Chapter Text
The shorter days flowed into December. Sunlight became more precious. The air was cold enough for little flurries of snow on his walk to the bus stop in the early mornings. Cold enough to see his breath.
What do you miss the most about the castle?
H
~
In third year I found a balcony behind one of the tapestries on my way to Trelawney’s classroom.
I used to go there whenever I wanted to be alone. Spent a lot of time there sixth year. And seventh.
Now it’s gone.
Your turn.
Other than the quidditch pitch or the library. Don’t be a cliché.
D
~
There was a rock on the shore of the lake that was sloped and you could lean back against it. Look up at the stars if it was dark enough. It was the perfect place to read without being bothered during the day. I didn’t look for it when I went back.
H
~
Dr. Walker surveyed him from her leather armchair. Resting her pen against her chin.
“Ron and I found a new Indian restaurant that we like, so most of our lunches have been there,” Harry said. “Ginny’s coming home in a few weeks for Christmas and will meet us there.”
“That will be nice, to get to see them together,” Dr. Walker said.
“I’m hoping that my project is fully funded by then. I’ve had a few more donors since last week and we’re nearly at our goal.”
“And how does that feel? To see something you’ve been working hard at reach a milestone?”
Harry thought for a moment. If he could secure another large donation, they would be able to brew enough wolfsbane for all of the registered children for an entire year. “It feels brilliant,” he said. “Like I can finally take a breath.”
Dr. Walker nodded and clasped her hands. “And do you feel as though you’ve reached a milestone yourself?”
“Well, I suppose so. I wrote all of the letters and handled all of the paperwork—”
“I meant in your personal life.”
Harry shook his head. “I’m not sure I have, no. Not much has changed there.”
“Really? That’s not what I see,” Dr. Walker said, a bemused smile on her face.
“I,” Harry let his mouth close and frowned. In the last month he’d started to have lunch with Ron every Tuesday. Made plans with Ginny. He’d even stopped by the shop to say hi to Ron one day on his way back to the office from a midday walk. It was something. “I suppose you’re a little bit right.”
“It might not seem like much, but you’re making progress. I’m proud of you, Harry.”
The bus was late and he didn’t mind. It was a lovely night and there was no need to rush.
The next day he woke early and chuckled when he saw his note.
What do you think is worse: the taste of Polyjuice or the texture?
D
~
It’s the texture. Though the smell is as foul as you expect.
H
~
You say that quite definitively.
D
~
Because I’m always right, as you established.
And I’ve drunk it. If you can call it that.
H
~
You can’t be serious.
Are you?
Is that how you impersonated people?
D
~
In hindsight, he should have done his shopping in Diagon, where he could have shrunk his purchases until he got home. Instead he’d gone to a Muggle Christmas market to purchase presents for the Weasleys and Hermione. Carrying a stack of unwieldy parcels onto a bus and then down the block to his apartment left him panting. Luck was on his side, however, when he saw someone enter the building just ahead of him.
“Excuse me!” He called out. “Hold the door, please!”
When he reached the top of the front steps he saw Draco with a bag of groceries, keeping the door open for him.
“Thanks,” Harry said, face flushed. They walked upstairs in tandem. “Was it shopping day?”
“Thursdays and Mondays, yeah.”
They lingered in the hallway. Harry hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, though they talked every day. And he played for Harry every night. He shifted the bag in his arm, and fiddled with his keys.
“Actually,” he started, then cleared his throat. “I was going to invite you for dinner tomorrow. Round eight? If—if you’re free.”
“I’m always free,” Harry said, and chuckled darkly. Shifting the boxes of caramels and wool socks and other gifts. “Dinner sounds nice. I’ll bring wine—a nice bottle, even.”
The corner of his lips turned upward, not quite a smile on anyone else but it reached his eyes. There was something beautiful about it — unfinished but full of promise.
“Don’t go to too much trouble, Potter. I never said I was a good cook.” Somehow Harry doubted he was less than good at most things. He unlocked his door and muttered the spell to open his wards and Harry did the same. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” Harry said. When his door shut, he flicked his wand to lock it and seal the wards once more. Set his parcels on the table. Then he added food to Mittens’ bowl, for which he purred like a motorbike against his calf.
