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Draco was all nerves and tension as he traipsed across the grounds. It was dark; the moon was no more than a soft sliver in the sky. Muscle memory guided him as he wove between the trees, stepping over thick roots and avoiding stray branches. It was time to talk to Harry. The very thought sent a veritable tidal wave of anxiety bursting through him, but he needed to know. He thought he might go mad, analyzing every little thing Harry did in an attempt to understand how he felt. And what if tonight his mind offered up a different memory, and they were able to erase his Mark? What if this was the end of their meetings? He couldn’t bear the thought of parting without at least trying, as best he could, to convey his feelings.

Draco hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he stepped into the clearing and it blustered out of him. There, sitting by the emerald blanket, was Harry…and next to him was Granger. Draco stopped short. Her presence felt wrong. All wrong. This was supposed to be their place, and now she was invading it.

Harry must have sensed his trepidation, because he jumped to his feet and strode over. “Hey,” he said, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi.” He continued to stare at Granger.

“Hermione came to help,” Harry said. He stood so close that Draco could smell the fresh, clean scent of laundry on him—and then he reached out for Draco’s hand. Wondering if he had just walked into some bizarre hallucination, Draco hesitated before taking Harry’s hand.

Calmly as possible, Draco managed to ask, “Help?”

“With your Mark. I told her what’s been happening.” When Draco frowned, he said quickly, “I didn’t tell her everything. I just said you have a memory you don’t want to erase.”

“Well.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I guess that’s alright.”

“She only wants to help. I promise.”

It was difficult to ignore that little prickle of mistrust. But Harry’s open, eager face was reassuring. “Fine. But you could have warned me.”

“It was a last-minute thing. I know it’s a lot. But please trust me.”

Harry led him to the blanket. Granger, to his surprise, did not look at their linked hands; instead, she smiled sympathetically at Draco. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Go on, Draco, lay down,” Harry said. He withdrew his hand and placed it on Draco’s back, gently urging him forward. Feeling very foolish—and vulnerable—Draco crawled onto the blanket. He arranged himself as comfortably as he could while Harry took his spot next to Granger.

“So.” Granger had a book in her lap, and she began flipping through it. “Harry’s given me some of the details. There’s a memory you don’t want to erase. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Mmm.” She reached back and pulled out her wand. “Do you mind if I give us some light?”

“Go ahead,” he grunted.

“Lumos.” The light from her wand was so strong that Draco shielded his eyes, squinting.

“How has your Mark been?” Harry asked.

“Alright.”

“And you slept okay? After last night?”

He hadn’t. Not really. His dreams had been filled with terrible, haunting eyes and a brutal voice urging him to be quiet. But he didn’t want to reveal that to Granger. Instead, he merely shrugged. Harry frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but fortunately, Granger cut him off.

“I’m worried about these flashbacks,” she said. “The potion I gave you—the Sana Mente—it should have sorted it, if it was just a matter of consolidation.”

“Maybe he needs to take it again?” Harry asked. “It’s been a while.”

“Maybe,” Granger said, but she sounded doubtful. “I’ll look into it. But anyway. This memory. Harry’s tried to erase it twice? And both times the same memory came up?”

“Right,” Draco answered. “Well…parts of the same memory.” When Granger frowned, a puzzled look on her face, he sighed. “It was at the Manor. You know. When the Snatchers found you, and…”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Right.”

“Well, anyway, the first time we tried, it started with my father asking me to check if it was Harry or not. And then we stopped. And then when we tried again, it picked up at the part where Harry took the wands out of my hand.”

“Ah. Okay.” She returned to her book. “But still the same memory, basically.”

“Basically.”

“This happened once before,” Harry said. “With another memory. We stopped, and then the next time we tried, the same one came up.”

“Why did you stop?” Granger asked.

Harry looked at Draco, who shook his head. “Er…I forget.”

Granger didn’t press him. Instead, she held her wand closer to the book, silently mouthing the words as she read.

“Draco,” Harry said, reaching out, “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

He nodded. Very carefully, Harry took Draco’s arm and pulled it into his lap. He rolled up his sleeve with the ease of having done it a dozen times before. “Look how light it is,” he muttered to Granger.

“Mmm?” Distractedly, she glanced over, and then her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, wow.” She brought her wand to illuminate what little remained of his Mark. “You can hardly see it.”

“We’re nearly there,” Harry said. He rubbed his palm across the grey smudge. “I think if we could just erase one more memory, it would be gone.”

“And you don’t want to erase this one, Draco?” Granger asked, peering over at him.

“No.”

“Well…” She sighed, consulting her book again. “That might be a problem. I’m worried you’ll see the same memory over and over again until you erase it.”

“But why?” Draco asked, frustrated.

She shrugged. “I can’t say. It must be a core memory. These things aren’t very clear, unfortunately…”

“Should we try again?” Harry asked. “Maybe we’ll get something else.”

“You could try.” Granger closed her book and set it aside. “Who knows? It might change. Try thinking of something else, Draco, some other memory. That might bring something new to the forefront.”

“Do you want to try, Draco?” Harry asked him.

“Well…alright. I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

Draco tensed as Harry took out his wand. In the bright light of Granger’s Lumos, he felt exposed. He hadn’t realized until now that the cover of the dark forest afforded him a sense of privacy. As though reading his mind, Harry murmured, “Hermione, could you turn off your light?”

“Oh, of course, sorry. Nox.” They were shrouded in darkness. Instantly, he relaxed, even as he felt the familiar press of Harry’s wand against his arm.

“Are you ready, Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“Three…two…one…”

He struggled to escape his mother’s grasp—she was pulling him away, but he ripped himself forward, trying to keep his eyes on Potter as he yanked the goblin out from under the chandelier. Go, go, go, Draco urged him. He watched as Potter took Dobby’s hand—Dobby, he thought wildly, what the hell was Dobby doing here—and then his aunt whipped her knife across the room as they began to vanish—

This time, he didn’t have to push the holly wand away; Harry stopped of his own accord, speaking gently as Draco toppled out of the memory. His Mark burned angrily. Uncomfortable in Granger’s presence but unable to stop himself, Draco grabbed at his arm, gritting his teeth.

“Is he okay?” he heard Granger whisper.

Harry’s face hovered above him, but it melded with scenes from the memory they had just witnessed—the chandelier, splintered on the floor; his mother’s mouth, twisted in anger; the silver knife as it flew across the room. Draco closed his eyes tight. “Hurts.”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry murmured. “Can I touch you?” He nodded, and Harry’s hand was on his forehead, smoothing the hair away from his damp face.

“It was the same one,” Harry said. “The same memory.”

Granger made a disappointed sound.

“You’re okay, Draco. You’re okay.”

“Why does it have to be that one?” Draco groaned. “Why that memory? I don’t understand.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think there’s anything else we can do,” Granger said. “I’ll check the library again. But there are so few sources…and they take ages to translate.” She hesitated, and then called, “Er—Draco?”

He grunted.

“I can pass you this book, if you like. I might have missed something.”

Draco shook his head. “If you haven’t found it, it isn’t there.”

He realized that he had just complimented Granger, in a roundabout sort of way. She must have noticed, because her voice was kind when she said, “I’ll go to the library first thing tomorrow.”

“Does it still hurt, Draco?” Harry asked. “Your Mark?”

“Not really.” And it was true—the agony had settled into that deep, familiar ache. Instead, it seemed to be his very soul that hurt. He was so tired of this. A part of him was done. Just done.

“Your Mark…” Granger said tentatively. “You can hardly even see it.”

“She’s right, Draco,” Harry said. “Nobody would know it’s there.”

“But I’ll know,” he said dully.

“Draco.” Harry reached down and took one of his hands in his. Surprised, Draco couldn’t help but open his eyes. Harry had a solemn look on his face. “If you erase that memory…it doesn’t change what happened. I’ll still remember.”

He looked away stubbornly.

“You’ll still have done it, whether you remember or not.”

“I know that.”

“Harry’s right,” came Granger’s voice. “And if you erase that memory…I think the Mark will be gone. Consider it, at least.”

He couldn’t bear to discuss this any longer. “Fine.”

Harry gave him a crooked smile. “You won’t, will you? You won’t consider it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.

Harry chuckled. He was rubbing his thumb against Draco’s knuckles. “You’re so stubborn.”

Behind him, Granger scoffed. “Oh, as if you’re any better.”

Draco smirked. A little voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Harry was holding his hand, stroking it, and that Granger was right there, watching them. But Harry didn’t seem bothered. Not at all. He was completely at ease, as though it was just the two of them. Draco might have almost been comfortable, if it were not for the throbbing in his arm. Groaning, he shifted on the blanket.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, studying his face. “You look tired. We should get back.”

He wasn’t ready to go back. Before he could stop himself, he said, “But will we keep trying? With my Mark?”

“Of course we will,” Harry reassured him. “We’ll meet tomorrow night. And the night after that. For as long as you want.”

“Well.” Confronted with the tender look on Harry’s face, he didn’t know how to react. As impassively as he could, he said, “Alright then.”

Harry gave him a hopeful smile. He felt himself returning it.

***

Diagon Alley was overflowing. Even though Yuletide was only two weeks away, it had not yet properly snowed. Pansy took this as a personal attack—“It has to be a white Christmas!” she whined, over and over, as though Draco and Blaise could change the weather. Instead, they enjoyed an unseasonably bright day; the brisk breeze was the only reminder that they were now firmly in December. All sorts of vendors lined the cobblestoned streets, hawking their wares: a tall, thin man selling roasted chestnuts, three sickles a scoop; an irritable-looking witch who was attempting to subdue the bunches of mistletoe singing merrily from her basket; a young woman who must have been about their age, selling hot chocolate and apple cider. Draco bought them each a cup of steaming cider, and it was very good, he thought, sipping happily as they made their way to Gringotts. They were supposed to meet Theo and Lavender.

“Oh, look!” Pansy said, pointing towards the bookstore. Huddled against the cold was a band of carollers. “Isn’t that nice?”

As they picked up into an enthusiastically cheery tune, Draco grimaced. “I don’t like Christmas music.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You don’t like anything.”

He opened his mouth to argue with her—mostly out of habit, as he wasn’t really bothered—but he was interrupted when Pansy cried, “Theo! Lavender!”

They pushed through the crowd until Draco caught sight of them: Theo towered over everyone else, while Lavender looked very pretty in a teal peacoat and matching earmuffs.

“Hi!” Lavender called, rushing over to meet them. “How are you?” She and Pansy hugged, and before Draco knew what was happening, she had turned and embraced him, as well.

“Good! Very good!” Pansy said, reaching up to hug Theo. Lavender turned to Blaise, who looked rather bemused as she hugged him, too.

“It’s nice to see you all,” Lavender said, fixing her earmuffs as she pulled away from Blaise. The scar on her face shone pink in the sunlight.

“Theo, are you bringing Lavender to the Christmas dinner? At Blaise’s?” Pansy demanded.

“Of course,” Theo said. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

Pansy gave a little squeal, clapping her hands together. “I’m so glad!” Addressing Lavender, she asked, “Have you decided what you’re wearing?”

“Oh, er…” Lavender looked up at Theo, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blaise sighed. “Just wear any old thing.”

But Pansy was already talking over him. “I still haven’t found anything, either! I’m so worried! I’ve been through a dozen magazines.” Draco knew it: over the last week, he had given his opinion on what must have been a hundred sets of robes.

“Well…” Lavender was staring at Pansy, a bit startled. “We…we could try Twilfitt and Tatting’s?”

“Yes,” Pansy said breathlessly. “Yes, what a good idea. You don’t mind, do you, Theo? We won’t be long.”

Draco thought Theo looked relieved as he said, “No, no, you two go ahead.”

And they were off, Pansy chattering away as she dragged Lavender through the sea of people. It was decidedly quieter as they disappeared into the crowd.

“That was cruel of you, to let Pansy take her,” Blaise sneered.

“Lav’s fine,” Theo laughed. “She can handle herself. How’s Hogwarts?”

“Boring,” Blaise said, leading them along the lane. “Have you sorted out your Christmas shopping?”

“No,” Theo said, “but I’m glad Lav’s gone. I haven’t decided what to get her, yet.”

“I need to stop in at Flourish and Blotts,” Blaise said. “There’s a new book on herbs and spices my mother wants.” With a deep sigh, he added, “I suppose I’ll have to find something for Pansy, as well.”

“A Calming Draught,” Draco muttered. The others sniggered.

Flourish and Blotts was filled to bursting. The air smelled deliciously of cinnamon and cloves; the packed shelves were strung with glittering garlands. As Blaise hunted down the book for his mother, Draco and Theo perused the latest titles.

“Have you gotten that letter from Slughorn, yet?” Theo asked him.

“Oh. Er. Just about.” It wasn’t a complete lie—since he and Harry had started working next to each other in Potions, Slughorn had warmed up to him considerably. And his marks had improved.

“The spot’s still open. I just need your CV—what N.E.W.T.s you’re sitting, your grades, any relevant experience. That sort of thing.”

“Okay.” Two competing thoughts struggled within him—on the one hand, he did like brewing potions, and the position Theo had described with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement certainly sounded interesting. And it wasn’t as though he had many other ideas for a career after Hogwarts. On the other hand, he still felt uneasy whenever he thought of the Ministry. His trial had been gruelling. At each hearing, the entirety of his past had been laid bare, teased apart and dissected so that a room full of strangers could determine his guilt and his fate.

Draco was lost in thought until Theo suddenly said, “I might get Lav a book on divination. She’s been keen on palmistry lately.”

Draco nodded towards the back of the shop. “Divination is down at that end.”

As they wove through the crowd, Theo asked, “Who do you still need to buy for, then?”

“Er…” He had already purchased for Blaise a new winter cloak he had been eyeing for months. For Pansy, he had ordered an absurdly expensive bottle of perfume. “Just my parents, I guess.”

“Any ideas?”

“None.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on.”

Draco grunted in agreement.

While Theo examined the various books on palmistry, Draco wandered over to another shelf. In truth, there was one person in particular he was struggling to gift. It was difficult to decide on something that would convey how he felt without being too sentimental.

As casually as he could, Draco strolled back over to Theo. “So, er. Did you have any other ideas? For Lavender?”

“Why?” Theo asked. “You don’t think she’ll like this?” He held up a thick tome.

“She will,” Draco said quickly.

“Now I’m not so sure.” Theo looked down at the book in his hand, unconvinced.

“She’ll like it. I was just…just curious.”

“Er…well, I thought about jewelry. But we only just started seeing each other, and that seemed a bit…”

“Yeah.”

“And she likes candles, so I thought, well, maybe a candle, but she’s got so many of them already. Oh,” Theo said suddenly, brightening, “she’s also started gardening—her flat has a balcony, and it’s south facing—so I thought I’d buy her some plants. Or a watering can, or some gloves, or something.”

“And?”

“Well…I dunno. She stopped talking about her garden a while ago. I think she might have killed everything.”

Draco snorted. “Oh dear.”

“I kept reminding her to put up some wards to protect it…for the winter, you know…but anyway…”

“She’ll like the book,” Draco said. “I’m sure she will.”

Flipping through the pages, Theo said lightly, “Is there someone you’re trying to shop for?”

Draco pursed his lips. “Pansy told you.”

“What?” Theo looked up at him, confused. “Pansy didn’t tell me anything. Why? What shouldn’t she have told me?”

“Oh.” He could feel himself turning red. “Forget it.”

“Draco…”

“I like Harry,” he blurted out. “We’ve been seeing each other. Not like that—it’s complicated. But I like him. He said he likes me. But I don’t know what that means.”

Very slowly, Theo closed the book. Finally, he said, “I thought something was strange, at the pub.”

“What do you mean?” Draco bristled.

Theo shrugged. “You kept looking at him. He kept looking at you. The only time he spoke was when Pansy brought up Slughorn, and he was angry for you.”

“That…that doesn’t mean anything. We’re just friends.”

Theo raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you said he likes you?”

“As a friend.”

“Did he say it was as a friend?”

“Well.” Something funny was happening in Draco’s stomach. He couldn’t tell if he felt sick or not. Either way, he very much did not want to have this conversation in Flourish and Blotts.

“Draco,” Theo sighed. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“Do what?” he snapped.

“Convince yourself that nothing good could possibly happen to you. That nobody could ever like you.”

“That’s…that’s not true at all,” he spluttered. “I happen to have a very healthy self-esteem, I’ll have you know.”

“Right,” Theo said skeptically.

“I do!”

“You act like an arrogant git because beneath it all, you’re scared,” Theo said.

“Scared?” Draco was indignant now. “I’m not scared. I’ve faced the—the Dark—”

“You’re scared of being hurt. Of being let down again.”

Draco forgot to be outraged. He stared at Theo, who was calmly gazing back at him. “That’s not true,” he insisted.

“It is. And I know that’s why you won’t visit Azkaban with me, by the way. You’re afraid of your father. That he’ll disappoint you again.”

“That’s not true,” he said again, much quieter this time.

“You don’t have to have a relationship with your father,” Theo said. “If you want to cut him off, fine. But do it on your own terms. Not because you’re afraid.”

For several long moments, Draco was incapable of responding. His face still felt warm. Finally, he drew himself up. “Well. Thank you for that. I’m…I’m going to go browse now. I have a gift to buy.”

“Sure,” Theo said, returning to the book in his hands. He sounded amused. As Draco turned away, Theo called, “Oh, and Draco? You should tell Harry. You really should.” When Draco glared at him, he added, “I know people have let you down. But I don’t think he will.”

Draco couldn’t think of what to say, so he gave Theo a tight smile and then hurried away.

***

They were alone. Once again, the clearing was theirs. Even though it was dark, and even though it was cold, it was theirs. And somehow, it was peaceful, as though the grass and the ground bore their imprint from all the nights they had met there. As he settled onto the blanket, Draco realized that he felt safer in the forest than nearly anywhere else. And that was very odd, because the Forbidden Forest was full of frightening, dangerous things. But he wasn’t afraid. Not with Harry there, sitting cross-legged next to him, looking warm and inviting in his well-worn jumper.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Harry took Draco’s arm into his lap and began rolling up his sleeve. “How have you been? Any flashbacks?”

