute and his ears ring with the static of a mess his brain has reduced itself into as he throws the door open, and an involuntary sound wrenches its way out his throat, breath catching at the sight he’s met with.

Harry bloody Potter.

Bloody in all possible senses of the word—bane of Draco’s existence, lives to serve as nothing more than a manifestation of all that he simply cannot have and a right pain in the arse that is currently bleeding all over his carpet, crimson red seeping from apparently every possible crevice of his body visible through the cuts in his Auror uniform.

“What the fuck,” Draco manages, half a mind to aim a Riddikulus to see if a stray boggart somehow made its way through his very secure wards because what are the fucking odds—until there’s a hand bracing itself on his doorframe and the body slumps forward with a groan, his entire stature shuddering with every breath he takes.

It is this movement that allows their eyes to meet very briefly, but it is more than enough to shut all of Draco’s skepticism down. The startling green of them, even more striking amidst the red and purple swelling all over him, is one no magical being or potion could ever replicate.

“About time,” Potter croaks as he pushes himself up from his slumped position, wincing in pain. “Merlin, your wards sting. ”

Draco stares. Blinks, and stares some more. It’s all he has time to do really, until his front door is being pushed wide open and Potter barges in with no more of a preamble.

“Excuse me?” Draco sputters, watching as the other continues into the living room and drops himself down onto the nearest stool with a groan. “Do you mind?”

“Does it look like I can afford to mind, right now?” Potter grunts back, and he has some nerve, Draco thinks, barging into his place and cheeking him around like their last proper exchange beyond glaring across mutual events was not an argument months ago, resulting in the end of a nearly two year long relationship. “There’s barely enough blood to go ‘round my head right now, I think.”

“Or ever, as you continually prove.” Draco bites, although it comes out nowhere near as sharp as he wants it to when his eyes quickly scan down his form in assessment of the injuries. “Why are you here?”

“Lost the flowers on the way,” he laughs breathlessly and his face immediately crumples to a grimace at the action, hand coming up to his ribs, “Do forgive me, darlin’.”

The passing thought of punching Potter right in the middle of his already impaired face crosses Draco’s mind. “I’ll make sure to Accio them to your grave.”

“Which you can save yourself from doing if,” another pained sound, “if you can fix me up.”

“Are you demanding me to…” Draco trails off with a humorless breath of a laugh. He has half a mind to fire-call Blaise and ask if the drink he gifted had hallucinogens that happen to be immune to Sobering spells. “Only you’d have the indecency to barge into my house at Merlin-knows-what hour and order me around—”

“I had nowhere else to go.” He cuts in, pointedly looking away.

“Nowhere else for the Harry Potter to intrude on? Perhaps I was the one saving countries in a past life.” Draco raises a brow. “Were there no Healers assigned on-site?”

It was standard protocol of all Auror cases, for Healers to be stationed at emergency sites specified for Aurors to report to when injured during field work, no matter the confidentiality of the case.

“I didn’t…” Potter purses his lips before looking up to meet his questioning gaze. In the dim lighting, the green of his eyes look like a bruise untended for a bit too long. “I had nowhere to go that I could—that I trust.”

Trust, amidst and between their temperament is a knot so tightly wound it might as well be one string, twining them together down to the very fibre. Reaching the consensus that only a power so large as it is infinitesimal could weave them into each other so deftly is an easier feat to achieve than to pick and fray it loose.

The word starts something in him, and Draco’s resolution wavers. “The Healers are exceptional and most definitely trustworthy I’m sure, so if it’s not quite clear yet—I don’t mind reminding you till it is—I’m strongly against having you here and exercising exceptional patience out of the goodness of my heart, which I will need you to acknowledge until the very second you leave.”

“Duly noted, Your Highness.” Potter snorts weakly, hand coming up to rest on his chest. “As a matter of fact your hospitality alone has me feeling tons better.”

He chances one more look at Potter’s eyes and promptly turns away after casting a diagnostic spell to go fetch the emergency kit he maintains, deciding the best hope he has with doing away with this nuisance of a situation as fast as possible is to just avoid looking directly at him.

He’d feel this sort of concern about any patient, because that’s all Potter really is, just any other person in need of medical assistance which Draco happens to be trained to provide. The fact that he’s the Savior of the Wizarding World and his most debilitating heartbreak to date doesn’t necessarily have to play any part in it at all.

Yet, it’s a difficult thing to steer clear of familiarity with the sight that he returns to, the dim lighting of only the fireplace and the fading diagnostic spell softening the hard lines and edges of Potter’s body, the colors bright and contrasting against the brown of his skin. Time feels like nothing but the distance between them, two years worth of a relationship no more than two steps forward, where he’d snatch Harry’s glasses off his face and slide them into his own hair, all while furiously muttering incantations in between all the possible insults he could think of in an attempt to mask his worry.

But that was Harry, and this is Potter. And in between the two lies what Draco had been, is, and all that he never will be.

“Shirt off.” Draco instructs as he walks back in with the small trunk of potions and other necessities and places it on an adjacent table, clicking it open to pull a small vial of clear liquid out—one of the more fascinating end results the integration of Muggle and Magic medicine brought about: an electrolyte potion, they call it—to shove it in Potter’s direction. “Drink.”