At nine o’clock, he played all of Harry’s favorites. But unlike nearly every night before, for six months, he didn’t play the original song. Perhaps he’d given up on it, Harry thought. Or maybe he’d go back to it one day, when he felt inspired.
Nothing in his wardrobe felt right for dinner with his…neighbor. Like the suits and shirts that hung there belonged to someone else. And in a way, they did. He’d chosen them before. Had only worn comfortable favorites like jeans and jumpers since, even if they weren’t as professional as some of the robes his colleagues wore. But he wanted to look…nice. Not like his old self but like the self he was hoping to become, one day, when things felt less sharp. For the first time in a long time, Harry wanted something new.
There was no note on Friday so he sent him one of his own.
Looking forward to dinner.
If you burn it, I know all the best takeaway places.
H
~
On his lunch break he popped into a Muggle boutique not far from the Ministry. He walked by it from his bus stop and had always admired the kind of person who shopped there. The way the window displays felt like art. He let himself feel the different fabrics and think about the colors and textures in a way that he hadn’t bothered with before. Most of what he owned was practical.
A black silk shirt dress caught his eye. It was classic. Still comfortable. And the shopkeeper said it complimented his figure. So he bought it.
The rest of the day was a blur of memos and letters. Writing reports. Anything to keep himself busy enough to pass the time. He didn’t wait for Margaret’s goodbye wave before heading to the lifts at five sharp. Enduring smalltalk in the elevator and on the way out of the building.
On the way home he stopped at the wine shop and spent far too much money on a bottle that looked like the one he’d had the last time he went over to his flat. And since he was there he picked up a few bottles of his favorite affordable red. He was nervous but calm as he got ready. He used a little product in his hair and tamed some of the messy strands with his wand. Put the tiniest dab of French cologne at his wrist, dabbing it on his pulse points.
At two minutes to eight he slipped his shoes on. Mittens had hissed when he reached for his slippers. He was right, too informal. Then he grabbed the pricey wine bottle and one of the other ones. Just in case.
The door to apartment 9 opened after his first knock, but Draco was busy in the kitchen. Magicking pots and pans on the hob to stir themselves. Adding fresh herbs to something that smelled divine.
“Potter,” he said, taking a moment to look at him.
“Hello,” Harry replied. Draco wore a deep forest green jumper and black trousers. The socks on his feet were black, too.
He opened his mouth to say something then seemed to think better of it and cleared his throat.
“I brought wine,” Harry said quickly, bringing it over to him. One of Draco’s fingers skimmed Harry’s as he took the bottle and read the label. A slight smile on the corners of his mouth. When he looked at Harry, it was captivating — the way he seemed to scan over him slowly, throat bobbing.
“You look,” he started, and seemed to shake his head, to free the cobwebs or rattle the thoughts. “You’re so lovely.”
Harry blushed and took the wine back, opening his cupboards to look for the glasses. While he poured he took dishes and cutlery out. He served them plates of mushroom risotto that he levitated to the coffee table. Harry walked over to the sofa and perched himself near the center, where he could reach the table. A grey cloth napkin draped across his lap and he sat next to Harry.
“I feel like I should apologize for not having a proper dining table,” he said between bites. “I eat most of my meals leaning over the counter. My mother would be horrified.”
The thought made Harry laugh. They were sitting closer to each other on the couch, shoulders brushing. He turned so that his own knee rested against his leg. Feeling his skin warm at the contact.
They talked about Shakespeare, who Draco was adamant was a wizard, and how he spent the first two weeks in the flat surviving on bread and fruit. He’d used one of his approved trips outside to buy a couple cookbooks and teach himself how to read Muggle recipes.
“Bit of a disaster for a while. Surprised you didn’t smell my poor attempt at ratatouille a few months ago,” he said.
