Archive of Our Own ^beta

*

It is April 7th, two months shy of his fortieth birthday, when Harry learns that Draco Malfoy is dying.

It begins innocuously, as most of these things do. Golden beams of sunlight pour from the open balcony, carrying with it the crisp breeze and the sweet, floral scent of spring. On any other day, Harry would have spelled the curtains shut and slept in, but it is a rare thing to wake up pressed to Malfoy’s sun-warmed back.

Their legs are tangled beneath the sheets and tangle more when Harry slips an arm over Malfoy’s slender waist, drawing him close enough to breathe in the curve of his neck, his silky hair. Vanilla and peaches…and jasmine?

Harry can never figure it out, although he really ought to have by now. He’s spent enough time wondering. Years of waking up to half of a bed Malfoy has already left. Despite his absence, this scent has always lingered—as surely as the indent of his weight on the pillow.

Harry has never minded Malfoy’s abrupt departures. He is a journalist, after all, always chasing after arbitrary deadlines and going where his leads take him. Harry is a Cursebreaker on the Ministry’s payroll, but with enough seniority to pick and choose his cases.

Often, he chooses the ones that don’t require him to rise with the sun.

Besides, freedom is the reason their arrangement has lasted for as long as it has. Whenever they’re in the same city, they’d meet up, have a pleasurable time, and leave. No strings. No attachments. No goodbyes, even.

But there is something to be said about Malfoy on these rare mornings Harry gets to have him. Something addictive. He’s soft, pliable—almost sweet. Harry mouths the tender skin of his neck and endeavours to wake him.

Malfoy is sensitive, unusually so, and Harry has long since learned the keys to making him sing.

When the soft moans don’t come and Malfoy’s skin doesn’t jump to his touch, the cold steel of dread digs its way down Harry’s spine. His languid movements are replaced by urgency. He shakes Malfoy and yells for him to wake up. A dozen Rennervates are cast, but Malfoy remains asleep, his face still despite Harry’s handling, skin whiter than the sheets upon which he lies, body limp as a doll.

The only thing that ties Harry’s sanity together is the steady rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest.

His eyes stay on the even rhythm for the time it takes him to bring Malfoy to St. Mungo’s. The irrational fear won’t leave him, as though looking away would mean looking back to find it stopped.

His gaze is drawn to it again when the Healer bids him to enter Malfoy’s room. Pansy Parkinson is already at his bedside, holding his hand while he sleeps. A fierce sentinel with sharp teeth. She was the first to come as Malfoy’s emergency contact. Narcissa Malfoy will follow soon after a few Portkeys between continents.

Harry is suddenly conscious of how out of place he is in this room. He’s neither Malfoy’s emergency contact nor his family, just someone who happened to be there at the right time and the right place. His body chills at the thought of what if—what if Malfoy had been alone instead?

“You might as well be here for this,” Pansy says, answering the question that must be apparent on Harry’s face.

There’s an ominous note in her voice that has little to do with her usual disdain for him. It hasn’t always been like this between them. In eighth year, they were…civil. And when she pursued a relationship with Neville, they were even cordial. Harry can track the return of her venom to the same point at which he and Malfoy started fucking.

“What is it?” Harry asks. He’s tired of being out of the loop. Pansy and the Healer’s expressions both betray knowledge too terrible to keep leashed, and the answer bursts forth like a powder keg placed too close to a fire.

A familial blood curse long declared illegal, the Healer explains, one invoked by an ancient Malfoy patriarch to ensure the continuation of his line.

“Should one of his heirs fail to marry after a certain age, he’s cursed them to die slowly until the ‘mistake’ is rectified,” Pansy finishes, directing that last part at Harry, her eyes like daggers that pierce Harry’s guilty heart.

Logically, Harry knows he has no fault in this. Malfoy is aware of his situation, says the Healer, and has inexplicably decided not to do anything about it. Harry’s been Cursebreaking long enough to know the only way out of these ancient blood curses is to satisfy their terms. He thinks of Malfoy the night before, slick and sated, cheek warm on Harry’s chest, talking about all the projects he has lined up for the year.

“Old Gutwig’s retiring next year,” he’d said, fire in his silver eyes. “I think I’ll have a shot.”

Those were not the words or actions of someone intending to die.

And yet.

Harry looks down at Malfoy’s bloodless face, and a single path begins to clear its way before him. He didn’t save Malfoy from the fire only to lose him to this.

“I’ll marry him,” Harry declares, and instead of becoming invisible shackles that weigh him down, the words lift a heavy mantle off his shoulders. He says it again and finds it easier the second time. “I’ll do it now if it will fix this.”

All of Pansy’s sharpness dulls in her surprise. It’s funny, really. What did she expect him to do after telling him all this?

They both miss the moment Malfoy opens his eyes.

“No.”

His accusing glare is pointed at Harry as if he’s done something heinous.

Heat sears Harry’s chest, overtaking relief. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve got it handled,” Malfoy clips out. He’s still pale like a corpse, but every line on his face speaks of defiance. “I would rather die than accept your pity-proposal.”

“It’s not a—” Harry stops and breathes through his nose. “And how exactly do you have it handled? Have you got suitors lining up by the dozen to marry you, then?”

Malfoy flushes. “I could pick anyone off the street if I wanted to!”

“You don’t have to!” Harry bursts out. “I’m right here.”

“I don’t want you!”

“Funny, that’s not the impression I got last n—”

“OUT!” Draco sits up, spitting mad. “I want him out right now!”

“I’m not leaving.”

Their eyes hold in silent battle, a live current of electricity snapping between them. Harry digs his heels in. In a contest of wills between them, he doesn’t see how he can lose.

Five minutes later, Harry is summarily and unjustly kicked out of the room. Apparently, the patient is always right even when he’s clearly wrong. Harry doesn’t go far, though. He leans on the wall next to the door and contemplates the fact that he’s only just noticed that his feet are bare. It explains the odd stares he’s getting from the people in the hallway.

He’s surprised Narcissa doesn’t give him the same judgemental look upon her arrival, but she doesn’t notice him at all as she heads straight for the door with the purpose of a general braced for war. Harry almost follows her in, but the chill from the tile flooring on his bare skin serves as a brisk wake-up call.

Here is a way out, all but shoved at him by Malfoy himself. Harry doesn’t have to marry him. The stubborn bastard is right; he can take his pick of willing partners if he so chooses—and not from off the street, either, but from higher circles more distinguished, circles Harry has never once been interested in knowing. As for Harry, he can leave right now and return to the life he’s painstakingly carved out for himself. One where he’s comfortable, fulfilled, and more importantly, free.

He tried this marriage business once with Ginny. They’d been young, hopeful, in love—for however much that was worth—and it took him a year to realise it wasn't meant for him.

Marriage, to him, seemed only to work when either one of them was making a sacrifice. Time, career, aspirations—they all come second to a relationship that’s gone stagnant. As someone who had to grow up with little control of his choices, Harry wanted to guard his freedom like a dragon with its treasure.

So they divorced.

Harry had lost his wife at twenty-two, but the bigger loss was that of a loyal friend. In much the same way, he likely won’t see Malfoy again after this.

If he gets married to someone else, then that—well, that complicates things.

Harry looks to the end of the hallway, the one leading to the exit, and then back to his toes. He should leave, Transfigure some shoes along the way, and make an effort to resemble a normal person. He should. So the question is why.

Why is he still rooted to the floor?

While he’s dithering at the crossroads of indecision, the door swings open to reveal Narcissa Malfoy’s proud, aristocratic face.

“Oh, good. You’re still here.”

In the end, Harry loses control again.

*

Harry doesn’t know what Narcissa Malfoy did in the ten minutes she spent in the hospital room before she called Harry, but it somehow results in an engagement ceremony at Malfoy’s ancestral castle. A Handfasting, they called it, an ancient Wizarding custom. More modern wixen folk would simply call it moving in or shacking up, and there’d be little ceremony. No fancy ribbons to tie his left hand to Malfoy’s or bearded old druids to spit at Harry in an ancient tongue, binding him and Malfoy to a year in which they are all but married in name.

