'The Voldemort Manor' door Kedavranox 

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<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1069936"><strong>The Voldemort Manor</strong></a> (40616 words) by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedavranox"><strong>Kedavranox</strong></a><br />Chapters: 1/1<br />Fandom: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Harry%20Potter%20-%20J*d*%20K*d*%20Rowling">Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</a><br />Rating: Explicit<br />Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply<br />Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter<br />Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy<br />Additional Tags: Frottage, Felching, Switching, Anal Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Smoking, Drug Use, Adultery, Adult Content, Falling In Love, Travel, First Time, Suicidal Thoughts<br />Summary: <p>The Malfoy Manor is a state run museum, renamed <i>The Voldemort Manor</i> by the Ministry for Magic. As part of his probation, Draco is assigned as sole caretaker. When the Manor hosts a series of high class events celebrating the Wizarding World’s fourth Yuletide season Post War, it brings with it a swathe of people Draco hasn’t seen in years; including one, Harry Potter.</p>

The Voldemort Manor by the Ministry for Magic. As part of his probation, Draco is assigned as sole caretaker. When the Manor hosts a series of high class events celebrating the Wizarding World’s fourth Yuletide season Post War, it brings with it a swathe of people Draco hasn’t seen in years; including one, Harry Potter.

Warnings: Past Sexual Coercion (not H/D)

Author\'s Notes: My goodness, this fic. First of all, Raitala, it was a pleasure writing for you (if a bit nerve wracking!) and I truly, truly hope you enjoy this. I’m a huge fan of your work, so I was very excited to be assigned to you for my first exchange fest :) Squint, and you might be able to see the prompt you left me :P

I have so many people to thank. My flist! You kept me sane even though you may not have realised it! Specifically to J and M, thanks for cheering me on. To W, thanks for your wisdom, patience, suggestions, help with writing about places I’ve never seen and helping me through my wibblefests.

My beta, T, thank you so much. Oh my God this fic would be shit without your careful suggestions. That’s no exaggeration. Thank you so much for your help. It was truly invaluable. And to my artist PGP who drew my cover art and page breaks. Thank you so much. They’re gorgeous and perfect, and you are so very talented.

This fic kind of evolved into this 40K thing and I don’t quite know how that happened, but I hope you all give it a chance and enjoy it. I do suggest reading the pdf version. It has pretty pictures :)

Wiltshire on a late Autumn morning is even colder than his nightmares.

Draco pulls down the sleeves of his jumper, bracing himself against the wind. It whips his hair into his eyes and makes the tip of his nose tingle, but he likes it this way. It wakes him up. Reminds him there’s real blood flowing through his veins.

He sits on the steps leading to the front garden, holding his cup of freshly brewed tea in his palms. It’s weak and milky and sweet enough to rot his teeth— exactly the way he likes it. He blows the steam off the rim and stares vaguely off into the distance, stretching his long legs and taking in the few moments’ peace before the start of his daily work assignments.

The sky is pewter grey, and he can just make out the curve of the hillside on the other side of the valley. The small farm huddled further down the valley is barely visible, puffs smoke floating merrily from the chimney. The soft morning light is only just beginning to touch the tips of the leaves when the owl with the Ministry seal appears in the grey horizon. Draco sighs resignedly and sets his teacup down on the stone step beside him. The owl pecks him as he retrieves the letter but, being used to the treatment, Draco only waves him off and unfolds the parchment.

, the Voldemort Manor is scheduled to host a month of festive events commemorating the Wizarding world’s fourth Yuletide season without taint of Voldemort. Of course, we expect the Manor is ready to host a series of gala events, that the exhibit rooms will be ready for viewing, and that the ballroom will be presentable. A representative for the Ministry of Magic will be there in a few short hours to inspect the Manor and ascertain if you have been adequately fulfilling your role as caretaker.

Your compliance is expected. There is no need for a response.

he didn’t fucking know. The Ministry never tells him a damn thing. Was he supposed to read about this in the

He almost never has access to a copy unless he nicks it from the little shop in the East Wing. In

he’s supposed to have the entire Manor prepped and ready for a fucking gala. Of course, the Ministry won’t send a single house-elf to assist him - that would be too much.

They must want him to fail. He’s almost to the end of his parole, mere weeks before he’s completely free. It must be some sort of test, designed for him to fail. Could he really be expected to have the entire oversized ballroom completely prepared for use, despite the fact that it’s been cordoned off since the end of the war,

it hasn’t even been used in almost a decade?

Draco banishes the letter and gulps the rest of his tea, barely resisting the urge to pelt the cup against the stone walls just for the grim satisfaction of watching it shatter. He stalks up the stone stairs onto the pathway that wraps around the house and slips into the side entrance to the kitchens. Inside, he pulls off his jumper, and sets his tea cup down in the steel basin before leaning over the sink, clutching the rim with his fingers.

His mother’s voice echoes in his head, reminding him to breathe. There’s no reason to panic. He’s had consistent positive reports on his duties as caretaker at the Manor. All he’ll have to do is open up the ballroom, cast some cleaning charms, open all the windows to air it out and he should be fine. This isn’t a test. He isn’t going to fail.

Draco turns on the faucet and splashes some ice cold water on his face, scratching his two day stubble and slapping his cheeks to wake himself up properly. When he looks down at his hands, they’re shaking. He turns them over, staring at his now-calloused knuckles. His fingers are still long and slender, but rough with use. His nails are cracked, and no matter how much he scrubs at them, he can’t get all the dirt from beneath.

The letter was signed by a Weasley. The same Weasley, he’s certain, will be by to check on his ‘work’, and Draco knows there’s no Weasley in the world that would go easy on him. If he fucks this one up, he’ll be sent back to Azkaban.

Draco closes his eyes briefly, and then straightens his spine and sets his jaw. He’ll never go back there.

He is knee deep in the muck and grime of the ancient ballroom when someone calls his name from the doorway. Draco glances back absently, and then every muscle in his body stiffens.

As he thought, it’s Weasley himself -the officious one- looking prim in over-starched robes and long, slicked-back hair.

Draco straightens up from his task, his heart thundering in his chest. After three hours, he’s only a quarter of the way finished with the huge ballroom, because his cleaning charms are shit, and he’s had to stop at least six times to stop Mindy from hurting herself because she couldn’t help.

Weasley steps in gingerly, carefully avoiding the several buckets and pails, and self-scrubbing brushes Draco charmed to get most of the grime off the floors. Draco can’t help but be mildly grateful for the courtesy, then annoyed with himself for being pleased in the first place.

‘I’ve been calling your name for ages,’ Weasley says as he stops in front of Draco. ‘I wasn’t sure you could hear me.’

Draco pushes up his sleeves, and stows his wand in his pocket. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was distracted.’

Weasley raises his eyebrows, as though the last thing he expected was an apology from a Malfoy. He clears his throat awkwardly, and glances about the room. ‘I see the ballroom is still unfinished.’

Draco shrugs, even though he knows he really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t do to seem nonchalant in front of someone who could very well send him back to Azkaban, but the urge to set Weasley off is so engrained in him, it’s hard to be polite.

‘I did what I could in the short time I had,’ Draco says tersely.

Weasley frowns. ‘What do you mean ‘the short time’? We sent you a letter almost a month ago explicitly stating that the East Wing of the Manor was to be prepared.’

Draco clenches his fist briefly, biting his lower lip and trying to think of a response that doesn’t put the Ministry at fault. Percy looks at him expectantly, and Draco stares at a spot just beyond his head fighting against the part of him that wants to tell Weasley to go fuck himself.

‘I didn’t receive anything like that,’ Draco says, in what he hopes is a fairly diplomatic tone.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Weasley says suddenly, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘It’s my fucking assistant. I’m almost sure of it. ’

Draco chooses not to respond to this. Weasley looks around the half-finished ballroom. ‘The useless prat,’ he murmurs. ‘I sacked him last week.’

He gestures to one of the buckets with his foot. ‘I can’t believe you did all this in a few hours,’ he says. ‘I apologise, Malfoy. I was certain the Manor would be ready because I told my assistant to… never mind. It doesn’t matter now. We need to get this sorted.’

He looks around the room, pinching his lower lip between his fingers. ‘I’ll instruct your house-elf to assist you,’ he says importantly. ‘With this room only, of course. Can’t have her doing everything for you. ’

Draco digs his nails into his palm again. ‘Thank you,’ he says quietly.

Percy looks at him again, as if just taking him in. ‘An apology and a thank you, in less than five minutes,’ he says. ‘I’m surprised, Malfoy.’

Draco offers a tight smile. ‘Prison humbles you,’ he says, knowing it’s the sort of tripe Weasley will appreciate.

Percy raises his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s certainly made you a bigger person,’ he says. ‘You must be at least as tall as Ron.’

Percy nods, apparently choosing to ignore Draco’s bland tone. ‘Oh yes. He’s an Auror now, I’m not sure if you’ve heard.’

Draco looks away. Yes, he had heard, but only because of a chance glance at a copy of the

. After the trials, he was sent straight to Azkaban, and then without warning, they sent him here to live out the remainder of his sentence on parole. Perhaps they thought that by sending him back to the scene of his crimes, he might learn how to be a productive member of society again. Perhaps they simply wanted to humiliate him into submission. Draco doesn’t care much either way. The only date he’s consciously aware of is the 5th of January, 2003. The date of his promised release.

‘Malfoy?’ Percy says, waving his hand. Draco shakes himself back into the present. ‘Lost you there for a bit, did I?’

Draco shakes his head as if to clear it. ‘I’m sorry.’

Percy studies him carefully, ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘I was saying that tomorrow, the caterers will be sent to the kitchen to do… whatever it is they do. I reviewed the West Wing myself and all the artefacts and exhibits, and I was quite pleased Malfoy. You’ve done a fine job here.’

Weasley gives him a pompous nod. ‘You understand you’ll be expected to attend the opening gala, don’t you?’

Draco doesn’t say anything, even though he’d very much like to ask what the fuck for. He’s never been asked to attend one of the Ministry’s self-congratulatory arse-kissing parties.

Weasley glances at him. ‘Not as a guest, of course,’ he says, ‘but to keep an eye on things. Make sure everything is as it should be. You may be introduced to the party as the Manor’s caretaker. Who knows? It depends on if the Director himself takes a fancy. He’s a vacillating sort, that man.’

A trickle of sweat rolls down Draco’s spine and he flattens it through his shirt. He wishes very much that Weasley would leave. His mere proximity makes Draco uncomfortable. He folds his arms across his chest as Weasley goes on about the upcoming events, the Ministry officials expected to appear, the number of events set to take place over the next few weeks - as if Draco gives even the smallest of fucks.

‘Of course, we’d expect the Charity Burbage exhibit to experience the most traffic, what with that snake corpse on display. It would be best, Malfoy, if you just spruced it up a bit. The Minister himself is expected at the opening ceremonies and there’s a walk-through of the entire museum. I’m quite certain he’ll want to stop at that particular exhibit.’

Draco unconsciously grips his elbows a little more firmly. The Charity Burbage room is one he’s neatly avoided in all his time working at the Manor. No one’s ever stayed more than a few seconds at the display. It’s the most unpleasant exhibit in the entire Manor: the long dining table, the chairs, everything is set up exactly the way they were that night. The clear glass box with the severed pieces of Nagini the snake, magically preserved, her unblinking eyes gazing upon the room like some unseeing but completely sentient being.

A Horcrux, embalmed and on display for everyone to see. Draco can’t stand it. He’s always tossed a cleaning charm in the room’s general direction and hoped for the best. He’s almost certain that this time, that method just won’t cut it. Draco swallows the bit of bile down his throat, then starts violently when Weasley puts his hand on his arm.

Draco nods. ‘I’m fine,’ he says. He gestures vaguely. ‘I really should get back to it.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Weasley says, stepping aside as if to take his leave. He pulls out an envelope from the pocket of his robes.

‘This is the guest list, please make note of the names at the very top; those are the more important members of the party. I’d expect you to pay particular attention to them.’ Weasley steps back, eyeing Draco’s outfit of threadbare linen trousers and his cream coloured jumper critically. ‘Also, please be certain to dress appropriately. I’m sure the Ministry can spare you a set of robes.’

‘Ah. Good,’ Wesley says. ‘Though, I’d prefer you call me Percy, if you don’t mind.’

‘Right then.’ Weasley turns on his heel, presumably heading to the fireplace in the entryway to use the Floo. When the roar of the flames settle, Draco is again surrounded only by the sounds of the fluttering curtains and the pulse of his thumping heart.

Draco sits cross-legged on the bare marble floor, gently touching the spot on his arm still burning from Weasley’s touch.

There are few things that frighten him more than cold steel bars, a stone floor or the touch of a smooth wand against his cheek. The strange thing is, Draco didn’t dream in Azkaban. Not once. Here, he is plagued by nightmares, forever stuck in an endless loop of his worst memories. He is grateful though, that he doesn’t live inside the Manor proper, but in one of the small servant houses hidden away behind the gardens.

Tonight is no different. When he wakes, it takes him more than a few minutes to remind himself of the reality. He is Draco Malfoy, Lord Voldemort is dead, the war is over, and so is Azkaban.

He sits up, swinging his legs out of bed, grabbing his wand from his side table and flicking it towards his window curtains. They float open, revealing a pale moon still hung in the slowly brightening sky. In Azkaban, it was rare for him to ever see such a thing. He could only wake with the sun when he slept in the Warden’s quarters, and that happened more often than he cares to remember.

He pads naked to the bathroom and quickly takes a piss, pressing his palm flat against the slightly cold stone wall, closing his eyes and loosening the tight muscles in his neck. After he shakes the last few drops of piss from his cock, he wanders sleepily into his room and slips on a dressing gown, grabbing the bit of parchment he neglected to read yesterday and sticking it under his arm.

In the kitchen, he waves his wand, setting the kettle to boil to make the beginnings of tea. The cupboard above the sink opens, and a tea cup floats down just in time to collect the free tea leaves floating from the tea jar on the worktop. The chalk calendar on the wall glows bright red, signalling his daily schedule, sent directly to him from his parole officer.

It’s nothing Draco isn’t used to, garden maintenance, and keeping the rooms of the Manor well-kept enough for visitors. Not that many visitors ever come - most prefer to visit the happier exhibits at Godric’s Hollow or the monument in Hogsmeade. But after the regular list, a new set of instructions flash from Percy Weasley himself.

Draco rolls his eyes, turning his back on it and unfolding his parchment. He Summons his cup of tea, sits at the table and settles in to read.

You seem to think I have chosen exile, or that my leaving England is a reflection on you. This could not be further from the truth. Exile chose me.

England is a constant reminder that my husband is imprisoned, and my son is a slave to the will of those who seek retribution. I do not have the stomach to watch you labour in your own home. Your inheritance. It’s disgusting, what they’ve done. I cannot bear to see you that way.

I want you to understand that I am not afraid, Draco. I’m angry.

However, I do hope you are well, and that the salve I sent was of use to you. I wish they would at least allow you an Elf to help with things. It can’t be easy running the entire Manor on your own. At least you are allowed magic. That is of some comfort to me.

I’ve sent you some sweets as well. I know how much you favour them, and I don’t expect your proximity charm allows you any reasonable distance from the Manor.

It will soon be over, Draco. Then, I will see you in Paris.

Draco sighs and gently sets the parchment down. He looks through the window, at the early morning sun just beginning to flicker through the wispy grey sky, tracing his finger around the rim of his coffee mug.

When he leaves this place, he has no intention of going into hiding. Not in the slightest.

The Charity Burbage exhibit could have been plucked directly from Draco’s nightmares. If he looks up at the ceiling, he’s certain he’ll see her again: Professor Burbage herself, hanging there upside-down, rotating ever so slowly.

The snake, Nagini almost looks innocuous lying there, dead - sliced in half and magically preserved in her glass cage, but he knows better. He has seen her maw stretched wide, seen an entire body swallowed in her length. Draco moves closer to the glass cage as if moving through water. The plaque reads

\'Nagini the Snake, the final Horcrux defeated by Neville Longbottom, 2

Draco lightly fingers the plaque, idly wondering about Neville Longbottom and what he’s made of himself. Thoughts of Longbottom lead him to thoughts of Snape, and the grey morning they retrieved his body from the shack. He remembers the shattered look on Potter’s face. The stories that followed. The war, everything, every dark moment floods into his brain, as though he’s stuck his head into a Pensieve full of his darkest memories.

He casts a cleaning charm at the snake’s glass cage, but the table and the chandelier above it both need personal attention. Draco pushes up his sleeves, grits his teeth and gets to work.

It takes him over an hour to make the room completely spotless. In that time, he dry heaves twice and properly vomits once. In addition to making all the exhibits acceptable, he still has to carry out his daily chores: making sure the weather spells hold inside the walls, keeping out the worst of the chill, working in the magical garden… even the bloody peacocks fall to his charge. By the time his daily chores are over, he’s tired, he’s sore, and more than anything, he just wants a drink.

Occasionally he can sneak a finger or two of Firewhisky from the kitchen in the Manor when Mindy isn’t looking. She’s absent minded about leaving alcohol lying around -thank Merlin- but today he’s certain only half a bottle will do.

He distracts Mindy by telling her there’s a Floo call, and since he’s strictly forbidden by the Ministry from even looking at the Floo for too long, Mindy rushes of to the fireplace in the entryway, muttering about the late hour, ringing her hands. After a brief surge of guilt, Draco sneaks into the pantry and grabs a bottle of Ogden’s finest. He nicks a few slices of cake while he’s at it, and trots across the lawn, past the garden and into his little cottage, closing the door behind him with the heel of his boot.

He sets the bottle on the tabletop and hastily tugs off his clothes, then he sits down in only his briefs and uncaps the bottle, pulling it straight to his lips.

Draco closes his eyes at the wonderful, glorious burn, and the eventual oblivion it promises. On the table is the parchment Weasley had given him yesterday. Draco licks the alcohol from his teeth and picks it up from the table, scratching his thumbnail absently against the thick parchment.

The usual suspects are there. The Minister of course. Dawlish, Robards and most of the MLE officials he’d rather avoid. Randall Newman, the head of the Post War Relations Commission, Arthur Weasley, McGonagall... a few other names he’s only vaguely familiar with - mostly politicians and their ilk. Then there’s the Golden Trio themselves. Potter, Granger and the Weasel.

Draco sips on his Firewhisky again. He knows Granger and the Weasel are married, even though - as far as Draco could tell - they hated each other in school.

Potter had his own public scandal a few months back when his girlfriend married a Muggle. His scowling face was on the cover of the

for weeks. Mindy kept glancing at the paper and bursting into sobs, then shoving it into Draco’s hands as if

When Rita Skeeter penned a speculative piece about Potter’s reaction to his girlfriend’s sudden elopement, Potter himself made a statement in retaliation, announcing that he was gay and that Ginny Weasley never broke his heart, ‘

Draco follows the news with only a vague sort of interest. The pictures are what interest him the most, having not seen any of his year mates since the end of the war. Potter had grown into a man’s man, with chiselled cheekbones and broad shoulders.

When Draco studies himself in the mirror he’s not quite sure he sees a man. In his mind, he is still eighteen. Just out of Hogwarts. Pure, and untouched.

He knocks back another glass of Firewhisky, teetering on the very brink of a pleasant slide into drunkenness, and reads further down the list. Percy Weasley is there, too, of course. A few of the Wizengamot members who sentenced him to Azkaban for three years. Wankers. Healers at the top of their field. He absently fingers the long, jagged scar just beneath his ribcage as he flips over the parchment. More useless names, senior undersecretaries and their secretaries.

Almost to the end of the list is a name that makes his mouth go dry and his fingers clench into fists. His nails dig into his palms.

Marcus Flint, Head Warden at the Azkaban Prison.

Draco grabs the Firewhisky by the neck of the bottle and brings it to his lips, knocking back two full swigs before he sends the bottle flying across the room, smashing against the wall. The dark brown liquid snakes its way down to the floor in tiny rivulets, and he stares at the wall for a full minute before he can move again.

His chest heaves as he tries to suck in some air and his mother’s calming voice sounds a warning in his head.

Draco drops his forehead slowly to the table top, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

He’ll just have to make himself scarce, that’s all. Keep himself busy with the running of the Manor and stay out of sight.

By midday, the Manor is crawling with caterers and decorators, house elfs and wizards alike, moving frantically through the house, and asking Draco all kinds of stupid questions.

At quarter to one, he steps out into the garden to escape, walking quickly to the stone bench he always favoured. He would hide here from his mother when she wanted to comb his hair. His father gave him the sex talk here when he was twelve. Draco almost smiles at the memory - his father red faced and stiff with embarrassment - but he stops short when spots the tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in scarlet Auror robes, standing a few feet away.

His back is turned to Draco, and so he tries to slip back inside unnoticed, but Potter turns and spots him. He’s holding a cigarette between his fingers, releasing a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils. They simply look at each other for a long moment, and then Potter steps through the grass, squelching mud beneath his boots, and dropping his cigarette onto the brick path where Draco is standing, motionless.

Potter mashes the cigarette beneath his boot and walks past him, moving to sit on the same bench Draco had intended to inhabit.

For some reason, all Draco can think to say is, ‘You’re not allowed to smoke here.’

Potter shrugs. ‘I was dying for a fag,’ he says. ‘It’s chaos in there.’

Draco banishes the cigarette and drops of mud from the walkway with a scowl. ‘And you always do exactly what you want, don’t you, Potter?’ he gripes. ‘Sod the rules.’

Potter waves his hand. ‘Can we do this some other time, Malfoy? My day is shit as it is.’

No doubt you’re receiving some kind of ridiculous award. Free dinner and a date seems far too much for a single person to handle. You’re right, Potter, your life is shit.’

Potter simply looks up at him through his lashes, mouth twitching.

Potter stretches one arm across the back of the bench. ‘You’re welcome to join me, you know.’

Draco scowls. ‘Why the fuck are you even here?’

Potter raises his eyebrows and gestures to the crest on his chest. ‘I’m an Auror, Malfoy. The Minister is going to be here. I needed to check the premises.’

‘Ah,’ Draco says, folding his arms across his chest. ‘So, they sent you to make sure the Death Eater didn’t curse anything. How charming.’ Draco chews on his lower lip, concentrating even harder to affect an air of nonchalance rather than revealing the unease working its way into his stomach. ‘I thought someone with your standing wouldn’t have to make house calls anymore.’

Potter narrows his eyes slightly. ‘I asked to come.’

‘I knew anyone else would be a right shit to you.’

saviour now? Is that what this is?’

‘Oh, shut it, Draco. Stop being such a shit.’

The use of his first name sends another prickle of unease down his spine. He shuffle back a few paces, and lifts his eyebrows. ‘Well then, Auror,’ he says. ‘Have I passed inspection?’

Potter’s gaze slowly slides down the length of Draco’s body, and his mouth twitches. Draco self-consciously folds his arms across his chest. Potter meets his gaze and lingers there for a moment before he says. ‘Sure thing, Malfoy.’

Draco’s face heats. ‘You know,’ he says by way of deflection. ‘I would have never thought the Saviour of the Wizarding world was a queer.’

Potter smiles slowly. ‘Sticks and stones, Draco,’ he says. Then he turns on the spot, and Disapparates.

There are rooms in the Manor that only a Malfoy can access. In fact most other Wizards don’t even know of their existence. His father’s study, his parents’ shared boudoir, two rare collection rooms and his parents’ private wine cellar are hidden within the Manor, and the Manor’s inherent magic prevents even the most skilled Wizards from finding them.

Draco’s certain the Ministry would love to get their hands on the items in the cellar and the collection rooms, loaded with ancient Dark artefacts as they are, and it gives him just the slightest bit of pleasure that they’ll never even know it exists. He doesn’t venture to that wing of the Manor very often - it holds too many memories - but now he has to pilfer one of his father’s old robes to wear to this ridiculous gala, so memories be damned.

With half an hour to spare, Draco slips away, headed to the East Wing and stopping off in a corridor just before the dungeons. It’s been cordoned off by Ministry barriers, but Draco easily bypasses them and taps his wand on the Malfoy family tapestry. It shimmers and magic wafts over his skin, seeking out either Malfoy blood or bond. After only a moment, the tapestry disappears, revealing a small door in the stone wall that wasn’t there before.