They smiled a lot, though they were shy smiles. Enjoying each other’s company and the food and the wine. Soon their plates were cleared and the wine refilled. Draco rested an arm behind him, propping his head against his fist.
“Do you ever see ghosts?” He asked, the words tentative. “Not like the Baron but—”
“People I’ve lost?”
He narrowed his eyes and nodded.
“Not every day. Not anymore. But yes. On the bus, most of the time. Something about the stops, I think. Makes it easier for the grief to play tricks on you,” Harry said, theorizing as he went.
“I used to see Vin — Crabbe. Only he was how I last saw him, in the Room of Hidden Things.”
Just before the fiendfyre took him. Harry had nightmares about it. “You don’t see him anymore?”
“We weren’t all that great at being friends. I was good at…leading, I guess. But Theo was the first friend I ever had. I see his face more.” He tapped the rim of his wine glass. Clinking the family ring against it.
“Is he one of the ones who won’t speak to you?” Harry ventured a guess. He confirmed it with a sniff.
“Lost his inheritance when his father went to Azkaban. Not sure where he even is now.”
Harry thought for a moment, but he didn’t know much of anything about Theodore Nott, Jr, other than his name. That his father had been a high-ranking Death Eater. “I could look into it,” he said quietly. “If you want. I could probably find out.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“If you want me to—”
“I’ve sort of resigned myself to being alone,” he said. “Better that way, like you said.”
“I thought so,” Harry replied, “but there’s this Muggle saying — misery loves company.”
Draco snorted, then finished his wine. “That what we are? Miserable?”
“Yes but we do have each other, hence the company.” With a flick of his wand their empty dishes floated to the sink to wash themselves.
“Then I suppose that’s better.” As he said it, Harry felt his little finger twitch against his hand. The touch was featherlight, and his fingers danced across the back of Harry’s hand until he covered it with his own. “Can cry in pairs.”
Harry felt the contours of his palm with his thumb, turning Draco’s hand to lace it with his own. “I don’t cry much anymore. I used to cry whenever I was frustrated or angry, not just sad. Now it’s like I’ve used it all up.”
“Do you ever wish you had more tears?”
“Sometimes. When it hurts a lot and I don’t know what else to do.”
“That’s the worst of it. Not knowing what to do,” he said.
“Can you believe my supervisor is demanding I have two weeks off for Christmas? I really don’t know what to do with all that free time.”
“Will you see the Weasleys?”
He looked away from Draco and he squeezed his hand. “No, not this year. Think I’ll be here. Can get some books from the library. Maybe teach myself how to cook.”
“A surprisingly useful skill,” he deadpanned.
Harry chuckled. “Will you go to the Manor?”
“No. I won’t go back there for a while,” he said, letting out a huff. Harry nodded and he eyed him curiously. “You don’t want to be with Granger and the Weasleys? You’d rather be alone?”
“I’d rather stay with you,” Harry said, letting himself look at him fully. The vulnerability he’d always tried to keep hidden written plainly on his face. He swallowed and Harry watched him wet his lips. Lean closer. Tilt his head when he was only a few centimeters away. Watched until the exact moment he kissed him.
Harry’s eyes closed and he hummed against his mouth, felt himself sigh. Wanting and pliant as he rested his hand at the nape of his neck. His own curled at the front of his jumper. The innocence of their lips soon matured, growing bolder. His tongue swept through Harry’s mouth and when he massaged it with his own he groaned, pulling Harry closer.
There was still too much space between them. Harry pushed him back against the couch and straddled his lap, needing to connect as many places as he could. Immediately he pressed a hand at the base of his spine, encouraging Harry to slide forward. His hands spanned his ribs, holding him tight. Rocking Harry against him while his thumbs grazed the sides of his waist. One of his hands palmed Harry, feeling how hard his co*ck was through his trousers.
“Don’t push me away this time,” Harry whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again.
When their eyes met once more, Harry decided that they were like the sky after a storm. Grey clouds, yes, but blue slowly peeking through. A promise that things would get better, no matter how dark they once seemed.
“I won’t,” he breathed against Harry’s lips before meeting them with his own. “I won’t.” He whispered again and again.