In a year’s time, they’ll have their real wedding, as is, also, The Custom. Before this, Harry wasn’t aware that two words could inspire so much hostility in him, but these ones do.

When asked for the reason for waiting when Malfoy is quite literally dying, Narcissa had invoked The Custom as well, explaining that, “Everything must be done right, by tradition, or it won’t work,” and as an afterthought, “The engagement should stop him from dying in the meantime.”

So here Harry sits at a long, elaborately set table with his bewildered friends on one side (Hermione and Ron) and Draco’s own less bewildered guests (his mother, Pansy, and by extension, Neville) to stop Malfoy from dying in the meantime.

Harry sets down his wine glass and watches as it magically refills itself to the brim. Handy. He could get used to this. The rest however—the fancy trappings, the gigantic hall nearly as big as the one in Hogwarts, but not half as warm or welcoming, he simply cannot.

“I can’t believe you own a castle,” he says to Malfoy, who’s seated next to him.

“Don’t get excited. You’re not getting it in the divorce.”

Harry shudders. “I don’t want it. It’s so…”

Malfoy pauses over the rim of his goblet. “Ugly?”

“I was thinking more ‘obnoxious’.”

“Mhmm.”

“Please tell me we’re not living here. I’ll forever be looking over my shoulder for Peeves.”

Malfoy ducks his head, but Harry can see pink colour the tips of his ears. “We’ll be living in my house at High Locke. But for tonight, we’ll stay here.”

High Locke is a new wixen community. Harry had no idea Malfoy lived there, can hardly even imagine it. Harry had been there once for a colleague’s birthday and thought the place too lovely, too picturesque. He’d seen a cottage near the edge of a lake that seemed straight from a painting.

Red-bricked walls overlaid with ivy, a thatched roof, numerous double-hung windows, cobbled steps leading up to the front door, and a riot of colourful flowers along the path.

Harry’s breath had caught for a moment before he moved on, knowing with a certainty that he didn’t belong there. That warm, beautiful, dreamlike place.

So how can Malfoy? What else is he hiding?

“I’ve never seen your house.”

The note of accusation, which Harry didn’t mean to come out, seems to take Malfoy aback. “You’ve never expressed interest,” Malfoy says pointedly, “and you’ll see it soon enough.”

“I want to see it now.” Harry realises he’s being a bit of a tool, so he carefully adds a “Please.”

Perhaps it’s the novelty of the word that makes Malfoy choke on his drink. It doesn’t make him any more amenable, however. “We have guests here. We can’t just leave them.”

“Why not? They all look like they want to leave.”

Malfoy opens his mouth and seems to think better of it. “There’s a custom, Potter.”

Harry resists the urge to take a long swig at the mention of The Custom. His silent drinking game has already begun to take effect, starting with the fuzziness of his head. “Are you worried because it’s messy? Your house?” Harry props his chin on his hand so he can study his newly acquired fiancé.

“Shut your ignorant mouth. My home is pristine.” Malfoy is flushed red now, bow lips glossy from the wine, and it makes Harry’s thoughts wander to other things. Other pleasurable things better done in a warm, cosy bed rather than a grim castle.

“I bet it’s filthy.”

“It is not.”

“Paint peeling off the mouldy walls.”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“Your dirty laundry strewn on the—”

The chair screeches like a banshee as Malfoy stands, tall and blazing. “We’re leaving,” he declares to their stunned guests before pulling Harry out and dragging him outside.

Harry must have imbibed more wine than he realised because he ends up leaning heavily on Malfoy as they walk, and he barely puts up a fight when Malfoy pins him against a stone column.

“God, I can’t stand you.” Malfoy’s breath is hot on his skin, but not hotter than the fire in his eyes as he takes in the rumpled state Harry is in.

Harry licks his lips, satisfied when Malfoy’s jaw flexes. “And yet you’re stuck with me for—remind me, what does The Custom say again? Two years? Four? Until we procure an heir?”

“At least two. Heir not required, thank fucking Merlin.” Malfoy drops his head on Harry’s shoulder and for a second, Harry thinks the shaking is because he’s crying. But, no, he’s laughing, and Harry laughs, too, because that’s what you do when you see a tragic comedy unfolding before your eyes.

Even if it’s your own.

“What a shit show,” Malfoy laments, voice muffled by Harry’s fancy robe.

Harry can’t resist running his fingers through the white-blond locks when they’re presented to him like this. They resemble spun gold under the flickering torches. “Agreed,” he says quietly.

“Why’d you do it? Honestly?” Malfoy lifts his face. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, and his eyes are a glimmering quicksilver. “You didn’t have to.”

Harry goes with the safe answer. The answer he’s given to everyone who asks. “I wasn’t leaving you to die.”

Malfoy shakes his head. “Hero complex,” he huffs, unimpressed. “Typical. You still want to see it?”

“Your lair?” Harry perks up.

“My home.”

“Your bedroom?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

For how much Harry harped on about seeing Malfoy’s home, he pays little attention to it when they do get there. He’s sure it’s the opposite of every insult he’s thrown at it—sophisticated, tasteful, an exceedingly posh marvel that belongs in the magazines at the waiting room of a Healer’s office.

The chair he knocks over must be expensive. The table he shoves Malfoy onto, smooth and sturdy, high quality. The luxurious carpet he sinks into, a balm for his stiff knees.

But for all that, Malfoy’s bedroom could be a damp cave, and Harry wouldn’t care. His hazy, wine-blurred world centers on only Malfoy, cast in a soft glow by candlelight, and all the pleasure he can wring from him.

Palms slam on the table, various items spilling on the floor, as Malfoy pushes his arse deeper into Harry’s face. There’s something to be said about having years of history. Like a favourite instrument, Harry knows every inch and curve of Malfoy’s body better than his own. Has learned all the different ways to touch, to kiss, to lick—the depth and rhythm—to make sure Malfoy screams.

And he does so, a beautiful keening cry that goes straight to Harry’s throbbing dick. The first, he decides, of many more.

Harry withdraws his tongue from the puckered rim only when his fingers have become drenched with Malfoy’s come. He coats his cock with it, pumping as he gets to his feet. “Up,” he orders.

Malfoy collapses face-first on the desk, arms limp at his sides. “Shit, Potter. Give me a min—ah!”

The red imprint on Malfoy’s arse is just as satisfying as the feel of his flesh bouncing against Harry's palm. Harry may have put more force than necessary, but he counts it as his due for all this. Rushed engagement, contractual marriage, getting kicked out of Malfoy’s room with his proposal thrown in his face.

Anyway, Malfoy likes it rough.

He mewls with every blow to his arse, legs shaking from the effort it takes to hold himself up for Harry. “Please,” he gasps, “please.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. His heavy dick twitches at the plea, and he nudges Malfoy’s legs wider, lines himself up against the rim, and slides home.

They groan in tandem.

Harry starts slow, savouring the tight grip of Malfoy’s hole as he drags the length of him nearly all the way out before pushing in deep again. God, he can never tire of this. Malfoy clenches around him like a hot vice with every glancing stroke to his prostate, and it’s all that Harry can do to maintain his steady rhythm, especially once Malfoy, the impatient, greedy little thing, starts fucking himself back on his cock.

“Harder, Potter. Fuck.”

His hold on Malfoy’s hips turn bruising as ink pots roll off the desk and clatter on the floor. “Like this?” Harry pants, thrusting hard and fast, earning himself a breathless moan from Malfoy. “Or this?” He slows again.

“I’m going to kill you, I swear it.”

Harry laughs, but there’s no humour in it. His cock feels like it’s going to explode. “You’re not going to do anything except take it,” he rasps.