“Moving fast, are we?” Potter grins, a weak and feeble thing with a split lip, but complies as he unbuttons and peels the uniform off, hissing softly when it catches at the wounds. There’s bruises littering his skin, cuts that seem to have been hit with a weak healing spell which was slowly giving way and there's a particularly prominent gash across the extent of his stomach that’ll definitely need to be stitched close.

“See if you’re moving at all when I’m done with the likes of you.” Draco mutters with a roll of his eyes and thrusts the vial towards him once more, fighting the almost magnetic pull of his gaze towards the exposed skin. Potter uncorks it and drinks it all in one go, immediately recoiling with a gag.

“You always have the nice ones.” Potter rasps as he hands Draco the vial back, gaze affronted. “This isn’t one of the—the fruit tasting ones you usually give.”

“Those are for children.”

“And they worked just fine, you always had me take those!” He glowers. “Just ‘cause we’re not together anym—”

“Potter.” Draco grits his teeth, fixing him a glare and rolling his sleeves up. “I do not have the time nor the energy for this, but what I do have is full authority to kick you out and let you rot, which I am not above using if you don’t shut it.”

Potter frowns up at him and it’s clear that there’s more he wants to say but decides against, sighing and looking away. Draco steps closer with a huff and crouches down so he’s directly in front of the particularly nasty gash across his abdomen, bracing his free hand at the skin above the wound and wand poised below it to begin casting a stitching spell.

Potter tenses immediately and Draco retracts his hand just as fast although the heat of the skin lingers against his palm despite only seconds of contact between them. “Does it hurt there?”

“No, it’s,” Potter swallows, and his lips quirk up to one side as he shakes his head. “Nothing. Not—doesn’t hurt in the way it matters.”

Draco wonders faintly if it’s the loss of blood making Potter talk in riddles he cannot extend his space of mind to decipher at the moment. “I’ll need you to tell me if anything hurts anywhere, minor or not, if perchance my diagnostic spells haven't picked them up.”

Potter scoffs then, and even this action causes visible pain. “You and I both know there isn’t a chance of that.”

Draco clears his throat and tries to will away the faint tingling of warmth in his ears as he narrows his focus to the space between his wand and Potter’s skin. “Formalities.”

He murmurs the incantation for a mild numbing spell before casting the stitching spell and watches as a wisp of white extends from his wand, beginning to weave its way through the other’s skin across the length of the wound. It leaves a streak of pink in its wake, and Draco switches his wand to his other hand to use a wandless and wordless cleaning spell just around the wound, light enough to not irritate the healing skin.

Draco’s gaze drifts up and around the exposed skin to gauge the state of the other cuts and stops right at the center of Potter’s chest, over the expanse of which stretches a scar of lightning much like the one on his forehead, the brand of an encounter with death. It’s one thing to hear of it, the marvel of surviving the Killing Curse not once but twice, but it is a different thing entirely to know of what it is to be a weapon forged for death to meet its match against—not in strife, but in the glint of its reflection on a blade.

Everyone must face death, some as a friend and some as anything but, and for Harry Potter it has always been something akin to facing himself in a more tender light—an accretion of all he’s ever loved. Staying alive, for him, has always been more of a sacrifice than dying, and Draco could never ask him to choose again, to hold on and ask him to stay. What he could hold on to instead was the simple certitude that thunder will always follow lightning, as he’d press his palm against Harry’s chest (with probing fingers that echo a quiet question of Is Draco Alive? ) and feel and hope for the roar of a heartbeat under it, loud and striking.

But Potter has never been answerable to him, Draco ought to have learned this by now, and it was foolish of him to ever believe otherwise. His arms tremble with the strain of a proffered hand nonetheless, the ache beginning on his first train ride to Hogwarts—“ You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” And across the gaping chasm in between, “ I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks, ”—and persisting throughout his years at school. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Draco looks up, slightly startled by the sudden break of silence. The rest of the cuts aren’t anything a swipe of dittany can’t fix, so he stands back up with a quick nod and peers into the trunk of potions for a vial of Skele-Gro, clearing his throat. “You better be. I’m sure no one appreciates having someone barging into their house at arse o’clock, be it Merlin reincarnated or—”

“Draco.” And it doesn’t matter, it really shouldn’t, but it suddenly feels like the space around them hollows into an enclosure that reverberates the sound of his name, and he has to clench his fists to fight the shudder it evokes. “That isn’t what I’m talking about.”

“So, you're not the least bit bothered about breaking into my personal space and infringing on my privacy, is what you’re saying?” Draco scoffs, crossing his arms with the ribbed vial of Skele-Gro clenched tightly in one fist.

“Will we ever talk about it? About things between us,” Potter presses on urgently, sitting up straighter. “Our… that day.” 

“No.” The word wrenches its way out before Draco can even process it himself, shoulders hunching with the force of it. He stiffly holds out a small cup of Skele-Gro billowing with smoke. “Drink this, now.”

“You won’t even call me by my name anymore,” Potter nudges the cup away from himself with the back of his hand, “I know we were worth more than some stupid argument and I just—I’m not...I don’t have any expectations or anything, I just want to talk it through.”

“It was all stupid,” Draco grits his teeth, annoyance flaring like a burn against an open wound. “All of it. There isn’t anything to talk about, it was a long time coming and pretending that it wasn’t could only get us so far.”