Draco passes through the doorway, up the stone steps, opening the large oak door that leads to his father’s study. He doesn’t stop to look too closely at anything, choosing instead to swiftly make his way to the bookshelf, and ignore the way his father is imprinted in every corner of the room. He touches his wand to

On his father’s side of the room, dozens of formal robes hover in the air. They smell so much like Lucius – like the ridiculous scented potions he favoured. Sage and silk. Draco fingers the fine, elf-woven fabric. It is like butter in his fingertips. On the stone floor are rows upon rows of dragon hide dress shoes and boots.

His father is still in that place – in Azkaban. Draco wonders briefly if Lucius’ experience is anything like his own.

Most likely not. Lucius was stronger. Smarter. More like a Slytherin. He would have bargained his way out of – things.

Draco pulls an emerald green robe from the rack. It’s strangely delicate and embroidered with fine silk threads in the shape of peacocks. He pulls it on over his cotton shirt and fastens each of the hooks, stepping in front of his mother’s vanity to look in the mirror.

A few of her things are still there, her brush, her scented potions, skin potions, blemish fading pastes. Draco only glances at them briefly before studying his reflection in the mirror. He still hasn’t shaved. Fuck them. His pale blond stubble covers most of his jaw and chin, and he likes it that way. He reaches into the pocket of Lucius’ robe and finds the thin leather band he expected to find. His father kept one in each of his robes. Draco ties his hair back with it, knotting it loosely at the nape of his neck.

He studies his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head to the right. He almost looks like the man he always thought he would be. A mix of his father’s height and sharp jaw, his mother’s cheeks, her slightly full lips, and his own tapered fingers and pale hands. He stows his wand in his sleeve and grabs a pair of socks and boots and slips through the secret door leading to his parents’ old room, back in the West Wing of the Manor.

When he was younger, he always wondered how he could move from the dungeons to his father’s study to the boudoir and back to the West Wing without having felt like he moved at all. His father would tug on his ear and say

in a deep rumbling voice that made him giggle.

Draco sits on the edge of the ottoman and laces up his boots. Nothing in this room looks the way it was. When Voldemort moved into the Manor, he had taken over his parent’s suite. The Ministry, in their genius, chose to call it—

‘The Voldemort suite,’ Percy Weasley says as he steps through the door.

Draco jumps up from the ottoman, standing stiffly in the middle of the room. It’s far too late for him to try to escape. Weasley is flanked by the Minister for Magic, and a tall middle aged man, with sandy blond hair and a half smile on his lips. A dark haired, smiling woman is latched on to blond man’s arm and Draco can only assume it is his wife. A few others Ministry stiffs follow, making up a fairly large party.

Percy looks at him with mild surprise. ‘Malfoy, what are you doing here?’

Draco swallows. ‘Just making some final adjustments.’

Percy waves him over. ‘Minister, I’m sure you already know Draco Malfoy, he’s the caretaker here at the Voldemort Manor.’

Weasley introduces him proudly, as though he had raised Draco from a child and is showing off his drawing to a teacher.

Shacklebolt nods. ‘Malfoy,’ he says warmly. ‘The Museum is in perfect condition. Congratulations on such an opening.’

Draco smiles tightly. Surely, the Minister knows he has no choice? Surely he knows that Draco would rather stick needles in his eyeballs than kowtow to him and his asinine friends? ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he says.

‘And this,’ Weasley says, ‘Is Randall Newman. The head of Post War Relations Commission, and his wife, Thea Newman.’

The man reaches out to shake his hand, and Draco briefly allows it before pulling away and stuffing his hands into the pocket of his robes, to avoid any further attempts at handshakes.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all,’ he says. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must check on… things.’

He nods at them all and slips out of the room, walking down the hall where a few other patrons are milling about, glasses of elf-made wine swirling in their glasses. Draco pushes past them all, heading for the refuge of the kitchen. He crosses the hall and takes the stairs in twos, absently noting the several heads of flaming red hair and Granger’s bushy mane as he walks swiftly past the ballroom, and down the stairs into the kitchen. The kitchen is still bustling with caterers, and Draco slips between them, easing out the back door and into the garden, straight to his bench where again, fucking Potter is sitting smoking.

‘What the fuck,’ Draco murmurs, more than a little annoyed.

Potter looks up at him vaguely, his eyes are bloodshot, and the hand holding his cigarette is unsteady. The heady scent of Mallowsweet lingers in the air.

Potter smiles slowly at him, and sucks on the end of his - from what Draco can smell -

‘Would you like some?’ he says, exhaling smoke from his nostrils and holding out his hand.

‘And when they test my piss in two weeks, I bet you’ll be right pleased when they chuck me back into Azkaban.’

‘There are Potions to cover it up. I should know. I get tested, too, Malfoy.’

Draco sighs heavily and, for some reason, moves to sit beside Potter. ‘I’m not allowed potions ingredients, Potter. Certainly not the kind to make a potion like that.’

Potter turns to him, holding Draco firm in an intense, searching gaze. ‘That sounds –really terrible.’

Potter chews on his bottom lip. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘I hope I’m not too bad off. I have to make a speech.’

Draco glances at him. Potter’s shirt is undone at the collar. His jacket is draped across the arm of the bench and his pupils are blown so wide, Draco can’t see any hint of the usual vivid green. ‘You’re completely buggered.’

Potter shrugs. ‘Think anyone will notice?’

A warm bubble of laughter escapes Draco’s lips. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says.

Potter smiles briefly at him. He takes another drag and looks away from him, the skin around his eyes tight. ‘Have you seen what they’re calling the Voldemort Suite?’ he asks. ‘What a load of tosh.’

Draco decides it would probably be too much to explain to Potter that, as the caretaker of the Manor, he’s seen the Voldemort Suite more times than he cares to remember. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Potter glances at him. ‘They’re calling your room “The Fallen Souls Exhibit”. Doesn’t that completely piss you off?’

Draco leans back against the bench. ‘I— how did you know it was my room?’

Potter shrugs. ‘I just did,’ he says. His eyes flick to Draco and then he looks away, out into the garden. ‘It felt like you,’ he adds quietly.

Draco can’t think of anything to say to that. He rolls a few pebbles around with the heel of his boot.

They remain in only a slightly uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, until Potter speaks again.

‘This whole fucking thing is such a joke.’

‘I don’t disagree,’ Draco says carefully. ‘I’m surprised you feel that way though.’

Potter raises his eyebrows comically. ‘You think I wanted this for you?’ he asks. ‘I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. The Charity Burbage room— it makes me sick. The whole thing. It’s sick and disgusting.’

Draco studies him for a few moments and then hastily looks away when Potter catches his eye again.

‘You know,’ Potter says. ‘I did try to help you.’

Draco looks up, pushing a lock of hair that escaped his leather band behind his ear. ‘Must not have tried very hard,’ he says lightly. ‘Everyone knows the Ministry does anything the golden boy wants.’

Draco sighs. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘My probation is almost over.’

Potter waves his hand vaguely. ‘It’s all bullshit. Everything. Things are taking too long to change. I thought that after the war… it would be different, but it isn’t. Not yet.’

‘You’re just too idealistic, Potter,’ Draco says tiredly. ‘You don’t understand the way things work.’

Harry sucks on his cigarette again. ‘Maybe I didn’t try hard enough.’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘Oh please. Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself now.’

Potter stubs his cigarette out on the bench and runs his fingers through his hair. Only then does Draco notice how much his hands are shaking. ‘I fucking hate these things,’ he murmurs softly.

Potter holds head in his hands, rubbing his face and messing up his hair even further.

Slightly alarmed, Draco pokes at his arm. ‘Get it together, Potter. It’s just a fucking speech.’

Potter reaches out and holds Draco’s hand and doesn’t let go.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ Potter says, and promptly leans over the side of the bench and heaves, squeezing Draco’s hand hard.

Draco hastily pulls his hand away and stands up, looking down at Potter in disbelief. ‘Did you just vomit into my mother’s flowerbeds?’

Potter heaves again and then he sits up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and closing his eyes. ‘I feel so much better now.’

‘Ugh.’ Draco Vanishes the mess and kneels in front of Potter, roughly grabbing his hand and casting a cleansing charm on his sleeve. Potter opens his eyes and looks down at him.

Draco sits next to him again, and points his wand again. ‘Lean forward, and hold your hands out.’

Potter follows the instructions without question, and Draco casts a light

charm, filling Potter’s cupped palms with water. Potter washes his mouth and spits it out onto the floor, which Draco cleans up again, rolling his eyes slightly.

Potter takes off his glasses, resting them in his lap and then cups his hands again, and Draco obliges. This time Potter washes his face, wetting his too-long untamed hair, attempting to brush it off his face, but it only springs back into madness again.

Potter dries his face with his jacket, and Draco tuts at him. ‘Merlin, Potter. Don’t you have any sense at all?’

He dries Potter’s jacket with his wand and takes his glasses, cleaning them carefully before handing them back. When he looks up, Potter is watching him with a bemused expression and Draco’s face heats.

Potter puts on his glasses and jacket, all without turning his gaze away from Draco for a second. ‘You clean up well, Malfoy,’ he says. ‘And I like the beard. It suits you.’

Draco touches his cheek absently. ‘Er. Thanks.’

Potter runs his hands through his hair again. ‘God. Please, don’t make me go back in there,’ he says. He holds his hand out for Draco to see. ‘Look at this,’ he says.

‘I’m rubbish at public speaking,’ he says. ‘Always have been.’

Draco can’t tear his gaze away from Potter’s shaking hands. For some reason, they unnerve him even more than the slight waver in Potter’s voice. ‘Then why do you do it?’

Potter drops his palms into his lap. ‘I have to, don’t I?’

There’s a plaintive note in Potter’s voice that Draco doesn’t know how to respond to. ‘I always thought you liked the attention,’ he says lightly.

Potter merely shakes his head. ‘I hate it. I hate this place. I hate these

Do you know there are three more galas this week alone?’ He looks up at the sky and scoffs. ‘

Draco ignores the way his heart thumps when Voldemort’s name slips so casually from Potter’s lips. He thought he’d got used to hearing it by now, so long after the war, but for some reason, hearing Potter say it makes it more real.

It was a real thing that happened, to all of them. The way Azkaban was real.

Potter turns to him to say something again, but his expression falters when he spots something behind Draco’s head. Draco turns to see what it is, and Randall Newman is there, leaning against the doorway in his plum coloured robes, half smile on his face.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ he says. Draco turns to face Potter, who won’t meet his gaze.

Potter gets up and strides towards Newman without a hint of the unsteadiness that plagued him only a moment ago. ‘I needed some air,’ he says.

Newman smiles, revealing a dimple in his left cheek and a slight overbite. ‘Come on then, you. You’ve got a speech to make.’

He puts his hand at the base of Potter’s spine and guides him away. Potter tosses Draco a fleeting glance before disappearing inside, and Draco moves to follow, but Newman stops him with a hand on his chest. ‘Fetch me a glass of that elf wine would you? He needs to relax.’

Draco hesitates. ‘I really don’t think he should—’

‘I’m not sure I asked your opinion, Malfoy,’ Newman says. ‘I simply require you do what you’re told. Yes?’

Draco scowls, and bites his cheek to prevent him from saying what he’d really like to. ‘Certainly.’

Draco hovers in the doorway as Potter gives the opening speech.

Potter is straight backed, confident. His voice spreads across the room and everyone’s eyes are fixed on him. Draco almost can’t believe it’s the same man who vomited all over his mother’s hydrangeas, after getting high on Draco’s favourite bench.

The audience claps when Potter’s speech is over, and Percy Weasley takes his place at the podium. Draco nods to Mindy when she gives him an anxious look, and she sends out her army of house elfs with trays of champagne, just as Weasley had asked. Weasley sends him an approving nod, and Draco steps back into the shadows as the party toasts to five more years of peace. He starts slinking off to the kitchen when a hand closes itself around his wrist, and Draco turns around quickly, only to be confronted by the one man he would give absolutely anything to avoid.

Draco can’t bring himself to speak. He only blinks rapidly, and then Flint pushes past him, into the dark stairway leading to the kitchen, grabbing his arm and pulling Draco along with him. When they’re further away from the noise, he turns suddenly and Draco backs up against the stone wall.

Flint’s eyes flick over him with interest. ‘You look well,’ he says.

Draco licks his lips. His mouth has turned very dry and his heart is beating so fast he’s certain Flint can hear it.

Flint steps closer and smiles, reaching out to tuck a strand of Draco’s hair behind his cheek.

‘Don’t touch me,’ Draco says tersely.

Flint pulls his hand away and smiles ruefully. ‘We’re not in Azkaban anymore, are we?’ he says.

Flint folds his arms across his chest and steps back, leaning against the opposite wall. ‘You really do look good, Draco,’ he says. ‘You’ve filled out. Must be all the yard work, eh?’

They stand in awkward silence for a moment. ‘I should go,’ Draco says.

Flint reaches out for him. ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Let me just—’

He leans forward and presses his lips against Draco, cupping his cheek and pressing Draco against the wall.

Draco allows it (hasn’t he always?) He opens his mouth and Marcus deepens the kiss, pushing his tongue deep into Draco’s mouth, possessing him once again.

After a few seconds of this, Draco pulls away and puts his hand over his mouth. Flint moves as if to try again, but Draco sidesteps him. ‘Marcus,’ he says quietly. ‘I swear, if you touch me again, I will kill you.’

Flint raises his palms in surrender, and then he steps back a few paces. ‘I saved your life, Draco,’ he says. ‘You needed me.’

Draco sighs. ‘I did. I don’t anymore.’

Flint scoffs lightly. ‘You wanted it.’

Draco has no response to this. He did want it. But only because the alternative – well the alternative had almost killed him. Marcus had saved him. That much was true.

‘Go home, Flint,’ Draco says, then he turns away and flees to the kitchens.

When Draco awakes with a start, the room is pitch black. He waves his wand, and the lamps flicker on, then he swings his bare legs over the side of the bed and slips off, padding naked to the small kitchen in his quarters. He’s still not grown into the habit of sleeping clothed, or wearing clothes at all for that matter.

After taking a three inch knife to the ribs, he made a deal with the warden - with Flint - to protect him if Draco gave him his due. And he did. It wasn’t always unpleasant. Sometimes Draco would enjoy it. Sometimes - he hates to think about these times - he would even beg for it.

It’s sick. Flint isn’t something that Draco should want. He shouldn’t miss it—but sometimes he does.

In the kitchen there is already a pot of tea waiting for him, and a few fresh scones. Draco spares a small smile for Mindy, who always seems to know when he’ll be up before dawn.

He opens the windows facing the garden, and sits at the short thick wooden table and sips on his tea. Flashes from his dreams threaten to make him falter, but he pushes them aside.

Sometimes he can still feel the touch of a warm palm ghosting down the length of his spine, gently, but with purpose. Draco takes a large sip of the scalding tea, burning his tongue, and firmly tugging his mind away from that line of thought. He grabs a scone and dips one crumbly bit into his tea, chewing thoughtfully.

The weather charms inside the Manor walls keep out most of the biting cold, but there’s still a chill in the breeze, and he should get dressed. It’s raining lightly outside, but the owl with his mother’s daily missive comes gliding through the open kitchen window, shaking herself a bit before bringing Draco the parchment. Draco smiles, feeding her a bit of scone and opening today’s letter.

I’ve discovered something quite wonderful and I’d like to share it with you. You’ll be surprised, I think, when you see it. Attached to Breida’s leg is a small pouch. You’ll need to set the contents on somewhere solid, a table, perhaps. Use whatever enlarging charm you think best, but do be gentle I’m told it’s rather delicate.

Curious, Draco drops the letter and takes the pouch from Breida’s leg as she nips him affectionately.

He sets it on the table and waves his wand, enlarging what looks like a small gramophone and a package of records. Draco laughs softly, remembering writing his mother about the Muggle culture exhibit in the Manor, hesitantly admitting to her that he’d like to try the playing records for himself.

He’s watched the Museum curator set up the system numerous times, so it’s with ease that he sets up a record at random to play.

After a few seconds of crackling noises, the music is unfamiliar but soothing, and Draco picks up his letter and sits back down at the table.

You’ll find it works quite well with magic.

‘The composer is a famous Muggle, Wagner, and I think you’ll like him. Even I have to admit, there is some beauty to it.

I hope you’ve been eating well, and this gift finds you in good health.

If there was anything wrong, you would tell me. Wouldn’t you?

Draco folds the parchment and sets it aside, feeling ill at ease. No. He would not tell her at all.

Most of his required tasks for the day are in the garden, which pisses Draco off quite a bit. It’s cold and wet, and his boots sink into the mud, but he grits his teeth and does all the gardening at once, so he can sleep in for the rest of the day. Around noon, Draco pulls off his gloves and wipes his forehead, pushing back the lock of hair that escaped his leather band and sighs. It’s not that the work is particularly hard, his frustration comes from knowing that it’s all been designed to humiliate him as deeply as possible. It’s working all too well. By the time his parole is over, Draco isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to experience a thing as simple as pride once more.

He straightens up, deeming the weather charms on the garden ready to withstand the lowest temperatures and the likely frost. He stuffs his gloves into his pocket, pushing up his sleeves and trudging alongside the perfectly manicured hedge to check the charms on the water fountain, as he’s been ordered to do.

He ends up spending fifteen minutes resetting all the charms and by the time he walks into his cottage all he wants to do is sleep. He closes the door behind him, pulls off his jumper and t-shirt and smiles at the waiting pot of hot tea on the worktop. Mindy’s doing, and from the smell of it, it’s a simple Earl Grey. Perfect. He waves his wand at the gramophone in the small sitting room, and Wagner starts to play again. Draco sinks down into the sofa, toeing off his boots and resting his feet on the coffee table, sipping slowly on his tea and closing his eyes. He’s just about ready to fall into a good doze when someone knocks on the door.

Draco groans and rubs his face, irritated by the interruption of his sleep. He blearily rises off the sofa, yanking the leather band from his hair and scratching his scalp as he shuffles to the door. He peeks out the kitchen window to find Harry Potter standing in his walkway, dressed again in his Auror robes, rocking on his heels and nervously pushing his glasses up his nose.

Draco waves his wand, and the music abruptly stops and then he steps back from the window, distractedly tying the leather band around his wrist. What could Potter possibly want with him? Draco startles slightly when Potter knocks again, and he pushes his hair behind his ear, nervously looking around to make sure he doesn’t have anything remotely suspect lying around.

When he opens the door, Potter stares at him. ‘Malfoy, hello.’

Potter looks him firmly in the eye for all of two seconds before his gaze wanders down. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, Draco finds himself tickled with the knowledge that Potter can’t seem to look away from his bare chest.

Draco folds his arms and leans against his doorframe. ‘Potter,’ he says. ‘Is there a reason you’re ogling me in my doorway?’

Potter’s flushes prettily, but then he seems to steel himself and look Draco in the eye. ‘You really shouldn’t answer your door dressed like that,’ he says. ‘Or... not dressed as the case might be.’

Draco raises an eyebrow. ‘Duly noted,’ he says ‘Why are you here? Am I being arrested?’

Potter rolls his eyes. ‘You’re not being arrested, Draco.’

Again, the use of his first name. It sets Draco on edge.

Draco steps aside in the narrow doorway, and Potter’s shoulder grazes Draco’s nipple as he passes. Potter doesn’t seem to notice Draco’s sharp intake of breath and he moves further into the kitchen and looks around the room curiously.

Draco closes the door behind him. ‘Since I’m not being arrested, why are you here?’

Potter shrugs out of his robes, revealing a crisp white shirt and fitted jeans that hug the curve of his arse. He walks past Draco into the sitting room, resting his robes across the arm of the sofa and nods to the pot of tea on the coffee table. ‘May I?’ he says, sitting on the sofa and gazing up at Draco expectantly.

Draco nervously chews his lower lip, and waves his wand to set a warming charm on the cooled pot of tea. ‘It’s nothing special, I’m afraid,’ he mutters. ‘Just your basic tea.’ He summons the jars of milk and sugar from the kitchen, somehow knowing Potter isn’t the kind of man to take his tea black.

‘It’s perfect, thank you.’ Potter says, pouring copious amounts of milk into his cup, but neglecting to add sugar. Draco grimaces slightly and sets about adding at least half the jar of sugar into his own cup and about a dash of milk. When he’s finished, Potter is staring at him with an expression of mild amusement. Draco looks away, and sips his tea.

Draco grunts softly in response. The cottage holds mixed memories for him. It’s a relic from a time when the Malfoys had human servants, usually squibs. But that was before his Grandfather Abraxas became Lord of the Manor. He’d sacked all the human servants as soon as he could. He couldn’t stomach the idea of non-magic blood living on his land. Draco would hide here when Voldemort was on the prowl in the Manor, and here his mother would find him, and coax him into returning before the Dark Lord noticed his absence.

Draco sets his tea down and eyes Potter warily. ‘Is there a reason you’re here?’

Potter sets down his cup as well, and his eyes flick briefly to Draco’s. ‘You disappeared last night,’ he says.

Draco raises his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know you were keeping an eye on me.’

Potter rolls his eyes, but he gives Draco a small smile. ‘Look,’ he says, absently twisting a small silver band on his middle finger. ‘I just wanted you to know that what you saw last night—‘

‘You mean when you vomited in my garden, or do you mean the illegal drugs you were smoking?

Harry looks at him hesitantly. ‘A second ago you said it was your garden.’

Draco’s face heats. ‘Force of habit,’ he says.

Harry watches him for a second. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s what I was referring to. I just wanted to be sure you understood. That’s not the typical way I behave, it was – unprofessional of me.’

Draco fingers the rim of his teacup. ‘Are you afraid I’ll rat you out to the Ministry or something?’

Potter shakes his head, resting his cup down on the coffee table. ‘No, I just… didn’t want for you to think I do that kind of thing often.’

‘Why the fuck would you care what I think?’

Potter shrugs. ‘You were decent to me,’ he says, meeting Draco’s gaze. ‘You didn’t have to be. I wanted to thank you.’

Draco eyes him warily. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Okay.’

Draco makes a small sound in his throat. ‘I’m not high on the Ministry’s “need to know” list, Potter.’

‘The curator announced it after you disappeared,’ Potter tosses him a curious glance. ‘Where did you go?’

Draco frowns at him. Potter’s doing a fairly good job at making the questions seem offhand, but there’s a tightness around the corners of his eyes that makes Draco’s palms sweat a little. ‘I’m not certain that’s any of your concern.’

Potter opens his mouth to say something but then closes it again.

‘Potter, you’re freaking me out,’ Draco says. ‘Am I under investigation or something?’

A look of surprise creases Potters face. ‘Dammit. No, I’m sorry. No. You’re not under investigation,’ he says quickly. Potter gives him a wry smile. ‘I’m just a nosy sod who’s pants at casual conversation, I’m afraid.’

Draco shakes his head. ‘Why are you trying to converse with me?’ he asks slowly. ‘Is this some sort of undercover thing?’

Potter laughs softly putting his hands in the air. ‘No. I swear to you. I’m not– investigating anything. I just—’

His face heats and he pours himself a fresh cup of tea. His hands are shaking.

‘They’re opening a new exhibit in the dungeon,’ Potter says hurriedly. ‘They’re calling it “The Hero’s Incarceration”. Where do they come up with this stuff, I wonder? They’ve made a plaque with some sort of rubbish about Luna and Ollivander written on it.\'

Draco scoffs lightly, hunching forward and scratching his beard. ‘How do you feel about that?’

Potter shrugs, and then he stands and walks across the room with his hands deep in his pockets. He stops in front of the gramophone sitting atop a small desk, peering at it curiously.

Draco stands swiftly and moves to stand a few paces away, eyeing Potter warily and cursing himself for not covering the gramophone with a Disillusionment Charm. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t be accumulating possessions during his probation. Potter could report him if he wanted to.

‘My mother sent it,’ he says. ‘She thought it would be a healthy diversion.’

Potter raises his eyebrows. ‘Your mother listens to records.’

Draco sighs. ‘Yes. She’s living in Paris right now and she chose, for some reason, to integrate with the Muggles.’ He studies Potter’s face briefly, but his expression is inscrutable. ‘I don’t think she’s ever been to the Wizarding district.’

Potter makes a small sound in his throat, and Draco’s throat burns with a surge of annoyance. He steps forward, fingering the edges of the gramophone protectively. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

‘I do,’ Potter says, looking back at him earnestly. ‘Believe me, Malfoy. I understand.’

