FIC: Prodigal Son [Harry/Draco]
I wrote this for the hpslashnotsmut fic exchange. Now that the masterlist is up, I'm posting it here. Yay, and all. (Originally posted here).
Title: Prodigal Son
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 8, 653
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco, with Ron/Hermione existing, and a good smattering of Ginny
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR, not I. Also, the present/past story telling method is shamefully ripped from inspired by Julia Glass' Three Junes, which is an utterly wonderful novel that everyone should read (one of the main characters is even gay. What more can you want?).
Warnings: Character death (Bill Weasley)
Author/Artist's Notes: Thank you so much to my wonderful beta, faithfulreader. As always, I love feedback of all kinds.
Summary: How far can you let one relationship break another? War and post-Hogwarts eras.
Harry watches Ginny over a cup of tea - the kind of innocuous drink that can be sipped slowly for hours, always at hand as an easy excuse for silence as you think. She's just thirty two, but, he thinks, with purposeful unkindness, that she could pass for forty, courtesy of the worry lines that have set upon her far too young. A small price to pay for surviving the war.
She runs a finger around the edge of her empty plate, concentrating on her menu (Or pretending to, Harry thinks).
"The duck is good here," he comments. Such a bland thing to say and it feels inappropriate. But what else is he supposed to do? Ginny invited him, after all, and so Harry decides that it's her job to broach the uncomfortable subjects, if they are going to broach them at all.
"I'm a vegetarian," Ginny responds, not quite accusatory, but almost. As if somehow Harry should have known that. Well, come to think of it, Ron had mentioned it at some point: it upset Mrs. Weasley, who had spent one Easter being notably cold to Hermione, who she blamed for putting such a ridiculous Muggle notion in Ginny's head. Still, not the kind of thing Harry should be expected to remember.
"Right, sorry," he says, anyway. "Does that mean I shouldn't order meat either?"
Ginny drops her head to the side and shoots him an exasperated look. "I'm the vegetarian, not you," she says. "I don't force others to accept my beliefs." It's a pointed remark, and Harry hides his disgust behind another sip of tea. So, she still thinks of his asking her to acknowledge and accept his relationship with Draco as an affront on her morals, instead of a sad plea to his friend-come-lover-come-cold acquaintance to be his friend again. Why had she wanted to see him, then?
"I'm getting the duck," he says, letting just enough anger into his voice to let her know that he's gotten her point. It's the kind of moderated social interaction he has learned from Draco over the years: a mark of the Slytherin he has let into his personality (or, let out from where he had kept it repressed, as Draco would put it).
"I'm getting the lasagna," Ginny declares after a pause.
"Good for you." Another pause. "You know, I support you in this whole vegetarian venture of yours. I personally could never do it, but still."
Ginny's jaw drops for half a moment before she laughs. "So you don't rage and scream to get your point across anymore, I see," she says, with feigned cheerfulness (or maybe it's real? Harry finds it slightly disconcerting that he's not sure how to read Ginny, anymore).
"That wouldn't befit the savior of the Wizarding World, now would it?" Harry's laugh is definitely forced. Perhaps Ginny can fake cheerfulness convincingly, he can’t.
"No," Ginny agrees, "it wouldn't. But since when has that ever stopped you?"
***
The waiter comes, the waiter goes. They pass the time with airily idle chat about the Weasleys. Ginny knows more about Ron and Hermione's son than Harry does. That upsets him, though he knows he shouldn't be surprised. The child's named Arthur Jr: so titled after a monumental fight, during which Harry tried to get them to name the baby after Sirius, and Ron insisted that Harry should save that name for his own first son, as if such a child would ever exist. He listens attentively, with real interest, as Ginny fills him in about Jr's first flying lessons and his remarkable reading abilities. "Only four years old and already reading like a pro! He takes after his mum."
'His mum.' It seems like such an exclusionary term, forcing Harry to see the scenes Ginny describes through a telescope turned backwards, so far away that they could be about anybody's child. 'His mum' could mean anyone, not Hermione. That isn't fair. Harry tries to make it to the Weasleys whenever he can - on the Holidays, at least. Well, on Christmas, at least. But he does see Ron and Hermione at least once a month. Just because other duties (his job, his fame, his lover) keep him further away than he likes doesn't mean he isn't part of that family anymore.
Except, Harry reminds himself, I'm technically not. Unlike Hermione, he has no marriage binding him to the family he's considered his own for so long. But then, he technically never had any such bind, and it hadn't mattered in the past. He comforts himself with the thought that he still writes almost daily to Ron and Hermione, and at the very least monthly to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. That's surely more than most biological family ever does, and they still embrace him as one of their own. Ginny is just being her resentful self. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not.
The waiter brings food, interrupting one of Ginny's stories about the twins (an anecdote that Harry heard months before in a letter from Ron, but he doesn't interrupt her, because it's better than awkward silence). They eat quietly, pretending to be absorbed in their food. When the silence has stretched too long to be excused on the meager concentration needed to appreciate what was really only a second rate meal, Harry searches for a subject, coming up with: "So, how's Marshall?" Marshall is Ginny's long term boyfriend - the second or third boy she picked up after Harry, and the only one that stuck.
"Oh, we broke up." She says it lightly, and watches his reaction out of slit eyes. "About a month ago."
A month ago. That was about when she wrote to suggest they meet, alone, a few days before the Christmas Harry would be spending at the Weasleys. "Please tell me you didn't ask me out to try to win me back," Harry says bluntly.
Ginny's visibly flustered, but she shakes her head. "Who do you think I am?"
The girl who never fucking gives up on me, Harry thinks, but all he says is, "Well, I'm sorry about that. Marshall, I mean."
Ginny accepts this with a nod, and then steers the conversation to the ever safe topic of politics. They don't touch on personal issues for the rest of the night: Ginny never even mentions Draco. Again, Harry's not particularly surprised. He thinks she seems deflated, after his pre-emptive rebuff of her romantic intentions (he doesn't believe for a second that that isn't what this dinner was requested for). When they part and he promises to see her this weekend at her parents' house, she turns to him with the blazing look he remembers from their Hogwarts days.
"Maybe you shouldn't bother," she tells him. "They're getting kind of sick of you only showing up once a year, expecting to be treated like the hero."
Harry gapes at her retreating back.
***
It was Hermione's plan that brought Draco back into Harry's life. A year and a half after The Death - as Harry had come to think of the day Dumbledore died, using it as a marker for the changing point in his life - they had found and destroyed all but one of the Horcruxes. Nagini was the thorn in their attempts to defeat Voldemort. When Ron suggested that they just kill her when they went to fight You-Know-Who, Hermione laughed (the bitter laugh of someone with too many burdens), and explained that surely the first thing Voldemort would do during such a battle is put his one remaining Horcrux someplace safe. No, what they needed was someone who could infiltrate Voldemort's ranks. Besides, she explained (and McGonagall, who had stepped in as Dumbledore's replacement at the Order when plans to re-open Hogwarts fell apart, backed her up on this), they needed a spy to figure out where they could find Voldemort, when it came down to that final battle. Basically, they needed a double agent.
Harry was quick to point out that their only double agent had turned out to be playing them, and while Hermione's suggestion was well and good, that rather put a dent in the plan. That's when Draco came up.
"He's just been wasting away in jail since the Ministry caught him," she explained. "So why don't we use him?"
"How about because he let a bunch of Death Eaters into the sodding school," Ron replied, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Hermione, are you crazy?"
"Of course not, Ron," she replied primly (but with the indulgent smile she saved only for him). "We wouldn't actually use Draco." As if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's such a thing as Polyjuice, you know."
So, after a bit of wrangling with the Ministry, Order members were allowed to see Draco for questioning. They had to find out how he acted around fellow Death Eaters, McGonagall explained. His mannerisms. And they'd need to know how he would be received when returning to the fold, for the protection of whichever brave soul was going to impersonate him (Kingsley Shacklebolt had volunteered, and it more or less seemed a general consensus that he was a good choice).
There was a problem: Draco wouldn't talk. Absolutely refused. McGonagall and Kingsley took shifts, each throwing question after question to him for hours on end, for over a week. Reportedly all he would do was stare at the wall and reply with a snappish "Why in the world would I help you?" When they offered bribes he didn't believe them, he turned a cold shoulder to any attempt at kindness. When the situation was starting to look desperate, and the Order considered either giving up on the idea or sending Kingsley in blind (almost guaranteed suicide), Harry finally proposed that he try talking to Draco. He had been considering it since Hermione first proposed her plan, and he thought it looked like time he tried to do something proactive. After all, with all the other Horocruxes destroyed, there wasn't much else for him to do, anyway. He wasn't allowed to fight (too risky, the adult Order members insisted, which, when he reflected on it in the future, Harry decided was probably true), and he hated sitting around while there was a war raging.
And so Harry found himself locked in a room with the boy who he had once considered his enemy. It was strange to think that a few years earlier he would have been thrilled to see the state Draco was reduced to: hair grown long and tangled, dirt deeply embedded into the torn robes encasing the frail body that crouched on the floor. Now he found that Draco's situation only filled him with a sense of dulled sadness. He had seen the fear on Draco's face that night on the Tower, seen his tears in Myrtle's bathroom. What was this pale figure but another causality of the war?
Despite the decrepitness of the rest of his appearance, Draco's eyes were as sharp as ever, and they narrowed at Harry when he entered Draco's cell.
"And now they send you," Draco said spitefully. "Has your silly little Order made you their errand boy? 'Oh, we're tired of dealing with the petulant Death Eater, send Harry.' And you go like a pathetic House Elf."
Harry lingered at the opposite end of the cell as Draco, which still only put a meter, at most, between them. He stood with his back resting against the bars and looked down at the prisoner. "For your information, I asked to see you."
Draco's expression changed, though to what Harry couldn't really tell. Confusion, or anger? "What, you couldn't resist the chance to come and laugh? And you Gryffindors pretend to be so righteous."
Harry resisted the temptation to yell at Draco, or hit him, for his obstinacy. "I came to ask you to help us," he said, evenly.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You don't change, do you?" he asked. "What makes you think I'd be willing to help when you ask me instead of them?"
Harry stopped. It was a good question. If anything Draco would be more adverse to his requests than anyone else's. But, Harry told himself, I'm the one who saw him lower his wand.
"Because I know what you want," Harry said, his mind, after flicking around desperately, landing on a direction to take this conversation.
Draco laughed dryly. "Oh, do you? I'm impressed. What, did you steal my diary? That's not very nice."