“Not really.” When Harry raised his eyebrows, he said, “They’re not flashbacks. I just…I don’t feel good. I don’t feel right.” And it was true—there was always a general sense of unease lurking within him. It refused to be shaken off.

“Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey.”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry didn’t argue. He suspected that they were of the same mind when it came to asking for help. “Well,” he said, his voice optimistic, “maybe we’ll get a new memory tonight.”

“Maybe.” He had begun to doubt it. And, perhaps, he had begun not to care.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Three…two…one…”

Draco was shaking. His Mark burned. He was nearly blinded by the pain—the Dark Lord would arrive in moments, and he was furious. His aunt must have known. She was shrieking, the noises she made inhuman and terrible. His father was shouting now, and his mother still held him, trying to wipe the blood from his face. They would all die, he thought, but he didn’t regret it…he was glad, in a way…he had done something decent before dying…

“No, no, no,” he moaned as Harry pulled away. “The same one. The same fucking one.” Without Granger there, he felt at greater liberty to express his frustration. And he did: he pounded his fist into the ground next to him, snarling in frustration as pain bloomed in his arm.

“I think it has to be that one,” Harry said shakily. “But Draco—in the memory—we didn’t see—what did he do?”

“Who?”

“Voldemort. When he got back, and he realized that we’d left…what did he do?”

Draco shook his head. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to say.

“He…he tortured you, didn’t he?”

He couldn’t help but let out a sob. It tore at his throat. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. I told you—I was glad to do it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. His voice sounded faint, distant. “It was bad. I remember. My scar hurt. And I could see how furious he was…”

Suddenly gripped with an irrational anger, Draco sat up. He wiped away at the tears he hadn’t realized were gathering in his eyes. “Forget it, I said. I didn’t care at that point.”

“I need you to know something.” Harry had moved so that he knelt in front of Draco. “You didn’t deserve it. None of it. I didn’t want any of that to happen to you.”

“Alright,” Draco said. He couldn’t bear to listen to this.

“Draco…” Harry trailed off. He sounded as lost as Draco felt.

“Why is everything so fucked up?” Draco asked bitterly.

Harry gently placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “I’m going to hug you. Alright?” Draco nodded, and Harry rose to his knees, pulling Draco against his chest. Slowly, Draco wound his arms around Harry’s waist, hugging him back. He gave out a long, shuddering breath as he listened to Harry’s heartbeat. It was slow, steady, soothing.

“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t know why everything’s fucked up. But it’s not, is it? Not all of it.”

“It feels like it.”

“I know. But it’s not.”

He didn’t want to argue. Glimpses of memories flashed forward, unbidden: the Dark Lord’s unimaginable rage as he realized that Harry had, once again, escaped his grasp. And then the cool floor against Draco’s face as he dropped, trembling with pain, Crucio lighting up every nerve in his body. He had understood, then, why their prisoners begged to die, begged for release. It was a glimmer of hope in the otherwise impenetrable darkness of blinding, unyielding pain—an end. An escape.

“You’re shaking,” Harry said. “Are you okay?” He pulled away and looked down at Draco, who stared back up at him. Just the sight of those green eyes blotted away his anxiety. Harry, he remembered, was his pole star.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

They blinked at each other, neither of them capable of speaking the truth hanging between them. Or perhaps it was too momentous, too great, to be put into words. Harry’s hand came up to rest along his jaw.

“Draco,” Harry whispered. He sounded almost nervous. “I’m going to kiss you. Alright?”

His heart skipped a beat. And then another. And then a few more. He didn’t know what to say. Surely, he must be dreaming—or his mind had taken pity on him and deposited him into some wonderful fantasy in which Harry was cupping his face, staring down at him, their lips only inches apart.

Draco could do nothing else but nod mutely. And then Harry was kissing him, pressing their lips together so gently that he seemed almost afraid of breaking him. Draco, reacting on instinct, tightened his hold around Harry’s waist and pulled him closer. And he melted. He couldn’t have done anything but. As Harry deepened the kiss, both of his hands coming up to hold Draco’s face, he felt himself come apart. He had never felt anything like this. Not ever. The pain in his Mark became distant, absent, almost non-existent. He clung to Harry to stop himself from swaying. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. He caught himself groaning into Harry’s mouth as their tongues slid together. How had he ever imagined, for one instant, that he didn’t need Harry? That the sweet ache that had been coursing through him for ages was anything other than sharp, desperate need?

And then, all too soon, Harry pulled away. He was breathless, his eyes wide. And he was looking at Draco as though he wanted to consume him. Nobody had ever looked at him that way before. Draco swallowed thickly, trying to think of something to say. He didn’t know how to put into words the way his heart hammered against his chest as Harry took him in.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he managed to say.

“I don’t want to push you.”

“You’re not.”

“Okay.” Harry’s eyes roved over his face, as though cataloguing his every feature. Finally, he said, “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Draco pulled on Harry’s jumper and brought their lips together again. This time, he didn’t allow Harry to be gentle with him. He deepened the kiss, nearly dizzy as Harry moaned into his mouth. Any of the tension still residing in his body eased away as Harry kissed him fiercely. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt wanted, and the thought was thrilling. He tentatively ran his hands across Harry’s broad shoulders, and he responded immediately, pulling Draco even more tightly against him. And now it was Draco’s turn to moan, the sound surprising him as it came out of his mouth. But Harry must have liked it, because he was running his hands across Draco’s chest, his arms.

They were both breathless when they broke away again. Harry’s cheeks were ruddy, his glasses askew. Draco reached up and fixed them.

“We should have started this ages ago,” Draco muttered. “You knew I liked you. You must have.”

“Maybe.” Harry licked his lips; they were swollen. “But I wanted to be sure.”

“Really?” Draco chuckled weakly. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Sometimes it was,” Harry said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “But after everything…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Well.” He took a deep breath. “That should be easy, then. Because there’s a lot I want to do.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, his voice husky. He came to thread his fingers through Draco’s hair, tipping his head back ever so gently.

Draco hummed in pleasure. He didn’t think he could speak, not when Harry was drinking him in like that.

“I don’t want to push you.”

Draco shook his head, dismissing Harry’s concern. “Push me.”

Harry hesitated, as though waiting to see if Draco would change his mind. When he didn’t, Harry drew him in and kissed him again, this time hungrily, as though he, like Draco, had imagined this moment hundreds of times before. Draco, urgent to feel some kind of contact, slipped his hands under Harry’s jumper, and then under his shirt, sighing as he finally felt smooth, warm skin. He could hardly believe his own boldness. Harry gasped into Draco’s mouth, rocking his hips forward ever so gently. Draco traced his fingertips along Harry’s sides. It felt nearly forbidden, groping Harry under his clothes, and that thrilled him. And Harry was so quick to respond—wonderful little noises were coming out of his mouth as Draco traced along his ribs.

Abruptly, Harry pulled away. Draco began to whine his displeasure when he moved instead to kiss along Draco’s neck, and that was when he thought he might really, truly dissolve into Harry’s arms. The wet heat of Harry’s mouth as he nuzzled and nipped at his neck was overwhelming. He brought his arms up around Harry’s shoulders in an effort to anchor himself. Harry, for his part, seemed intent on driving him mad: his hands were roaming now, traveling up and down Draco’s back. Then, just as Draco felt another moan rising up out of him, Harry sucked hard on the spot just above his collarbone.

“Fuck.” Draco twisted his neck further, allowing Harry better access as he licked at the sensitive skin. “Fuck, do that again.” And so he did, sucking greedily at Draco’s neck.

He needed more. More of what, he couldn’t say, but he needed it. Before he could hesitate, Draco leaned back and dragged Harry down with him. Arousal twisted in his stomach when he felt Harry’s erection pressing against his thigh. And…fuck. He wanted that. He wanted it so badly. The trouble was, he didn’t know how to ask. Harry, meanwhile, had resumed his ministrations at Draco’s neck, drawing little whimpers from him as he went. Desperate for some kind of friction, he rocked up against Harry, groaning in frustration at the lack of contact.

Harry drew back and considered him with hazy eyes.

“You can…” Draco swallowed hard, trying to slow his breathing. “I want you to.”

“What?” Harry asked. The expression on his face, the rough quality of his voice, had Draco crumbling to pieces. He sounded lost. And the thought that he was the one bringing Harry to this point was too much for him.

He didn’t want to say it; was too embarrassed to say it. Very quietly, he mumbled, “You can have me.”

Harry blinked at him. He seemed to come back to consciousness, as if drifting out of a dream. “Not…” He shook his head. “Not here.”

“What?” Draco’s heart stopped.

Harry gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m not going to do it here, on the ground, in the middle of the forest. You deserve better than that.”

That, of course, only stoked Draco’s arousal further, just as it sparked off something sweet and warm in the pit of his stomach. In a shaky voice, he breathed, “Okay.”

Harry clambered off of Draco and came to lay by his side, propped up on his elbow. Draco turned and curled into Harry, grateful for the firm, strong hand that came to stroke his back.

“Look at you,” Harry said, and he was indeed staring down at Draco, taking him in. “God, I want you.”

“Have me, then.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “I will. But not here. For now…I just want to look at you. Be with you.”

“Okay.” Draco drew closer to Harry’s warmth. He closed his eyes and focused on Harry’s rhythmic breathing. The sound was so soothing, so constant, that he felt his own heart steady. And again, he felt safe.

***

Draco stalled for as long as he could. He listened absently as Blaise rambled on about his mother, who was anxious about hosting the Christmas dinner and driving Blaise around the bend. He sat on his bed, fiddling with his cuffs as Blaise went on and on in his bored drawl, knotting his tie one way, checking the mirror, and then changing it. Running out of ways to dawdle, Draco dumped the contents of his satchel onto the bed and began to sort through his quills, setting aside the broken ones. Finally, Blaise was about to leave for breakfast, when he suddenly remembered that he needed to hand in an assignment for Astronomy. He rifled through his desk, starting up again on his rant about his mother, until Draco was about ready to tear his hair out. At long last, he found his essay, and he left. Silence rang through the bedroom as Draco found himself alone.

At once, he shoved the quills and bits of parchment back into his bag. Taking a deep breath, he approached the mirror hanging from the wardrobe. It had been too dark to check when he had finally crept into their dormitory long after midnight, and he hadn’t dared look in the lavatory when Blaise might burst in at any moment. Now, he dragged down the edge of his collar, and gasped at the sight of the purple bruise blossoming above his collarbone. Harry had marked him. He brought his fingers up to brush against the sullied skin. Deep, cloudy violet with little specks of yellow. He felt himself growing hard. Some crazed part of him wanted to undo the first few buttons on his shirt, pull his collar down further, and march into the Great Hall with his new mark clearly on display. But he couldn’t, of course. That would be unthinkably foolish. So he yanked his collar back up, covering the bruise as best he could, and headed down for breakfast.

As Draco walked into the Great Hall, he couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding over to the Gryffindor table. Harry sat near the end, between Weasley and Granger. There was something so strange about seeing Harry in the Great Hall, with his friends, casually eating breakfast with no outward sign that he and Draco had kissed last night. It was almost too surreal to imagine. Taken aback, Draco froze in the doorway; he only moved when someone ran into him, squeaking, “Sorry! Sorry!” Embarrassed, he pulled his satchel up higher onto his shoulder and headed towards Pansy and Blaise, who were pouring over the Daily Prophet.

“Lots of changes at the Ministry,” Blaise said as he sat down.

“Oh?” Draco reached for the kettle.

“Shacklebolt’s turning things around. Doesn’t want Dementors in Azkaban…He’s looking to restructure some departments, sort out the Wizengamot…”

“These sorts of things always happen after a war,” Pansy said wisely. “And look here—'The Minister has called for a review of the use of Veritaserum and other means of extracting confessions.’ He’s serious, isn’t he?”

“He was at my trial,” Draco said quietly. Blaise and Pansy looked up from the paper, surprised. Draco almost never spoke about his trial. “He never said much of anything. He was fair, though.”

“He seems nice,” Pansy said uncertainly.

“He put a lot of stock into what Harry had to say.”

“Were you surprised?” Blaise asked. “When Harry testified for you?”

“Not…not really.” Over at the Gryffindor table, Harry was reading a letter. He looked so nice, Draco thought, his hair wild as ever, his brows furrowed, his fingers toying with the corner of the parchment. “I didn’t think he’d let me rot in there.”

“He didn’t have much good to say about your father, though,” Blaise muttered.

Draco found himself bristling. For some reason, he was offended on Harry’s behalf. “He told the truth. That’s all. If anyone deserves to spend the rest of their life in Azkaban, it’s my father.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy sighed. “This is why I hate reading the paper first thing in the morning. Blaise, can’t you find the Quidditch section?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said. He pushed away his untouched cup of tea and rose to his feet. “I need to send a letter. See you at lunch.”

“Blaise!” Pansy hissed. “Now you’ve upset him!”

Their bickering followed him as he rushed out of the hall. In truth, Draco didn’t have a letter to send, but he absolutely did not feel like discussing his father. The very mention of him brought up a fresh tidal wave of anxiety that lapped at him fiercely as he climbed the stairs to the Arithmancy classroom. By the time he pushed into the cold, stone room, his forehead was damp with sweat, and he doubted very much that it was from the climb. He felt shaky, uneasy, as though a flashback was about to pounce on him from some angle that he couldn’t detect. To give himself something to do, Draco pulled out his quill, an inkpot, and a fresh foot of parchment.

Why did they need to bring up his father? Why? Why was everyone so curious about whether or not he visited Azkaban? It was his business, and his alone. They couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to have a Death Eater for a father—other than Theo, and at least his father had categorically forbidden him from joining. In Draco’s estimation, that made him at least more human than his own father. Not for the first time, Draco was gripped with the sudden urge to leave. He had been acquitted; he should be able to access a visa. And there were times when the entire world felt open to him, as though he could pick a spot on the map and start a new life in any country, any city. But then, a timid little voice reminded him, there was Harry. He and Harry were…something. He didn’t know what yet. But he couldn’t just leave Harry. And he knew, with a dull sense of resignation, that he couldn’t leave his mother, either. Even Pansy and Blaise, nuisances though they were, kept him tied to Britain.

The softly-spoken conversations around him came to an end as Vector strode into the classroom. “I hope you’ve all been studying,” she said sternly as she came to face them at the front of the room. She was engulfed in yards and yards of thick, grey fabric. “We’re going to start with a quiz, and I expect all of you to score ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or above. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco had gone cold. He didn’t want to write a quiz—not today, when his nerves were on edge. He cursed himself for eating nothing at breakfast. Vector swept through the rows, passing them complicated numbers charts. “You will complete the chart,” she said, “and then you will provide me with an explanation of the magical properties of the numbers you derive from your calculations. You have one hour.”

Bracing himself, Draco picked up the chart. As he scanned the little rows and columns…he let out the breath he had been holding. This wasn’t too bad. In fact, he could already see the calculation coming together in his mind. Excited, he dipped his quill into his inkpot and went to work, carefully scribbling his notations above the numbers and then adding each digit in turn. It was somehow comforting to be drawn into the calculation—it was exact, precise, unchanging. So long as he knew the formula, he could wring out the meaning of the text. He finished in record time; only Granger, seated at the front, had finished before him. Had he done it correctly? Had he missed something? How could he have finished so soon? Nervous, Draco checked his work again, but he could find no mistakes. According to the large clock hanging above Vector’s head, they still had another twenty minutes to go. Unsure of what else to do with himself, Draco read over his answers several more times. He had done, he thought, rather well.

“Put down your quills,” Vector’s voice finally came. She raised her wand and fifteen pages of parchment swooped towards her desk; Abbott, who had still been writing, gave a little cry as her chart snuck out from under her quill. “Now, please open your textbooks and turn to page fifty-five. Today, we’ll be discussing…”

Draco did his best to take notes and to focus, but it was difficult when his hand kept straying up to his collar. He touched, very lightly, at the spot where Harry had bruised him. They would be meeting again tonight, to work on his Mark, but Draco hardly seemed to pay mind to his Mark anymore. It had nearly disappeared. Perhaps that was good enough, Draco thought, as he watched Vector draw a convoluted diagram on the blackboard. He could settle for good enough.

***

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Harry’s hands were warm on his skin. It had finally begun to snow. Goosebumps erupted along Draco’s arms as Harry traced his fingers across what remained of his Mark.

“Do you think we’ll get the same one?” Harry asked quietly. “The same memory?”

“Maybe.” Draco hesitated, and then said, “I keep dreaming about it. I try to stop, but I can’t.”

Harry glanced up at him. “Really? Maybe because we keep seeing it?”

He shrugged. “I’m tired of it.”

“I know.” Harry took out his wand. “Maybe try to think of something else, something different. Hermione said it might help.”

Draco closed his eyes and allowed himself to exhale. He cast around for an unpleasant memory related to his Mark, and that wasn’t difficult to do: he recalled Macnair’s sallow face, inches from his own…and then he moved on to consider the night he had been Marked, the unbelievable pain in his arm…and then the Battle, when he had heard Vincent shrieking, succumbing to the flames…

“Are you okay?” Harry whispered. He was stroking Draco’s arm.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Do it now.”

“Okay.” The tip of Harry’s wand twisted into his flesh. “Three…two…one…”

Draco was so close to Potter’s face that he could see himself reflected in his glasses. Though his features were swollen and twisted, it was evident who he was. The Dark Lord would know. And he would kill Potter. And he would win. If they were the ones to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord, his father would be forgiven…he would become one of the favourites again…and they would have power again, and Draco would be protected…protected from Greyback, from Macnair…But Potter was struggling to look up at him, and he felt none of the excitement he should have felt…Only dread, cold and sticky in his stomach as he forced himself not to collapse…

When Harry took his wand away, Draco’s Mark burned miserably. His mind felt sluggish as it whirled through his memories. Draco grit his teeth and rubbed his hand against his arm, trying to dissipate some of the pain. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Harry gazing at him, a sad look on his face. They both knew the same thing. It was Draco who decided to voice it. “It has to be that memory. That’s the only way.”