They pressed closer, burdened by layers of clothing. Harry stood and helped him up but when he reached for the button of his trousers he swatted his hand away and did it himself. Harry went to take off his jumper but he stilled his hands and took it off for him. Staring at Harry. Draco swallowed, and Harry watched his eyes darken when he dipped his head to kiss his exposed neck. Leaving hot, trailing kisses while he held Harry’s hip, holding Harry’s body to him. Brushing against his co*ck in the process.
Throwing the garment on the floor Draco captured his mouth once more. Messing his hair further with a few tugs. When Harry couldn’t bear the tension coiling any more he turned to whisper in his ear. “Touch me. Please.”
He took his time, trailing the tip of his finger from where he’d been gripping Harry’s hair down his throat, stopping to feel his pulse quicken before continuing the path to his collarbone. Bringing goosebumps over his arms when he circled one of the peaks of his nipples and then the other. Pausing to kiss Harry thoroughly, moving lower as he became breathless with it.
It wasn’t the clumsy first-time touches he’d had with women before he allowed himself to see men. Draco’s touches were careful and practiced, with the right amount of pressure to coax the notes from Harry. To hitch his breath and send a tingling shiver down every inch of his spine, down to the tips of his toes. Long fingers playing him softly and deftly, bringing sounds he’d never known he could make from his throat. Swallowing them with his mouth. Tangling their tongues in time with the movement of his fingers. Withdrawing them as he gave Harry a final chaste peck.
Draco hitched Harry’s legs tighter to his hips and flipped him onto the couch, startling Harry into a laugh. A real laugh, not the practiced chuckle he used to keep up appearances. And Draco laughed, too. So different than the cold trill he’d had as a child, when he’d only heard him laugh after a particularly coarse insult or act of bullying. Of Harry and others.
But this was warm. A rumbled chuckle that felt like hot cider in the middle of winter. Harry wanted more of it.
“What are you laughing at?” He asked, a spark of mischief in his eye. Kneeling above Harry on the cushions. Toying with his waistband and drinking in the sight of Harry beneath him. “I know I’m terribly funny but I don’t recall making a joke.”
Harry watched him skate across the elastic, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The cool silver of his ring against his stomach. Teasing Harry.
“Nothing really I just—” he gasped when he yanked his underwear down his thighs, “felt like it.”
He stepped away to remove them completely. Devouring Harry with hungry eyes before lowering himself back onto the couch, bracketing his hips with his arms. His answering chuckle sent warm breath against Harry and he heard himself gasp. Then he curled an arm around Harry’s thigh and circled his pelvis with his other hand, chuckling once more before bending closer.
“Good,” he said, “I feel like something else.”
The first touch of his mouth tickled, but Harry held in whatever giggle might have escaped. When he flicked the head of his co*ck with his tongue Harry had to bite down on his lip, first because he feared a laugh but quickly because he heard himself whimper when his lips closed over his co*ck. Harry held the arm of the couch with one hand and his hair with the other, unsure if he wanted to hold him closer or pull him away as he worked him. Alternating licking and sucking, his eyes rarely leaving Harry’s own, as if he wanted to watch his reactions. Hear the little mewls and the husky moans while he trembled. Conducting him higher, until he burst forth into sound — a symphony of sensation that flashed white behind his eyes.
Harry was still catching his breath when he felt him rise from the couch. Could see the hardness of him against his black trunks. He sat on the edge of the sofa beside his waist and ruffled Harry’s hair. And with that one gesture he’d never felt more cherished.
With one hand on his knee, Harry scooted himself back to sit up, aware of his heavier breaths and the little drops of sweat at his nape. When Harry kissed him he was unhurried. Unbothered by the taste of himself on his tongue. He let his hand move closer to his length. Reveling in the way his breath hitched when Harry teased it and pulled free from the kiss.
“I’ve never seen your bedroom,” Harry said, touching him more boldly. “Are you hiding anything interesting in there?”