They stare at each other for a moment before Draco looks away, fiddling with his hands for something to do. He looks down at his bare chest, suddenly remembering he’s been half naked the whole time, and feeling strangely aware of it for the first time in years.

He moves to grab his jumper, and Potter clears his throat behind him.

Draco pulls the black jumper over his head glancing at Potter as he pushes up his sleeves. ‘Where?’

‘I can’t imagine why you think my presence was requested, Potter. Especially as they didn’t even bother to tell me it was happening.’

Potter looks confused. ‘But you were there last night.’

Draco pulls down the hem of his jumper, pulling the strand of hair caught inside and tying it back with the band on his wrist. ‘The only reason I was there was so that Weasley could show me off as his little pet.’

‘He doesn’t mean anything by it. Percy’s always been…’

Potter gives him a look. ‘Not… intuitive. He wants to make a name for himself. He thinks he has a lot to prove.’

‘Either way,’ Draco says. ‘I wasn’t summoned.’

Potter eyes him for a long moment. ‘Pity,’ he says.

For some reason, Draco’s face flames. He’s quite sure that Potter’s managed to make him blush.

Potter seems to have noticed. He smiles and scratches the back of his neck in a strangely endearing sort of way. ‘I meant what I said last night, you know,’ he says.

Potter shrugs, edging closer to him, passing the tips of his fingers over the back of the threadbare chaise lounge beside him.

‘Maybe,’ he says, stopping in front of Draco, and sitting on the armrest. He stretches his legs in front of him, tilting his head up to look Draco square in the eye. ‘But I also meant it when I said I wanted to help you.’

‘Ah,’ Draco says, grabbing his wand and using it to levitate the empty tea cups ahead of him. ‘More of your saviour complex, is it?’ he says, walking past Potter and into the kitchen.

Potter follows him and Draco deposits the dishes into the sink and sets them to wash.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Draco says. ‘Don’t. You don’t even know me.’

Potter rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve known you since you had a cowlick, and I know you didn’t deserve the sentence you got.’

Draco leans against the sink, gripping the edges of the worktop with both of his hands.

‘Oh, didn’t I? How would you convict three attempted murders? Because that’s what I was charged with, Potter. One of them was your friend.’

Draco’s voice wavers slightly, but he presses on. ‘Let’s not forget to mention the gross misuse of Dark artefacts, practicing Dark Magic on school grounds, and letting the Death Eaters and a fucking werewolf into a castle full of children.’

‘So were you! So was everybody else. If I’d just—’

‘What, Draco? What could you have done? You lowered your wand, you showed Dumbledore who you really were. He would have saved you.’

Draco shakes his head. ‘Why are we even talking about this? It doesn’t matter what you think. It already happened. My sentence is almost over.’

Potter begins moving closer to him, and then seeming to think better of it, stops abruptly in the middle of the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean for things to be so intense, I just wanted you to know that I didn’t think what happened to you was fair. I—I wanted to help you.’

They stare at each other from across the room for a few long seconds, and then Draco licks his lips and carefully says, ‘Thank you.’

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets, and a few moments pass in awkward silence.

‘She’s isn’t mine,’ Draco says automatically. ‘She belongs to the Ministry.’

Harry raises his eyebrows. ‘Not sure she’d agree with you there,’ he says evenly. ‘She showed me to the cottage and shared some choice opinions with me on the way you take care of yourself.’

Draco sighs. ‘She always does this to me.’ He releases his grip on the counter top and pushes his fingers down into his pockets. God. This was so embarrassing.

‘She was—’ he begins haltingly. ‘Well… when I was born… ’

Draco huffs a breath of air and looks up at the ceiling. ‘She was my nurse-elf, okay?’

Potter lets out a startled laugh. ‘Was she really?’ he says, still laughing. ‘Oh, God. That explains so much.’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘Shut up, Potter. What’s she complaining about now?’

‘She says you swim naked at night,’ Potter says, cheeks burning red. ‘She’s convinced you’re going to catch your death out there. Or at least get eaten by a Lethifold.’

‘I’ve been given strict instructions to tell you never to do it again. She’s quite convinced you’ll listen to me.’ Potter grins at him. \'Since, you know… I’m Harry Potter and all.’

, of course.’ He looks away, completely disgruntled by the whole thing. It was Mindy who would repeat all the Harry Potter stories to him as a child, but not the way his father would tell it. In Mindy’s stories, Potter was always the hero. Mindy’s version was better. More fun.

When he looks up again, Potter is looking at him expectantly.

‘Well,’ Potter says. ‘Aren’t you going to show it to me?’

Somehow, he manages to spend the rest of the day in Potter’s presence, a few uninterrupted hours showing him the wilder gardens. They’re much further away from the Manor proper, in an area sealed off by the Ministry and blocked off by misdirection charms that for some reason have no effect on Draco. He has to hold Potter’s hand to get him through the barrier.

When he was very young, Draco would run through these gardens and straight down to the river for a swim. His mother never wanted to venture through the mud and high grass, so she would send Mindy with strict instructions that Draco mustn’t drown. Draco only nearly drowned twice. He never told his mother though.

They walk along the muddy path, Draco with his hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing at Potter and waving away any particularly curious Tentacular vines. His fingers are slightly numb from the cold, and he pushes them into his pockets, staring pensively ahead.

Potter keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and Draco’s not quite sure what to make of it.

He stops abruptly, and after a few paces, Potter stops ahead of him.

‘Potter,’ he says. ‘What’s really going on? Did they ask you to monitor me?’

A sliver of dread stabs him in the chest. ‘Is it—’ Draco pauses, licking his lips and drawing in a much needed breath. ‘Is there something wrong with my father?’

‘Then what? I don’t—’ Draco gestures vaguely. ‘Why are you being... like this? I don’t understand it.’

‘I – fuck. Draco. Can I just walk with you?

‘I don’t want to—’ Potter chews his lower lip. ‘Can’t you just trust me?’

‘Yes. Can you just trust that I’m not trying to investigate you, or turn you in for anything? I just… I’m just… here. Okay?’

Draco frowns. ‘Potter, I swear, if you’re fucking with me—’

‘I’m not,’ Potter says. ‘I swear to you, I’m not.’

Draco forces himself to relax. ‘Okay,’ he says. He begins walking along the path again, and Potter falls into step with him. A slight chill breeze blows between them, and the leaves on the trees rustle loudly.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, with Potter still glancing at him every five seconds, and Draco’s heart slightly racing in his chest.

When they reach the river, Potter pushes up his sleeves and kneels at the bank, dipping his hand in the water. ‘Fucking hell, Malfoy! It’s like ice.’

Draco shrugs, peering down at Potter with his hands still in his pockets.

Potter swishes his hand around in the water a bit more.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Draco says, looking out towards the opposite bank. ‘It’s invigorating,’

Potter stands and looks around. ‘It’s quiet here,’ he says. ‘Peaceful.’

Draco pushes a strand of hair behind his ears and surreptitiously studies Potter’s profile: the curve of his jaw, the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow on his cheek, his prominent Adam’s apple, the pale expanse of his neck. ‘It is,’ Draco murmurs.

Potter turns to meet this gaze and Draco, caught staring, fumbles for a response. ‘What do you think, Potter?’ he says gruffly.

Potter doesn’t look away. ‘I think, if I were you, I’d need a place like this. Somewhere I could escape.’ Potter licks his lips, and Draco is struck by the sudden glimpse of a pink tongue on full red lips.

Draco forces his gaze up to Harry’s eyes, but he finds no quarter there - they’re fixed on him, with an intensity that makes his stomach flutter. Potter’s eyes are so bright green in the fading light that they’re almost luminous.

His mouth suddenly dry, he has to swallow a few times before saying, ‘Perhaps.’

Potter finally looks away. ‘The wards probably let you in because it’s what you need,’ he says, glancing back at the footpath.

Draco forces a derisive laugh, though it comes out more thick and moist than he intended. He digs the toe of his boot into the muddy embankment.

‘It’s your home, Malfoy. No matter what the Ministry thinks,’ Potter continues. ‘The wards still listen to you.’

‘It’s not my home, Potter,’ Draco says softly.

Potter gazes at him for a moment. ‘In Grimmauld Place’ he says, ‘The wards respond to me. I can’t really explain it, maybe it’s something inherent in the magic of Wizarding houses, but it always seems to know what I need.’

Draco grits his teeth. ‘Potter, this house hasn’t been my home since the Dark Lord came in and threw my parents out of their own bed. When they were asleep.’

Harry sighs and looks away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

Draco kicks at a loose stone in the mud. ‘Why are you apologising to me? Why are you doing any of this?

As if to add drama to the moment, a few heavy droplets of rain batter down on their shoulders. Draco looks up for a few startled seconds and then the sky opens up and it begins to pour. Draco throws his hands up in the air, looking up at the sky in outrage and then Potter grabs his hand with a laugh.

They run, Potter in the lead, partially dragging Draco through the mud as the rain bears down on them, heavy and ruinous until they find shelter under a Holly tree.

Potter leans over, resting his hands on his knees, his shoulder heaving. It takes Draco a few moments to realise Potter is laughing and then a small smile tugs at Draco’s lips.

‘We ought to run the full way to cottage,’ he says. ‘The rain won’t let up for a bit now it’s really started.’

Potter just waves his hands absently and peers through the leaves up at the sky now rapidly turning black. His breath fogs in tiny puffs from his lips.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t just Apparate,’ Draco says.

Draco shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t blame you.’

‘I wouldn’t do that, Draco,’ Potter says softly. ‘You can’t Apparate. It’s rude.’

Draco leans back against the rough bark of the tree, resting the back of his head against it as well. A few determined raindrops still make it through the thick branches, but it’s certainly better than being under the full brunt of the rain.

‘You were right,’ Draco says without looking at Potter. ‘I need an escape, sometimes. This is it. When I come here, I don’t even know what I’m doing. It’s like a trance. I get in the water and I can’t hear, it’s dark so I can barely see. And I just—’ He looks to his right, finding Potter staring at him avidly. Draco shakes his head. ‘I disappear. I forget, for a few minutes where I am. Who I am, even.’

Potter nods slowly. ‘I understand,’ he says. ‘Completely.’

The expression on his face wavers for a moment, and he bites his lower lip. ‘Sometimes you just do things that don’t make sense just to get away. Pretend you’re someone else. Pretend your life isn’t as fucked up as it really is.’

Draco shifts his feet from where they’ve started to sink in the mud. The steady patter of rain makes the silences between them seem softer. Less ominous.

‘Strangely enough, Potter,’ Draco says. ‘You might be the only person who actually gets it. What that says about my life... I don’t know.’

Potter laughs softly. ‘It says we’re both fucked, maybe.’

Draco briefly looks up at the sky again. ‘You know I—’

But he doesn’t finish his sentence because suddenly Potter is much too close, leaning in and brushing his lips against Draco’s. Draco remains utterly still, until Potter leans in even closer, his hips brushing against the top of Draco’s thighs. The tips of Potter’s fingers press at the base of Draco’s spine, and Potter swipes his tongue against Draco’s lips, seeking entry. Draco tentatively opens his mouth, letting Potter slide his tongue inside, searching out the corners of Draco’s mouth. It’s strange, the rough texture of Potter’s tongue against his. He tastes like tea and something else, something Draco can’t quite place.

Potter releases a small sigh and it puffs against Draco’s cheeks. Draco doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he simply wraps his fingers around Potter’s firm biceps, allowing himself to be kissed. Potter pushes him up against the bark of the tree, and Draco starts to feel the first small stirring of panic rise up in his chest. It feels too much like surrendering. Like Azkaban. The memory of Flint cornering him flares in his mind, and he roughly pushes Potter away. Potter stumbles backwards and Draco takes a few steadying breaths and puts a hand to his mouth.

Potter reaches out and touches Draco’s forearm. ‘Are you okay?’

Draco closes his eyes and nods briefly, fervently avoiding Potter’s worried gaze. He swallows down a brief surge of nausea, embarrassed with himself for being so—

He doesn’t even know what to call it, except that it’s completely mortifying.

‘No, it’s my fault,’ Potter says looking at him with a wary expression. ‘I thought—’ He shakes his head briefly. ‘I don’t know what I thought. But I shouldn’t have just sprung on you like that.’

Draco straightens up, wiping his damp palms on his thighs. ‘The rain is letting up a bit,’ he says. ‘We should go.’

Potter nods, stepping away from him, and shoving his hands into his pockets. ‘Are you sure you’re—’

‘I’m fine, Potter. Don’t get sentimental. It was just a mistake that’s all.’

Potter nods and his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. ‘Okay.’

Draco steps out from beneath the cover of the tree. The rain’s become a light drizzle, and he crouches a bit, running through it, not waiting to see if Potter follows his lead.

Why wouldn’t you want to come here? You’ve always loved Paris. Why would you stay in England? You don’t know what it’s like out there. You’ve been under probation all this time. You don’t understand the way they stare, and the talk. Do you know in some places they refused to even serve me? Is that what you want?

to, Draco? At best they’d put some sort of tracker on you, at worst they’ll put you back into probation for even asking.

I’m worried about you. You say that Potter could become your ally, but how do you know for sure? How do you know he hasn’t been sent to keep an eye on you, to trip you up now that your freedom is so close? Please, darling, keep one eye open. I don’t trust his sudden interest in you.

I’ve sent you the records you asked for. Where have you heard of these Muggle composers? Did Potter tell you about them?

Draco’s never been one to hover where he isn’t wanted, yet he finds himself lurking during the opening of the dungeon exhibit. The Manor is crowded with many more people than the opening gala, and Draco can only assume there is some kind of money changing hands.

Draco slips into the kitchen, unnoticed by the harried caterers and house elfs. He makes his way down into the cellar and past the secret entrance to his parent’s boudoir, exiting through the Voldemort suite. He peers inside, grateful to find it empty, and then he slips out the door, walking down the empty hallway. The West Wing is eerily quiet. The Ministry must have cordoned it off in an attempt to get people to actually visit the wretched exhibit.

He’s never been curious to see one of the openings, but this time he finds his heart beating a little faster as he heads to the East Wing. He doesn’t want to examine too closely why he’s intrigued, because then he’d have to think about that kiss again, and he’s not quite certain he’s ready to go there just yet.

He trips on something in the halfway, but when he looks down, nothing’s there. He pushes at the invisible object with his shoe and it shimmers slightly. An Invisibility Cloak. The only person he knows with one of those is Potter. The door to one of the unused bedrooms is halfway open, and Draco, smiling slightly, pushes it a little wider. He can’t see past the entryway, but he can hear Potter’s voice, low and husky.

‘…bad idea. I don’t like leaving my cloak out there.’

‘No one’s going to see it. It’s invisible, don’t you remember?’

Draco hastily steps out of the room and leans his back against the wall, his breathing heavy and unsteady.

There’s a thud against the wall, a low moan, and Draco flicks a silencing charm in the general direction of the room. His back slides against the wall as he slips to the floor, and he reaches out, absently fingering Potter’s Invisibility Cloak. He lifts it up, and without even really realising what he’s doing, he brings it to his nose.

It smells like Potter. It’s a scent he can’t even describe, but it reminds him of flying. He pulls the cloak over himself and pulls his knees into his chest. He knows he should just walk away, but he wants to see who Potter’s fucking in there. And while he knows he has no right to feel the level of betrayal he does, he feels it all the same.

Almost twenty minutes pass. Being unable to see or hear what’s going on doesn’t make it any less upsetting. Draco has his imagination to fill in all the gaps. Suddenly the door bursts open, and Potter comes out first. His hair is severely mussed, but he looks otherwise impeccable in a midnight blue suit and black tie. Behind him follows Randall Newman, in deep purple robes, brushing his hair back and looking around for witnesses. Potter bends over grasping around for his cloak.

Newman looks down on the marble floor, frown on his face. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes. It was right fucking here.’ Potter puts his hands on his hips, looking distraught.

Draco remains very still and tries to breathe lightly, and through his nose.

‘Well perhaps one of the house elfs took it. You should check with them to be sure.’

Potter glances despairingly at Newman and folds his arms across his chest. ‘I can’t believe this shit.’

‘Come now,’ Newman says. ‘Don’t pout. You’ll find it in no time, I’m sure.’

Newman pulls him close by his hips but Potter remains stiff in his arms. ‘You are so fucking sexy in this get up.’

Newman kisses Potter softly on the lips. ‘You’ll find it, Harry, just calm down.’

Newman smirks down at him. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

‘I’ll be sure to tell that to your wife.’

Newman’s gaze hardens and he digs his fingers into Harry’s hips. ‘Don’t make idle threats, Harry, we both know you’ll never come through.’

Potter just grits his teeth. For a brief second, his gaze flicks to Draco. Draco freezes, his heart thudding in his chest, ready to make a break for it, but then Potter looks away.

‘Go on downstairs,’ he says. ‘I’ll go to the kitchens myself.’

Newman kisses Harry on the cheek. ‘I’ll miss you.’

He turns and walks down the hallways in the opposite direction, and Potter stands with his arms folded, staring at the wall for a few minutes before turning and following suit.

Draco releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and stands shakily from his position on the ground. He stays hidden beneath the cloak and walks back to the cottage, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, almost causing a mishap in the kitchen involving a floating pot of soup, and a confused chef.

He slips out the back door, past the bench where he first saw Potter that night and through the grass to his cottage. The walk is long enough that his head clears slightly and he’s able to actually replay the scene in his head with any kind of understanding.

He should have seen it. That night. He knew something was off between Newman and Potter, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Typical. The Boy-Who-Lived: the other woman. Whether the twinge in his chest is anger, jealousy or an unholy mix of the two, Draco can’t be certain, he only knows that he doesn’t like it. He hates that already Potter’s found a way inside. But then, Draco’s always been weak when it comes to him.

He opens the door to his cottage, rests the cloak on the kitchen counter and slowly makes his way to the sitting room where Potter himself is sitting on his sofa, top buttons undone, his jacket draped across the chaise longue.

Draco’s not surprised. He slips out of his shoes and looks down at Potter. ‘How did you know it was me?’

‘I heard someone. I figured with my luck, it had to be you.’

Draco sits in the chair opposite him. ‘Your cloak is in the kitchen,’ he says. ‘You can take it on your way out.’

‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Potter.’

Draco looks up at him. Potter’s leaning forward, chewing on his lower lip nervously.

Draco looks away, picking at a loose thread on the armrest of his seat. ‘If you’re worried I’m going to tell someone—’

‘Of course you care. You’re Harry Potter. He’s a married Ministry official. They’ll tear you both apart.’

anything. I walked in on you and turned the fuck around. Then I cast a silencing charm. Why didn’t you think to do that? Or at least a locking charm would have sufficed.’

Potter chews on his thumb nail. ‘He likes the risk. Fucking me in public.’

Potter shrugs. ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.’

Draco looks at him. The v of his collar is wide enough that Draco can clearly see his collarbones, and the rapid beat of his pulse.

Potter’s Adam’s apple bobs. ‘I’m sorry you saw that,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think— After what happened the other day. I don’t want you to think I was… leading you on or something.’

‘What does it matter?’ Draco says with an elegant shrug. ‘We’re not anything, Potter. You shouldn’t care what I think.’

Harry makes a frustrated noise. ‘Stop acting like this means nothing to you. I can see it in your face—’

‘You can’t see anything, Potter, because I don’t care. So you kissed me once in my fucking garden. Why do you think that means I give a shit what you do with your cock?’

Draco leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. ‘Now, if you please, Auror Potter. I’d appreciate it if you left. I have… things to attend to.’

Draco doesn’t move until he hears the shuffling of Potter’s cloak as he swings it across his shoulders and the thud of the cottage door when he leaves.

The following Monday, he’s instructed by owl to decorate the entire Manor in a Christmas theme. A large crate with several enchanted fairies, baubles and garlands arrives in the entryway, and Draco spends hours with Mindy hanging things all over the place in a haphazard sort of way. On Tuesday, Weasley comes again to inspect his work, and promptly hires a professional decorator more up to the task, with an apologetic pat on Draco’s back. Draco fumes about this for a few short hours, vowing to disappear into a bottle of Scotch for the evening, and he decides to try to nick a copy of the

The curator raises her eyebrows when she sees him. Draco never comes to the small shop unless he has to check the maintenance spells. They sell everything from miniature Harry Potter figurines to highly crafted replicas of Potter’s wand. Draco gives her a small nod, pretending to check security spells in the doorway and when she finally looks away, he pulls a copy from the shelf and slips off, sticking it under the crook of his arm and taking it back with him into the cottage, grabbing a bottle of Scotch from the pantry on the way back.

The object of his many recent thoughts isn’t exactly on the cover, but he still has a full page spread about his latest work in the Auror department, and speculation on whether he’s headed for the Head Auror position. The photograph of Potter is almost as intense as the real thing. He’s standing on the Ministry steps with his friend Granger, both seem to be in deep conversation, but then he looks up at whoever is behind the camera and scowls.

Typically, even Potter’s scowls are endearingly attractive, his brow furrows in such a way that his eyes brows seem perfectly sculpted. A muscle twitches in Potter’s jaw. Draco spends a few minutes staring before firmly closing the paper and pushing it away.

His presence isn’t requested again until three days later when a letter comes from Weasley, asking him to be present for a daytime event dubbed “The Hero’s Luncheon”. Apparently he was so “well behaved” at the opening, that the Minister specifically requested his presence.

Draco chooses a set of cream robes, and opts to shave his stubble. He considers giving himself a haircut, but decides instead to leave his shoulder length hair loose. Fuck them if they think he looks too much like his father. He never wants them to forget he’s Draco fucking Malfoy.

The Hero’s Luncheon is particularly pointless. Nothing more than a collection of war veterans telling their stories at a podium in his parents’ ballroom, patting themselves on the back for surviving, and eating hors d\'oeuvres off trays levitated by house elfs.

Draco stands at the edge of the room, watching as a distressed Hermione Granger gestures to the house elfs in their formal tea cosies, a look of distaste on her face. Beside her is her husband, Weasley, with a hand on the small of her back. He whispers in her ear and she slowly relaxes, laughing softly and kissing him on the cheek. Lovegood is here, so is Longbottom, Dean Thomas, and everyone else who was in the castle that night.

A deep rumble of a laugh pulls his attention to where he does not want it to go. Potter’s standing across the room with Newman and the Minister, frowning down at his shoes. Newman prattles on incessantly, gesturing with the tumbler of Scotch in his hand. The Minister keeps nodding his head, as though barely listening.

Potter looks up, catching Draco’s gaze. Draco doesn’t look away.

Apparently it’s Potter’s policy never to wear traditional Wizard robes. Today he’s dressed in a charcoal grey shirt and black trousers, his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbow. His hair flops over his forehead in the usual haphazard waves, hiding his famous scar and curling over his collar. A few strands sit definitely on the rim of his glasses. The glow from the fairy lights makes his hair seem a lighter brown that it really is, and his eyes—

Well, they’re just as mesmerising as the last time Draco checked.

Potter nods his head towards the exit and raises his eyebrow, but a touch on Draco’s arm pulls him out of his trance, and Percy Weasley is there, introducing him to more people as an ‘example of the great reformation work the Ministry has done since the war,’ Draco grits his teeth and bears most of the conversation in silence, occasionally glancing out the corner of his eye at Potter and Newman. He doesn’t like the way Newman angles his body possessively in front of Potter’s, or the way he absently places his palm at the base of Potter’s spine. He notices, however, the way Potter frequently steps out of his grasp, the way he stiffens whenever Newman touches him.

Draco excuses himself not long after, heading straight for one of the many French doors leading out to the path around the house. It’s cold and a little bit damp from earlier showers, but it’s still better than being inside with those people. He leans over the stone banister, gripping the edges with calloused palms.

It doesn’t take long for Potter to find him; one minute Draco’s alone, counting his breaths, and the next, Potter’s there beside him. He remains quietly by Draco’s side, and though he doesn’t do or say a thing, Potter’s mere presence is enough to soothe him.

Potter digs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. ‘I saw you leave. Thought you might need a punching bag.’

‘Oh, a punching bag… Muggle thing. You get the idea though.’

‘The general idea that I’d like to punch you?’

Draco sighs and stands up straight, resting his hips against the banister. ‘What are you doing with him?’ he asks.

Potter looks at him surprised, and then licks his lips carefully. ‘I’m not with him,’ he says quietly. ‘I just fucked up one time, and for some reason I keep going back. I’m completely out of order, I know that.’

