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Chapter Text

Harry Potter had already died five years prior, fought tooth and nail to come back, and refused to go down again. Yet, in this moment, he wished he'd stayed dead.

He sighed as he unlocked the door to the flat he shared with Draco. The night had been long–longer than expected, considering dinner with Ron and Hermione was supposed to be a casual thing. But Hermione had been on a rant about Ministry politics, and Ron had been fired up in about whatever latest Quidditch scandal had him pissed off, and Harry had just wanted a few hours where he wasn't Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Twice—just a guy having dinner with his friends.

At least now he could go home, collapse on the couch, maybe convince Draco to make tea and-

He froze mid-step.

There was someone in their flat.

A voice. Low, amused, floated from the living room, accompanied by the sound of quiet laughter. It wasn't Draco's.

Harry's stomach twisted.

For a second, his body went on autopilot, every muscle coiling with tension, mind flashing through worst-case scenarios. A break-in? Someone coming after Draco? Had someone found out they lived here, had a Death Eater sympathizer decided to take revenge–

He rounded the corner, wand half-raised.

And then promptly wished someone had come to kill him.

Because there, sprawled on the couch, was Draco Malfoy.

And between his legs, pressed close, hands in Draco's hair, was someone else.

Harry's brain shut down.

Because Draco wasn't just kissing the guy.

He was snogging him.

Properly. Desperately. The kind of kissing that looked filthy, like something out of a scene Harry should not be witnessing. One of the guy's hands was gripping the side of Draco's jaw, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth like he was memorizing the shape of him, and Draco—Draco was melting into it, fingers curled around the collar of the guy's shirt, pulling him closer, a soft noise escaping from the back of his throat–

Harry stopped breathing.

The stranger—tall, dark-haired, annoyingly good-looking—murmured something against Draco's lips that made him smirk, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

Harry's stomach lurched.

His wand slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft thunk.

That was enough to snap Draco out of whatever trance he was in.

He flinched. Actually flinched.

And for the first time since they'd become roommates, Harry saw something he'd never seen on Draco's face before.

Guilt.

Not much. Just a flicker. A fleeting hesitation, something caught between fuck and shit, but it was there.

And for some reason, that made everything so much worse.

Draco pulled back, blinking at him, still slightly breathless. "Harry."

Harry fucking hated the way Draco said his name just then.

Like it meant something. Like this was something.

The guy on Draco's lap—who had still not moved, what the fuck—glanced over his shoulder at Harry with vague interest. "This the roommate?" he asked, voice smooth.

Harry wanted to die.

Draco hesitated. "Yeah," he said after a moment, voice lower.

Oh my god.

Oh my fucking god.

Harry's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"Nope," he finally managed, voice strangled. He turned on his heel and strode toward his bedroom at a speed that was neither normal nor dignified.

"Harry–"

Nope. Nope, nope, not hearing that right now.

He slammed his door shut.

And stood there.

Staring at the floor.

His brain felt like it was buffering, refusing to fully process what had just happened. His chest was tight. His stomach felt weird.

Draco had brought guys over before. It wasn't like this was new.

They had an unspoken rule—Draco did whatever he wanted, and Harry made sure he wasn't around to see or hear any of it. If Draco brought someone home, Harry either stayed in his room or found somewhere else to be. It worked.

But Draco had never done this. Never let Harry see it.

And Harry–

Harry had no idea why that made him feel like he wanted to throw up.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes.

Maybe it was because he'd walked in on it. Yeah. That made sense. It had caught him off guard. No one wanted to walk in on their best friend snogging some random guy on their shared couch. That was a totally normal thing to be weirded out by.

Right?

From the living room, he heard the murmur of voices again, followed by the sound of footsteps near the door. A moment later, the flat's front door opened and clicked shut.

Draco had sent the guy away.

Harry swallowed. His hands were still shaking.

He turned toward his bed, intending to crash, when he heard a soft scrape from the other side of the door. He blinked, stepped closer, and found his wand—carefully slid back under the door.

His throat tightened.

Draco hadn't knocked. Hadn't said anything. Just returned it quietly.

Harry picked it up and stared at it for a long time.

He needed to sleep. He needed to stop thinking.

But as he crawled under the covers, staring at the ceiling, his stomach still twisted uncomfortably. And it wasn't until much, much later, after his mind had exhausted itself, that he finally drifted off, with a single, nagging thought still buzzing in the back of his head:

What the hell was wrong with him?

–

Harry woke up feeling like absolute shite.

His head ached, his mouth was dry, and his entire body felt wrong. Not in a I drank too much way—no, in a I saw something I wasn't supposed to see and now my brain is rejecting its own existence way.

He groaned into his pillow, rolling over, trying to pretend last night hadn't happened.

Unfortunately, his brain hated him.

It had happened. Draco. The couch. Hands. Lips. That bloody noise—

Harry shot upright, heart pounding.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, hoping Draco had already left for work.

No such luck.

Draco was perched at the kitchen counter, smug as hell, reading The Daily Prophet with a cup of tea. His hair was still damp from a shower, his sleeves rolled up.

Harry immediately turned to leave.

"Morning, sunshine," Draco muttered.

Harry froze. Then, without turning around, he spoke. "I'm leaving."

Draco smirked. "Shame. I thought we could have a chat about last night."

Harry whipped around, face burning. "There's nothing to talk about."

Draco tilted his head, sipping his tea. "Oh, I don't know. You seemed a little shaken."

"I wasn't."

Draco hummed like he did not believe him one bit. "You know," he continued lazily, flipping a page, "I have brought guys over before."

Harry crossed his arms. "Yeah. And we have a rule. I don't see, I don't hear, I don't know."

Draco smirked. "And yet, last night, you saw. And you heard."

Harry clenched his jaw. "Not my fault. I live here too."

Draco sipped his tea, far too relaxed. "Mm. Maybe I should've put up a sign. Caution: In Use."

Harry let out an actual strangled noise. "Merlin, shut up."

Draco's smirk widened. "Should I start using a sock on the door? Or do you prefer an official schedule?"

"I'm leaving," Harry announced again, grabbing his jacket.

Draco leaned back in his chair. "Where are you even going?"

"I'm going to the Ministry to see Hermione," Harry said flatly.

Draco raised an eyebrow.

Harry held his gaze. "For work stuff." He was lying through his teeth.

Draco looked far too amused. "Do pass along my love."

Harry scowled. "I hate you."

Draco smirked. "No, you don't."

Harry slammed the door shut behind him.

Harry stormed through the Ministry like he belonged there, ignoring the confused looks as he marched past security, into the lifts, and straight to Hermione's office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

When he reached her door, he didn't bother knocking.

He shoved it open.

Hermione looked up from her desk, unimpressed. "Harry."

"Hermione."

"You cannot just barge in here."

"Yes, I can."

"You absolutely cannot."

"I'm Harry Potter. They'll get over it."

Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. "I have an actual job, Harry. Unlike you."

Harry scowled. "Wow. Rude."

She sighed, gesturing for him to sit. "What do you want? I'm swamped." She motioned at the mountain of paperwork surrounding her, one of which had Proposed Legislation: Muggle-born Workplace Protections stamped across the top. "Unless you suddenly care about magical labor laws?"

Harry ignored that. He sat, crossed his arms, and said, "I walked in on Draco last night."

Hermione blinked. "...Okay?"

Harry leaned forward. "Making out. With some guy. On our couch."

Hermione took a slow sip of her tea. "...Okay?"

Harry stared at her. "Why are you saying it like that?"

She shrugged. "You do know he's gay, right?"

"Yes, obviously," Harry said, exasperated. "That's not—" He paused. "It just–It really bothered me."

Hermione frowned. "Bothered you how?"

Harry hesitated. His mouth opened, then shut. "...It felt off."

"Off how?"

"I don't know, it just—" He stood up suddenly, hands twitching. "It made me uncomfortable, alright?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Harry. Are you homophobic?"

Harry choked. "What?! No!"

"You sound homophobic," she said lightly. Then added, more seriously, "I'm asking because you're acting like you've never seen two men kiss before."

"I'm not—! Hermione, seriously!" He ran a hand through his hair. "I just—look, I didn't like seeing it, okay?"

"Why?"

"I don't know!" He threw his hands up. "That's why I'm here!"

Hermione drummed her fingers on the desk, watching him with an annoyingly calm expression. Then she said, very casually, "Maybe you're just jealous."

Harry scoffed. "That's ridiculous."

She sipped her tea again. "Mhm. You should go home and think about that."

Harry gaped. "That's it? That's all you have for me?"

She flipped a page. "Yup."

"You're useless."

"And yet, I'm the one with a career."

Harry glared. "Fine. I'm leaving."

"Say hi to Draco for me," she called as he stormed out.

Harry slammed the door. He'd left the Ministry feeling no less confused than when he'd arrived.

If anything, Hermione had only made things worse.

She'd given him that look—the same one she used when she knew something before he did, when she was just waiting for him to catch up.

Harry scowled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he wandered through Diagon Alley. He wasn't going home. Not yet.

Home meant Draco.

Draco, who had been annoyingly fine this morning, sipping his tea and making stupid remarks, as if Harry hadn't spent the night staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about—

Harry exhaled sharply, ducking into Quality Quidditch Supplies.

It was crowded, packed with Hogwarts students on break, all hovering over the latest broom models. Harry drifted through the aisles absently, running his fingers over the polished handle of a Firebolt X.

Quidditch.

It was the first thing in months that had sparked any kind of interest in him.

He thought about the last time he'd been on a broom. Months ago. Maybe longer.

That realization made something heavy settle in his chest.

His mind drifted, unbidden, to Auror training. How he had convinced himself it was the right choice. How he had lasted all of—what? Ten months? Eleven? Before he quit.

He had known from the start that it wasn't for him. The training, the intensity, the constant demand for more—more control, more awareness, more sacrifices.

He had tried to power through it. Had forced himself to believe it was what he was meant to do.

Until one day, he just... couldn't.

Ron had been the one to tell him to quit. "Mate, you look like you're being dragged through hell. You don't have to do this."

Hermione had disagreed. She thought he was just going through an adjustment period. "You can be great at this, Harry. You just have to push through."

Draco, surprisingly, had never tried to sway him either way.

He had only made one comment about it—"You're allowed to want something for yourself, Harry. You don't have to be a hero forever."—and left it at that.

Harry had quit a week later.

And now, at twenty-two, he was unemployed and standing in a Quidditch shop, pretending like he had any idea what to do with his life.

"Oi, Harry!"

He turned, blinking as Ginny made her way over, arms crossed.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

Harry hesitated. "Just... looking around."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"

Harry shrugged, then muttered, "Thinking about Quidditch."

Ginny's eyes lit up. "No way. You're actually considering it?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Maybe?"

"You should, you know," Ginny said, grinning. "It's bloody brilliant. You'd be great at it."

Harry snorted. "You do realize I haven't played in ages."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Like that matters. It's you."

She wasn't wrong. He had played so much in Hogwarts that muscle memory would probably carry him through.

Harry tilted his head. "Speaking of Quidditch, how's the team?"

Ginny grinned. "Harpies are doing insane this season. But, you know, no pressure or anything."

Harry snorted. Ginny had been playing professionally for almost two years now, and the Holyhead Harpies were one of the best teams in the league.

She still traveled for matches, but she was mostly based in England. Harry had gone to a couple of her games, watching from the stands with Ron, cheering her on. It was strange, how normal things felt between them now. They had dated, sure, but it had fizzled out. No hard feelings. No tension. Just friendship. And not long after, she'd started seeing Luna, which, honestly, had made perfect sense.

"I actually need to get going," Harry said, shifting. "I told Ron I'd tag along today."

Ginny blinked. "You what?"

Harry winced. "Yeah. He's coaching today, and I figured... maybe I should see what it's like."

Ginny grinned, smacking his shoulder. "Told you! You'd be perfect for it!" Harry groaned. "Merlin, shut up."

Ginny just laughed as he left.

Harry left Quality Quidditch Supplies feeling slightly less like everything was completely falling apart.

