FIC: The Years That Walk Between, NC-17, SS/DM, HP/DM, 2/2
Title: The Years That Walk Between (2/2)
Author: Femme
Pairings: Snape/Draco, Harry/Draco
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~15,800
Summary: Draco finds his way after the war.
Warnings: Please note. This fic is about 95% Deathly Hallows compliant. There are spoilers within.
Author's Notes: I started writing this a day after finishing Deathly Hallows. I wanted to know if I could write a canon-compliant slash fic that addressed Snape's death, the Snape/Lily, and the epilogue, particularly given my OTP. Heh. So…I gave it a shot. :)
Link to Part One
Halfway through Scorpius’s fourth year, Ginny Potter dies.
Draco takes Scorpius to the funeral. They sit in the back, staying just long enough for Harry and Albus to see them.
The Prophet at first claims it’s the work of a rogue Death Eater, implies that perhaps the Potters’ association with the Malfoy family might be at fault.
Harry squelches that rumor angrily and in person according to the next day’s article which quotes him as saying I won’t have my wife’s death used against the Malfoys. Leave us all alone, you bloody damn vultures.
Draco is grateful. He sends a note of condolence and waits.
A week later Harry tumbles through the Manor Floo, exhausted, grimy and half-pissed already.
Draco leads him silently into his study and pours him a drink.
Harry takes the glass of whisky and downs it without thought. He holds it out; Draco refills it.
“It was a charm gone wrong,” he says finally and he lets Draco push him into one of the large leather chairs next to the fire. “She was working on a new one; Hermione was helping her with the research and they both knew it was dangerous, but Hermione says they had no idea-“ His voice breaks; he takes a shaky breath. “She’s devastated. Thinks I should blame her.” He sips his whisky. “How stupid is that?”
“Do you?” Draco asks quietly and he meets Harry’s gaze.
Harry looks away. “I shouldn’t.”
“You have to blame someone.” Draco lifts his glass and sets it back down on the arm of the chair, making interlocking wet circles on the leather. “For at least a little while.”
Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. He runs his hand over his face and sighs. “Your dad?” he asks at last.
Draco runs a finger through one of the circles, smearing it damply over the chair arm. “Severus,” he says. It’s barely a whisper. His stomach twists; he can still feel the pain of that night all these years later. He hates that. He’s learned to live with it, learned to ignore it, learned that most days it’s not even on his mind. But sometimes….
He looks up. Harry’s staring at him.
“Snape.”
Draco shrugs. “We were lovers my seventh year.” His fingers tighten on the glass. It’s cold and slick against his palm. “I-“ Draco hesitates, then forces himself to go on. For Harry’s sake. “I loved him.” He takes a sip of his whisky. Severus taught him to love whisky. His throat closes up; he swallows hard. “I still do, I suppose. In a different way.” His mouth twists to one side bitterly. “Fucking bastard.”
“I never knew,” Harry says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. No one knew. Except Mother. She guessed.” Draco shakes himself, looks over at Harry. “I’m only telling you because I understand.” He hesitates. “How you feel. Now.”
Harry nods. “Thank you.”
“Don’t,” Draco says crossly. He sets his glass aside. “Where are the children staying tonight?”
“With Ron and Hermione.” Harry licks his bottom lip. “I didn’t want them to see me like this.”
“Of course not.” Draco crosses one leg over the other. “You’ll stay here tonight. Merlin knows there are plenty of spare rooms. I’ll have the elves prepare one.”
Harry shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask-“
“You’re not.” Draco glares at him. “Drink. And then talk.” He looks down at his hands. “It’s what I would have wanted the night Severus…" He trails off; his mouth presses into a thin line. “Drink,” he says again.
Harry drinks.
***
Draco owls Weasley after Harry goes to bed. He supposes he owes him that much at least. He tells himself it’s for the children’s sake. For Albus’s sake.
Weasley’s note arrives half an hour later.
Look after him properly or I’ll gut you, Malfoy.
Draco thinks that’s as close to a thank you as the Weasel can ever come.
***
Harry stays three days at the Manor. He spends two of them pissed out of his mind.
Draco just sits with him. Talks when Harry wants to talk. Drinks when Harry wants to drink.
“Is he all right?” Aurélie asks after dinner. Harry’s gone off to bed, though Draco expects to find him downstairs again by three in the morning.
Draco sighs. “Well enough.”
Aurélie gives him an appraising look. “Be careful, Draco,” she says and she touches his arm. “He’s wounded.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that fact,” Draco snaps, but he catches her hand, holds it tight. He may not be in love with his wife, or want her in his bed. But he cares for her in his own way.
She kisses his cheek and climbs the stairs to her bedroom.
Draco waits in his study.
For Harry.
***
The first year is always the hardest, Draco knows full well. Not a day goes by without a thought. A remembrance. Something that brings the person to mind.
He recalls all the tears he shed into his pillow at night. How he wanted Severus to be next to him. How he missed his touch. His kiss. His scent.
Draco had slept with one of Severus’s robes for six months. Wrapping it around him at night. Hiding it beneath his pillow during the day. It was the only way he could sleep.
Harry admits to doing the same. It’s a shirt of Ginny’s, he says.
Watching Harry grieve brings it all back for Draco. Not as intensely. Twenty-three years have a way of dulling the pain somewhat. But he dreams of Severus again. Thinks of him.
Finds himself at Hogwarts, standing in front of his portrait.
“I still miss you,” he says quietly and Severus presses his palm against the canvas. Draco touches it and he still hates that he can’t feel warm skin beneath his fingers.
“Forgive me,” Severus murmurs once again.
Draco swallows hard. “I’m trying.”
Severus nods.
***
The week after the first anniversary, Draco goes with Harry to visit her grave in Highgate. Harry’s been with the Gryffindors already, but he asks Draco to come with him this time.
He doesn’t want to, but saying no to Harry is nearly impossible for him to do at the moment.
So he goes, and he watches Harry smooth the grass around her headstone, watches him fix the pile of roses and lilies that have been placed upon her grave, watches him freshen their wilting petals.
Harry is quiet as he works; Draco sits beneath a tree and says nothing. He understands in his own way.
An elderly witch stops by, a spray of wildflowers clutched in her fist. She’s going to visit her husband, she says, and she lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder, tells him she’s so very sorry.
When she leaves, Harry blinks hard behind his glasses and sits beside the grave, knees pulled to his chest. Draco comes up then, sits next to him.
They don’t speak.
Draco envies Harry his right to be public about his grief. So many years of hiding his own, and there were times when he wanted so badly to scream it to the world.
Sometimes he still does.
He talks to Harry more often about Severus. It becomes easier as the months wear on. Harry tells him about Ginny.
They find themselves spending more time together. Their weekly drinks turn into twice a week, then three times, and then they’re having dinner together.
Going to Quidditch matches even, their sons in tow.
Weasley still gives Draco suspicious looks on the rare occasion that they run into one another. But he keeps his tongue for the most part.
Draco’s surprised. His son isn’t.
“I’ve heard Mr Potter tell him to keep his gob shut,” Scorpius says at the beginnig of summer hols, his head bent over his broom. He clips a few stray crooked twigs. “And Albus says his Aunt Hermione’s said you’re good for his dad.” Scorpius looks up at him then. He’ll be sixth year next term, and he's tall and gangly, still growing into his body. “I don’t think she’s all that happy about it though.”
“Most likely not.” Draco chews at his bottom lip.
Scorpius just watches him, grey eyes seeing far too much, Draco suspects.
He scowls at his son. “You missed a twig,” he says sharply.
Scorpius just smiles and bends back over his broom.
***
Draco doesn’t expect Harry to kiss him.