Harry ignored the sarcasm. "We need you to help us fight Voldemort," he stated, tone matter of fact and gaze even. He ignored Draco's predictable flinch at the name.
"Really? And here I was thinking you needed to hear my life story so you could write a best selling biography."
"If we defeat Voldemort, your family is safe."
Draco had no reply to that. Instead he met Harry's gaze with an expression that clearly read confusion, now. He almost gaped (though, as Harry was later informed, a Malfoy would never do anything as undignified as gaping). He ran a spindly hand over his lank hair and drew in a heavy breath. "That's some nice guesswork, Potter," he finally managed, though the scorn fell short.
On instinct, Harry slid down to the floor, eye level with Draco. "It's not guessing," he said earnestly. He needed Draco to trust him, and this had to be the best way to do it. "I was there, that night on the Astronomy Tower. I heard what you said to Dumbledore, what he said to you. I saw you lower your wand. You don't believe in Voldemort's cause, so why not help ours?"
Draco sunk his face into his knees. Harry couldn't see his expression, but when Draco finally raised his face again - at least a minute later, Harry thought it was probably more - it was set without emotion. "Fine," he said. "I'll talk to you. But only you, understood?"
***
Draco eats with a disarming elegance, handling his fork and knife lightly, fluidly. Harry always feels in some way inadequate next to him at the dinner table, aware of how much he saws with his knife instead of cuts, the way he jabs with his fork and clanks his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. Tonight Draco's eating a homemade meal: simple, but probably very good. Because Harry laughed contemptuously at the idea of having a House Elf in their apartment, Draco took up cooking himself, insisting that one way or another he was going to eat in the manner to which he was accustomed. In a few years he had developed considerable skill, and Harry's never disappointed to come home to one of his meals. He passes on this meal, though, still full from dinner with Ginny. Instead of eating he sits silently across from Draco. Like the rest of the room (and the rest of the apartment), the kitchen table is the pleasant result of melding Harry and Draco's tastes: small enough to be intimate, but polished oak, with carved feet.
"So, what did the lovely little red-head want?" Draco asks casually, clearly more interested - concerned? - than he wants to let on.
Harry shrugs. "She broke off with her boyfriend, but claimed that's not what it was about."
Draco laughs. "Of course it wasn't. She just wanted a nice chat to catch up after throwing you out of her life ten years ago for fucking me. That makes sense." His fork is tapping irritably against the edge of his plate, sharp pings highlighting his words.
"Exactly," Harry agrees, but he keeps his eyes on the racing fork instead of Draco's face. Ginny's parting shot is still echoing around in the back of his mind, and although he knows it was an irrational comment born of spite and disappointment he wonders if maybe it isn't a little true as well. Hadn't he been worrying that he was becoming distant from the Weasleys? With his work (as an Auror and even more as a public figure) taking up part of his life and Draco the rest, how much distance could letters and the occasional visit make up for?
Draco doesn't look happy at Harry's reticence. He rubs Harry's calf with his foot, smirking in what Harry knows he thinks is a coy manner, though (like always), he looks more foolish than anything. Harry has never, of course, expressed that particular sentiment, and he isn't about to start now.
"I'm fine," he says to Draco's unasked question. "It's just something she said."
Draco's mouth dissolves into a frown. He, Harry notes, has lines creasing his face, just like Ginny. No, not just like Ginny: Draco is starting to look distinguished, not haggard. Still, he's losing his youth, and Harry wonders how he hasn't noticed before.
"She's not worth listening to," Draco says.
Harry nods. "Of course not."
***
They lay naked in bed; Draco's head nestles against Harry's shoulder, breath coming in warm gusts across his chest. Harry strokes Draco's back and watches the play of shadows across their ceiling, the flicker of tree branches waving before the streetlamps outside. He normally finds it easy to get lost in the shifting patterns: it's his way of forgetting troubles before drifting to sleep. But tonight he can't focus. He sighs, not for the first time.
Draco lifts his head, eyes tired but still open. He kisses Harry's cheek, a light brush of lips against skin. "Just forget it, already," he murmurs. "She's an idiot and a bitch, and she was just trying to make you feel bad."
"I think she might be right," Harry says, still looking at the ceiling. "When was the last time I actually saw the Weasleys?"
Draco rolls his eyes and sits up a little, untangling himself from Harry's arms. "You see Ron and Hermione every month, if not more," he replies snappishly. "That's pretty damn good for school buddies. I don't see Crabbe or Goyle nearly that often. I'm lucky to see Pansy and Blaise once a year."
"Pansy and Blaise live in France, Draco," Harry replies, sitting up as well. "And besides, I'm not just talking about them. What about the rest of the Weasleys?"
"What about them? If I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Weasley is the one who refused to see you for almost a year when she found out about us. I'm surprised you go back at all." Draco's voice is controlled and tight: sure signs of anger. Harry smiles weakly and runs a finger over his lover's lower lip, feels the way it trembles slightly under his touch. He wants to look into Draco's eyes, but it's almost too dark to see.
"You're right. Of course you are. Let's just go to sleep." But while Draco slides back between the silk sheets that took Harry so long to get used to, Harry remains sitting. He watches Draco slip quickly into sleep, eyelids trembling, lips parted and breaths coming slow and deep. He brushes a strand of hair - ghostly in the darkness - off Draco's face. I'm happy, Harry thinks. I love him.
But he still feels like a weight has been shoved unbidden into his chest, and Ginny's voice seems to echo out of the walls around him. Don't bother. Don't bother. Don't bother.
***
Harry quickly found himself meeting with Draco every day, if only for short periods. McGonagall or Kingsley were constantly thinking of new questions for him to ask - was there a specified order the Death Eaters took in their circle around Voldemort? What did Draco call each and every one of his fellow Death Eaters? Was there a pet name his mother called him? How much did the Dark Mark hurt a few minutes after being summoned? A few hours? They wanted to leave nothing to chance, and Draco answered all of the questions, though not without reluctance and touches of sarcasm.
"This is ridiculous," Draco said on the fifth day. "I don't even know what my favorite fruit is!" Harry only stared until he gave in and answered the question.
Once Ron asked how they knew Draco was telling the truth, and why didn't they just use Veritaserum? After all, wouldn't that make more sense than trying to play buddy-buddy with the little git? Hermione patiently explained that they might need Draco's input in the future, and too much drugging could leave him incoherent or deranged. "Oh," said Ron, looking deflated.
But Ron's question left Harry wondering, and the next day he asked Draco, "So, how do I know you aren’t lying to me?"
Draco looked up from his crouched position on the floor. His face was smeared with dirt, making him look even more desolate than usual. Harry felt a pang of sorrow and a twist of guilt for even asking the question. It seemed cruel, in the face of Draco's isolation, to rub in that the one person he was willing to talk to didn't even trust him.
That guilt quickly disappeared when Draco shrugged and replied, "You don't."
Harry bit the inside of his lip to avoid yelling. That someone in Draco's situation could remain insolent was utterly unfathomable to Harry. (Part of him did admire Draco's dedication, though he had a hard time admitting it.)
"I guess we just have to trust you, then." It came out less sarcastic than Harry intended, more resigned.
"I guess so."
***
That same day, only a few hours after Harry had his conversation (interrogation?) with Draco, the news came. Bill Weasley had died in a random Death Eater attack.
It hit the Weasley family like a brick, sinking them all to the edge of despair. In the days and weeks that followed Mrs. Weasley would disappear from dinner tables and casual conversation, reemerging minutes or hours later from her room, eyes red and cheeks flushed. The twins were seen sulking around The Burrow more often than they were at their store, and Ron often choked up in the middle of conversations, to be gently taken away for a long walk by Hermione, who would shoot Harry an apologetic look as his two best friends disappeared to whatever place Ron found comfort in.
Harry struggled to find his place in this new pattern of life. As soon as it was clear that while Ron appreciated his sympathy he didn't need it, Harry immediately turned to comfort Ginny. Although they were still trying to keep up the charade of having no feelings for each other (with only a few stolen kisses to break the disguise), he thought that such a tragedy was enough reason to put that aside. After all, his comfort could still take the guise of brotherly affection.
But to his surprise Ginny found companionship in someone else: Fleur. "Look," she explained, after Harry's third attempt to get her to talk about how she felt. They stood in the otherwise empty kitchen, scrubbing dishes. She put down her sponge and placed a soapy hand on his cheek. "I appreciate that you care, I really do. But I need to talk with someone who knows how much I miss him." She kissed his cheek, where her hand left a tuff of bubbles, and then left before Harry could protest that he did know.
Even at the time he knew it would have been a lie, anyway. He was sad that Bill died, of course. But it was a hollow kind of sadness that floated across his consciousness without penetrating to his heart. While the rest of the Weasley family felt like brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, Bill had always been more like a cousin: Harry loved him, of course, but not like Ginny did, like Fleur did. And after the deaths of Sirius and Dumbledore, Bill's death just didn't register. Harry wished it would.
He found himself drifting like a fallen branch through the river of his friends' sorrow, with nothing to anchor him. He took over much of the housework for Mrs. Weasley, dusting and straightening and cooking the meals that weren't delivered by other Order members. It was in those weeks that Harry truly came to think of the Burrow as his home, not just the home of his adopted family. He found its hidden corners, learned where the pots and brooms were stored, where in the cellar to find potions and canned fruit alike.
But even the duties of keeping a house running weren't enough to keep him occupied. If nothing else, Mrs. Weasley would often revive herself and, in a bustling burst of energy, take over for hours at a time, insisting that Harry was not responsible for any of this, and why didn't he go relax and try to enjoy himself? As if that were possible.
He tried dropping by Grimmauld Place, but while everyone was perfectly nice to him it was clear he was not needed. He was essential as the finder and destroyer of Horcruxes, as the fighter of the Dark Lord, as the Boy-Who-Lived. But what use was he at strategy meetings? What did he know about military tactics?
He turned to the one task where he was needed: Draco. He bothered McGonagall and Kingsley everyday, sometimes twice a day, to come up with more questions for him to ask. He made up questions of his own. He would sometimes stay and watch Draco in silence, seconds elapsing into minutes while he tried to think of something else to ask or say, something else to give him an excuse to stay away from the uselessness he felt amidst the heavy atmosphere at the Burrow.
One day, after Harry had lingered, silent, for almost ten minutes, Draco asked, "Is there something else you want, Potter, or am I just that pretty?"
Harry's eyes slid into focus as if he had been jolted from a dream, and his mind grappled with the question, only half heard. He managed to stammer out, "You only wish you were," as a response.