Only slightly.

Ginny's excitement over him considering Quidditch had been almost too much, but maybe she had a point. He had no other career prospects, and it wasn't like he was bad at it. He'd spent half his Hogwarts years winning matches on pure instinct. Maybe it was worth thinking about.

But for now, he was heading to Ron's coaching session—partly out of curiosity, partly to get out of his own head.

The pitch was already alive with movement when Harry arrived. A group of teenagers were mid-drill, flying in quick, tight formations while Ron bellowed at them from below.

"Oi, what the hell are you doing here?" Ron called when he spotted Harry.

Harry shrugged. "I told you I'd tag along, remember? Watch a real professional at work."

Ron snorted. "Then why are you here?"

Harry grinned, and Ron rolled his eyes before turning back to his players. "Keep the pace, Donnelly! I said tight, not 'fly like a bloody flobberworm'!"

Harry leaned against the goalpost, watching. Ron was surprisingly good at this. He wasn't just shouting for the sake of it—his players actually listened.

Harry had never given much thought to how Ron had landed this job, but now that he was watching him, it made sense. Ron was always good at strategy, at picking apart plays, at knowing exactly where people needed to be.

It was kind of brilliant, actually.

He must have gotten lost in thought, because the next thing he knew—

A Quaffle slammed into his face.

Harry stumbled backward, swearing loudly as a cold rush and pain exploded across his nose.

"Bloody hell," he groaned, bending over and pressing his palm to his face as he felt blood trickling down his upper lip.

From across the pitch, someone shouted, "Sorry!"

Ron was already jogging over with a towel in hand, looking both amused and unimpressed. "Alright there, mate?"

Harry straightened with a scowl, snatching the cold towel from Ron. "You did that on purpose."

Ron grinned. "I wish I did."

Harry muttered a curse under his breath and held the rag up his face, still blinking away the sting. "Does this happen to all your guests, or am I just special?" His voice came out nasally.

"Oh, you're special, alright," Ron said, snatching up the Quaffle. "What's going on with you?"

Harry frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"You're acting weird."

"I am not."

Ron gave him a look.

Harry sighed. "Fine. Maybe I've just been... thinking about stuff."

Ron tossed the Quaffle between his hands. "Yeah? What kind of stuff?"

Harry hesitated.

Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he said, "Quidditch."

Ron blinked. "Quidditch."

"Yeah."

Ron squinted at him like he was trying to read his mind. "Why?"

Harry shifted his weight. "Dunno. I was at the shop earlier, and Ginny got all excited because I mentioned it, and I guess... I just thought maybe I should actually consider it."

Ron's eyes widened slightly. "Wait, seriously?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe?"

A slow grin spread across Ron's face. "Mate. You'd be brilliant at it."

Harry snorted. "You sound like Ginny."

"Well, she's right." Ron tossed the Quaffle at him, and Harry caught it automatically, dropping the rag. "You should go for it. You're probably better than half the idiots out there getting paid a fortune."

Harry hesitated, gripping the Quaffle. "Yeah, but... I dunno. Feels a bit weird, trying something like this now."

Ron raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Harry looked away, scowling. "Because I spent a year trying to be an Auror, and that crashed and burned spectacularly."

Ron sighed. "Mate, no one's keeping track of how many times you switch careers."

Harry tossed the Quaffle back to him. "Hermione is."

Ron snorted. "Yeah, well. She keeps track of everything. That doesn't count."

Harry let out a breathy laugh.

Ron squinted at him. "So, what's actually stopping you?"

Harry hesitated.

Because, really, what was stopping him?

He didn't need the money. He didn't have any other plans. He loved Quidditch.

There was no reason not to try.

"...I dunno," he muttered. "Guess I was just waiting for something to feel right."

Ron huffed. "Mate, if you're waiting for life to make sense, you're gonna be sitting on your arse for a long time."

Harry sighed. "Yeah."

Ron clapped him on the back. "Look, just think about it. No one's saying you have to decide today."

Harry nodded.

Ron grinned. "In the meantime, let's see if you can still fly, or if being unemployed has ruined your reflexes."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Shut up and hand me a broom."

Ron tossed him one, and for the first time in a while, Harry felt something other than lost.

He kicked off the ground, and as the wind rushed past him, something settled in his chest.

Maybe this was something.

Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as stuck as he thought.

—

It was late when he got home—later than necessary, if he was being honest. He could have come back hours ago, but he'd lingered at the pitch, then at the Leaky, then at a quiet little side street in Diagon Alley where he'd just... sat. Thinking. Avoiding. But eventually, there was nowhere else to go. So he took a deep breath, turned the key, and pushed open the door.

And there was Draco. Wide awake. Lounging on the couch, book in one hand, glass of Merlot in the other, legs stretched out like he had been waiting just for this moment.

He looked up as Harry entered, cool grey eyes flicking over him in silent assessment. Then he closed his book as his face contorted from amusement to worry when he noticed the faint bruise on Harry’s nose. "Ah. He returns. Did you have to journey across the country to recover from your delicate sensibilities?"

Harry exhaled slowly. "Draco."

"Yes, that's my name. Well done."

"Shut up."

Draco's worry thickened. "Not a chance. You've been acting bizarre, and I demand to know why."

Harry rolled his eyes and tossed his jacket over the back of a chair. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Draco tilted his head. "Mm. Interesting theory. Completely wrong, but interesting."

Harry ignored him and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Draco twisted around to keep his eyes on him.

"You, of all people, leaving at ungodly hours and dragging yourself back late? That's not your thing."

Harry took a long sip. "People go out, Draco."

Draco's lips twitched. "Sure. But you don't."

"I do."

"Not like this." Draco got up and trudged towards Harry. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"Doing what?"

Harry shot him a look. "Stuff."

Draco gave an exaggerated sigh. "How delightfully vague. And what happened to your nose?” He reached for Harry’s face. “That’s a nasty bruise.” Draco muttered softly.

Harry tilted his head away from Draco’s delicate touch that brushed against his cheek. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," Draco said, his tone sharpening. A look of hurt flashes across his face. "Spit it out, Harry. Why are we pretending something didn't happen?"

Harry hesitated—then blurted, "Who was that guy you brought back last night?"

Draco's eyebrow arched. "Why?"

"Just answer the question."

Draco studied him. "His name is Hunter. He's French. Twenty-seven... probably."

Harry frowned. "You don't even know how old he is?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I wasn't planning to invite him to Christmas dinner."

"You brought him here. You didn't even know if he was safe."

"He was fine."

"He could've been dangerous."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "He wasn't."

"Was he a Death Eater?"

A beat.

"...Technically, yes."

Harry's stomach dropped. "What?"

Draco crossed his arms. "He's not anymore. And before you start, no, he wasn't here for you. He didn't even know I had a roommate when I invited him over."

Harry stepped forward. "How can you be sure?"

"Because not everyone is obsessed with Harry Potter."

"You're being careless. He could've had an agenda."

Draco turned abruptly. "Oh, here we go. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, right?"

Harry froze. "That's not—"

"Is that what you think of me?"

Draco's voice was low and sharp, and suddenly he wasn't worried anymore.

"Draco—"

But Draco was already walking away. Harry followed, frustration rising to his throat, tangled with something he couldn't name.

"You know that's not what I meant."

Draco didn't stop. Harry caught up just as Draco reached his door—and Draco spun.

Too fast. Too close.

Harry nearly collided with him, and for a second, everything stilled.

They were breath-to-breath. Eye-to-eye. And far too close for anything casual.

Draco's eyes flicked over his face—lips, throat, lips again—and Harry felt the shift. The hum of something unspoken but charged, thick in the air between them. Draco's fingers twitched like he might reach out. Harry didn't move.

Then it passed.

Draco blinked, hard, like shaking something off. He stepped back, face shuttered.

"Go to bed, Potter."

The word hit harder than it should have. Potter. Draco hadn't called him that in years, not since they were teenagers, not since they'd stopped pretending they hated each other and started building something strange and delicate and almost right. Something just shy of real.

Now they were friends. Roommates. It had been Harry for a long time.

But not tonight.

Draco turned and disappeared into his room, door clicking shut behind him.

Harry stayed frozen in place, heart thudding like he'd just touched something hot. What the fuck was that?

He pressed a hand over his face, trying to steady himself, but his skin still burned from how close Draco had been.

He wasn't going to sleep tonight.

–

Three days passed after the fight.

They didn't talk about it.

They didn't talk about much of anything, really.

Draco still made tea. Still watered the half-dead plant by the window. Still read the paper at the kitchen counter in the mornings like nothing had happened. But Harry could feel the difference. It was in the way Draco didn't linger, didn't poke, didn't toss out snark just for the hell of it.

It was quiet. Careful.

Harry didn't bring it up. He didn't ask if Draco was still mad or if things were okay or if he was okay. Because he wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Because Draco hadn't called him Harry since that night.

He didn't call him anything. Harry noticed.

He noticed the way Draco moved around him like they were both wearing breakable skin, how he lingered in his room longer than usual, how their meals shifted from the couch to separate corners of the flat.

And maybe it was good, Harry told himself. Maybe they both needed space.

But the silence between them felt too careful. Too sharp around the edges.

It wasn't just space.

It was distance.

—

On the fourth day, Draco brought Hunter back.

Harry walked into the flat after a quick trip to the apothecary to find him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, standing barefoot in front of the stove like he'd lived there for years.

"Hey," Hunter said with a nod, as casual as ever.

Harry stopped just inside the doorway. "Hi."

Draco appeared from down the hall a second later, hair damp from a shower. "You're back."

"Didn't know I needed to warn you," Harry said, setting down his bag with more force than necessary.

There was a pause—just long enough to notice. Then Hunter turned back to the pan and said something light about dinner, and Draco pretended it was fine.

Harry pretended too.

They ate together.

Well. Technically.

Hunter carried the conversation. He was charming, well-read, knew exactly when to insert a clever remark or flash a not-too-smug smile. He asked Harry about Quidditch like he hadn't already read it in the Prophet.

Harry gave short answers.

After dinner, Hunter offered to wash up.

Harry left the room.

—

The next morning, Draco was alone in the kitchen.

Harry grabbed a coffee mug. "Where's your boyfriend?"

Draco didn't rise to it. "Went home late."

"Still here for dinner last night."

"Is that a problem?"

Harry didn't respond.

Draco added, after a beat, "He's not moving in."

Harry snorted. "Yet."

Draco turned to look at him. His voice was quieter now, like something pulling at the edge of restraint. "He's not you."

Harry stilled.

Draco didn't wait for a response. He picked up his tea and left the kitchen.

—

Saturday night, Harry stayed in.

He was scheduled for a Harpies scrimmage the next morning—part of Ginny's new training initiative for co-ed development trials. The team had opened up to all genders just a few weeks back and now, once a week, they hosted mixed-skill practices where prospects could test themselves against the best.

Harry wasn't signed up officially. But Ginny had mentioned a "friendly" invite last week.

He curled up on the couch with a book and a bowl of leftover pasta and tried not to think about Draco, or Hunter, or why the flat didn't feel like his anymore.

It was past ten when the front door opened.

Harry glanced up.

Draco walked in first, coat half off, hair windblown. Hunter followed, laughing at something, voice low and familiar. He had one hand on Draco's back, guiding him inside.

They stopped short when they saw Harry.

"Oh," Hunter said, surprised. "Didn't realize you were home."

"Where else would I be?" Harry replied.

Hunter smiled like he found that amusing. "Out. With friends."

Draco didn't say anything. Just dropped his keys in the bowl and made his way toward the kitchen.

Hunter glanced at Draco, then back at Harry. "We won't be long."

Harry didn't answer.

He watched from the couch as Draco filled a glass of water, sipped once, then turned and murmured something too low for Harry to hear.

Hunter nodded, lips pressed together.

A minute later, Draco walked him to the door.

The silence that followed felt thicker than the air before a storm.

—

Sunday morning came too early.

Ginny met him at the pitch with two brooms slung over her shoulder and a clipboard tucked under one arm.