He thinks back to that day—as Potter so eloquently put it—and all the events that led up to it, how stupid it really was, white-knuckle grip on a letter from the DMLE, informing him Auror Harry Potter was missing in action as of the past three days while on a mission, and there would be a follow up letter sent if there were any updates. How nothing was addressed until two weeks later and how Draco spent every minute of those two weeks stupidly worried, crying himself to sleep in their stupid bed in their stupid home only for it to say Harry was barely alive and breathing when found. How stupid he looked pressing kisses and prayers to the hands of the closest thing to divinity he’s ever known, lying still on a sterile hospital bed. 

And of course the most stupid part of it all, waking up the day after Harry’s discharge to the sight of him in Auror robes, ready to head right back. How stupid Draco looked, standing there and asking him to choose as though he were ever an option. How utterly idiotic of his heart to shatter at the resounding of the front door slamming shut.

“You don’t mean that.” Potter says, frowning.

“I assure you, I do.” Draco pointedly avoids the heat of a searching gaze in fear of giving himself away. Soon enough, he will have said it enough to convince himself too, but for now the wound of it is still only a scab—one that currently feels like it’s being picked at repeatedly. “There. We’ve talked enough.”

Potter’s gaze flicks from his extended hand up to his face. He slowly shakes his head. “I won’t have it. Not unless you call me, Harry.”

“For the love of—I just won’t refer to you at all. ” Draco looks heavenward with a sigh, as though searching for help. “Just take it.”

“I won’t.”

“All the better for me, really.” He huffs, “you do realize you could die if you don’t. And I will simply let you.” 

“No, you won’t.” Potter replies, with a smile so soft and pliant to interpretation. Draco thinks his exhaustion addled brain molds it into something that looks sad, almost. “Even then, I’ll have you call me Harry in my eulogy.”

“Bold of you to assume that I’ll be at the funeral at all, much less write you a eulogy.” Draco steadily tries to think of anything but the scraps of parchment that probably still lie scattered in the depths of his desk, the penmanship of which—in stark contrast to his usual ever so neat print—held scrawls of shaky, We are gathered here today and not much more as per DMLE instructions, “in any case”.

Potter says nothing, and Draco meets his eyes. Familiarity tugs at his heartstrings with every Potter, that slips past his lips and it rings with dissonance, a harsh chord of an old instrument uncared for. Harry, on the other hand, feels like a melody made so distinctly for the percussion of his heartbeat, an ever intensifying crescendo that sets his nerves alight at the rightness of it.

“Harry,” he tries, and it gets stuck in his throat—raw and bloody and beating— and he has to swallow it down lest it end up on the floor at his feet. “Can you just…”

The grin he receives in return as the cup is taken from his hands is blinding, and what the curve of Harry’s smile lacks due to injury his eyes make up for in tenfold, lighting up in a way that seems intrinsic rather than reflective.

Harry opens his mouth to say something after downing the potion but grimaces as the taste catches up to him, cursing loudly as he leans back against the wall when it begins to take effect and mend his bones.

“God-awful potion—fuck .” He managed through clenched teeth, panting slightly. “No consideration for sensibility—Merlin— whoever made this horrid thing . ”

“You’ve never paid attention for a mere second of Potions, have you?” Draco snorts, far too tired to bother holding it back. “It’s hilarious you say that, considering the person who made it happens to be an ancestor of yours.”

”I’m starting to think you say that about,” Harry grunts, “ev’rything.”

“Linfred of Stinchcombe laid the foundation of your family’s fortune with this very potion,” Draco holds the bottle up, “And then came Fleamont Potter with Sleekeazy’s, quadrupling the family gold and making an enormous profit off of selling the company. They must’ve known somehow, somewhere down the line there would be you—in dire need of both at every turn.”

Draco doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding as soft as it does, but he hears Harry’s breath hitch and knows it’s not the lingering pain of the potion that causes it. He clears his throat and turns away as Harry hands the cup back, and tries not to think of the feather light stroke of the other’s fingers across his knuckles as he does so. 

“I’ll need you to take a deep breath in,” Draco instructs as he recollects the data from the diagnostic spell—the highlight of green around the other’s ribs and left wrist to indicate fractures—and to gain a fair idea of how much the Skele-Gro has managed to fix, “hold for three, stretch it out as long as you can and let me know if it hurts.”

Harry follows, and shakes his head. The ribs should be fine, then. Draco holds his palm out to the other to inspect his left wrist, and notes the faint swelling that is yet to subside. He loosely wraps his fingers around the wrist, a gentle pressure on the pulse point right where his thumb rests. “Any pain here?”

Harry quirks his head to the side and scrunches his nose contemplatively. “It feels a bit odd, but I can’t tell if it’s the Skele-Gro or not.”

Draco hums, “rotate it slowly?”

He attempts to but hisses a curse midway and lets his wrist fall limp in Draco’s hold. Draco nods and pulls away, “I suppose that’ll take another dose to fix. It’s not as bad as before, but your magic is currently frazzled, trying to sustain and fix up whatever it can, so I’m administering the least amount of a dosage as possible to not disrupt the workings of your magical core. Your ribs would’ve taken a harder hit, making it the primary site for the potion to act on for now.” 

“I can take it.”