Draco turns to face him. ‘Then stop.’

A few other guests walk out onto the pathway, including Granger and Weasley. Granger watches them curiously as she passes, and Weasley does the same, except his gaze is less curious and more extremely exasperated.

Potter steps closer to him when everyone else is far enough away. ‘You look amazing, by the way,’ he whispers. ‘I really want to kiss you again.’

Draco looks away from his gaze. ‘You can’t,’ he says, looking down at the gardens. ‘You shouldn’t even be talking to me.’

‘Harry, there you are,’ a deep voice says from behind.

Draco closes his eyes and Harry steps away from him. ‘Minister,’ he says.

Draco turns around wearily, expecting the Minister’s reproach for behaving like a guest and not a caretaker, but the Minister only nods briefly in his direction. ‘Good to see you again, Malfoy,’ he says, before turning to Harry again. ‘Harry, I was hoping I could introduce you to a few people?’

He holds out his arm, to suggest that Harry should follow him into the ballroom, and Draco watches as Shacklebolt leads him away, just as Newman walks past them, heading straight for Draco. Potter notices, and gives Draco a worried glance, but there’s little he can do with a determined Minister for Magic leading him to a meet and greet.

Newman stops just before him, looking him dead in the eyes with a faint, false smile on his lips.

‘Curious that of all people, you should be out here talking to Harry Potter,’ he says. A light breeze blows in whipping his sandy brown hair into his eyes and causing the sleeve of his robe to flap against his cheek.

Newman flashes a toothy grin. ‘Ha,’ he says. ‘You Malfoys have always been the clever sort.’

He pushes his hair away from his face, the bright gold of his wedding band gleaming in the fairy lights. ‘You’re free to leave and return to your lodgings Mr. Malfoy, we no longer require your presence.’

Draco forces himself to take a few calming breaths before he responds. ‘Certainly,’ he says.

He turns on his heel and takes a brief step before Newman stops him by grabbing Draco’s arm, digging his nails into Draco’s robes. ‘Pursuing Harry won’t win you any points with the Ministry,’ he says through a strained smile. ‘In fact, it violates the terms of your probation. You should keep that in mind.’

He releases Draco just as abruptly as he took hold of him, and Draco walks away, down the steps to the walkway around the garden, and trudging back to his cottage.

Draco steals a bottle of Firewhisky from the cellar and stalks down to the hidden gardens just after six, still darkly brooding over the day’s events. When he passes the wards, he unshrinks the bottle, taking off the cap and tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the Venomous Tentacula and bringing the bottle to his lips. He has to take a break from stomping through the gardens in order to bear the burn of the whisky as it slides down his throat. He rests his palm flat on a tree, and closes his eyes, letting himself slip into the almost instant headiness the drink evokes. He takes a few more swigs in quick succession, ignoring the little voice in his head telling him to slow down. Fuck that. Fuck all of them. Potter, too. Vengeful little shits. He can’t prove himself to any of them even if he tried.

His mother had it right all along, slipping off into hiding, pretending the entire Wizarding world didn’t exist was probably the best thing she could do. Maybe he should join her. Hide for the rest of his miserable life.

He pushes himself off the tree, stumbling slightly as he digs his heels into the mud and pushes on towards the river. When he reaches the bank, he slips off his shoes and strips off his clothes, taking deep swigs of the Firewhisky anytime he can manage it.

It would be a complete violation of his probation to be found intoxicated on the Manor grounds, but Draco can’t bring himself to care. Let them find him. Let them throw him back into a cell in Azkaban and let him rot. Let the shadow of the Dementors suck his fucking soul. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t even really know why he’s so angry.

He sets the bottle down in the mud, pushing it slightly into the earth so that it remains up right, then he wades into the river, and dives in head first. The water is like ice, Potter was right about that, but it’s brisk and rejuvenating. The sluggish headiness of the drink, mixed with the heart racing rush of adrenalin from the cold collides and Draco’s head spins. He remains underwater, swimming out to the middle of the river until his lungs burn and panic flares and he can’t stay under any longer, then he comes up, shuddering and gasping for air.

He treads the water for a few minutes then he ducks under again, holding his breath until it burns and then coming up again.

Draco turns around, treading water. Potter is standing at the edge of the bank looking furious. ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’ he shouts.

Draco wipes the water from his eyes and pushes his hair back from his forehead.

‘Fuck off, Potter,’ he murmurs, knowing he won’t be heard.

He considers ignoring him and swimming further away, but the idiot would probably come in and drag him out anyway. Draco sighs and slowly swims towards the bank. When he reaches the shallows, he stumbles in the stony waterbed, and almost falls on his face as he steps up onto the bank. His teeth chatter from the cold.

Potter makes a soft sound of annoyance and picks up Draco’s robes from the ground, draping it across Draco’s shoulders. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

Draco steps back, pushing his arms into his sleeves and holding his robes closed in front of him. ‘I should have never shown you this place.’

‘Well I’m glad you did,’ he says, pointing to the half empty bottle of whisky. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

Draco yanks the bottle out of the mud. ‘Still am, actually,’ he says. He narrows his eyes. ‘How did you get past the wards?’

‘I think your house likes me,’ Potter says. ‘Or at least it thought you needed my help.’

‘I don’t need your help.’ Draco sways slightly on his feet. ‘And it’s not my fucking house, Potter. Would you

Potter gently takes the bottle from him and sets it back on the ground. He pulls Draco close, stroking his arms repeatedly in an apparent effort to warm him. Draco’s teeth are still chattering slightly, and breaths rattle in his lungs. He tentatively wraps his arm around Potter’s waist, and Potter moves in closer, resting his forehead on Draco’s shoulder.

Potter looks up at him and lifts his hand, pushing Draco’s dripping hair behind his ear. ‘You’re such an idiot,’ he says softly.

Potter kisses him and Draco’s grip on Potter’s waist tightens. Draco deepens the kiss, letting go of his robes and threading his fingers in Potter’s hair. It’s softer than he thought it would be. Thicker.

Potter sighs against his lips and shifts, and a chilly breeze whips between them causing Draco to shiver even more. Potter slips his hand beneath Draco’s robes, sliding his palms on the bare skin of Draco’s hips and Draco shudders again, breaking out in gooseflesh all over.

He breaks the kiss, his hand still in Potter’s hair, and he leans in to press a kiss on Potter’s neck, and then he stiffens and pulls away, dislodging Potter’s hands and bending over to retrieve his Firewhisky.

‘I can smell him on you,’ Draco says, straightening up and gripping the bottle in his hands. ‘Don’t fuck him and come looking for me, Potter,’ he says. ‘I’m no one’s second course.’

Potter closes his eyes briefly. ‘I didn’t fuck him,’ he says. ‘And I don’t think of you as a “second course”,

Draco stuffs his muddy feet into his boots, swaying dangerously. ‘I don’t give a toss what you think of me.’ He pushes past Potter, walking unsteadily in the direction of his cottage.

‘I’m not seeing him anymore,’ Potter says. ‘I don’t care about him. I told him it’s over.’

Draco turns around and stalks back to him, not stopping until he’s close enough to feel Potter’s breath on his cheeks again. ‘You won’t give him up,’ he says, waving a finger in Potter’s face. ‘It’s too good. You said he liked the risk, fucking you in public. I think you like it, too. You love it. You’ve been good for too long. You want to taste what being bad is like. That’s why you want me. You want to fuck a Death Eater.’

Potter’s mouth opens slightly, and he folds his arms across his chest. ‘

,’ he says. ‘You think you’re a fetish for me?’

Draco grips the bottle of Firewhisky, avoiding Potter’s gaze.

Potter sighs. ‘I like you, Draco. I think about you —all the time.’

Draco closes his eyes, and Potter’s lips brush briefly against his earlobe. ‘I want

Draco opens his eyes, stepping away from Potter and breaking the spell. He keeps stepping backwards, stumbling slightly and waving the bottle of Firewhisky around in his hand. ‘I’ve already been sold, Potter.’

He turns around and stumbles away, back to his cottage

The following week goes by without Draco seeing Potter once.

Well, Draco sees him at parties and events, but he never actually looks at him. He avoids

at him at all costs. This way, he can’t pay much attention to the way Potter carries himself, or the apparently effortless charisma he possess. The way people gravitate to his corner of the room without even knowing why. He doesn’t look at Potter, when he’s finally awarded the Order of Merlin First Class, and he makes his speech, calmly and confidently. He doesn’t say a word when he sees Potter stumble out of the bathroom half an hour before, wiping his face and holding his stomach, looking green in the face, his fingers shaking.

Potter had seen Draco then, his face brightened and he looked around first before walking in Draco’s direction, but Draco simply shook his head and walked away.

Potter, is when he’s confronted by his presence, after eleven on a Saturday night, just as Draco’s about to turn in to bed.

There’s a loud banging at the door, and Draco starts. He looks down vaguely at his naked body and moves into action, grabbing an old dressing robe of his father’s and tying it around his waist.

He looks out of the kitchen window but it’s dark outside, and he can’t see a thing. Someone bangs on his door again and Draco yanks it open, annoyed. Potter materialises out of thin air, taking off his cloak and bundling it up in his fists. He’s sopping wet from the rain, his hair plastered onto his forehead.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks softly. Draco simply stares at him for a moment, and Potter’s face falls. ‘Draco, please.’

Draco wordlessly steps aside and lets him in. Potter drops his robes on the small table in the kitchen and walks straight into the sitting room, casting a drying charm on himself as he goes.

Draco follows him in and leans against the doorframe, waiting. Potter pulls an evening

from his robes, levitating it towards Draco, and then pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with his wand. He sits on Draco’s sofa, resting his boots on Draco’s coffee table. Draco’s about to ask him what the fuck, when the

hovers close enough for him to read, and he catches the headlines.

-NEWMAN SCANDAL! Details on the Boy Who Lived’s torrid affair, page 2

‘Oh my God,’ Draco says, grabbing the paper from the air.

Potter looks up at him, and takes a particularly deep drag on his fag. ‘Hermione had a similar reaction,’ he says. ‘Do you know, she wanted me to demand a retraction for slander?’

Draco opens the paper to page two. ‘She didn’t believe it?’ he says absently scanning the details of the article.

‘Hmm,’ Draco says, quickly skimming the article. ‘It’s not that bad. Of course, they tear Newman to shreds. They still seem to love you though. Typical.’

The room is thick with the scent of Mallowsweet, and Draco Summons a saucer from the kitchen. ‘Don’t get ash on my floor please, Potter.’

Draco continues skimming the article, reading on until— ‘Oh my God.’

‘You’ve reached that part, have you?’ Potter laughs bitterly, and leans his head back, blowing smoke into the hair. ‘He’s got kids. A whole fucking second family.’

Draco lowers the papers and steps forward. ‘You didn’t know?’ he says.

‘Of course I didn’t know!’ Potter looks at him, wide eyed, and takes another deep drag. ‘He kept them in the States. Not even his wife knew.’

He drops his head on the back of the sofa and looks up at the ceiling. ‘I knew I was being a shit, but I never thought...’

Draco sits beside him, gently takes the Mallowsweet and stubs it out on the saucer. Potter doesn’t move, he keeps staring, his body loose and languid.

‘I had it coming,’ Potter says. ‘I just. He has kids. I would have never—’

Draco tentatively puts his hand over Harry’s. ‘I know,’ he says.

Harry turns his palm over and links their fingers together. Draco looks down at their intertwined hands -Harry’s slightly shorter, darker fingers intertwined with Draco’s long, pale ones- and he is mesmerized.

‘What are you going to do?’ Draco asks without looking away.

Potter looks at him, his pupils are already blown wide from the Mallowsweet in his system. ‘If you’ll let me,’ he says. He squeezes Draco’s palm. ‘Please let me.’

Draco pulls his hand away. ‘Potter, are you crazy? If they find you here—’

‘They won’t. Why would they even look for me here, Draco? I swear they won’t. No one knows I’m here. I used the cloak.’

Potter sits up, facing him and shifting closer. ‘Draco, please.’

Draco looks at him for a long moment. ‘All right,’ he says with a sigh. He releases Potter’s hand and walks into his bedroom, pulling out a few spare linens from his closet. ‘You can sleep on the couch,’ he says when he returns.

Potter nods solemnly, and Draco sets up the couch with blankets, and grabs a pillow from the chaise lounge. ‘It’s old and smells like doxies, but you’ll have to suck it up, Potter.’

Potter kicks off his boots and drapes his robes on the chaise lounge, lies down on the sofa and covers himself. It’s a tight space. Potter has to curl his legs into himself to fit, but he does, and Draco spells the lights off and slips off his robes, sinking beneath the covers, relishing the feel of it against his bare skin, and pretends to go to sleep.

It’s four in the morning when the bed shifts beside him, and Draco rolls over and finds himself confronted by Potter’s face, lit only by the moonlight reflecting against his glasses. Potter’s hair is sleep mussed and his eyes are puffy and red: the absolute picture of vulnerability.

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Potter’s voice is deep and scratchy, and Draco knows he’s lying.

‘You didn’t want to sleep alone you mean.’

Potter mouth twitches. ‘It was torture knowing you were in the other room.’

Draco raises his eyebrow. ‘Especially seeing as I’m completely starkers.’

Draco laughs and shifts closer, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his blankets. Potter is lying on top of them and he struggles to yank a bit more over his shoulder. ‘Want me to get under there with you?’ Potter says, deceptively casual.

Potter shrugs, and pulls the blanket he dragged in with him over his shoulders and they lie there, facing each other in the near darkness. The only sounds are the rustle of the trees outside, and that of their breaths.

‘When Ginny married that bloke, it wasn’t like the papers said, you know.’

Draco shifts slightly. He’s not certain he wants to discuss Ginny Weasley while lying naked in bed with the object of a good few of his teenaged wet dreams. ‘I didn’t think so,’ he says.

‘We’d broken up months before. She met him. She fell in love, and I was okay with it. I was happy for her.’

‘But I lied when I said she didn’t break my heart.’ Potter shifts closer so that their noses almost touch, and Draco feels some sort of unnameable emotion begin to swell in his chest. The soft hairs on his arm stand on end and he shivers slightly in anticipation – of what, he’s not quite certain.

‘She did break me. But not in the way you might think. I loved her. Or, at least, I thought I did. I loved the idea of her. The idea of a family. Kids. Everything. And when we were over, I knew I wouldn\'t have that.’

‘You can still have that,’ Draco whispers.

Potter shakes his head, and the silence stretches between them for a while before Potter speaks again. ‘I fought for you, Draco,’ he says softly. ‘I got you into solitary. I nicked your file and marked you down for an early probation, I didn’t think they’d put you here, but I made sure you got out. I did what I could.’

The words hang between them like heavy stones, and when Draco gathers his breath to speak again, his voice cracks. ‘You’re lying,’ he says softly. ‘Marcus —

Harry’s furrows his brow. ‘Flint? The warden? Did he tell you that?’ Potter props himself up on his elbow. ‘Draco, when you were stabbed, I was on duty when the call came in. I got a Healer to come see you, and then I signed off on the paperwork to move you into solitary.’

Draco simply stares at him. ‘You’re lying,’ he repeats.

‘Ginny said I was fixated on you,’ Potter continues. ‘You featured in a few of our more spectacular rows. But, she was right. I was always… thinking about you. Talking about you. When she left me… I didn’t handle it well. I started this thing with Randy, and then I didn’t know how to get out. I think I needed something, you know? A distraction. To be wanted. I’m not sure. But then, that night at the gala…’

Draco grips his blankets in his fist, holding it against him protectively. ‘What?’

‘I knew what I wanted,’ Potter says. ‘It’s always been you, Draco.’

Draco looks at him for a moment and then scoffs weakly. ‘Don’t be such a romanticist, Potter. So you realised you wanted to fuck me. Big deal,’ Draco’s breath shudders in his chest and he breaks eye contact. ‘Loads of people want to fuck me.’

Draco turns on his back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘When my probation ends, I’m going to travel. I’m never coming back to England.’

Potter says nothing for a moment. ‘You’re just going put yourself in exile, is that what you want?’

Draco shoots him a withering glare. ‘I’m already in fucking exile.’

‘But you’ll be running away, Draco. From everything.’

‘I’ll not be running away,’ Draco says. ‘I’ll be...’ But his voice tapers off into nothingness.

Harry reaches out, and gently turns Draco’s face towards him. ‘Don’t run away, Draco,’ he says, before he leans in and kisses him. Draco instantly responds, parting his lips, surrendering to Potter for once in his life.

Potter slides one long leg across Draco’s body. He’s already hard, Draco can feel the warmth and firmness of Potter’s erection even through the thick blankets he’s cocooned himself in.

Draco shoves his covers down slightly and Potter pushes himself up on his knees and hovers over Draco’s body, his palms on either side of Draco’s head. Potter leans in and kisses him again and Draco makes a small sound into his mouth. He gently pulls Potter’s glasses off and rests them on the other side of the bed. His heart beats furiously in his chest, and his breath comes in a faint gasp.

Potter pulls away slightly. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, breathlessly. Draco nods and Potter pushes Draco’s blanket down to his waist, so that his chest is exposed. He traces his fingers over the thick skin of Draco’s knife scar. Draco stiffens, but then he threads both his hands in Potter’s hair and pulls him in closer. ‘No dittany in Azkaban,’ he says. Harry’s eyes lift to his face, and then he kisses Draco again. His tongue slides over Draco’s with a curious intensity, as though he’s mapping all the corners of Draco’s mouth and memorising his taste.

Potter’s hard cock presses into Draco’s hip bone. He wants it – he wants everything, but he’s not sure what to do. Before Azkaban, there had been nothing. He hadn’t even been properly kissed. He doesn’t count the awkward, fumbling snog with Pansy once in the Slytherin common room, because that had been a dare. His only sexual experiences had been Azkaban. With Marcus.

Potter is decidedly different from Marcus. His kisses go straight to Draco’s toes. Draco arches his back, wanting to be closer. Potter rests his weight full on Draco’s body and Draco spreads his thighs, letting Potter fall into the space between his legs.

He’s caught between wanting to be touched, taken, caressed everywhere, and the terrifying fear that he’ll do something stupid. Untoward. Mortifying.

Potter, pulls away, gasping for breath. ‘Fuck, Draco. I want you.’

He lifts his hips slightly and Draco’s hands fall to Potter’s sides, his fingers ghosting along the firm muscle beneath Potter’s ribs. Potter reaches between them, leaning to one side and pushing the blanket all the way down to Draco’s thighs, exposing his fully hard cock, flushed pink and leaking against his stomach.

Draco’s face heats, and he almost wants to cover himself up again, but Potter straddles his thighs and kisses him. ‘You’re perfect,’ he breathes against Draco’s lips.

‘You’re —a really good kisser,’ Draco replies awkwardly. Potter’s body shakes with silent laughter.

Potter pulls off his shirt and unbuckles his belt, slipping it off and throwing it across the room. It clacks against the wall loudly and Draco just gazes up at him, saying nothing. Potter’s broad chest has only a smattering of chest hair that darkens into a thin line of dark hair leading into his trousers. His chest is flat and taut and Draco wants to touch him everywhere.

Draco tentatively reaches out his hand and strokes Potters skin, moving upwards from the muscles on his side to the planes of his chest. He brushes his thumb over a pert, brown nipple and Potter gasps, sucking in his stomach and jerking his hips.

Pleased at the reaction, Draco does so again. Potter fumbles with his zipper, closing his eyes, absently rocking his hips and making the tiniest breathy sounds and Draco teases his nipple. Draco stares avidly at Potter’s face, loving the way he absently bites his lower lip. The way his face twitches with arousal.

Draco licks his index finger and swirls it around Potter’s nipple and Potter ducks his head.

He finally gets his trousers undone and he pushes them down over his hard cock, now poking beneath the underwear bunched up around his hips.

He leans forward and pushes them lower, and Draco helps by pushing the jumble of underwear and trousers down with his legs until they finally slip all the way down, and Potter kicks them onto the ground.

Draco looks down at Potter’s thick cock, and reaches between them, wrapping his hand around it, and swirling his thumb around the slick head.

‘Yes,’ Potter hisses, staring down at Draco’s hand around his cock as though transfixed. Draco strokes Potter’s cock lightly, teasing him until Potter’s entire body shakes and he groans out loud. Draco’s own cock twitches on his stomach, leaking precome and aching to be touched. Potter shifts to the side, lying next to Draco and Draco kicks all the blankets off the bed, just before Potter hooks his leg across Draco’s hips, bringing their cocks closer together.

‘Potter,’ Draco says, not knowing how he wants to finish the sentence.

Potter looks up at him, his lower lip is swollen, his hair mussed, panting slightly. He looks about seconds from coming and the thought makes Draco’s cock ache even more.

‘I haven’t—’ Draco says. ‘I don’t want—’

Potter leans in and kisses him, and their cocks brush against each other. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘Let’s just—’

Potter wraps his hand around both their cocks, squeezing them together and rolling his hips. Their cocks slide against each other, and Draco’s breathing falters. ‘Oh my god,’ he says weakly.

Potter wraps his arm around Draco’s shoulders and pulls them closer together, hooking his leg even more tightly around Draco’s body and rocking against him, setting a slow, torturous pace.

Draco slips his hand around Potter’s waist, burying his face in the space beneath Potter’s neck. ‘Oh fuck.

Potter threads his fingers into Draco’s hair and pulls Draco up for a bruising kiss, and Draco rocks against him, feeling his orgasm building up inside him, his balls drawing in close. Potter pulls away slightly, his mouth loosely covers Draco’s, and Draco moans into the kiss, puffs of air brushing against Potter’s stubbled cheek.

He digs his nails into Potter’s back. ‘I’m going to—’

Draco’s orgasm hits him hard, and his entire body convulses with the intensity of it. Potter moves his mouth against his and Draco’s body tenses with shuddering aftershocks that seem to go on forever. He holds on to Potter’s waist like a lifeline, gasping loudly, his skin breaking out in gooseflesh. He only vaguely realises when Potter comes as well, making even more of a mess between them. Potter’s fingers are still in his hair, his lips are still against Draco’s mouth. Draco kisses him deeply, and then pulls away, breathing heavily and dropping his head against the pillow.

Potter looks at him with glazed eyes for a few seconds, and then he swallows. ‘All right there?

Draco nods. ‘I’ve never… done that before,’ he says.

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘No, I hated it. It was terrible.’

Harry snickers and pulls him close, and Draco allows it, needing to be held more than he’d ever admit, not giving a damn about the sticky mess between them.

‘I’ll try to be better at it next time,’ Potter says.

Draco buries his head beneath Potter’s neck and smiles against his skin.

Draco thought he’d be the one to wake first, but when he opens his eyes, Potter’s face is only inches away, and he’s looking down at Draco with a small smile on his face.

Potter smiles. ‘Oh, this and that,’ he says. ‘I cleaned you up a bit.’

He gestures to Draco’s stomach and Draco moves his blanket and looks down at himself, finding his chest clean of any evidence what happened last night.

‘Thanks,’ he murmurs. He yawns and stretches, popping the bones in his back. ‘Potter, we should—’

But Potter cuts him off with a kiss, and Draco freezes mid-stretch, falling back against the pillows, lifting his palm and resting on Potter’s biceps. Potter pulls away and reaches between them, slowly peeling away Draco’s blanket.

Potter reaches for Draco’s cock, already halfway hard and Draco slightly arches his hips. Potter strokes him lightly, teasing the head and bringing Draco into full hardness.

Potter leans in closer and kisses him deeply, not slowing down the movement of his hand. Draco whimpers beneath him, arching his back and pushing himself into Potter’s fist.

Potter abruptly pulls his hand away and Draco pushes himself up on his elbow, frowning, with a petulant retort on the edge of his lips.

Potters lays down beside him, a playful smile on his lips and a challenge in his eyes.

Potter slowly slides his palm down the length of his chest, until he’s holding his cock firmly in his hand. Draco swallows and lowers his gaze, watching as Potter slowly strokes himself. He remains very still, captivated by the way the swollen head of Potter’s cock disappears and reappears from beneath the foreskin, growing more slick and wet with each stroke Potter makes. Potter reaches for Draco’s hand and guides it between his legs. At first, Draco thinks Potter’s going to wrap Draco’s fingers around his cock, but Potter spreads his thighs and lifts his arse slightly off the bed, guiding Draco’s fingers to his arsehole.