"You're late."

"I'm five minutes early."

She grinned. "Exactly. Which means you're late."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do all your players get harassed like this?"

"Only the ones pretending they're not secretly trying to join the team."

"I'm not—Whatever. I'm early. I didn’t sleep well." he muttered.

Ginny gave him a look. "That wouldn't have anything to do with a certain ex–Death Eater boyfriend living in your flat now, would it?"

Harry blinked. "He's not living there."

"Relax. I know. I'm joking." She shoved a broom into his hand. "Now shut up and fly."

—

The scrimmage was rough.

In a good way.

It wasn't quite a match—just full-speed drills against some of the Harpies' reserve players and a few of the newer recruits. But it was intense. Fast. Harry was out of breath before the third round.

And it felt good.

It felt right.

By the time he touched back down, sweat sticking to his skin, he hadn't thought about Draco or Hunter or anything except the wind and the ball and the way his body moved like it remembered.

Ginny handed him a water bottle. "Still got it."

Harry smiled, breathless. "Wasn't sure I did."

She pulled him aside as the others started cooling down. "Look, there's a real co-ed trial coming up in two weeks. I already put your name in the pool."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Don't make a face. I didn't use your full name. You're down as Harry P. You can ghost them later if you change your mind."

"I haven't even—"

"Don't lie to me," she said. "You came today. You played your heart out. You want this."

Harry didn't argue.

Ginny softened. "You've been drifting for a while. You don't have to have it all figured out. But this? It could be something."

Later that night, Ginny sent an owl.

Tomorrow 10am. Practice at the Harpies pitch. Bring your kit.

Harry stared at the note for a long time.

Then he set it down slowly.

He didn't know what he was doing.

But he knew he needed something.

—

Monday, Hunter was in the flat again.

Draco had the record player on, something jazzy and old, and the two of them were curled up on opposite ends of the couch sharing a bottle of wine and some sort of French crime novel. Hunter glanced up when Harry entered, didn't say anything.

Draco looked over. "There's pasta in the fridge."

Harry nodded. "Thanks."

He took his dinner to his room. He didn't come back out.

That night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He could hear them laughing through the walls. It wasn't that Harry missed being the one who made him laugh.

It was that he didn't even know when he'd stopped trying.

—

Tuesday afternoon, Harry opened the front door and found Hunter sitting on the armrest of the couch, flipping through one of Draco's books.

He looked up, calm and unreadable. "He's in the bathroom."

Harry dropped his bag by the door. "Right."

Hunter didn't move. "You glare at me a lot."

Harry crossed his arms. "You're in my flat a lot."

Hunter smiled faintly. "Is that the problem?"

"Maybe."

Hunter stood, not close, not threatening, but firm. "You know he's not yours, right?"

Harry's jaw tensed.

"I mean—he might have been. Once. But you let it go quiet." Hunter's tone wasn't cruel. Just honest. "Don't get pissed at me for noticing something you never said out loud."

Harry didn't answer.

Hunter didn't wait for one.

He stepped past him, grabbed his coat, and left.

The door shut with a soft click.

Harry stared at it for a long time.

And for the first time, he wasn't sure who he was angry at.

–

Harry wasn't sure why he didn't invite Draco.

Draco had always come to these things. Casual dinners, pub nights, late-night takeout on Ginny's floor while Ron argued with Hermione about elf rights and Luna braided flowers into people's hair without warning.

But this time... it felt off.

He told himself Draco was probably with Hunter anyway. That it would've been awkward. That he wanted space.

That it wasn't personal.

Which was a lie.

He just couldn't bear to watch Draco act like everything was fine while Harry sat there pretending he didn't care.

So he didn't invite him.

And when he showed up at Hermione and Ron's flat that evening, arms full of takeaway and hair still damp from the shower, nobody asked why Draco wasn't there.

Not at first.

They ate on the floor.

Hermione had cleared space around the coffee table and lit a few floating candles ("Don't say anything," she'd warned when Ron snorted), and Ginny had brought butterbeer and a bottle of wine from her personal stash. Luna curled up beside her, legs tangled together, wearing a jumper two sizes too big.

"So," Hermione said after everyone had settled, pointing a chopstick at Harry. "Tell us about your secret career change."

Harry groaned. "Is nothing sacred?"

"Not in this group," Ron said through a mouthful of noodles.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You've been going to Harpies practices every weekend. Did you think we wouldn't notice?"

"I didn't think Luna would notice," Harry muttered.

Luna blinked. "Oh, I noticed," she said dreamily. "You radiate sexual frustration and unresolved athletic ambition."

Ginny nearly choked on her drink.

"Thanks," Harry said weakly.

Hermione leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "So? Is it official? Are you doing the trials?"

Harry hesitated. Then shrugged. "I might."

"You should," Ron said immediately. "You're good. I saw some of your last match footage. You looked sharp."

Harry blinked. "You watched that?"

Ron shrugged. "Ginny sent it."

"I made him," Ginny said, grinning.

Harry poked at his rice. "I don't know. It's just... weird."

"What's weird?" Luna asked.

Harry was quiet for a beat. "Trying again."

Hermione softened. "You mean after Auror training."

"Yeah."

There was a pause.

Harry looked down. "I thought I'd be good at it. That I was supposed to be good at it. But it felt like drowning."

No one spoke for a moment.

Then Ron said, "You don't owe anyone an explanation for leaving. You did what you were supposed to do your whole life. You're allowed to want something different now."

Ginny nodded. "And you don't have to feel guilty for wanting something that makes you happy."

Harry's throat tightened unexpectedly. He took a sip of butterbeer to cover it. The warmth of it did nothing to settle his stomach.

"And besides," Hermione added, "you're a natural on a broom. It makes sense."

"Yeah," Harry said. "It's the first time in a while something felt..."

"Right?" Luna offered.

Harry nodded. He didn't say it aloud, but he'd felt it in his chest during that last scrimmage—the way everything in him had clicked into place. No pressure. No headlines. Just flight.

Later, when they were picking through the last bits of food and someone had started a ridiculous debate about which magical creature would make the worst flatmate, Hermione looked over and asked casually, "Where's Draco?"

Harry froze.

Ron looked up too. "Yeah. He usually comes to these."

Harry forced a shrug. "Busy, probably."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Did you invite him?"

"I... no."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Harry hesitated. "It felt weird."

"Weird how?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "He's been... different. Since Hunter."

"Oh," Luna said softly.

Hermione exchanged a look with Ginny.

Harry cleared his throat. "I didn't want it to be awkward. I don't know. I just... didn't."

No one pushed further.

They didn't need to.

And Harry was grateful. Because he didn't know how to explain that Draco being with someone else had made him feel like the floor underneath their friendship had shifted—just a little, but enough that he didn't know where to stand.

—

He got home late.

The flat was dark except for the faint golden glow from under Draco's door. Harry dropped his keys quietly and padded to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water and tried to pretend he wasn't standing in the middle of a life that felt like it was moving without him.

He turned.

Draco was in the hallway. Hair messy. Sleep shirt wrinkled. Barefoot.

They stared at each other for a second.

"You're back late," Draco said.

"Dinner with the others."

"Right."

A pause.

"You usually go to those," Harry said, then winced internally.

Draco tilted his head. "You usually invite me."

Harry looked down. "Yeah."

Another beat of silence.

Then, unexpectedly—

Draco sighed. "This is weird, right?"

Harry looked up.

Draco wasn't smirking. He wasn't sharp or smug or guarded.

He just looked... tired.

"Yeah," Harry said. "It is."

"I don't like it."

Harry's heart did something stupid in his chest.

"Me neither."

Draco stepped a little closer. Just enough to bridge the hallway's empty space. "I don't want us to be... this."

"We don't have to be," Harry said quietly.

And he meant it.

They stood like that for a moment. Not fixing it. Not figuring it out. But letting it breathe. Letting something loosen.

Draco nodded once. "Goodnight, Harry."

Harry swallowed, he called him Harry. "Night."

Draco turned and walked back into his room.

The door didn't close all the way.

–

The sun was already brutal by 10 A.M., casting long shadows across the Holyhead Harpies’ pitch. Harry adjusted the strap of his borrowed gear and squinted up at the stands, where Ginny was pacing like a coach with too much invested.

“Relax,” he called up to her.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Shut up and focus!”

There were maybe twenty people on the pitch—some younger, some older, all of them serious. This was the first co-ed trial since the Harpies had opened their doors to male players, and the tension in the air was like electricity waiting to discharge.

A whistle blew.

Harry kicked off hard, wind catching his robes, and all thoughts of awkward flatmate tension and unspoken feelings burned off like fog. The air was clean up here. Brutal and fast and honest.

The drills started simple—speed runs, handling, team coordination. But the scrimmage was where it really counted.

Two teams. One goal: outfly, outthink, outmatch.

Harry dove low, barely missing a Bludger to the side, then pulled up and shot a pass to a girl with a shock of magenta hair. She caught it effortlessly and whooped before pivoting mid-air.

Someone tried to box him out near the goalposts, but he slipped underneath and snatched the Quaffle back mid-turn.

“Nice!” Ginny yelled from the edge of the pitch, clipboard tucked under one arm.

By the end of the match, Harry was drenched, bruised, and beaming.

He landed with a thud and rolled his shoulders as he unfastened his gear. Ginny met him halfway across the grass with a bottle of water and that terrifyingly smug look on her face.

“Well?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well what?”

“You’re trying to tell me that wasn’t the most alive you’ve felt in years?”

He snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet—correct.”

They walked off the field together, Ginny tossing the empty water bottle in a bin with one hand. “Oh, by the way, the boyfriend’s charming.”

Harry almost tripped. “What?”

“Hunter. He and Draco dropped by my place yesterday. Luna made tea. It was very domestic.” She gave him a pointed look. “Didn’t know they were making the rounds.”

Harry blinked. “They… what?”

“You didn’t know?”

“No.”

Ginny winced. “Yikes.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the locker room steps.

A week later, a yellow and green envelope arrived with an official seal:
Welcome to the Harpies. Reserve Team. Report Friday.

–

Pansy’s birthday party was always an event.

Not a gathering. Not a celebration. An event—with velvet invitations delivered by enchanted owls and a dress code that changed yearly based on her mood. This year: “Winter decadence.” Whatever that meant.

Harry showed up in black trousers and a navy button-down, because he knew better than to try.

Ginny wore heels sharp enough to poke someone’s eye out. Luna wore something that sparkled and might have been alive. Ron forgot the dress code entirely and was wearing a normal button-down, which earned him a glare and a bejeweled hat from Pansy within five minutes of arrival.

The flat was packed with their overlapping circles: Ministry coworkers, old Hogwarts classmates, Quidditch players, socialites.

Blaise lounged on the sofa like he owned it. Theo was already tipsy on firewhisky. Somewhere in the corner, a harp played itself mournfully.

Harry spotted Hermione speaking animatedly with a few Magical Law Enforcement officers and he was halfway through a drink Luna had handed him (that may or may not have contained edible glitter) when Draco arrived.

And Hunter was with him.

Harry didn’t even need to see their faces to know. The crowd shifted around the doorway like a ripple in water, making space.

Draco, cool and elegant in grey velvet, said something that made someone laugh. Hunter hovered by his side like they were a matched set, all practiced charm and polished shoes.

Harry looked away.

He found Ron and Hermione, then Ginny, sticking close to the corner where Luna was helping herself to candied violets from someone else’s drink tray. He laughed when he was supposed to. He played “Spot the Former Slytherin” when Ginny demanded it.

He tried to forget the way Hunter had placed a hand on Draco’s back like he belonged there.

It was sometime between rounds of free champagne and an impromptu charmed snowflake display when it happened.

Harry had just made his way to the bar for another drink when Hunter appeared at his side, holding a glass of something pale and sparkling.

“You always this awkward at parties?” he asked, tone casual.

Harry didn’t look at him. “Only the ones where I’m outnumbered.”