"That didn't sound very convincing."
"Don't worry, I'm very sure of my opinion on that matter," Harry said, regaining his footing in the banter. To his surprise, Draco cracked a smile. It was brief, barely recognizable as a smile, really, but it seemed genuine. "Um…shouldn't you be mad?" Harry asked blankly when Draco didn’t say anything else.
"It's nice to see you show a sense of humor, Potter." It sounded as genuine as the smile had looked, almost friendly. Very disarming.
"Um…" he said. And then, "Er…"
"Oh," Draco said, feigning disappointment, "and here I thought you were finally displaying a bit of brains. My mistake."
"Why are you such an ass, Malfoy?" Harry asked after a pause.
"It keeps me entertained. It's not like there's anything else for me to do around here." Harry thought he heard pain behind the mask of bravado.
The next day he brought a newspaper with him when he visited. Draco accepted the gift with surprised pleasure that he couldn't hide behind his sarcastic thanks. That was the moment Harry remembers as the first major shift in their relationship: from that day on he would bring the paper along with a question or two, and Draco would accept it eagerly. They would discuss the day's news. The Quidditch tournaments and celebrity gossip, anything but the war. Harry found Draco's irreverence a welcome contrast to the blanket of seriousness that threatened to suffocate the rest of his life. He could only assume that Draco appreciated any presence that wasn't the scuttle of rats.
That was how they stumbled upon a kind of tentative friendship, supported by buttresses that threatened to fall at the first sign of distrust, but that strengthened, little by little, each time they saw each other. Soon Harry was spending several hours a day in Draco's cell. It was on the one month anniversary of Bills death, to the day, that he realized with shock that those meetings were the only thing he looked forward to.
***
Maybe, Harry thinks as he approaches the Burrow, this wasn't such a good idea. Draco is lagging behind, squinting at the house as if it were a strange and slightly frightening creature. He's walking as proudly as ever, but with a lingering stroll instead of his usual confident stride. Harry is still surprised that he managed to convince Draco to abandon his mother and come to the Weasley Christmas dinner instead. "She's not happy about this," Draco had told him. "Not because I'm failing to see her. Merlin knows I do that enough, she's probably sick of me," (a sentiment he voices often, though they both know it's not - and never will be - true.) "She hates that I'm going to be mixing with those 'blood traitors.'" Even though Draco claims to have abandoned such sentiments himself, Harry suspects that revulsion is too deeply engrained in his lover to be entirely removed. But he's willing to make an effort, and that's what counts.
But, Harry considers for the first time since the idea of bringing Draco along popped into his head the day before, I should have owled ahead about the change. That is one of those etiquette type things that Draco normally takes care of, though of course Draco wouldn't have thought of owling the Weasleys in Harry's name. Too late now.
Mrs. Weasley's face breaks into a broad smile when she sees Harry. She envelopes him in the same gut squeezing hug she always greets him with, almost knocking the breath out of him, and actually knocking the suitcase out of his hand. She hasn't noticed Draco yet.
"Hey Mrs. Weasley," Harry gasps from amongst her arms. "Is it ok that I brought Draco along?" Might as well break it to her before she notices herself. He feels her arms stiffen around him, no longer warm. She lets go and draws herself back to observe Draco, who, Harry sees when he turns, is still lingering a few meters from the doorstep.
"Oh," she says, smile gone. "Yes, I suppose so. Come inside, then. Both of you."
Harry doesn't think he's ever seen Draco look so reluctant to do something as innocent as walk through a door. He does follow, though. Harry breaths a small sigh of relief. Draco's in the house. Stage one complete.
Ron and Hermione are sitting around the kitchen table, and they rise when Harry enters. Hermione's face is flushed as she smiles. Harry thinks she's positively radiant; possibly the best she's looked since the beginning of her pregnancy with Arthur Jr. But her shinning eyes are offset by the twisted, gaping expression on Ron's face. Harry knows instantly that he's spotted Draco, and in a matter of seconds Hermione's smile also contorts into a confused grimace. Instead of running to hug him, as they normally do, the couple stays put, legs brushing against their chairs. They shift awkwardly in the silence left where their welcome should be.
"Hey guys," Harry offers, trying for bright nonchalance.
"Um, hello," Hermione responds after a slight pause. Her cheerfulness is affected. "We, uh, didn't know you'd be bringing…Draco." In the pause before she says Draco's name she looks momentarily lost. Harry wonders what she considered saying instead. 'Your lover'? 'Boyfriend'? 'Death Eater boy toy'? No, Hermione would never be that cruel. She's not Ginny.
"Yeah, well, last minute change," Harry excuses with a shrug. "Sorry for not telling anyone in advance. But we can share a room and all so…" he shrugs again. Ron's eyes widen and frown deepens.
"Well," Mrs. Weasley says, eyes darting from face to face. "How about I show Mr. Malfoy to his room?"
"Oh, call me Draco, please," Draco says, smoothly taking Harry's suitcase from his hand. "Lead the way." He sounds completely comfortable, though Harry knows it's an act. It's taken him a while to see any advantages to the kind of upbringing Draco had, but ease in uncomfortable social situations is definitely one of them. Mrs. Weasley, looking slightly appeased by Draco's manner, disappears up the stairs, the blond in tow.
As soon as their footsteps can no longer be heard echoing down after them, Ron turns to Harry.
"Are - are - are - you crazy?" He stutters out.
"Not last time I checked, no," Harry says, defensive. Ron snaps his mouth shut, looking as shocked as if Harry had hit him.
Hermione, of course, has already recovered from her surprise. She moves towards Harry, stopping halfway across the room. Placing herself literally in the spot she's obviously about to take metaphorically: the middle.
"Harry," she says sternly. "You should have warned us. You know we support you," (a furious glare at Ron, who pouts back, absurdly childlike), "we really do. But…well, it's just…" she struggles again for a second.
"Easier to accept Draco when he's only a vague theory instead of a real, flesh and blood presence?"
She looks crestfallen, the expression of someone whose thoughts have been spread before them in a crueler light then they wanted. "Well, I wouldn't say it like that. No really Harry, I wouldn't!" She looks to Ron for support. The most he can muster is a gruff nod, accompanied by a suspicious glance at the stairs. "It's…well, I guess we don't get whatever it is you see in him. It's so hard when he just looks like the grown version of the bully we always knew." She stops there, sighs. She looks sad for a moment, and then approaches Harry, close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder, which she does, giving it a small squeeze. Harry reflects that that seems like a very adult gesture: not something the Hermione he remembers from Hogwarts, with her cold logic balanced by fierce passion, would do. But then, they are adults, now. "I know that's not fair," she finishes.
Part of Harry wants to snap that damn right, it's not fair. But instead he just says softly, "No. I haven't given you a chance to get to know what he's like, now. That's not your fault."
Hermione pulls him into a hug. A tight embrace like the ones she used to pull him into after they survived another Horcrux hunt. "We'll try to learn," she says. "We will. I promise." Harry looks across the room to meet Ron's eyes. His best friend shrugs, and then smiles a little, as if to say, 'Well, if she says so…'
***
Kingsley's mission was a success. More than a success. It was a carefully orchestrated project: the Prophet, thanks to the Order's inside contact, released a story claiming that, due to an error on the guard's part, Draco Malfoy had escaped. Harry was there when, only a few hours later, Draco's arm flared in pain. He watched his new friend's (how strange that word felt, when applied to Draco Malfoy) face contort in pain, and then watched as Kingsley's face did the same as he undertook the polyjuice transformation. He sat around the kitchen table at Grimmauld place with other Order members, gravely waiting for Kingsley's return, half afraid it would never come.
But come back he did, not only with news of Voldemort's whereabouts, but, to everyone's surprise, with a dead Nagini in hand. "She was definitely a Horcrux!" he exclaimed joyfully, still in the form of Draco. His face was glowing and for a second Harry though that he looked handsome. Beautiful, even, in a stark way. But what kind of thought was that? Just relief, he decided, and pushed it aside. "You should have seen how much pain he was in, when I killed her. He knows I betrayed him, of course. Well - that Malfoy did. But he was weak, definitely weak. I don't think he'll be able to travel far in the next few hours. If we hurry, if we hurry," (and here his eyes shown with a terrified glee), "we could end this thing tonight."
The words Harry had waited years to hear, but when they came, he didn't feel the excitement he had anticipated. End…tonight. It wasn't something he could process. To be thrown into the final fight so abruptly. It wasn't what he had expected. It seemed rude, wrong. Unfair, definitely. But when had he ever had time to prepare to fight Voldemort? What could another day, another week, another month, give him? He nodded in numb acquiescence. "Lets get ready," he heard himself say.
Getting ready meant a fluster of owls sent to all fighting Order members. It meant stolen, determined glances at Ron and Hermione. It meant hugging Mrs. Weasley again and again. It meant listening to Ginny row with her mother over not being allowed to go, their voices echoing down the halls, Ginny's screeches and Mrs. Weasley's plaintive sobs on display for all to hear. It meant chaos as members began Apparating left and right. Amongst it all, Harry slipped out the front door and Disapparated.
***
"You'd better wish me luck," he told the figure sleeping on the cell floor. Draco groaned in protest and rolled to face Harry, half cracking his eyes.
"I'd better what?"
"Wish me luck," Harry said. He walked across the cell and sat, close enough that his knees almost brushed Draco's body. It was the closest he'd ever gotten to the other boy since he first started visiting the prison. "Because you are now firmly on Voldemort's bad side."
Draco scrambled to sitting, eyes meeting Harry's. "It worked then?" he asked, almost eager. Harry nodded. "Why do I need to wish you luck?"
"Why do you think?"
The silence was heavy. Draco opened his mouth, closed it. Again. He raised a hand and then dropped it, looking too weary to finish the gesture. His eyes darted about the cell as if someone was going to pop out and yell, 'Surprise! This is a joke!' Finally, he said softly, "You might die."
It was such a ludicrously true statement. So obvious, yet no one else had voiced it. Implied it with long hugs and worried looks and hushed tones, yes, but no one had said it so plainly. You might die.
I might die.
Harry just laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Draco began to look worried. He reached a hand out and grabbed Harry's arm. Shook it with enough force to hurt. "Are you insane?"
Harry shook his head as he regained his composure. He wiped a few tears (of mirth or fear or sorrow? It was hard to know if there was even a difference anymore) off the tip of his nose. Draco just stared at him like he might explode any second.