Draco’s finger slips easily inside Potter’s hole, already lubricated and stretched and ready to take him.

Potter removes his hand and Draco shifts closer, pushing his finger deeper inside, twisting his wrist, until his finger is all the way in. He’d always thought he’d be the one… it never occurred to him that Potter might offer himself up like this. Draco licks his lips and his cock twitches at the mere thought of fucking him into the mattress. He looks up at Potter’s face.

Potter watches him through heavy lidded eyes and licks his lips. ‘Yes,’ he says, answering the unuttered question.

Draco slips another finger inside, and Potter shudders and groans, spreading his thighs wantonly, reaching down and stroking his cock. ‘Fuck, Draco. Right there.’

Draco curls his finger upwards, and he can tell just when he hits the right spot, because Potter stops stroking his cock, and he wraps his fingers tightly around the base. ‘Fuck, you’re going to make me come,’ he murmurs. ‘I want you to fuck me first.’

Draco pushes up on his knees, and positions himself between Potter’s legs, spreading the precome on his cock. He pushes slowly inside, past the brief, initial resistance of Potter’s tight hole, and Potter grips the sheets in his fists, dropping his head back, exposing his long pale throat.

Draco makes a few shallow thrusts before snapping his hips and pushing all the way in, gasping out loud when he’s buried to the hilt. Potter’s hole is so hot and tight around his cock, even the smallest of thrusts is an overload of pleasure. He’s already close to coming without even having fucked Potter properly. It feels like tragedy.

He stills his movements until he can calm himself down, and when he opens his eyes, Potter is looking up at him, breathing heavily, his pupils blown wide. Potter strokes his palm down Draco’s chest, tweaking his nipple.

‘I love the way,’ he gasps as Draco pulls out slightly and pushes in again. ‘I love the way you look at me.’

Draco leans forward, hovering over Potter’s face, and Potter pushes Draco’s hair behind his ear. ‘How do I look at you?’ Draco asks, rolling his hips.

Potter groans, dropping his hands to Draco’s thighs and sliding his palms up to Draco’s arse, gripping it tightly. He lifts his shoulders up off the bed, exposing his throat to Draco’s mouth like an offering.

‘Like, you see me,’ Potter gasps. Draco licks Potter’s Adam’s apple and sucks on his pulse, rolling his hips again, and driving in hard.

Draco sucks on Potter’s pulse point hard enough to bruise, and he bites the curve of Potter’s jaw. ‘You are such a girl, Potter,’ he says.

Draco lowers himself to his forearms, until his chest his rests against Potter’s and he can feel Potter’s hard cock trapped between them, rubbing against Draco’s stomach.

He snaps his hips as fast as he can, his thighs burning with exertion. Potter arches his hips to meet Draco’s every thrust, his head bobbing, rucking up the sheets behind him, his arm curled beneath Draco’s shoulders.

As Draco’s orgasm starts to really bear down on him, his strokes are erratic, his arms begin to tremble. Potter licks the shell of his ear and says ‘Come inside me, Draco,’ and that’s all that it takes for his control to finally snap. He comes with a shout, his body going taught. Potter keeps rolling his hips until he, too comes with a low groan that rumbles against Draco’s chest. He clenches his hole around Draco’s cock, and Draco snaps his hips again, enjoying the too tight sensation on his sensitive cock until he can’t take anymore and he pulls out. He stares, transfixed as his come dribbles slowly out of Potter\'s arse.

Potter reaches between his legs, dips a finger into the come pooling on the sheets beneath him, brings it to his lips and sucks on his fingers, all the while never breaking eye contact with Draco. Draco’s not quite certain he remembers how to breathe, he leans in and kisses Potter fiercely, and Potter pulls him down flat against his chest.

After a minute or two of lazy snogging, Draco rolls off him, lying on his side on the bundle of sheets. ‘That was brilliant.’

Draco turns on his back. Staring at the ceiling, still panting for air. ‘When can we do it again?’

It’s hard leaving the cottage to do his daily tasks, knowing Harry Potter’s naked in his bed, but in a way it’s also a relief. Draco needs some time alone with his thoughts.

It’s gloomy and cold, and as Draco goes through the exhibits in the Manor, absently tossing cleaning and maintenance spells, all he can think about is Potter’s skin against his lips, or Potter’s hands in his hair.

The fact that not too many hours ago he was balls deep inside Harry Fucking Potter hasn’t yet sunk in.

Draco resets one of the weather charms turned faulty in an upstairs window, and he spends ten minutes just staring at the rolling hills outside, going over everything that happened in his head. Of course, his thoughts eventually lead back to Flint. Draco laughs. It’s a short, bitter sound, and it leaves him hollow. Flint let him think that he was Draco’s saviour, when it was Potter all along.

Potter was the one got him out of the prison block. Flint did everything he could to make Draco believe that he was the one pulling the strings, just to get Draco to spread his legs. How would Potter feel if he knew? Disgusted, probably. Draco has no intention of telling him. He can’t lose this one good thing.

Thinking about it threatens to make him sick, so Draco chooses instead to focus on thinking about Potter for the rest of the day.

When it’s just after five he stops by the kitchen on the way back to the cottage, asking Mindy to send over some extra food because he’s worked so hard and is extra hungry. Mindy is delighted, and for one horrified moment Draco’s convinced she’ll burst into tears. He awkwardly pats her back and thanks her and she shoos him along with a fond look and watery eyes.

The thought of opening the door to find Potter waiting for him is more pleasant than he ever thought it would be. He’ll never admit to anyone, but he jogs the last few steps to get back to the cottage. When he slips inside, shrugging out of his damp cloak and boots, his heart warms at the sight of Potter sitting in his bed, wearing Draco’s shirt and a pair of his trousers, his legs stretched out in front of him reading a copy of

. The sound of one of Draco’s new records wafts in from the sitting room, and Draco feels something once fragile and almost broken rise and swell.

Potter looks up at him and smiles, and Draco leans against the doorframe, trying to settle his pounding heart before getting too close to Potter again. His stomach is swarming with a million tiny butterflies.

The stare at each other for a few long seconds, and then Potter pats the bed. ‘Come here, you wanker.’

Draco bites his lip and he walks over to Potter, sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at him awkwardly until Potter rolls his eyes and pulls Draco in for a slow, lingering kiss. Draco sighs into Potter’s mouth, resting his palm on Potter’s thigh. When they break apart, Draco glances down at the way his shirt fits Potter’s broader chest.

‘Tight fit is it?’ he says, smile playing about his lips.

Potter grins. ‘Unlike these trousers,’ he says.

Draco glances down at the way his trousers hang over Potter’s toes and smiles. He leans in and kisses the space beneath Potter’s ear. ‘It’s strange,’ he says, inhaling deeply. ‘You smell like me.’ He drops a kiss on the corner of Potters mouth. ‘This morning you tasted like me.’ Draco pushes Potter’s hair off his forehead, and gently takes off his glasses so he can have an unfettered view of Potter’s eyes. ‘And now you almost look like me,’ he says. ‘It’s almost as if you’re… ’

Draco brushes his lips against Potter’s once more, softly, and Potter pulls away, seeking Draco’s gaze. ‘As if what, Draco?’

Draco smiles briefly, though he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Nothing,’ he says.

There’s a soft whooshing sound in the kitchen, and Draco sits up. ‘That’ll be the food,’ he says standing up. He reaches for Potter’s hand and pulls him up. Potter’s still watching him warily, but he thankfully doesn’t push the matter any further.

‘Come on,’ Draco says, pulling him in the direction of the kitchen. ‘I asked Mindy to send me something good.’

He awakens with a jolt, and not from a nightmare as is usually the case, but because someone is banging on his door like a mad person.

Potter wakes up too, and he puts a hand out to stop Draco when he slips out of the bed.

Draco shakes him off. ‘I have to see who it is,’ he says. ‘Get under your cloak.’

He doesn’t wait for Potter to respond before pulling on a shirt and trousers and grabbing his wand, waving his wand to flick on the lights. He looks through the kitchen window only to find a fuming, inebriated looking Randall Newman outside his door.

Draco’s gaze flicks to Harry’s hovering head, waving for him to put the cloak on properly. Newman bangs again. ‘Malfoy, open the fucking door.’

Draco takes a deep breath and pulls opens the door. ‘Mr Newman,’ he says. ‘How can I help you?’

Newman pushes past him and enters his cottage randomly grabbing at thin air and peering about the place, his eyes narrowed to slits. Draco follows him into the sitting room.

Newman turns on him. His eyes are bloodshot, and his hair looks as though he’s been tugging at it for hours. ‘Is he here?’

Newman laughs a shallow laugh and then points his finger in Draco’s face. ‘Don’t play coy with me, boy. You know very well who I’m talking about.’

‘I have no idea who you’re referring to,’ Draco folds his arms across his chest. ‘You’re drunk. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

Newman snarls and grabs the collar of Draco’s shirt, pushing him backwards until the back of Draco’s head slams against the wall. Draco grunts loudly and closes his eyes, instantly seeing stars. Newman shakes him hard. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

Draco blinks rapidly, hoping that Potter won’t be stupid enough to reveal himself in some kind of ridiculous effort to protect him. Newman slaps him hard on the cheek and Draco’s face stings. He digs his nails into his palms so that he won’t retaliate. Striking a Ministry official would definitely put a ding on his criminal record.

Draco swallows the lump of hatred rising in his chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says.

Newman releases him, and Draco staggers against the wall. The collar of his shirt slips, revealing a purple lovebite Potter left on his shoulder not an hour ago. Draco covers it quickly, but not before Newman catches a glimpse of it. Newman straightens the collar of his robes and steps away.

‘I see,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

He turns on his heel and lets himself out, and Draco hurries to lock the door behind him, resting his forehead on the wood for a few seconds before turning back to the sitting room.

Potter is on him in an instant, holding Draco’s face in his palms, his eyes wild. ‘Are you all right?’

Draco pushes his hands away. ‘I’m fine. I’ve taken worse beatings than that.’

He drops down onto the sofa, and closes his eyes. ‘I’m completely fucked.’

‘Let me look at your head,’ Potter says, sitting beside him. He turns Draco’s head to the side, and fingers his scalp gently. ‘Nothing’s bleeding,’ he says. Draco winces as he touches the slow forming bump at the back of his head. ‘He didn’t break the skin.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Draco says. ‘He knows. He saw this.’ Draco gestures to the bruise on his shoulder.

‘That could be anything,’ he says. ‘You’re a caretaker for goodness sake. It’s not proof that I was here.’

‘People like him don’t need proof, Potter,’ Draco says. ‘Don’t tell me you’re still that naïve.’

Potter tenderly strokes Draco’s cheek. ‘I’m not naïve. But nothing’s going to happen,’ he says. He kisses Draco softly, and runs his fingers through Draco’s hair. Draco closes his eyes, and Potter kisses his temple.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?’

‘Draco, look at me.’ Draco opens his eyes, and Potter’s face is only inches away. ‘I swear to you. Nothing’s going to happen,’ he says.

Draco releases a long, shaky breath, and Potter kisses him lightly again. He stands and helps Draco up off the couch, wrapping an arm around Draco’s waist.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s go back to bed.’

Draco follows him into the bedroom and crawls in beside him, taking the left side as has become their routine. He closes his eyes for a few minutes and then sighs.

Harry shifts beside him. ‘I was rather hoping you’d say that.’

A reluctant smile tugs at Draco’s lips. ‘You’re insatiable, Potter,’ he says. ‘You’ll have to be gentle with me, I’ve been manhandled.’

‘I have the perfect remedy. Come here.’

Morning light is already streaming through the bedroom windows, and Draco lies on his side, shifting closer to Potter’s sleeping form to watch him. Potter radiates energy even in his sleep. It’s a soothing energy, one that calms Draco more than anything. He hasn’t had a nightmare in the three nights they’ve slept in the same bed, but he isn’t sure if he’s more afraid or thankful about that.

Potter shifts in his sleep, muttering under his breath. Draco freezes. The last thing he wants is to be caught staring at Potter while he’s asleep. Potter might think he’s in love or something equally ridiculous.

Potter settles again, and Draco relaxes a little. Tentatively, he reaches out and pushes Potter’s hair off his forehead, exposing the faded scar, which he softly traces with his index finger. Without this scar… without Voldemort, all the actions of wizards that pitted them on either side of a war, without the war that steered the course of their lives, Draco wonders if he’d be here in bed this way with just a man called Harry.

He sighs. It’s too early in the morning for an existential crisis. He moves to pull his hand away, but Potter softly touches his wrist. ‘Do that again,’ he says in a deep, scratchy voice. ‘Feels nice.’

Draco rolls his eyes, but does as Potter asks and slowly traces the scar with his fingertip. Potter doesn’t open his eyes, but he moves closer.

‘How long have you been awake?’ Draco asks, frowning.

Potter lips curve into a smile. ‘A while,’ he says, opening his eyes, and blinking a few times. ‘I could hear the wheels turning in your head.’

Draco tries to bite back a smile, but fails. ‘Wanker,’ he says, then he surprises himself by leaning forward and kissing Potter on the forehead. Potter wraps his arms around Draco’s waist.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘No I see why you’re awake.’ He takes hold of Draco’s morning wood, and Draco shudders just a bit.

He rests his palm on Potter’s waist and takes Potter’s cock in hand. It’s slightly hard already and Draco lightly teases Potter’s balls with the tips of his fingers.

Potter makes a low moan deep in his chest, and Draco’s cock hardens even further with just that sound. Potter isn’t quiet in bed at all; Draco’s more than surprised by how much he enjoys hearing Potter moan.

Potter spreads his thighs, preparing to guide Draco’s cock to his hole, but Draco stops him, and redirects Potter’s hand between his thighs instead.

Potter looks up at him, his green eyes bright, surprise etched on his features.

‘Ok,’ Potter says, licking his lips. He circles Draco’s hole with his index finger. ‘Do you have lube?’

Draco nods and reaches for his wand beneath his pillow to Summon a tube of lube from his drawer.

Potter grabs it from the air. ‘The Ministry lets you buy lube,’ he says, deadpan.

‘I don’t want to get into that story right now. Let’s just say, I might have scarred Mindy for life.’

Potter sniggers and uncaps the lube, coating his cock first and then his fingers, capping it and resting it beside Draco’s head.

When his index finger probes at Draco’s hole, he closes his eyes, willing himself to relax as Potter slowly works it in. His head falls back against the pillow and he spreads his thighs further as Potter pushes his finger all the way in. He sucks in a shallow breath as Potter slowly works his finger in and out with shallow thrusts, and Draco bites hard on his lower lip.

Potter slips in another slick finger, and Draco cries out. ‘

Potter fucks him slowly, scissoring his fingers on every down stroke, stretching Draco’s hole enough to take his cock. When he slips a third finger in and strokes Draco’s prostate, Draco opens his eyes and grabs Potter’s wrist, stilling his movements.

‘Get inside me,’ he says, breathing heavily.

His lips feel bruised from where he’d unconsciously been biting them to keep from making a racket. Potter nods and withdraws his fingers, taking a moment to kiss Draco softly on the mouth before lining up his cock, and pushing all the way in on one stroke. Draco gasps.

Potter slowly begins to move inside him, he hooks his thigh around Potter’s waist and grabs his arse, pulling him closer as he rocks his hips.

Potter has his eyes closed, but Draco wants to see him properly. He cups Potter’s cheeks in his palms and pulls his face close to his own, bringing their foreheads together. ‘Look at me,’ he says.

Potter’s eyes fly open. They’re glazed over, sunken deep into pleasure, and Draco reaches between them to pull himself off as Potter slams into him, brushing his prostate with each upstroke. In two strokes, he comes hard, spurting come between them with a low moan, and Potter’s cock twitches inside him as Draco’s arse clamps down around it. His body shakes with the last few aftershocks of his orgasm, and Potter pulls out, pushing himself to his knees and lightly fisting his leaking cock.

‘Turn over,’ he says, his face flushed with arousal.

Draco does so bonelessly, and Potter pulls him up onto his knees, pulling him close by his waist, and slipping his cock inside again. Potter snaps his hips at a frenzied pace and Draco grips the sheets in his fingers, his cock is still hard and it’s very possible he might actually come again. The thought in itself is mindblowing and this time he doesn’t even try to hold back his constant, embarrassing moans.

‘Fuck, Draco,’ Potter says, grabbing Draco’s arsecheeks and spreading them open, plunging his cock deep inside.

Draco makes a low keening sound and pushes his hips back, meeting Potter’s every stroke. He’s close to simply whimpering, and he buries his face in the pillows, biting down on the cotton when, on one particularly hard stroke, Potter finally brushes his prostate again. Potter painfully digs his fingers into Draco’s hips, but Draco doesn’t have breath in him to tell him off. His cock is leaking, and he’s so close to coming, if Potter would just —

Potter strokes become erratic and, and with a few last shallow thrusts, he comes with a shout, grabbing a handful of Draco’s arsecheeks and groaning loudly. When Potter finally pulls out of him, Draco doesn’t move. He can’t move in fact, he just remains still, leaning forward with his arse in the air as he catches his breath. There’s a shuffling sound behind him, and Draco turns his head just in time to see Potter spreading his arse cheeks and burying his face between them. Draco almost pitches forward with a startled grunt, but Potter grabs his thighs and holds him steady as Draco settles on his elbows.

When Potter’s tongue flicks across Draco’s tender arsehole, Draco says

to dignity. There’s no stopping the desperate sounds coming from his throat. Potter’s sucking his own come from Draco’s arse for Merlin’s sake.

Draco loosely fists his cock. It only takes a few half-hearted strokes before his orgasm is pulled out of him, and his body shudders until he falls forward onto the bed in a heap, still shaking and burying his face in a pillow. Potter lies down beside him, breathing heavily, and when Draco is once again capable of thought he flops down on his back.

Potter shrugs. ‘I surprise myself sometimes,’ he says.

Draco laughs, and it feels like he’s releasing something dark, heavy and twisted from his body. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this.

Potter turns and smiles at him, pushing himself up on his elbow. ‘I think it’s my way of dealing with years of pent up lust,’ he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Draco rolls his eyes, but inside, his stomach is jumping all over the place. There’s a

Potter swings his legs off the bed and absently waves his wand to clean them both up. Draco sits up as well, but Potter nudges him back down on the bed. ‘No, don’t,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring it here.’

He walks across the room naked, and Draco lies back down on the bed, enjoying the view until Potter disappears around the corner. After a few seconds sitting alone and trying to manage his out of control heartbeat, Draco buries his face in his pillow and squeals like a girl until he gets it all out of his system. When the madness ends, he straightens up, and fixes his hair, settling himself in a dignified position and crossing his ankles.

He traces formless patterns in the air with his wand and considers spending the day in the cottage with Potter for a few blissful moments. Of course, he can’t, each of his daily tasks must be marked as complete on his file with the Ministry, but, still, the mere idea is pleasant.

Potter calls his name from the kitchen and Draco tenses. There’s a note of —something in Potter’s voice that sets him on edge. He stalks out of the room into the kitchen where breakfast - scones and pumpkin juice, eggs, toast and bacon are waiting for him on a tray.

Potter’s back is to him, he’s turning something over in his hands.

Draco steps into the kitchen, eyeing all the food. ‘What is it?’

Potter turns around, his face pale. ‘An owl was waiting,’ he says blankly. ‘I let him in. He had this.’

Draco frowns and takes the letter, then he flips it over. It has the Ministry seal and his name on the front. He stomach plummets. ‘Shit,’ he says.

‘We don’t know what it is,’ Potter says.

Draco looks up at him briefly, then rips open the letter, scanning it as fast as his eyes can move.

You have breached section 16A of the Criminal Offences Act, 1983 which states

“There is to be no external fraternisation between an Azkaban Parolee and any member of the Ministry of Magic.”

An official from Azkaban will be there shortly to return you to Azkaban Prison where you will await a hearing to be set in the near future.

Draco crumples the letter and tosses it across the room. Potter is looking at him with wide-eyed terror. Unable to face him, Draco turns and flees to his bedroom, grabbing his wand from where he left it on the bed and Summoning a pair of robes and shoes, underwear and trousers, an undershirt -it’s cold outside and he doesn’t want to freeze. He lays them all out on the bed, and stares at it for a moment.

Potter voice comes from behind him. ‘Draco, what happened?’

Draco pulls on his underwear, and then his trousers. He rifles through his pockets for a leather band for his hair, but there’s nothing there.

Potter steps around him, into his line of sight.

Draco doesn’t look at him. He lightly fingers the edge of his shirt and then pulls it on, his fingers shaking, fumbling slightly with the buttons. ‘To Azkaban, Potter’

‘For what? They can’t just send you back without—’

‘I violated my probation,’ Draco says evenly. ‘They’re sending me back. To await a hearing. In the near future. Which means

Draco Summons Potter’s clothes and pushes them into his hands. ‘Put these on and leave.’

Potter drops the clothes onto the floor, stepping over them and grabbing Draco by the arms, shaking him slightly. ‘Draco stop… stop moving. Talk to me.’

Draco looks down at him. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. You fucked me. You got what you wanted.’ Draco runs his hands through hair. Where the fuck was his leather band? ‘You wouldn’t listen,’ he says. ‘I told you they would know. Didn’t I? I shouldn’t have let you…’

Draco steps away from Potter, trying to make some distance between them. ‘You should leave. If they find you here… it’s irrefutable proof. You should leave. I… need to put some clothes on. They’ll be here any minute.’

Draco can’t seem to grasp a single thought from the storm whirling around in his mind. He can’t think for the blood rushing through his veins. His heart is pounding, his palms slick. Azkaban. He’s going back to Azkaban. The thought comes to him absently as he shoves his feet into his boots, and he pulls on his shirt, his robes. He searches through the pocket of his robes and finds the leather band there and he ties his hair back. For a few long moments, he forgets how to breathe.

He takes a shuddering gasp of air. Potter’s saying something, but his voice is nothing but words spoken under water. Why is Potter still here? Why is he naked? Why wouldn’t he put clothes on? Draco gave him clothes.

‘Why don’t you get dressed?’ Draco says, stowing his wand in his sleeve.

Potter shakes his shoulders hard, Draco’s teeth clack. ‘Draco, listen to me. I will figure this out. Ok. Please. Just.

. Don’t shut down. I need you to keep it together.’

‘I’m fine,’ Draco says. ‘You should go. Okay? Just go. They can’t find you here. They’re taking me back.’

Potter drops his hands and takes a few steps back, looking horrified. ‘

Draco grabs Potter’s things from the floor and shoves them into Potter’s hands. ‘Get dressed. Go.’

Potter finally starts putting on his clothes, and Draco digs through the pile of sheets on the bed for Potter’s wand. He hands it to him when he finishes dressing, and then hands him his cloak as well.

There’s a loud bang on the door, and both he and Potter jump.

‘I’m coming!’ Draco yells. He looks back at Potter.

Potter pulls him forward by the neck, and plants a bruising kiss on his lips. ‘I’ll be back,’ Potter says, resting his head against Draco’s. The door bangs again. ‘I’m coming right back, okay?’

‘Please, just go,’ Draco says softly.

Potter steps back and Disapparates with a faint pop.

Draco stares at the empty space for a moment, then squares his shoulders and walks to the cottage door.

Of course, it’s Flint on the other side. He pushes past Draco and steps inside, glancing at the breakfast on the table. ‘Breakfast for two?’ he asks casually.

Draco folds his arms across his chest. ‘Of course you’d be the one they send,’ he says.

Flint sighs, taking off his warden cap, and pushing his hair back before replacing it on his head. ‘I don’t want to be doing this Draco,’ he says. ‘Why did you have to fuck it up? After all I did to protect you.’

‘You never protected me,’ Draco says.

Flints tighten his lips into a thin line. ‘And who told you such a thing?’ he asks, raising one eyebrow.

Draco shifts his stance slightly. ‘No one did.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Randall Newman’s got it in for you, Malfoy,’ Flint says. ‘He’s sending you straight to block A.’

Draco swallows thickly, but doesn’t say anything. Flint steps forward and puts out his hand. ‘Give me your wand,’ he says.

‘Draco that was a direct order. Need I remind you I’m authorised to bring you in with force?’

Draco lifts his hand and slowly places his wand in Flint’s hand.

Flint stows it in his sleeve and pulls a familiar black threadbare cloth band from his pockets.

Draco’s body literally sags with fear, all his former bravado turning to smoke. He licks his lips. ‘Marcus, please,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ll come with you. I won’t fight. Just don’t put that thing on me.’