It’s late on a Friday night, and he’s come to Harry’s house for dinner. No one’s about, not even the house elf Harry employs-and Draco is still taken aback by the idea of paying elves wages for Merlin’s sake. Albus and Lily are at Hogwarts, James has a flat of his own in Islington.
Dinner has been as usual. Harry’s a decent enough cook, and Draco has brought the wine-Harry has atrocious taste in that regard, Draco insists-and they’ve argued politics and Quidditch and theatre and centaur rights, taking opposite sides even when they agree just for the sport of disagreement.
A pleasant evening.
And when Draco is at the Floo, the wine buzzing warmly through him as he wraps himself in his cloak again, Harry leans in and kisses him.
Soft. Warm. Open.
It takes Draco’s breath away and he stumbles back, eyes wide.
Harry looks just as shocked.
A picture of Ginny Potter glares at them both from the mantel. Draco’s all too aware of her bright, angry gaze.
They say nothing for a moment, and then Draco blinks. “I should go.”
Harry swallows, and he raises his hand, then drops it to his side as Draco steps back.
“I should go,” Draco says again.
Harry nods.
Draco stumbles through the Floo, thankfully landing in the foyer of Malfoy Manor. He leans against the wall, staring blankly in front of him.
He touches his mouth.
“Fuck,” he says.
He’s been so careful.
Bloody fuck.
***
He doesn’t talk to Harry for four days. He misses their standing appointment for drinks.
Aurélie confronts him at breakfast finally. “What’s going on between you and Harry?” she asks in her blunt manner.
Draco nearly chokes on a lychee.
“Nothing,” he says after a moment, and he reaches for his tea.
His wife raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Liar.”
Draco sighs. “Leave it, Aurélie.”
She presses her mouth tight. He’s annoyed her now, he knows, and he’ll pay for that somehow.
He doesn’t care.
Lychee juice drips from his fingers. He licks them absently.
All he can taste is Harry.
***
“This is ridiculous, you know.” Harry’s standing in the door of Draco’s tiny office, arms crossed. “It was just a ki-“
“Shut it, Potter,” Draco hisses, and Harry barely manages to duck into the office before the door slams shut.
Draco lowers his wand, sets it down. He picks his quill back up.
“I thought I was Harry,” Harry says mildly.
“You’re bloody annoying is what you are.” Draco sighs and he runs a hand through his hair. “Shouldn’t you be having some sort of heterosexual panic attack?”
“Who says I’m entirely heterosexual?”
Draco gives him a baleful look. “Your wife, if she were alive.”
“And what does yours think of you?” Harry raises an eyebrow.
The quill in Draco’s hand snaps. “Have you ever fucked a man, Potter?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking about it.” Harry starts to sit in one of the chairs in front of Draco’s desk. "For a while."
“Don’t.” Draco opens his ledger and picks up another quill. “You’re leaving.”
“Oh for-“ Harry lifts his chin and grips the back of the chair. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” Draco looks at him then, and he’s almost pleading. “There’s no need to balls this up-“
Harry just blinks. “This.”
Draco purses his mouth, looks back down at the ledger. The columns of ink make no sense. He swallows and twists his quill between his fingers. “I don’t have many friends now,” he says quietly, after a moment. “I’d rather not have you decide that just because you’re lonely it’s perfectly all right for you to destroy whatever this is-“ he motions between the two of them “--for me.”
Harry doesn’t say anything. His fingers tighten, then loosen on the chair, his knuckles white. “Okay,” he says finally, and Draco relaxes.
“Okay,” Harry says again. He looks away. He pushes away from the chair.
Draco barely hears the door click shut behind him.
He feels oddly bereft.
Bloody stupid Gryffindors.
***
“You’re an idiot,” Aurélie says and Draco looks up sharply. His wife drops onto the lounge next to him.
“What else was I supposed to do?” Draco snaps. “He’s obviously off his rocker.”
Aurélie just glares at him, her arms crossed over her chest, and Draco knows that look so damned well. “I don’t know why I talk to you,” he says petulantly, an echo of the boy he was so many years ago.
“Because I’m the only one you can trust,” Aurélie says evenly. Her mouth twists to one side. “Most wives wouldn’t be encouraging their husbands to go bugger someone, you realise. I should be canonised.”
“Don’t be crass.”
Aurélie threads her fingers through his. “He might not be Severus-“ Draco’s head snaps up and she gives him a gentle look. “I’m not an idiot, you know. And over eighteen years, your mother talks.”
Draco closes his eyes and sighs.
“He’s not Severus,” Aurélie continues, “but you care about him. You know you do.”
“Stop it,” Draco says and his wife curls her fingers around his, rests her head on his shoulder.
“I just want to see you happy,” she says softly. “And I think Severus would too.”
Draco thinks perhaps she’s never entirely understood him.
Happiness is not something he can comprehend.
“He’s sweet, you know,” Aurélie says, rubbing her thumb across Draco’s knuckle. “He owled me to apologise for kissing you.”
Draco grits his teeth.
“I told him not to worry,” his wife says, patting his knee. “That you could kiss whomever you want.”
“I hate you,” Draco mutters.
Aurélie smiles brightly. “I know.”
***
Harry arrives in the middle of the night. Draco’s been expecting him for the past few days. If there’s anything his friendship with the idiot has taught him, it’s that Harry Potter is bloody fucking persistent.
“So, here’s the thing,” Harry says, standing up and dusting Floo powder off himself. “I don’t want to cock up our friendship either. It’s the last thing I want.”
Draco just stares at him from across the hall, his arms crossed over his chest.
Harry steps closer. “But the thing is that I like you.” Draco watches him warily. “And I can’t seem to stop thinking about you. About what I want.”
He’s next to Draco now, close enough to touch him, and Draco is half-afraid he might.
“So I talked to Hermione,” Harry says. “And she seems to think that maybe I might need to kiss you again. Just to see.”
Draco frowns. “Granger always was a moron.”
“I think I disagree.” Harry reaches for Draco, catches his wrist in his fingers. He pulls him closer; Draco doesn’t resist.
Too much.
Harry touches his cheek, callused fingertips skimming over Draco’s jaw, and Draco’s so very aware of the Harryness of Harry.
He presses a hand against Harry’s chest, fingers spread wide. He moves it slowly up, barely brushing Harry’s neck, his fingers light against Harry’s jaw.
Draco breathes out. Harry’s broader than they were in school, and heavier, though not by much. But the planes of his face are wider, less fragile than they were two decades ago.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Harry says softly and Draco knows he should object.
He doesn’t.
Instead he nods, and Harry’s mouth brushes over his, sending a shiver down his spine, and Draco leans into him.
Harry deepens the kiss, slow and soft and sweet, and Draco hasn’t been kissed like this in years. Not since-his mind jerks away from that thought; his stomach twists. He can’t-not now.
And then Harry’s hands are in Draco’s hair, pulling him closer, and Draco groans softly at the slide of Harry’s tongue against his.
He clings to Harry, his fingers twisted in Harry’s robe, and he needs this. Wants it.
“Harry,” he whispers.
Harry pulls away, his fingers sliding over Draco’s jaw. He stares at him. “Hermione’s bloody brilliant,” he says softly and for once Draco doesn’t object.
Perhaps Granger isn’t a complete dunce after all.
He reaches for Harry.
***
Harry is beautiful naked.
He’s not perfect, however, and Draco prefers that. He likes the small scars and the knobbly knees and the slight concaveness of Harry’s chest.
And when Harry moves over him, dragging his mouth across pale skin, biting at Draco’s nipple, Draco grabs his shoulders and gasps.
Harry traces a web of faded scars that twist over Draco’s side. “I did that,” he whispers, “didn’t I?” and he looks up at Draco with horrified eyes.