Draco is one eye roll away from getting his eyes stuck to the back of his head. Harry sounds no different than the much younger demographic of his patients right now, puffed chests and chipped teeth and eyes that shine with as much resolution as 6 year olds can muster. “You’re a big boy, aren’t you? I truly appreciate your bravery, how about I give you a Sugar Quill for how well you’ve taken this instead, hm?” 

Harry scowls, “I’ve dealt with it before, I’ll be fine. The Healers, who you said were exceptional yourself, have said that my core can take it, or something, all it does is leave me dizzy and weird for a bit, I can manage it.”

Draco’s eye twitches. “Just because you can take it does not mean you have to.” He tries to curb the rush of exasperation from showing in his voice when he says, “It never has.”

Draco knows it’s a futile effort for him to stand against Harry about anything, especially when it comes to his Gryffindor-y values that are seemingly null and void unless it involves saving the world and formidable acts of sacrifice, but he tries anyway.

The last time they had a conversation anywhere near these lines it sent Harry storming right out without so much as a glance back, the very same robes now lying at his feet billowing around him as he did so. He expects a reaction or some sharp retort but the other simply lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud and turns his gaze upwards, sighing.

“If I won’t, then who will?” He smiles wryly and then turns to him, “Will you?” 

Draco supposes there was once a time where he would have said no, but then thinks of how one of the very reasons he was so excited about Hogwarts as a child was the prospect of being Harry Potter’s friend. How he couldn’t manage to become his best friend so he tried to become his worst enemy, thinking it better to be on one extreme if not the other rather than neutral, only to realize he didn’t fall anywhere on Potter’s span of consideration. How he denied knowing him while looking right into his green eyes, the very same ones he had once thought would be the last thing he’d ever see before bleeding to his end. 

He thinks of his wand so easily accepting Harry, and the way it now thrums in his hand almost indignantly as though such a question was a slight towards its loyalty and of the magic that runs through it.

Draco feels an almost hysterical laughter crawl up his throat. Oh, he thinks, I’ll never know what it’s like to not be in love with you. 

The realization shouldn’t be as shocking as it feels, considering how it isn’t the first time it’s struck him by any means, but he feels his knees weaken a bit nonetheless. He firmly pushes away the thought for much much later lest he do something ridiculous like begin to tear up. 

“Not a chance.” Draco responds instead, and then fishes out a vial of dittany ointment and a roll of bandages from the trunk. “I do think you give yourself too much credit though, I doubt you’re the only reckless fool running headfirst into trouble around here. Is it such a mission no one else can take over for a few days?”

“This case is definitely among ones with more gravity than most.” Harry sighs and sits up straighter as Draco sits down in front of him, legs crossed.

“You’d consider even saving kneazles from trees the most valiant of tasks,” Draco mumbles as he pours a little of the ointment onto his fingers and swipes it across the sutured wound, watching it turn white under his fingers.

“I’ve been promised Head Auror, as soon as I wrap it up.”

Draco falters in his ministrations, arms tensing faintly. He forces himself to relax and continue. “That’s,” It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself, not anymore.  “Nice, very...good.”

“It is, isn't it?” Harry hums. “Probably?” 

“Are you asking me?”

He nods. Draco frowns in confusion. 

“You’re asking me?” He reiterates. “Why?”

“Do try and look less flattered, won’t you?” Harry quips with a small smile that falls as quick as it comes. “I thought this was something I was sure about—the only thing I could be sure about because it’s what I’m meant to, or have to do. Everyone’s telling me I deserve it and that there’s no better person for the job but I just…I don’t know.”

“Do you want it?”

“What?”

“Strip away the semantics, all your calibre and merit aside,” Draco waves his hand about with a shrug, “there’s really only one thing for you to actually consider: do you want the position?”

A pause of silence. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you want it?”

“I don’t know if…” Harry starts, and runs a hand through his hair with a huff. “I can’t say this without looking stupid.”

“Like that makes much of a difference to my perception of you.”

This manages to pull a chuckle out of the other and Draco hates the way he relishes in it, the small stutter in his heartbeat that follows the sound of it. 

“I don’t know to,” Harry tries again, and in a whoosh of one breath, “I don’t know how to want. Not for myself at least, not without the consequence of ruin.”

Ruin, Draco thinks, and he can almost feel the cold tiles pressed against his back, the only relief from the overwhelming warmth of blood spurting everywhere and soaking his uniform. He remembers the flickering lights in his vision suddenly morphing into two glowing orbs of green and invoking the sort of desperation only felt a hair’s breadth away from death, an innate yearning that tastes ferric on the tongue and teeters on the thin line between moral and instinct—to be wanted enough to be saved.

Draco has always been quite easy to fall and break, but it is when he is shattered that he is most dangerous, with sharp edges that catch and nick at vulnerability with extreme precision. No one has ever been able to piece him back, shard to shard, the way Harry has, be it because no one else can ruin him this way or because this is the only way either of them know to love. 

He says nothing and continues tending with dittany, providing a silence that Harry can take either as an offer to continue or drop the topic entirely. 

“I wanted to be seen.” He continues, with a quiet chuckle. “Just enough to be worth more than dusting shoes and doing the dishes, quite the far cry from being the beacon of triumph against a dark wizard. I had come to realize it didn’t matter what I wanted because it’d be taken away from me, so I fought. In my anger they saw bravery and courage and determination but to me it was just anger—the helpless most despairing sort because nothing could ever belong to me enough to be mine—not even my life.”