Harry nodded.

“But I won’t erase it. I won’t.”

“Can I see your Mark?”

“If you want.”

Very gently, Harry took Draco’s arm and turned it, so that the little blemish of his Mark shone before them. “You can hardly see it.”

“I…”

“Really, Draco, it’s barely there.”

“I don’t think I care anymore,” he muttered. “About the Mark. It doesn’t bother me like it used to.”

Harry glanced up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“I mean, you can hardly see it, like you said. And…I don’t know. I don’t think about it that much anymore.”

“Okay.” Harry was studying his face, as though trying to understand what this meant. “So do we stop, then? Do we let it go?”

“That’s the problem.” Draco turned away from Harry and scowled resolutely at the giant oak tree. “I’m worried that if we don’t get rid of it, these flashbacks will keep happening.”

“You think they’re related?”

“I mean, they must be,” he said. “I thought that if we could erase the Mark, then I might feel better, and that the flashbacks would stop.”

“It seems like they’re getting worse,” Harry said, his voice pained.

“They are. I thought it all might be coming to a head, and that it would ease once my Mark was gone. But if we can’t erase it, then…”

“Let’s wait for Hermione to do her research,” Harry said. “She’ll think of something. And in the meantime, the term is almost over, and then you can relax. You’ll be home, you’ll be more comfortable—”

“I’m not going home,” Draco scoffed. “I’m staying here for Christmas.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” he said, well aware that he was being petulant.

“Oh.” Harry blinked at him. “I just thought you’d want to see your mother. You two seemed…close.”

“I’d rather spend my Christmas cooking in the Hogwarts kitchens,” he said stiffly.

Harry snorted. “That could be arranged.”

Draco laughed in spite of himself. Tilting his head back onto the pillow to take in the cold air, he said, “There’s nothing left for me at the Manor. Nothing. I have nothing to say to my mother.”

“You’re upset,” Harry pointed out.

“What? No, I’m not,” he snapped. “I’m not bothered at all. I’m looking forward to it. A nice, quiet Christmas, where I don’t have to shake hands and make small talk with a room full of idiots I barely know. I’ll be glad to be alone.”

“I was going to stay at Hogwarts, too.”

It was Draco’s turn to be surprised. “Why? I thought you’d be spending Christmas with the Weasleys.”

“They’re going to France, to meet Fleur’s family. I think they want to get away…first Christmas without Fred, you know…”

Draco did know. It had occurred to him several times in the months leading up to December that for many families, this would be their first Christmas without a loved one who had died during the Battle. “And Granger’s staying with her parents, is it?”

“Right. They…er…they have some catching up to do.”

“But why can’t you go to France with the Weasleys?” Draco asked. “I don’t understand.”

“I only just found out,” Harry said. “And it’s so much paperwork…I would need a visa, you know…to travel…”

“I’ll bet Theo knows someone who can speed up your application. And besides,” Draco said, giving Harry a wry smile, “you’re the Boy Who Lived Twice. They’re going to approve you on the spot. They’ll be begging you to visit.”

Harry laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Well.” Draco tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible as he said, “You could stay here with me. At Hogwarts.”

The grin left Harry’s face. “You said you wanted to be alone. I don’t want to…If you need space, I want you to have it…”

“No, I don’t mind,” Draco said quickly. “I mean. It’s fine. If you want to.”

“Well. If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. I don’t say things unless I’m sure.”

“I want to give you space.”

“Don’t. I don’t want you to. I’ve had space my whole life. So…don’t.”

Even though he was embarrassed, Draco forced his eyes up to meet Harry’s. Draco reminded his heart, once again, to settle down, to resist bruising his ribs as it pounded in his chest. He needed to get a grip. But it was becoming difficult to ignore the feel of Harry’s knee against his leg, the pout of his lips as he took Draco in. They stayed like that for one moment, gauging the other’s reaction, until finally, Harry said, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Even as butterflies burst in his stomach, Draco forced his face into as neutral an expression as possible. It wouldn’t do, he thought, to show Harry how quickly he fell apart at his words. Instead, he teased, “You think?”

“Yeah. Because I don’t think I can stop myself anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

When their lips met, Harry responded just how Draco had hoped he would—he groaned into Draco’s mouth, tangling his fingers in his hair. In some distant part of his mind, Draco cursed himself for not having sorted out his feelings earlier. He could have been kissing Harry all this time. He was so warm under Draco’s hands, radiating heat through his cloak. Harry quickly took control, and Draco was happy to let him, sighing as Harry sucked on his bottom lip. He was already hard, but that was to be expected, when Harry was kissing him as though he was his.

He whined when Harry pulled away; the sudden loss of heat was distressing. But he needn’t have worried, because Harry shifted to straddle his lap, looking down at Draco hungrily as he settled in.

“Too many clothes,” Draco grumbled, fumbling with Harry’s cloak.

He chuckled. “We’ll manage.”

Draco dragged Harry down for another kiss, and this one was rougher, more urgent. Suddenly, Harry pulled away again, and Draco made to protest when instead he moved lower, coming to kiss along the side of Draco’s neck. And that yanked a gasp from him: startled at the intimacy, he clutched Harry’s cloak. He couldn’t help but let out a deep moan as Harry sucked on the tender point at the crook of his neck, nibbling and nipping until Draco began to squirm. And then, just as it became too much, Harry seemed to read his mind and he licked instead at the abused flesh, mouthing gently at him before beginning his assault anew.

Draco realized, with a start, that Harry was going to leave another mark on his neck. He melted at the thought, nearly going limp in Harry’s arms as he let out a little cry. All the blood rushed to his cock as he thought of Harry marking him, claiming him, letting everyone know without a doubt that Draco was his. He tilted his head to allow Harry further access, groaning again as Harry bit down, hard. Draco’s hands were wandering—over Harry’s back, down his arms, through his hair, wherever he could manage to reach. He was restless as Harry sucked gently along his collarbone.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed into his skin. He sounded as awed as Draco felt. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”

“Yeah?” Draco asked hoarsely. He was impressed by his own ability to say anything at all.

“Draco…” Harry frowned and moved to inspect his neck. “There are bruises. I think I…I think I bruised you.”

“That’s from before,” he said, bringing up a hand to cover his neck. “And it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

Harry looked very guilty as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. Here, let me heal it.” He began to reach for his wand.

“No.” Draco spoke so forcefully that he surprised even himself. “I don’t want you to.”

Harry blinked at him. “Are you sure?”

He was quickly coming to realize how many of Harry’s expressions he had grown to like over the years—the bemused look currently occupying his face was one of his favourites. Needing urgently to feel Harry’s lips on him again, Draco tugged him forward. Softly, so softly that it made Draco’s heart ache, Harry brought his hands up to cradle Draco’s head. Harry’s weight against him was comforting, an anchor preventing him from drifting off. He felt, for the briefest of moments, what he swore was Harry’s erection pressing into his thigh, and that was nearly too much for him. It was very difficult to resist pulling off Harry’s bloody cloak; his hands wanted desperately to do it. He distracted himself by weaving his fingers through that mess of hair.

Just as he was about to work up the courage to remove the stupid cloak, Harry pulled away. Draco instantly reached out for him, unwilling to let go of that soothing warmth, but Harry didn’t stray far; he sat atop Draco, shaking his head. Draco whined and tried to drag him down, but Harry resisted.

“I don’t want to push you,” he said.

“Harry.” Exasperated, Draco brought his hands up to cover his face. “You aren’t pushing me. I want this. I’m not some…some sad victim.”

“Of course you’re not,” Harry said in a sombre voice. “You’re incredible.”

Draco made an embarrassed noise and looked away.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Harry went on. “All term, it’s been like this.”

Surprised, Draco looked back up at Harry’s face. He had that pensive expression again.

“I know this is a lot. We can take our time.”

Draco didn’t trust himself to speak. He tried to convey the pounding in his heart, the roaring in his ears, by shakily grasping Harry’s hands. The ache in his Mark was a distant memory.

***

As the little black knight dragged himself off the board, he shook his fist in Draco’s direction. Draco scowled back. He was losing spectacularly: his pile of broken, defeated pieces was growing by the minute. But he didn’t really mind; he had always been lousy at chess. That was, he suspected, one of the main reasons Blaise insisted on playing him. Unbothered, he took a bite of his apple as the knight cleared the board. Pansy sat next to him, reading through one of her novels, looking up occasionally when one of them gloated or cursed.

Blaise was leaning onto the table, resting his chin in his hands. He opened his mouth to direct a piece but then paused, hesitating. His shrewd eyes darted across the board. After a moment, he pursed his lips and resumed his pondering.

“I wonder what’s for dinner,” Pansy said distractedly. “I’m starving.”

“Something light, I hope,” Blaise said. “I’m not going to fit into my dress robes.”

“That’s because you have double servings of everything,” Pansy quipped.

Ignoring her, he said, “Rook to E4. Check.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, sitting up straighter in his chair. He didn’t care about losing, not really, but he wanted to put up a bit of a fight.

“Look,” Pansy said, leaning over to examine the board. “Just move your king there—or here, move your pawn—”

“Oi, don’t help him!” Blaise snapped, reaching forward to push her away. “That’s cheating!”

“Draco’s lousy at chess,” Pansy said. “That’s why you play him and not me.”

“Thanks a lot,” Draco grumbled. He took another bite of his apple and tried to predict the moves in his head.

“Blaise, what does your mother want us to bring for dinner?” Pansy asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “She hasn’t written me in days. I think she’s gone into a complete panic.”

“I don’t know why she offered to host,” Pansy sighed.

“It’s to impress that man she’s seeing,” Blaise said. “I think they’re on the verge of ending things, thank God.”

“Draco,” Pansy said suddenly, reaching out to grip his arm. “Theo said he needs your CV, for that job application. Have you written it yet?”

“Er. Yes.” This was technically true: he had composed it, only to lock it away in his drawer of things he would rather forget, along with his mother’s letters.

“And what about that letter of recommendation from Slughorn?” Pansy asked. “They’ll start interviewing people soon, Draco.”

“I’m working on it,” he said tersely.

“Why don’t we go now? Slughorn is probably in his office. Come on.”

“Let him be!” Blaise said, shooing her away. “Let him concentrate.”

“You’re going to win anyway, Blaise, what does it matter?” she snapped. “Draco has more important things to worry about than chess.”

“I’ll go with you.”

All three of them looked up as Harry came to stand beside Blaise, hands in his pockets. In sharp contrast to Pansy, who was gaping up at him, flabbergasted, Harry had an easy smile on his face. When nobody spoke, Harry said again, “I’ll go with you. To see Slughorn.”

Draco was at a loss for words. He had spent weeks gazing at Harry across the Great Hall; it was surreal to have him right there, talking with them as though he regularly came over to the Slytherin table.

“That’s a great idea!” Pansy said happily. “Blaise and I should go pack, anyway.”

“But our game…” Blaise moaned, staring longingly at the board.

“I’ll wait,” Harry offered. He looked rather amused.

“No, no, no,” Pansy said. She stood up and collected her things. “Come on, Blaise, you can help me decide which shoes to bring.”

Blaise gave a deep, longsuffering sigh before following her out of the Great Hall.

“Are you coming?” Harry asked.

Looking to stall, Draco held up his apple. “I’m eating.”

Harry smirked, no doubt seeing through his ruse, but he didn’t press. Instead, he sat across from Draco. Over at the Hufflepuff table, a group of students had turned to gawk at them. Harry shifted slightly, blocking them from Draco’s view. “Ignore them,” he said.

“Right.” Draco bit into his apple, insisting to himself that he didn’t mind if people stared. He was used to it, by now. Harry, it seemed, wasn’t bothered at all. His eyes swept over the chess board.

“Wow.” Harry reached out and toyed with one of Blaise’s bishops. “You really are bad at chess.”

“No,” he protested, “Blaise is just very good.”

“Mmm.” Harry drummed his hands on the table.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” Draco said. “I can do it myself.”

“I know,” Harry said evenly.

“I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of asking Slughorn on my own.”

“You are,” he agreed.

“I’m not some…some helpless idiot who can’t ask for a letter.”

“I know. I just want to spend time with you.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Harry, meanwhile, continued to smile at him in that relaxed, unaffected way of his. Befuddled, Draco occupied himself by taking another bite of his apple. He was aware of Harry’s eyes on him, watching as he absently wiped his mouth.

“Draco,” Harry said. “Pull down your collar. Let me see your neck.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“Let me see.” Harry’s expression hadn’t changed, but his voice was lower, huskier.

Draco looked around the Great Hall to check if anyone was looking their way. Slowly, he fingered at his collar, and then dragged it down, until the edges of his collarbone were exposed. He heard Harry inhale sharply. His eyes—which had become darker, Draco thought, hungrier—were tracing the contours of his neck. He knew what Harry saw, because he himself had examined it this morning. A mottled, purple bruise extended across his throat, clearly marking where Harry had kissed him.

“And you don’t want me to heal it?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head. There came a sudden burst of conversation as a loud group of Ravenclaw students strode into the hall; Draco pulled up his collar again, flattening it. He felt shy, incapable of meeting Harry’s eyes.

“You don’t have to go see Slughorn, you know,” Harry said. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I do if I want that job at the Ministry,” he muttered.

“Do you?”

“I…I don’t know.” Draco pulled out his wand and tapped on the apple core, Vanishing it. “I think it’s something I would be interested in. But…I don’t know if I could work at the Ministry, after what happened over the summer. Every day I would go in for work, and I would remember, you know.”

Harry had that worried look on his face again. “Are you okay? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine,” he said. Before Harry could notice his hands trembling, he pressed them against the table, urging them to stop.

“What if you apply now, and then you can decide later?”

“Maybe.” He tried to smile at Harry, to reassure him that everything was fine, but it was difficult when the sharp tide of anxiety rose up in him so abruptly. Looking to change topics, Draco asked, “And what about you? Anything from the Wasps?”

“Mr. Dawson wrote me a while ago,” he said. “He wants to see me fly again, he said.”

“That’s good news,” Draco said earnestly. “That’s really good.”

“Yeah. But I haven’t been able to practice much. That’s the problem with being captain…I’m so busy telling everyone else what to do, I barely have time to fly.”

As subtly as he could, Draco took a deep breath in, trying to focus on the warm air of the Great Hall as it filled his lungs. Unwanted flashes of noise crashed through his mind—the lift at the Ministry creaking into place, the grate dragging open, the cool, disembodied voice…

He tried to focus as Harry spoke excitedly, leaning forward over the table, “We could fly together, over the holidays! You could help me practice. You’ve got your broom, haven’t you?”

And that proved to be too much for him, because now he was assaulted with Vincent’s haunting shrieks, and the scalding heat of the Fiendfyre as it raced after them, and the fear leaping in his chest, threatening to engulf him, as he clutched Harry’s waist and they barrelled towards the door…

He was dimly aware of Harry’s hands on his shoulders, his voice urgently muttering in his ear. As the awful vision of the Room of Requirement slipped away, his first thought was that he was in the Great Hall, and that people would surely stare. When Draco finally cracked his eyes open, that fear was confirmed: coming out of the fog, he could just make out several heads swiveled towards them. Urgent whispering filled the room.

“You’re okay,” Harry said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Harry took Draco’s satchel, swung it over his shoulder, and then helped Draco to his feet. He swayed, but Harry was there to support him.

“Blaise’s chess set,” Draco said groggily.

“Right, hang on.” Very gently, Harry set him down onto the bench, and then folded the board and assembled the chess pieces. He threw the lot into Draco’s bag. And then he was back at Draco’s side, lifting him up and helping him out of the Great Hall. When Draco saw that he was leading him to the dungeon, he pulled back.

“Not the common room,” he groaned. “I don’t want people to see me like this.”

“Well…okay.” Harry hesitated, and then redirected them across the hall and down a narrow corridor. “Here, let’s find an empty room.”

Draco stumbled along as Harry led him into an unused classroom. He dropped into a chair and rested his head on a desk, grateful for the feel of the cool, smooth wood against his cheek. Harry closed the door and then drew a chair to sit next to him. For several moments, they said nothing. The silence was interrupted only by the noise of Draco’s deep inhalations and sharp exhalations as he tried to steady his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry I set you off,” Harry said. Even in the dark classroom, his face looked very white.

“It’s…it’s the flying,” Draco said. His voice was hoarse. “Ever since what happened in the Room, I haven’t been able to fly.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.”

“Draco…” Harry reached out and, very gently, placed his hand next to Draco’s. Their fingers barely touched. “Your flashbacks…I’m worried.”

“I know,” he said wearily. “They’re getting worse.”

“Can I touch you?”

Draco nodded, and Harry slipped their fingers together.

“Do you remember what Luna said? At the pub?”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to recall. “She said my memories are repressed. That I need to let them out.”

“I keep thinking about it,” Harry said. “She might have been onto something.”

“You want me to talk to her,” Draco surmised.

“Only if you want to,” Harry said quickly. “But…I think it might help. It can’t make things worse.”

“I don’t know.” Draco pushed himself up; to his relief, the room was no longer spinning. “I don’t know what I want to do anymore.”

Harry lifted Draco’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He grazed his lips across the pale knuckles. It was utterly captivating, the way his skin dragged against Harry’s lips. And, foolish though he felt, he couldn’t help the thought that their fingers looked as though they were meant to be intertwined, that they fit together so easily as Harry entangled them.

“What can I do?” Harry asked.

Draco wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. Silently, he pleaded, and Harry somehow understood, because he leaned forward and brought their lips together in a chaste kiss. Desperate to be distracted from the panic coursing through him, the flashback still gripping at the edges of his thoughts, Draco reached forward and brought his hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him closer. And, once again, Harry understood his need before he had to voice it. He started at the point where Draco’s jaw met his ear, kissing softly, before trailing down to his throat. There, he licked at the exposed skin; when he drew away, Draco felt goosebumps prickle across his arms. He let out a little moan as Harry moved in again, this time nibbling at Draco’s neck. Their hands were still clasped; somewhere in the haze of his mind, Draco was dimly aware of Harry’s thumb as it rubbed his palm. All of his attention returned to Harry’s mouth when he suddenly sucked down, drawing out a pulse of pain that left Draco gasping.