"I'm fine," Harry assured him. "I'm fantastic." Then he laughed again, because that was so ridiculously untrue. "I'm…" he left it at that.
Draco's hand was still hovering near Harry's arm, and now it traveled to his cheek, where it drifted like a frightened butterfly before landing, coarse and light. "Good luck," he said. Plain, almost without emotion. Impossible to tell what he really meant by it. Harry put his hand on top of Draco's, keeping it in place before the other boy could move it. He caught Draco's eyes and kept it, ignoring the puzzled expression playing across the pale and hollowed features before him.
"Thank you," he said, intently. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Draco whispered. "I mean it."
***
It isn't unusual for Draco to wake hours before Harry, so Harry doesn't worry when he awakes alone in Percy's old room. He dresses casually - jeans and an old t-shirt - and heads down the stairs, happily following the smell of bacon. He expects to eat a quick breakfast and then go out to find Draco, who is undoubtedly wandering around the yard, mentally critiquing as he kicks yard gnomes. He begins to worry when the sound of raised voices floats up the stairs to greet him. One is clearly Draco's.
Not a fight!
Harry rushes down the rest of the flight, socked feet slipping dangerously as he patters as quickly as possible. He can imagine the scene waiting to greet him: all of his hopeful plans blown apart by the light of Ron (or Fred, or Ginny, or…) and Draco's wands. He bursts into the kitchen, breathing erratically and waving a panicked hand in front of his face, half afraid to look.
Draco is seated, waving a fork elegantly at Fred, who watches him with eyebrows raised. George is frying bacon at the stove, casually prodding the fire with his wand. All three turn to Harry in what could be choreographed unison. He freezes, eyes darting from man to man, trying to grasp a way to reconcile this scene with the voices he had heard.
"Um," he says.
George is the first to move. He turns back to the stove and flips a few pieces of bacon onto an empty plate.
"Have some food, Harry," he says, levitating the plate to the empty seat besides Draco with an amused grin. "Mum will kill me if you're 'underfed'"
"Yeah, and we need to talk to you, mate," Fred breaks in, mock serious, eyes flashing mischievously above a quivering frown. "We always thought you'd made an odd choice," (an only half-apologetic nod at Draco), "but we hadn't realized he was a lunatic."
Draco lowers the hand still grasping his fork, and rolls his eyes. "More like these two wouldn't know a good Quidditch team if it hit them in the face with a bludger."
"Um," Harry says. And then, "Oh."
***
In fact, after the first surprise meeting, the Weasleys adjust to the new presence well. It helps that Draco is on his best manners: all smiles and soft tones. At one point, Harry walks in on him helping Mrs. Weasley set the details of their Christmas dinner ("No really, orange peals in the cranberries are delicious, I promise"). Later he plays a casual game of chess with Ron, accepting his loss with surprising humility.
But the key, Harry thinks, is that Arthur Jr. takes to Draco immediately. (And what child would say no to the imported chocolates Draco brings him? Especially when the blond makes an elaborate secret of the gift, as if Harry hadn't of course cleared it with Ron and Hermione first.) The toddler chases after Draco for hours, begging to be swung and tossed through the air. After seeing his namesake so happy, even Mr. Weasley warms to Draco, at least a little.
So everyone is delighted when, on Christmas Eve, the little red head runs up, widely waving an illustrated book of poems, and squeaks out "Drac-um! Drac-um! Do you want to hear the best poem?" Everyone, that is, except Ginny, who sulks in a corner instead of joining in the family crowding around Arthur Jr. Ever since Harry appeared with Draco at hand she's been avoiding him, trampling around her room or out in the garden, always the first to volunteer when a chore needs doing or, especially, an errand needs running. Harry looks at her now, beckoning for her to come, but she only shrugs, and then mimes falling asleep on her hands before slipping up the stairs and out of sight.
***
Harry hardly remembers the final battle. Only impressions and blurred recollections, making a battle of over an hour seem like only minutes. He remembers the feeling before they Apparated away, a tensing in his stomach like the calm before the storm. He remembers the darkness of the underground hide away, the shouts and flashing spells like fireflies in a park at night. The panic when Hermione fell screaming, the voices and bodies colliding in the small space.
And of course his enemy's snake face, palely illuminated in the darkness, alive with pain and rage and power. The spells thrown back and forth, the wands connecting. Voldemort's fear as his exploded with a snap like a tree falling, his disbelief as Harry shouted out the words to end it all: Avada Kedavra!
And then, relief.
***
He first kissed Draco when he returned to Draco's cell after days of recovery from the exhausting battle. Draco leaped from the floor when Harry approached: the first time Harry had seen him stand. He staggered towards Harry as if he were unsure of his legs, but beaming the way Kingsley had when he returned with Nagini. And this time Harry's thought stuck: Draco looked beautiful in his radiance.
"I thought…I thought you…" Draco gasped out, and grabbed Harry into an embrace that caught him off guard by its desperation. "I thought…"
How the hug morphed into hands on faces, lips colliding, Harry wasn't sure. It was an instinctive movement, nothing he would have planned, but it felt right. The kiss broke quickly, the boys sprung apart. Draco's hand flew to his mouth, covering it as if he were a virgin concealing his nudity.
It was only a few moments like that, before they kissed again, determined this time, hungry enough not to think about what they were doing.
***
In the aftermath of his success, it didn't take much for Harry to get the charges against Draco dropped. Draco was moved to Grimmauld place, where he and Harry slipped into empty rooms, exploring their bodies intensely, frightened by their forwardness with each other, their secret with the rest of the world. Harry still remembers those months, the period before he had to stop and think, put the pieces of his life back into a new order, as some of the best of his life. The only time he abandoned himself completely to the whims of passion.
He hadn't expected the relationship to last. It was only supposed to be a post-war fling, something to keep his mind off the terrible reality of the devastation Voldemort left behind: the cleanup he had no power for. But when Harry moved to his own apartment in London it became clear that Draco couldn't remain in Grimmauld place alone, and so he moved in. This isn't ending, Harry realized after the first week of living with Draco. And, he realized after another week, he didn't want it to.
That was when they decided it was time to come clean to the Weasleys. (Or: when Harry decided. Draco claimed he couldn't care less.) The opposite of the battle, Harry remembers that day in perfect detail, down to the precise shade of purple of Mrs. Weasley's dress. He called a meeting and went alone: better to confront them with the idea before the person. He stuttered around the issue for ages, long enough for Hermione to start looking worried and Ginny suspicious. When he came out with it: "I'm seeing someone. Draco Malfoy," the shock that radiated from the rest of the group was palatable. Ron looked like he wasn't sure if this was some sick joke, and Hermione's hand flew to her mouth: an odd sort of parody of Draco after their first kiss.
It was Ginny who spoke. No: screamed. Who sprung up from her seat by her mother and ran to slap him, shouting "Get out! Get out! Get out!" When no one moved to stop her, he did.
Soon owls came. Apologies from the rest of the family. Invitations to lunch which Harry accepted gladly, where the difficult conversations were had, where an unspoken truce was set up: Harry's relationship would be tolerated, as long as Draco was kept away.
But Ginny sent no owl, not until Harry wrote her first, an agonizingly long letter where he spilled out his apologies, his regrets. I did love you, I think, (romantically, that is. Of course I've always and still do love you as a sister and a friend), he wrote. I still can't really believe it's not you I'm with right now. I'm sorry that I've hurt you and I only hope that you can come to understand. I don't want this to be the end of our friendship.
Ginny's return owl was short:
I wondered why you didn't come back to me after you won. Well, now I know. Fuck you, Harry. It was cruel to me and it's sick. I don't want to talk to you.
And for years she didn't. At first, while he was still in training to become an Auror, Harry ate with the Weasleys often. Ginny never came. On the holidays she pointedly ignored him. Actually refused to even acknowledge his greetings, never gave him a gift. Harry had never felt as uncomfortable as during those first Christmases, until Ron finally convinced her to at least be polite.
And as time passed, so did the uncomfortable glances from his friends. And then one Christmas Ginny came home with Marshall, and it was like the ice was finally broken: he even caught her smiling at his jokes. Life was moving on. People accepted Harry as the permanent bachelor at family events, the real reason for his being single kept the kind of open secret that's better ignored. Maybe it would go away one day.
Harry had thought that was good enough.
***
Hermione takes Harry aside Christmas morning. She looks almost conspiratorial as she pulls him into an empty room, her voice low and her smile the happy mischievous one she used to wear when she'd thought of a particularly clever plan.
"What's up?" Harry asks when Hermione has stood silent for nearly a minute. He looks around the room for some hint of the extraordinary. Nothing but an unmade bed and clothing scattered over an upholstered chair.
"I'm pregnant, Harry," she explains in a burst, as if she's been trying to hold in the news.
Harry smiles, bringing his gaze straight back to his friend. "That's great!" He can't avoid a touch of confusion in his voice: why the secrecy?
"And," Hermione positively bounces on her feet. "It's a boy!"
"That's…also great." Now definite confusion. Surely this was nothing she couldn’t tell him in front of other family members.
Hermione looks around, as if expecting a spy. She lowers her voice to say, "We're going to name him Sirius." Now she smiles, broadly, and wraps her arms around him before he has time to come up with a response. "And you're going to be the godfather, so you'll be forced to visit more often." She draws back and looks him in the eye. "You and Draco. We really are happy for you, Harry."
Harry manages to nod.
***
The rest of the family is inside, admiring their presents (or, more accurately, admiring Arthur Jr. as he admires his presents. How a child changes the face of Christmas), when Harry slips into the garden. Ginny is there, rolling a wilted flower back and forth between her fingers as she stares at the sky.
"Hi," Harry offers.
"Hi," she responds meekly, lowering her eyes to observe him. Silence, and then, "So I guess this means he's really for keeps?" A small smile.
"Ginny, he's been for keeps." He walks towards her slowly, waiting to be rebuffed. But she lets him come to her side, stand with her to look over the garden. A light wind blows, piercing through Harry's sweater (still the signature Weasley gift). He shivers slightly but refuses to turn to inside. Instead, he wraps a protective arm around Ginny's shoulder and stands with her, letting the time slide by as he wonders when she's going to attack him.
"Ok," Ginny whispers, finally. She drops the flower and ducks out from Harry's arm. "Lets go inside, then." She moves swiftly to the door, so quick that Harry thinks she's going to try to avoid him again. But instead she turns at the threshold.
"I've started writing Marshall, again," she says simply, before slipping inside.
Harry follows, and pauses at the doorway for a second, stopping to appreciate what it feels like to return home after too long away.