The fucking turns brutal. Harry takes both of Malfoy’s wrists and uses them for purchase as he thrusts and thrusts, deep and rough and fast. Every drive of his hips pounds the sensitive spot inside of Malfoy until he’s reduced into a sopping mess beneath him, feet struggling to stay on the floor. Until their cries of pleasure mingle with the wet squelching of flesh on flesh, the staccato rhythm of the hardwood as Malfoy slams into it repeatedly. Until they’re both coming, Harry harder than he ever has before, white searing his eyes. He bends over Malfoy, clutching him tightly like he’s his sole anchor while waves upon waves of pleasure drag him under.

The aftermath is a blur.

Somehow they both end up lying side-by-side on the carpet, boneless and slick. Satisfied, yet exhausted beyond words. Harry is fine staying where he is. In fact, he’s completely fine with never moving ever again.

“Here’s a suggestion,” Malfoy slurs. “We’ll do it on my bed next time.”

Harry and his aching muscles hum in agreement. Next time. At least in this facet of their sham engagement and soon-to-be sham marriage, he and Malfoy will never have an issue. “I hope you didn’t have any important papers on there.” Harry thinks of all the spilled ink on the table.

Malfoy makes a noncommittal grunt. “Just some articles I was writing for Monday’s issue. I have no other copies and will have to rewrite them, so no big deal or anything.”

“Ah,” Harry says intelligently.

“Clean me up, Potter.” When Harry groans in protest, he adds, “It’s the polite thing to do when your come is still inside me, you barbarian.”

Harry’s incorrigible prick has the gall to jerk in interest. He gets up—though perhaps crawl is the better word for it— towards the pile of robes in the corner, fishes for his wand in his pockets, and ends up hooking something else entirely. He completely forgot about the small velvet box in the whirlwind of…well, everything, but he holds it out to Malfoy now in offering.

“What is this?” Malfoy asks, as though he’s never seen a ring before in his life and is fearful of its ability to eat him.

The ring winks innocently from its bed of black velvet. Other styles were recommended, but this one had caught Harry’s eye from the moment he saw the display, a silver band that branches into intricate leaves inlaid with small diamonds and in the centre, a pear-shaped moonstone, so delicate and luminous that he couldn’t help but be reminded of Malfoy.

Harry scratches the back of his head, an odd twisting in his insides at Malfoy’s intense gaze. “What does it look like? It’s an engagement ring. We’re supposed to give courting gifts, remember?” he adds defensively when Malfoy continues to stare at him, unblinking like an owl.

Finally, Malfoy breaks his stare to look down at the ring, but when he tries to reach for it, Harry beats him to it. Without explanation, he slips the ring onto Malfoy’s finger. “There.” He clears his throat. “If you hate it, we can always exchange it. I still have the receipt in my—”

“No!” Malfoy has his hand clutched to his naked chest. “I mean—it’s fine. It’s—thank you, Potter.”

Harry fights the instinct to blame it on The Custom and says, “You’re welcome,” instead.

Silence falls like a heavy mist, and Malfoy’s eyes slip to the ring again.

“I’ll clean you up now,” Harry says quickly.

“Right. Yes.”

Harry doesn’t know what he expected going into this. Perhaps that he and Malfoy would remain as they are. Years of seeing each other have yielded certain patterns that ought to be fairly easy to fall into despite the change in circumstances.

But the night turns into a revelation that this is nothing like slipping into an old, well-loved jumper. There is a bond now. When Harry finally sinks into Malfoy’s plush bed, it’s with the knowledge that this is only the first of hundreds of nights. When he sleeps, it’s not simply Malfoy he sleeps next to, but his fiancé.

And when he wakes in the morning alone to find a simple blue box containing a ring his size on the pillow next to him—For you, the accompanying note reads in Malfoy’s graceful script—it becomes harder to ignore the racing flutter in chest. Like wings taking flight. A bud blooming between cracks in asphalt.

As fragile as a dewdrop.

Fresh and new and tasting of spring.

*

Harry doesn’t linger in Malfoy’s home.

He only has to see the lake beyond the pretty wide bay windows to know it’s the cottage. The painting one. The one that’s too beautiful to be real.

Harry spares time to move his trunks from his flat, but he leaves them unopened and accepts the first case that takes him out of the country. It costs him a week and two busted eardrums, but the church bells in Vernazza no longer toll in eternal fury.

When he finally returns to the cottage, it is to find that Malfoy had the same idea as him.

Potter,

Gone to Rome to cover Thestral Race. Be back by the 25th.

P.S.: Next time, maybe you could park your belongings where innocent people (me) won’t fall over them unawares, risking life, limb, and my left pinky toe.

P.P.S.: I’ve taken the liberty of putting your clothing away. Master bedroom. White door next to the fireplace.

P.P.P.S.: How do you not have a single pocket-handkerchief? What if you need to sneeze

P.P.P.P.S.: I’ve taken the liberty of fixing that for you as well.

You’re welcome,

DLM

Indeed, next to the note, sitting on the marble kitchen island, Harry finds a single folded dark green pocket-handkerchief.

*

Two days pass while Harry haunts Malfoy’s home like a poltergeist. He prowls the hallways, investigates every room, pokes at things he probably shouldn’t, waters Malfoy’s plants (Why does he have so many? It’s irresponsible, really, for someone who travels so often), and judges the empty fridge, the barren pantry.

He spends a lot of time by the lake.

Hours, actually, just lying on a quilt Ron made for him after another ill-fated phase during which he fancied himself as some sort of homemaker. Sometimes, he reads a book he’s plucked at random from Malfoy’s study. Sometimes, he naps. Sometimes, he wonders if he should add a table, some chairs. A quaint little swing tied to the willow tree.

For all that Malfoy’s home looks lovely, it doesn’t feel lived in.

But that’s not his business, Harry reminds himself. He’s just a passing visitor.

On the day of his departure, Harry does his best to erase traces of himself. He makes the bed and keeps his toiletries neat and hidden away in a drawer. He tries not to break anything while he packs his clothes in Malfoy’s ridiculous walk-in closet, the size of which ought to distinguish itself as its own postcode.

It’s nice, though. Calm. Harry allows himself to linger a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of vanilla and peaches.

The only thing that he leaves changed is the fridge because in all good conscience, he could not abandon it empty. He’d tried speaking into the vacant shelves and found his words echoed back to him.

Satisfied that the preserving charm on the plastic containers will hold, Harry turns back to the kitchen island. Another place he’s left his mark on—with a note and a neat set of fountain pens.

Malfoy,

Headed to Perth. Should be back in a week so I might catch you here, provided the curse doesn’t spread to the other Fire dingoes.

P.S.: Thank you for the handkerchief. I don’t know what I was thinking going on with my life with a handkerchief-shaped hole in my heart.

P.P.S.: You think the feral dingoes will be so impressed by my updated wardrobe they’ll think twice before biting me?

P.P.P.S.: The food in the fridge is yours.

P.P.P.P.S.: If you want it.

P.P.P.P.P.S.: The pens are yours, too. Less likely to spill on important documents, etc. Welcome to the 21st century.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: Seriously, eat the food.

Please?

HJP

*

The curse spreads like wildfire. The handkerchief fails to impress a single Fire dingo, the bites hurt like the flames of hell, and in the end, this means Harry doesn’t catch Malfoy before he leaves.

A gift is waiting for him again when he comes home to a quiet house—a leather watch this time, Italian-made.

Potter,

Perhaps this will help you keep time better.

Will be at Dublin to cover Bealtaine. Back…soon. Depending on how good the whisky is this year.

P.S.: Why would you accept a case involving cursed Fire dingoes?

P.P.S.: If they do bite you, it will be less than you deserve.

P.P.P.S.: I know what pens are, you twat.

P.P.P.P.S.: But thank you. They’re very…portable.

P.P.P.P.P.S.: I enjoyed the linguine.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S.: Ever considered becoming a chef instead? I’ve heard the odds of feral dog encounters are zero to none.

Think about it.

DLM

Harry puts the watch on and waits. He lasts five days in the house, sans Malfoy, before he’s called away again. Another innocent sheep herder. Another cursed tomb.