Hunter gave a short laugh. “You mean outcharmed.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I mean out of place.” Hunter sipped his drink, then tilted his head. “Guess that’s what happens when you quit being an Auror and start chasing broomsticks.”

Harry turned to him slowly. “Excuse me?”

Hunter raised both hands. “Just saying. Interesting career pivot.”

Harry’s voice was low. “Better than parading around like you’re the poster boy for Death Eater rehab.”

Hunter’s expression shifted—barely—but the sting landed.

Before either of them could say more, Draco’s voice cut across the room.

“What the hell is going on?”

Harry turned.

Draco was just a few steps away, eyes narrowed, flicking between them.

“What did you just say?” he asked, tone sharp.

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco held up a hand. “Don’t. Not here.”

Hunter didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He looked like a man who had just won something.

Ginny sidled up beside Harry as Draco turned and walked away without another word, Hunter trailing behind him.

“Well,” she said under her breath. “That went well.”

Harry didn’t answer.

The party buzzed on. Glitter sparkled in the air. Someone cast a floating mistletoe charm. Harry stood by the window with a glass in his hand and no idea how long he’d been there.

Pansy twirled by at one point, caught Harry’s eye, and mouthed “gorgeous” at him before dragging Blaise into another spin.

A soft voice broke through the noise. “You okay?”

He turned. Luna.

She was holding a champagne flute filled with flowers. Of course.

Harry didn’t answer right away.

Luna tilted her head. “He looked hurt.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Harry said quietly.

“I know.” She sipped her drink. “But Draco doesn’t.”

The words stayed with him.

—

Harry walked home alone.

The streets were quieter now, most of the party crowd heading off to clubs or apparating home in waves. He didn’t rush. The cold bit at his cheeks, but the air helped.

The flat was dark when he got in. He locked the door behind him, toed off his shoes.

Draco’s door was closed.

There was a folded blanket on the couch. A glass left out beside the kettle. One of Draco’s jumpers slung over the armrest. Harry stood in the middle of the room for a long moment.

Then he turned off the lights and went to bed.

–

Harry was incredibly exhausted.

Not physically—his body felt stronger these days than it had in months. Quidditch did that. Practices were brutal, the scrimmages relentless, but it gave him something to hold onto. A rhythm. A direction.

For the first time in years, he had a future that wasn’t someone else’s plan.

And yet, he hadn’t spoken to Draco properly in over a week.

Not since the party. Not since that horrible, glittering night where everything had gone sideways. Where Hunter had laughed too loudly, leaned in too close, and Harry had cracked—just a little. Just enough to say something cruel and accurate and loud enough for the wrong person to hear.

“Poster boy for Death Eater rehab.”

Draco had frozen. Had met Harry’s eyes from across the room. Had turned on his heel and left without a word.

Hunter had smiled, and he had wanted to scream.

It wasn’t Harry’s proudest moment.

And now it had been eight days. Eight days of cold mornings and tense silences. Eight days of Draco pretending Harry didn’t exist.

Harry dropped his kit bag by the door and exhaled hard.

He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t even know what he wanted. But he couldn’t keep living like this. Not with the quiet pulling at his skin like static.

Draco was in the kitchen, making tea. Because of course he was.

“Hey,” Harry said.

Draco didn’t look up. “You’re back.”

“Long practice.”

“Hmm.”

The silence stretched, heavy and brittle.

Harry tried again. “Are we going to talk about it?”

Draco set his cup down. “About what?”

Harry stared at him. “You’ve been ignoring me for a week.”

“Didn’t realize we had anything left to say.”

The words hit like ice. “Seriously?”

Draco turned, arms crossed. “What do you want from me, Harry?”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on is that you humiliated me in front of everyone I know.”

Harry blinked. “I didn’t—”

“You called my boyfriend a fucking Death Eater mascot.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Because he was acting like a dick—”

“I don’t care!” Draco snapped. “You don’t get to play moral judge just because someone hurt your feelings.”

“He insulted me first—”

“But of course, everyone only hears what you say.” Draco laughed, sharp and bitter. “Always the headline, Potter.”

Harry stepped forward. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Draco’s voice dropped. “Because it felt pretty fucking real when I heard you say it.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t know how to say ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I was angry. I was jealous. I was—‘

Draco shook his head. “Do you even realize what that sounded like? Coming from you?”

Harry stayed quiet.

“You know I was a Death Eater too, right?” Draco said, voice low and brittle. “So when you say shit like that—do you mean me, too? Or just him?”

Harry’s chest clenched. “That’s not what I—”

“You sure? Because it felt pretty fucking close.”

“I was angry.”

“You were cruel,” Draco said. “And that’s the part you don’t seem to care about.”

“What happened to us?” Draco asked, quieter now. “We used to talk. You used to tell me things. And now you just—what? Snap? Run away? Hide behind your fucking broomstick like that makes it easier?”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Harry shot back. “You started dating Hunter and suddenly I’m not even worth looking at.”

Draco reeled back like he’d been slapped. “Don’t make this about you.”

“It is about me!” Harry shouted. “It’s always been about us, and you just replaced me without even blinking—“

Draco’s eyes flashed. “Replaced you? With what, Harry? A boyfriend? How exactly is he meant to take your place?” His voice twisted. “You’re my flatmate. My friend. We weren’t—we were never—” He stopped, jaw clenched. “So how the fuck does this even make sense?”

“That’s not—”

Draco stepped back. “I can’t do this.”

“Draco…”

“No.” His voice was hollow now. “I need space. And you clearly need something I can’t give you.”

Then he walked away.

And Harry didn’t follow.

Harry showed up at Ginny’s the night before they were set to leave for the match.

He didn’t say much. Just dropped his bag by the door, muttered something about the match in Inverness, and asked if he could spend the night before their trip tomorrow. Ginny didn’t press. She nodded, shoved a spare kit into his arms, and handed him a butterbeer.

He didn’t go home that night.

The Harpies’ three-day exhibition match series wasn’t official league play—more of a scouting opportunity, fast-paced scrimmages meant to test reflexes and team chemistry. It wasn’t meant to be high-stakes.

But for Harry, it was everything.

The first match started early, the frost still clinging to the grass. The wind bit through his robes, but the cold felt good—clean, sharp, grounding.

The second he kicked off, the world narrowed to speed, sky, and instinct. No flat with heavy silences. No Hunter. No memory of Draco’s face, tight and distant, saying I need space like it didn’t break something between them.

Just flight.

And still, when he landed, sweaty, aching, scraped raw, the weight came back.

He barely slept. He barely spoke. Ate when he remembered. His body ran on instinct—catch, block, fly—while his brain looped through the fight on repeat. Ginny didn’t push. But on the final night, she found him sitting alone outside the guest house, hood up against the drizzle.

“You don’t have to pretend it’s not about him,” she said quietly.

Harry stared out into the fog. “I know.”

She passed him a cup of something warm. “Whatever this is… you’re allowed to feel it, you know.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t go back inside, either.

—

The rain was still falling when he returned to London.

Not heavy—just steady, constant, the kind of rain that blurred streetlamps and soaked into your collar. He climbed the stairs to their flat slower than usual, heart dull and tired behind his ribs.

He unlocked the door.

Stepped inside.

Silence.

No shoes by the door. No kettle on the stove. No record player humming from the living room. No Draco.

The flat was empty.

Draco wasn’t home.

For a moment, Harry just stood there. Wet coat dripping onto the floor, heart thrumming like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the match was over.

He exhaled.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he let himself feel it. The quiet. The ache. The emptiness of a place that used to feel like home and now just felt like walls and absence.

Harry dropped his bag, and let the door fall shut behind him. He toed off his boots, shrugged off his coat, and stood in the quiet for a long minute. Long enough for his eyes to start stinging.

Then he sat down on the living room floor, his hair damp and still in his kit.

And waited till tears were threatening to spill.

Not because he thought Draco would walk through the door.

But because, for the first time, he didn’t know where else to go.

–

It was raining again.

Not dramatically, not in a way that invited a brooding. Just a cold, steady drizzle that blurred the windowpanes and made the whole flat feel dim.

Harry sat on the edge of the sofa, one ankle crossed over the other, still wearing his travel jumper from Scotland. He hadn’t bothered to unpack. The flat was quiet—too quiet. He hadn’t seen Draco since he’d come back the night before. No note, no owl. Just the echo of silence in rooms that used to feel full.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing—

A knock.

He stilled.

Another knock, firmer this time.

Harry opened the door.

Hunter stood there, wet curls clinging to his temples, coat collar turned up against the rain. He looked… not disheveled, exactly, but less polished. Looser around the edges. Like something in him had bent.

“Is Draco here?” he asked.

Harry blinked. “No.”

Hunter didn’t move. “Oh.”

A pause.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Harry shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since I got back last night.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Hunter nodded slowly, eyes drifting over Harry’s face, like he was trying to read something written there.

“I figured,” he murmured.

Harry leaned against the doorframe. “You could owl him.”

Hunter gave a faint, dry laugh. “Right. I could.”

He didn’t turn to leave.

Instead, he stepped back slightly, but not away. Just enough to break the threshold.

“I wasn’t going to come,” he said. “I didn’t think it would be… productive.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And yet here you are.”

Hunter shrugged. “Habit, I suppose.”

Harry studied him. There was something quieter about him today. Still guarded, but softer. More human than Harry had ever seen him.

“You two…” Harry started, then stopped. He didn’t want to finish the sentence.

Hunter didn’t make him.

“We’re figuring things out,” he said carefully. “Taking some time.”

It wasn’t confirmation, but it wasn’t denial either.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Hunter glanced past him into the flat, as if expecting to see Draco appear from around the corner. When nothing happened, he looked back.

“You know,” he said, “for what it’s worth—I don’t think I ever had a real chance.”

Harry stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Hunter tilted his head, eyes searching again. “I’m not blind. I saw the way he looked at you. The way you looked at him.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“I kept hoping you’d say something,” Hunter said. “That you’d just… say it.”

“I didn’t have anything to say,” Harry muttered.

Hunter’s expression softened. Not kind, not smug, just… tired. “You did. You just didn’t want to admit it.”

Another silence settled between them, thicker than the rain behind Hunter’s shoulders.

“I should go,” Hunter said.

Harry stepped back without replying.

Hunter hesitated on the threshold.

“If he comes back,” he said, “tell him I stopped by.”

Harry nodded.

Hunter gave him a look—one part apology, one part challenge—and turned to go.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Harry stood there for a long time, staring at nothing.

He didn’t know if he wanted Draco to come home. Or if he was afraid he already had and wouldn’t come back again.

–

Draco came back on a Thursday.

No warning. No owl. Just the sound of a key turning in the lock and the front door creaking open like nothing had changed.

Harry looked up from the kitchen table, heart thudding.

Draco stepped inside slowly, pale from travel or something else entirely. He looked exhausted—hair messy, bag slung loosely over one shoulder. His eyes flicked over the flat like he wasn’t sure it was real.

Their eyes met.

Neither of them spoke.

Draco set his bag down and walked past Harry without a word, disappearing into his room.

Harry didn’t follow.

He waited. He listened to the familiar sounds—closet door opening, the low thump of shoes kicked off, a drawer sliding shut.

He only breathed again when he heard the water run.

–

They didn’t talk that night. But Draco didn’t avoid him either. He poured himself tea and made enough for two. Left Harry’s cup on the counter without comment.

Harry drank it in silence.

The next morning, they moved around each other quietly. Draco in the kitchen, Harry cleaning up the living room. Not close. Not far. Just... orbiting.

Like something wounded and circling back.

By the third day, Harry couldn’t take it anymore.

He found himself pacing the hallway outside Draco’s door, arguments half-formed in his mouth and discarded before they ever left his lips.

He didn’t want to fight again.

But he couldn’t keep living in this fog of almost.

It was evening when he knocked.

Draco opened the door, blinking like he hadn’t expected to see anyone.

Harry stood there awkwardly, hands in his pockets. “Can I come in?”

Draco stepped back without a word.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed. The same way he had years ago when they were first learning how to be friends. When neither of them quite knew what to make of each other.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Draco looked at him.