“Yes,” Draco says, a matter-of-fact statement. He can barely recall the pain and the blood and how very much he had hated Potter afterwards. But he can still feel Severus’s hands on him, smoothing essence of dittany into the still seeping wounds.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He kisses one of the scars, licking lightly up it. Draco shivers.
Harry closes his fingers around Draco's wrist, and he presses his mouth to the soft skin there. Draco flinches for a moment, but Harry looks up at him calmly, evenly, and his mouth slides down to the pale shadow of the Mark.
He kisses it. Sucks lightly at the skin.
Draco shudders, shifts beneath him. He can feel Harry's mouth, his tongue; the Mark aches and burns warmly, sending zings of want through his arm, and he twists to one side with a gasp.
“Harry,” he says, pulling at Harry's shoulder and it’s more of a plea than a demand.
The sheets are soft beneath his fingers and he grips them tightly as Harry bends over his cock, sucking it lightly into his mouth.
“Teeth,” Draco chokes out and Harry remembers to curl his lips over them as he sucks. Draco groans and twists beneath him.
It’s not a brilliant blow job. It’s not even the best that Draco’s had. But it’s Harry’s first and what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. That alone causes Draco to push his hips up with a soft cry, begging Harry to suck him, to lick him, to let him come in his mouth.
Harry pulls back, eyes dark and bright. “I want to fuck you,” he gasps out and Draco slides a hand to the back of his neck, tugging him back down.
“Yes,” he says against Harry’s mouth and he shudders as Harry’s cock rubs across his hip. “Please, yes.”
There’s lube in the table next to the bed, and Draco rolls over and grabs it, giving Harry a view of his arse.
Harry presses him into the bed, drags his mouth along the curve of Draco’s spine, over his arse. He bites at Draco’s thigh, just along the bend and Draco’s hips buck against the mattress. “Harry-“
“You’re beautiful,” Harry whispers and Draco twists to look back at him. Harry’s hands smooth over his hips, the head of his cock catches on Draco’s thigh. It’s heavy and hot and wet and Draco makes a quiet noise at the thought of it pressing into him.
He hands Harry the lube. “One finger first,” he says breathlessly. “Then two.”
Harry nods and slicks up his hand. He pushes one finger against Draco, almost hesitantly.
“Harry,” Draco says sharply, and Harry presses his finger in, entirely. Draco cries out, his hips bucking up.
“Are you-“ Harry looks down at him, concerned, and he starts to pull his finger out.
“Fine,” Draco gasps. He tightens around Harry’s finger. “Good. Oh God.”
A smile spreads across Harry’s face.
“Shut it,” Draco says crossly. He pushes his hips up against Harry’s hand. “Just fuck me, you tit.”
Harry’s finger moves slowly at first, and then he finds a rhythm, one that shudders through Draco, deep and strong, and when Draco says another, Harry, oh God, please, Harry doesn’t hesitate to press a second finger into him, twisting, pressing, stretching him.
It’s almost too much and yet not quite enough. Draco pulls on Harry’s shoulders. “More,” he groans and he kisses Harry roughly.
And then Harry’s fingers are gone and the blunt head of his cock presses against Draco. “Yes.” Draco wraps a leg around Harry’s hips. “Fuck me. Please.”
Harry looks hesitant, for just long enough, and Draco pulls him down into a frantic kiss. “Harry,” he says against his mouth. “Please.”
Draco groans as Harry pushes into him exquisitely slowly. His body shakes; he spreads his legs wide. “More, yes, God,” he chokes out and Harry’s shoulders are tight and tense under his palms.
“Fuck,” Harry whispers, staring down at him and Draco touches his face, slides his fingers lightly over Harry’s cheek.
“Yes.”
Harry shivers at the press of Draco’s fingers on his lips. He bites at his fingertips, sucks one into his mouth.
He moves slowly inside of Draco, his cock slick and heavy and Draco breathes in sharply with each press forward.
It’s excruciatingly, beautifully slow, and Draco wraps an arm around Harry’s neck, pulling him down for another kiss. “Look at me,” he whispers, and Harry’s eyes flutter open.
Draco groans.
He’s the first man Harry’s done this with, and the thought is beyond exciting. It makes him flush, makes him tremble and he pulls at Harry, arching up to meet each thrust.
“Harder,” Draco gasps, and Harry throws his head back, and slams into him then, his neck a long golden curve. Draco licks up the salty-sweet skin, burying his face against Harry’s jaw. “Yes,” he says. “More, God, yes, more, please-“
Draco can feel Harry inside of him, stretching him, fucking him, each rough thrust pushing him further up the bed until Draco reaches out wildly and braces himself against the headboard.
Harry’s beautiful over him, his hair tumbling into his face, catching on sweaty, flushed skin, and his eyes are bright and wide.
Draco spreads his thighs wider, his toes digging into the mattress. He presses up to meet each thrust, and the bed is thumping loudly against the wall, but Draco doesn’t fucking care because Harry’s inside of him, fucking him and Christ--
He comes on a gasp and a cry, his body shaking, his fingernails digging into Harry’s arms, leaving pink-white crescents in soft skin. His legs shake, his thighs tighten around Harry’s hips and it’s too much.
Too much.
Harry bites his shoulder, slamming into him in quick thrusts, all sense of rhythm gone. His eyes are unfocused, his body tight and tense and Draco whispers in his ear, tells him to come, tells him he wants to see it, needs to see it.
It only takes a moment.
Harry falls against him, gasping. Draco wraps his arms around Harry; they lie there silently.
Draco strokes along Harry’s back.
After a moment, Harry lifts his head. “Wow,” he says breathlessly.
And Draco laughs.
***
They’ve been sleeping together for four months when Harry finds the note in the back of the wardrobe.
Draco should have known better. But Harry has been leaving clothes for weeks at the Manor-much to Weasley’s consternation and objection which has only caused Draco to encourage the madness-and half of Draco’s wardrobe now consists of Auror robes and Muggle jeans.
He’d been in the shower-convincing Harry to join him on a weekday morning was nearly impossible; Harry refused to be late. He claimed it was a need for responsible leadership. Draco secretly suspected that Harry just didn’t want to be questioned by Weasley.
Harry’s sitting cross-legged and fully dressed on the floor in front of the wardrobe, the unopened letter in his hand.
Draco stops, still dripping from his shower, his towel clutched around his waist. Harry looks up at him and blinks.
“What are you doing?” Draco asks sharply.
“This is the letter from Snape.” Harry runs a finger over the wax crest. “You haven’t opened it.”
Draco grabs it from him. “No.”
Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You should, you know.” He bites his bottom lip. “If it were me-if Gin had left me something-“ He sighs. “I’d want to read it.”
“I’m not you,” Draco says tightly.
Harry touches his arm; Draco pulls away.
“You should go to work,” he says.
“Yeah.” Harry hesitates, then clambers to his feet. “Read it,” he says, and he leans in to kiss Draco’s cheek.
Draco sits on the bed after he leaves and turns the envelope in his hand.
He tosses it aside finally and reaches for his clothes.
***
The envelope crinkles in his pocket.
Draco doesn’t know why he brought it. He has no intention of reading it, but it was lying on the bed and it seemed easier to grab it and slide it in his robe rather than throwing it into the back of the wardrobe.
Where it belongs.
He takes it out of his pocket, smoothes out the wrinkles against his desktop. The paper is yellowing; the ink has faded.
But it’s Severus’s handwriting, all sharp spikes and elegant curls.
Draco traces the M.
He doesn’t want to read it. He doesn’t. There’s nothing that Severus can say-
The sealing wax scatters across his blotter, tiny scraps of embossed black.
His hand shakes as he pulls the note out, unfolds the paper.
Draco,
Should you read this, I am dead and someone has delivered this letter to you. I fully expect that you will have thrown at least one tantrum about that matter.