Harry untangled their hands, and Draco was about to reach out for him again when he felt nimble fingers working on his shirt buttons. One came apart, and then a second, and then a third, and then a fourth. And then Harry’s warm hand was reaching in to drag across his chest. Draco mumbled something he himself couldn’t decipher. Harry kissed down his throat, past his collarbones, and then along his chest, pulling Draco’s shirt aside as he went. Draco’s hands came up to twist within Harry’s messy hair. He tipped his head back when Harry bit down, pulling away and licking tenderly before it could really hurt. And then he was sucking at a spot just above his nipple, and Draco was so hard it ached. Abruptly, Harry pulled away and came back up to kiss him. His cheeks were pink, his mouth red and glistening.

“I get so scared,” Harry said. The look on his face was painfully sincere.

“Of what?” Draco murmured. He cupped Harry’s jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“Of hurting you. Of causing a flashback…I don’t want to remind you of that…of that time…”

“This is nothing like that.” Draco kissed him again, so softly their lips barely touched. But Harry was still frowning. “It’s like every time you touch me, I forget a little more. I become myself a little more.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathed. He was leaning into Draco’s touch.

“Mmm.” Draco took a moment to consider Harry—his open, trusting face, the desire in his eyes. Very quietly, he said, “I’ll talk to Lovegood. I’ll ask what she thinks.”

Harry beamed at him. “You will? Should we go now?”

“No,” Draco said. “Now, I need to go help Pansy pack. Otherwise, she’ll never make it home.” Harry chuckled. “Do you think she’ll be free tonight, though? To come to our spot?”

“Maybe.” He paused, and then said, “I like that. I like that you call it our spot.”

For weeks now, Draco had thought of the clearing as their spot, but always with a touch of melancholy, well aware that someday they would stop visiting it. It was their spot. But he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Our spot,” Harry said, as though testing the words on his lips. Touched, Draco smiled, and then leaned forward to kiss those same lips again.

***

Harry and Lovegood were already in the clearing when Draco arrived. Harry smiled, almost apologetically, as Lovegood turned around to greet him. She was dressed in perhaps the strangest winter cloak Draco had ever seen—in the dark of the forest, it looked black, but little planets and figures of the solar system glided around the sleeves and the skirt. That alone caused Draco to stop short.

“Oh, hello, Draco,” she said. “This is such a peaceful spot, isn’t it?”

“Er.” He glanced over at Harry, who nodded. “It is, yeah.”

“The Thestrals aren’t far from here.” She walked towards the edge of the clearing, looking up at the bare branches above them. “And look, the trees are saying hello.”

“Should we all sit?” Harry asked. He didn’t seem perturbed at all by Lovegood’s peculiar behaviour.

“That would be nice,” she said.

Harry swept away the snow with a few twists of his wand. He conjured a large, thick blanket for them—Ravenclaw colours, perhaps in honour of their guest—and they sat down. If Lovegood thought it was odd, to meet them at this time of night in the Forbidden Forest, she didn’t show it. Instead, she turned to smile at Draco, who felt as though he was being appraised.

“We wanted to ask you about something,” Harry started. “We were curious about what you said the other night, at the pub.”

“About moon frogs?” Lovegood asked. She still hadn’t taken her eyes off Draco.

Harry coughed to cover an ill-disguised laugh. “No. Not the moon frogs.”

“My memories,” Draco said stiffly. He felt ill at ease under Lovegood’s watchful stare. “You said they’re repressed.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Can I have a look?”

Draco nodded, and Lovegood leaned in closer. Their noses were nearly touching as she examined his eyes, moving back and forth as Draco tried to maintain a straight face. Finally, she sat back.

“You’re very troubled, aren’t you?” Lovegood asked. Draco was so stunned that he didn’t know how to answer. “I can see them all, it’s so clear…So many memories you’ve tried to repress.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, voicing Draco’s confusion.

“It happened to my father.” Lovegood finally looked away, and instead peered up at the night sky. Without the shade of the leafy canopy, the stars were visible. “When my mother died, he tried to forget everything.”

“By erasing his memories, you mean?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. He tried to suppress them, by distracting himself.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a concerned look. But Lovegood didn’t seem bothered; she was still sitting back to take in the sky.

“And then what happened?” Harry finally asked.

“Well, he had to go to St. Mungo’s for a while. To see a Healer, I forget her name…she was a very nice lady, though…she used to give me sweets…”

“A Healer?” At the thought, Draco felt ill.

“A Mind Healer,” Lovegood said. “He came home once he was better. He still sees her sometimes, though.”

“But your father…” Draco hesitated, wondering how to phrase this without offending Lovegood. She seemed, however, quite unflappable. “Our situations are different. I’m not pretending to forget my memories…we’ve erased them.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Lovegood asked. She was now staring at him again, eyes wide with surprise.

“No,” he grumbled. “It isn’t. It’s not at all the same thing.”

But Harry leaned forward, touching Lovegood’s arm. “Why do you think it’s the same thing, Luna?”

Serene as ever, she said, “Erasures leave traces. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Erasures leave traces?” Harry repeated.

“That’s right.” She nodded. “Memories leave marks on us. Not just on our minds, in our thoughts…but on our bodies. And so do erasures.”

Harry looked horrified. “So by erasing your memories, I’ve marked you,” he said. “Permanently.”

Draco scoffed. “It’s rubbish. Memories don’t leave marks on anything. They’re just—just thoughts—they’re just thoughts in your mind. No offence,” he said to Lovegood, who smiled at him.

“But Draco,” Harry said. “Doesn’t it make sense? The more memories we erase, the worse you get.”

“That’s because he hasn’t forgotten,” Lovegood said. “His mind hasn’t, and neither has his body…And it’s all the same, isn’t it? I don’t think you can separate one from the other…”

“I have forgotten,” Draco insisted. “There might be times where—where I can almost remember, maybe, where I can get the gist of it if I really concentrate—but I’ve forgotten.”

“You’ve forgotten,” she said agreeably. “But there’s no such thing as erasing. Not really. When you think of everything that makes up the world, erasures are just as much a part of it. Attempts at erasing…attempts to change the past…those are all a part of the world, too.”

It was, as far as Draco was concerned, absolute nonsense, but Harry was regarding Lovegood as seriously as if she were McGonagall lecturing them on Transfiguration. “So how do we fix it, Luna? If it’s the repressed memories causing him problems, what do we do?”

“Well.” She took a moment to ponder his question, and then said, “You’ll have to remember again. And then work through them. That’s what my father did.”

“How can I remember something I’ve forgotten?” Draco asked impatiently. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not,” Harry said in a quiet voice. “I have the memories. I can give them back to you.”

Draco gaped at him, aghast. “No. No. I don’t want them back. And what if it—do you think—will it bring back my Mark?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I don’t know.”

Lovegood seemed wholly unbothered by their discussion. She was back to surveying the branches as they swayed in the wind.

“Luna, you said Draco needs to work through the memories. But what does that mean?”

She shrugged. “That’s what my father did, with the Healer. He had to go through them, one by one…talk about what happened, how it affected him…and then he accepted it.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. When Harry frowned at him, he doubled down. “No. I won’t.” It was difficult enough to go through his memories with the promise that they would be promptly erased; to have to talk to someone, some stranger that he didn’t even know, and then pick the memories apart, and then somehow accept them…It was torture, plain and simple.

“Draco,” Harry sighed. “What if it makes you better? Don’t you want to feel better?”

“He’s scared,” Lovegood said kindly. “He’s scared of being hurt.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry spoke first: “I know he’s scared. But this isn’t any better.”

“You’ll get there, Draco,” she said. She reached out and patted his knee. “You’re a good person. Just misguided. And you’re very angry, too. But you can work on that with a Healer. My father did. And he’s very normal and well-adjusted now.”

Harry ducked his head; Draco would have sworn he was laughing.

Draco didn’t know how to respond to her. Eventually, he said, “Thank you.”

“We’ll let you go, Luna,” Harry said. “It’s late. But thanks for this. I hope you have a good holiday.”

They walked back to the castle together. Lovegood pointed out the constellations as they went, identifying several Draco had never heard of. Privately, he doubted whether they existed at all, but Harry seemed happy to listen, nodding as she traced them in the sky. When they arrived at the entrance hall, Draco stood off to the side as Harry and Lovegood bid each other goodnight. Then, without warning, she enveloped him in a hug. She smelled like peppermint.

“You’ll be okay, Draco,” she said. “You have Harry with you.”

“Right. Thank you.” Draco felt as though he should say something else, but nothing came to mind. Finally, he said, “Your commentary. At the Quidditch match. It was very good.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t sure why they asked me again. I thought I was dreadful, last time.”

“Er, no,” he lied. “My friend…he really enjoyed it.”

Lovegood gave him a grateful smile and then climbed up the marble staircase. As they watched her go, Harry said quietly, “It was me who suggested her to McGonagall. After everything that happened last year, I thought we could all use a laugh.”

It was very difficult to keep a straight face as Lovegood waved to them one last time.

***

“I’m going to miss you, Draco!” His vision was clouded by a mass of black hair as Pansy crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“It’s only a few days,” he grumbled, but she didn’t seem to hear him over her wailing.

“Try to get some work done while we’re gone! I’ve made you a timetable for revision, just check my desk—and try not to stay up all night—try to get some rest while you can, next term is going to be mad, you need to sleep—”

“I think he can manage,” Blaise said drily, dragging her away. “He’s not twelve, Pansy.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with us?” Pansy said. To Draco’s horror, her brown eyes were filled with tears.

“Positive,” he said firmly. “You two have a nice holiday. And look out for an owl, with your gifts.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets to brace against the cold as Pansy and Blaise boarded the train. It felt odd, not to be going with them. But he was also relieved. He had made his decision. A decision for himself, and no one else. Long after the Hogwarts Express had disappeared, he stood there, contemplating its departure. He only retreated back to the castle once the sharp nip of cold became unbearable. After the bustle of the station—the students shouting goodbye, the cats hissing and spitting, the sharp train whistle—the empty grounds were startlingly quiet. Someone had cleared the path; thick mounds of snow rose up on each side. The lake was in turmoil as the wind skittered across the water, peeling up waves and pushing them back into deep troughs. This would be, he realized, his last winter at Hogwarts. He felt a curious wrench of bittersweet nostalgia for a moment he was presently living.

Draco eventually made his way to the greenhouses. By the time he arrived, the sun was beginning to slip back under the horizon. Greenhouse One was vacant; the door creaked as he pushed through. Somewhere, a wind chime rang. The glass ceiling was covered with vines, casting strange shadows and unexpected arcs of light. All sorts of flowers and plants were nestled deep inside their pots: fat little cactuses, great orchids in an assortment of colours, purple shrivelfig bulbs. Sprout’s desk was strewn with mismatched gloves and a half-spilled bag of soil. In the corner, several sketchbooks were already neatly stacked. Draco set his satchel onto the desk and pulled out Blaise’s and Pansy’s sketchbooks, placing them on top of the others. Then, he withdrew his own. He took a moment to leaf through the pages, pausing to examine some of the sketches. As he did, he recalled the circumstances in which he had drawn them. Thistle—when he had snapped at Blaise and Pansy, ripped off the corner of his drawing, and then stormed off. Bearberry shrubs—when Blaise had first brought up the idea of dating someone who wasn’t a Slytherin or part of their inner circle. Spruce—when he had finally opened up, if ever so slightly, about his complicated relationship with his parents, and with his past.

He closed the sketchbook and slipped it onto the pile. Then, in the muted light of the greenhouse, Draco undid the buttons on his cuff. He pulled up his sleeve, holding it away from his sensitive skin just as Harry usually did for him. His Mark was barely visible. It might have been mistaken for a bruise, or perhaps a splotch of ink, as if he had been writing and his bare arm had rubbed against his parchment. This was the first time he had examined his Mark without Harry, in broad daylight. To his surprise, the nausea didn’t come. The anger didn’t come. Nothing came except a dull sense of regret. Regret for what he had done, and for everything he wished to atone for but couldn’t. But the Mark itself didn’t seize him with the agony he had expected.

Briskly, he yanked down his sleeve and redid his cuff. Shouldering his satchel, Draco took one last look around the greenhouse before heading back outside. Harry was waiting for him in the library, but he didn’t hurry back. At that moment, it felt like they had all the time in the world.

***

Draco refused to fly, but he agreed to watch. It was too late and too dark out to practice with a real Snitch, but they found a bag of golf balls in the broomshed, and—after Harry took ten minutes to explain to Draco what golf was—he sat in the stands and threw them for Harry to catch. That proved too easy, so he began to fling them with magic, laughing as Harry pulled off several stunts as he raced around the pitch.

“Ready?” Draco called. From afar, he could just see Harry giving him a thumbs up. With a tap of his wand, Draco sent the last golf ball flying towards the goal posts. Harry shot down the field, catching the ball just as it began to curve downward. Holding it up victoriously, he came to soar towards the stands where Draco sat.

“That wasn’t bad,” Harry said, grinning. He disembarked and sat next to Draco, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It’s cold. We should go in soon.”

“Is Mr. Dawson coming in the new year?” Draco asked.

“I think so.” Harry propped his feet onto the bench in front of them and began to unlace his Quidditch boots. “I know there are a few other people they’re considering, so we’ll see.”

“You’ll be fine. We’ll practice like this every day.”

“Every day? Even when everyone’s back from their holidays? You won’t be embarrassed, being seen with me?”

Draco scoffed. “You’re the one who should be embarrassed, being seen with a former Death Eater.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scolded him. “If you keep talking like that, I’ll kiss you right here, where anyone can see.”

“I’ll keep being ridiculous, then,” Draco teased.

“I wouldn’t care, you know,” Harry said, his voice suddenly serious. He abandoned his boots and turned to look Draco in the eye. “If everyone knew. I’ll kiss you in the middle of the entrance hall if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco said in a strangled voice. Harry chuckled.

“And what about you?” Harry asked, returning to his laces. “Did you have a chance to ask Slughorn?”

“I wrote him a note,” Draco said, “and left it on his office door.”

“Let me know if he doesn’t answer you in a few days. I’ll go ask.” Before Draco could argue, Harry held up his hand. “I know, I know, you don’t need my help. Try not to see it that way. I’m not helping you, I’m giving myself the opportunity to be the hero again.”

Draco gently bumped their shoulders, grinning. “I suppose that’s alright.”

“Really, though. I hope you apply. Because you’d be brilliant. And I know you don’t want to work at the Ministry…but think about what Luna said. If we sort out your memories, then maybe you won’t be as afraid. You can work through them, with a Healer.”

“No.” At the exasperated look on Harry’s face, he said, “I’d rather snog Weasley than see a Healer for my mind. I’m not mad.”

Harry was quiet as he took his trainers off the bench and pulled them on. Finally, as he finished tying the laces, he said, “I’ve seen one.”

Draco stared at him blankly. “You…what?”

Harry shrugged. He had begun to peel off his gloves. “Yeah. Over the summer. I was really angry, and I had something called survivor’s guilt. I was tired of the nightmares.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine Harry—his Harry, Harry Potter, who was so easygoing now, so brave, so unbothered by everything—sitting in a chair at St. Mungo’s as someone sorted through his mind.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry said. “Once you get used to it.”

“And do you still go?”

“Not very often.”

Draco pursed his lips. He knew Harry was trying to convince him, and he didn’t much fancy being convinced.

“You’re not weak just because you need help, Draco,” Harry said. “Do you know how many people helped me to get rid of Voldemort? Every step of the way, I had people helping me.”

“I know that.” And he did. Sort of.

“Look, how about this? I’ll come with you. We’ll go to Pomfrey together, and get you an appointment, and I’ll schedule mine for the same day. I could use a check-in. And then I can take you out for lunch or something.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Draco asked. “That you’ve seen a Healer?”

“Well…” Harry placed his gloves on the bench next to him. He sat back and looked out at the field. “I sort of forgot, really. It mostly happened over the summer. And I thought…” He took a deep breath, and then said, “After the Battle, Pomfrey brought it up with us. She’s the one who said we should go, since we’d been through, you know…really awful things.”

“‘We?’” Draco asked. “Who is ‘we?’”

“Er…I probably shouldn’t say. It’s supposed to be private. But the point is…she offered to make appointments for everyone. So I just figured…er…”

“That she must have spoken to me, too,” Draco said dully. “That she must have offered to make me an appointment.”

 “Yeah.”

“As a Death Eater, I don’t think I was at the top of her priorities.”

“It’s not fair,” Harry insisted. “You were the same age as us—you were a student. You’d been through just as much.”

“Yes, well, that’s how it goes. I don’t know what you expected.”

“Better, I guess,” Harry muttered. “I expected better.”

“It’s fine. Don’t be upset.”

“Will you go, then?” he asked. “If I go?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly. “Before that, we’ll need to sort out what to do with my memories. Because if I’ve forgotten everything, there won’t be much point in seeing a Healer, will there?”

“You agree, then. You think Luna’s right.”

Draco picked up one of Harry’s gloves and fiddled with it. The worn leather reminded him sharply of his own days as a Seeker. “I don’t know what I think.”

“You’re afraid the Mark will come back.”

Draco looked up at Harry, frowning. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I’m afraid that if everything comes back, I’ll be changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…I mean this,” Draco said, nodding at the space between them. “The Mark—it’s like it was a part of me, a part of him inside of me. And it’s funny, don’t you think, that once the Mark went away, we managed to—I managed to—to do this. With you.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “But what if it goes away, when the Mark comes back?”

“Your Mark isn’t completely gone, though,” Harry said. “And we still managed.”

“I know that. But still. It’s nearly gone. I’m worried that I’ve become better, with the Mark gone, and that if it comes back…you won’t…we won’t…”

“Draco. Can I touch you?” When Draco nodded, Harry reached out and pried the glove from his hand. He set it aside, and then turned to take both of Draco’s hands in his. “That won’t happen. The Mark was never a part of you. Even when Voldemort was alive, you chose to save me. Remember?”