Harry sighs. “I came to terms with the realization I’d have to fight my entire life through because everybody had something to lose and I didn’t. And then there was you.”

Draco exhales sharply. “Harry—”

The other shakes his head, “I made peace with the fact that my life would matter the most when and after it ended and it was fine, until I found out you knew how I took my tea and the sort of sweets I liked. Until you washed my favorite jumper by hand because cleaning spells would ruin the texture and wrote me notes whenever you’d think of me and fold them into funny shapes for me to find. Until I got angry again and you held me like you wanted me to stay anyways, like I belonged—you saw me.” A small sound, a shaky exhale. “All I ever wanted was to be seen and you saw me in a way no one ever did.” 

“And it still wasn’t enough.” Draco hates the way his voice quivers, and rapidly blinks his eyes to keep the wetness at bay as he reaches for the roll of bandages. “What good is it if it wouldn’t ever be enough to stop you from leaving?”

“I wanted to stay—”

“But you didn’t.” He cuts him off, beginning to wind the gauze around Harry’s torso. “And I knew that it wouldn’t work out because it was us, but I thought we could work through it together—because it was us. It felt too fanciful then and it feels even more laughable now, come to think of it.”

“I don’t think anyone else can ever…” Harry whispers, eyes glistening. “No one but you, for me.”

“Sometimes,” Draco starts and trails off, so softly he’s sure Harry would have missed it entirely were it not for their proximity, “sometimes it felt like you were cheating on me.”

Harry starts immediately, indignation tensing his muscles. “I would never —” but Draco only strengthens his hold on the arm he was tending to, instantly rendering Harry silent.

Draco swallows before continuing, eyes still fixed resolutely on the wound. “It felt a lot like—like, death was but another lover of yours, one that you could not have, so you settled for me instead. And you’d kiss its forehead the same way you would mine, with the very same promise to come back home.” His hands shake slightly as he secures the bandage in place, but his precision does not falter, not once. “I could never tell which one of us you were lying to.” 

“And yet, here I am.” Harry exhales softly as Draco moves away, “Draco, please look at me.”

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “Don’t, Harry…”

Two fingers gently reach under his chin to tilt his face upwards and he follows purely out of the instinctive familiarity of the action. Their eyes meet and his heart raps a furious rhythm against his chest— four short, three long, two long, one short— and Draco curses the treacherous thing.

“Tell me to stay, and I will,” Harry swallows. “Ask me to leave, and you’ll never have to see me ever again.”

“You have your duties,” Draco breathes out, fists clenched to keep them from reaching for Harry. “And I’ve done mine, as you asked. I wish you well in life and hope to never hear a thing about any of it.”

“I see the answer in your eyes,” He replies, and Draco feels a dizzying heat surging against the restraint that is gradually weakening as a result of their proximity. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I don’t want you to stay,” Draco squeezes his eyes shut. “I shouldn’t want you to stay.”

“Then, ask me to leave.”

“I don’t want you to make promises you cannot keep.” He tries to swallow the lump that grows in his throat with much difficulty, “You can’t say all this and then leave like I know you’ll have to, Harry, I won’t be able to—I can’t, not again.” 

“I’m not making any promises, there’s no need for me to.” Harry shakes his head, eyes still shining. “I’m sworn to you regardless. You ask me to leave and I will go, ask me to stay, and I will. Whatever you ask.”

Draco kisses him.

Before he can even begin to process it, much less regret it, Harry's kissing back, the fingers at his chin moving up to cup his face and tilting it to deepen the kiss. Draco’s fingers are numb as he loosens his fists, only regaining the sensation of touch as he reaches up to tangle them in the other’s locks and tug and pull like it’s all they’re meant to do.

Every harsh sigh against his lips feels like having life breathed into the shell of a man Draco didn’t realize he’d become, resurging a sudden consciousness of all his pent up urgency that has him pulling Harry closer and closer. 

Draco breaks away not for air but at the sharp tang of metal when he nips at Harry’s bottom lip, pulling away to notice a streak of red from a cut untended to. Harry chases after his lips but Draco holds him in place by cupping his face, “You’re bleeding.” 

He mumbles a healing spell as his thumb swipes over the small nick, and his breath hitches at the tender kiss pressed to his thumb as he does. “Thank you.”

“I only…” did my job. The thought crashes through the surreal haze like a fierce push against Draco’s chest that has him reeling back, once more establishing a distance that feels a lot more than just the inches between them. “That wasn’t—I was–”

“Please don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have done that, I’m—you should leave.” Draco stands up and hurriedly starts shoving all the vials and other items back into the trunk. 

“Could you please trust me, Draco?” Harry latches onto his arm, pleading.

“I wasn’t thinking, that didn’t mean anything.” He shakes his head and rubs at his lips harshly. “It didn’t happen, it’s alright.”

“I’m not—it doesn’t have to be a second chance or even…anything like that—I just, please, Draco.” Harry stands, and Draco lifts his discarded Auror robes to shove them into his hands. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Maybe I want it to be like this!”

“But you don’t,” He persists, “I wouldn’t have come anywhere near you if I knew you wanted it to be like this.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Draco asks weakly. “It won’t work out, nothing between us ever will, have we not done enough?” 

“I don’t think I have, which is why—” Harry pauses to take a deep breath in and let it out. “Which is why I’m begging you to trust me this once. Just one more time, and I’ll make sure that you won’t ever have to doubt it again.” 