Title: Prodigal Son
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 8, 653
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Draco, with Ron/Hermione existing, and a good smattering of Ginny
Disclaimer: All characters belong to JKR, not I. Also, the present/past story telling method is shamefully ripped from inspired by Julia Glass' Three Junes, which is an utterly wonderful novel that everyone should read (one of the main characters is even gay. What more can you want?).
Warnings: Character death (Bill Weasley)
Author/Artist's Notes: Thank you so much to my wonderful beta, faithfulreader. As always, I love feedback of all kinds.
Summary: How far can you let one relationship break another? War and post-Hogwarts eras.
Harry watches Ginny over a cup of tea - the kind of innocuous drink that can be sipped slowly for hours, always at hand as an easy excuse for silence as you think. She's just thirty two, but, he thinks, with purposeful unkindness, that she could pass for forty, courtesy of the worry lines that have set upon her far too young. A small price to pay for surviving the war.
She runs a finger around the edge of her empty plate, concentrating on her menu (Or pretending to, Harry thinks).
"The duck is good here," he comments. Such a bland thing to say and it feels inappropriate. But what else is he supposed to do? Ginny invited him, after all, and so Harry decides that it's her job to broach the uncomfortable subjects, if they are going to broach them at all.
"I'm a vegetarian," Ginny responds, not quite accusatory, but almost. As if somehow Harry should have known that. Well, come to think of it, Ron had mentioned it at some point: it upset Mrs. Weasley, who had spent one Easter being notably cold to Hermione, who she blamed for putting such a ridiculous Muggle notion in Ginny's head. Still, not the kind of thing Harry should be expected to remember.
"Right, sorry," he says, anyway. "Does that mean I shouldn't order meat either?"
Ginny drops her head to the side and shoots him an exasperated look. "I'm the vegetarian, not you," she says. "I don't force others to accept my beliefs." It's a pointed remark, and Harry hides his disgust behind another sip of tea. So, she still thinks of his asking her to acknowledge and accept his relationship with Draco as an affront on her morals, instead of a sad plea to his friend-come-lover-come-cold acquaintance to be his friend again. Why had she wanted to see him, then?
"I'm getting the duck," he says, letting just enough anger into his voice to let her know that he's gotten her point. It's the kind of moderated social interaction he has learned from Draco over the years: a mark of the Slytherin he has let into his personality (or, let out from where he had kept it repressed, as Draco would put it).
"I'm getting the lasagna," Ginny declares after a pause.
"Good for you." Another pause. "You know, I support you in this whole vegetarian venture of yours. I personally could never do it, but still."
Ginny's jaw drops for half a moment before she laughs. "So you don't rage and scream to get your point across anymore, I see," she says, with feigned cheerfulness (or maybe it's real? Harry finds it slightly disconcerting that he's not sure how to read Ginny, anymore).
"That wouldn't befit the savior of the Wizarding World, now would it?" Harry's laugh is definitely forced. Perhaps Ginny can fake cheerfulness convincingly, he can’t.
"No," Ginny agrees, "it wouldn't. But since when has that ever stopped you?"
***
The waiter comes, the waiter goes. They pass the time with airily idle chat about the Weasleys. Ginny knows more about Ron and Hermione's son than Harry does. That upsets him, though he knows he shouldn't be surprised. The child's named Arthur Jr: so titled after a monumental fight, during which Harry tried to get them to name the baby after Sirius, and Ron insisted that Harry should save that name for his own first son, as if such a child would ever exist. He listens attentively, with real interest, as Ginny fills him in about Jr's first flying lessons and his remarkable reading abilities. "Only four years old and already reading like a pro! He takes after his mum."
'His mum.' It seems like such an exclusionary term, forcing Harry to see the scenes Ginny describes through a telescope turned backwards, so far away that they could be about anybody's child. 'His mum' could mean anyone, not Hermione. That isn't fair. Harry tries to make it to the Weasleys whenever he can - on the Holidays, at least. Well, on Christmas, at least. But he does see Ron and Hermione at least once a month. Just because other duties (his job, his fame, his lover) keep him further away than he likes doesn't mean he isn't part of that family anymore.
Except, Harry reminds himself, I'm technically not. Unlike Hermione, he has no marriage binding him to the family he's considered his own for so long. But then, he technically never had any such bind, and it hadn't mattered in the past. He comforts himself with the thought that he still writes almost daily to Ron and Hermione, and at the very least monthly to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. That's surely more than most biological family ever does, and they still embrace him as one of their own. Ginny is just being her resentful self. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not.
The waiter brings food, interrupting one of Ginny's stories about the twins (an anecdote that Harry heard months before in a letter from Ron, but he doesn't interrupt her, because it's better than awkward silence). They eat quietly, pretending to be absorbed in their food. When the silence has stretched too long to be excused on the meager concentration needed to appreciate what was really only a second rate meal, Harry searches for a subject, coming up with: "So, how's Marshall?" Marshall is Ginny's long term boyfriend - the second or third boy she picked up after Harry, and the only one that stuck.
"Oh, we broke up." She says it lightly, and watches his reaction out of slit eyes. "About a month ago."
A month ago. That was about when she wrote to suggest they meet, alone, a few days before the Christmas Harry would be spending at the Weasleys. "Please tell me you didn't ask me out to try to win me back," Harry says bluntly.
Ginny's visibly flustered, but she shakes her head. "Who do you think I am?"
The girl who never fucking gives up on me, Harry thinks, but all he says is, "Well, I'm sorry about that. Marshall, I mean."
Ginny accepts this with a nod, and then steers the conversation to the ever safe topic of politics. They don't touch on personal issues for the rest of the night: Ginny never even mentions Draco. Again, Harry's not particularly surprised. He thinks she seems deflated, after his pre-emptive rebuff of her romantic intentions (he doesn't believe for a second that that isn't what this dinner was requested for). When they part and he promises to see her this weekend at her parents' house, she turns to him with the blazing look he remembers from their Hogwarts days.
"Maybe you shouldn't bother," she tells him. "They're getting kind of sick of you only showing up once a year, expecting to be treated like the hero."
Harry gapes at her retreating back.
***
It was Hermione's plan that brought Draco back into Harry's life. A year and a half after The Death - as Harry had come to think of the day Dumbledore died, using it as a marker for the changing point in his life - they had found and destroyed all but one of the Horcruxes. Nagini was the thorn in their attempts to defeat Voldemort. When Ron suggested that they just kill her when they went to fight You-Know-Who, Hermione laughed (the bitter laugh of someone with too many burdens), and explained that surely the first thing Voldemort would do during such a battle is put his one remaining Horcrux someplace safe. No, what they needed was someone who could infiltrate Voldemort's ranks. Besides, she explained (and McGonagall, who had stepped in as Dumbledore's replacement at the Order when plans to re-open Hogwarts fell apart, backed her up on this), they needed a spy to figure out where they could find Voldemort, when it came down to that final battle. Basically, they needed a double agent.
Harry was quick to point out that their only double agent had turned out to be playing them, and while Hermione's suggestion was well and good, that rather put a dent in the plan. That's when Draco came up.
"He's just been wasting away in jail since the Ministry caught him," she explained. "So why don't we use him?"
"How about because he let a bunch of Death Eaters into the sodding school," Ron replied, eyes wide and disbelieving. "Hermione, are you crazy?"
"Of course not, Ron," she replied primly (but with the indulgent smile she saved only for him). "We wouldn't actually use Draco." As if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "There's such a thing as Polyjuice, you know."
So, after a bit of wrangling with the Ministry, Order members were allowed to see Draco for questioning. They had to find out how he acted around fellow Death Eaters, McGonagall explained. His mannerisms. And they'd need to know how he would be received when returning to the fold, for the protection of whichever brave soul was going to impersonate him (Kingsley Shacklebolt had volunteered, and it more or less seemed a general consensus that he was a good choice).
There was a problem: Draco wouldn't talk. Absolutely refused. McGonagall and Kingsley took shifts, each throwing question after question to him for hours on end, for over a week. Reportedly all he would do was stare at the wall and reply with a snappish "Why in the world would I help you?" When they offered bribes he didn't believe them, he turned a cold shoulder to any attempt at kindness. When the situation was starting to look desperate, and the Order considered either giving up on the idea or sending Kingsley in blind (almost guaranteed suicide), Harry finally proposed that he try talking to Draco. He had been considering it since Hermione first proposed her plan, and he thought it looked like time he tried to do something proactive. After all, with all the other Horocruxes destroyed, there wasn't much else for him to do, anyway. He wasn't allowed to fight (too risky, the adult Order members insisted, which, when he reflected on it in the future, Harry decided was probably true), and he hated sitting around while there was a war raging.
And so Harry found himself locked in a room with the boy who he had once considered his enemy. It was strange to think that a few years earlier he would have been thrilled to see the state Draco was reduced to: hair grown long and tangled, dirt deeply embedded into the torn robes encasing the frail body that crouched on the floor. Now he found that Draco's situation only filled him with a sense of dulled sadness. He had seen the fear on Draco's face that night on the Tower, seen his tears in Myrtle's bathroom. What was this pale figure but another causality of the war?
Despite the decrepitness of the rest of his appearance, Draco's eyes were as sharp as ever, and they narrowed at Harry when he entered Draco's cell.
"And now they send you," Draco said spitefully. "Has your silly little Order made you their errand boy? 'Oh, we're tired of dealing with the petulant Death Eater, send Harry.' And you go like a pathetic House Elf."
Harry lingered at the opposite end of the cell as Draco, which still only put a meter, at most, between them. He stood with his back resting against the bars and looked down at the prisoner. "For your information, I asked to see you."
Draco's expression changed, though to what Harry couldn't really tell. Confusion, or anger? "What, you couldn't resist the chance to come and laugh? And you Gryffindors pretend to be so righteous."
Harry resisted the temptation to yell at Draco, or hit him, for his obstinacy. "I came to ask you to help us," he said, evenly.
Draco rolled his eyes. "You don't change, do you?" he asked. "What makes you think I'd be willing to help when you ask me instead of them?"
Harry stopped. It was a good question. If anything Draco would be more adverse to his requests than anyone else's. But, Harry told himself, I'm the one who saw him lower his wand.
"Because I know what you want," Harry said, his mind, after flicking around desperately, landing on a direction to take this conversation.
Draco laughed dryly. "Oh, do you? I'm impressed. What, did you steal my diary? That's not very nice."