“I’m happy,” Draco blurted out. “For the first time in forever, I’m happy. Actually happy. It’s a weird, fucked up happiness, because I’m still anxious and having flashbacks and everything else. But I’m happy.”

“I know. And that won’t stop.”

“But what if it does? What if the Mark comes back, and then all the progress I’ve made—with you, with my parents, with my marks—it all just goes away?”

“That won’t happen,” Harry said. “You just need to trust.”

“I do,” Draco said. “I do trust you.”

Harry shook his head, smiling. “Don’t trust me. Trust yourself.”

He swallowed thickly, looking down at where his delicate hands rested in Harry’s.

“Just think about it for now. You don’t need to decide today. I’ll have to figure out where we can get a Pensieve, anyway.”

Slowly, Draco, said, “I know where we can get one. Severus’ Pensieve. My parents inherited it. It’s at the Manor, in my father’s study.”

“Okay. Well…” Harry shrugged. “Still, think about it. Take your time.”

Draco felt his chest constrict in fear. He had spent years pushing everything away, shoving every unpleasant thought and agonizing memory under the rugs littered about his mind until there was nothing left to spook him. The thought of remembering, of going through those memories bit by bit, went against every survival instinct he had.

“The memories,” he said. “The ones I’ve forgotten. Are they bad? Is it going to be awful, remembering?”

Very gently, Harry reached up and pushed the hair from Draco’s face. “They’re not nice,” Harry admitted. “It won’t be great. But you can do it. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Draco closed his eyes, focusing on Harry’s fingers as they tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before going on to graze down his neck. Finally, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Harry smiled. “Okay,” he echoed back.

***

Harry, it turned out, had a knack for wrapping presents. Granger had left them with a colorful assortment of bows, ribbons, and paper. They spent what was, on the whole, a very enjoyable afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, wrapping gifts and drinking hot cocoa. For Weasley, Harry had picked out several bright Cannons shirts, each one louder and more obnoxious than the last, along with a box full of sweets from Honeydukes. Granger was to receive a more subdued present—a thick book on Arithmancy, signed by one of her favourite authors. They pretended to scuffle as Draco nearly pulled his gift for Harry out of his satchel and Harry tried to reach for it, which ended up with both of them on the sofa and Draco in Harry’s lap. He had just convinced Harry to unbutton most of his shirt, and had nearly summoned up the courage to try to pull off Harry’s jumper, when there came a sharp tapping sound at the window.

Hoping that Harry wouldn’t hear, Draco bit down on his bottom lip, earning himself a gasp. Harry rested his head back on the sofa, eyes unfocused. Sounding almost drunk, he said, “I think I could kiss you forever.”

Draco sniggered. He leaned forward and trailed his lips across Harry’s jaw, reveling in the rough brush of stubble. Harry’s hands traveled down his chest, past his stomach, and then grazed across the front of his trousers. Draco groaned into Harry’s neck. He wanted to ask for more—he needed the friction, he desperately needed it—but the tapping noise was back again.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, drawing his hands away.

“Nothing,” he murmured. He took Harry’s hands and brought them back to his chest, laying his palms flat. But the tapping was incessant.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco snarled as he pulled away. Through the window, he could just make out an owl. “Next time, we go to the Slytherin common room. No bloody owls underwater.”

Harry laughed as Draco climbed out of his lap. “It’s probably Ron’s owl, here for their presents.”

“Stupid bird,” Draco spat. He crossed over to the window, and then froze. It wasn’t Weasley’s owl glowering at him through the glass, but his mother’s.

“Draco?” Harry called, craning to look at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. Pursing his lips, he wrenched open the window, allowing the eagle owl to hop in. It hooted imperiously at him.

“That’s not Pig,” Harry said.

Draco grimaced as he reached for the owl’s leg; its sharp beak hovered close to his hands. “Who the hell is Pig?”

“Ron’s owl.”

“Why is his owl called Pig? Ow!” Draco drew his hand away as the owl pecked at him. “What’s your problem?”

“Do you need help?” Harry asked, jumping up from the sofa.

“No, it’s fine,” he growled. “It’s my mother’s stupid owl. It doesn’t like me, because I never return her letters…” Finally, he ripped the parchment from its leg. “Go on, then! Go to the Owlery!”

The owl hooted at him angrily before shuffling across the windowsill and soaring out into the night. Draco rubbed absently at the sore spot on his hand where it had nipped him. Irritated, he pushed past Harry and threw himself onto the sofa, staring moodily at the letter in his hands. Harry, who had the look of someone hoping not to detonate a bomb, came to sit next to him.

“Are you going to open that?” he asked, indicating the scroll of parchment.

“Here.” Draco passed it to Harry. “You read it.”

As Harry unfurled the scroll, Draco crossed his arms and stared into the fire. He felt as though all of the warmth had been sucked out of the room. Harry paused for a moment, and then read aloud: “Dear Draco…I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to ask you one more time to consider joining me for Christmas Eve at the Manor. It would mean a great deal to me to be able to open presents with you. We don’t need to discuss your father. Please write back, and I can arrange everything. I love you.”

There was an awkward silence as Harry folded the parchment. Eventually, he said, “Why does she write that like? So formally?”

Draco snorted. “Because she’s angry.”

“Why is she angry?”

“Because I haven’t written her back in months,” he said. “Because I won’t go to Azkaban with her. Because I refuse to stay at the Manor for Christmas. There are other reasons, I’m sure.”

“We can go, if you want,” Harry said. “We can open presents with your mother, and then stay at the Manor overnight.”

Draco turned to look at Harry, unsure if he had heard properly. “You must be joking.”

“Why? The Pensieve is there, isn’t it? And you haven’t seen her in a while. It could be nice.”

“Nice,” Draco repeated. He was baffled. “You think staying at the Manor, where your friend was tortured, where Voldemort based his headquarters for years, could be nice.”

“It’s where you grew up, isn’t it?” Harry asked. “It’s only for one night. Your mother’s not going to murder me on the spot.”

“When she finds out what’s going on with us, she might,” he muttered.

“Do they…know? That you like blokes?”

Draco rested his head back on the sofa, sighing. “I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what they know and don’t know.”

“You think they’ll be angry?”

“I don’t know. And what will your friends say, when they find out? Your Weasleys?”

“I think Hermione and Ron already know,” he said. “And as for everyone else…they’ll be cross. But they’ll get over it. They have no choice.”

“Why?” Draco scoffed. “Because you’re the Chose One?”

“No.” Harry frowned. “Because they love me.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Right. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, we are not staying at the Manor. Absolutely not.”

“Okay.”

“You have no idea how awkward it would be. And there’s a dinner tonight—this stupid dinner they put on for all the pure-bloods. Well, they don’t say it’s for the pure-bloods anymore, but it is. For the Sacred Twenty-Eight, all that rubbish. And we aren’t going.”

“Okay.”

“And then we’ll sleep—where? My bedroom? Oh, that would be great, wouldn’t it? Spend the night in that room where I heard awful, just awful things. No.”

“Okay.”

“And then there’s my mother. She says she won’t try to convince me to go to Azkaban, but she will. You don’t know her. She’s unbelievably meddlesome. She can never just be happy.”

“Draco,” Harry said. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“I don’t need to see my mother at Christmas,” he went on. He sounded rather hysterical. “In my second year, they went on a trip to Peru. I stayed here. It was nice.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Draco leaned forward and rested his head in his palms. “This is so stupid. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Draco.” Harry slid towards him. “Whatever you decide is fine. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I really don’t know.”

“Can I touch you?”

“Fine.”

At once, he felt Harry’s hand on his back, drawing little circles through the thin material of his uniform shirt. “Why don’t we go now? We can get it over with. Or you can go by yourself, if you want. And I’ll wait here.”

“I’m not going without you,” Draco said flatly. “And anyway, she won’t be home until later. She’s at that stupid dinner.”

“So why don’t we go to the dinner?”

Draco sat up to ogle him. “You’ve really lost the plot, haven’t you?”

Harry chuckled. “Why? It’s a dinner party. What’s the worst that could happen? Your friends are there, aren’t they?”

“Yes. All the more reason not to go.”

“Don’t be like that,” Harry reasoned. “It’s Christmas. Let’s go, just for a bit. You’ll have fun.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“You don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have dress robes. I’ll manage. Come on. You can see your friends.”

Draco sat back and began to button up his shirt. The fire was crackling away merrily, Harry’s hand was resting on his back, and it was so peaceful, so comfortable in the common room. It would be so easy to stay there and to climb back into Harry’s lap. He gave a defeated sigh. “We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”

Harry grinned at him.

“But everything will have to change, then. I’ll have to owl Pansy and Blaise, and tell them not to send my presents here.”

“Can’t we just open them tomorrow morning?” Harry asked.

Draco sniffed. “No. I’ve always opened my presents Christmas eve. It’s a Malfoy tradition.” Harry ducked his head, and Draco suspected he might be laughing at him, but he continued on: “We’ll need to pack. And I can guarantee my mother won’t let us go first thing in the morning—you’ll see. First, she’ll want us to stay for breakfast. Then, she’ll bring out the photo albums. She does that every single time I have friends over. Then, she’ll want to show us some new piece of furniture she’s bought, or some new painting. We won’t be back until dinner.”

“That’s fine,” Harry said. “But we’ll have to stop at the kitchens, first. So I can give Winky and Kreacher their presents.”

“Oh. Er. Right.” Draco looked away in embarrassment; he hadn’t thought to buy them anything.

Sensing his discomfort, Harry said, “It’s fine. They won’t mind.”

“No, I’ll…I’ll find something.”

“I should go pack, then?” Harry asked. He seemed rather excited as he stood up and stretched. “We’ll meet in the entrance hall at six?”

“We’ll have to Floo to Blaise’s,” Draco said. “What a pain in the arse. Forget it, just forget it. This isn’t worth it.”

“Owl him and let him know we’re coming,” Harry said. “We’ll Floo in from the Hog’s Head. Tell him to make sure the network’s open.”

Draco stared up at Harry. “Why are we doing this?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Because I can never just have a quiet, boring life? I don’t know. Come on, go write Blaise and then pack. Or we’ll be late.”

***

Draco couldn’t help the little flurries of excitement that shot through him as he raced around his dormitory. He pulled on the first dress robes he could find—plain, black, austere—and packed an overnight bag. His mother’s owl had still been lurking in the Owlery. It had, Draco noted, been decidedly less hostile when he explained that he needed to send a letter because he would be staying at the Manor for Christmas. Blaise didn’t live far from Hogwarts; the owl would almost certainly arrive before they did. After closing and locking his trunk, Draco slipped into Pansy’s room and rifled through her endless array of scarves. He settled on a filmy, navy blue one that he hoped she wouldn’t miss. Then, levitating his bag behind him, he hurried up to the entrance hall, where Harry stood waiting for him.

“Did you send along your presents?” Draco asked. With a flick of his wand, he set down his trunk.

“Yeah, Pig showed up,” Harry said. He was dressed in his winter cloak, waiting next to his suitcase. “And I used a school owl for everyone else’s.”

Draco peered inside the empty Great Hall. Soon, it would fill up for dinner. The hall looked magnificent as ever, with snowflakes fluttering down onto the single large table and the usual twelve Christmas trees gleaming in the soft light. He was almost sad to be missing it. “Should we tell someone we’re going?” he asked.

“Already took care of it,” Harry said. “I told McGonagall we’ll be back tomorrow.”

Draco froze. “You told McGonagall. That you’re going to the Manor.”

“I told her we’re going to a Christmas party,” he said. “We’re of age, aren’t we?” He had that defiant look on his face that Draco had come to know so well; it did funny things to him, and in that moment he would have given anything to cross the entrance hall and kiss Harry and perhaps drag him back to his dormitory. Instead, he smiled tightly and sent his trunk to hovering mid-air again.

“The kitchens first, then?” Draco asked. Harry beamed at him.

Kreacher and Winky were delighted to see them. They refused to let them go without first stuffing their trunks full of sweets. Harry presented Kreacher with a new pair of oven mitts; they came up to his shoulders, but he seemed very happy. Winky, meanwhile, was ecstatic with her gift of a little blue brooch. She pinned it proudly to her shirt.

“And here, Winky,” Draco said, pulling out Pansy’s scarf from his pocket. “I didn’t have time to wrap it, but it’ll match your uniform, I thought, and now your brooch.”

Winky squealed with excitement, wrapping the scarf around her neck so tightly that Draco feared she might suffocate.

“Kreacher, er…” Draco felt a bit awkward as he fished around in his other pocket. “It’s not, er, it’s not exactly new, I’m afraid…but…” Not knowing what else to say, he held out his hand.

“What is this, Master Draco?” Kreacher asked, coming closer. Slowly, he took the ring out of Draco’s palm and examined it. Upon spotting the crest, he gave a little yelp and stared up at Draco with watery eyes.

“It’s, er, it’s just an old ring,” he said, feeling very uncomfortable. “It belonged to my mother.”

Kreacher dissolved into tears as he placed the ring on his finger. It was far too large.

“Here, Kreacher,” Harry said kindly, “let me resize it for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Draco cautioned. “You don’t know what kind of magic they’ve put on it. Maybe…er…a chain? I’ll bring you a chain, Kreacher, and then you can wear it around your neck?”

Kreacher began to sob. Alarmed, Draco glanced over at Harry, who shrugged and grinned. It took them even longer this time to escape the kitchens—Kreacher thanked Draco profusely, turning the little ring every which way and then cradling it against his chest. Finally, they made it back to the entrance hall. Despite himself, Draco felt rather pleased.

They made it to Hogsmeade in record time. Harry peppered Draco with all sorts of questions—who went to these dinners, what did they usually serve, why did they open presents Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day, how should they behave? Draco answered as best he could, well aware that Harry was trying to distract him from his apprehension. He appreciated the effort.

The Hog’s Head was as dim and shabby as he remembered. Harry spoke quietly to the barman, who led them to a little room and shut the door behind them. It was draughty; the only warmth came from the little fire struggling to stay alive in the grate. Draco shrunk into his cloak as he looked around at the bare brick walls and the shuttered windows. He was starting to have second thoughts, and Harry must have known, because he gave him a reassuring smile as he took the little bowl of Floo powder off the mantle.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked as he gathered a fistful of powder.

“Just say Blaise Zabini’s. That’s how I always get there.” Draco hesitated. “You’re sure you want to do this? Because we can go back. I won’t mind. You won’t hurt my feelings. These dinners aren’t fun, I’m warning you now. Everyone is old and miserable and nosy, and they play music that might have been popular sixty years ago, and—”

“Draco.” Harry nodded down at the bowl. “I’m sure. Go on. I’ll see you there.”

Before Draco could answer, Harry pushed the bowl of Floo powder into his hands, picked up his trunk, and then walked over to the grate. He tossed the powder into the fire—the flames leapt to life, flashing bright green. Harry stepped in, dragging his bag after him, and said clearly: “Blaise Zabini’s.” At once, he was gone.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Draco stepped forward. Harry was mad. Suppose this was all a trap? Suppose Draco had been deceiving him this entire time? It was a miracle he had managed to survive long enough to kill Voldemort. Quelling down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Draco took a deep, steadying breath, and then slipped his fingers through the soft powder. He set the bowl back onto the mantle, and then gathered his trunk.

‘You can do it,’ he urged himself.

Before he could change his mind, Draco threw the powder into the fire. Again, the flames burst into emerald green, licking the top of the grate. With one last glance around the room, Draco stepped into the fireplace, and called, “Blaise Zabini’s!”

***

At first, Draco thought they must have gotten out at the wrong grate. Harry stumbled before him, and he reached out to steady him, pulling along his trunk as he pitched forward. The dining room didn’t resemble Blaise’s at all—it was much larger than Draco remembered, and much brighter: the white marble floors gleamed under the light of several chandeliers, while the windows must surely have been enchanted to show twinkling stars covering the night sky. It was quite crowded—compared to the sea of black robes he was used to at Hogwarts, Draco was taken aback by the melange of different colours as people milled around, sipping on wine, eating little hors d’oeuvres. Before Draco had a chance to dust himself off, someone barrelled into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Draco! Draco, I knew you would come! I knew it! You wouldn’t believe how excited we were when we got your owl! And you’ve brought Harry, too, oh, I’m so excited…”

She finally let go of Draco only to squeeze Harry just as tightly. Dazed, Draco tried to ignore the people who had turned to stare at them. There were the Flints…the Fawleys…a few distant Black relatives…Draco’s stomach curled up in fear. His apprehension was only somewhat relieved by the sight of Blaise striding towards them, dressed in elegant green robes, a rare smile on his face.

“Pansy,” he sneered, “let him breathe for a second, my God.”

“I’m just so excited!” Pansy drew away and fanned her face. She was nearly as red as her robes. “We have your presents here, but you’ll be opening them at the Manor, won’t you? Draco, your mother’s in the sitting room—she’ll be here any moment—you’re only just in time for dinner—have you told her that Harry’s going with you to the Manor?” Eyes widening, she said in a very loud whisper, “Does she know about you two?”

“Alright,” Blaise sighed. “That’s enough champagne for you.” Addressing Harry and Draco, he said, “Someone will take your trunks, just leave them here with your cloaks. I’ll be back.” He grimaced. “We have to help my mother in the kitchen. Someone’s put sugar in the soup instead of salt.”

With Blaise gone, Pansy leaned towards Draco and said, “Don’t mention Whitby to him. He wasn’t able to come—he’s visiting his nan in Sussex.” And with that she flashed them a bright smile and sauntered off.

“Well.” Draco turned to Harry, who had a little smile on his face, as though he found this all rather funny. “We’re here.”

“We’re here,” Harry agreed. He began to unbutton his cloak.

“Everyone’s staring,” Draco grumbled, and it was true: the dining hall had filled with whispers as people craned to have a look at them.