If he thinks of it enough, Draco can almost feel the heat of a cursed fire that raged around him, there is only ruin and barely anything left to salvage in the face of such destruction. Amidst it is a reaching hand, the only thing more detrimental than the circumstances. Draco had taken it that day, and now as he whispers in quiet resignation it feels no different. “What difference will it make if I do?”

“I’ll show you.” Harry says. “Let me show you.” 

Draco can only manage to look at him for a mere second before he has to avert his eyes, lest he do something he’ll later regret again. He leads him to the main door and stares at the ground as he opens it, fighting the blurring of his vision until he hears the footsteps halt by where he stands for just a bit. 

“I’m sorry.” Is all Harry says before he’s out the door, and with him walks out whatever sense of tranquility Draco had managed to bring about in the house since the last time he left. The silence is as stifling as vacuum and he feels like the singularity of it, collapsing in on himself as he lets the door creak close.

Draco allows himself only a minute to rest his head against the door and feel the magic of the house thrum through the wood, then reaches back for his wand, to initiate the warding spells.

A week passes by with not a single sign of Harry around.

Draco’s spent all his time taking up as many patients as he can to avoid thinking about it at all, and it works until Pansy is breaking down his door in the middle of one night where he does make it home to catch at least a few minutes of sleep which has also become increasingly hard since the fateful night of Harry’s—for lack of a better word—visit.

“—and you’ve stopped firecalling me in the mornings to decide your outfits and you know I hate when you pretend you’re alright when you so evidently are not!” Pansy stomps her foot for emphasis as she paces around his bedroom. “I’ve known you since you were out of the womb, Draco—and the only time I’ve ever seen you get like this is when—!”

She stops abruptly and whirls around to face him, and Draco isn’t really aware of what his face is doing at the moment but it’s enough to make Pansy’s face crumple up like it does when she’s about to cry. “Oh, darling, don’t tell me…”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until all he can register is the ever familiar scent of rose and oud most unique to Pansy as she pulls him to the crook of her neck, shushing softly. 

He tells her all about the interaction as they’re curled up on the futon in his room, warbling through his tears as her nails rake through his hair gently. He tells her about how heavy his heart felt throughout their interaction but how it was the most he’d felt of his heart in a long while, how familiar it all felt even after so much of change. 

“Insufferable halfwit of a man, that one, I tell you.” She huffs and he chuckles softly. “All I need is two and a half minutes—which is generous enough in itself—with him in a room and I’ll do the impossible, finish him off for good.” 

“There won’t be a need for all that, Pans.”

“Oh, but consider this,” She says, pulling away to face him. “I’d make quite the profit out of it, and we’ll run away, live lavishly by the Côte d’Azur, hm? You, Blaise, and I, it’s perfect .”

“Tempting as it sounds,” Draco sighs. “It won’t ever feel like home, will it?”

“No…I suppose not,” Pansy hums. “But that’s the whole point. You don’t even call this house a home anymore, so what harm is another building, really? You could stay as miserable as you are but at least you’ll be miserable by the French coast, doesn’t that sound infinitely better?”

“I feel like he’d find me there too, somehow. He always does—especially when I need him around the least. Draco says and laughs wetly. “Especially because he’s the reason why nowhere else feels like home anymore.”

“Oh, Draco.”

“He stepped into the house and I felt it, Pans.” He added somberly. “The house breathed him in and held him—the paint of the walls seemed as bright as the day we painted them together and the doors creaked a lot less despite the winter chill. I forgot what it was like to be at home—to feel at home—to have…a presence to come back to. The house lived for a few hours that night, and the second he stepped out the door he took all that life away with him.”

He feels Pansy suck in a breath as she rests her head atop his. Her hand that isn’t twined in his hair reaches to press right above the steady rhythm against his chest as she asks, “Is he worth it?”

“It feels like he is.” Draco says, voice quiet. “Every single beat.”

“There’s not a single other person who’d compare?”

He laughs softly. “You know the answer to that. You always have.”

“Worth asking anyway.” Pansy sighs. “As your saving grace here on earth, I’m naturally inclined to be vexed with him considering all he’s put you through. But I’d look a fool to deny that he understands you in such an innate way.”

“It’s maddening, isn’t it?”

“In the way things always are when it comes to him,” Pansy agrees, with a grin. She presses a kiss to his forehead that Draco leans into. “I can’t ever force you to make your decisions, but all I ask is for you to be careful with your heart that breaks ever so easily—I think I did a stellar job fixing it up the first time round but I’d much rather not see you like that ever again.”

“It won’t be easy,” Draco grimaces. “I don’t think it can ever feel the same between us either.”

“It won’t.” Pansy nods. “But no one else will ever come anywhere close to him either, so if you’re looking for the same thing somewhere else, in someone else, you won’t ever find it. If you’re fine with letting it go, then by all means, do so. If you think it’s worth it, then feel it, Draco,” she moves to cup his face and look him right in the eyes. “You are not a coward, regardless of the choice you make. You are a fighter, even if your hands are not calloused from clutching at a wand or your knuckles bruised—because you feel. Your heart beats hard enough to bruise more than a physical fight ever could. It’s always been your greatest weapon.”