The whisky must be exceptional this year, Harry thinks, though he doesn’t put it on the note he leaves on the counter.

The first two months of their engagement pass in much the same way. Notes are exchanged, tokens pile on the counter, and more handkerchiefs are added to his closet as he and Malfoy continue to inhabit the same spaces, but never at the same times. Eventually, Harry ceases his efforts to remain unnoticed. His toothbrush stands next to Malfoy’s, his quilt hangs off the back of the sofa, and his favourite snacks and brand of tea fill the pantry as if to say, “I was here. I waited. I’ll be back.”

It’s hard not to wonder if Malfoy is avoiding him on purpose. Whereas they used to run into each other often—they stayed in the same hotels, frequented the same restaurants, owled each other a variation of “I’m in town” or “I’m in Paris for the week”—now, he’ll be lucky to see Malfoy’s shadow or earn a response that isn’t “Sorry, I’m elsewhere and will remain there indefinitely because I do not wish to see you.”

Alright, he never wrote that last part, but that’s how Harry takes it anyway, the same way he takes Malfoy’s absence—like swallowing a bitter potion. When the painting house begins to feel like a mausoleum and Harry a ghost, he accepts the case that takes him the furthest from England without reading much of the fine print.

Ancient city buried in ice. Oozing with dark magic. A team of fifty Cursebreakers from ten countries, may take a month, etc., etc.

Funny how the path that takes him the furthest from Malfoy is the one that ends with them together.

*

Serbian mages clear Harry twice over for residual curses before he’s allowed to leave, so he doesn’t think twice about the dizziness that comes over him during the journey back home. International Portkeys tend to have that effect, he reasons, and the fatigue is to be expected; he’s been running ragged for weeks now. The fever—well, the fever is harder to explain, admittedly.

As is dropping to his knees and sicking up all over the foyer.

“Potter! What the hell?”

The unexpected voice sends a bolt of panic down Harry’s spine. Shit, he’s ruined Malfoy’s carpet. He’s going to be furious. And sure enough, distress is written all over Malfoy’s face as he kneels before Harry and cradles his burning face.

“Tell me what’s wrong!” Malfoy yells, but it’s like Harry’s gone underwater, the way everything has become muffled and blurred. Malfoy’s voice, his face, his touch.

Harry tries to reach for him, anxious to hold onto something, to explain, but all that comes out of his parched lips is a weak “Sorry” before a strong current drags him under.

*

Harry wakes up desperately thirsty and unable to move. Both terrible things in their own right, but together become infinitely worse.

He must have made enough pathetic noises, though, because he feels a shifting of sheets next to him and hands propping him up to a sitting position.

“You’re alright. Drink this.”

Harry drinks from the cup that’s offered to him, water laced with something bitterly medicinal, and blinks at Malfoy. There’s little else he can do. Malfoy is pale and a little wan, but he seems to absorb all the light coming from the windows, making him glow. A star made human. It hurts Harry’s eyes a little to watch him.

“That’s it.” Malfoy withdraws the cup and replaces it with another—and another. Harry tries to protest, but it’s a feeble one, and Malfoy silences him quickly by scolding and comforting him in equal measure.

“Who told you to run off to a cursed pit in Siberia, huh?” he snaps, and in the next breath, “There, there. Almost done. Good, Potter, that’s good.”

Malfoy finally stops when he’s fed Harry an entire apothecary, but by then, Harry can’t bring himself to complain. Warmth has crept into his dead limbs, and he can move again. He uses his newfound ability to slump against the headboard in exhaustion.

“What happened?” he croaks out in a voice rough with disuse.

Malfoy’s lips curl at one corner. It’s bereft of amusement. “Some ancient, parasitic iceworm latching onto your skin and draining your magic is what happened. You could have died, but of course you didn’t. That’s not your brand, is it?” Malfoy says almost accusingly. "As it is, you’ve been out of it for three days.”

Harry’s mind whirls with all the information, but he settles on just the one question. “Have you—you’ve been here the whole time?”

“Where else would I be?”

“Work?” Harry suggests.

Malfoy looks at him like he’s still covered in parasitic iceworms. “Why would I—” He stops, exhales loudly, and says, “I’m not going anywhere,” with so much steel and determination that Harry is inclined to believe him.

If only his next words weren’t: “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

Harry nearly dozed off by the time Malfoy returns bearing a tray and a porcelain bowl. “What’s this?” he asks, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes as Malfoy sets the tray across his lap.

Malfoy settles cross-legged across from him. “I don’t know what you call it where you’re from, but here, we call it soup.”

Harry freezes. “That you made?”

Malfoy pauses in lifting the spoon to his lips to give him a withering look. “Contrary to popular belief, I am actually perfectly capable of making my own food.”

Then why was your fridge more barren than a desert? Harry wants to ask, but instead he holds his palm out. “And contrary to popular belief, I can actually feed myself.”

There’s a second of hesitation before Malfoy jabs the spoon at him. His furious, muttered complaints about spillage and expensive sheets are duly ignored while Harry enjoys his soup.

“It’s good,” he lies. He can’t actually taste anything, but his stomach is warm and no longer growling at him, so that’s good enough in his book.

Malfoy, who has been watching him like a hawk till then, suddenly looks away. Harry watches in rapt attention, intrigued at the pink flush climbing up his slender neck.

“Stop lying. I bet you can’t taste a thing.” Well. “The Healer said it may take a month for a full recovery.” Malfoy meets his eyes. “No magic in the meantime.”

“But my—”

“No ifs or buts, Potter. I’ve already contacted your workplace on your behalf. Merlin, be still.” Malfoy sets a hand on Harry’s restless knee. “And mine as well.”

Harry finally stills at that. “What?”

“I told you I wasn’t leaving,” Malfoy says. “You’re barely able to lift a spoon.”

Harry sets his shaking hand down. “Sorry,” he mumbles after a prolonged silence.

Malfoy sighs. His hand is still on Harry’s knee, stroking gently. “There’s no need to be sorry. You would do the same in my place. Maybe more,” he adds quietly.

Because they are engaged—along with everything that entails. Harry’s heart pounds with the reminder.

But Malfoy is wrong. There are some things Harry needs to be sorry for.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes?”

Harry takes a deep breath. “I need to piss.”

*

No words are said as Malfoy helps Harry to the bathroom. There is, however, quite a lot of awkward gesturing, averted eyes, and flushed faces. Harry comes out of the experience feeling like he’s been through several wars, all of them he’s lost. He’s certain Malfoy feels the same way, too, so Harry is surprised when he suggests a bath after.

“You stink like a dog,” Malfoy says by way of explanation.

Although he was reluctant at first, Harry quickly surrenders to Malfoy’s wisdom as soon as he sinks into the pearly clawfoot tub until all of him is fully submerged in hot, foamy water.

Malfoy yelps when he rises and sprays droplets everywhere. “Ugh, what are you, twelve?”

Harry feels a gentle tug at the back of his messy hair, followed by the scent of vanilla shampoo, and skilled fingers massaging his scalp. He resists the urge to moan indecently or to tell Malfoy he had never actually experienced a proper tub until he became an adult. The prefect’s bathroom with the egg and Moaning Myrtle hardly counted.

“You don’t have to do this.”

Hands still in his hair, but only for a moment. Then they slide to his neck, down his shoulders, and onto Harry’s chest.

Harry has not been self-conscious with Malfoy for years now. Maybe a decade. But there’s something indescribably intimate about the sight of Malfoy’s smooth and delicate hands moving across Harry’s weathered chest, peppered with grey and hard-earned scars, washing him. Providing relief and comfort. It stirs a hot rush of emotions deep inside him.

Shyness, gratitude, desire.

“Is this okay?”

Harry lets his head fall back against the rim of the tub. Malfoy looms above him, as unreadable as a locked door. “Please,” is all Harry says, and a part of Malfoy’s indifferent mask slips into blushing uncertainty.

“You’re not well,” Malfoy says softly, “I’m just supposed to help you.”