“It’s because of me,” Harry said carelessly. “But I don’t mind. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t think people expected you to come here of all places for Christmas Eve,” Draco said. He shrugged off his cloak and folded it on top of his trunk.

It was very hot, and very crowded, and Draco felt ill at ease as he tried to pretend that he wasn’t being stared at. Still, he couldn’t help but watch as Harry pulled off his cloak to reveal a simple set of black and white dress robes. His stomach clenched almost painfully. He was sure his reaction must be written all over his face, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

“You…” Draco forced himself to swallow. “You look good.”

“Oh.” Harry grinned at him. “I’m glad I had these. I don’t know if they’re fancy enough for this, but…”

“No. They’re perfect.”

Harry looked him up and down, as though unaware, or unbothered, by everyone else in the room. “Should we go, then?” Harry asked. His voice was several decibels lower. “Meet some people?”

Fortunately, there were many people to meet: Daphne was there, eager to draw him into a long hug. She didn’t seem surprised at all to see Harry. She simply hugged him as well, asking which N.E.W.T.s he was sitting and whether Granger and Weasley had returned to Hogwarts as well. And then they were pulled aside by the Fawleys, who shook Harry’s hand profusely and asked about his plans after Hogwarts. By the time they had managed to drag themselves away, Blaise’s mother was calling for dinner.

“To the sides, please, to the sides!” she said, sounding harassed as she held up her wand. She was wearing a magnificent robe of purple and gold, and atop her head sat one of the largest, most extravagant hats Draco had ever seen. As they scattered, she gave a sharp flick of her wand, and a dozen round tables swooped out from the pantry and onto the dining room floor. A suite of chairs trailed after, arranging themselves around the tables. Finally, pristine white tablecloths fluttered out of the pantry and onto the tables, along with red and green candles. With one last swish, Mrs. Zabini set them all alight. “Sit where you like!” she said. “Dinner will begin shortly.”

“Come on,” Draco said, leading Harry to a table near the back of the room. In the crowd, he had just seen a flash of blonde hair.

They pushed through as politely as they could, excusing themselves as they went. Finally, they reached the last table, where Draco’s mother sat as though waiting for them. He nearly sagged with relief: she didn’t look as poorly as Draco had expected. She was thin, yes, and her face was still pinched with sadness, but she wasn’t nearly as gaunt as she had been over the summer. In fact, as she rose to greet them, Draco realized that for the first time in years, her smile reached her eyes.

“Draco,” she said as they approached. She was dressed in swaths of silver fabric that pooled around her feet. “I’m so glad you made it.” She pulled him into a hug, and he couldn’t help but tense. At least she hadn’t cried.

As Draco drew away, he gestured towards Harry, who was standing back. “I’ve brought Harry,” he said, as though it hadn’t been obvious. “He’ll be coming to the Manor.” He was careful to ensure that he spoke it as a statement, not a question.

To Draco’s relief, his mother gave Harry a little smile. “I’ll be delighted. Any friend of Draco’s is a friend of ours. Please, let’s sit.”

Now came the real trouble—what would they talk about for an entire evening? But the problem was solved as Theo and Lavender squeezed through the crowd, looking breathless and very pink.

“Draco!” Theo called. “Mrs. Malfoy! And…and Harry!” He was clearly surprised to see Harry there, but Lavender pushed past him, coming to give Harry a hug.

“It’s so nice to see you!” she said. “Are these chairs free?”

“They are,” Harry said, shuffling to make room.

Lavender introduced herself to Draco’s mother, who smiled politely and shook her hand. As they settled in, Theo looked around the room, grinning. “Mrs. Zabini isn’t happy, is she? She’s been stressed all month.”

“I think it looks lovely,” Lavender said. Her eyes were trained on the enormous Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “I’ve never been to anything like this before.”

“We’re going to my parents’ afterwards,” Theo informed them. He brought his arm to rest around Lavender’s chair. “And then Lav’s tomorrow, for Christmas morning.”

They heard Pansy before they saw her—she was tugging her parents towards their table. Mr. Parkinson looked as irritable as ever, his little black moustache twitching as he frowned, while Mrs. Parkinson readjusted her pink, feathered hat. Suddenly, Draco had an idea. As his mother stood to greet the Parkinsons, he leaned towards Harry.

“Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

“Anything.”

Draco smiled. “Could you put in a good word for Pansy? Her parents have been on her ever since…ever since the Battle. When she said…”

“Oh.” Harry peered over at them. “But she apologized. And I told her it’s fine.”

“I know, but they’re still angry. And now they’re on her case about a bunch of other rubbish, like only sitting four N.E.W.T.s. Please? It’ll be my Christmas gift.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll do it, but this isn’t your Christmas gift, you prat.”

The Parkinsons came forward to hug Draco and Theo, and to introduce themselves to Lavender and Harry. Of course, they fawned over Harry, assuring him that they had believed him from the start and that they had always been behind him. Harry, to Draco’s relief, smiled graciously enough, accepting their compliments before suggesting that they all sit. As everyone took their seats, Draco looked around the table. This was perhaps one of the oddest assortments of people he had ever been a part of.

“Mummy, daddy,” Pansy said, still sounding short of breath, “do you remember me telling you about Lavender Brown? She works at the Ministry, with Theo.”

“I do remember,” Mrs. Parkinson said in her clipped voice.

“Pansy helped me pick out these dress robes,” Lavender said. She looked, Draco thought, very pretty in the blue sweeps of fabric. “At Twilfitt and Tatting’s.”

“I’ve always liked Twilfitt’s,” Draco’s mother said. She took a little sip of wine before adding, “Those dress robes are very nice, Lavender.”

Draco stared at his mother. He couldn’t discern whether she was being polite simply to avoid spoiling Mrs. Zabini’s dinner, or because she wanted to watch her step around Harry. Regardless, he was grateful to her.

“Pansy,” Harry said suddenly. They all turned to stare at him. Unaffected, he said, “Thanks for your help in Transfiguration. I think I ended up doing alright on the test, in the end.”

“What?” Pansy asked. She glanced between him and Draco. “Your test?”

“That’s right,” Harry said, smiling brightly at her. “My Transfiguration test. The one you helped me study for all term.” Addressing her parents, he said, “Pansy’s brilliant at Transfiguration. It was so nice of her to help me. I know she’s pretty busy, since she’s taken all of the most difficult subjects this year. But I appreciate it.”

Mr. Parkinson looked as though he had been slapped. He only blinked once little menus appeared on the table in front of them. Finally, he said, “Yes. Well. Pansy’s always had a gift for spellwork, I’ve said it myself.”

“Has she?” asked Mrs. Parkinson. She seemed very confused.

“Pansy’s always been a clever girl,” Draco’s mother said mildly as she picked up her menu. “Oh, good, they have salmon, I wanted something light.”

As the table began to discuss which dishes they should order for dinner, Draco whispered to Harry, “That was a bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Are you having the chicken or the beef?”

***

All in all, dinner went as smoothly as it could have. There were a few tense moments when Mr. Parkinson inquired after Theo’s father, and again when Draco’s mother asked why the Yaxleys weren’t there. But, overall, everyone seemed to be on their best behaviour. Harry was quiet as he listened to the conversation, occasionally leaning over to speak with Lavender. Twice, he checked in with Draco, squeezing his knee and catching his eye. When Draco nodded and smiled, Harry would smile back before returning to his meal.

By the time Mrs. Zabini had cleared the tables for dancing, Draco was very full and very tired. They stood in a corner as the lights dimmed and the Christmas tree sparkled to life. The noise in the room had settled to a faint buzz, but Draco was starting to feel restless. The beginnings of a headache were making themselves known around his temples; anxiety and dread trickled through him, slowly at first, but gradually picking up as he became less confident in his ability to ignore the relentless stares. His Mark had startled to prickle. He was terrified of having another flashback, here of all places.

“You don’t want to dance, do you?” he whispered to Harry.

Harry shrugged. “Not really.” Eyes narrowing with concern, he asked, “Are you okay? You’re pale. Do you want to sit down?”

“No.” Draco looked over at his mother, who was talking with her friends. “I think I want to go. Is that alright?”

“Of course it’s alright.”

They walked over to Draco’s mother, who turned to greet them. “Everything alright, dear?”

“I’m a bit tired,” he said in a low voice, praying her friends wouldn’t hear. “I thought we could go home.”

“What?” His mother frowned. “But that would be so rude, Draco. We’ve only just finished dinner. There’s still Christmas pudding, and dancing—”

“Please,” Draco cut in. “I’m tired. Blaise won’t mind.”

His mother looked over at Harry, whose face was politely neutral. She sighed. “Very well. Go say your goodbyes, and then meet me by the grate.”

As they set off in search of his friends, Draco muttered, “My mother takes ages to leave, anyway.  So we could be waiting until after midnight before she finally says goodbye.”

They eventually found Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Lavender in the loo, drinking from a wine bottle.

“Have some,” Pansy said, holding up the bottle to him. She had squeezed herself in-between the sink and the wall, in what Draco thought was a rather ridiculous position.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving her away. “We came to say goodbye, anyway. We’re headed back to the Manor.”

“What!” Pansy leapt up; the wine sloshed ominously in the bottle. “But you can’t leave! You need to help us finish this!”

“You’ll manage on your own,” Draco assured her. “I want to spend some time with my mother, you know. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

That wasn’t technically true, and he felt a twinge of guilt for lying, but it seemed to do the trick. Pansy heaved a heavy sigh and then pulled him in for a hug. “I understand,” she said. “We’ll see you after the holidays, then.”

Theo and Lavender stood up to hug them goodbye. Even Blaise, who appeared to be quite drunk, pulled himself to his feet and clasped their hands. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I know my mother will be happy. She’s been in a right mood ever since that idiot broke things off with her…”

“Your presents!” Pansy suddenly shrieked. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen, your presents are in there.”

She dragged them down the hall and into the kitchen, where a group of house-elves in white, starched uniforms were in a frenzy whipping up dessert. They scurried every which way while one of them—the head chef, Draco thought, as he wore a toque blanche—squeaked out orders.

“Draco and Harry are leaving, mum,” Blaise called to his mother, who was tasting a meringue. She looked over at them distractedly.

“Yes, of course, thank you for coming, dears,” she said, waving before returning to the bowl.

Pansy retrieved two wrapped presents from inside a cupboard. As she pushed them into Draco’s hands, she gave a little gasp. “Harry, I’m so sorry!” she said. “I never thought—we didn’t think we’d see you—it slipped our minds, to get you something—”

“That’s alright,” Harry said hastily. Like Draco, he must have been fearful that she would start crying.

“What you said at dinner—to my parents—that meant a lot. You didn’t have to. I’m rubbish at Transfiguration.”

“We’re aware,” Draco said drily. “Don’t cry, come on. It’s Christmas.” He gave her a one-armed hug as her face turned red and her eyes watered.

“I am sorry about what I said,” she went on. “I really am. And I think you and Draco, you two together—I—I think it’s wonderful!” Abruptly, she broke down into tears, pulling them in for a tight embrace.

“How much have you had to drink?” Blaise demanded, dragging her away. “Let them go, let them go, for God’s sake, Pansy…Here, help me get their suitcases and cloaks…”

Finally armed with their presents, trunks, and cloaks, Harry and Draco said their goodbyes and then went to stand by the grate. To Draco’s surprise, his mother was already waiting. At the sight of her, his heart started to quake in panic; it was one thing to have dinner together in a crowded room, but quite another to have to face the silence of the Manor together. And he still didn’t know if she planned to scold him, or what she made of his choice to bring Harry along.

“Shall we go, then?” she asked.

Harry, somehow, seemed unphased by the fact that in moments, they were about to step into the Manor. He simply nodded towards the grate, politely motioning for Draco’s mother to go first. As she stepped towards the fireplace and took up the silver bowl full of Floo powder, Harry reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand. He squeezed back.

***

His mother had made a valiant attempt at decorating the Manor for the holidays. Draco wondered if she had done it for herself, or if she had hoped all along that he would join her for Christmas. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was the latter, particularly when he strolled into the sitting room and found the little Christmas tree decorated with his favourite emerald and silver baubles. Stout candles floated above the tree’s branches, illuminating the room well enough that Draco could see the substantial changes his mother had made: gone was the suede sofa, the armchairs, the bookcases. Instead, the room felt airy; along the wall was a sectional, covered with pillows Draco had never seen before. The only other piece of furniture was an ottoman set in front of the sofa. The walls had been painted a soft beige and were covered with family portraits.

“What do you think?” his mother asked as she came in behind him.

“It’s nice,” he said. And it was, particularly in the glow of the Christmas tree.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked, pointing at one of the portraits.

“Ah…that’s…” Draco drew closer, squinting in the dark.

The little blonde boy in the picture had a very serious look on his face. His arms rested on a table in front of him, his back straight as he gazed haughtily into the camera. Once or twice, his eyes shifted to the side, distracted by something out of frame. When he peeked over a third time, he burst into a shy grin.

“That’s me, actually,” Draco said.

“I thought so.” Harry sounded pleased.

“I haven’t seen this picture before.” Draco brought up his fingers to trace the wooden frame. The young Draco in the photograph was back to scowling at the camera—wanting, he knew, to look grown up.

“I found it when I was reorganizing,” his mother said. “Do you remember that day? You wouldn’t smile. You wanted to be serious, like your father. But I got you to laugh.”

“I don’t remember,” he murmured. “I wish I did.”

His mother paused for a moment, and then brought her hand to rest on his shoulder. He couldn’t help but tense and pull away.

“Let’s sit,” she said as though she hadn’t noticed. They settled into the sofa; it was quite springier than their last one. “I think I’ll get us some tea. And I’ll put your trunks upstairs while I’m at it. Would either of you prefer coffee? Something stronger?”

They shook their heads.

She smiled at them and then glided out of the room. The moment she left, Draco sank back into the sofa, letting out a sharp exhale.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. He shuffled over so that their knees touched.

“Yeah. I’m alright. It’s just odd, being home.” Draco closed his eyes and then settled his hands on his stomach. He breathed in, and then breathed out, focusing on the smell of clean linen that was consistently Harry.

“Do you think your mother minds?” Harry asked quietly. “That I’m here?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange.” Draco pictured his mother’s impassive face. “I thought she’d be angry. I thought she’d at least ask. But she doesn’t really seem to care. Maybe she’s just glad that I’m here, and she figures it’s thanks to you.”

“Maybe Pansy and Blaise already told her,” Harry suggested.

Draco snorted. He wouldn’t put it past them.

“I did talk to her, at the Ministry,” Harry said. At that, Draco opened his eyes. Harry’s expression was thoughtful as he studied the fire in the hearth. “When I testified at her trial, I saw her after. And I thanked her for saving my life. I know she did it for you, to save you…but still. She’s a bit like my mum, isn’t she? They both sacrificed themselves for their sons.”

“Really?” Draco said sourly. “My mother is nothing like yours. Your mother died for you. I bet she did it without thinking. She was so ready to do it that her magic protected you from Voldemort. My parents threw me in with the Death Eaters the first chance they had.”

“That isn’t true,” Harry said quietly. “I’ve seen your memories. Your mother didn’t want you to get the Mark.”

“She shouldn’t have put us in that position, then,” he argued. “She should have known what would happen if he came back. Our mothers couldn’t be more different, Harry. Don’t insult yours by comparing her to mine.”

Harry was quiet as he looked around the drawing room. There were flashes of recognition in his eyes, Draco thought; he remembered this room, even without the chandelier. “I still think she loves you,” Harry said finally. “In a strange sort of way, maybe.”

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” Draco said. “I know that. Because I have parents, and you don’t. So it makes me sound like a spoiled brat to complain.”

“What?” Harry had a puzzled expression on his face, as though he hadn’t quite understood. “I don’t think that at all.”

“Well, I do,” he said flatly. “I feel stupid every time I complain about them to you. But it’s just…it’s so difficult. I don’t understand them. If I had a child, I would do anything I could to protect them. If I thought it was either them or me—either they became a Death Eater, or I died—I would die. I would be glad to.”

He had expected Harry to be uncomfortable, but he turned to face Draco, a sad smile on his face. “I guess so. But I think they realized their mistake, in the end. At the Battle, they just wanted to find you and leave.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. They did what they did. And it goes back even further—when I was younger, the things they would say, the things I used to say, because I believed them. About pure-bloods and Muggleborns and all that rubbish. You don’t think that’s terrible? To fill your child’s head up with that?”

“It is,” Harry agreed. “It’s horrible.”

“Well, then, there you go,” he said, as though it was settled. It wasn’t, of course; he expected that his complicated feelings towards his parents defied all attempts at being sorted. He loved them and despised them all at once. He feared them, just as he insisted that they had no hold over him. He wanted very much to sit with his mother and drink tea, to enjoy Christmas Eve together, but he also wished he were back at Hogwarts, away from the Manor, away from his mother. He couldn’t understand how these contradictory desires fit together.

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive them?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. Probably not. But you’re going to tell me that I should, right? I should forgive and forget. I should move on. I know it—trust me, I’ve heard it.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Harry reached out and pressed his hand against Draco’s, so that their fingers were just touching. “I was going to say that you don’t need to forgive them. You don’t need to do anything. But one thing my Healer told me is…you can try to accept it.”

“Accept it,” he repeated in a hollow voice.

“Right. I don’t mean accept what they did—because it’s awful, like you said. But accept that it happened. Accept that those are your parents, and no matter what, you can’t change that. You can’t change them. All you can do is try to accept that they’re your parents, and that terrible things happened, and that they were terrible, and that it’s unfair that you went through it…but it happened. And we can’t change that.”

Draco blinked at Harry. Finally, he said, “Your Healer told you that?”

“Yeah. That’s the sort of thing they teach you…And it helps.”

“Right.”

There was a soft tinkling of fine china as his mother swept back into the room, hovering a tea set before her. At her feet trailed the presents Draco had stuffed into his trunk.

“You forgot to put your presents under the tree, Draco,” she said. He felt a flash of annoyance at the thought that she had gone through his things without asking, but he told himself to let it go. He didn’t want to start a row.