Draco twists slightly so that he can wrap his arms around Pansy, enveloping her in a hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I dread to think of it too, my dear.” She squeezes back. “I love you, always. And I’m only half joking about murdering him if he screws up again.”

Draco laughs against her neck. “I suppose I’d help you with it if and when the time comes.”

“Of course you will, that’s not even a choice! Talking about lovers and murderers reminds me, do you remember old aunty Beth, the one with the Christmas parties at her truly harrowing excuse of a house? Rumor has it that her daughter, that little one we—”

Draco leans into Pansy’s shoulder and lets her talking lull him to sleep, a little bit of the hopelessness he carried now alleviated by her presence and her fingers in his hair.

“I figured your wards would still have me blocked, but it was worth a try.”

“Oh.” Draco lowers his wand and relaxes his stance as he opens the door after another Apparition scare, grasping the handle tightly. “It’s you.”

“It is me.” Harry says with a smile, and while it’s charming regardless the sight of it in the bright daylight has quite the disarming effect. It could also be the fact that he looks much healthier than when they last saw each other a week ago, but Draco doesn’t let it deter his composure. “It’s a bit sudden, I apologize, but I come bearing gifts this time.” 

He moves his hands from where they were crossed behind his back, and the sight of a customary brown paper bag makes all of Draco’s irritation evaporate as he gasps.  

“This is from…my favorite pâtisserie in France, I don’t…” He peeks into the cover and can’t help but grin at the scent of lemon madeleines, stony pretense be damned. “I hadn’t heard of them having a store around anywhere here?”

“That’s because it isn’t from anywhere here.” Harry’s smile turns sheepish. 

“What?” Draco frowns, and then nods for Harry to come in. “Had them owled here then? Although they do seem quite fresh…”

“I, er…” He scratches at his nape. “Kind of dropped by actually. I nearly forgot how lovely of a place it was.”

“Dropped by.” Draco deadpans, biting into a madeleine and gesturing for him to take a seat at the table. 

Harry shrugs as he sits down. “Had to shove my privilege around a bit at the office to get my hands on a Portkey, but yeah, precisely.”

“Wait, you’re…not joking.” Draco stills as Harry shakes his head. “Did you just say you dropped by an entirely different country?”

“Auror benefits, I suppose.” He replies, fiddling with his hands. “Which…I can no longer avail because I resigned.”

Draco slumps back in his chair, gaping. This was quite the load of information to handle on a sunny Sunday morning. “Wait, first of all, France?”

“I did remember how fond you were of these when we…last visited, so I thought it’d be a nice gesture to bring some over as a sort of thank you for helping me. Do you not—do you still like these? I hoped you did.”

“Portkeying to France, just to visit a pâtesserie, as a nice gesture?” Draco repeats, feeling truly nonplussed.

Harry nods earnestly, not the slightest hint of hesitation or doubt. “It’s the least I could do, I think.”

The least. He had made a resolution to sort things out between them like any two normal people with history would, calm and composed, but Draco finds it very difficult to stick to it after being completely thrown off by such a deed. “The case and the Head Auror position…?”

“It’ll make it to the papers soon enough, I think, but yeah, I wrapped up the case and sent in my resignation letter soon after.” He explains, tracing vague patterns onto the table with his finger as he speaks. “It took a while for them to approve it, which is why it took me so long to…come by again.”

“Is that so? You don’t think the decision was rash or hurried?” 

“I was a little scared.” He admits. “But as soon as I handed it over it felt…alright. Good, I could say. I’ve been reflecting on it the most I can, this past week.”

“That’s good for you, then.” Draco crosses his arms. “But if you’re expecting me to come running back to you or whatever, I pray you know that won’t ever be the case, never again.”

“I’m sorry if it came across that way at any point.” Harry raises his hands in surrender. “I really meant it when I said I want to earn your trust, and I’m well aware it’s no simple thing. I don’t think you’re easy by any means.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Draco asks as he stands, throwing his hands out. “This,” He gestures in the direction of the bag of madeleines, “all this, what’s it for? What does this mean? We were apart all this while and I was fine, and you—you seemed fine, so why now?”

“I wasn’t fine.” Harry replied calmly, standing up to face him. “And I wouldn’t be here if I knew you were fine too.”

”I am fine.” He stresses on the word, trying to squeeze all the resolution he can muster into the one word. 

“You kissed me.”

“I wasn’t supposed to!” Draco huffs, lowering his voice, “And I am sorry about it. It didn’t have to mean anything.”

“But you did mean it.” Harry tilts his head. “You kissed me like it meant something. Like I meant something to you, still.”

“You won’t,” His shoulders slump in resignation as he looks away. “Soon enough, you won’t.”

“What if I want to?” The other persists, leaning forward as he braces his palms on the table. “What if I always want to mean something to you?” 

“It’s a lot easier for the both of us to pretend you won’t.” Draco shrugs half-heartedly.

“It would be,” Harry nods. “But I don’t want the easy way out. I’ll fight for you. You’re the only battle that feels worth fighting for, to me.” 

Draco meets his eyes, vision blurring. He moves around his side of the table to stand closer to Harry, still maintaining a good amount of distance between them as he crosses his arms with a sniff. “You’re a moron.”

“I am.”

“You’re a right tosser that’s never done me any good.”

“I agree, but I want to change that.”