“Then help me.” Harry cants his hips and feels no shame. It’s been so long, longer than two months. Like he’s been waiting forever. He hides a smile as Malfoy’s eyes darken and hides it again when Malfoy curses and glides his hand down Harry’s abdomen until it finally wraps around his cock.

Shit. Harry never thought he could come from a single touch, but today, he just might.

“Alright,” Malfoy breathes in his ear, “let me,” and begins to stroke.

*

Harry wakes up in much the same way the next morning. Thirsty, fatigued, and like his head is entirely made of wool, but there’s no panic now. His mind registers safety well before his body registers being enfolded in Malfoy’s arms.

Languid fingers drift down his arm. “Awake?” Malfoy’s sleep-roughed voice sends a bolt of heat to Harry's groin, and he tries to hide its effect by burying his face in Malfoy’s warm chest.

“No,” he mumbles. He’d rather stay here forever, wrapped in soft sheets and the sweet scent of Malfoy’s skin.

“Ah, ah. No one likes a layabout, Potter.” There’s much jostling as Malfoy begins the process of extricating himself from Harry.

“M’not,” Harry argues. “M’sick.”

“Same difference. Now, up.”

Harry allows Malfoy to manhandle him and force-feed him an endless buffet of potions. It’s not like he can do much else with noodles for arms. But when Malfoy moves to leave and get breakfast, Harry pulls from his shallow puddle of energy with all his might and catches his wrist.

“Let’s have it by the lake,” he says, breathless from the exertion. He waits for Malfoy to shake him off, to roll his eyes and tell him it’s not good for him when he can barely walk, but in the end, Malfoy does none of these things.

He sighs and says, lips twitching upward, “Alright, if you wish.”

*

It rains on their picnic because of course it does.

But huddled against the willow tree, dry and untouched by the furious deluge, Harry can’t bring himself to care.

“You know what would be nice?”

Malfoy doesn’t look up from his task of flicking invisible grass stains off his trousers. “For it to stop fucking raining?”

If Malfoy really wanted to, he could just cast a water-repelling charm and be done with it. Take them both back home with their soggy sandwiches and wet salads.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Malfoy sidles up to him until they’re sitting upon the same tree root and allows Harry to wrap his patchwork quilt around both their shoulders.

“I think,” Harry says, laying his weight against Malfoy’s side, “it would be nice if there were a swing there.”

Malfoy snorts. “Again, are you twelve?”

“Swings were the last thing I was thinking of when I was twelve.”

There is silence, which Harry expected. And then there’s Malfoy’s hand seeking his under the quilt. Less expected.

“You want to know what I was thinking of back then?” Malfoy asks quietly. “When I was twelve?”

“What?”

“You.”

Harry chokes. “W-What?”

“All I could think of—” Malfoy slants him a wry smile. “—was how much I wanted to beat your annoying, swaggering arse at Quidditch.”

“My swaggering arse?” Harry laughs and shoves at him. “Are we talking about the right arse here? Or have you got yours and mine confused?”

Malfoy keeps Harry’s palm on his chest, his voice dipping into a husky timbre. “I doubt I could ever confuse your arse, Potter.”

Harry’s groin tightens despite himself. “We should play sometime. Quidditch,” he clarifies, throat bobbing. Malfoy’s eyes track the movement like a wolf poised to leap. His fingers follow, tracing the column of Harry’s throat until he has him by the nape.

“If you wish,” Malfoy murmurs before he pulls him in for a deep kiss.

*

When Hermione and Ron visit, they sit on the new white garden chairs while the children play next to the swing. Malfoy is there, too, three wooden sailboats tucked under each arm while he expounds on the rules of the impending boat race with the intensity of an admiral.

Naturally, this goes over about as well as can be expected. Rose is far more interested in her book, Hugo has already kicked off his shoes and is halfway to the lake, and the littlest one, Freddie, is busy trying to steal one of the boats right under Malfoy’s nose.

“I can handle three Weasleys, Potter,” he told Harry earlier. “Go sit with your friends and relive your glory days or whatever it is you do together.”

So Harry remains in his chair instead of helping, commiting the sight of Malfoy wading into the water in a panic after Hugo to memory.

“You’re happy.”

Harry tears his eyes from the scene to meet Hermione’s smiling face.

“What?” she laughs. “Don’t look so tragic, Harry. You’re allowed to be happy with your fiancé.” She puts her palm on his hand. “I’m glad. Frankly, I was worried at first.”

“Understatement of the century,” mutters Ron.

“Oh, like you were any better.”

“Well, it’s Malfoy.” Ron shrugs. “And the whole curse situation, right? Not what I would have wanted for you, mate. But—” He smirks, eyes wandering to a point over Harry’s shoulder. “—it seems to be working out fine, yeah?”

A spotlight on Harry’s face in a public forum is likely to make him feel less exposed than the way his two best mates ogle him from behind their tea cups.

“I—” A familiar scream (Malfoy’s) rents the air, and Harry has never been more thankful for it. “I’ve got to help him.”

Harry pretends he doesn’t see the knowing look on Hermione’s face as he sprints towards the lake. His heart is racing too fast, but he knows it has little to do with his still-weak body.

You’re allowed to be happy with your fiancé.

That’s true.

But Malfoy’s not really his fiancé, is he?

At least not in truth.

*

You’re happy.

Happy.

The words remain a constant refrain in the weeks that follow.

When he argues with Malfoy over recipes in the kitchen or when they stay by the lake, Malfoy with his book in his hands and Harry’s head on his lap. When they finally fly and the mere sound of Malfoy’s carefree laugh makes his breath hitch and his heart stop.

Happy? Is that what this is? Harry wonders late one night while he watches Malfoy sleep next to him. It seems to be such a small word for the fullness in his chest when Harry sees him or the thrumming in his veins when Malfoy touches him. The deep contentment that stems from simply being near him.

Happy?

Harry can’t help but ask Malfoy the same question that’s been plaguing him the next morning.

“What?” Malfoy pauses from the grave task of stirring his sauce to stare at Harry as if he’s just spit in his pot.

“I asked—” Harry’s eyes fall to his slippered feet where they dangle off the kitchen counter. “—if you were happy. Here, I mean.” Stuck with me. “You must be itching to travel, is all.”

That was one thing they had in common before the engagement. One of the reasons why they’d worked for so long.

A hand on his knee prompts Harry to look up. “One month of rest is hardly going to kill me,” Malfoy says lightly, “and there’s plenty of time for us to travel once you’re well.”

Us. It’s not quite “Yes, Potter. I’m bursting with joy,” but it makes Harry’s stomach flutter all the same.

He feels himself grin like an idiot, but is unable to stop it. “And where would you like to go first?”

“Greece, I think,” Malfoy says after a thoughtful moment. “Gutwig’s been on me about interviewing some Quidditch wunderkind based in Crete, but after—” Malfoy’s lips curve into a slow smile. “—I think I can spare a few days.”

“I know a place in Naxos,” Harry says immediately, and Malfoy’s eyes light up like stars.

“I love Naxos.” Malfoy’s smile falls. His forehead creases. “Wait, but what about your job? I expect they’ll want you back s—”

“It’s fine,” Harry says quickly. “I can find a case close by.” And if he doesn’t, it’s not like he can’t Portkey once he’s done with the job. He wants to hit himself for not thinking of this sooner.

How much time have they wasted running circles around each other?

Malfoy hasn’t even realised yet how closely he’s wandered into Harry’s space, but Harry has, and he uses the opportunity to hook Malfoy with his legs and pull him close.

Malfoy inhales sharply as their hips are pressed flush, eyes dilating. “My sauce, Potter.”

With one hand, Harry tips Malfoy’s chin close for a kiss while the other reaches blindly for his wand on the counter and spells the stove off. He can feel the muffled words of disapproval in Malfoy’s tongue—he somehow thinks even the smallest magic will knock Harry back to death’s door—but Harry’s too impatient for anything else. He turns the wand on his clothes and—

“Wait.” Malfoy grabs his wrist. His lips are red and shiny from the kiss, cheeks endearingly flushed. “Let me.”