Harry ignored the sarcasm. "We need you to help us fight Voldemort," he stated, tone matter of fact and gaze even. He ignored Draco's predictable flinch at the name.
"Really? And here I was thinking you needed to hear my life story so you could write a best selling biography."
"If we defeat Voldemort, your family is safe."
Draco had no reply to that. Instead he met Harry's gaze with an expression that clearly read confusion, now. He almost gaped (though, as Harry was later informed, a Malfoy would never do anything as undignified as gaping). He ran a spindly hand over his lank hair and drew in a heavy breath. "That's some nice guesswork, Potter," he finally managed, though the scorn fell short.
On instinct, Harry slid down to the floor, eye level with Draco. "It's not guessing," he said earnestly. He needed Draco to trust him, and this had to be the best way to do it. "I was there, that night on the Astronomy Tower. I heard what you said to Dumbledore, what he said to you. I saw you lower your wand. You don't believe in Voldemort's cause, so why not help ours?"
Draco sunk his face into his knees. Harry couldn't see his expression, but when Draco finally raised his face again - at least a minute later, Harry thought it was probably more - it was set without emotion. "Fine," he said. "I'll talk to you. But only you, understood?"
***
Draco eats with a disarming elegance, handling his fork and knife lightly, fluidly. Harry always feels in some way inadequate next to him at the dinner table, aware of how much he saws with his knife instead of cuts, the way he jabs with his fork and clanks his spoon against the bottom of his bowl. Tonight Draco's eating a homemade meal: simple, but probably very good. Because Harry laughed contemptuously at the idea of having a House Elf in their apartment, Draco took up cooking himself, insisting that one way or another he was going to eat in the manner to which he was accustomed. In a few years he had developed considerable skill, and Harry's never disappointed to come home to one of his meals. He passes on this meal, though, still full from dinner with Ginny. Instead of eating he sits silently across from Draco. Like the rest of the room (and the rest of the apartment), the kitchen table is the pleasant result of melding Harry and Draco's tastes: small enough to be intimate, but polished oak, with carved feet.
"So, what did the lovely little red-head want?" Draco asks casually, clearly more interested - concerned? - than he wants to let on.
Harry shrugs. "She broke off with her boyfriend, but claimed that's not what it was about."
Draco laughs. "Of course it wasn't. She just wanted a nice chat to catch up after throwing you out of her life ten years ago for fucking me. That makes sense." His fork is tapping irritably against the edge of his plate, sharp pings highlighting his words.
"Exactly," Harry agrees, but he keeps his eyes on the racing fork instead of Draco's face. Ginny's parting shot is still echoing around in the back of his mind, and although he knows it was an irrational comment born of spite and disappointment he wonders if maybe it isn't a little true as well. Hadn't he been worrying that he was becoming distant from the Weasleys? With his work (as an Auror and even more as a public figure) taking up part of his life and Draco the rest, how much distance could letters and the occasional visit make up for?
Draco doesn't look happy at Harry's reticence. He rubs Harry's calf with his foot, smirking in what Harry knows he thinks is a coy manner, though (like always), he looks more foolish than anything. Harry has never, of course, expressed that particular sentiment, and he isn't about to start now.
"I'm fine," he says to Draco's unasked question. "It's just something she said."
Draco's mouth dissolves into a frown. He, Harry notes, has lines creasing his face, just like Ginny. No, not just like Ginny: Draco is starting to look distinguished, not haggard. Still, he's losing his youth, and Harry wonders how he hasn't noticed before.
"She's not worth listening to," Draco says.
Harry nods. "Of course not."
***
They lay naked in bed; Draco's head nestles against Harry's shoulder, breath coming in warm gusts across his chest. Harry strokes Draco's back and watches the play of shadows across their ceiling, the flicker of tree branches waving before the streetlamps outside. He normally finds it easy to get lost in the shifting patterns: it's his way of forgetting troubles before drifting to sleep. But tonight he can't focus. He sighs, not for the first time.
Draco lifts his head, eyes tired but still open. He kisses Harry's cheek, a light brush of lips against skin. "Just forget it, already," he murmurs. "She's an idiot and a bitch, and she was just trying to make you feel bad."
"I think she might be right," Harry says, still looking at the ceiling. "When was the last time I actually saw the Weasleys?"
Draco rolls his eyes and sits up a little, untangling himself from Harry's arms. "You see Ron and Hermione every month, if not more," he replies snappishly. "That's pretty damn good for school buddies. I don't see Crabbe or Goyle nearly that often. I'm lucky to see Pansy and Blaise once a year."
"Pansy and Blaise live in France, Draco," Harry replies, sitting up as well. "And besides, I'm not just talking about them. What about the rest of the Weasleys?"
"What about them? If I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Weasley is the one who refused to see you for almost a year when she found out about us. I'm surprised you go back at all." Draco's voice is controlled and tight: sure signs of anger. Harry smiles weakly and runs a finger over his lover's lower lip, feels the way it trembles slightly under his touch. He wants to look into Draco's eyes, but it's almost too dark to see.
"You're right. Of course you are. Let's just go to sleep." But while Draco slides back between the silk sheets that took Harry so long to get used to, Harry remains sitting. He watches Draco slip quickly into sleep, eyelids trembling, lips parted and breaths coming slow and deep. He brushes a strand of hair - ghostly in the darkness - off Draco's face. I'm happy, Harry thinks. I love him.
But he still feels like a weight has been shoved unbidden into his chest, and Ginny's voice seems to echo out of the walls around him. Don't bother. Don't bother. Don't bother.
***
Harry quickly found himself meeting with Draco every day, if only for short periods. McGonagall or Kingsley were constantly thinking of new questions for him to ask - was there a specified order the Death Eaters took in their circle around Voldemort? What did Draco call each and every one of his fellow Death Eaters? Was there a pet name his mother called him? How much did the Dark Mark hurt a few minutes after being summoned? A few hours? They wanted to leave nothing to chance, and Draco answered all of the questions, though not without reluctance and touches of sarcasm.
"This is ridiculous," Draco said on the fifth day. "I don't even know what my favorite fruit is!" Harry only stared until he gave in and answered the question.
Once Ron asked how they knew Draco was telling the truth, and why didn't they just use Veritaserum? After all, wouldn't that make more sense than trying to play buddy-buddy with the little git? Hermione patiently explained that they might need Draco's input in the future, and too much drugging could leave him incoherent or deranged. "Oh," said Ron, looking deflated.
But Ron's question left Harry wondering, and the next day he asked Draco, "So, how do I know you aren’t lying to me?"
Draco looked up from his crouched position on the floor. His face was smeared with dirt, making him look even more desolate than usual. Harry felt a pang of sorrow and a twist of guilt for even asking the question. It seemed cruel, in the face of Draco's isolation, to rub in that the one person he was willing to talk to didn't even trust him.
That guilt quickly disappeared when Draco shrugged and replied, "You don't."
Harry bit the inside of his lip to avoid yelling. That someone in Draco's situation could remain insolent was utterly unfathomable to Harry. (Part of him did admire Draco's dedication, though he had a hard time admitting it.)
"I guess we just have to trust you, then." It came out less sarcastic than Harry intended, more resigned.
"I guess so."
***
That same day, only a few hours after Harry had his conversation (interrogation?) with Draco, the news came. Bill Weasley had died in a random Death Eater attack.
It hit the Weasley family like a brick, sinking them all to the edge of despair. In the days and weeks that followed Mrs. Weasley would disappear from dinner tables and casual conversation, reemerging minutes or hours later from her room, eyes red and cheeks flushed. The twins were seen sulking around The Burrow more often than they were at their store, and Ron often choked up in the middle of conversations, to be gently taken away for a long walk by Hermione, who would shoot Harry an apologetic look as his two best friends disappeared to whatever place Ron found comfort in.
Harry struggled to find his place in this new pattern of life. As soon as it was clear that while Ron appreciated his sympathy he didn't need it, Harry immediately turned to comfort Ginny. Although they were still trying to keep up the charade of having no feelings for each other (with only a few stolen kisses to break the disguise), he thought that such a tragedy was enough reason to put that aside. After all, his comfort could still take the guise of brotherly affection.
But to his surprise Ginny found companionship in someone else: Fleur. "Look," she explained, after Harry's third attempt to get her to talk about how she felt. They stood in the otherwise empty kitchen, scrubbing dishes. She put down her sponge and placed a soapy hand on his cheek. "I appreciate that you care, I really do. But I need to talk with someone who knows how much I miss him." She kissed his cheek, where her hand left a tuff of bubbles, and then left before Harry could protest that he did know.
Even at the time he knew it would have been a lie, anyway. He was sad that Bill died, of course. But it was a hollow kind of sadness that floated across his consciousness without penetrating to his heart. While the rest of the Weasley family felt like brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, Bill had always been more like a cousin: Harry loved him, of course, but not like Ginny did, like Fleur did. And after the deaths of Sirius and Dumbledore, Bill's death just didn't register. Harry wished it would.
He found himself drifting like a fallen branch through the river of his friends' sorrow, with nothing to anchor him. He took over much of the housework for Mrs. Weasley, dusting and straightening and cooking the meals that weren't delivered by other Order members. It was in those weeks that Harry truly came to think of the Burrow as his home, not just the home of his adopted family. He found its hidden corners, learned where the pots and brooms were stored, where in the cellar to find potions and canned fruit alike.
But even the duties of keeping a house running weren't enough to keep him occupied. If nothing else, Mrs. Weasley would often revive herself and, in a bustling burst of energy, take over for hours at a time, insisting that Harry was not responsible for any of this, and why didn't he go relax and try to enjoy himself? As if that were possible.
He tried dropping by Grimmauld Place, but while everyone was perfectly nice to him it was clear he was not needed. He was essential as the finder and destroyer of Horcruxes, as the fighter of the Dark Lord, as the Boy-Who-Lived. But what use was he at strategy meetings? What did he know about military tactics?
He turned to the one task where he was needed: Draco. He bothered McGonagall and Kingsley everyday, sometimes twice a day, to come up with more questions for him to ask. He made up questions of his own. He would sometimes stay and watch Draco in silence, seconds elapsing into minutes while he tried to think of something else to ask or say, something else to give him an excuse to stay away from the uselessness he felt amidst the heavy atmosphere at the Burrow.
One day, after Harry had lingered, silent, for almost ten minutes, Draco asked, "Is there something else you want, Potter, or am I just that pretty?"
Harry's eyes slid into focus as if he had been jolted from a dream, and his mind grappled with the question, only half heard. He managed to stammer out, "You only wish you were," as a response.