“For the party,” he continued. “For what I said.”

Draco’s jaw tensed. He shut the door and walked over to the edge of the bed, he sat next to Harry, but still kept a distance between them. “You mean ‘poster boy for Death Eater rehab’?”

Harry winced. “Yeah.”

There was a pause.

“I know what actually happened,” Draco said quietly. “Luna told me.”

Harry blinked. “She did?”

“She said you told her what Hunter said first. About your job. About everything.”

“Oh.” Harry exhaled. “It’s not like I was innocent either. What I said was worse.”

Draco shook his head. “Maybe. But he knew how to provoke you.”

“I still said it.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. “You did.”

Another pause. This one a little softer.

“I just—” Harry started. “If you want me to move out, I get it. I know things have been… messed up. And I know Hunter caused a lot of it. But I let it happen. So if it’s easier with me gone—”

“I broke up with him.”

Harry froze.

Draco looked down at his hands. “A few days ago.”

“…You did?”

Draco nodded. “It should’ve ended earlier. But I kept trying to make it work because I thought it was supposed to.”

Harry was silent.

Draco glanced at him. “Do you really think I’d stay with someone after finding out what he said to you? What he was trying to do?”

Harry’s voice came out hoarse. “I didn’t think you cared.”

Draco laughed, but it was short and hollow. “Of course I cared, Harry.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know how.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Everything’s been tense for so long. I didn’t know what was mine to fix.”

Harry sat back a little. “I thought you hated me.”

“I never hated you,” Draco said. “You just hurt me.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I get that.”

They were quiet for a while.

Then Harry said, “Do you still want space?”

Draco met his eyes. “I think we’ve had enough space.”

Harry let out a breath, something shaky catching in his chest. He didn’t look away.

There was a beat, then another, where neither of them moved.

Draco’s face was open in a way Harry hadn’t seen in months. He looked tired, but not angry. Not guarded. And it hit Harry all at once—how much he’d missed this. Missed him.

Missed home.

He reached out, fingers brushing Draco’s wrist. Just a touch. Testing. Hoping.

Draco didn’t flinch.

So Harry leaned in, not all at once, not rushed, but slowly, like the air between them had become magnetic. Like he couldn’t not move closer.

And Draco let him.

Their foreheads touched first. Then Harry tilted his head, just slightly, and kissed him.

Soft. Intentional. Like exhaling a truth he hadn’t dared speak aloud.

Draco inhaled sharply—surprised, but he didn’t pull away.

His hand came up, resting lightly on Harry’s jaw, steadying them both.

And when they parted, Draco didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Harry could feel it in the way they stayed close. In the way Draco’s hand lingered.

Harry's heart pounded in his chest, the silence between them thick with unspoken words and newfound intimacy.

Draco's thumb gently brushed against Harry's cheek, sending a shiver down his spine. The room felt smaller, the air charged with electricity as their breaths mingled.

This was real.

This was them.

And for the first time in months, Harry felt like he could breathe.

Chapter Text

Draco's hand slid from Harry's jaw to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his messy, black hair. He pulled Harry closer, their noses brushing, and then he kissed him again. This time, it was deeper—more urgent.

Harry's lips parted against Draco's, allowing the kiss to deepen even further.

Draco’s mouth moved against his as if as nothing had been broken between them, as if weeks of silence hadn’t stretched between shared walls and half-closed doors.

Harry’s thoughts scattered.

It had been weeks since they’d spoken properly. Weeks of avoiding eye contact, of pretending and throwing himself into early practices and aching muscles and the clean, sharp burn of flying—

And now Draco was here. Warm. Real. His hand firm at the back of Harry’s neck, grounding him, pulling him closer as if Harry might disappear if he wasn’t held in place.

Harry felt dizzy. Overheated.

He mumbled softly, his words muffled against Draco's mouth, "Missed this... missed you." The admission was raw and honest, tinged with the relief of finally bridging the gap that had grown between them.

Draco's response was immediate and wordless.

"Mhm," Draco hummed against Harry's lips, his arm wrapping around Harry's waist to pull him even closer. The movement caused Harry to half-turn and half-lie on Draco's lap, their bodies aligned perfectly despite the awkward position.

Draco broke the kiss just long enough to shift his position, scooting back on the bed and pulling Harry with him. Draco's hands moved gently to Harry's hips—guiding him into a more natural position without breaking the kiss.

As Draco successfully repositioned them, Harry took the opportunity to crowd him even closer.

He slid his thigh between Draco's knees—parting them gently. The intimate move caused Draco to break the kiss with a sharp moan, his hands automatically tightening on Harry's hips.

Harry broke the kiss briefly to nip at Draco’s jaw. "You’re hard.” He states, his hands squeezed Draco’s hips bluntly, grinding them together once intentionally before capturing Draco’s mouth again in a messy kiss.

“So are you,” Draco mutters against the other boy’s lips. He cut off Harry's potential response by capturing his lips again in a deep kiss, simultaneously rolling his hips up to press his own hardness against Harry's thigh.

Their movements grew more urgent, hands roaming over each other's bodies with growing confidence.

Draco's fingers dug into Harry's hips as he pulled him closer, their kisses growing deeper, slower, and more intense. "Off," Draco muttered against Harry's mouth, tugging at his shirt.

"Lose the shirt, then," Harry replied softly, his voice low and husky as he pulled away just long enough to yank Draco's shirt over his head. "You're so fucking pretty,"

Harry trailed his lips down Draco's neck, pressing soft—open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin. He could feel Draco's pulse quicken under his lips, and he smiled slightly against the smooth flesh. His hands roamed gently over Draco's chest, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles.

"Merlin..." Draco let his head fall back, exposing more of his neck to Harry's exploring mouth.

His hands moved from Harry's hips to tangle in his hair, gently guiding him. The soft, sweet kisses mixed with the occasional sharp press of teeth made his breath catch in his throat.

Harry's lips moved lower, leaving a trail of kisses along Draco's sternum and stomach. He could feel every taut muscle beneath his mouth as he worked his way down. Without pausing, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Draco's pants—slowly pulling them down. As Harry worked his way lower, Draco reached for the hem of Harry's shirt, tugging it upwards. His voice was rough with desire "Let me—" He got the shirt off, tossing it aside, then ran appreciative hands over Harry's chest.

Their touches became more urgent, clothes disappeared faster.

Harry pushed Draco's briefs down, freeing his straining erection. Draco yanked Harry's boxers off, tossing them away. Their bare bodies pressed together, hips bucking slightly, uncoordinated and desperate.

Draco wrapped his legs around Harry's waist, pulling him closer. Harry's hard length slid against Draco's, the friction making them both groan. Draco reached out blindly, grabbing the lube from his nightstand drawer without breaking their kiss.

Harry's mind was a fog of desire, his thoughts barely coherent.

Draco was gorgeous like this—all flushed and needy, legs wrapped around him like a vice. He moaned into Draco's mouth as their dicks rubbed together, precome leaking freely. "Fuck,"

Their lips met in a rough, passionate kiss as their bodies ground together. Harry's mind whirled with desire. Draco looked absolutely stunning spread out beneath him, one hand gripping the sheets while the other slicked lube onto Harry's fingers. "Are you—“

Draco groaned and panted, breaking the kiss to throw his head back. His neck was stretched out, inviting Harry to bite down.

Harry snapped back to reality, his brain finally engaged again.

He pushed two lubricated fingers inside Draco. He watched him carefully, loving the way his body stretched around his fingers. "So fuckin’ impatient," He added a third finger, making Draco curse.

Draco's back arched off the bed, his hips rolling to meet Harry's fingers. "You're such an—" He bit his lip, eyes fluttering closed "—arse." His breath hitched as Harry found his prostate, rubbing it deliberately.

Draco cut off his own insults with a moan as Harry hit that spot inside him again. He reached out, grabbing Harry's wrist to keep his fingers right there, no more teasing. His free hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Harry's fingers.

Harry slowly withdrew his fingers, Draco whimpering at the sudden emptiness. Before he could complain, Harry lined himself up, pressing just the tip inside Draco. "Draco…" His voice was low and commanding. He gave Draco no chance to answer before pushing inside slowly. Draco gasped loudly, his fingers digging into Harry's shoulders as he was stretched open.

“Fuck... Merlin, f-fuck..." His back arched higher, taking more of Harry's length. For once, he couldn't manages any snarky comebacks, just small desperate sounds.

Harry’s hands trembled as he held Draco’s hips, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The sight before him was overwhelming—Draco, his best friend, laid out beneath him like an offering.

Something twisted in Harry’s chest.

His fingers slid higher, slowing his pace, tracing the pale lines across Draco’s chest absentmindedly. The scars were faint, but they were there—familiar under his fingertips. Harry’s breath hitched. His touch faltered, then softened, as if careful enough pressure might undo what had been already done.

He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve Draco like this—open, trusting, warm beneath him.

Draco shifted, his hands sliding over Harry’s wrist, guiding his fingers back to where they’d been moments before.

“Hey,” Draco murmured, barely more than a breath, his thumb brushing over Harry’s knuckles. “It’s okay.”

He tilted his head up, forehead pressing briefly to Harry’s, grounding them both. Draco’s hand stayed there, steady, anchoring. Not pushing. Not asking. Just reminding him—I’m here. I chose this.

Harry’s breath shuddered as he let himself be guided, let himself stay.

And Draco kissed him again, slow this time, unhurried—like there was no need to rush, like they had all the time in the world to make sense of it together.

Harry's lips parted automatically, welcoming the kiss. His hands stopped their wandering, gripping Draco's shoulders instead.

The scar tissue there was smooth under his palms, a silent testimony to the pain Draco had endured—pain that Harry himself had caused.

Draco deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against Harry's in a slow, sensual dance. He wanted to erase the doubt from Harry's eyes, the self-blame he saw there. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Harry's again. "Stop thinking,"

Harry's movements became more urgent, his hips slamming against Draco's with a fierce intensity. The room was filled with the sound of their labored breathing and the muffled cries of pleasure escaping both their lips. Harry's hands gripped Draco's thighs possessively as he drove them both towards their climax.

Harry's rhythm turned punishing as he chased their release—each thrust a silent apology for every hurt he'd ever caused Draco. Their bodies slapped together, sweat-slicked skin sticking and peeling apart. Draco's nails raked down Harry's back, pulling him closer, taking everything Harry gave and demanding more.

Harry’s pace became brutal as he drove them both to their climax. They came down from their high slowly together tangled—as if they were made to be intertwined.

It didn’t feel sudden, not to Harry, just the slow collapse. A wordless understanding that had been waiting for years to be spoken.

The room was quiet again, the air still warm between them. Draco had drifted off, turned slightly toward him, the faint rise and fall of his bare chest, breathing steadily. Moonlight traced the line of his shoulder, softening everything it touched. Harry watched him for a while, memorizing the quiet—the rare peace that had settled in after weeks of noise.

—

When Harry opens his eyes, he realizes that he’s not in his room. He’s in Draco’s. And when he reaches over, all he finds is a cold mattress.

Draco’s absence sends a spike of panic through him. It reminds Harry of rainy nights and cold winters, of fights that lingered and silences that stretched too long. He gets up quickly, padding out of Draco’s room snd through the flat, a quiet, unreasonable fear settling in his chest that Draco had regretted all the words and touches from last night.

The fear eases the moment he sees him in the kitchen, sitting by the counter, eating breakfast.

Harry crosses the room and sits beside him. “Morning,” he says, smiling.

Draco turns toward him, visibly tired, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep. Without thinking, Harry reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from Draco’s face. “Did I tire you out?” he asks, laughing softly.

Draco rolls his eyes, lips twitching. “Your ego needs to be inflated, golden boy.”

Harry huffs a laugh and leans back in his chair, letting the sound of Draco’s voice settle something in him. The kitchen is warm, sunlight slipping in through the window in thin bands, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It feels too ordinary for how unordinary everything else feels.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Harry’s mind drifts, unhelpfully, to tangled sheets and warm skin and the way Draco’s breath had stuttered when Harry had pressed his forehead to his collarbone. The memory is quiet, not sharp—like something already softening around the edges. He clears his throat and reaches for his mug instead.