Flint shakes his head. ‘Newman’s orders. Says you’re a flight risk. You have to be subdued.’

‘Please,’ Draco whispers, his voice cracking dangerously.

Flint doesn’t meet his gaze. ‘Hold out your hands, Draco.’

‘Fuck it, Draco! If you ask me one more time, I’ll have to report you as resisting arrest. Now hold out your hands.’

Draco takes a deep breath that hitches in his chest and he holds out his hands and closes his eyes. Of its own accord, the band curls around his skin and latches onto his wrists, slithering itself into a tight, knotted hold, forcing his wrists together.

the charms activate, and the band begins to suck on his magic and strength. It’s like a fog descending on his brain, a parting gift from the Dementors, a sample of their cloak of darkness.

This is what Azkaban feels like: despair and anguish and powerlessness, all wrapped into one.

Draco stumbles and Flint steadies him. ‘Don’t worry, Draco,’ he says. Flint’s voice comes to him slowly and garbled. His heavy arms wrap around Draco’s shoulders. ‘I’ll take care of you.’

He leads Draco out of the cottage, and Draco stumbles on the stone walkway. Flint catches him again, this time slipping his hands around Draco’s waist. There’s a loud banging noise, and suddenly someone else is with them, yanking Flint away and holding Draco upright.

Draco slides his gaze to Potter’s face, and he can feel his magic resisting the dampener band. It hurts.

Potter is in his full Auror robes, but they’re hastily done up, his shirt peeks through, and one of the clasps is undone. Potter says something to Flint and then he gently pulls Draco against him and takes his hand. ‘Hold on, Draco,’ he says. ‘You’re going to side-along with me.’

Draco nods absently, closing his eyes against the disorienting pull of Apparition. They arrive outside of a holding cell in Azkaban, and Potter gestures to one of the officers to open it. He leads Draco inside and sets him on the cot, then he reaches for the band around Draco’s wrists and pulls it off, a look of disgust on his face. Slowly the fog lifts from Draco’s brain and Draco looks up at Potter’s concerned face. He blinks rapidly. ‘They let you Apparate with me?’

Potter shakes his head. ‘I’ll take the fall for that when the time comes,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t going to let Flint take you anywhere like that.’

Draco rubs his wrists, shaking his head. ‘I’m confused.’

Potter kneels in front of him. ‘I got home and changed into these. I knew Flint would think I was on official business if I were in uniform. I let him think I had the authority to take you. He was going to take you by boat. He was ordered to by the Ministry.’

‘You mean by Newman.’ Draco looks around at the stone walls, the iron bars. ‘I’m really here again.’

Potter gently squeezes his knee. ‘Draco, I’m going to get you out of here.’

Draco looks at him for a few moments, and then lies back on the cot and puts a hand over his eyes. ‘You can’t get me out,’ he says.

Potter touches his cheek. ‘I will do everything I can. I swear to you.’

The gate to the cell gate slams open and Draco’s gaze flicks to the commotion. Flint barges in, face red. Draco looks away from him and stares up at the stone ceiling.

‘Auror Potter you are completely out of order,’ Flint says, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You were unauthorised to take Malfoy from my custody. We

‘I can think of a few things we do not do with prisoners that I’d like to have a word with you about, Flint.’

‘You don’t have any power here, Potter,’ Flint says. ‘This is

Potter’s boots scrape against the floor. ‘Flint I swear, if you touch him, or remove him from this cell, I will make you regret it,’ he says.

Draco absently registers the tapping sounds of Potter’s boots as he makes his departure, and the low pop of his Disapparition.

He closes his eyes, willing Flint to leave him alone.

‘So, it’s true,’ Flint says. ‘You are fucking him.’

Draco doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. Eventually he hears the rattle of the gate closing him in his cell, and Flint’s footsteps dying in the distance.

Draco doesn’t move. Not for hours. Not until his bladder is so full he has to use the piss pot. Then he lies back down, and he doesn’t move again. Not for hours.

The bars to his cell slide open with a loud bang and Draco sits up in his cot, wiping his face blearily. It’s Flint, looking wild and dishevelled. His warden’s cap is gone and his shirt is halfway undone. Draco looks balefully at him, lifting his chin as though to dare him to strike. Flint sneers at him, grabs him up off the cot by his collar and slams him up against the wall.

‘Your Auror boyfriend\'s trying to get me sacked,’ he says conversationally.

Draco pries Flint’s fingers off his shirt and pushes him off. Flint staggers back, almost falling on his arse.

‘Don’t fucking touch me,’ Draco says.

‘You want to fight me, Draco? You want that on your record, too?’

Draco leans against the wall, breathing heavily. He straightens his shirt. ‘Report all you want,’ he says. ‘What else can they do to me?’

Flint straightens up, shaking his head. ‘You know, I did care for you, Draco,’ he says. ‘No matter what you think, or what Potter put in your head. It wasn’t the best of situations. But I did care for you.’

Draco looks away. Flint staggers closer to him, pressing Draco back up against the wall, and then he lurches forward and kisses Draco briefly on the mouth. Draco doesn’t move an inch. When Flint pulls away, his mouth is turned down at the corners.

‘Can’t even kiss me now, can you? Now that St. Potter’s had you.’

He grabs Draco’s elbow, and drags him out of the cell, past the officer’s desk and down the stone steps through the entrance into the main prison. They pass block A where the prisoners still in their cells start cat-calling and heckling Draco as they pass. Draco looks straight ahead, nose in the air, trying to ignore the sheer terror flooding his veins.

Flint drags him past all the cells, into the showers and shoves him into a stall.

Flint steps back, waving his wand as the shower sputters on spraying him with ice-cold water. Draco steps out from beneath the spray, but Flint shoves him back in.

‘Just do what I say. I\'m putting you back with the general population.’

Draco’s stomach plummets all the way to hell. Flint looks away from him. ‘Strip and shower. Then you’ll change back into your prison robes.’

‘Fuck what Potter said! I told him, he has no power here. If I decide you\'re going back, that’s where you’ll be. You can\'t fuck with my job and expect me to keep protecting you, Draco. Strip.’

Draco\'s breath hitches in his chest. He lifts his chin. \'I won’t. This is bullshit. I hope Potter gets you sacked. I hope you get locked in a cell here and everyone has a go at you. I hope—’ Flint smacks him hard in the face, and Draco reels backwards, through the spray of water, his back hitting hard against the tile on the other side. His nose stings and his head feels as though it’s vibrating. He gingerly touches his upper lip and finds it already slick with warm blood.

Flint gives him a steely look. ‘You have five seconds to do what I say.’

Draco stares at him for a few long seconds, his breaths heaving. Flint shakes his wand into his palm, and lifts his arm, aiming his wand in the space between Draco\'s eyes.

\'I swear one day, Marcus,\' Draco murmurs, voice hoarse and cracked. \'I will kill you.\'

Draco lowers his gaze, pushes off his clothes with shaking hands and turns around under the spray, soaping his skin with jerky movements, then ducking under the ice cold spray again. When he’s finished, he is completely numb.

He doesn’t register when Flint pulls him out of the stall and drags him to the racks to dry, and grab a set of robes. He holds the robes in front of his cock as Flint pushes him into the processing room, where he takes the leather band from Draco’s hair, and watches him dress. There’s a dosage of magic suppressant that he must take, waiting for him on the wooden table top. Draco eyes it with a dull stare. Flint hands it to him and watches him expectantly.

‘Come on, Draco,\' he says. \'Don’t make this like the last time.’

Draco grimaces and knocks back the potion like a shot, and sets the vial down. It rolls across the table, tinkering on the very edge.

The magic suppressant feels like thick, heavy vines that latch themselves across his chest, restricting his breaths. The steady churn of his magic is brought to a shuddering halt.

Flint ties Draco\'s leather band around his wrist. \'I\'ll hold on to this for you,\' he says.

Flint sighs and moves closer to him. \'I\'m putting you in a cell with your father,\' he says.

The tightness around Draco\'s throat eases just a bit, and Flint smirks at him. \'I protect you here, Draco. Don\'t forget that.\'

He rests his hand on Draco\'s shoulder and Draco flinches away. Flint\'s eyes darken slightly.

\'Come on,\' he says. \'I\'ll take you to your cell.\'

This is the only thing Draco is able to fully register, sitting across from him on a threadbare mattress haphazardly thrown on the stone floor.

Lucius\' hair is long and lank. The ends that escape the thin braid at the nape of his neck are matted and dull. His beard is full and almost white. There are lines on his face that weren\'t there before.

\'How is your mother?\' he asks, in a voice more quiet than the Lucius of his memories.

Lucius nods. \'She writes to me as well, but I\'m not always able to − receive them.\'

Draco meets his father\'s gaze, his eyes are tired and weary, and Draco has to swallow a few times to quell the lump forming in his throat.

He remembers a bit of what that was like. The other inmates liked to destroy his letters just for fun, too. Only to see the look on Draco\'s face.

They did a lot of things just to see the look on Draco\'s face.

Draco rests his head against the stone wall. The stench of piss and sweat cloys the air. Spiders scurry along the crevices in the walls, carrying on with their business.

Lucius sighs wearily. \'Dinner will be soon,\' he says. He gives Draco a dark look. \'You remember, don\'t you?\' he asks. ‘The way it works here?\'

Draco rubs his face in his palms, and then he nods. He remembers. He must keep his head down and avoid eye contact. He shouldn\'t sit too close to the front or the back of the dining hall. If anyone from block B or C even hints that they desire his food, he must give it up without question.

He learned these things over the years as a matter of survival. But now, that goal is farther from his mind. What is the point of survival now? Regardless of what Potter says, Flint was right. He has no power here in Azkaban. No one does.

At dinnertime, Draco shuffles out with his father and falls into the queue. He keeps his head down as they shuffle into the dining hall, his heart hammering in his chest the whole time. Lucius leads him to a table in the middle of the mess hall. As they sit, food appears before them, a bowl of thin gruel, and a battered tin cup of tepid, watery milk.

With a sigh, his father begins to eat, and Draco looks at him for a long time. There was a Lucius once, who would refuse to even sit at this table.

Lucius looks up, catching the look on Draco’s face.

‘Forced humility isn’t a good look for either of us, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Even less so for you,’ Draco says quietly.

A wry smile is all the response he receives from Lucius before someone sits down in the space beside him, making Draco startle and knock his spoon to the floor.

The man beside him is Christian Weir, an almost-squib his father targeted more than once before the war. He worked in the Ministry until his father had him sacked simply because of what he was. Draco doesn’t know what happened to him after that, or why he is in Azkaban now, only that there’s a scar above Weir’s eye that Draco put there himself, and a scar on Draco’s torso where Weir stabbed him with a knife as a few of his friends held Draco down.

Weir grins at him, exposing crooked, yellow teeth. ‘Look who’s back,’ he says twirling his wooden spoon in his fingers. ‘Ickle baby Malfoy.’ He knocks his shoulder against Draco’s, pushing him almost off the seat and Draco grits his teeth to prevent himself from retaliating.

Lucius gives him a warning look and glances at Weir.

‘Do you really want to start something now, Weir,’ Lucius murmurs. ‘With the warden on watch?’

Both Draco and Weir look past the steel bars enclosing the dining hall, and sure enough Flint is there with two of his officers, eyeing the scene with interest.

A flicker of uncertainty passes through Weir’s eyes, but then he shrugs. ‘I’m sure we could get in a few good hits before your saviour gets here, Malfoy,’ he says eyeing Draco shrewdly. ‘What do you think?’

Draco says nothing, instead he leans over and grabs his spoon from the floor, resting it beside his bowl with exaggerated care.

He can feel Flint’s eyes on them, like a bird circling its prey.

Weir flashes him a wicked grin and gestures to Draco’s bowl. ‘May I?’

Draco hesitates only for a second, but Lucius gives him a warning look with a raised brow, and Draco sighs and pushes his bowl in Weir’s direction.

‘Thank you,’ Weir says magnanimously. He leans over and spits into the bowl, taking Draco’s spoon and mixing around the contents for a few seconds before pushing the bowl back in front of Draco.

Draco grinds his teeth together, and pushes the bowl away. ‘If you think I’m going to eat that, Weir, you’re as dumb as you look.’

Lucius remains very still across the table, looking between them both. Flint, and a few of his guards begin their circuit around the dining hall.

With a quick glance up at Flint, Weir grabs Draco’s knee under the table, viciously sinking his fingers in, slightly shifting his kneecap. Draco whimpers softly, and Weir leans over and whispers in his ear.

Weir squeezes his knee hard again. Tears of pain burn the backs of Draco’s eyes. ‘Not sucking Flint\'s cock anymore to stay in cushy solitary are you? What, did you have a lover’s quarrel?’

Draco grips the edge of the table and stares straight ahead. ‘Maybe he’s too busy fucking your Mudblood mother when she comes to visit,’ he says.

A sharp intake of breath his only warning before Weir slams Draco’s face down on the table. Pain, white hot pain, disorients him for a few moments. Lights flare behind his eyes, and he vaguely hears his father call his name. When he looks up again, blinking blearily, his father is on the ground, and Weir is on top of him hurling punches. With a yell and a surge of adrenalin, he pitches forward, pushing Weir off his father, but he only gets in a few good blows before one of the guards hits him with a stunner, and everything fades to black.

He wakes up on the floor of his cell, and he groans and rolls onto the mattress closing his eyes again.

‘Don’t move around too much,’ his father says behind him. ‘It’ll hurt less.’

Draco swallows the lump in his throat, and opens his eyes, blinking as the image of his father sitting with his back against the opposite wall looking bruised, but alive fuzzily unfurls before him.

‘I’m fine,’ Lucius says. He shifts slightly and winces, holding his side. ‘Draco, you can’t let them get to you like that again. You won’t survive it.’

Draco chokes out a grim laugh. ‘Survive,’ he says in a dull voice.

‘Yes. Survive. It’s what I’ve done. It’s what you’re going to do.’

Draco slowly turns on his back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘Like you did during the war, right, Dad?’

Lucius doesn’t answer for a long time. ‘Maybe not quite the same, Draco.’

Draco swallows the sudden lump in his throat and closes his eyes again.

When he wakes again, he vomits into the piss pot in the corner of the room.

His father hesitantly touches his shoulder. ‘Let’s hope you aren’t concussed,’ he says.

He helps Draco back to the mattress, and gently settles him. Every muscle in Draco’s body aches.

‘It’s almost breakfast,’ Lucius says. ‘I’ll have to leave you. I’ll bring you back something to eat.

Draco doesn’t say anything. There’s a large bump at the front of his skull that makes speaking almost akin to agony.

When his father leaves Draco turns very carefully and faces the wall.

After what feels like seconds later, he’s startled awake again by the sound of his cell gate slamming open.

‘What the fuck was that last night?’ Flint’s voice grates in his ears. ‘Were you looking to get yourself killed?’

Draco turns over slowly. Flint is kneeling above him.

Flint frowns, and then he sighs and pushes Draco’s hair from his forehead. ‘Draco, this could be a lot easier on you, if you just revert to our previous arrangement.’

Draco pulls away as much as he can without grimacing. ‘I don’t need your protection.’

Flint raises his eyebrow and gestures to him. ‘By the state of you, I’ll say you do, Draco.’

Draco slowly turns his back to him and faces the wall, pulling his knees into his chest.

‘Just let me know when you see reason, Draco,’ Flint says behind him. ‘And all this can be over.’

Draco is not sure how much time passes as he lies there on the mattress on the ground. A few missed meals and communal shower times. No one tries to force him to move. Probably on Flint’s orders - as if he is only patiently waiting for Draco’s eventual capitulation.

Draco huffs a shaky breath and stares up at the stone ceiling. Someone’s carved their name into one of the stone blocks.

‘Draco,’ his father says. ‘Draco you have to eat something.’

Draco doesn’t respond right away. ‘What’s the point?’

There is a lengthy pause in which Draco stares at the carving in stone above him.

‘I’d rather not watch my son starve himself to death,’ Lucius says wryly.

Draco turns his face to the wall and closes his eyes.

Strong hands turn him over and Draco blinks blearily. The cell is dark except for the flickers of sunlight floating through the very small barred window in the top corner of the cell. Draco’s body is tired and weak, his stomach aches with hunger.

A piece of soup soaked bread nudges his lips and Draco turns away from it.

‘Draco. I know what you’re doing,’ Lucius says. ‘But you can’t. You can’t just give up.’

There’s a soft clatter on the ground and his father roughly lifts him up off the bed, forcing him to sit up. Lucius kneels on the floor, looking up at him through red rimmed eyes. He grips Draco’s shoulders.

‘Think of your mother,’ he says, his voice catching in his throat. ‘Think of what it would do to her.’

His father drops his hands. ‘Draco please,’ he says. ‘For me.’

Draco looks down vaguely at the bowl of soup and the crust of stale bread, and then he lies down on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest and turns to face the wall.

Strong arms hook beneath his shoulders and lift him up off of bed. Someone’s holding him close to their chest, gently sliding Draco’s legs off the thin mattress.

That smell. He remembers that smell. Almost like flying.

‘I’m here,’ Potter says. ‘Say goodbye to your father.’

Lucius is hovering behind Potter’s shoulder, looking deeply concerned. Draco closes his eyes as Lucius’ lips graze his forehead.

‘You’ll see to it that he eats, won’t you?’ his father says.

Lucius clears his throat. ‘Potter. Will you. I’ll need to know—’

‘I’ll send word when he gets better,’ Potter says, his voice tight and clipped. He carries Draco out of his cell, and Draco holds tightly onto Potter’s shoulder.

‘Put me down, Potter,’ he says. ‘I can walk.’

Potter stops and sets him down and Draco looks around the room, trying to gather his surroundings. It’s the processing room Flint led him to –when was that? Four days ago? Six?

‘Seven days,’ Potter says. He pulls a tarnished silver spoon from his pocket. ‘Take hold,’ he says. ‘It’ll activate any second.’

Lifting his arm takes more energy than he thought, and Potter reaches out and wraps Draco’s fingers around the silver spoon, just before the Portkey activates. He bears the brunt of the jostling and whirling wind with his eyes closed, clinging to Potter’s waist with his other hand.

They land in the bedroom of the Manor cottage and Draco almost falls over before Potter catches him and leads him to the bed. Draco falls onto the sheets and Potter sits beside him.

Draco stares at him for a few long moments. Potter looks worse for wear. There are dark smudges beneath his eyes, and his face seems pinched and tighter somehow.

‘They had no proof, other than Randy’s word. Hermione made the case, and then I lied through my fucking teeth.’

Draco picks at his blankets. ‘She helped you do that?’

‘She’s still extremely cross with me, but she knew what was happening to you was unfair. Ron helped me convince her to make the case.’

Potter pushes a strand of Draco’s hair off his forehead. ‘Look at you,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry. This– Everything was my fault.’

‘I was the one who leaked the story to the press.’ Potter looks away from him. ‘I didn’t know how to break it off with Randy, so I sent Skeeter an anonymous tip. I didn’t know about his other family, Draco, I swear. And I didn’t know he’d go after you. I’m so sorry.’

Draco closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘You got me out of there,’ he says in a dead sounding voice. ‘Thank you.’

Potter glances at him. ‘You have to eat something.’

‘Draco, you… haven\'t seen yourself,’ he says. ‘Mindy should be here soon with a few things. I told her you were coming.’

Draco sits up slowly, resting against the pile of pillows behind him, looking at Harry for moment. ‘I really—’ He has to stop and swallow to prevent his throat from closing up. ‘I really thought I was never coming back.’

Potter rests his hand on his knee. ‘Well, you’re back.’

Potter\'s eyes flick away for a second. ‘Draco, I can’t—’

They stare at each other for a few seconds, until the faint pop of Mindy’s arrival startles them both.

She scurries closer to the side of the bed, tray of soup in hand, looking at Draco with wide eyes.

‘Master Draco is eating his soup now,’ she says, shooing Harry aside.

Draco eyes the bowl of thick broth and allows Mindy to rest the tray on his lap. Her eyes are brimming with tears.

‘Mindy, I’m all right,’ he says, awkwardly patting her arm.

all right. But Mindy will see to it that Master gets better.’

He shares a look with Potter over Mindy’s head. Mindy looks between him and the broth expectantly. ‘Eat!’

Draco is startled into action and brings the spoon to his lips, and after a few spoonfuls, Mindy looks pleased with herself. ‘Is it good?’

Mindy nods. ‘Mindy is getting all Master Draco’s favourite things,’ she says proudly. ‘Master Draco is to be calling Mindy when he is needing anything,’ she adds, though it sounds more like a command than a request. Draco nods and she beams, then Disapparates with a pop.

He pushes away the soup and glances at Potter. ‘I can’t eat anymore of this,’ he says. ‘Hide it from Mindy, will you?’

Potter purses his lips, but he takes the tray anyway and disappears into the kitchen.

Draco swings his legs off the bed and ambles into his bathroom, where he is confronted by his bleak reflection in the mirror. He’s still wearing the thin, grey Azkaban overalls with

imprinted in black letters across his chest. His eyes are sunken, his gaze is dull. His overalls hang off him in places they were once snug, his hair is matted and filthy. Draco knows he must smell, but his nose doesn’t even register the odour. His hair itches so badly, he’s certain he must have the beginnings of lice.

He stumbles to the shower and turns the tap, stripping his clothes and tossing them aside in a heap. More than anything, he wishes he could set it to flame with his wand. He doesn’t even know where his wand is, but it’s a moot point. The magic suppressant can’t have worn off yet.

Potter’s anxious voice suddenly echoes against the walls. ‘What are you doing?’

Draco spares him a short glance. ‘What does it look like, Potter? I’m filthy. I’d like to have a shower.’

Potter frowns at him, seemingly going over in his head whether it will be worth the argument. ‘Okay, wait,’ he says. ‘I brought some things that might help.’

When he leaves, Draco gingerly steps beneath the spray of hot water and closes his eyes.

Without intending to, he begins to replay the moment Flint shoved him into the ice cold spray over and over in his mind. It was that moment he made the decision not to try too hard to survive another sentence in Azkaban.

Just the thought of it is enough to send tendrils of ice-cold dread flowing through his veins. Draco shudders and turns the dial as hot as he can bear it. He rests his palms against the wall, leaning forward and letting the water fall at the nape of his neck, sluicing down his chest. The pressure of the water helps to loosen the tight muscles in his shoulders and he groans softly. He opens his eyes, and stares vaguely at the tiled floor as the grime from his skin circles down the drain.

As he slowly begins to lather his skin, the curtain draws back and Potter looks in. ‘Couldn’t you just wait a little?’ he asks, exasperated. ‘What if you fell over in there?’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘You would have found my lifeless corpse, I suppose.’

Potter’s face pales considerably, and then he scowls. ‘Don’t joke about that, you idiot.’ He lingers by the curtain hesitantly. ‘Do you want me to get in with you?’

it sounds like. Apparently Potter’s grown adept enough at interpreting him, because he peels off his robes and steps in behind Draco, gently taking the soap from his fingers and massaging Draco\'s shoulders.

‘I can handle that,’ Potter responds without missing a beat. ‘There’s a spell Molly showed me.’

Draco turns to face him ‘No,’ he says. ‘I want you to cut it off. Please.’

Potter nods slowly and rests the bar of soap in the carved out stone shelf in the wall. He strokes Draco’s sides with his fingertips, and Draco closes his eyes, briefly ducking his head beneath the spray.

Draco stumbles backwards a bit and Potter’s fingers tighten around his waist.

It jolts something in Draco’s brain. He steps back and pushes Potter’s hands away from his waist. ‘You can’t be here,’ he says. ‘If they find you here again—’

Potter stops his rant with a gentle touch on his hip. ‘Ron’s covering for me,’ he says. ‘I have a few hours.’

‘That’s what you said the last time. Look what happened then! I ended up

. I was… powerless again. I swore to myself I would never let that happen. Ever.’

Potter’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, his expression is pale and stricken. ‘I’m sorry, Draco.’

Draco turns away from him. ‘Save your sorrys,’ he says, reaching for his shampoo, ‘Sorrys are bullshit.’

He closes his eyes and lathers his matted hair, only vaguely registering the curtain opening and closing and the heat of Potter’s body leaving him cold. He rests his palm flat against the wall and lets the water strip the soap suds from his hair. Draco spies his toothbrush and paste on the ledge and he brushes his teeth once, then once again for good measure.