The assortment of presents skipped towards the tree and came to nestle among the other boxes. His mother set the tea service onto the ottoman, and then resumed her spot on the sofa. “Harry,” she said, “how do you take your tea?”

“Just black,” Draco answered.

Draco winced as his mother glanced over at him, bemused. But she was too polite to say anything—she set out the three cups on their dainty plates and then began to pour. “Black,” she echoed. “Just like Draco takes his.” She paused before passing him his cup. “Unless that’s changed?”

He shook his head and accepted his cup before passing Harry his. It was silent as they drank.

“Well, that’s better,” his mother said as she set down her cup. “Gifts, then, I think?”

Draco felt badly—Harry only had the gift from Draco to open, while he and his mother had large piles to get through. But he didn’t seem bothered. Instead he sat, cross-legged, asking Draco about each person who had gifted him, where they lived, what they did. He was very interested in the broomstick polish Draco received from his father (he suspected that it was his mother who had purchased it, but he kept quiet to preserve the peace). His mother, at any rate, was pleased with his gift to her—a set of goblin-made wineglasses. Most of hers had been shattered while the Manor served as Voldemort’s headquarters.

“This one’s from Blaise,” Harry said, holding out a little box to him.

“Thanks.” Draco pulled apart the blue ribbon and then peeled off the top. There was a vial inside. “What’s this?” he asked, spilling it out onto his palm. “A potion?” On the gilded label was a single word in Latin—Voluptatem.

“There’s a parchment,” Harry said, peeking inside the box. Draco fished it out. In bold, cursive letters, it read: ‘For their pleasure. Our patented design is guaranteed to titillate and enthrall. Anal sex is a wonderful way to enjoy intimacy. To prepare your partner…’

Mortified beyond belief, Draco shoved the parchment and vial into Harry’s hands. “It’s for you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, confused. “It’s yours. Your name’s on the box.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it’s for you,” Draco said. Praying that the dim lighting in the room concealed his burning face, Draco risked a glance over at his mother, who was still inspecting the wineglasses. Whether she was choosing to be tactful, he couldn’t say.

“Oh,” Harry said, as the realization hit him. “Oh. Right.” A very coy smile emerged on his face as he said, “This is for me, is it?”

“Can you pass me that one from Pansy?” Draco asked, avoiding Harry’s eyes as he pointed to a box beside the ottoman. Harry laughed and handed him the package.

Draco pulled off the pink bow and tore at the paper. A little book fell into his lap.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know…Pansy never gets me books…” Draco turned it around, smoothing his hand over the leather cover. Finally, he opened it—the pages were blank.

“I think it’s a journal,” Draco said. He felt oddly touched.

“I wonder whether it’s one of those charmed ones,” Harry said. “Where only you can read what you’ve written.”

“Maybe.” Carefully, Draco set the journal aside.

“That was very nice of her,” his mother said.

“Here, open my gift,” Draco told Harry, tossing it to him. “It isn’t much, but…you’ll like it.”

Harry tore into the wrapping paper. He grinned as he uncovered a book—Winging with the Wimbourne Wasps, along with several yellow and black pins.

“Harry’s being scouted by the Wasps,” Draco explained to his mother. “As a Seeker.”

“Can I see?” she asked. Harry passed her the book and then set to examining the pins.

“For your friends,” Draco said. “We can wear them to your games.”

They watched as the wasps depicted on each pin buzzed angrily, shooting about.

“And what if I don’t make the team?” Harry teased.

Draco shrugged. “It’s still a good book.” When Harry shoved him playfully, he smirked. “You’ll make the team, you git. You know you will. So you’d better brush up on your history.”

“Open mine, then,” Harry said. He reached into the pocket of his dress robes and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. “He’s not here, but you’ll see when we get back to Hogwarts.”

“‘He?’” Draco asked suspiciously.

“Just look.”

Draco unfolded the bit of paper and saw that it was a receipt. “Eeylops Owl Emporium.” He looked up at Harry. “I don’t understand.”

“I got you an owl,” Harry said, beaming at him. “Only he’s at Hogwarts—he arrived tonight, and I thought it would just confuse him, asking him to come here. I was planning on introducing you two tomorrow morning.”

“An owl,” Draco said, scanning the receipt.

“He hasn’t got a name yet, so you’ll have to sort one out,” Harry continued. “He’s beautiful, though, you’ll see. And he’s huge.”

“Harry,” Draco said. He was embarrassed to find that his voice was hoarse. “You can’t get me an owl. It’s too much.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “Your mother’s owl doesn’t seem very fond of you. I’ve seen it biting you in the Great Hall. So I thought this way, you could send your post without having your fingers ripped off.”

“And maybe now, you’ll start to write back,” his mother said in a wry voice.

Draco wanted very much to give Harry a hug, to fall into him, to thank him for a gift that he somehow hadn’t known he needed. It was, he thought, a little slice of independence from his parents. His own owl. But he was uncomfortable being soppy in front of his mother, and so he simply said, in that same raspy voice, “Thank you.” Harry must have understood, because his cheeks coloured and he pressed his fingers very gently against Draco’s, out of view of his mother.

“Well, that leaves my gift for you, Draco,” his mother said. She went to crouch down by the tree and then drew out a little envelope nestled among the branches. Draco’s unease must have shown on his face; as she held it out to him, she scoffed. “It isn’t a letter, if that’s what’s concerning you.”

Draco stopped himself from making a face and took the envelope. His mother came to sit next to him as he opened it. Inside was a thin sheet of parchment; he drew it out and leaned towards the fire to be able to decipher the cramped script.

“This is…” He knew what it was, but he could scarcely believe it. “My trust fund.”

“That’s right,” she said.

Draco looked up at her. “But I’m not supposed to have access until I turn twenty-one.”

His mother shrugged. “Things have changed. Your father and I agreed. You need your independence…To start a new life, if you want.” As he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand. “After you leave school. That is our condition.”

“Right.” He turned around to look at Harry, who was smiling. “Well. Okay. Thank you.”

“Once you’re finished your N.E.W.T.s, we’ll go to Gringotts and sort everything out.”

“And…father agreed?” Draco asked.

“He did. It was his idea.”

Draco slipped the piece of parchment back into the envelope. “This…Thank you.”

His mother seemed to understand; she rested her hand briefly on his arm, and then rose to her feet. “Would either of you like more tea?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said. Draco shook his head.

“It’s late,” she said. “We should get to bed.” As they began to gather their things, his mother waved her hand. “Leave it, don’t worry. We’ll tidy in the morning.”

That was nearly more shocking than the change to his trust fund. His mother never left messes for the next day. They filed out of the room; his mother tapped the tree with her wand, extinguishing the candles.

“Your things are in Draco’s room, Harry,” his mother said. “Up the stairs, and then the third room on the left. Draco,” she turned to him, “can I speak with you for a moment?”

Draco had expected this. She would want to talk, of course, without Harry there as a buffer. And that was an uncomfortable prospect.

“Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of Harry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry told him. “I’ll go upstairs and shower.”

In what Draco thought was a very smug voice, his mother said, “You’ll find the bathroom just next to Draco’s room.”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Harry said to Draco, who was eyeing him moodily. To his mother, Harry added, “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“We’re delighted to,” she said, giving him what Draco could have sworn was a genuine smile. With that, Harry climbed up the stairs, leaving them in the dark foyer.

“You don’t need to look so nervous, Draco,” she muttered. “I’m not going to punish you like a little boy.”

“I know that.”

“I only wanted to ask if you would be interested in visiting your father tomorrow.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t be interested.”

She leaned against the railing, her face drawing into the exasperated expression he had seen hundreds of times before. “Draco, you’re being unreasonable. Your father would like to see his son at Christmas. Theodore goes all the time to see his father.”

“Well, I’m not Theo,” he said. “I don’t want to go.” The anger was rising up in him, and he made little effort to tame it. “This is why I don’t answer your letters. Why I don’t do what you ask. I do one thing, and then you want another, and then another, and then another. It never ends.”

His mother pursed her lips. “You can’t avoid your father forever. You’re his son, Draco, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m aware,” he said in a bitter voice. “But I’m not ready to go. I might be ready someday, but for now, I’m not. So can’t we just drop it? For once, can’t we just have a nice, normal Christmas, without rowing?”

For a moment, his mother said nothing. Her eyes roved across his face, detecting, he imagined, all of the anger and the frustration that he had stored away for so long. Finally, she said, “I understand. You should get some sleep.” She reached out and placed a hand against his cheek. He thought she might ask about Harry—why he was there, how they had become friends, whether it was more, but she didn’t. She gave him one last, sad smile, and then climbed up the stairs. Draco didn’t follow. Instead, he sat on the bottom step, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he urged himself to relax, to breathe. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to spoil Harry’s Christmas. But the anxiety was mounting again, and it threatened to inundate him.

***

“God, she drives me mad,” Draco snapped as he stormed into his room. His anger was temporarily abated by the sight of Harry sprawled out on his bed. He had lit most of the candles in the room; they painted shadows across the walls and across Harry himself. It was unbelievably bizarre to have Harry Potter in his bedroom, in his bed, looking up as he entered as though nothing was amiss. He was dressed in his jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama pants. His hair was still wet from the shower.

“What happened?” he asked.

“She asked me to go to Azkaban. Just like I said she would.”

Draco climbed next to Harry, who was reading from a bit of parchment.

“I told her to drop it, and she did. But we’ll see how she is tomorrow. She’s relentless, I’m telling you.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “We’ll be gone tomorrow morning, anyway. Just a bit longer.”

“You two have become great friends,” Draco said sourly. “You’re getting on like you’ve been mates for years.”

Harry sniggered. “Parents like me.”

“I’m going to go shower,” he announced, pushing himself off the bed. “And then first thing tomorrow, we’re leaving. We can have breakfast at the castle. I hate being here. You don’t find it—odd?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “It’s interesting, seeing your room.”

There wasn’t much to see, Draco thought: other than his bed and his writing desk, the only other furniture was a bedside table and bookcase. Above the desk, several photographs were pinned. They showed Draco with his parents, with his friends. And settled on the bag was his suitcase. Draco picked through his things, searching for his comfiest pair of pyjamas, refusing to look up at the photographs as the figures depicted waved happily at him.

Just as he located his pyjamas, Draco paused and turned to Harry. “Do you think it means anything, that my mother put your things in here? Instead of in a guest room?”

Harry looked up at him, a surprised look on his face. “Er. Maybe? Did she say anything?”

“No. But…I’ll hear about it, I’m sure.”

Harry chuckled as Draco stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door. It was eerily silent in the house. As quietly as he could, he entered the bathroom, lighting a single candle on the vanity. As he stripped off his dress robes and stepped into the shower, he felt distinctly ill at ease. He had only been gone for a few months, but the Manor was foreign to him. Under the hot spray of water, he reflected on the memories twisted together in the very walls of the house: happier times with his parents, with his family, with his friends who would visit over the summer. And then unhappy times when his father’s Mark had begun to burn, and then when Voldemort had arrived, making his presence known in every last inch of space. For a moment, Draco swayed; his Mark pulsed. He focused on lathering his hair and rinsing it, but it was no use. Without the distraction of Harry, and his nervousness around his mother, Draco was exposed to the onslaught of memories as they tumbled forth: Voldemort shrieking as he punished them for letting Potter go…Shrieks, deafening shrieks, as the Death Eaters punished another victim…Nagini’s hisses as she slithered through the house….

Draco stumbled out of the shower, catching himself on the vanity. Shaking, he reached in and shut off the water. He took one of the towels next to the sink and dried himself, avoiding his reflection. He didn’t want to see how scared he had become. He didn’t want to see how little of the Mark there was left. He couldn’t live like this anymore, he knew. It was time to set things right. He pulled on his pyjamas and then headed back into his room, where Harry was still lounging on the bed.

“Let’s do it,” Draco said. “I can’t anymore. I’m done.”

Harry sat up. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“My memories.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on.”

They slipped down the hallway as quietly as they could. At the end of the corridor was his father’s office.

“Isn’t it locked?” Harry whispered.

“It is, but I’ve known how to open it since I was seven.” Draco brought his palm to rest against the centre of the door. He waited one, two, three seconds, and then turned the knob widdershins. The door opened. They crept into the office, which looked exactly how his father had left it, save for the Pensieve sat upon his desk. Runes were carved around the edges, while the basin was filled with a silvery light.

“Severus’ Pensieve,” Draco muttered, though he knew it required no explanation.

Harry came to stand by the Pensieve, peering into it.

“Do you know how?” Draco asked. His hands were trembling.

“I think so,” Harry said. “But, Draco, if we do this…I think the Mark will come back. And you’ll remember everything again.”

“I know.” And he did know it; the thought was an awful one, but the alternative, of being plagued by his memories, was worse. “Let’s get it over with. I’m ready.”

“Okay.” Harry took out his wand and brought it to his temple. He screwed up his face in concentration, and then, as he took his wand away, glittering silver stands came along with it. Draco watched as he added his thoughts to the basin. The airy liquid in the bowl began to froth and spin. Still, Harry added more memories, relaxing his face now as it seemed to come easier. When he stopped, the contents of the bowl swirled slowly. Draco could make out his own, pale face within the mist.

“I think that’s everything,” Harry said. He sounded a bit hoarse.

“Can you still remember?”

“Yeah. I can still remember…but it’s all in there.”

“Right.” Draco stepped up to the Pensieve. He felt rather like he was about to be executed.

“You’ll be okay,” Harry whispered. “I’m going to touch you. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Harry’s hand came to rest on his arm. “Here, I’ll count you down. Three…two…one…”

Draco touched his nose to the airy liquid. Instantly, his father’s study lurched forward. He was falling now, falling through darkness—and it was cold—he squeezed his eyes shut, urging it to be over…and then the memories came to him all at once, competing for attention: Travers and Macnair, out in the garden…Screams, as someone was tortured—first by the Death Eaters, and then by Voldemort himself…His parents bickering over the Mark…His mother’s beautiful, terrified face…The Vanishing cabinet…The agony cracking through his bones as Voldemort punished him…Macnair’s waxy face, hovering over him…Voldemort’s red eyes…Again, his mother’s face, sad this time, disappointed….A flash of green light…And now, the memories began to pick up, whipping past him so quickly that he could barely catch his breath: Greyback, and then Macnair, and then Severus, and then Voldemort, and then Ollivander, and then Severus again—all these people he had either hurt, or who had hurt him—and then an image of himself crawling into bed, falling apart…

Draco stumbled back, gasping. His head was pounding. He fell into his father’s armchair, gripping his head, as Harry came to crouch down next to him.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, pushing his hair away from his face. “Did it work?”

Draco slowly shook his head, as though trying to urge his memories to drift back together. His hair was still wet from the shower; little droplets of water flicked against Harry, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was checking Draco’s face, eyes full of concern.

Gradually, the room stopped spinning. The ringing in his ears died down. The vice that had been squeezing his head finally let off, and for the first time in ages, Draco felt as though he could take a deep breath. The anxiety dissipated, and in its place was a sense of relief so strong that he nearly cried. “I’m better,” he gasped. He rubbed at his face. “I feel better.”

Harry exhaled. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Can you remember?”

“Yeah, and it’s…it’s sort of raw.” As he cast among the new memories, they felt tender, as though he was poking an open wound. He could feel them slotting into place, weaving into the tapestry as his mind welcomed them back. In the crevices of his consciousness, he could still feel the old anxiety lurking—but it was tapered now, pushed to the sides as his very soul seemed to settle.

“You look better,” Harry said. “Not as tired.”

“Mmm.” Draco sat back, considering Harry as he kneeled next to him. “It’s like everything’s back where it should be. I still don’t like the memories. But it’s better that they’re there.”

 “And what about your Mark?”

It was only then that it occurred to him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Draco said. He hardly dared believe it.

“You don’t think…?” Harry trailed off. He sounded just as hopeful.

“You check it,” Draco whispered.

Harry took his arm in hand, as he had countless times before, and gently pushed up his sleeve. Even in the dark of his father’s study, the pitch-black Mark stood out sharply against Draco’s pale skin. The hideous skull seemed to taunt him.

Draco let out the breath he had been holding. “Well,” he said flatly. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry encouraged him. “It’s for the better, like you said.”

“It’s worse than I remembered,” Draco groaned. “It’s disgusting. Hide it, put my sleeve back down.”

Instead, Harry looked up at him fiercely, a strange scowl on his face. Then, very slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s Mark. His Mark didn’t burn; it didn’t bother him at all. Instead, watching as Harry tenderly kissed his Mark, Draco felt himself melting. The sight was in turns intimate and erotic.

“I’ve told you,” he said solemnly. “Nothing about you could ever be disgusting.”

“Let’s…” Draco cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “Let’s go back to my room.”

They slipped out of the study as quietly as they had entered. Draco pulled the door shut, pausing to check that his mother hadn’t woken. When he heard nothing, he took Harry’s wrist and pulled him down the hallway, opening the door for him and then closing it behind them. The moment the door snapped shut, Harry was crowding him against it, his lips hovering just above Draco’s.

“Kiss me,” Draco murmured. Harry took a moment to look at him, as though taking him in, and then finally he pressed their lips together, groaning as Draco deepened the kiss. Pressed up against the door, he basked in Harry’s warmth, his reassuring weight as his hands came up to cup Draco’s face. He felt protected, as though Harry was shielding him from the spectres still lingering in the house. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders and pulled him closer still. He smelled of shampoo from the shower, his hair still damp under Draco’s fingers. He was soft and hard all at once—his worn jumper and gentle hands contrasted sharply with the way he held Draco against the door. They kissed urgently, as though they were both aware of what was about to happen and neither of them could quite believe it.

They broke apart to catch their breath. Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s as they panted.

“Are you okay?” Harry whispered.

Draco nodded. He felt feverish, caught somewhere between states of consciousness. It was difficult to sort out his thoughts, hazy as they were, but he knew that he wanted Harry on the bed. Now. And so he pushed off from the door and pulled him along, tugging his hand as he crawled up onto the sheets. Draco settled onto the pillows and reached for Harry, who came to lay next to him.