There are things about me you do not know. That you may never know. Secrets I have held close for years.
For most of my life I believed those secrets to be that which defined me.
Now I am not entirely certain.
I am ready to die. I have expected it for quite some time. His Lordship is a fool, yes, but not an utter fool, and such a precarious house of cards as I have built is bound to come tumbling down at some point. For the first time in years, however, I have one person who gives me hope. Who causes me to believe that perhaps I should wish for life.
If you hold this in your hand, I have failed that person. Failed you.
Forgive me.
Severus
Draco sits silent in his empty office, the letter spread in front of him.
His cheeks are wet.
He takes a shaky breath; he knows what he has to do.
***
Draco runs into Neville Longbottom in the Entrance Hall. Strange to consider him a professor.
Longbottom blinks at him, just once, then says, “Should I find Scorpius?”
“No.” Draco hesitates. “I’m here to see Sever-Headmaster Snape.”
Longbottom gives him a long, speculative look, then nods. He turns to the nearest portrait. “Find Snape,” he tells one of the giggling witches making cow eyes Draco’s way. She blanches.
“Must I?”
“Now,” Longbottom says firmly, and Draco’s surprised by how quickly the girl flounces off, dashing through the nearest painting.
He eyes Longbottom uneasily. Draco’s never quite certain what to say to old schoolmates, but Longbottom merely claps his hand on Draco’s arm with a faint smile. “He’ll be here soon.”
A gaggle of students swarm past, all black robes and school ties, and one calls out “Professor Longbottom, I’ve a new clipping to show you when you’ve a moment-“
“I’ve one now, Abbott,” Longbottom says and he nods at Draco. “Good seeing you, Malfoy.”
Draco suspects that he might actually mean it.
He never will understand Gryffindors.
The hall quiets. Students return to class or to their dormitories. A few walk past him, glancing curiously his way. Draco ignores them.
“You’ve returned,” Severus says.
Draco turns around, his breath catching. Severus leans against a portrait frame, his arms crossed.
“Yes.” Draco’s voice breaks slightly. “Severus.”
Severus frowns then, steps further into the frame. “What is it?” His brows furrow. “Your brat is well-I spoke with him just this morning and the portraits are under strict orders to tell me if he’s harmed-“
“No, it’s not him.” Draco licks his bottom lip. “The letter. I read the letter.” He flushes. “Finally.”
“I see,” Severus says.
Draco meets his gaze directly. “I forgive you.”
The hall is silent.
Severus nods at last, and his fingertips brush the surface of the canvas. Draco reaches out, presses his fingers to Severus’s. For one brief moment, he can almost believe he feels warm skin against his.
It’s enough.
“I love you too,” Draco says at last.
Severus nods. A faint smile curves his lips. “I know.”
Draco laughs, a half-sob. “Bastard.”
“Brat.”
A sigh, and Draco traces the curve of Severus’s palm. “I miss you.”
“I’m gone,” Severus says bluntly. “You shouldn’t.”
Draco shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. You know.” He meets Severus’s eyes. “Lily Potter.”
Severus flinches. He looks away.
“You ought to have told me,” Draco says. “It was worse hearing from Harry-“
Severus just looks at him. “She was my only friend,” he says at last. “She died because of me-“
Draco shakes his head. “She died because of Him. Not you.” He swallows; his throat is tight. “You can let that go now, Severus.”
He doesn’t say anything. Draco drops his hand.
“Draco.” Severus’s voice is quiet. Draco looks at him. “Don’t make the same mistake I did,” Severus murmurs. “Live.”
Draco nods and blinks hard.
“Promise me,” Severus says, almost angrily.
“I promise.” The words nearly catch in Draco’s throat.
Severus nods curtly and then he’s gone, leaving Draco standing silent and alone.
***
The Pensieve gleams silver-white in the moonlight. Draco takes a deep breath.
“Are you sure?” Harry asks. He kneels beside Draco, their fingers twined together.
Draco nods. “I want you to see.” He looks at Harry , at a shock of messy black hair shadowed in the darkness, at bright green eyes watching him steadily. “I want someone to know. About us.” He hesitates. "I think he'll understand."
“Right then.” Harry nods and squeezes Draco’s hand.
Draco leans over and kisses him roughly. “Thank you,” he whispers.
He lets himself tumble in, pulling Harry along with him.
***
Aurélie suggests the divorce first.
“I do love you both,,” she says over breakfast, passing a plate of toast across the table to Harry. “But I think it’s becoming difficult to maintain discretion if Harry’s staying over every night.” She looks at them both pointedly. “And the children have a right to know.”
Harry and Draco exchange a look.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Harry says to Aurélie. “This is your home.”
“Oh, don’t think I shan’t force Draco to find me an adequate place,” Aurélie says tartly. “A townhouse in Mayfair, perhaps.” She eyes Draco speculatively. “Your mother could help.”
Draco rolls his eyes and bites into a sausage. "That'll cost a small fortune."
"It's expected, darling." Aurélie laughs. "I'm the cuckolded wife."
Harry licks his spoon thoughtfully. "Can wives be cuckolded?"
Aurélie raises an eyebrow. "By the two of you, yes."
Harry grins at her.
Draco sighs. "Scorpius?" he asks.
"Will be out of Hogwarts soon enough," his wife says. "And I think he'll understand better than you expect, love." She touches Draco's hand. "You know it's time."
Draco glances away; his cheeks flush. He knows she's right.
He's not entirely certain what to think.
"I'll talk to the solicitor," he says at last, and he pours another cup of tea.
***
It takes a year and a day for the divorce to go through.
Harry officially moves in the next week, carting the contents of his cottage into the main wing of the Manor. Gryffindors traipse in and out; Draco has to bribe his father's portrait to remain in one of the unused wings after he sends one of the elves into convulsions and causes Granger-Weasley to spend the next fifteen minutes tormenting Draco about the conditions the Malfoy elves serve under.
Draco still has a headache.
Weasley levitates boxes into the Manor with a sigh that he only suppresses at his wife's frown. He corners Draco in the upstairs hallway.
“I don’t like this much,” the Weasel says, “but I reckon it’s not my choice, and Harry’s happy enough now. But if you hurt him, Malfoy-“
“You’ll gut me,” Draco finishes dryly. “Yes, we’ve had this discussion.”
Weasley grunts. “Just reminding you.”
“Duly noted.”
They glare at each other for a moment, and then Weasley sticks a hand out.
Draco eyes it suspiciously before taking it.
They shake.
Much to Draco’s surprise, the world doesn’t end.
***
Draco’s standing at the bedroom window, looking out over the manor gardens, a glass of wine in his hand.
He’s seen Severus today, both at Hogwarts and at his vault. It’s an odd pilgramage, one Scorpius makes with him, even now. Especially now.
Draco’s throat tightens. He told his son the truth about Severus and himself when Harry moved in. Harry can be an insistent arse at times.
But it doesn’t make him wrong.
Harry slides an arm around his waist, pulling him back against him. “Thinking?”
“Trying not to.” Draco sips his wine. May is always a difficult month. Harry knows this. He has demons of his own.
So many dead on one night.
Harry rests his head on Draco’s shoulder. “He was a lucky bastard, you know.”
Draco turns then in Harry’s arms, raises an eyebrow. “I think he might disagree.”
“No.” Harry shakes his head, smiles faintly. “He was loved. Automatically lucky, there.”
Draco snorts. “You’re a maudlin old fool, Potter.”
“Maybe.” Harry shrugs. His fingers smooth lightly across Draco’s stomach. “I prefer life that way, though.”
Draco leans against Harry. He says nothing, just sips his wine.
Outside, the wind rustles through the tree leaves and long shadows cast by moonlight curl around the mausoleum along the edge of the grounds beneath the cypress trees.
And Draco lives.