He turns off the tap, and when he opens the curtain, Potter is wearing one of Draco’s dressing gowns, and holding out a towel. Draco takes it without a word and carefully dries his skin.

He ties the towel around his waist and then he and Potter eye each other warily.

Potter sighs. ‘Just let me take care of you, and then I’m gone,’ he says. ‘You won’t have to worry about getting caught again. Okay?’

Draco nods, and Potter hands him a smaller towel for his hair, gesturing to a chair that Draco doesn’t recognise.

‘Sit,’ Potter says. ‘I’ll help you shave and cut your hair.’ He hesitates. ‘If that’s really what you want.’

Draco sits in the chair, facing his reflection in the oversized gilded mirror above the sink. ‘Yes,’ he said tugging at a matted end. ‘Yes, I want it all gone.’

Potter does his hair first. He starts by cutting the longer, matted pieces off with a scissors, then threads his fingers through Draco’s hair and cuts the strands as low as he can. Draco occasionally watches the strands flutter to the floor, but he’s more fascinated by the way he can feel Potter’s breaths against his cheeks, and the way he smells like Draco’s soap and his shampoo.

A small smile flicks across his face and Potter softly smiles back at him. ‘What?’

Draco shakes his head, then he glances at his reflection. ‘I hope to Merlin you don’t plan on leaving my hair like this, Potter,’ he says, looking at the mangled cut in the mirror. It’s uneven and ragged, and not at all what he was going for. Potter smiles softly and rests the scissors in the sink. ‘No,’ he says, pulling out some sort of loud vibrating Muggle device. Draco stiffens. ‘It’s a razor,’ Potter says. ‘Don’t look so horrified, I use it all the time.’

Potter steadies Draco’s head with his palm, and Draco sits very tensely as Potter shaves the jagged patches of hair off his head. When he’s finished, Draco’s left with a very short, blunt cut that exposes his pointed cheek bones, but leaves him feeling... lighter.

Potter uses almost the same process with Draco’s beard, clipping the longer bits with the scissors and then filling the sink with warm water and lathering Draco’s face with shaving cream on a brush. He leans forward and begins carefully shaving Draco’s face with a gleaming straight razor. Draco does nothing but stare at Potter the whole time, focusing on the stubble on Potter’s cheeks, his long, thick lashes. He quickly realises the way Potter bites his lower lip and furrows his brow is just about enough to give him a bit of a halfie. He shifts a little in his chair, but really, there’s no hiding it in just his towel. Potter’s mouth twitches slightly, but he doesn’t say a word.

When he’s finished, he wipes Draco’s face with a warm, damp towel and places a soft kiss on Draco’s lips. He pulls away, gauging Draco’s reaction with a worried frown. Draco hesitates for a second before threading his fingers through the hairs at Potter’s nape and pulling him close, kissing him deeply.

He tries to stand up, but his muscles tremble a little and Potter pulls him up by his elbows. Draco’s towel slips to the floor and he pushes Potter back against the sink and kisses him again. Potter runs his palms over Draco’s buzzed head. ‘I like it,’ he says in a breathy voice when they part.

Draco smiles slightly, glancing in the mirror behind Potter’s head. It’s not a choice he’ll ever make again, but for now it will do. ‘I’m so tired,’ he says still staring at his reflection.

Potter presses a brief kiss against his neck and helps him dress in soft tracksuit bottoms and a cotton shirt that smell new and are definitely not his. ‘You bought these?’

Potter nods absently. ‘You always sleep without clothes - I wasn’t sure you had anything, so I bought some stuff.’

He helps Draco to his room, and Draco slips into bed and burrows under the covers. Potter watches him for a moment and then leaves his side to start pulling on his robes. Draco watches him quietly, but when Potter softly murmurs his goodbyes, planting a kiss on Draco’s forehead, Draco grabs his wrist.

‘Stay,’ he says. ‘Just until I fall asleep.’

Potter nods, kisses him softly again and then slips into the bed beside him. Draco turns over, pressing his back against Potter’s chest.

‘She knows you’re here’ Potter says. ‘I wrote to her.’

Draco swallows, briefly remembering his father’s broken words in their prison cell.

He shivers slightly and Potter wraps an arm around him.

Draco doesn’t know what to feel anymore. He was ready to die. He had given up, he let go of hope, and now he’s here in a soft bed and wrapped in Potter’s arms.

Potter rubs his nose against the blunt edges of his hair, and Draco’s mouth twitches into a smile, but it quickly fades. Even if he were a free man, this thing with Potter…

It would never be left alone. It would be constantly pushed and prodded, like an aching tooth. They would never be free from speculation. Draco’s not sure he can put himself through that. Or Potter.

Potter kisses the back of Draco’s neck. ‘Sleep.’

Draco nods, but it’s hours before he drifts into a fitful sleep. When he finally does, it feels good down to the very corners of his heart that he can feel Potter is still there.

In the nightmare, he’s back in Azkaban, only his father isn’t there to protect him. When they come for him, Draco is paralysed with fear. Someone puts a hand over his mouth. Two strong hands encircle his wrists. He fights, just like the time they stuck a knife in him. He fights. He keeps fighting.

When he opens his eyes, Potter’s looking down at him with wide eyes, panting. ‘It’s me, Draco.’

Draco covers his face with his hands, trying to catch his breath. ‘I’m okay,’ he says.

Draco laughs bitterly and sits up on the bed. ‘Stop trying to save me, Potter,’ he says. ‘That’s what got us here in the first place. ‘

Potter opens his mouth and closes it, and Draco looks away from him, still trying to regulate his breaths. ‘You should go,’ he says.

He hears Potter sigh, and the shuffle of his robes as he slips on his boots and grabs the bag with his gadgets. He brushes his lips against Draco’s forehead. When Draco looks up at him through his lashes, he looks as though he might have a lot to say, but he seems to catch himself and he straightens up. He pulls Draco’s wand from his inside pocket and rests it on the pillow beside him.

‘It’s after midnight,’ he says quietly. ‘Happy New Year, Draco.’ He leaves the room, and Draco hears the pop of his Disapparition from the kitchen.

Draco lifts his wand and absently traces spell shapes into the air.

The final five days of his probation are nothing short of hellish. Between the nightmares and a sudden high volume of daily chores, Draco finds himself doing three times as much work with only half the energy. He’s still on the mend from his return to Azkaban, but with the way Mindy’s been feeding him, he’s sure he’s put back on all the weight he lost, and then some.

So it is that on the 5th of January 2002, the day of his promised release, Draco decides to sleep the fuck in, and have breakfast in bed, crossing his legs over his ankles and eating just about everything thing that Mindy puts out for him.

When he is pleasantly stuffed with just the right amount of bangers and mash and steaming hot coffee, pumpkin juice, oatmeal, and black pudding, Draco twirls his wand in his hand and stares up at the ceiling. He’s still in his dressing robe, waiting for whoever it is will bring the news to arrive.

When the hour passes noon, Draco begins to feel the first stirrings of unease in his chest. Maybe they decided to extend his parole after all. It wouldn’t be unheard of. Maybe he’ll receive a missive from the Ministry telling him he’s expected to remain at the Manor for another year, or two, and then Draco would really have no choice but to off himself.

Draco swings his legs off the side the bed, flinging off his dressing gown and pulling on his father’s robes. After a minute of uselessly turning circles, he begins to pace the length of the room, chewing anxiously on his thumbnail. This was not to be borne. He’d fight them this time. If they delayed his freedom now, it would be clear breach of Magical Law. He’ll take it to the fucking Wizengamot if he has to. He’ll use the solicitors his father has on retainer. He’ll hex them all to fucking hell. He’ll—

There’s a loud knock on the cottage door and Draco starts violently. After standing stock still for a few seconds he straightens his spine, smoothes down his robes and walks calmly to the door. Of course, as life would have it, it’s Weasley they’ve sent. The Auror this time.

Draco opens the door. ‘You’re late,’ he says, stepping aside to let Weasley in.

Weasley walks past him, wiping raindrops from his shoulders. ‘Couldn’t be helped,’ he says.

Draco closes the cottage door behind him. Weasley pulls off his leather gloves and sets them down on the worktop, then turns to give Draco an appraising look. Draco crosses the room and sits at the small kitchen table, just as Weasley takes off his outer robes and pulls out three thick sheaves of parchment. ‘It takes a lot of paperwork to give a billionaire back his gold,’ Weasley says wryly.

Weasley gives him another long, measured look. ‘Let’s get started then, shall we?’

They both sit at the table, and Draco Summons a quill and ink. The paperwork is dreadfully boring. He has to sign Gringotts paperwork officially removing the hold from the Malfoy holdings, a form stipulating the terms of his reinstatement as the Malfoy heir. Thankfully the Goblins don’t allow any Ministry interference in their capital. No doubt the Malfoy vaults would be seriously depleted if the Ministry had their way.

He has to sign documents re-releasing the various Malfoy properties back into his possession. He signs a few separate parchments that reinstate him as executor of the Malfoy estate. Then there are the additional parchments he must sign as confirmation that he understood all the shit he signed two seconds ago.

He officially relinquishes ownership of the Voldemort Manor to the state; he has no interest in reclaiming it. Weasley signs off on paperwork confirming his duties as caretaker were satisfactorily met. Then he signs paperwork lifting the Trace on Draco’s wand. Weasley then absently waves his wand, vanishing the daily chore board from the kitchen wall. Draco stares at the empty space on the wall, massaging his wrist as Weasley signs off on the final set of paperwork: his official release papers, and slides them over for Draco to sign as well.

When it’s all over, Weasley gathers all the papers together, waves his wand and they disappear.

He looks up at Draco, frowning. ‘They’ve been sent straight to my wife,’ he says. ‘She’ll sign off on them, and then it’s official. You’re free.

‘I trust her to get the paperwork done,’ Weasley says. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

The tips of Weasley’s ears are rapidly turning red, and Draco just nods instead of egging him on.

The last thing he wants to do is thank Weasley, but he feels strangely compelled to do so anyway. He firmly resists the urge.

Weasley studies him a moment further. ‘They wanted to keep you in probation for another year,’ he admits. ‘Harry found out before they set the paperwork in motion.’

‘He overturned it?’ Draco asks a little shrilly. ‘If Potter keeps fighting my battles, everyone will—’ Draco abruptly cuts himself off. ‘Idiot,’ he says under his breath. He looks back to Weasley. ‘Did he tell you the truth?’

‘If he keeps poking his nose in my affairs, he’s going to get himself sacked.’

Weasley carefully puts his gloves back on, slowly flexing his fingers. ‘Harry didn’t fight against it,’ he says, without looking up. ‘I did.’

‘Don’t think I did it for you,’ Ron says, finally looking at him. ‘I did it for Harry. He’s been hard enough on himself as it is.’

Draco looks down at the table, tracing the patterns of the grain with his finger.

‘He’s my best mate,’ Weasley continues. ‘So I covered for him. Even if I think he’s making one of the biggest fucking mistakes of his life.’

Draco laughs. It’s a bleak, hollow sound. ‘Well,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m sure you let him know that.’

Draco nods, still looking down at the table. ‘Good for you.’

There’s a brief, tense silence, and then Weasley sighs. ‘So, what should I tell him?’ he asks.

Draco looks up at him, feigning ignorance. ‘What do you mean?’

Weasley raises his eyebrows. ‘Where are you going to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ Draco says, with an elegant lift of his shoulders. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

Weasley doesn’t say anything for a moment. ‘So, you’re just going to disappear? After he’s done all of this for you—’

Weasley gives him a look of deep contempt, and Draco flushes and looks away. ‘You know… you’re still such a selfish little prick, Malfoy,’ he says. ‘I keep asking him what it is he sees in you, and he keeps telling me that I wouldn’t understand. He’s right. I really don’t.’

Draco swallows ‘He knows my plans. He knew where this was going.’

Weasley clenches his jaw, and pulls on his robes. ‘I knew you were just going to fuck with him.’

‘What does he expect?’ Draco exclaims, throwing up his hands in frustration. ‘They sent me to Azkaban because they

I was fucking him. You want me to run to him now? Take him for a drink in the fucking Leaky? It’s impossible.’

Draco’s not sure whether he’s ranting to himself or Weasley at this point. He shakes his head. ‘You said it yourself. It was a mistake. Potter and I – it can’t work.’

‘Is there anything else you need from me?’ Draco interrupts.

Weasley gives him a death glare, and Draco tries his best to look at anywhere but his face.

Weasley seems to battle with himself for a few seconds, then he presses his lips firmly together, and Disapparates.

The thing is, Draco’s not sure he even believes it. It’s easy to call the whole thing a mistake. It’s simpler than actually thinking about the complexities of the whole thing.

For Potter it was probably just another in a long list of bad choices. Draco was probably desperate for any kind of connection after Azkaban.

He laughed with Potter. When Potter was with him, his breaths were real. His existence wasn’t regulated by daily tasks on a chalkboard. He wasn’t afraid to sleep when Potter was around. He didn’t have to remind himself to keep moving. Draco was on the brink of something dark and Potter pulled him back. Were there words to describe that?

He ponders this among many things on the journey to France, looking out the window at the snowy landscape, his chin propped on his fist. He doesn’t yet trust a single flick of his wand, even though he knows the Ministry were supposed to have lifted his Trace, so he decided to brave the train instead of Apparating.

He doesn’t move much for most of the ride. He’s terribly nervous, and occasionally he finds himself staring at a Muggle or two. He hasn’t been around this many people for years, much less people without magic. His skin prickles with unease.

The little girl sitting across the aisle from him smiles when she catches his eye. He hesitantly smiles back and she offers him a slice of her apple in her pudgy fist. Slightly alarmed, he glances at her mother and she nods and smiles, gesturing with the paperback in her hands. ‘Go on, then. She’ll keep trying to get you to eat it anyway.’ Draco laughs softly and takes the apple from her with a grave, ‘Thank you.’

He absently chews on the apple slice while curiously glancing about the carriage. Muggles are interesting to look at. They all seem terribly busy, talking on mobile phones and staring at laptop computers. His mother told him to expect all these strange things, sending him pictures of the devices and warning him not to stare. But he stares anyway.

‘You’re pretty,’ the little girl says in a decisive tone.

His eyes flick to her, and Draco raises his eyebrows. ‘Erm, thank you?’

Her mother laughs. ‘That’s enough from you, Ella,’ she says. ‘Even if it’s true.’ She adds with a wink.

Draco’s face heats, and she laughs again, pushing her auburn hair behind her ear.

Draco gives her a small smile. ‘Thank you,’ he murmurs.

She smiles again and nods before returning to her book. Draco returns his attention out the window, but he can feel her glancing at him every now and then, and he burrows down into the high collar of his coat, trying to avoid her gaze.

He breathes a sigh of relief when they arrive at Gare du Nord not much long after.

He quickly spots his mother, dressed in denims and a crisp white pea coat, a bright pink scarf around her neck and dark grey gloves. Draco gapes at her for a few seconds before her mouth turns upward in a smile, and she anxiously waves to him, as though afraid Draco doesn’t recognise her.

He waves back, hooking his rucksack over his shoulder and pushing through the throng of people to get to her. When Draco reaches her, she looks appraisingly at his denims, transfigured from formal trousers using the instructions and photographs she sent him.

She beams. ‘Wonderful job, darling - they’re perfect.’

Draco looks down at her and smiles broadly for the first time in weeks. ‘Come here,’ he murmurs.

He pulls her into a tight hug, lifting her off her feet and burying his nose in her hair. His eyes burn as she grips his shoulders tightly, laughing breathlessly and waving her feet around a bit in the air.

When he sets her down, she smiles at him at pats his cheek. ‘You need to shave,’ she says. ‘And what on earth have you done to your hair?’

He runs his hand through the short spikes on his head and grins, then he hooks his arm through hers. ‘Let’s find somewhere to Apparate,’ he says, leading her away. ‘I have loads to tell you.’

She lives in Passy-Auteuil, in a property that was part of her dowry when she married Lucius. The house is light and airy, with French doors that lead to a deck and back garden and a small bird bath beside a birch tree. They spend a few hours in her sitting room, drinking wine and talking.

She keeps staring at his short hair, and shaking her head slightly and then insisting that he shave.

She keeps murmuring, ‘… you look unkempt,’ beneath her breath, and Draco smiles softly at her and shakes his head.

She has a much more complicated music system than his little record player carefully shrunken in his bag. She lifts a reflective circular thing that looks like a very small record and slips it into a slot of a much larger Muggle device. It almost looks like a Wizard wireless, but with flashing numbers and an array of buttons and plastic knobs. It is completely beyond Draco, but his mother quickly sets it all up, and then they’re surrounded by music, streaming from all corners of the room.

‘It’s called a sound-system,’ she tells him, watching his reactions with a small smile. ‘This is called a CD.’ she says, gesturing to another one of the small disks. ‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s not as scary as it all looks. You’ll learn quickly.’

She twists her hair into a loose plait and pulls her feet up beneath her. She doesn’t wear her wedding band anymore, and this frightens Draco more than he’ll ever admit. She smiles a bit sadly when she catches him looking.

‘I’m not sure what it means yet,’ she tells him, looking down at her empty finger. ‘It just didn’t feel right to wear it anymore.’

She gently touches his knee. ‘Let’s talk about you,’ she says. ‘There’s a lot you’re not telling me.’

Draco simply nods but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to bring Potter up. He’s not ready to talk about that yet. And he can\'t bring himself to tell her any more of his darker stories.

She takes him to Musée Marmottan Monet and Palais de Tokyo, dragging him through the exhibits with a laugh and a carefree smile he’s never seen her wear. She teaches him how to bargain food prices at Marché Point du Jour, and even though his French is rusty, he’s able to keep up with the rapid negotiations taking place over open trays of fresh fruit and vegetables.

She brings fresh mushrooms and ripe tomatoes up to her nose and breathes deeply. His mother, who never even considered getting her hands dirty, is sifting through the fish on display with a determined frown. She lifts a fat trout up to his nose, and he wrinkles it. ‘Come on,’ she says, smiling. ‘You need to be sure it’s fresh.’ He sniffs it and gags, and she laughs and asks the short, fat shopkeeper to wrap it up for them to take.

She takes him shopping on Rue de Passy, weaving through the high-end shops with an ease that Draco envies. He happily indulges her need to clothe and preen over him, until most of his Muggle money runs out, and he absently mentions that he will have to make it to Gringotts to convert some more. This, she brushes off with a casual wave of her hand, and he doesn’t bring it up again until a week later, when he’s completely stripped of cash.

‘I don’t see why you can’t just do as I’ve done,’ Narcissa says. ‘This is why we keep solicitors on retainer, Draco. There’s no need for us to go in ourselves. Just have Kristoff arrange matters for you.’

Kristoff, his mother’s personal solicitor, is a severe older wizard who reminds Draco too much of a few members of the Wizengamot, and he has no intention of asking him for a damned thing.

They argue about it for days, but Draco finally puts his foot down when Narcissa is herself close to the end of her monthly cash withdrawal.

On a snowy Sunday, they Apparate to a secluded spot in Montmartre, largely hidden from the hustle and bustle of Muggles. He steers Narcissa through Place du Tertre, avoiding the tourists gathered to watch the artists at work. After a few minutes navigating the narrow streets, they reach a small nondescript café, covered with a rich burgundy awning and vibrating with magical energy. They both slip inside, heading swiftly through the crowd of witches and wizards, past the back exit, leading to a narrow cobbled street, the entrance to the Wizarding Quarter of Paris. He taps the opposite wall with his wand and the stone wall slowly opens revealing Rue de Merveilles, the High Street of the French Wizarding Quarter.

They both stride forward as if they both know exactly where they’re going. Draco certainly doesn’t. It been years since he’s been here, and it was usually on the arm of his mother. The narrow, cobble stoned streets are mostly unfamiliar to him. Draco moves forward into the fray, with one arm protectively wrapped around Narcissa’s waist. Her body is stiff with nerves, much like his own. They’re both dressed in Muggle clothing, Narcissa with her nose in the air, Draco with his back proud and straight. No one looking at them would guess that she’s gripping onto his forearm tight enough to leave a mark beneath the layers of his winter coat.

It takes Draco a while to realise it, but when he does, the ribbons of fear wrapped around his heart begin to loosen. He glances at his mother and squeezes her hand gently, and she gives him a brief smile.

She glances at him. ‘It won’t be this way in England.’

They spend the morning conducting business in Gringotts, and afterwards Draco gently steers her into the small coffee shop a few blocks away. It’s filled to the brim with wizards and witches and they squeeze past a few standing patrons to grab an empty table further to the back. When they’re seated, Narcissa gently removes her hood, her gaze anxiously flitting about the room. Draco reaches across the table and gently rests his hand over hers.

‘Draco,’ she begins, stroking her thumb over the back of his palm. ‘I know there are certain things you prefer not to tell me... I understand that you need to keep your secrets.’

Draco frowns and pulls his hand away from hers. ‘It sounds as though you’re working yourself up to asking me about things I don’t want to talk about.’

Narcissa purses her lips, and a smiling young witch comes to take their order, they both order cappuccinos and when the girl leaves, Narcissa sits up straight and clasps her hands together, staring at him pointedly over the table.

Draco’s heart thumps a little faster, and he laughs softly, tapping his long fingers against the tabletop and avoiding Narcissa’s gaze. ‘You’ve been dying to ask me that, haven’t you?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to think, Draco? A few weeks ago you said the last thing you wanted to do was run away to hide in France, “like I’ve done”. Now here you are.’

She leans forward, lowering her voice. ‘You were in Azkaban for fraternising with a Ministry official, then the charge was mysteriously dropped.’ Narcissa raises a pointed eyebrow. ‘The whole thing was a scandal, Draco. Now the head of the Post-War Relations Commission has been sacked, and here you are, hiding in France.’

Narcissa waves her hand dismissively. ‘Draco don’t be dramatic, I just want to know what’s going on with you.’ She gives him a gentle look. ‘Why are you so unhappy?’

The young witch comes back with their cappuccinos and Narcissa smiles absently at her before she flounces away.

Draco stares pensively into his cup for a few moments. ‘I’m not unhappy,’ he says quietly.

Narcissa nudges him with her foot beneath the table and he looks up. ‘You should see your face, darling. Sometimes you look almost… content, but then it’s like… you remember whatever it is that’s making you so upset, and everything in you just… dies.’

Draco sighs and slouches further in his seat. ‘Darling, what happened? I hate seeing you this way.’

Draco looks out the large glass window across the room, rapidly swallowing the growing lump in his throat. Unable to find the words, he just shakes his head.

Narcissa reaches across the table and takes his hand, linking their fingers together. ‘What are you running away from?

He looks down at their intertwined fingers, thinking of the first time Potter did the same, the way he was fascinated by the look of their hands entwined as one.

Like a coward, he waits until night falls, when she’s asleep in her room and writes her a note so that she won’t be afraid in the morning.

He Apparates to the Wizarding district and gets as drunk as he can in a small French pub where a brown haired man with a wicked smile tries his best to get him into bed. Draco almost,

goes through with it. It’s tempting as hell; his cock is hard, and the bloke smells good and promises to help Draco forget about everything, but he stops himself.

Instead, he takes a room in the inn upstairs and spends most of the evening vomiting into the toilet bowl. The following morning he Apparates to Luxembourg, where he spends the night in his parents’ villa.

He isn’t there for long before he decides it’s too filled with memories of his childhood to stay. It makes him think about catching the snitch on his training broom in the large back garden. It reminds him too much of his father, the way he’d spend the evenings smoking his pipe in his office, poring over the

Even if they were on vacation, Lucius never missed the opportunity to read a copy. He’d tear out the comics section and hand it to Draco over breakfast, while Narcissa rolled her eyes at them both.

That night, his dreams are filled of Lucius fending off attackers in his cell, calling out to Draco for his help.

In the morning he Apparates to Frankfurt. The following day, he Apparates to Berlin and after that Salzburg. He eats breakfast in Prague and takes lunch in Dresden. He keeps moving, unable to stop, needing to be on the move.

Unlike his mother, he finds no solace in the company of Muggles, so remains mostly in the Wizarding districts.

He even considers visiting Pansy in Venice, but they haven’t spoken in years, and he knows it would be unnatural. Forced.

Deep down, Draco knows there’s only one person he really wants to see - one place he can go and not feel the same fear - but how to stop from running when running is the only way you know to survive?