"That didn't sound very convincing."
"Don't worry, I'm very sure of my opinion on that matter," Harry said, regaining his footing in the banter. To his surprise, Draco cracked a smile. It was brief, barely recognizable as a smile, really, but it seemed genuine. "Um…shouldn't you be mad?" Harry asked blankly when Draco didn’t say anything else.
"It's nice to see you show a sense of humor, Potter." It sounded as genuine as the smile had looked, almost friendly. Very disarming.
"Um…" he said. And then, "Er…"
"Oh," Draco said, feigning disappointment, "and here I thought you were finally displaying a bit of brains. My mistake."
"Why are you such an ass, Malfoy?" Harry asked after a pause.
"It keeps me entertained. It's not like there's anything else for me to do around here." Harry thought he heard pain behind the mask of bravado.
The next day he brought a newspaper with him when he visited. Draco accepted the gift with surprised pleasure that he couldn't hide behind his sarcastic thanks. That was the moment Harry remembers as the first major shift in their relationship: from that day on he would bring the paper along with a question or two, and Draco would accept it eagerly. They would discuss the day's news. The Quidditch tournaments and celebrity gossip, anything but the war. Harry found Draco's irreverence a welcome contrast to the blanket of seriousness that threatened to suffocate the rest of his life. He could only assume that Draco appreciated any presence that wasn't the scuttle of rats.
That was how they stumbled upon a kind of tentative friendship, supported by buttresses that threatened to fall at the first sign of distrust, but that strengthened, little by little, each time they saw each other. Soon Harry was spending several hours a day in Draco's cell. It was on the one month anniversary of Bills death, to the day, that he realized with shock that those meetings were the only thing he looked forward to.
***
Maybe, Harry thinks as he approaches the Burrow, this wasn't such a good idea. Draco is lagging behind, squinting at the house as if it were a strange and slightly frightening creature. He's walking as proudly as ever, but with a lingering stroll instead of his usual confident stride. Harry is still surprised that he managed to convince Draco to abandon his mother and come to the Weasley Christmas dinner instead. "She's not happy about this," Draco had told him. "Not because I'm failing to see her. Merlin knows I do that enough, she's probably sick of me," (a sentiment he voices often, though they both know it's not - and never will be - true.) "She hates that I'm going to be mixing with those 'blood traitors.'" Even though Draco claims to have abandoned such sentiments himself, Harry suspects that revulsion is too deeply engrained in his lover to be entirely removed. But he's willing to make an effort, and that's what counts.
But, Harry considers for the first time since the idea of bringing Draco along popped into his head the day before, I should have owled ahead about the change. That is one of those etiquette type things that Draco normally takes care of, though of course Draco wouldn't have thought of owling the Weasleys in Harry's name. Too late now.
Mrs. Weasley's face breaks into a broad smile when she sees Harry. She envelopes him in the same gut squeezing hug she always greets him with, almost knocking the breath out of him, and actually knocking the suitcase out of his hand. She hasn't noticed Draco yet.
"Hey Mrs. Weasley," Harry gasps from amongst her arms. "Is it ok that I brought Draco along?" Might as well break it to her before she notices herself. He feels her arms stiffen around him, no longer warm. She lets go and draws herself back to observe Draco, who, Harry sees when he turns, is still lingering a few meters from the doorstep.
"Oh," she says, smile gone. "Yes, I suppose so. Come inside, then. Both of you."
Harry doesn't think he's ever seen Draco look so reluctant to do something as innocent as walk through a door. He does follow, though. Harry breaths a small sigh of relief. Draco's in the house. Stage one complete.
Ron and Hermione are sitting around the kitchen table, and they rise when Harry enters. Hermione's face is flushed as she smiles. Harry thinks she's positively radiant; possibly the best she's looked since the beginning of her pregnancy with Arthur Jr. But her shinning eyes are offset by the twisted, gaping expression on Ron's face. Harry knows instantly that he's spotted Draco, and in a matter of seconds Hermione's smile also contorts into a confused grimace. Instead of running to hug him, as they normally do, the couple stays put, legs brushing against their chairs. They shift awkwardly in the silence left where their welcome should be.
"Hey guys," Harry offers, trying for bright nonchalance.
"Um, hello," Hermione responds after a slight pause. Her cheerfulness is affected. "We, uh, didn't know you'd be bringing…Draco." In the pause before she says Draco's name she looks momentarily lost. Harry wonders what she considered saying instead. 'Your lover'? 'Boyfriend'? 'Death Eater boy toy'? No, Hermione would never be that cruel. She's not Ginny.
"Yeah, well, last minute change," Harry excuses with a shrug. "Sorry for not telling anyone in advance. But we can share a room and all so…" he shrugs again. Ron's eyes widen and frown deepens.
"Well," Mrs. Weasley says, eyes darting from face to face. "How about I show Mr. Malfoy to his room?"
"Oh, call me Draco, please," Draco says, smoothly taking Harry's suitcase from his hand. "Lead the way." He sounds completely comfortable, though Harry knows it's an act. It's taken him a while to see any advantages to the kind of upbringing Draco had, but ease in uncomfortable social situations is definitely one of them. Mrs. Weasley, looking slightly appeased by Draco's manner, disappears up the stairs, the blond in tow.
As soon as their footsteps can no longer be heard echoing down after them, Ron turns to Harry.
"Are - are - are - you crazy?" He stutters out.
"Not last time I checked, no," Harry says, defensive. Ron snaps his mouth shut, looking as shocked as if Harry had hit him.
Hermione, of course, has already recovered from her surprise. She moves towards Harry, stopping halfway across the room. Placing herself literally in the spot she's obviously about to take metaphorically: the middle.
"Harry," she says sternly. "You should have warned us. You know we support you," (a furious glare at Ron, who pouts back, absurdly childlike), "we really do. But…well, it's just…" she struggles again for a second.
"Easier to accept Draco when he's only a vague theory instead of a real, flesh and blood presence?"
She looks crestfallen, the expression of someone whose thoughts have been spread before them in a crueler light then they wanted. "Well, I wouldn't say it like that. No really Harry, I wouldn't!" She looks to Ron for support. The most he can muster is a gruff nod, accompanied by a suspicious glance at the stairs. "It's…well, I guess we don't get whatever it is you see in him. It's so hard when he just looks like the grown version of the bully we always knew." She stops there, sighs. She looks sad for a moment, and then approaches Harry, close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder, which she does, giving it a small squeeze. Harry reflects that that seems like a very adult gesture: not something the Hermione he remembers from Hogwarts, with her cold logic balanced by fierce passion, would do. But then, they are adults, now. "I know that's not fair," she finishes.
Part of Harry wants to snap that damn right, it's not fair. But instead he just says softly, "No. I haven't given you a chance to get to know what he's like, now. That's not your fault."
Hermione pulls him into a hug. A tight embrace like the ones she used to pull him into after they survived another Horcrux hunt. "We'll try to learn," she says. "We will. I promise." Harry looks across the room to meet Ron's eyes. His best friend shrugs, and then smiles a little, as if to say, 'Well, if she says so…'
***
Kingsley's mission was a success. More than a success. It was a carefully orchestrated project: the Prophet, thanks to the Order's inside contact, released a story claiming that, due to an error on the guard's part, Draco Malfoy had escaped. Harry was there when, only a few hours later, Draco's arm flared in pain. He watched his new friend's (how strange that word felt, when applied to Draco Malfoy) face contort in pain, and then watched as Kingsley's face did the same as he undertook the polyjuice transformation. He sat around the kitchen table at Grimmauld place with other Order members, gravely waiting for Kingsley's return, half afraid it would never come.
But come back he did, not only with news of Voldemort's whereabouts, but, to everyone's surprise, with a dead Nagini in hand. "She was definitely a Horcrux!" he exclaimed joyfully, still in the form of Draco. His face was glowing and for a second Harry though that he looked handsome. Beautiful, even, in a stark way. But what kind of thought was that? Just relief, he decided, and pushed it aside. "You should have seen how much pain he was in, when I killed her. He knows I betrayed him, of course. Well - that Malfoy did. But he was weak, definitely weak. I don't think he'll be able to travel far in the next few hours. If we hurry, if we hurry," (and here his eyes shown with a terrified glee), "we could end this thing tonight."
The words Harry had waited years to hear, but when they came, he didn't feel the excitement he had anticipated. End…tonight. It wasn't something he could process. To be thrown into the final fight so abruptly. It wasn't what he had expected. It seemed rude, wrong. Unfair, definitely. But when had he ever had time to prepare to fight Voldemort? What could another day, another week, another month, give him? He nodded in numb acquiescence. "Lets get ready," he heard himself say.
Getting ready meant a fluster of owls sent to all fighting Order members. It meant stolen, determined glances at Ron and Hermione. It meant hugging Mrs. Weasley again and again. It meant listening to Ginny row with her mother over not being allowed to go, their voices echoing down the halls, Ginny's screeches and Mrs. Weasley's plaintive sobs on display for all to hear. It meant chaos as members began Apparating left and right. Amongst it all, Harry slipped out the front door and Disapparated.
***
"You'd better wish me luck," he told the figure sleeping on the cell floor. Draco groaned in protest and rolled to face Harry, half cracking his eyes.
"I'd better what?"
"Wish me luck," Harry said. He walked across the cell and sat, close enough that his knees almost brushed Draco's body. It was the closest he'd ever gotten to the other boy since he first started visiting the prison. "Because you are now firmly on Voldemort's bad side."
Draco scrambled to sitting, eyes meeting Harry's. "It worked then?" he asked, almost eager. Harry nodded. "Why do I need to wish you luck?"
"Why do you think?"
The silence was heavy. Draco opened his mouth, closed it. Again. He raised a hand and then dropped it, looking too weary to finish the gesture. His eyes darted about the cell as if someone was going to pop out and yell, 'Surprise! This is a joke!' Finally, he said softly, "You might die."
It was such a ludicrously true statement. So obvious, yet no one else had voiced it. Implied it with long hugs and worried looks and hushed tones, yes, but no one had said it so plainly. You might die.
I might die.
Harry just laughed. And laughed. And laughed. Draco began to look worried. He reached a hand out and grabbed Harry's arm. Shook it with enough force to hurt. "Are you insane?"
Harry shook his head as he regained his composure. He wiped a few tears (of mirth or fear or sorrow? It was hard to know if there was even a difference anymore) off the tip of his nose. Draco just stared at him like he might explode any second.