As he promised.
Author: Femme
Pairings: Snape/Draco, Harry/Draco
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~15,800
Summary: Draco finds his way after the war.
Warnings: Please note. This fic is about 95% Deathly Hallows compliant. There are spoilers within.
Author's Notes: I started writing this a day after finishing Deathly Hallows. I wanted to know if I could write a canon-compliant slash fic that addressed Snape's death, the Snape/Lily, and the epilogue, particularly given my OTP. Heh. So…I gave it a shot. :)
Link to Part One
Halfway through Scorpius’s fourth year, Ginny Potter dies.
Draco takes Scorpius to the funeral. They sit in the back, staying just long enough for Harry and Albus to see them.
The Prophet at first claims it’s the work of a rogue Death Eater, implies that perhaps the Potters’ association with the Malfoy family might be at fault.
Harry squelches that rumor angrily and in person according to the next day’s article which quotes him as saying I won’t have my wife’s death used against the Malfoys. Leave us all alone, you bloody damn vultures.
Draco is grateful. He sends a note of condolence and waits.
A week later Harry tumbles through the Manor Floo, exhausted, grimy and half-pissed already.
Draco leads him silently into his study and pours him a drink.
Harry takes the glass of whisky and downs it without thought. He holds it out; Draco refills it.
“It was a charm gone wrong,” he says finally and he lets Draco push him into one of the large leather chairs next to the fire. “She was working on a new one; Hermione was helping her with the research and they both knew it was dangerous, but Hermione says they had no idea-“ His voice breaks; he takes a shaky breath. “She’s devastated. Thinks I should blame her.” He sips his whisky. “How stupid is that?”
“Do you?” Draco asks quietly and he meets Harry’s gaze.
Harry looks away. “I shouldn’t.”
“You have to blame someone.” Draco lifts his glass and sets it back down on the arm of the chair, making interlocking wet circles on the leather. “For at least a little while.”
Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. He runs his hand over his face and sighs. “Your dad?” he asks at last.
Draco runs a finger through one of the circles, smearing it damply over the chair arm. “Severus,” he says. It’s barely a whisper. His stomach twists; he can still feel the pain of that night all these years later. He hates that. He’s learned to live with it, learned to ignore it, learned that most days it’s not even on his mind. But sometimes….
He looks up. Harry’s staring at him.
“Snape.”
Draco shrugs. “We were lovers my seventh year.” His fingers tighten on the glass. It’s cold and slick against his palm. “I-“ Draco hesitates, then forces himself to go on. For Harry’s sake. “I loved him.” He takes a sip of his whisky. Severus taught him to love whisky. His throat closes up; he swallows hard. “I still do, I suppose. In a different way.” His mouth twists to one side bitterly. “Fucking bastard.”
“I never knew,” Harry says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. No one knew. Except Mother. She guessed.” Draco shakes himself, looks over at Harry. “I’m only telling you because I understand.” He hesitates. “How you feel. Now.”
Harry nods. “Thank you.”
“Don’t,” Draco says crossly. He sets his glass aside. “Where are the children staying tonight?”
“With Ron and Hermione.” Harry licks his bottom lip. “I didn’t want them to see me like this.”
“Of course not.” Draco crosses one leg over the other. “You’ll stay here tonight. Merlin knows there are plenty of spare rooms. I’ll have the elves prepare one.”
Harry shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask-“
“You’re not.” Draco glares at him. “Drink. And then talk.” He looks down at his hands. “It’s what I would have wanted the night Severus…" He trails off; his mouth presses into a thin line. “Drink,” he says again.
Harry drinks.
***
Draco owls Weasley after Harry goes to bed. He supposes he owes him that much at least. He tells himself it’s for the children’s sake. For Albus’s sake.
Weasley’s note arrives half an hour later.
Look after him properly or I’ll gut you, Malfoy.
Draco thinks that’s as close to a thank you as the Weasel can ever come.
***
Harry stays three days at the Manor. He spends two of them pissed out of his mind.
Draco just sits with him. Talks when Harry wants to talk. Drinks when Harry wants to drink.
“Is he all right?” Aurélie asks after dinner. Harry’s gone off to bed, though Draco expects to find him downstairs again by three in the morning.
Draco sighs. “Well enough.”
Aurélie gives him an appraising look. “Be careful, Draco,” she says and she touches his arm. “He’s wounded.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that fact,” Draco snaps, but he catches her hand, holds it tight. He may not be in love with his wife, or want her in his bed. But he cares for her in his own way.
She kisses his cheek and climbs the stairs to her bedroom.
Draco waits in his study.
For Harry.
***
The first year is always the hardest, Draco knows full well. Not a day goes by without a thought. A remembrance. Something that brings the person to mind.
He recalls all the tears he shed into his pillow at night. How he wanted Severus to be next to him. How he missed his touch. His kiss. His scent.
Draco had slept with one of Severus’s robes for six months. Wrapping it around him at night. Hiding it beneath his pillow during the day. It was the only way he could sleep.
Harry admits to doing the same. It’s a shirt of Ginny’s, he says.
Watching Harry grieve brings it all back for Draco. Not as intensely. Twenty-three years have a way of dulling the pain somewhat. But he dreams of Severus again. Thinks of him.
Finds himself at Hogwarts, standing in front of his portrait.
“I still miss you,” he says quietly and Severus presses his palm against the canvas. Draco touches it and he still hates that he can’t feel warm skin beneath his fingers.
“Forgive me,” Severus murmurs once again.
Draco swallows hard. “I’m trying.”
Severus nods.
***
The week after the first anniversary, Draco goes with Harry to visit her grave in Highgate. Harry’s been with the Gryffindors already, but he asks Draco to come with him this time.
He doesn’t want to, but saying no to Harry is nearly impossible for him to do at the moment.
So he goes, and he watches Harry smooth the grass around her headstone, watches him fix the pile of roses and lilies that have been placed upon her grave, watches him freshen their wilting petals.
Harry is quiet as he works; Draco sits beneath a tree and says nothing. He understands in his own way.
An elderly witch stops by, a spray of wildflowers clutched in her fist. She’s going to visit her husband, she says, and she lays a hand on Harry’s shoulder, tells him she’s so very sorry.
When she leaves, Harry blinks hard behind his glasses and sits beside the grave, knees pulled to his chest. Draco comes up then, sits next to him.
They don’t speak.
Draco envies Harry his right to be public about his grief. So many years of hiding his own, and there were times when he wanted so badly to scream it to the world.
Sometimes he still does.
He talks to Harry more often about Severus. It becomes easier as the months wear on. Harry tells him about Ginny.
They find themselves spending more time together. Their weekly drinks turn into twice a week, then three times, and then they’re having dinner together.
Going to Quidditch matches even, their sons in tow.
Weasley still gives Draco suspicious looks on the rare occasion that they run into one another. But he keeps his tongue for the most part.
Draco’s surprised. His son isn’t.
“I’ve heard Mr Potter tell him to keep his gob shut,” Scorpius says at the beginnig of summer hols, his head bent over his broom. He clips a few stray crooked twigs. “And Albus says his Aunt Hermione’s said you’re good for his dad.” Scorpius looks up at him then. He’ll be sixth year next term, and he's tall and gangly, still growing into his body. “I don’t think she’s all that happy about it though.”
“Most likely not.” Draco chews at his bottom lip.
Scorpius just watches him, grey eyes seeing far too much, Draco suspects.
He scowls at his son. “You missed a twig,” he says sharply.
Scorpius just smiles and bends back over his broom.
***
Draco doesn’t expect Harry to kiss him.
It’s late on a Friday night, and he’s come to Harry’s house for dinner. No one’s about, not even the house elf Harry employs-and Draco is still taken aback by the idea of paying elves wages for Merlin’s sake. Albus and Lily are at Hogwarts, James has a flat of his own in Islington.