Draco shifts beside him, close enough that Harry can feel the heat of him. He’s barefoot, wearing one of Harry’s old shirts, the fabric stretched just enough across his shoulders to make Harry look twice. It shouldn’t really mean anything. But it does anyway.

“You hungry?” Draco asks, nodding toward the plate in front of him, his voice casual—a little too casual.

“Always,” Harry says automatically, then winces. “I mean—yeah.”

Draco snorts and slides the plate toward him. Their fingers brush briefly, just a second too long to be accidental. Neither of them comments on it.

They eat in silence, but it isn’t the heavy kind. They’re both aware they’re standing on something newly built, testing where it will hold. Harry notices how Draco keeps glancing at him when he thinks Harry isn’t looking. He wonders if Draco notices him doing the same.

There’s a moment—brief and fragile—where Harry feels the urge to say something.

About last night.

About how it hadn’t felt like a mistake.

About how he doesn’t want to lose this by rushing it.

The words gather at the back of his throat.

Then Draco exhales softly and leans back in his chair. “You’ve got practice today, don’t you?”

Harry blinks, the moment slipping away. “Yeah,” he says. “Ginny’ll murder me if I’m late.”

A small smile tugs at Draco’s mouth. “I’d pay to see that.”

Harry laughs, relieved and disappointed all at once. Maybe this is better. Maybe they don’t need to pin it down yet. Maybe letting it breathe is kinder than interrogating it to death.

“I should… get ready,” Harry says instead. “I’ve still got time.”

Draco nods, easy. “Try not to steal all the hot water.”

Harry snorts and stands, hesitating only a second before leaning down to press a careful kiss to Draco’s temple. It’s brief, almost chaste, but Draco tilts into it like he’s memorizing the shape of it.

“See you in a bit,” Harry murmurs.

“Mm,” Draco says. “I’ll still be here.”

The words land heavier than Harry expects.

Harry lingers for a moment, then heads down the hall to his room. He showers quickly, dresses by muscle memory, brushes his teeth while his thoughts drift unhelpfully back to warm skin and tangled sheets. When he comes back out, broom over his shoulder, Draco looks up from the counter like he’d been waiting.

Harry pauses, the quiet certainty of it settling deep in his chest.

And when he finally steps out into the morning, the world feels—if not fixed—then at least aligned enough to move forward.

—

Harry isn’t late enough for Ginny to yell, which is how he knows he’s cutting it close.

He jogs onto the pitch with his broom slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from a rushed shower, lungs burning just slightly from the effort. The morning is grey and cool, the kind of weather that settles and gnaws at your skin to the bone. The rest of the team is already mounted, hovering in loose formation.

Ginny clocks him instantly.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just raises an eyebrow, slow and deliberate, the way she does when she’s decided to file something away for later. Harry grimaces.

“Don’t,” he says, preemptively.

“Wasn’t going to,” she replies sweetly, then lifts her whistle. “Mount up.”

The first drill is fast and punishing. Ginny doesn’t go easy on him (never has) and Harry wouldn’t trust her if she did. Bludgers come at him from impossible angles, passes are sent half a second too late or too early, reflexes tested until his arms ache and his palms sting.

And Harry keeps up.

Better than he has in weeks.

He’s laughing by the third near-miss, adrenaline buzzing under his skin, the tight coil in his chest finally loosening as he climbs higher, wind tearing past his ears. For the first time in a while, flying doesn’t feel like something he’s clinging to. It feels like something that’s holding him.

Ginny sends a Bludger screaming toward him without warning.

Harry swerves instinctively and bats it away, spinning with the momentum. “Oi!”

She grins, feral and delighted. “That was slow.”

“Liar.”

“Barely.”

They land eventually, boots thudding into the turf. Harry bends over with his hands on his knees, breath coming hard, sweat cooling too fast in the breeze. Ginny tosses him a towel.

“You’re not spiraling,” she says.

Harry blinks, straightening. “Wow. Rude.”

She shrugs. “Observant.”

He scrubs at his face, trying—and failing—to hide his smile. “I spiral with dignity.”

“You spiral with dramatics,” Ginny corrects. “There’s a difference.”

He snorts. “What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says lightly. “The insomnia. The broodiness. The way you nearly flew into a goalpost last week like you were hoping it’d end things.”

Harry grimaces. “That was tactical.”

Ginny fixes him with a look. “Harry.”

He sighs. “Okay. Fine. That one might’ve been… less tactical.”

They start walking toward the edge of the pitch, brooms tucked under their arms. Ginny glances at him sideways. “You’re different today.”

“Good different or concerning different?”

“Good,” she says immediately. Then, after a beat, “Which is why I’m asking now and not three days ago.”

Harry’s steps slow. He keeps his eyes forward. “Asking what, exactly?”

She bumps her shoulder into his, just hard enough to be annoying. “Don’t make me spell it out. You hate when I spell it out.”

He exhales, a quiet laugh escaping him. “I’m just… better, I guess.”

Ginny hums. “Uh-huh.”

They reach the benches. Ginny drops onto one and stretches her legs out, watching him carefully as he sits beside her.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” she says, softer now. “But you also don’t have to pretend I don’t know you.”

Harry stares out at the pitch. The grass is torn up in places, marked with scuffs and skid-lines from drills. He rolls his broom handle between his palms.

“It’s not… sorted,” he says finally. “Whatever you think this is. It’s not clean or finished.”

Ginny nods, like that’s exactly what she expected. “It never is.”

He glances at her. “You’re not going to ask who?”

She smirks. “Please. I’m not Ron.”

“Fair.”

She studies him for another moment, then says, “Are you okay with where it is?”

Harry considers the question. Really considers it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I think I am.”

Ginny smiles —small, satisfied. “Good.”

She stands abruptly and claps her hands. “Right. Showers. Food. You’re buying.”

“What?” Harry protests. “For what?”

“For making me worry,” she says breezily. “And for emotional labour. And because I said so.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head as he follows her off the pitch.

The flat smells like something warm when Harry gets home.

He pauses in the doorway, broom still slung over his shoulder, listening. There’s movement in the kitchen—the clink of a pan, the low hum of someone not quite singing. Draco. The knot that usually tightens in his chest at the thought of coming home loosens instead.

“Hey,” Harry says, toeing off his trainers.

Draco looks up from the stove. “Hey.” He glances at Harry, then smiles, small and real. “You look wrecked.”

“Ginny,” Harry replies solemnly.

Draco snorts. “Tragic.”

Harry drops his broom by the wall and washes his hands, moving on autopilot. They fall into an easy rhythm. Draco plating food, Harry grabbing cutlery, the kind of domestic choreography that feels both new and strangely familiar. It would be easy to let the moment pass. To eat. To sit. To pretend last night didn’t rearrange something fundamental.

Harry doesn’t let it.

“Can we—” He stops, exhales, starts again. “About last night.”

Draco stills. Not tense, just attentive.

“Okay,” he says.

They move to the sofa without really deciding to. Draco sits first, leaning back, one arm draped along the backrest. Harry perches beside him, close enough that their knees touch. He focuses on that point of contact, grounding himself.

“I don’t regret it,” Harry says quickly. Too quickly. “Just—so you know.”

Draco’s mouth quirks. “Good.”

Harry huffs a laugh, then sobers. “I just don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Or rush it. Or… mess it up.”

Draco considers him for a moment, eyes steady. “You don’t have to decide anything,” he says. “We don’t have to… name it. But I don’t want to act like it was nothing.”

Relief hits Harry so hard it makes his chest ache.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s… yeah.”

Draco shifts closer, their shoulders brushing. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, softer, “I’m not confused.”

Harry swallows. “I am.”

Draco smiles, not unkindly. “That tracks.”

Harry laughs, tension easing out of him in a rush. He leans back into the sofa, letting himself relax properly for the first time all day. After a moment, Draco’s hand finds his, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Draco squeezes his hand—once, twice—then lets go, standing up. “Let’s eat.”

They eat standing at the counter, close enough that Harry can feel the heat from Draco’s side. The pasta is good—better than good, actually—and Harry tells him so, because it feels like the kind of thing you should say out loud when things are finally quiet.

Draco shrugs, pleased despite himself. “I didn’t have the energy to cook properly. Long day.”

“Lab day?” Harry asks around a mouthful.

Draco hums in agreement, already reaching for his glass. “Spent four hours arguing with a stabilising agent that refused to cooperate.”

Harry snorts. “You say that like it has opinions.”

“It does,” Draco says seriously. “They’re just all wrong.”

Harry laughs, the sound easy. He watches Draco lean back against the counter, sleeves pushed up, faint smudges of something dark still lingering near his wrists—residue he probably meant to wash off and forgot. It’s familiar. Comfortingly so. Draco coming home tired and irritated at invisible problems has been a constant for years now.

“At least it’s not volatile,” Harry says. “Last time you nearly melted the sink.”

“That was one time,” Draco protests. “And it was mostly Theo’s fault.”

“Sure it was.”

They fall quiet again, the comfortable kind this time. Harry finishes eating and nudges his empty plate aside, watching Draco out of the corner of his eye. There’s a question sitting there in the back of his mind.

“So,” Harry says eventually, casual, “Ginny wants everyone over this weekend. Apparently Ron’s been insufferable about some new training regimen.”

Draco grimaces. “Shocking.”

“She says Luna’s bringing something experimental.”

“Terrifying,” Draco says fondly. Then, after a pause, “You okay with that?”

Harry blinks. “With… dinner?”

“With people,” Draco clarifies gently. “I know things were… weird. After.”

Harry exhales. “Yeah. I think so.” He hesitates. “They already knew something was off, anyway.”

Draco nods, a quiet acknowledgment. “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Harry huffs. “Yeah. I wasn’t exactly at my best.”

“They noticed,” Draco says. Not accusing. Just stating it. “Everyone did.”

Harry’s smile fades, just a little. “They know there was a fight. About Hunter. Not the details. Just… that it got bad.”

Draco exhales slowly, gaze dropping to his hands for a moment before lifting again. “That’s fine.”

“He came by while you were gone,” Harry adds, keeping his tone neutral. “Asked where you were. Told me you were ‘taking a break.’”

Draco rolls his eyes, unimpressed. “Of course he did.”

“That didn’t piss you off?”

Draco considers it, then shakes his head. “Not really. It’s not my problem what he tells people.” He glances at Harry. “I ended it. That’s what matters.”

Something settles in Harry’s chest at that. Not relief, exactly, but clarity.

“Good,” he says quietly.

Draco studies him for a moment, then nods once, like that’s enough. “Anyway,” he says, lighter now, “if we’re doing dinner, we should probably warn Pansy. She’ll take one look at us and make it weird.”

“She makes everything weird,” Harry says.

“True.”

They move back toward the living room, plates abandoned in the sink for later. Draco drops onto the sofa, stretching out, and Harry follows without thinking, shoulder bumping against Draco’s as he sits.

Harry lets his shoulder rest there, just for a moment. Draco doesn’t move away. The contact is easy, unremarkable in the way that means everything.

The room hums quietly around them—the low buzz of the wards, the distant noise of the city outside. It feels lived-in again. Safe.

“So,” Harry says after a beat, staring at nothing in particular. “We’ll go?”

Draco turns his head slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

Harry nods, relief settling low in his chest. He shifts, foot knocking lightly against Draco’s calf. Draco glances down, then back up, something unreadable flickering across his face.

Harry doesn’t overthink it.

He turns, slow enough to give Draco time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn’t. Draco’s gaze drops briefly to Harry’s mouth, then lifts again.

The kiss is gentle. Nothing like the night before. No urgency. No desperation. Just the quiet press of lips, familiar and steady, like a promise neither of them has to say out loud.

Draco’s hand comes up, resting at the back of Harry’s neck, thumb warm against his skin. Harry exhales into the kiss, tension easing out of him in a way that feels earned.