Harry drops the wand and leans back with his palms on the counter.

“What do you want?” Malfoy asks as he runs his hands down Harry’s chest. Inside his t-shirt.

“You.” He gasps as Malfoy grazes his nipples. “In me.”

“Shameless, aren’t you?” Graceful fingers slide down and skim teasingly at the waistband of Harry’s pyjama bottoms. “But if you wish.”

Malfoy fucks him like Harry asks. Hard and fast in his pretty kitchen while the wide-open windows bare their grunting, sweat-slicked forms to a greater world that’s bursting with vivid colour.

When Harry recalls their first summer, he’ll think of this.

The sticky-sweet of gardenia, sweet pea, and iris mingling with the scent of sex. Guttural groans pressed into his bruised, well-bitten neck while birdsong trills in his ears. Their wet, slapping flesh above all. The sun, casting the scene in shades of sepia and scorching his skin as he comes all over Malfoy’s scars.

Time has eroded the harsh red lines into faded white the same way it’s warped their old feelings of resentment into something else, a precious thing Harry is only just now learning how to hold.

You’re happy.

So he is.

“A bed, Potter,” Malfoy pants in the afterglow. “You must be familiar with the concept.”

Harry bites and licks the salt and sweat from Malfoy’s jaw. “I think you’ll have to show me.”

“Shameless.” Malfoy laughs and in it, Harry imagines he can hear a note of echoing joy.

*

Harry takes to happiness the way a guppy takes to water.

He no longer haunts the house, leaving notes and gifts for an unseen god that occasionally acknowledges his existence. Now, when he wishes to speak with Malfoy, when he has a gift to give him, he’ll find him. No matter where he is.

Although most of the time, it is Malfoy who finds him instead.

They meet each other in different places and at varying times. But unlike the discreet encounters of before, they walk in the open, hands entwined like any couple would.

There are birthdays in Paris and birthdays in Rio. Holidays and pub crawls and game nights at the Parkinson-Longbottoms’ new townhouse. And with dazzling summer bleeding into the golden glow of fall come cosy nights by the fire in their living room and long rambles in the woods, the crunching of leaves beneath their paired boots.

There are fights, too. They are who they are regardless of circumstance. Small ones over water stains and coaster usage. Who the best Seeker in the league is and why it’s “definitely not Myles O’Donovan, Potter, do you have eyes or not?”

Then there are the big ones, the biggest of which comes at the tail end of the first snowfall of the year.

“I’m sick of this,” Malfoy declares as soon as Harry steps out of the Floo.

“Not now, please.” It’s an old argument, and all Harry wants to do at the moment is either wash the clinging scent of St. Mungo’s off himself or lie on the sofa until his ribs stop aching. With Malfoy in his way, he chooses the latter.

“When, then?” Malfoy demands, and Harry is forced to crane his neck to watch him fume. “When you’re on your deathbed from a curse you chased yourself? Or maybe when you come home packed in a little box for me to bury? When, Potter? When?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not the one here who deliberately put himself on the very brink of death!”

“It wasn’t deliberate!”

“Wasn’t it?” Harry throws back. “You didn’t marry anyone on purpose, knowing full well that you’re cursed, and yet you think you can lecture me on—”

“I didn’t do it on purpose, you idiot.” Malfoy’s eyes burn like coal. “Is it a crime to want to marry someone I love?”

Silence falls on them like a funeral shroud while Harry’s brain rearranges itself around Malfoy’s words.

Is it a crime to want to marry someone I love?

Love.

“This is not about me,” Malfoy says more calmly. “This is about you always choosing missions that put your life at risk.”

Harry closes his eyes and takes a breath. Of course Malfoy wanted to marry for love. Who wouldn’t? “There’s a risk in every mission.” Harry’s voice comes out exhausted.

“It’s not always the same risk and you know it,” Malfoy bursts out. “You’re the best agent they have. You’ve put in so much time, so much effort. You could be the head of the department if you wanted, Potter. Let alone a team coordinator or a—a trainer. What else do you have to prove?”

“I like my job,” Harry says, but even to his ears, it sounds unconvincing. His job has become a comforting habit, something he does well that helps people and takes him to places that don’t remind him of the war. It had been everything he wanted when he was twenty, but two decades later, Harry has no choice but to admit that it’s lost its lustre.

This latest mission was proof. Harry had been so distracted, so eager to be done so he could go home, that he didn’t notice the blowback from the countercurse until it was too late.

Malfoy’s shoulders slump. “I can’t be here for this. I can’t pretend to be fine while you do this to yourself.”

So Malfoy leaves without any further words exchanged. Harry doesn’t know when he’ll return, but he wonders. God, does he wonder.

Long after the snow stops pouring. Long after it settles on the dry, cracked earth. Long after it has washed everything away, leaving only a cold, luminous white.

*

It takes Harry three days of waiting in an empty house before he concedes. Many years and a different partner later, marriage, it turns out, still requires pieces of himself as sacrifice.

He offers another piece now as he sits across the table from his boss, asking him if they’re still looking for someone to train the incoming batch of Cursebreakers.

“...and I can still take cases if you—”

“It’s yours, Potter.”

Harry blinks at the man. “I’m sorry?”

“I said the job’s yours,” Ogden huffs. “Certainly took you long enough.”

Harry doesn’t ask what he means by that and accepts the readily granted promotion. His first instinct is to tell Malfoy so they can mend their issues, to maybe fill the house with light again, but in the end, Harry fights it.

Doing this has already felt too much like losing; crawling after Malfoy will only make it worse.

A week passes before Harry changes his mind. A week in which he throws himself into his new role, creating lesson plans and training regimens and meeting his group of novices for the first time. The work reminds him of the D.A. And just like the D.A., teaching new recruits turns out to be more exhilarating than expected.

Alright, a lot more than expected.

While it roots him to England more than on-site fieldwork does, the class schedule is flexible enough—there are other teachers tasked with different classes, and it's Harry’s job to oversee them—to allow for him to travel and see Malfoy if he wishes.

If Malfoy wishes to see him.

The answer arrives in typical Malfoy dramatic fashion the Eve before Christmas while Harry’s dozing off on the sofa.

“Merlin on a bike, Potter, do you see via echolocation? Why is it so bloody dark in here?”

All at once, the lights turn on, casting the messy living room and an even messier Harry in stark relief. “You’re here,” Harry breathes. Half of him is still asleep, the other half buzzing.

Malfoy’s lips turn down into a scowl. “Of course I’m here. It’s Christmas, and I got your Patronus.” He throws a swift look around. “You said there’s a ghost?”

Yes. That would be Harry.

“I lied,” Harry says, more bravely than he feels. “You were avoiding me, and that was the only way I could get you to come.”

“That’s not the only—” Malfoy takes a long breath and puts his hands on his hips. “I wasn’t avoiding you. I had a story—”

“Which you took to avoid me,” Harry fills in. “Let’s cut the bullshit.”

“Alright, have at it then.” Malfoy spreads his arms wide. “Tell me everything you need to say. Let it out. Call me a selfish bastard. Curse me as much as—”

“I got promoted.”

“—you…want.” Malfoy blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Head Trainer,” Harry says, sitting straighter.

“But why?”

The words “sacrifice” and “compromise” jump to the forefront, and maybe going into this, that had been the case. But at the moment, seeing Malfoy in their living room, close enough to touch, only makes the parts of Harry that missed him ache with wanting.

“You were right.” Harry stands and uses Malfoy’s shock at the words to slide his arms around his waist. Vanilla and peaches fill his senses, and Harry takes the first easy breath he’s had for days. “Next time you need to leave dramatically, could you just go to the next room?”

Malfoy scoffs, but he softens like wax in Harry’s arms. “If we simply go into every argument knowing I’m right anyway, then I won’t have to leave, will I? But seriously—” Malfoy pulls back, a crease forming between his brows. “—I don’t want you to give up something you love doing. What if in a year you regret this?”