"I'm fine," Harry assured him. "I'm fantastic." Then he laughed again, because that was so ridiculously untrue. "I'm…" he left it at that.
Draco's hand was still hovering near Harry's arm, and now it traveled to his cheek, where it drifted like a frightened butterfly before landing, coarse and light. "Good luck," he said. Plain, almost without emotion. Impossible to tell what he really meant by it. Harry put his hand on top of Draco's, keeping it in place before the other boy could move it. He caught Draco's eyes and kept it, ignoring the puzzled expression playing across the pale and hollowed features before him.
"Thank you," he said, intently. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Draco whispered. "I mean it."
***
It isn't unusual for Draco to wake hours before Harry, so Harry doesn't worry when he awakes alone in Percy's old room. He dresses casually - jeans and an old t-shirt - and heads down the stairs, happily following the smell of bacon. He expects to eat a quick breakfast and then go out to find Draco, who is undoubtedly wandering around the yard, mentally critiquing as he kicks yard gnomes. He begins to worry when the sound of raised voices floats up the stairs to greet him. One is clearly Draco's.
Not a fight!
Harry rushes down the rest of the flight, socked feet slipping dangerously as he patters as quickly as possible. He can imagine the scene waiting to greet him: all of his hopeful plans blown apart by the light of Ron (or Fred, or Ginny, or…) and Draco's wands. He bursts into the kitchen, breathing erratically and waving a panicked hand in front of his face, half afraid to look.
Draco is seated, waving a fork elegantly at Fred, who watches him with eyebrows raised. George is frying bacon at the stove, casually prodding the fire with his wand. All three turn to Harry in what could be choreographed unison. He freezes, eyes darting from man to man, trying to grasp a way to reconcile this scene with the voices he had heard.
"Um," he says.
George is the first to move. He turns back to the stove and flips a few pieces of bacon onto an empty plate.
"Have some food, Harry," he says, levitating the plate to the empty seat besides Draco with an amused grin. "Mum will kill me if you're 'underfed'"
"Yeah, and we need to talk to you, mate," Fred breaks in, mock serious, eyes flashing mischievously above a quivering frown. "We always thought you'd made an odd choice," (an only half-apologetic nod at Draco), "but we hadn't realized he was a lunatic."
Draco lowers the hand still grasping his fork, and rolls his eyes. "More like these two wouldn't know a good Quidditch team if it hit them in the face with a bludger."
"Um," Harry says. And then, "Oh."
***
In fact, after the first surprise meeting, the Weasleys adjust to the new presence well. It helps that Draco is on his best manners: all smiles and soft tones. At one point, Harry walks in on him helping Mrs. Weasley set the details of their Christmas dinner ("No really, orange peals in the cranberries are delicious, I promise"). Later he plays a casual game of chess with Ron, accepting his loss with surprising humility.
But the key, Harry thinks, is that Arthur Jr. takes to Draco immediately. (And what child would say no to the imported chocolates Draco brings him? Especially when the blond makes an elaborate secret of the gift, as if Harry hadn't of course cleared it with Ron and Hermione first.) The toddler chases after Draco for hours, begging to be swung and tossed through the air. After seeing his namesake so happy, even Mr. Weasley warms to Draco, at least a little.
So everyone is delighted when, on Christmas Eve, the little red head runs up, widely waving an illustrated book of poems, and squeaks out "Drac-um! Drac-um! Do you want to hear the best poem?" Everyone, that is, except Ginny, who sulks in a corner instead of joining in the family crowding around Arthur Jr. Ever since Harry appeared with Draco at hand she's been avoiding him, trampling around her room or out in the garden, always the first to volunteer when a chore needs doing or, especially, an errand needs running. Harry looks at her now, beckoning for her to come, but she only shrugs, and then mimes falling asleep on her hands before slipping up the stairs and out of sight.
***
Harry hardly remembers the final battle. Only impressions and blurred recollections, making a battle of over an hour seem like only minutes. He remembers the feeling before they Apparated away, a tensing in his stomach like the calm before the storm. He remembers the darkness of the underground hide away, the shouts and flashing spells like fireflies in a park at night. The panic when Hermione fell screaming, the voices and bodies colliding in the small space.
And of course his enemy's snake face, palely illuminated in the darkness, alive with pain and rage and power. The spells thrown back and forth, the wands connecting. Voldemort's fear as his exploded with a snap like a tree falling, his disbelief as Harry shouted out the words to end it all: Avada Kedavra!
And then, relief.
***
He first kissed Draco when he returned to Draco's cell after days of recovery from the exhausting battle. Draco leaped from the floor when Harry approached: the first time Harry had seen him stand. He staggered towards Harry as if he were unsure of his legs, but beaming the way Kingsley had when he returned with Nagini. And this time Harry's thought stuck: Draco looked beautiful in his radiance.
"I thought…I thought you…" Draco gasped out, and grabbed Harry into an embrace that caught him off guard by its desperation. "I thought…"
How the hug morphed into hands on faces, lips colliding, Harry wasn't sure. It was an instinctive movement, nothing he would have planned, but it felt right. The kiss broke quickly, the boys sprung apart. Draco's hand flew to his mouth, covering it as if he were a virgin concealing his nudity.
It was only a few moments like that, before they kissed again, determined this time, hungry enough not to think about what they were doing.
***
In the aftermath of his success, it didn't take much for Harry to get the charges against Draco dropped. Draco was moved to Grimmauld place, where he and Harry slipped into empty rooms, exploring their bodies intensely, frightened by their forwardness with each other, their secret with the rest of the world. Harry still remembers those months, the period before he had to stop and think, put the pieces of his life back into a new order, as some of the best of his life. The only time he abandoned himself completely to the whims of passion.
He hadn't expected the relationship to last. It was only supposed to be a post-war fling, something to keep his mind off the terrible reality of the devastation Voldemort left behind: the cleanup he had no power for. But when Harry moved to his own apartment in London it became clear that Draco couldn't remain in Grimmauld place alone, and so he moved in. This isn't ending, Harry realized after the first week of living with Draco. And, he realized after another week, he didn't want it to.
That was when they decided it was time to come clean to the Weasleys. (Or: when Harry decided. Draco claimed he couldn't care less.) The opposite of the battle, Harry remembers that day in perfect detail, down to the precise shade of purple of Mrs. Weasley's dress. He called a meeting and went alone: better to confront them with the idea before the person. He stuttered around the issue for ages, long enough for Hermione to start looking worried and Ginny suspicious. When he came out with it: "I'm seeing someone. Draco Malfoy," the shock that radiated from the rest of the group was palatable. Ron looked like he wasn't sure if this was some sick joke, and Hermione's hand flew to her mouth: an odd sort of parody of Draco after their first kiss.
It was Ginny who spoke. No: screamed. Who sprung up from her seat by her mother and ran to slap him, shouting "Get out! Get out! Get out!" When no one moved to stop her, he did.
Soon owls came. Apologies from the rest of the family. Invitations to lunch which Harry accepted gladly, where the difficult conversations were had, where an unspoken truce was set up: Harry's relationship would be tolerated, as long as Draco was kept away.
But Ginny sent no owl, not until Harry wrote her first, an agonizingly long letter where he spilled out his apologies, his regrets. I did love you, I think, (romantically, that is. Of course I've always and still do love you as a sister and a friend), he wrote. I still can't really believe it's not you I'm with right now. I'm sorry that I've hurt you and I only hope that you can come to understand. I don't want this to be the end of our friendship.
Ginny's return owl was short:
I wondered why you didn't come back to me after you won. Well, now I know. Fuck you, Harry. It was cruel to me and it's sick. I don't want to talk to you.
And for years she didn't. At first, while he was still in training to become an Auror, Harry ate with the Weasleys often. Ginny never came. On the holidays she pointedly ignored him. Actually refused to even acknowledge his greetings, never gave him a gift. Harry had never felt as uncomfortable as during those first Christmases, until Ron finally convinced her to at least be polite.
And as time passed, so did the uncomfortable glances from his friends. And then one Christmas Ginny came home with Marshall, and it was like the ice was finally broken: he even caught her smiling at his jokes. Life was moving on. People accepted Harry as the permanent bachelor at family events, the real reason for his being single kept the kind of open secret that's better ignored. Maybe it would go away one day.
Harry had thought that was good enough.
***
Hermione takes Harry aside Christmas morning. She looks almost conspiratorial as she pulls him into an empty room, her voice low and her smile the happy mischievous one she used to wear when she'd thought of a particularly clever plan.
"What's up?" Harry asks when Hermione has stood silent for nearly a minute. He looks around the room for some hint of the extraordinary. Nothing but an unmade bed and clothing scattered over an upholstered chair.
"I'm pregnant, Harry," she explains in a burst, as if she's been trying to hold in the news.
Harry smiles, bringing his gaze straight back to his friend. "That's great!" He can't avoid a touch of confusion in his voice: why the secrecy?
"And," Hermione positively bounces on her feet. "It's a boy!"
"That's…also great." Now definite confusion. Surely this was nothing she couldn’t tell him in front of other family members.
Hermione looks around, as if expecting a spy. She lowers her voice to say, "We're going to name him Sirius." Now she smiles, broadly, and wraps her arms around him before he has time to come up with a response. "And you're going to be the godfather, so you'll be forced to visit more often." She draws back and looks him in the eye. "You and Draco. We really are happy for you, Harry."
Harry manages to nod.
***
The rest of the family is inside, admiring their presents (or, more accurately, admiring Arthur Jr. as he admires his presents. How a child changes the face of Christmas), when Harry slips into the garden. Ginny is there, rolling a wilted flower back and forth between her fingers as she stares at the sky.
"Hi," Harry offers.
"Hi," she responds meekly, lowering her eyes to observe him. Silence, and then, "So I guess this means he's really for keeps?" A small smile.
"Ginny, he's been for keeps." He walks towards her slowly, waiting to be rebuffed. But she lets him come to her side, stand with her to look over the garden. A light wind blows, piercing through Harry's sweater (still the signature Weasley gift). He shivers slightly but refuses to turn to inside. Instead, he wraps a protective arm around Ginny's shoulder and stands with her, letting the time slide by as he wonders when she's going to attack him.
"Ok," Ginny whispers, finally. She drops the flower and ducks out from Harry's arm. "Lets go inside, then." She moves swiftly to the door, so quick that Harry thinks she's going to try to avoid him again. But instead she turns at the threshold.
"I've started writing Marshall, again," she says simply, before slipping inside.
Harry follows, and pauses at the doorway for a second, stopping to appreciate what it feels like to return home after too long away.