Dinner has been as usual. Harry’s a decent enough cook, and Draco has brought the wine-Harry has atrocious taste in that regard, Draco insists-and they’ve argued politics and Quidditch and theatre and centaur rights, taking opposite sides even when they agree just for the sport of disagreement.
A pleasant evening.
And when Draco is at the Floo, the wine buzzing warmly through him as he wraps himself in his cloak again, Harry leans in and kisses him.
Soft. Warm. Open.
It takes Draco’s breath away and he stumbles back, eyes wide.
Harry looks just as shocked.
A picture of Ginny Potter glares at them both from the mantel. Draco’s all too aware of her bright, angry gaze.
They say nothing for a moment, and then Draco blinks. “I should go.”
Harry swallows, and he raises his hand, then drops it to his side as Draco steps back.
“I should go,” Draco says again.
Harry nods.
Draco stumbles through the Floo, thankfully landing in the foyer of Malfoy Manor. He leans against the wall, staring blankly in front of him.
He touches his mouth.
“Fuck,” he says.
He’s been so careful.
Bloody fuck.
***
He doesn’t talk to Harry for four days. He misses their standing appointment for drinks.
Aurélie confronts him at breakfast finally. “What’s going on between you and Harry?” she asks in her blunt manner.
Draco nearly chokes on a lychee.
“Nothing,” he says after a moment, and he reaches for his tea.
His wife raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Liar.”
Draco sighs. “Leave it, Aurélie.”
She presses her mouth tight. He’s annoyed her now, he knows, and he’ll pay for that somehow.
He doesn’t care.
Lychee juice drips from his fingers. He licks them absently.
All he can taste is Harry.
***
“This is ridiculous, you know.” Harry’s standing in the door of Draco’s tiny office, arms crossed. “It was just a ki-“
“Shut it, Potter,” Draco hisses, and Harry barely manages to duck into the office before the door slams shut.
Draco lowers his wand, sets it down. He picks his quill back up.
“I thought I was Harry,” Harry says mildly.
“You’re bloody annoying is what you are.” Draco sighs and he runs a hand through his hair. “Shouldn’t you be having some sort of heterosexual panic attack?”
“Who says I’m entirely heterosexual?”
Draco gives him a baleful look. “Your wife, if she were alive.”
“And what does yours think of you?” Harry raises an eyebrow.
The quill in Draco’s hand snaps. “Have you ever fucked a man, Potter?”
“No, but I’ve been thinking about it.” Harry starts to sit in one of the chairs in front of Draco’s desk. "For a while."
“Don’t.” Draco opens his ledger and picks up another quill. “You’re leaving.”
“Oh for-“ Harry lifts his chin and grips the back of the chair. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” Draco looks at him then, and he’s almost pleading. “There’s no need to balls this up-“
Harry just blinks. “This.”
Draco purses his mouth, looks back down at the ledger. The columns of ink make no sense. He swallows and twists his quill between his fingers. “I don’t have many friends now,” he says quietly, after a moment. “I’d rather not have you decide that just because you’re lonely it’s perfectly all right for you to destroy whatever this is-“ he motions between the two of them “--for me.”
Harry doesn’t say anything. His fingers tighten, then loosen on the chair, his knuckles white. “Okay,” he says finally, and Draco relaxes.
“Okay,” Harry says again. He looks away. He pushes away from the chair.
Draco barely hears the door click shut behind him.
He feels oddly bereft.
Bloody stupid Gryffindors.
***
“You’re an idiot,” Aurélie says and Draco looks up sharply. His wife drops onto the lounge next to him.
“What else was I supposed to do?” Draco snaps. “He’s obviously off his rocker.”
Aurélie just glares at him, her arms crossed over her chest, and Draco knows that look so damned well. “I don’t know why I talk to you,” he says petulantly, an echo of the boy he was so many years ago.
“Because I’m the only one you can trust,” Aurélie says evenly. Her mouth twists to one side. “Most wives wouldn’t be encouraging their husbands to go bugger someone, you realise. I should be canonised.”
“Don’t be crass.”
Aurélie threads her fingers through his. “He might not be Severus-“ Draco’s head snaps up and she gives him a gentle look. “I’m not an idiot, you know. And over eighteen years, your mother talks.”
Draco closes his eyes and sighs.
“He’s not Severus,” Aurélie continues, “but you care about him. You know you do.”
“Stop it,” Draco says and his wife curls her fingers around his, rests her head on his shoulder.
“I just want to see you happy,” she says softly. “And I think Severus would too.”
Draco thinks perhaps she’s never entirely understood him.
Happiness is not something he can comprehend.
“He’s sweet, you know,” Aurélie says, rubbing her thumb across Draco’s knuckle. “He owled me to apologise for kissing you.”
Draco grits his teeth.
“I told him not to worry,” his wife says, patting his knee. “That you could kiss whomever you want.”
“I hate you,” Draco mutters.
Aurélie smiles brightly. “I know.”
***
Harry arrives in the middle of the night. Draco’s been expecting him for the past few days. If there’s anything his friendship with the idiot has taught him, it’s that Harry Potter is bloody fucking persistent.
“So, here’s the thing,” Harry says, standing up and dusting Floo powder off himself. “I don’t want to cock up our friendship either. It’s the last thing I want.”
Draco just stares at him from across the hall, his arms crossed over his chest.
Harry steps closer. “But the thing is that I like you.” Draco watches him warily. “And I can’t seem to stop thinking about you. About what I want.”
He’s next to Draco now, close enough to touch him, and Draco is half-afraid he might.
“So I talked to Hermione,” Harry says. “And she seems to think that maybe I might need to kiss you again. Just to see.”
Draco frowns. “Granger always was a moron.”
“I think I disagree.” Harry reaches for Draco, catches his wrist in his fingers. He pulls him closer; Draco doesn’t resist.
Too much.
Harry touches his cheek, callused fingertips skimming over Draco’s jaw, and Draco’s so very aware of the Harryness of Harry.
He presses a hand against Harry’s chest, fingers spread wide. He moves it slowly up, barely brushing Harry’s neck, his fingers light against Harry’s jaw.
Draco breathes out. Harry’s broader than they were in school, and heavier, though not by much. But the planes of his face are wider, less fragile than they were two decades ago.
“I’m going to kiss you,” Harry says softly and Draco knows he should object.
He doesn’t.
Instead he nods, and Harry’s mouth brushes over his, sending a shiver down his spine, and Draco leans into him.
Harry deepens the kiss, slow and soft and sweet, and Draco hasn’t been kissed like this in years. Not since-his mind jerks away from that thought; his stomach twists. He can’t-not now.
And then Harry’s hands are in Draco’s hair, pulling him closer, and Draco groans softly at the slide of Harry’s tongue against his.
He clings to Harry, his fingers twisted in Harry’s robe, and he needs this. Wants it.
“Harry,” he whispers.
Harry pulls away, his fingers sliding over Draco’s jaw. He stares at him. “Hermione’s bloody brilliant,” he says softly and for once Draco doesn’t object.
Perhaps Granger isn’t a complete dunce after all.
He reaches for Harry.
***
Harry is beautiful naked.
He’s not perfect, however, and Draco prefers that. He likes the small scars and the knobbly knees and the slight concaveness of Harry’s chest.
And when Harry moves over him, dragging his mouth across pale skin, biting at Draco’s nipple, Draco grabs his shoulders and gasps.
Harry traces a web of faded scars that twist over Draco’s side. “I did that,” he whispers, “didn’t I?” and he looks up at Draco with horrified eyes.
“Yes,” Draco says, a matter-of-fact statement. He can barely recall the pain and the blood and how very much he had hated Potter afterwards. But he can still feel Severus’s hands on him, smoothing essence of dittany into the still seeping wounds.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He kisses one of the scars, licking lightly up it. Draco shivers.