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like if he were to Apparate somewhere and Potter were there, waiting for him as though they’d planned to meet. Maybe they’d go out together in the Wizarding districts - out in the open where anyone could see them. He can just imagine Potter’s stupid smile. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Draco peers at his reflection in the mirror in the bathroom of a dark pub… somewhere. He’s been Apparating from place to place for weeks - the Winter Palace in St Petersburg, the Hassan Tower in Rabat, Diocletian’s Palace in Split - almost splinching himself a few times from Apparating with only the vaguest memories of his childhood to guide him. The ceaseless movement and the strain of being in a constant state of temporal flux have confused and exhausted him. His hair is growing back, he hasn’t shaved in days and the ghost of a beard shadows his cheeks. He splashes water on his face and hunches over the sink. He’s slightly pissed and tired and hungry and lonely and scared

He pulls his wand from his sleeve and pushes his shirt up to his elbows. He knows what Grimmauld Place looks like. At least, he remembers what the basement kitchen looks like, since it features in many of his nightmares. Visiting the Blacks as a child was never a happy experience.

He hopes that if Potter has any wards up, they aren’t lethal. He stares at his reflection for a few more seconds, twirling his wand anxiously and going back and forth about his decision in his mind. He takes a few shallow breaths to fuel his courage, and then Apparates into the kitchen, landing mere centimetres away from the long wooden table he just almost splinched himself on.

It’s mid-morning and the house is eerily quiet – maybe he got it wrong. Maybe Potter doesn’t even in live the old house anymore. He should probably just turn and leave. He should. This was stupid.

But then he spots the half-empty cup of tea in the sink, the fully stocked pantry shelves, and releases an anxious breath.

He absently touches the cup with his fingers, and jumps when he hears the front door drag against the floor as it opens heavily. Draco bites his lower lip and walks up the stairs, vaguely feeling his way around in the dark and following the sounds of stamping boots and the crinkling of paper bags.

Draco enters the hallway, and there he is, Potter, dressed in all black, resting his shopping on the floor and unwinding his scarf with a cigarette in his mouth. He drops his woollen coat on the half table in the entryway, exhaling a thin line of smoke from his nostrils.

Draco leans against the wall, and affects a nonchalant stance. \'You know, you\'re frightfully unobservant for an Auror,\' he says.

Potter doesn\'t even flinch. \'I knew you were here,\' he says resting his scarf down and stubbing his cigarette out on the leg of the table. He turns around and folds his arms across his chest, looking at Draco intensely. His black jumper and jeans make his impossible eyes stand out even more than usual, and Draco\'s breath catches. He\'d never considered another man beautiful before now.

Potter scratches beneath his chin. ‘I do have wards you know.\'

They simply stare at each other for a long moment, and Draco shifts uncomfortably.

\'I wanted to see you,\' he says. \'Why aren\'t you at work?\'

Potter sighs and pushes up his sleeves. \'I took some time off,\' he says. He hesitates. \'Recommended time off,\' he adds with a wry smile.

Harry nods to him. ‘Where were you?\' he asks. \'My owl couldn\'t find you.\'

Draco shrugs, feeling his pulse beginning to race as Potter starts moving closer to him. \'I kept moving,\' he says. \'I couldn\'t stop.\'

Potter stops just in front of him. \'And now you\'re here.\'

Potter doesn\'t move, and after a few seconds of staring at his mouth, Draco realises that he has no intention of moving. He stares at Draco, challenge in his green eyes, and then Draco ducks his head and catches Potter\'s mouth in a kiss. Potter reacts immediately, pushing Draco back up against the wall and cupping his cheek.

\'You’re such a bastard,\' he murmurs softly, nipping Draco\'s lower lip and then kissing him more deeply than before. Their chests press together and he can feel the thudding of Potter’s heart. Potter pulls away slightly. ‘I was worried about you.’

Draco pushes his fingers beneath Potter’s shirt, wanting to feel his bare skin. \'I want you,\' Draco murmurs.

He barely feels it when Potter Apparates them both into his bedroom. He nudges Potter backwards onto the bed and they both scramble out of their clothes, eager to be skin to skin.

He hovers over Potter, caught in simply staring at him, the way his too-long hair fans against his white sheets. His cock presses eagerly against Draco\'s stomach. Draco leans forward, kissing him softly, sinking in closer when Potter spreads his thighs. Potter reaches between his legs to prepare himself, murmuring a soft spell and then arching his back.

He pulls Draco against him, guiding Draco\'s cock to his hole, making a soft, breathy noise when Draco slowly pushes into him. He softly nips the side of Draco\'s jaw, licking the stubble there. \'I love this,\' he says as Draco rolls his hips. \'Don\'t ever shave.\'

Draco laughs into Potter’s shoulder, and turns his head to press a kiss against his neck. Potter spreads his thighs wider. \'Harder, Draco,\' he says. \'Don\'t hold back.\'

Draco closes his eyes, increasing his pace and pumping his hips hard, his whole body shuddering with pent up, frustrated arousal. He glances down, wanting to see his cock disappear into Potter’s body, whimpering slightly at the sight of Potter stretched around him.

Potter meets each thrust with a snap of his hips, his heavy cock bobbing between them. Draco straightens up and pulls him in closer, grabbing Potter’s arse cheeks as Potter hooks his legs around Draco’s waist. Potter firmly wraps his hand around his cock, frantically stroking himself off in time with Draco\'s thrusts until he shudders and comes, spurting his semen onto his stomach.

His arsehole clenches sporadically around Draco\'s cock, and it sends Draco hurtling forward into a short, but mind-numbingly intense orgasm. Draco falls to the side, wetly slipping out of Potter’s hole and Potter shifts with him, turning to face him. He softly strokes Draco\'s spiky head, pressing kisses on his eyelids as Draco slowly comes back to himself.

When Draco opens his eyes, Potter sighs softly. \'So,\' he says. \'What was that, exactly?\'

Draco rolls on his back, and stares up at the ceiling — anything to avoid the way Potter’s gaze sears right through him.

It’s as though Potter can see everything. It lays Draco bare.

Does he know? Does he know everything that happened to him in Azkaban? Did he know about Marcus?

Does Potter pity him? He couldn’t bear that.

Potter touches his shoulder gently, and Draco glances up at him. He’s propped up on his elbow looking down at Draco, his brow crinkled, his gaze soft. \'Don\'t go back there,\' he murmurs, brushing a strand of Draco’s hair from his forehead. \'Stay here with me.\'

Draco looks at him carefully. \'That was sex,\' he says, finally answering the question.

Potters expression falters slightly. \'Is that… all? I mean. Is that all you came for?\'

It would be so much easier to say yes and just leave, but Draco\'s tried that already. He knows how that story ends. Slowly, he shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says softly. ‘But we can’t...’ his voice trails off, and he firmly looks away.

\'Draco, there\'s nothing wrong about what we\'re doing,\' he says. \'We don\'t have to hide anymore.\'

Draco touches Potter\'s arm. \'I\'m not ready for what you want,\' he says softly.

Potter licks his lips. \'Ok, so what? What do we do?\'

\'I\'ve been travelling,\' he says. \'I want to keep moving. Just for now.\'

\'And what? Stop by every now and then for a quick fuck?\'

Potter sighs and drops down beside him. \'I’m not going to be anyone’s fuck toy, Draco,\' he says tersely. \'I tried that once, remember? It didn\'t work out too well.\'

Draco shifts to face him. \'I\'m not asking you to be my fuck toy,\' he says. \'I know what that feels like, too.’

\'Come with me.\' The words tumble out of his mouth in a panicked rush. His hands shake, and he looks swiftly away from Potter’s gaze.

Draco sighs and rolls away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and sitting up with his back turned away from him.

\'This is the best I can do right now, Potter. I can\'t be what you want. This...’ He glances back at Potter. \'It’s all I can do right now. I can\'t stay in England. Not the way you want. You want to walk straight into Diagon Alley, holding my hand like the hero you always have to be. You want to tell everyone

Potter pushes himself across the bed and sits beside Draco. \'Why can\'t you?\'

\'It\'s impossible!\' Draco says. \'Not to mention stupid. Everyone\'s going to know you lied under oath.\'

Draco glances at him, rolling his eyes. \'Yes, you do,\' he sighs and reaches forward for his discarded trousers. \'Forget it, Potter,’ he says. \'It was a stupid idea anyway.

Potter puts his hand on Draco\'s arm and Draco stills. \'I\'m not going to run away and hide with you forever, Draco,’ Potter says. ‘I have my friends. There\'s Teddy to think about.\'

Draco nods and stands, shoving his feet into his trousers and looking around the room for his shirt. \'Right, yes. Of course,’ he says. ‘It was a foolish suggestion. I never should have–\'

\'Draco, stop,\' Potter says. He touches Draco’s hip. ‘Stop.’

Potter hooks his fingers into Draco’s belt loops and pulls him forward. \'I want to come with you. I just... I need you to understand. I\'m not running away.\' Draco looks down at him, nervously turning his shirt over his hands.

\'Maybe we have to wait for all of this to cool down, but we\'re coming back, Draco,\' he says. \'Promise me that.\'

Potter smiles at him and pulls him back onto the bed, wrestling him onto his back and straddling his thighs. Draco pushes himself up to his elbows and Potter cups his face in his palms. \'Then I\'m yours,\' he says.

Draco’s heart pounds in his chest, and Potter leans forward and kisses him. Draco lets Potter push him flat against the bed and he grips Potter’s waist tightly, swallowing the embarrassing lump in his throat. \'Harry,\' he murmurs softly, catching Potter’s lower lip gently between his teeth.

Potter laughs softly into his mouth. \'Yes,’ he breathes. ‘It’s

Draco smiles and presses a kiss on Harry’s shoulder.

Warm, and pleasantly full after a full dinner, Draco wraps his leg across Harry’s. They’re tangled together in a white netted hammock, stabilised by magic, but still swaying slightly from their movement. The night breeze is cool, and Potter is snuggled close against him, his head on Draco’s chest. Draco breathes in the scent of his hair, of sun tan lotion and the beach. He threading his fingertips between the thick strands and closes his eyes briefly.

Potter lifts his head and kisses Draco’s chin.

‘We should head back to the hotel,’ he says. ‘It’s late.’

Draco hums absently, listening as the waves lap gently at the shore. The leaves of the tree they’ve tethered the hammock to rustle softly in the wind. He pulls Harry up against him and leans into kiss him, slipping in his tongue and snogging Harry thoroughly and at a slow, leisurely pace. The muscles in his body are loose and languid. His mind is quiet and pleasantly sluggish.

When he pulls away, Harry’s expression is slightly dazed, and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. ‘Mmph,’ he says. ‘Don’t start what you can’t finish.’

‘You’re exhausted, I can tell. Must be getting old.’

Draco pinches Harry’s side and he yelps softly, bucking against him, and laughing against Draco’s neck. ‘I’ll just make you do all the work,’ Draco says. ‘You can ride me.’

‘Ha.’ Harry gently rolls off of him and pushes his feet into his shoes.

‘You know,’ he says. ‘There’s this spot on the roof terrace at home that’s perfect for a hammock like this. In the middle of the garden. We could spell it onto the beams. It’ll be perfect for summer.’

He slips off the hammock, standing and looking down at Draco with a pointed look.

Draco makes a non-committal sound and slips off the hammock as well, lifting his sandal to shake out the grains of sand.

\'Draco, come on, we have to talk about this.\'

‘I know,’ Draco says, straightening up and pushing his feet into his sandals. ‘I was just having a pleasant evening. I don’t want to get into it right now.’

‘So was I, Draco. It made me think of doing this at home. Remember… the house that I’m supposed to be living in.’ Harry touches Draco’s arm gently. ‘It’ll be good for you, too, you know. To go back. To have somewhere we can be grounded.’

Draco pulls his arm away. ‘You mean where you\'re grounded,’ he says. ‘I have nothing waiting for me back there. Or have you forgotten?’

Harry sighs ‘You have your mother.’

‘I can see her anytime I want. The same way you can see your friends, and Teddy.’ Draco gestures vaguely. ‘It just takes a trip to a Floo centre. You visit them all the time. Why isn\'t that enough?’

‘It’s not what I want! I need my friends. I know that’s hard for you to understand, but…’ Harry sighs and looks away briefly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. A muscle in his jaw twitches and the breeze lifts his hair off his forehead, ruffling it further. ‘Draco, I\'ve done my half. I\'ve given you time. But I told you this wouldn\'t work for me. You promised me you\'d go back.’

‘Well, maybe you shouldn\'t have trusted me.’

Harry\'s expression hardens, and then he takes a deep breath. \'Don\'t be a prick, okay?’ he murmurs. ‘Not now.\'

Draco sits on the edge of the hammock and Harry looks down and him, chewing his lip.

‘Draco, I don\'t want to go back without you,’ he says. ‘But I will if I have to.’

Draco looks down at the sand beneath his feet and nods. ‘I know.’

‘Just— think about it. Please. I— I really don\'t want this to end.’

Harry hesitates. ‘I\'m tired,’ he says. ‘I’m going to head back to the hotel.’

He doesn’t look up when Harry walks away. He sits for a few moments with his head in his hands and then he swings his legs back into the hammock and lies down on his back, staring up at the sky and laying his hand across his stomach. The moon is almost full and ridiculously bright, the wind brushes against his cheeks and he closes his eyes.

What would it mean, to give this up? This freedom. The lack of responsibility, of schedules, and chores. The lack of expectation and instruction. Not ever having to do anything he doesn’t want to do ever again. Not having to see anything he doesn’t want to see. Can he give that up? Does he want to?

Draco sighs deeply, and idly pokes one leg out of the hammock to set up a slight swing by pushing off the ground with the tips of his toes.

The simple fact was that all these things would amount to nothing without Harry. Draco doesn’t want to be without him. Not if he can help it. He makes everything… better. He fills in all the missing parts. If Draco were to let him go now, he’d be back to square one.

But if he could just put off going back home a little longer. Draco sighs again. It’s the mantra that’s been going through his head the longer they stay away. Just another week. And another... and another.

Harry’s right. He’s given Draco enough time.

The hammock suddenly stops swinging and Draco opens his eyes. Harry is there, looking down at him with his hands in his pockets.

He holds out his hand, and Draco takes it. He pulls Draco out of the hammock, and then holds him close.

Draco kisses him softly just before Harry Apparates them both to the hotel room.

Draco shifts closer to him and wraps his arm around Harry’s middle, pressing his chest against Harry’s back and kissing the back of his head the way he likes. Harry slowly relaxes, loosening his tight grip on his pillows and Draco kisses the shell of his ear, waiting until he fully settles again. When Harry’s breathing slips back into the deep slow breaths of unfettered sleep, Draco glances at the clock on the wall. It\'s already after nine in the morning. He won\'t fall back to sleep now.

He gently dislodges himself and slips out of the bed, hovering for a moment to make sure Harry’s okay, and then he grabs the silk dressing gown from the arm of the sofa, the one Harry bought him in their brief stop in Breda a few weeks back. He smiles briefly and slips his arms in, tying the rope loosely around his waist.

Draco glances back at Harry again, but he’s still bundled up in the thick white cotton blanket, his eyes closed, breathing softly. Draco leaves the room, and steps out onto the balcony looking out to the Aegean Sea. A slightly warm breeze tugs at his hair, whipping it into his eyes, and he leans into it, briefly closing his eyes.

His mother’s owl swoops in, landing on the railing with a graceful little lurch and Draco smiles.

\'Just in time, Breida,\' he says, gently stroking her feathers. She nips him softly as he takes the letter, and then swoops past him to perch on the back of the sofa, nicking a few owl treats from the table on the way.

I hope this finds you both well. God knows where you are now. Halfway across the world, I’m sure. Harry assures me you will be back soon, but I still worry about you travelling quite so much. Though, I do admit to feeling a little better knowing he\'s with you.

You were right about my sister. Though things are still tense, I can feel us getting closer. Or perhaps it’s my imagination… I’m not sure.

I’m certainly fond of that Grandson of hers. Do you know, he reminds me of you? There’s a quiet determination in him, part of his being a Black I’m certain.

Your father writes to say he is well. I\'m not sure if you receive his owls.

He’s being considered for probation next month, did you know? They\'ll be placing him in the Manor if it’s approved. I\'m certain it\'s some sort of cruel joke. But you survived it, didn\'t you? I\'m sure he will, too.

As for your question, darling, you\'ll just know. I suspect you already do. With your father it was the same. I just knew. I woke up in the morning and I said to myself, ‘I am in love with Lucius Malfoy.’ I still am. My advice: don\'t hide from it, embrace it. It\'s a wonderful thing, even though it doesn’t always feel that way, and even if it doesn’t work out.

I am so, so proud of you, Draco. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.

Draco folds the parchment into neat squares and looks back out to the sea.

Harry\'s awake. He can tell by the way the energy in the room shifts.

Is it strange to be that aware of another person? He’s more aware of Harry than himself sometimes.

It scares him a little, but at the same time, it comforts him.

Harry slips his arms around Draco\'s waist and Draco leans back against him.

\'Morning,\' he says, his breath ghosting along the nape of Draco’s neck.

Draco closes his eyes and Potter’s lips brush against his nape. They stand in companionable silence for a few moments before Draco speaks. ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It’s time to go back.’

Harry doesn’t say anything for a moment, and he sighs and presses another kiss against Draco’s neck. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you.\'

Draco body tenses and his heart pounds a shuddering staccato in his chest, but he nods firmly.

Harry trails his fingers along Draco’s bare chest, slipping his hand beneath the thin fabric of his dressing gown, and sliding his fingers across Draco’s naked skin. He loosens the tie holding the dressing gown closed, exposing Draco’s cock.

Harry wraps his hands around Draco\'s cock, stroking lightly. Draco leans his head back on Harry\'s shoulder.

Draco smiles and then he gasps lightly as Harry strokes the swollen head of his cock, pushing the foreskin back then stroking him until Draco is fully hard and quivering against him. Draco turns around in his arms and kisses Harry deeply, threading his fingers in Harry’s hair and pushing him back inside the condo.

If he’s to forever give up this borrowed solitude, he might as well get in a good shag (or five) before he has to do it.

Of course, the last thing he expects is the entire Weasley clan, his aunt, Teddy - even his fucking mother, shouting

and interrupting the perfectly good snog he had going with Harry as they stumbled through the door at Grimmauld Place.

Harry recovers first, grinning and dropping his bags and stepping forward to hug them all, leaving Draco on his own to defend himself against Percy Weasley’s amused little comments, and Teddy’s curious stare.

His mother pulls him aside, kissing him on the check and squeezing his hand lightly. ‘Breathe, Draco,’ she whispers in his ear.

Draco smiles and pulls her in for a hug. ‘How are you?’ he whispers in her ear. She pulls away and studies him at arm’s length before smiling at him, her eyes bright.

‘I’m happy you’re back,’ she says. ‘You look so

After a short while of hovering in the corner, and with a gentle push from his mother, he steps forward to greet everyone with extreme apprehension. Molly Weasley greets him first, her expression polite but wary. He knows Harry’s told them that they’re a

, but whether he told them about the whole scandal - that he lied under oath, that he really

fucking Draco the whole time - is anyone’s guess.

Granger shakes his hand, and after he plucks up the courage to actually thank her for all she’s done for him, her gaze softens just a bit. He avoids Ginny Weasley at all costs.

It isn’t long before he’s cornered by Harry’s other half, or the Head Weasel as Draco likes to call him. After the whole debacle, Weasley’s now the favourite for Head Auror, and Harry’s thinking about leaving the department.

Weasley gives him a shrewd look and pulls him away from the general hubbub and conversation. Draco lifts his chin a little defiantly, but then he feels a little silly, so he settles for folding his arms across his chest instead.

Weasley raises his eyebrow. ‘I suppose we’re going to have to learn to tolerate each other now,’ he says.

Draco shrugs, and Weasley rolls his eyes. ‘You know, it might help if you weren’t such a smug little prick all the time,’ he says.

Draco bristles, and he’s on the verge of a cutting retort, but then he catches a glimpse of Harry and his mother. Their heads are bent over something he suspects, but

is not, one of his baby pictures. From the delighted look on Harry’s face, and the way he looks up at Draco with obvious intents of blackmail in his eyes, he’s sure it is.

Weasley waves his hand in front of him, and Draco pulls his gaze away. ‘You know,’ Weasley says, his mouth twitching. ‘I always thought it was you who had Harry by the balls, but I humbly stand corrected.’

‘Good to know,’ Weasley says, clapping him on the back. ‘I hate to admit this, but Harry does seem a lot better with you around.’ He briefly looks over to his friend, biting his lower lip and furrowing his brow. ‘After, you know –

, I was worried about him. He ended things with Gin and then he starting doing all that stupid shit. Then

happened. I thought he’d gone off the deep end.’ Weasley shrugs and turns back to Draco, studying him carefully. ‘But I was wrong, I suppose,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Eh. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘I’m sure somewhere in that drivel was an actual compliment, or something,’ Draco murmurs.

Weasley grins. ‘I’m obligated to tell you though, if you hurt him, I will kill you and make it look like an accident.’

Draco looks up and meets Weasley’s gaze, not at all surprised by the absolute sincerity he sees there.

Weasley slaps his back again. ‘Good then.’

The rooftop garden at Grimmauld Place has Harry’s hand all over it. There’s no organisation or purpose. It hums with heavy-handed weather and maintenance charms that Draco’s itching to fine tune. The kitchen garden is beside the rose bush. The azaleas need to be pruned, the bougainvillea don’t at all fit within the overall theme – but that’s Harry. Draco touches the edges of the delicate flowers with his fingertips and sighs. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a little garden gnome scurrying quickly out of sight.

The door leading back into house opens, and Harry steps through, looking a little bit shell shocked.

Draco pushes up the sleeve of his shirt, and tucks his hair behind his ear, wishing rather irritably for something to tie it back with. It’s not quite back to its former length, but it’s long enough to piss him off in the summer heat, making him seriously contemplate the scissors again.

Harry stops just front of him with a slow smile and squeezes his arm softly. ‘I should have warned you something like this could happen,’ he says.

‘I\'m fine. I just needed some air. Stop worrying.’

Draco’s hair escapes again and he threads his finger through it, pushing it back with more force than necessary.

Harry’s smile broadens hesitantly. ‘Maybe we should shave it again,’ he says, reaching out and gently pushing a stray strand off Draco’s forehead.

Harry pulls his leather band from his pocket and gently turns him around, gathering Draco’s hair and tying it at his nape in a miniature ponytail. When he’s finished, he kisses the shell of Draco’s ear. ‘You looked sexy,’ he says softly.

Draco closes his eyes and sighs. The hairs at the back of his neck stand on end and he shivers just a little. Harry turns him around in his arms, hooking his fingers through Draco’s belt loops.

‘That’s a stupid question, Harry.’ It comes out more harshly than he intends, and the look on Harry’s face makes him ache just a bit. He touches Harry’s wrist. ‘I\'m just on edge,’ he murmurs. ‘I need a few minutes, okay? Please. I’ll be fine, I promise.’

Harry bites his lower lip briefly, and then he nods. ‘Ok. But if you\'re not back in ten minutes, I’ll be back.’

Harry begins to walk away, but Draco pulls him close and kisses him deeply, clutching his hip with the tips of his fingers. When he breaks the kiss, Harry’s looking at him carefully with his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

Draco briefly touches his cheek. ‘I’m just—’ Draco scrambles around in his head for the words. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a prick all the time. You know?’

Harry laughs lightly and nudges Draco with his shoulder. ‘Maybe not all the time.’

Draco grips his forearms and pulls Harry close, bringing their foreheads together. ‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘I have no idea why put up with me.’

Harry pulls away slightly, seeking Draco’s gaze. ‘You know why.’

Draco stares back at him, caught in those green eyes, in the flecks of hazel and grey. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he says softly.

Harry smiles and kisses him again briefly. ‘Good.’

He squeezes Draco’s hand and walks away, back into the house. Draco watches him go, struck still by a sudden surge of

He turns his face towards the sun and closes his eyes, trying to settle the rapid pace of his heartbeat. In the distance, he can hear the screams and laughs of children and the splashes of water as they play in the yard below. The sharp bark of a dog. The scent of gardenias lifts towards him in a breeze that pushes the stray hairs off his face. His trousers billow in the wind, and there’s a slight smell of barbecue in the air.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like a part of it – not separate.

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