“My emergency Healer kit has been dusting over because I haven’t had any idiots to tend to at ungodly hours of the night. I have so many folded notes and no one to give them to, I’ve made treacle tarts and ended up burning them all, each and every single one. Edith hasn’t had anyone to feed her her treats when I forget so she’s gotten a lot nippier with me recently, and some days I still make two cups of tea.” Draco can’t look away from the green of Harry’s eyes burning into his, flickering between them like they might vanish from his sight at any moment. “Mother still asks about you.”

Harry stays silent but smiles a soft watery smile as he extends his arms outwards. Draco drags his feet over and slumps into him, and they sigh of relief in unison. He has to bend just a little to fit his face in the crook of the other’s neck but it fits, just as perfectly as Harry’s chin does over the dip of his shoulder. 

It’s easy to lose track of time as Harry sways them gently and Draco lets him, breathing him in for just a little while longer. It’s Harry who pulls away first, one arm still around him as he reaches to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “We’ll take it slow, this time, if you’ll let me—let us happen.”

Draco nods, taking a deep breath in and out. 

“I’ve got you, you’ve got me, and we’ve got a lot more time.” Harry reaches for one of Draco’s hands, lifting it up to rest it against his own chest. “Always have.”

Draco uses the leverage of the movement to fist at Harry’s shirt and tug him closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his small smile. Harry moves closer to kiss him properly but he slants away with a simper. “We’re taking it slow.”

Harry groans, head dropping to his shoulder. “You absolute menace. You can’t do that.”

“I can do whatever I want to.” He lets his hands run up and down Harry’s back, resting his cheek to the other’s temple. “I think I’m being far too generous, honestly.”

Harry pulls away completely to step away so that he can drop to a dramatic bow. “Of course, Your Royal Highness.”

“That’s more like it.” Draco says, beaming. He reaches his hand out again for Harry to interlace their fingers loosely, the notion of being physically distant from him so unbearable now that he has him at this proximity.

Harry lifts up their twined hands to press a kiss to Draco’s. “I guess I’ll have to end up courting you all over again.”

Draco gasps out a laugh at the recollection of the very beginning of their relationship. “Did you ever hand the book about courting to Mother after you borrowed it? Goodness, that was mortifying.”

“Oh now, don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy every minute of it all.”

“It was quite sweet.” Draco said blithely, grinning wide. 

“I had wood chips in my fingers and couldn’t hold a quilting needle without pricking myself.” Harry says with a grimace. “I don’t think any of the gifts turned out right, honestly, I’m not quite sure why you said yes anyways.”

“I shouldn’t have, you’re right.”

“Hey.” 

“It was awfully sweet,” Draco relented, grin turning softer. “You’d come with your fingers bleeding and refuse to tell me where it was from but I already knew anyway as I cleaned them up. I’ll fix you up this time around too.” 

“I won’t need to be fixed up this time, I’ll do it so perfectly it won’t even scratch.”

“I know it will, I know you.” Draco rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder. “I see you, remember?”

“Yeah,” Harry melts, eyes crinkling. “Yeah, you do.”

“I’ll be waiting then.” Draco clears his throat, standing up straight. “Don’t disappoint.”

“Never again.” Harry says solemnly, hand across his chest. 

“Good.” Draco nods, and fighting his smile is almost painful. “Now, off you go then.”

“Not even a kiss goodbye?” Harry pouts, walking backwards out the hallway. 

Draco makes a gesture of shooing at him, looking away in case he’s tempted to give in as they reach the door. “Nothing you can get out of me.”

“I’ll make you give in after the first date.” Harry says, pointing at him.

“And if I don’t agree to it at all?” Draco questions as he leans against the doorframe, brow raised. 

“You’ll simply not be able to.” He shrugs, “You can hold me to that.”

“We’ll see.” He replies, “Now go. I’ll have you know, I’m a very busy man and you’ve taken up a lot of my time already.”

“I’m going.” Harry says, walking backwards still. 

“Hurry.”

“Going…” He drags the vowels out, still moving slowly. 

Draco sighs and contemplates just another minute, before stomping up all the way to him and yanking him into a kiss. It’s more teeth than anything with how Harry is laughing into it, but it’s mind numbing nonetheless.  

He breaks away breathless, “Happy?” 

“Could do a little more, to be honest.”

“Oh Merlin and Morgana, you’re insufferable. Just go.” 

He shoves at him and makes to move away, but Harry grabs on to his arm and pulls him closer. 

“I’ll come back, I always will.” Harry whispers, eyes shining earnestly. “I’ll send you a letter regarding the date soon.” 

Draco swallows, and lets himself smile as he nods. “I’ll wait for it.”

“You’ve done your waiting for this lifetime.” Harry shakes his head. “And I’m endlessly grateful for it. Let me do the waiting this time. I’ll wait for you, allow you all the time you need.” 

Any moment longer with Harry in his vicinity like this and he might just never let him leave, so Draco nods again and steps away while putting his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching out again, watching the other walk away and away until he disappears with a faint pop.

As he steps back into the house and catches sight of the bag of madeleines, he looks around at the house and notes that it seems calmer now, quieter in a comfortable way.

Draco leans his head against the wall, hearing the magic of it thrum in content as though entirely sure of Harry’s return in the very near future. It won’t take much longer for the house to feel like home again, and he relishes in the eager anticipation of the promise that resonates from wall to wall as he smiles.