Harry closes his fingers around Draco's wrist, and he presses his mouth to the soft skin there. Draco flinches for a moment, but Harry looks up at him calmly, evenly, and his mouth slides down to the pale shadow of the Mark.
He kisses it. Sucks lightly at the skin.
Draco shudders, shifts beneath him. He can feel Harry's mouth, his tongue; the Mark aches and burns warmly, sending zings of want through his arm, and he twists to one side with a gasp.
“Harry,” he says, pulling at Harry's shoulder and it’s more of a plea than a demand.
The sheets are soft beneath his fingers and he grips them tightly as Harry bends over his cock, sucking it lightly into his mouth.
“Teeth,” Draco chokes out and Harry remembers to curl his lips over them as he sucks. Draco groans and twists beneath him.
It’s not a brilliant blow job. It’s not even the best that Draco’s had. But it’s Harry’s first and what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. That alone causes Draco to push his hips up with a soft cry, begging Harry to suck him, to lick him, to let him come in his mouth.
Harry pulls back, eyes dark and bright. “I want to fuck you,” he gasps out and Draco slides a hand to the back of his neck, tugging him back down.
“Yes,” he says against Harry’s mouth and he shudders as Harry’s cock rubs across his hip. “Please, yes.”
There’s lube in the table next to the bed, and Draco rolls over and grabs it, giving Harry a view of his arse.
Harry presses him into the bed, drags his mouth along the curve of Draco’s spine, over his arse. He bites at Draco’s thigh, just along the bend and Draco’s hips buck against the mattress. “Harry-“
“You’re beautiful,” Harry whispers and Draco twists to look back at him. Harry’s hands smooth over his hips, the head of his cock catches on Draco’s thigh. It’s heavy and hot and wet and Draco makes a quiet noise at the thought of it pressing into him.
He hands Harry the lube. “One finger first,” he says breathlessly. “Then two.”
Harry nods and slicks up his hand. He pushes one finger against Draco, almost hesitantly.
“Harry,” Draco says sharply, and Harry presses his finger in, entirely. Draco cries out, his hips bucking up.
“Are you-“ Harry looks down at him, concerned, and he starts to pull his finger out.
“Fine,” Draco gasps. He tightens around Harry’s finger. “Good. Oh God.”
A smile spreads across Harry’s face.
“Shut it,” Draco says crossly. He pushes his hips up against Harry’s hand. “Just fuck me, you tit.”
Harry’s finger moves slowly at first, and then he finds a rhythm, one that shudders through Draco, deep and strong, and when Draco says another, Harry, oh God, please, Harry doesn’t hesitate to press a second finger into him, twisting, pressing, stretching him.
It’s almost too much and yet not quite enough. Draco pulls on Harry’s shoulders. “More,” he groans and he kisses Harry roughly.
And then Harry’s fingers are gone and the blunt head of his cock presses against Draco. “Yes.” Draco wraps a leg around Harry’s hips. “Fuck me. Please.”
Harry looks hesitant, for just long enough, and Draco pulls him down into a frantic kiss. “Harry,” he says against his mouth. “Please.”
Draco groans as Harry pushes into him exquisitely slowly. His body shakes; he spreads his legs wide. “More, yes, God,” he chokes out and Harry’s shoulders are tight and tense under his palms.
“Fuck,” Harry whispers, staring down at him and Draco touches his face, slides his fingers lightly over Harry’s cheek.
“Yes.”
Harry shivers at the press of Draco’s fingers on his lips. He bites at his fingertips, sucks one into his mouth.
He moves slowly inside of Draco, his cock slick and heavy and Draco breathes in sharply with each press forward.
It’s excruciatingly, beautifully slow, and Draco wraps an arm around Harry’s neck, pulling him down for another kiss. “Look at me,” he whispers, and Harry’s eyes flutter open.
Draco groans.
He’s the first man Harry’s done this with, and the thought is beyond exciting. It makes him flush, makes him tremble and he pulls at Harry, arching up to meet each thrust.
“Harder,” Draco gasps, and Harry throws his head back, and slams into him then, his neck a long golden curve. Draco licks up the salty-sweet skin, burying his face against Harry’s jaw. “Yes,” he says. “More, God, yes, more, please-“
Draco can feel Harry inside of him, stretching him, fucking him, each rough thrust pushing him further up the bed until Draco reaches out wildly and braces himself against the headboard.
Harry’s beautiful over him, his hair tumbling into his face, catching on sweaty, flushed skin, and his eyes are bright and wide.
Draco spreads his thighs wider, his toes digging into the mattress. He presses up to meet each thrust, and the bed is thumping loudly against the wall, but Draco doesn’t fucking care because Harry’s inside of him, fucking him and Christ--
He comes on a gasp and a cry, his body shaking, his fingernails digging into Harry’s arms, leaving pink-white crescents in soft skin. His legs shake, his thighs tighten around Harry’s hips and it’s too much.
Too much.
Harry bites his shoulder, slamming into him in quick thrusts, all sense of rhythm gone. His eyes are unfocused, his body tight and tense and Draco whispers in his ear, tells him to come, tells him he wants to see it, needs to see it.
It only takes a moment.
Harry falls against him, gasping. Draco wraps his arms around Harry; they lie there silently.
Draco strokes along Harry’s back.
After a moment, Harry lifts his head. “Wow,” he says breathlessly.
And Draco laughs.
***
They’ve been sleeping together for four months when Harry finds the note in the back of the wardrobe.
Draco should have known better. But Harry has been leaving clothes for weeks at the Manor-much to Weasley’s consternation and objection which has only caused Draco to encourage the madness-and half of Draco’s wardrobe now consists of Auror robes and Muggle jeans.
He’d been in the shower-convincing Harry to join him on a weekday morning was nearly impossible; Harry refused to be late. He claimed it was a need for responsible leadership. Draco secretly suspected that Harry just didn’t want to be questioned by Weasley.
Harry’s sitting cross-legged and fully dressed on the floor in front of the wardrobe, the unopened letter in his hand.
Draco stops, still dripping from his shower, his towel clutched around his waist. Harry looks up at him and blinks.
“What are you doing?” Draco asks sharply.
“This is the letter from Snape.” Harry runs a finger over the wax crest. “You haven’t opened it.”
Draco grabs it from him. “No.”
Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You should, you know.” He bites his bottom lip. “If it were me-if Gin had left me something-“ He sighs. “I’d want to read it.”
“I’m not you,” Draco says tightly.
Harry touches his arm; Draco pulls away.
“You should go to work,” he says.
“Yeah.” Harry hesitates, then clambers to his feet. “Read it,” he says, and he leans in to kiss Draco’s cheek.
Draco sits on the bed after he leaves and turns the envelope in his hand.
He tosses it aside finally and reaches for his clothes.
***
The envelope crinkles in his pocket.
Draco doesn’t know why he brought it. He has no intention of reading it, but it was lying on the bed and it seemed easier to grab it and slide it in his robe rather than throwing it into the back of the wardrobe.
Where it belongs.
He takes it out of his pocket, smoothes out the wrinkles against his desktop. The paper is yellowing; the ink has faded.
But it’s Severus’s handwriting, all sharp spikes and elegant curls.
Draco traces the M.
He doesn’t want to read it. He doesn’t. There’s nothing that Severus can say-
The sealing wax scatters across his blotter, tiny scraps of embossed black.
His hand shakes as he pulls the note out, unfolds the paper.
Draco,
Should you read this, I am dead and someone has delivered this letter to you. I fully expect that you will have thrown at least one tantrum about that matter.
There are things about me you do not know. That you may never know. Secrets I have held close for years.