“You won’t hurt me,” Draco muttered. “I know you’re afraid. But you won’t.”

Harry began to trail his fingertips up and down Draco’s arm. “I don’t want to push you.”

“You won’t,” he insisted. “I know what I want. I’m not some sad victim, remember we said? I want this. You don’t have to ask me or check every time.”

Harry hummed to himself. The apprehension was clear on his face.

“If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

Their eyes met. Harry stopped rubbing his arm. “You swear?”

Draco nodded.

Harry wavered, and then said softly, “I’ve never done this.”

“I…” For a moment, the shadow of his memory made itself known, but he pushed it away—and away it went. Whatever had happened, it had nothing to do with the present moment, with Harry. “I haven’t either.”

Harry crawled onto Draco and then kissed him again, kissed him with an intensity that left Draco dizzy. His hands strayed to the bottom of Draco’s shirt, and then pushed up under the fabric. He shuddered as the calloused fingers trailed along his stomach, coming up to brush against his sides. Wanting to feel more, Draco sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head. The way Harry looked at him set his heart to staggering. But he wanted to feel him, too, and so Draco tugged at Harry’s jumper. Finally, he relented, sitting up and pulling it off, along with the shirt underneath. At the sight of him, Draco couldn’t wait for Harry to ease himself back down; he pushed up and caught Harry in a kiss, taking his fill as he explored the bare expanse of his shoulders, the contours of his chest.

Draco couldn’t decide where to start first. Finally, he settled on licking along Harry’s neck, pleased when that drew a shaky sigh out of him. And then he shifted lower, kissing past his collarbone, trailing barely-there kisses until he took a nipple in his mouth. At that, Harry groaned. His hand came up to hold the back of Draco’s head. Draco sucked and licked, teasing the other nipple between his fingers. Every little sound that came out of Harry’s mouth went straight to his cock. He knew Harry was hard—every once in a while, his hands grazed across the front of his pyjama pants, where his erection was obvious. And that made him nearly desperate with need.

Just as Harry had begun to make a soft whining noise in his throat that Draco liked very much, he abruptly pulled Draco away and set him back against the pillows. He kissed along the ridges of Draco’s collarbone, the breadth of his stomach, until he arrived at Draco’s waistband. There, he traced his tongue back and forth, back and forth, just barely skimming beneath his pants.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered. He didn’t want Harry to know how far gone he was already, and so he brought his hand to cover his mouth, biting into the base of his thumb to try to take the edge off.

“I can never get enough of you,” Harry said. His breath was warm against Draco’s skin. “I’ll never, never get enough of you.”

Harry gripped Draco’s hips, holding him down ever so gently as he continued to kiss along his stomach. Then, suddenly, he sucked hard on the tender flesh, and Draco gasped. That would leave another mark, Draco knew, and he squirmed at the thought. He was so hard it hurt. He began to rock under Harry’s hands, begging silently for some kind of contact, some kind of friction. At last, Harry took pity on him, and he hooked his fingers around the cotton waistband. So slowly it felt like a delicious sort of torture, Harry pulled his pants down. He slipped them past Draco’s feet and then tossed them to the side.

“Look at you,” Harry said, coming back to grip Draco’s hips. “Fuck, you look good.”

Draco shivered under Harry’s praise. He came even further undone when Harry, almost timidly, brought his hand to rest on Draco’s cock, giving one experimental stroke.

“God.” He couldn’t help it—the sight of Harry’s hand on him, combined with the awed look on his face, did all sorts of things to him. Harry stroked again, more firmly this time, and he had just seemed to fall into a rhythm when he leaned forward and took Draco’s cock in his mouth. The unexpectedness of it, along with the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, caused him to cry out. He tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair, rocking his hips as Harry hummed around him. He pulled off, and Draco feared for a moment that he hadn’t liked it, but then he began to lick from the base of his shaft to the tip, as though testing Draco’s reactions. And he had plenty of them: he bucked up when Harry sucked the tip of his cock, he made a keening noise when Harry ran his tongue against the slit.

All too soon, his cock began to stiffen, and he felt himself nearing the edge. But he wasn’t ready. With a groan, he sat up and pulled Harry away. Harry chirped in surprise, but Draco pushed their mouths together and he leaned into the kiss. Draco could taste himself on Harry’s lips.

“Take off your bottoms,” Draco gasped into Harry’s mouth. “Please? I want to taste you.”

He thought he might fall apart as Harry gave him a sly smile and then wiggled out of his pyjamas. His cock curved against his stomach, bobbing as Harry tossed his bottoms aside and then lay on the bed. Before he could lose his nerve, Draco reached forward and took Harry in hand.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” Draco said, and it was true—Harry’s stomach was slick with precum, coating Draco’s fingers as he stroked him.

“Yeah,” Harry said. The smile had been wiped from his face; he arched up into Draco’s touch, eyes fluttering shut. “I usually…I usually am.”

Draco swallowed hard. Something about that insight was so personal, so deeply intimate, that his stomach writhed and his heart set to quaking. Nobody else knew this about Harry. Nobody. And now he did. Delirious with arousal, he bent down and took Harry’s cock in his mouth. The taste was sharp, salty, the smell of Harry nearly overwhelming, but that was nothing compared to the surprised moan Harry gave. Draco was sure he had never heard anything so erotic in his life.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Harry was muttering, twisting his head this way and that as he pushed into Draco’s mouth. Feeling more confident, Draco took him as far as he could, drawing out a breathy sigh before pulling away again. He held Harry’s cock in his hand as he went, lazily stroking his shaft. Just as he started to get the hang of timing his hand with his mouth, Harry was pulling him away. They kissed, and there was very little finesse, but that didn’t matter. Draco knew what he wanted.

“Let’s do it,” he said roughly. He fell onto the bed. “Please? Do it. I want it.”

Though Harry’s eyes were still hazy, a worried look crept onto his face. “Draco…”

“I want it,” he went on. He was rambling, but he didn’t care. “I want you to. Please? Please, Harry?”

“Well…” Harry bit his bottom lip, studying Draco’s face. Finally, he said, “If you’re sure.”

Draco paused. “Do you want to?”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s do it, then.”

Harry sat up and looked around the room. “Where are my pants?” He crawled to the edge of the bed and searched along the floor, presenting Draco with a very nice view of his arse as he did so. He dragged his pants up onto the bed and then searched the pockets, finally pulling out the vial from Blaise.

Draco grimaced; he could feel himself going red. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“Really?” Harry smirked. “I can.”

“Did you read the…the…” Draco motioned towards the vial, hoping Harry would catch his meaning.

“The instructions? Yeah. And Dean and Seamus gave me the run-down.”

“The what?” Draco yelped, mortified.

Harry dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine, don’t worry. It was very educational.”

“Educational,” Draco said faintly.

He was mollified quickly enough when Harry pulled him back into his arms, kissing along his neck. He reached down and took Draco in hand again, grinning against his skin as Draco gave a soft moan. Gently, Harry pressed Draco’s jaw upwards and then came to kiss along his throat, sucking at the sensitive flesh until Draco was writhing.

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, Harry. Please.”

He felt giddy as Harry shifted to sit by the edge of the bed. He placed his hands on Draco’s knees and he understood, letting his legs fall apart so that Harry could settle between them. This was intimate on an entirely different level. He couldn’t help his embarrassment as Harry gazed at him, running a hand along his inner thigh. He had never felt so exposed before. The sound of the stopper as Harry uncorked the vial was very loud in the quiet bedroom.

“I’m going to touch,” Harry said. “Just touch, that’s all. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered.

He jumped as the tips of Harry’s fingers grazed his skin. Instantly, Harry pulled away. “Are you okay? Should I stop?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t bad. Just surprising.” When Harry hesitated, he said, “I’m fine. Go on.”

A moment of hesitation, and then Harry’s fingers were back again, warm and wet. They grazed along the curve of his arse, raising goosebumps on Draco’s flesh. He surprised himself by rocking his hips up to meet Harry’s touch, deeply stirred by the thought of someone touching him there.

“I’m okay,” he said. “S’good. More.”

Harry’s fingers pushed forward, and Draco felt none of the trepidation he had worried might hold him back. Instead, he opened his legs wider, bringing his hands to cover his face as he moaned into his palms. The lubricant ran down in thick rivulets as Harry slowly began to rub at him. With his other hand, he caressed Draco’s thigh. Gradually, he eased in, and Draco gasped as a single digit penetrated him.

“You’re doing so good,” Harry muttered. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” It burned as Harry went deeper, but he adjusted himself on the sheets, taking a deep breath. Harry slipped out, almost withdrawing entirely, and then pushed back in again, and it was smoother this time. The ache gave away to a sense of fullness that Draco tried to breathe around. A few more strokes, and it was better, now: the pain edged into pleasure.

“Another?”

“Yeah.” This time, the burn was more acute. It stung as Harry pushed in. He reminded himself that Harry was there, that Harry would take care of him, that Harry took care of everything. “Talk to me,” Draco said. To his own ears, he was slurring. “I want to hear your voice.”

If Harry thought his request was odd, he didn’t show it. Instead, he rasped, “You look so good. You’re taking it so well. And you don’t…you don’t understand. How badly I want you. Fuck, I want you. And you’re trusting me with this.”

Draco panted as Harry resumed his rhythm. His erection, which had flagged, was now pressing insistently against his stomach. “Another, another, another,” he said. He sounded desperate but he didn’t mind—he was desperate. Harry introduced a third finger, and Draco was able to relax now, to take him in easily. The burn was sweet, soothing. He looked down at Harry, whose lips were parted, whose eyes were trained on his face as though he couldn’t bear to miss a single moment.

“Please?” Draco begged. “Do it. Please? I want you to.”

The fingers within him stilled. “Are you sure?”

“Harry,” Draco whined, twisting beneath him. “Yes, I’m sure. Please.”

Carefully, Harry withdrew. Draco watched as he opened the vial again and then poured lubricant into his palm. He felt his own cock twitch as Harry coated himself. Then, he reached for his pants, and pulled out his wand.

“Sticky,” he offered by way of explanation as he tapped his hand clean.

Draco growled with impatience. At long last, Harry crawled on top of him. He looked nervous. “If it hurts—”

“If it hurts, I’ll push you off,” Draco said. “You’ll know, believe me.”

Harry gave him a rueful grin. He shifted to take himself in hand, and then he parted Draco’s cleft, bringing his cock to rest against him. Their eyes met, and Draco nodded faintly. The breath rushed out of him as Harry pushed forward, breaching him at an exquisitely slow pace. There was still a soft burn, but it barely made itself known over the hammering of Draco’s heart and the rush of emotion he felt as Harry looked up to check on him. Slowly, he entered, inch by inch, and Draco gasped as he widened. When at last Harry was fully inside of him, he leaned forward and captured Draco’s lips in a gentle kiss.

“M’fine,” Draco mumbled. “Just give me a second.”

“You’re doing so good,” Harry whispered.

As the pain dissipated, Draco said, “Okay. Pull out and then in again—but slowly. Slowly.”

Harry did as he requested, drawing out before cautiously filling him once more.

“Again.”

As Harry dragged out and then back in, he closed his eyes. A little spasm of pleasure crossed his face. “Fuck, you’re tight. You feel so good.”

Draco groaned. The thought that Harry was enjoying this, was enjoying him, felt so good that he rocked up against him. “Go ahead. Keep going.”

Finally, Harry began to thrust into him in earnest. Draco twisted his fingers into the ornate headboard above him, giving out breathy little moans as Harry pushed into him. He had never, ever felt like this.

“You’re in me,” he said, knowing it was a completely ridiculous and inane thing to point out but somehow feeling that it needed to be said. “You’re in me, I can feel you, fuck I can feel you.”

Harry made a broken, gasping sound at that. He was beautiful as he pressed his forehead against Draco’s, eyes closed, face flushed. Everything came up in Draco at once—every little time Harry had asked before touching him, every moment he had smiled at him, comforted him, every second they had spent together in their spot. The vulnerability of having Harry inside of him would have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. He savored it, awed at the fact that it was Harry filling him, Harry caressing him, Harry making him feel so good.

He didn’t expect it when Harry shifted and wrapped his hand around his cock. “Oh, God.” He thrust into Harry’s fist, taken by his careless rhythm as he seemed to lose himself. “Fuck, you’re good. Fuck.”

Try as he might, he couldn’t manage it anymore—the silky drag of Harry’s cock in him, his grip as he pumped him, it was too much. “Harry, I’m…I’m coming, I’m coming…fuck.” Everything seemed to stop as he hung on the edge of that precipice, unable to inhale or exhale, tightening until Harry twisted his wrist and then Draco just collapsed, shouting out as he pulsed into Harry’s hand. Harry tumbled after him, crying and burying his head into the crook of Draco’s neck as he came. He was shuddering as he fell next to Draco, panting, face gleaming with sweat. They lay like that for what felt like an eternity, taking each other in, both privately digesting and mutually basking in what they had just experienced.

As he regained himself, Harry shifted over to take Draco in his arms. “Are you okay? Did it hurt?”

“Good,” Draco mumbled. “Was good.”

Harry gave a shaky laugh. “Let me get my wand, I’ll clean you.”

“Don’t go. Stay.”

He could feel Harry wavering, but finally he pulled Draco closer. He kissed the side of his head before settling in. Silence enveloped them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable; they were both, Draco knew, processing. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he couldn’t think of how to word it. He had already begun to ache, but that was fine—it was a reminder. A good reminder.

Suddenly, Harry said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t get rid of your Mark. But I’m glad we tried.”

“You think we would have ended up together?” Draco asked. “If we hadn’t?”

“Probably not.” In a teasing voice, Harry said, “We’re both stubborn prats.”

Much as Draco didn’t want to move, the wetness had become uncomfortable, and he was beginning to grow cold. Harry must have noticed—with a hint of amusement, he asked, “Now can I clean you up?”

When Draco nodded, he reached over for his wand. Once Harry had sorted them out, Draco crawled beneath the sheets, reveling in the feel of silk against his limbs. Harry climbed in after him, pulling Draco against his chest in what was soon becoming their usual position. It was very warm under the blankets, and very cozy, and soon Draco felt himself falling asleep.

“Let’s never leave here,” he mumbled against Harry’s chest. “Let’s just stay in bed forever and never leave.”

Harry chuckled. “Whatever you want. For now, get some rest.”

And so he did.

***

The pub was busy with the usual lunchtime crowd. Madam Rosmerta rushed between tables, filling pitchers and calling out orders in a harried tone. In contrast, their table was relaxed, unhurried: Harry sat back in his chair, absently fiddling with Draco’s fingers on the table, while Lavender leaned against Theo, listening to Pansy as she recounted how well she had done on her Charms N.E.W.T. Draco pretended to pay attention, although he had heard this story a dozen times already. Ron, meanwhile, was shaking his head as Blaise explained to him why the Cannons had lost their chance at placing in the league. Next to him, Hermione was rolling her eyes.

“Weasley, it’s basic maths,” Blaise said, exasperated. “Think of it. The Magpies are up by three hundred points. Unless the Cannons pull out some sort of miracle at their next game, or they Confund every single player, there’s just no way. None.”

“Shows how much you know,” Ron grunted.

“It’s a lost cause,” Harry told Blaise. “Believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Hermione said soothingly. “Once Harry starts playing for the Wasps, you’ll be supporting them instead. Won’t you, Ron?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron said, as though it was obvious.

“He won’t know what to do with himself,” Harry taunted. “He’s never supported a winning team before.”

Overhearing their conversation, Pansy let out a sharp squeal. “I can’t wait for the first match!” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been excited for a Quidditch season before.”

“We’ll see,” Harry said, ducking his head as he grinned. “We have a lot of new players…I don’t know how well we’ll do.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hermione said. “They have you practicing non-stop.” Draco detected a tinge of resentment in her voice; she hadn’t been pleased with how frequently Quidditch practice cut into Harry’s N.E.W.T.s revision.

“Draco, it must be so exciting, having front row seats to their practices,” Lavender said.

He shrugged. “It’s a bit boring, to be honest.”

Harry smirked, pushing him playfully. “Really? You nearly fainted when I pulled a Wronski Feint last time.”

Draco laughed along with the others; he could feel himself reddening. “You need to be careful, that’s all.”

“I am careful,” Harry said. “I just want to be ready for our first match.”

“Well,” Draco sighed. “I’ll need to get a grip by then.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry reassured him, “your grip is fine.”

The others sniggered into their drinks as Ron stared up at the ceiling. He had the habit of turning temporarily deaf whenever Harry said anything salacious.

Theo pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. “We’d better be going, Draco. Our appointment’s coming up. I told Greg we’d meet him at the Ministry, before Flooing in.”

There was much fanfare as everyone bid them goodbye. Privately, Draco thought it was a bit ridiculous: they were meeting for drinks again in two days. But he allowed himself to be hugged and squeezed, finally disentangling himself from Pansy long enough to pull on his cloak. Draco knew Ron was making a face when he leaned in to kiss Harry; amused, he lingered longer than he normally would have.

“I’ll see you later,” he said as he pulled away.

Harry gave him a lopsided smile. “Okay. Say ‘hi’ to your parents for me.”

Straightening his cloak, Draco waved at everyone one last time before following Theo out of the pub. It had drizzled earlier that morning; the smell of rain was sweet, thickening the air. The sun was struggling to burst out of a cover of clouds. Even as winter tried to resist, spring was blooming into life.

“Shall we Apparate, then?” Theo asked, already drawing out his wand.

“I’ll see you there.” Once Theo had Disapparated, Draco took a moment to pause, to check in with himself, as his Healer had advised. His hands were steady, his pulse was normal. His head felt clear. There was perhaps, in the corner of his mind, a little niggling fear, but that was normal. He still didn’t fancy the Dementors, or the trip to the Ministry. He had been working in Magical Law Enforcement for two weeks now, but the lifts still gave him trouble, and he avoided the courtrooms entirely. Still, he was managing. And most importantly, he was able to settle into the fear, making himself known as he refused to be cowed. Satisfied, he lifted up his wand. And he disappeared.