When they part, they don’t rush to fill the silence.

Draco leans his forehead briefly against Harry’s. “Okay?” he murmurs.

Harry smiles, small but real. “Yeah.”

They settle back into the sofa, closer now, knees touching, the conversation paused but not unfinished.

—

They arrive together.

Not hand in hand, nothing that obvious of course, but close enough that Harry’s shoulder brushes Draco’s as Ginny opens the door, close enough that it feels like a choice even if neither of them says it is.

“About time,” Ginny says, stepping aside to let them in. Her tone is light, unreadable. Luna is behind her, barefoot, wearing something soft and impractical, a glass of wine already in her hand.

“You’re late,” Luna adds pleasantly. “But only in the way that suggests something interesting delayed you.”

Harry flushes. Draco, infuriatingly, looks amused.

The flat is already full. Ron and Hermione are on the sofa, Hermione perched sideways with her feet tucked under Ron’s thigh, wine balanced carefully in her hand. Pansy is sprawled in an armchair like she owns the place, one heel kicked off, glass dangling loosely from her fingers. Theo is leaning against the windowsill, deep in conversation with Hermione until she notices them and goes very still.

Blaise, Harry notices, is conspicuously absent.

“Blaise bailed,” Pansy says immediately, eyes flicking between Harry and Draco like she’s cataloguing something. “Something about a prior engagement. Or a hangover. Hard to tell with him.”

Theo snorts. “Coward.”

Ginny shuts the door behind them. “Drinks are on the counter. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Harry nods, suddenly very aware of the room, the way everyone’s attention has subtly shifted. Hermione looks like she wants to say something—not accusatory, just… precise—and then clearly thinks better of it. Ron, on the other hand, squints at Harry like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You seem… different,” Ron says finally.

Harry stiffens. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Ron says. “Less like you’re about to hex someone.”

“That’s improvement,” Draco says mildly.

Ron blinks, then laughs. “Blimey. See? This. Whatever this is. This is what I mean.”

Hermione shoots him a look. “Ron.”

“What? I didn’t say anything!”

“You implied several things.”

Harry clears his throat. “Wine?”

Ginny snorts. “Excellent deflection.”

They migrate toward the living room, conversation breaking into smaller pieces. Harry ends up on the sofa between Draco and Ron, which feels intentional on someone’s part, though he’s not sure whose. Draco sits comfortably close, knee brushing Harry’s. Ron leans back, arm stretched along the back of the couch behind Hermione.

Pansy watches them over the rim of her glass, expression sharp and knowing.

“So,” she says eventually, dragging the word out. “Should I be congratulating someone, or are we still pretending?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Pretending what, exactly?”

“That nothing has changed,” Pansy says sweetly.

Harry’s pulse spikes. He opens his mouth, then stops. Before he can decide what to say, Luna speaks.

“I think,” she says thoughtfully, “that if something has changed, it’s doing a very good job of being gentle about it.”

Ginny meets Harry’s eyes across the room, just for a second, then looks away again. Hermione takes a slow sip of her wine.

Ron frowns. “Right. Well. That’s cryptic.”

“Luna,” Ginny says, “can you help me with the food?”

“Of course,” Luna replies, already standing. “Theo, would you like to stir something?”

Theo brightens. “Yes.”

They disappear into the kitchen, the tension easing with their departure. Harry exhales, hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

Draco leans in slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly. “Just… a lot of eyes.”

Draco hums. “They’ll get bored.”

Pansy smirks. “Unlikely.”

Dinner is called soon after. They crowd around the table, plates passed, wine refilled. Harry ends up seated next to Draco again, across from Hermione, with Ron at his other side. Ginny and Luna take the head of the table, comfortable and easy together.

The conversation shifts, Quidditch, work, Theo complaining about a supplier who messed up an order. Draco mentions the lab in passing, something about a failed batch and a colleague who’d mislabeled ingredients. No one questions it. No one needs to.

Harry feels… normal. Not scrutinized. Not braced.

At some point, Ron nudges him under the table. “You happy?”

Harry glances down, then back up at Ron. He doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I am.”

Ron nods, satisfied. “Good.”

Across the table, Hermione catches Harry’s eye and gives him a small, almost imperceptible smile. Not approval—understanding.

Wine glasses empty and refill. Plates are cleared. Conversation fragments into overlapping threads. Pansy and Ginny argue amicably about seating arrangements at an upcoming event. Theo and Luna discuss something that sounds theoretical and alarming.

Harry leans back in his chair, shoulder brushing Draco’s again. Draco doesn’t move away.

Hermione notices.

She always does.

It takes her a few minutes. Lomg enough for the conversation to splinter further, for Ginny and Pansy to move their argument into the kitchen, for Theo to get distracted by whatever Luna is saying with alarming enthusiasm. Hermione catches Harry’s eye from across the table, lifts her chin slightly, and jerks it toward the hallway.

Harry sighs. He squeezes Draco’s knee lightly under the table, a wordless one second, and stands.

Hermione doesn’t wait for him. She’s already halfway down the hall, heels clicking softly against the floor. Harry follows, heart picking up speed in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with familiarity.

She stops outside the bathroom and turns on him.

“What the hell happened?”

Harry winces. “Hi, Hermione.”

“No,” she says flatly. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to ‘hi’ me after weeks of radio silence.” She folds her arms, eyes sharp but worried underneath it. “Ginny told me how you were at the scrimmage. How bad it got. And then you come back, Draco vanishes, and suddenly you’re here—” she gestures vaguely in the direction of the living room “—like this.”

Harry opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Hermione exhales, visibly reigning herself in. “I know about Hunter. I know about the party. I know you said something you shouldn’t have, and that Draco left. That’s it. Everything else is just… gaps.”

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“So fill them in,” she says gently now. “Please.”

Harry leans back against the wall, the cool plaster grounding him. “It wasn’t just the party,” he says. “That was just… where it broke.”

Hermione’s eyes narrow slightly. “Harry.”

He exhales. “Hunter being there. Him needling me. Draco thinking I hated him for things that had nothing to do with him. Me snapping and saying something I can’t take back.” He looks at her. “I hurt him.”

Hermione absorbs that quietly. “And when he left?”

“I let him,” Harry says. No excuses. “I didn’t chase him. I went to the scrimmage instead.”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“I came back,” he continues, “and the flat was empty. That was when it actually hit.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I was miserable. Ginny knew. You probably did too.”

“I did,” Hermione says softly.

Harry shifts his weight, eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t some big thing,” he says. “We didn’t sit down and solve it.”

Hermione crosses her arms. “Then what did you do?”

“We stopped ignoring it,” Harry says. “That’s basically it.”

She waits.

“We said some stuff we should’ve said earlier,” he adds. “And some stuff we probably should’ve said weeks ago. And then we didn’t make it worse.”

Hermione studies him. “That’s your bar for success?”

Harry winces. “Right now? Yeah.”

“So where does that leave you?”

Harry exhales. “Not fighting and avoiding each other. Which is… new.”

“Harry.”

He glances up. “We’re okay,” he says, more firmly. “Not magically fine. Just—okay.”

Hermione nods slowly. “And Draco?”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. Then, quieter, “He stayed.”

That’s it. That’s the answer.

Hermione’s expression softens. “You look better.”

Harry snorts. “Really?”

“Yes,” she says. “You’re not vibrating with self-loathing.”

“Again,” Harry says, “low bar.”

She steps forward and pulls him into a brief, practical hug. “Next time,” she says, “you talk to me.”

“I will,” Harry says. No hesitation.

She pulls back, hands still on his arms. “So you’re… figuring it out.”

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

Hermione gives a small, relieved smile. “Good.”

From the living room, someone laughs loudly—Ron, by the sound of it. Hermione steps aside, gesturing back toward the noise.

“Go,” she says. “Before Pansy decides to interrogate you next.”

Harry snorts. “Terrifying.”

As he heads back down the hall, the tension in his chest feels different now. Lighter.

Draco looks up when Harry comes back into the room.

Hermione watches them for just a second longer before rejoining the others, her expression thoughtful.

Theo pauses mid-sentence, then keeps talking when Draco’s attention shifts back to him. Harry crosses the space and sits beside Draco, close enough that their knees touch.

“Everything okay?” Draco asks, low.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Draco nods once. His knee stays where it is.

Ron glances over, brow furrowing. “Did I miss something?”

Harry opens his mouth.

Pansy beats him to it. “Obviously.”

Ron looks between the three of them. “Right. That clears it up.”

Ginny snorts into her glass. Hermione, already back in her seat, pretends very hard to be interested in the wine.

Harry leans back against the sofa, one arm settling along the back. Draco shifts slightly to lean against him, the movement small but deliberate.

Conversation fills the room again.

Harry reaches for his glass. Draco reaches for his at the same time. Their fingers brush. Neither of them move away.

Harry laughs at something Ginny says. Draco murmurs something under his breath in response. Harry laughs again, quieter this time.

The night goes on.

—

By the third week, the bruises stop surprising him.

They bloom along Harry’s ribs and shoulders in shades of yellow and purple, ache deep in his muscles in a way that lingers even after sleep. Practice is relentless now—longer drills, tighter margins, Ginny pushing him harder because she knows he can take it. Harry comes home sore and wrung out, hair damp with sweat, hands still faintly buzzing from the broom.

Draco is already home.

Harry finds him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, potion journal open on the counter, something simmering low on the stove. He looks up when Harry comes in, eyes flicking briefly over the state of him.

“You look like hell,” Draco says.

Harry drops his bag by the door. “I’m thriving.”

Draco snorts and gestures with his chin. “Sit.”

Harry does, perching on one of the stools. The adrenaline is wearing off now, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Draco finishes what he’s doing, then turns off the burner and reaches for the cupboard without asking. He sets out a glass, fills it, slides it toward Harry.

“Drink.”

Harry obeys. The water is cool enough to sting.

Draco crouches slightly to look at Harry’s side, fingers hovering, waiting. Harry nods, and Draco presses gently, assessing without fuss.

“Bludger?” Draco asks.

“Two,” Harry says. “One personal.”

Draco hums. He grabs a cooling salve from the shelf—Harry recognizes it immediately; Draco keeps it stocked for long days at the lab. He doesn’t make a production of it, just warms it between his palms and applies it carefully, methodical and sure.

It doesn’t feel like being taken care of.

It feels like being known.

Harry leans back slightly, letting himself relax into it. “I was good today,” he says, almost surprised to hear himself say it.

Draco glances up. “You usually are.”

“No,” Harry says. “I mean—” He searches for the words. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

Draco stills, then resumes. “And how did that feel?”

Harry considers it. The fear is still there—the what-if-I-fail, the what-if-this-ends—but it’s distant, no longer screaming.

“It’s fun,” he admits. “I like this.”

Draco’s mouth curves faintly. “Good.”

They sit there for a moment too long, the quiet pressing in now that the salve has dried and Draco has stepped back. Harry’s chest feels tight again—not with fear, exactly, but with something restless, unfinished.

“Draco,” he says.

Draco looks up. “Yeah?”

Harry doesn’t hedge. “I need to know this isn’t just because things got messy.”

Draco looks up fully now.

“I mean,” Harry says, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the counter, “not the fight. Not Hunter. Not because we finally said everything out loud.” He glances at Draco. “I need to know you still want this when it’s just normal. When I come home wrecked from practice and… that’s it.”

Draco takes a step closer.

“I don’t want to feel like I only get you when everything’s falling apart,” Harry adds, quieter now. “I want to know it’s real when nothing’s wrong.”

Draco closes the distance completely.

“Harry,” he says, firm now, hands coming up to Harry’s sides, anchoring him. “Look at me.”

Harry does.

“I want you,” Draco says. Not circling around it. “I’ve wanted you. This isn’t a consolation prize.”

Something in Harry breaks open at that.

He grabs Draco by the front of his shirt and kisses him—not tentative, nor polite. Desperate. All teeth and breath and the sharp edge of relief. Draco makes a low sound and kisses him back just as hard, hands sliding up, gripping Harry’s shoulders like he’s afraid to let go.