For most of my life I believed those secrets to be that which defined me.
Now I am not entirely certain.
I am ready to die. I have expected it for quite some time. His Lordship is a fool, yes, but not an utter fool, and such a precarious house of cards as I have built is bound to come tumbling down at some point. For the first time in years, however, I have one person who gives me hope. Who causes me to believe that perhaps I should wish for life.
If you hold this in your hand, I have failed that person. Failed you.
Forgive me.
Severus
Draco sits silent in his empty office, the letter spread in front of him.
His cheeks are wet.
He takes a shaky breath; he knows what he has to do.
***
Draco runs into Neville Longbottom in the Entrance Hall. Strange to consider him a professor.
Longbottom blinks at him, just once, then says, “Should I find Scorpius?”
“No.” Draco hesitates. “I’m here to see Sever-Headmaster Snape.”
Longbottom gives him a long, speculative look, then nods. He turns to the nearest portrait. “Find Snape,” he tells one of the giggling witches making cow eyes Draco’s way. She blanches.
“Must I?”
“Now,” Longbottom says firmly, and Draco’s surprised by how quickly the girl flounces off, dashing through the nearest painting.
He eyes Longbottom uneasily. Draco’s never quite certain what to say to old schoolmates, but Longbottom merely claps his hand on Draco’s arm with a faint smile. “He’ll be here soon.”
A gaggle of students swarm past, all black robes and school ties, and one calls out “Professor Longbottom, I’ve a new clipping to show you when you’ve a moment-“
“I’ve one now, Abbott,” Longbottom says and he nods at Draco. “Good seeing you, Malfoy.”
Draco suspects that he might actually mean it.
He never will understand Gryffindors.
The hall quiets. Students return to class or to their dormitories. A few walk past him, glancing curiously his way. Draco ignores them.
“You’ve returned,” Severus says.
Draco turns around, his breath catching. Severus leans against a portrait frame, his arms crossed.
“Yes.” Draco’s voice breaks slightly. “Severus.”
Severus frowns then, steps further into the frame. “What is it?” His brows furrow. “Your brat is well-I spoke with him just this morning and the portraits are under strict orders to tell me if he’s harmed-“
“No, it’s not him.” Draco licks his bottom lip. “The letter. I read the letter.” He flushes. “Finally.”
“I see,” Severus says.
Draco meets his gaze directly. “I forgive you.”
The hall is silent.
Severus nods at last, and his fingertips brush the surface of the canvas. Draco reaches out, presses his fingers to Severus’s. For one brief moment, he can almost believe he feels warm skin against his.
It’s enough.
“I love you too,” Draco says at last.
Severus nods. A faint smile curves his lips. “I know.”
Draco laughs, a half-sob. “Bastard.”
“Brat.”
A sigh, and Draco traces the curve of Severus’s palm. “I miss you.”
“I’m gone,” Severus says bluntly. “You shouldn’t.”
Draco shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. You know.” He meets Severus’s eyes. “Lily Potter.”
Severus flinches. He looks away.
“You ought to have told me,” Draco says. “It was worse hearing from Harry-“
Severus just looks at him. “She was my only friend,” he says at last. “She died because of me-“
Draco shakes his head. “She died because of Him. Not you.” He swallows; his throat is tight. “You can let that go now, Severus.”
He doesn’t say anything. Draco drops his hand.
“Draco.” Severus’s voice is quiet. Draco looks at him. “Don’t make the same mistake I did,” Severus murmurs. “Live.”
Draco nods and blinks hard.
“Promise me,” Severus says, almost angrily.
“I promise.” The words nearly catch in Draco’s throat.
Severus nods curtly and then he’s gone, leaving Draco standing silent and alone.
***
The Pensieve gleams silver-white in the moonlight. Draco takes a deep breath.
“Are you sure?” Harry asks. He kneels beside Draco, their fingers twined together.
Draco nods. “I want you to see.” He looks at Harry , at a shock of messy black hair shadowed in the darkness, at bright green eyes watching him steadily. “I want someone to know. About us.” He hesitates. "I think he'll understand."
“Right then.” Harry nods and squeezes Draco’s hand.
Draco leans over and kisses him roughly. “Thank you,” he whispers.
He lets himself tumble in, pulling Harry along with him.
***
Aurélie suggests the divorce first.
“I do love you both,,” she says over breakfast, passing a plate of toast across the table to Harry. “But I think it’s becoming difficult to maintain discretion if Harry’s staying over every night.” She looks at them both pointedly. “And the children have a right to know.”
Harry and Draco exchange a look.
“It doesn’t seem fair,” Harry says to Aurélie. “This is your home.”
“Oh, don’t think I shan’t force Draco to find me an adequate place,” Aurélie says tartly. “A townhouse in Mayfair, perhaps.” She eyes Draco speculatively. “Your mother could help.”
Draco rolls his eyes and bites into a sausage. "That'll cost a small fortune."
"It's expected, darling." Aurélie laughs. "I'm the cuckolded wife."
Harry licks his spoon thoughtfully. "Can wives be cuckolded?"
Aurélie raises an eyebrow. "By the two of you, yes."
Harry grins at her.
Draco sighs. "Scorpius?" he asks.
"Will be out of Hogwarts soon enough," his wife says. "And I think he'll understand better than you expect, love." She touches Draco's hand. "You know it's time."
Draco glances away; his cheeks flush. He knows she's right.
He's not entirely certain what to think.
"I'll talk to the solicitor," he says at last, and he pours another cup of tea.
***
It takes a year and a day for the divorce to go through.
Harry officially moves in the next week, carting the contents of his cottage into the main wing of the Manor. Gryffindors traipse in and out; Draco has to bribe his father's portrait to remain in one of the unused wings after he sends one of the elves into convulsions and causes Granger-Weasley to spend the next fifteen minutes tormenting Draco about the conditions the Malfoy elves serve under.
Draco still has a headache.
Weasley levitates boxes into the Manor with a sigh that he only suppresses at his wife's frown. He corners Draco in the upstairs hallway.
“I don’t like this much,” the Weasel says, “but I reckon it’s not my choice, and Harry’s happy enough now. But if you hurt him, Malfoy-“
“You’ll gut me,” Draco finishes dryly. “Yes, we’ve had this discussion.”
Weasley grunts. “Just reminding you.”
“Duly noted.”
They glare at each other for a moment, and then Weasley sticks a hand out.
Draco eyes it suspiciously before taking it.
They shake.
Much to Draco’s surprise, the world doesn’t end.
***
Draco’s standing at the bedroom window, looking out over the manor gardens, a glass of wine in his hand.
He’s seen Severus today, both at Hogwarts and at his vault. It’s an odd pilgramage, one Scorpius makes with him, even now. Especially now.
Draco’s throat tightens. He told his son the truth about Severus and himself when Harry moved in. Harry can be an insistent arse at times.
But it doesn’t make him wrong.
Harry slides an arm around his waist, pulling him back against him. “Thinking?”
“Trying not to.” Draco sips his wine. May is always a difficult month. Harry knows this. He has demons of his own.
So many dead on one night.
Harry rests his head on Draco’s shoulder. “He was a lucky bastard, you know.”
Draco turns then in Harry’s arms, raises an eyebrow. “I think he might disagree.”
“No.” Harry shakes his head, smiles faintly. “He was loved. Automatically lucky, there.”
Draco snorts. “You’re a maudlin old fool, Potter.”
“Maybe.” Harry shrugs. His fingers smooth lightly across Draco’s stomach. “I prefer life that way, though.”
Draco leans against Harry. He says nothing, just sips his wine.
Outside, the wind rustles through the tree leaves and long shadows cast by moonlight curl around the mausoleum along the edge of the grounds beneath the cypress trees.
And Draco lives.
As he promised.