Harry ignores the reminder of their expiration date and focuses on the other thing: that word again. Love. The answer has eluded Harry since his divorce, but now it finds him, decades later.

None of what he’s sacrificed is a loss when he’s gaining something he loves.

“I won’t regret it.” Harry presses his lips to the worry mark on Malfoy’s brow and watches it disappear. “I didn’t love it. Not really.”

*

The new year brings with it the sound of wedding bells—theirs—and Harry would have gladly relinquished all planning privileges to Malfoy to preserve his sanity, but apparently, that would have gone against The Custom.

As does anything that seems to have the remotest chance of making Harry’s life easier.

Elopement? That’s a no. Small, intimate wedding without the creepy druid? Highly emphatic no. Listening to the Falcons play against Puddlemere on the wireless instead of arguing the merits of green velvet tablecloths against that of ivory with Malfoy? A withering side-eye that speaks for itself.

“Is there seriously nothing that you would like to add to the wedding?” Malfoy asks him one night. They’re in bed, papers and moodboards and fabric samples laid across their laps. “Chocolate fountain?” he prompts. “A DJ to play the god-awful Muggle music you listen to? ‘Electronomica’?”

“Electronic dance music,” Harry corrects, not for the first time, “and it helps with my workouts.”

Malfoy’s eyes drop to his arms, bared by his thin white t-shirt, and a faint blush tinges his cheeks. “Mhmm.” He returns to his list. “I’ll put the DJ under ‘yes’. Electric noise, we’ll put under ‘maybe’. Anything else?”

Harry lets his head fall to the headboard. He looks at the delicate ivy print on the creamy yellow ceiling. “Lilies,” he says suddenly.

He hears the scratch of the pen on paper stop. “Lilies?”

“The ones that look like little bells.”

“You mean Lily of the valley?”

“Sure,” Harry says, despite not being sure at all. He’s sure Malfoy is right somehow, though.

Malfoy hums. “I can work that in. Lilies,” he says again. “Good idea.”

Harry gets a kiss on the cheek for participating and some quiet as Malfoy busies himself with redoing the centerpiece with lilies. Meanwhile, Harry traces their embossed names on the invites.

April 9th.

Only two months away, and yet for all their talk of the wedding, they’ve never really discussed the after. Or perhaps that’s not quite right—it had been discussed at the beginning.

There’s the how of it—marriage, sharing one home, living in every way as a real couple. The when of it—in two years’ time or until the druid declares Malfoy curse-free.

And many times throughout negotiations, Malfoy said, “You can say no.”; “Don’t be an idiot.”; and “Ignore Pansy. Blink twice if you don’t want to.”

And every time, Harry said he was certain; he knew what he was getting into. Insisted on it, in fact, like a proper idiot. But back then, Harry didn’t know he would feel the way he did—that he would look at this room, sit next to Malfoy in silence, then argue about patterns in the next breath, and not want it to end.

Harry can’t help but think if only. If only he could hold onto Malfoy, marry him and keep him in truth, but Harry worries the harder he tries, the faster he’ll slip through his fingers.

There are things, little things Malfoy says that indicate he still expects this to end, and Harry doesn’t want to burden him with his superfluous feelings.

Is it a crime to want to marry for love?

Malfoy wanted love, and he got Harry instead.

“What are you staring at? Don’t like the centerpiece?”

Harry doesn’t spare the sketch a glance. He lays his head on Malfoy’s shoulder and says, “I like it.”

Malfoy grumbles about having only one hand to work with, but he doesn’t push Harry away. There are little things like this as well that make Harry think that when the time comes, perhaps Malfoy will want to keep him, too.

But it’s not a conversation they need to have right now.

They still have time.

*

When it happens, Harry isn’t there, but the blame rests on his shoulders all the same.

It begins with an old bronze armband, sent to him for consultation, which he unthinkingly left out in the open in the workshop space Malfoy spelled himself, a late Christmas present. And Harry was out shopping—the reason for which escapes him now—but he left a note on the kitchen counter, one Malfoy didn’t see. Or maybe he did. Maybe he went looking for Harry and found the armband. Maybe he was curious and touched it, unaware that a residual curse in the ancient accessory would trigger his own.

But these are all maybes because Harry cannot ask Malfoy himself. Because from the moment Harry found him lying unconscious on the floor of his workshop, cursed armband in his fingers, he did not wake even once.

“It’s different from last time,” the Healer said. “His vitals are dropping, and he’s barely responding to any of our treatments. I’m afraid it’s the curse—it’s progressed too far now. We’re keeping him in stasis, but it’s uncertain how long it will last.”

Pansy raged, and Narcissa raged worse. They would get better Healers, better experts. The best in the world. Or what if Harry married him now? Wouldn’t that fix things?

But at every point, they are met with a dead end.

Harry could marry him now, take Malfoy’s limp hand, and hear his vows echo in a sterile hospital room, but it won’t work for the same reason they didn't simply get married a year ago. The god-forsaken Custom—it demanded that the Handfasting finish first. And besides, what use are Harry’s oaths if Malfoy cannot hear them? Cannot return them?

Harry sits on the chair outside, unable to bear the weight of their harsh stares. They don’t say it outright, but he knows it's his fault.

He’d been seeing Malfoy for so long, and what did he have to show for it? How many signs did Harry miss before he found him unconscious the first time? If only he’d been more perceptive, asked more questions. Shown an interest in Malfoy as more than just a convenient fuck.

If only he hadn’t been so blind.

If only he’d told Malfoy he loved him when he had the chance.

“You’ve got to fix this!” Pansy stands by the open doorway, eyes swollen from crying. “Potter, you’ve got to—” She chokes into a sob and crumples into Neville’s arms.

Neville gives him an apologetic look. “We’ll step out for a bit, Haz. Can you watch him?”

With Pansy gone and Narcissa elsewhere, no doubt scouring the globe and hounding her contacts for the smallest bit of hope, it leaves only him and Malfoy inside the room. It’s like walking into a scene frozen in time. So much stillness and quiet that Harry has to press his palm to Malfoy’s chest to make sure he’s breathing.

It’s that faint movement of rising and falling, proof of a life so close to fading, that makes Harry fall apart.

Tears land on Malfoy’s crisp blue hospital gown. On his knuckles as Harry presses a kiss onto it. On his forehead, his cheek, his hair. In some way trying to impart even a fragment of what he feels. He thinks of Malfoy just a few days before, uncharacteristically flustered as they fit their wedding robes. He kicked Harry out of the posh fitting room, saying, “Not until the wedding. It’s tradition,” and Harry relented, laughing and backing away from the curtains, taking the future as a foregone conclusion.

The earth spins eternally, seasons change, and Draco Malfoy will meet him at the altar on their wedding day.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says over and over again. “I love you,” he says in between, the words folded into his kisses like a note.

Harry’s face is buried in Malfoy’s shoulder, so he feels the vibration of the words before he hears them.

“Am I dead?”

Harry lifts his head, painfully slow, afraid that he’s hallucinating, that he’ll look and find Malfoy still in deathly sleep.

“I am, aren’t I? Fuck. Me.” Malfoy sighs, and it’s the most beautiful sound Harry’s ever heard. “Say it again.”

Harry’s words, his breath, his heart—all of it catch in his throat as he meets Malfoy’s grey eyes. Tired, disgruntled, and so full of life, Harry can feel the heat of them all the way to his soul. Like this, Harry cannot deny Malfoy a thing. He isn’t sure what Malfoy is asking for, so Harry tells him everything. “I’m so sorry,” he says, cradling Malfoy’s face. “I love you. God, I love you. Don’t scare me like that again.”

Malfoy, face still squished between Harry’s hands, frowns. “Definitely dead.”

“Don’t—joke—about—that.” Harry punctuates each word with a kiss while Malfoy makes sounds of protest, but doesn’t attempt to get away.