Harry presses him back against the counter without meaning to. He’s aware of everything at once, the solid heat of Draco’s body, the way Draco kisses him like this isn’t new, like it’s been waiting. Harry’s hands shake as they slide up Draco’s sides, like he’s trying to make sure he’s real.

When they break apart, it’s only because Harry has to breathe.

He rests his forehead against Draco’s, still holding on. “I don’t want to be careful all the time,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t want to pretend I don’t want you.”

Draco’s thumbs brush along his ribs, grounding. “Then don’t.”

Harry laughs weakly. “That easy?”

“No,” Draco says. “But that simple.”

They stay there for a moment longer, breathing each other in, the urgency settling into something steadier.

Draco nudges him gently with his hip. “Now,” he says, “you’re going to sit down before you fall over, and then we’re going to eat. Because you’re exhausted.”

Harry smiles, still breathless. “You’re bossy.”

“I’m right.”

They move back into the kitchen together, closer now, the space between them unmistakably altered.

—

The pub is already loud when they get there, warm and crowded, the air thick with conversation and the smell of spilled ale. Harry likes it immediately. It feels easier to exist somewhere like this, where no one’s paying too much attention.

They take a table near the back. Ron orders like he hasn’t eaten in days. Hermione insists on water as well. Harry lets them argue, nursing his pint and watching the condensation slide down the glass.

“So,” Ron says eventually, leaning back. “What’s new?”

Hermione shoots him a look. “Ron.”

“What?” he says innocently. “I’m asking. I’m allowed to ask.”

Harry snorts despite himself. He sets his glass down. “You’re both terrible at pretending you don’t already know something’s up.”

Hermione’s eyes sharpen immediately. “Harry.”

Ron straightens. “Oh. Oh?”

Harry takes a breath. This feels different than saying it to himself, or to Draco. He doesn’t overthink it.

“Me and Draco are together,” he says. “Properly.”

There’s a beat.

Ron stares at him. Then blinks. Then stares again. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

Ron looks at Hermione. “He’s joking, right?”

Hermione doesn’t look away from Harry. A slow smile spreads across her face. “I knew it.”

Ron splutters. “You knew?”

“Not this,” she says briskly. “But something. You’ve both been unbearable for weeks.”

Harry groans. “We were subtle.”

“You were not,” Hermione says.

Ron drags a hand down his face. “You and Malfoy.”

“Draco,” Harry corrects automatically.

Ron pauses. “Right. Sorry. Draco.” He squints. “Since when?”

Harry shrugs. “Depends what you mean.”

“I mean,” Ron says, pointing between them, “when did you go from ‘he’s my annoying flatmate’ to this?”

Hermione leans forward. “And don’t say ‘it just happened.’ That’s not an answer.”

Harry laughs. “You’re both ganging up on me.”

“Yes,” Hermione says. “Proceed.”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. We’ve been… close for a while. Friends, of course. And then things got messy. And then we stopped lying to ourselves about it.”

Ron frowns. “Did I miss a war?”

“Emotionally? Yes,” Harry says.

Ron huffs. “Brilliant.”

Hermione tilts her head. “Are you happy?”

Harry doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”

Her expression softens instantly. “Good.”

Ron squints again. “Okay, but—serious question.”

Harry braces himself. “Go on.”

Ron gestures vaguely. “Is he… nice to you?”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“I mean,” Ron says defensively, “Malfoy was a git for years. I just—” He trails off. “You know.”

Harry smiles. “Yeah. He is.”

Ron nods slowly, processing. “Right. Huh.”

Hermione’s eyes flick between them. “Does Ginny know?”

“Yes.”

“And Luna?”

Harry smiles. “Obviously.”

Ron groans. “I’m always the last to know.”

“That’s because you ask questions like this,” Hermione says fondly.

Ron drains half his pint in one go. “Okay. New question. Are we allowed to make fun of you?”

Harry snorts. “You’ve never needed permission.”

“Excellent,” Ron says. “Because I have so many jokes.”

Hermione sighs. “Ron.”

“What? He dated Cho, Ginny, and now Draco Malfoy. I deserve a minute.”

Harry laughs, the sound easy. “You’re impossible.”

Ron grins. “You love me.”

Hermione reaches across the table and squeezes Harry’s hand again, quieter now. “Thank you for telling us.”

“Yeah,” Ron adds. “Even if I’m still confused.”

Harry looks between them—his best friends, exactly as they’ve always been, just older now. “I didn’t want to keep hiding it.”

Hermione smiles. “You don’t have to.”

Ron lifts his glass. “Well then.”

Harry raises his own.

“To terrible timing,” Ron says.

“To honesty,” Hermione counters.

Harry grins. “To not pretending anymore.”

They clink glasses, the sound bright and familiar.

—

Harry has been happy before. In flashes. In moments that felt borrowed.

This is different.

The years he spent circling Draco—learning him, arguing with him, choosing him again and again as a friend—has settled into something solid now. Being together hasn’t changed the shape of them so much as  it’s clarified it. They’re still close, still bickering, still touching without thinking. Still fighting, sometimes. Just without the distance.

Christmas is coming, and for the first time Harry can remember, the season doesn’t feel like a countdown to disaster. No looming war. No prophecies. No newspapers dissecting his life like it’s public property. No waiting for the other shoe to drop.

They’re spending it at the Manor.

Harry has met Narcissa Malfoy before. After the war, when everything was raw and uncertain. She had looked at him with something like grief and gratitude tangled together, and he had defended her and Draco without hesitation. He knows what she gave him that night. He’s never forgotten.

But this is different.

This time, he isn’t coming as Draco’s friend. He’s coming as the person Draco chose.

That knowledge sits heavy in his chest.

Narcissa’s gift rests neatly on the bed, wrapped with care. Harry stands in front of the mirror, fingers fumbling with his tie, hands betraying him by shaking no matter how many times he tells himself to breathe.

In a few minutes, they’ll floo to the Manor. He needs to make a good impression. He needs to not say something stupid. He needs to—

The door opens.

“Are you ready?”

Harry looks up at Draco’s reflection behind him. He’s already dressed, calm as ever, watching Harry with a soft, amused expression.

“Uh—yeah,” Harry says. “Nearly.”

Draco chuckles and steps closer, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. He presses a brief kiss to the side of Harry’s neck, warm and grounding.

“You don’t look it,” Draco murmurs.

Harry exhales, the breath leaving him slowly as he leans back into Draco. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t fully eased yet—nerves still buzzing under his skin—but Draco’s presence helps. It always does.

“You’re allowed to be nervous,” Draco murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “She’s terrifying.”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s not helping.”

Draco smiles against his neck. “I know.”

He turns Harry gently, one hand settling at his waist, steady and familiar. Their foreheads touch. Harry can feel Draco’s breath, warm and even, like he’s already decided this is fine. That they are fine.

“You don’t have to perform,” Draco says softly. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I just want her to like me.”

Draco’s thumb brushes over Harry’s hip, slow and grounding. “She does.”

Harry looks at him. “You don’t know that.”

Draco shrugs lightly. “She knows you came. That’s enough.”

Something about that—the quiet confidence, the certainty—loosens the last knot in Harry’s chest. He reaches up without thinking, fingers curling into the front of Draco’s jumper, tugging him closer.

Draco doesn’t hesitate.

The kiss is slower than before, but no less charged. It starts soft, mouths fitting together easily, then deepens as Harry leans into it, need humming just under his skin. Draco’s hands slide up his shoulders, firm, anchoring, like he’s holding Harry in place on purpose.

Harry kisses him harder, breath catching. “We should—” he starts, though he doesn’t pull away.

Draco smiles against his mouth. “We should go,” he agrees, and kisses him again anyway.

Harry laughs softly, forehead resting against Draco’s. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I do,” Harry admits.

Draco kisses him once more. Slower now, deliberate, then pulls back just enough to rest his hands on Harry’s hips. “Come on,” he says gently. “Before we’re late again.”

—

The floo spits them out into the Manor’s hearth in a rush of green flame and warmth.

Harry straightens instinctively, smoothing his jacket, heart racing again—but Narcissa Malfoy doesn’t rush them. She stands a few paces away, elegant and composed, hands folded lightly in front of her.

“Draco,” she says, her voice calm and affectionate.

He steps forward to kiss her cheek. “Mum.”

Her gaze shifts to Harry.

“Harry,” she says, inclining her head. “I’m very glad you’re here.”

It’s not effusive. It’s not dramatic. But it’s sincere.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, meaning far more than just tonight.

She nods once, as if she understands exactly what he’s thanking her for. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

That’s it. No interrogation. No scrutiny. Just acceptance, offered cleanly and without conditions.

Harry doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until Draco’s hand finds his, squeezing once, quick and reassuring.

The rest of the evening passes in a warm blur.

Dinner is long and unhurried, candles burning low as the snow thickens outside the tall windows. Conversation drifts easily. Draco talking about work, Narcissa asking Harry about Quidditch with polite interest, nothing sharp or probing. Harry finds himself relaxing, laughing softly, forgetting to be careful.

Later, when the house grows quiet and the corridors echo faintly with the sound of wind against stone, they retreat upstairs.

Draco’s bedroom is exactly what Harry expected—spacious, restrained, quietly indulgent. Tall windows dressed in heavy curtains, dark wood furniture worn smooth with age, a wide bed that easily fits both of them without either having to compromise. It doesn’t feel preserved so much as kept.

Harry falls asleep wrapped around Draco, solid and unthinking, his arm heavy across Draco’s waist, their legs tangled without ceremony. The day drains out of him all at once, exhaustion winning easily.

When he wakes, it’s to winter light spilling pale and clean through the windows.

His first thought is warm.

His second is oh.

Draco is pressed into him, back against Harry’s chest, smaller and compact in a way that feels unfair. Harry’s arm is still locked around his middle, hand splayed flat against his stomach like it belongs there. Draco shifts, just slightly, and Harry becomes very aware of the situation in a way that is deeply inconvenient.

“Morning,” Draco murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

Harry exhales a laugh into the back of his neck. “You say that like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Draco pushes his hips back—deliberately—against Harry’s growing hardness. “I’m just existing.”

Draco shifts again, slower this time, settling more firmly against him. Harry’s arm tightens instinctively.

Draco huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re holding me.”

Harry exhales. “You moved first.”

“I moved because you didn’t let go.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue,. “I’m bigger than you.”

Draco tilts his head just enough to glance back at him, eyes heavy with sleep. “Yes,” he says. “I’m aware.”

Draco turns fully then, rolling onto his side so they’re face to face, noses nearly brushing. Harry has to tuck his knees in awkwardly to fit. Draco’s hand slides up, settling at the back of Harry’s neck, thumb pressing into the familiar spot there.

“You’re terrible at subtle,” Draco says quietly.

Harry smiles. “You don’t seem to mind.”

Draco turns fully then, rolling onto his side so they’re face to face. The bed dips slightly under Harry’s weight as he follows, looming without meaning to, all warmth and solid presence. Draco’s hand comes up to the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him down.

The kiss isn’t gentle.

It’s lazy at first—slow, unhurried, mouths warm and soft with sleep. Then Harry pulls him closer, hand sliding under Draco’s shirt, skin warm beneath his palm. Draco makes a small sound, more pleased than surprised, and shifts closer until there’s no pretending this is still innocent.

Harry presses closer, heat building steadily, no rush, no panic. Just want.

Draco breaks the kiss only long enough to breathe. “We should probably get up,” he says, voice strained in a way that suggests he has no intention of moving.

Harry kisses him again anyway. “In a minute.”

Draco laughs softly, breathless, and pulls him back in. Harry follows gladly, weight settling over him, familiar and wanted.

Outside, snow continues to fall, quiet and steady.

Inside, Harry doesn’t feel like he’s borrowing anything.

He belongs here.

In this room, in this warmth, in the solid certainty of Draco beneath his hands.

That certainty doesn’t feel fragile.