His eyes peer at Harry curiously. “Alright, maybe not dead, but dreaming, yeah? You would never say that.”

Harry thumbs his cheek. “I would, and I’ll say it again however many times you want,” he says, “I think I’ve loved you since you made me soup. Maybe before that, when I ran into you singing on top of that bar in Shanghai, and you tripped into my arms,” Harry says, smiling at the memory of their first meeting after Hogwarts.

Malfoy reddens. “First of all, I was drunk, and second, we both agreed that never happened. And third—” Malfoy brings a hand up to brush a curl of dark hair off Harry’s cheek. An array of complicated emotions flash in his eyes. “Potter, I—”

A loud shriek from the doorway startles them apart. For a moment, Harry thinks Pansy may collapse onto the floor, but instead, she staggers forward and breaks down in Malfoy’s arms. Her words come out a blubbering mess, but somehow, Malfoy understands, responding with his own comforting murmurs.

Harry feels a presence next to him. “How?” Neville asks, his face a mix of confusion and awe. “What did you do?”

In all the chaos, Harry had forgotten to wonder, but he’s certain it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps it was Malfoy’s own will. Perhaps it was a miracle—a small gift from an otherwise apathetic universe. The Healers at St. Mungo’s had no concrete answers either. Only the old druid seemed certain.

“Love.” He turns to Harry with a sly grin. “Love has settled the curse in his blood. It sleeps—for now.”

“What do you mean ‘love’?” Pansy asks at the same time Narcissa asks, “What do you mean ‘for now’?”

“It could come back?!” they screech together, to which the druid simply shrugs.

This less-than-reassuring response provokes more questions and dire threats, but Harry keeps his silence through it all. His eyes remain on Malfoy while he drowns out the noise. He knows better than anyone that love is its own kind of magic. Ever mysterious and powerful, the entire breadth of it swelling in Harry’s chest each time he looks at Malfoy until he feels he may burst with it.

Harry agrees with the others when they decide the marriage still needs to push through. He only wishes he knew more of what Malfoy was thinking. He hasn’t spared Harry a glance since Pansy and Neville walked in.

Harry worries he’s made things uncomfortable by saying what he did and tries to defer to Malfoy’s sombre mood by keeping his distance when they leave for home.

“For what it’s worth, I feel the same.”

The bags Harry was levitating onto their living room all fall with a loud thud as he whirls around to face Malfoy.

Malfoy, who stuffs his hands in his coat pockets and lifts his chin in challenge. “I mean, I know the druid’s probably spouting bullshit. But if you meant what you said when you thought I was a goner, then I—”

“I meant it,” Harry swallows. “I meant every word. I love you.”

Malfoy flushes and looks away. “Merlin, you’re embarrassing.”

That may be true, but the last thing Harry feels right now is embarrassment. The floodgates have been opened, and he only needs to recall how Malfoy looked lying on that hospital bed to know that regret comes swiftly for those who wait too long. “Don’t feel obligated to return my feelings,” Harry says, “You don’t have to say y—”

“Obligated?” Malfoy’s voice rises and he marches towards Harry with purpose. “Do you know how long I’ve—” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. “It’s hard, Potter. Near impossible, really, not to love you.” He levels Harry with a helpless smile while Harry stares, unable to speak. “I had wished, but I never thought you’d actually feel the same.”

Harry is still staring, blood rushing in his ears, his mind a refrain of disbelief and hope, as Malfoy sinks on one knee.

He looks up at Harry, eyes bright and unwavering. “Since embarrassment is on the menu, I’d like to put everything aside, the curse and dying and the custom, to ask you a question.” Draco takes his hand. “Will you marry me?” he asks, then purses his lips. His chin takes on a stubborn tilt. “For real this time. And if you say yes, just know that I won’t let you go. Not in a year’s time, or two, and likely not even when you get sick of me.”

Harry can’t drop to his knees fast enough. Heart hammering in his chest, he turns their hands over and presses his lips into it. “Draco,” Harry says softly, smiling when his grey eyes widen at the name. “I could never get sick of you.”

Draco snorts in disbelief, but that’s fine. In time, Harry will prove it to him. In fact, he begins now by pulling his fiancé in for a deep kiss that speaks more than his words ever will.

Outside, next to the thawing lake, the first bud of spring begins to bloom.

*

Eleven Years Later

The train whistles, and Draco feels the slight form next to him huddle closer in an attempt to disappear into his coat. Draco ruffles the boy’s hair, a light blond so close to his own. It’s not just the hair, however. All of Scorpius is so similar to Draco, from his eyes to the shape of his face and his physique, that it had given his husband pause earlier when Scorpius had come down to breakfast wearing his Hogwarts robes.

“Well, shit.”

“Language,” Draco admonished.

“It’s not like I haven’t heard it before,” Scorpius said with a roll of his eyes, prompting Draco to glare at Harry, who simply grinned.

“Say, Scorp, can you say, ‘My father will hear about th—’?”

Thankfully, Harry never got to finish his sentence on account of Draco’s well-aimed mandarin.

“Can’t I just go next year?” Scorpius asks, drawing Draco back to the present.

He cups his son’s cheek and sighs. He’s tempted, honestly. How can Draco look at Scorpius’ pitiful face and tell him to go away for a year? From the moment Scorpius walked into their lives at age seven, so quiet and precocious, the boy clung to him, and Draco clung harder. Perhaps it’s his fault, then, that his son is finding it so difficult to let go, but Draco cannot bring himself to regret any of the love he has given.

Scorpius is the child of his heart and his soul, if not his blood.

Draco wouldn’t have it any other way. The curse ends with him, and no longer will another Malfoy be forced to marry or die. He doubts he could live with himself if that happened to Scorpius. Not everyone could be so lucky, after all, finding the love that Draco has.

A rush of warmth spreads through Draco’s chest at the thought of his husband. Even now, he’s crouched on the ground, promising their son that of course they can go home and return next year.

Merlin, he’s even worse than Draco.

“Scorp?”

“Dad?” Scorpius steps a little bit behind Harry as if to use him as a shield.

“How about a trial run?” Draco steps forward and clasps his thin shoulder. “Give it a month, and after, we’ll have a discussion if you still want to leave.”

Scorpius’ face brightens a bit, but his voice is laced with suspicion when he asks, “You’ll really listen to me?”

Draco knows his son. He’s always been overly cautious of new environments, but Draco would bet a million Galleons that a month from now, Scorpius will have fallen in love with Hogwarts, enraptured by all his classes and everything he’s learning. Maybe he’ll have made a friend or two. Draco trusts that he’ll choose well.

“Of course,” he says fondly. “If you present well-thought-out, evidence-based arguments, then your father and I will consider it. But you’ll only have that if you go, love,” Draco reminds him.

Scorpius’ lips tighten, and he turns to the train, then back to them. “You’ll write every day.”

Not a question. “We will. As often as you like, but also consider Epicurus’ poor stamina.”

Epicurus squawks from her cage in what Draco takes as agreement.

“Alright. I’ll go.” Before Draco can respond, the breath is knocked out of his lungs as Scorpius slams into him for a tight embrace. “I’ll miss you, Dad,” he whispers, words muffled in Draco’s wool coat.

“I’ll miss you, too, my darling,” Draco says as he hugs him back.

A while later, when the Hogwarts train finally disappears from view, Draco turns to his husband. “What’s that all about?” he asks, indicating the small valise next to Harry’s foot.

He’d thought it part of Scorpius’ things at first, but between the tearful goodbyes (all five of them—Scorpius had nearly missed the train), he’s only just noticing that Harry had not loaded it onto the carriage. And Draco knows his husband well enough to know he did not forget.

“I was thinking Greece.” The creases at the corners of Harry’s green eyes deepen as his lips curve in a smile. “Naxos?”

“I love Naxos,” Draco agrees, “but what about Bali?”

Harry threads their hands together and brings it to his lips for a kiss that makes Draco’s heart race like he’s sixteen again.

“If you wish.”

End