The double entendre wasn’t intentional but he laughed at it anyway. Savoring the sound of his answering laugh. “Hope you like quidditch memorabilia and a life-size portrait of my great aunt Gemini.”
Harry rolled his eyes as he playfully lifted him into his arms. “As if it’s anything but luxurious neutral bedding—”
“She likes to heckle me,” he said into his ear, grazing it lazily with his teeth before crossing the few steps into his room.
But when Harry bounced onto the bed, giggling, he was pleased that his assumptions were right. Only the finest cotton linens and a soft but firm mattress. Entirely too many pillows. Cream sheets and a grey duvet.
Harry hadn’t laughed, with the others. Seeking pleasure had always come with guilt. The guilt of knowing that it would never be the right fit with Ginny. How it had hurt Harry to tell her. The guilt of using women when he was thinking about anything but them. With Draco it was not just hormones and two semi-willing partners. But the ineffable trust of your most vulnerable self with another person. Someone who understood your joy and accepted your rage. Who could laugh with you in one moment and know your fears in the next.
Draco stood in front of him, hesitant.
“I’ve done this before,” Harry said quietly, “if you were—”
“No, it’s not that,” he replied, reaching down to his hem. The dark green cashmere so striking with his pale features.
Harry sat up. “You can tell me,” he said.
“You’re perfect. But—”
When he pulled the knit off, carefully dropping it to the floor, he gradually met Harry’s eyes. One of his hands tracing over the brutal scar that bisected his torso. From just above his heart, diagonally across the flesh to stop at his hip. Little tributaries extending out from it. The usually haughty tilt of his chin was nowhere to be found. Instead he looked as though he wanted to hide. But Harry wouldn’t let him. He had other scars, too, and so did Harry.
“So are you,” Harry said, and he grabbed for his hand to pull him closer, so that he could press his lips to where the constellation of a scar was its most gruesome. The lines pink and puckered. The kind of hurried healing that would always leave a reminder. Like the ones on Harry’s own torso, legs and arms. Healed in a rush.
Good healing took time. It took care and patience. Sometimes it could take a lot longer than expected. Harry pulled back to look at him and he leaned over Harry to kiss his lips once more. Harry kissed him with a desperation that he felt reflected back at him. Because even though he knew he would feel fear and pain and grief — that there was no timeframe for it, and it might last forever — the tiny cracks had started to fill. Maybe it would never get better. But it would get less sharp.
Harry wound his arms around his shoulders and leaned back on the bed, taking Draco with him. Feeling the warmth of the other boys scars on his own skin. Sinking his teeth into the swell of his lip, then the spot on his neck that smelled the most like him. Like autumn rain and crackling embers and sweet caramel.
While Harry left marks he knew Draco would curse him for in the morning, he finally rid himself of that final layer and pressed Harry back, covering him with his frame. Turning them so that they were on their sides, legs tangled while he touched Harry again. When he took him in hand he sucked in a breath and Harry loved the sound. Every melody from his lips against his own and from his hands across the piano keys played through his mind as he guided him to enter Harry. Swinging his leg high over his hip as they rocked together. Moving in tandem to close the final distance between them.
It was slow at first, an easy pace while their bodies acclimated to each other. Harry liked that they held each other. Similar to the feeling you got from a particularly bone-squeezing embrace. Only Harry could feel the little puffs of his breath and the indentations of his fingers on his hip. They whispered to each other as they sought their pleasure, both given and received. Then he turned them so that Harry could control the movement from above while he looked up at Harry with wide, glassy eyes. A lock of platinum hair clung to his forehead. Harry decided he was allowed to brush it back. To trace patterns on his cheek. The adoration in his gaze almost overwhelmed Harry.
Harry had always liked being in charge, taking the lead. And as he leaned back, taking him deeper, he liked that, too. Liked the moans he made because of it. The way that his grip on him was tight. The way he rose to meet Harry with his hips. When Harry leaned forward he surged up to kiss him, hard and swift before he pushed him back to the mattress, leaning his weight against his chest until Harry found the spot he was searching for.
It became harder to keep the pace as Harry climbed higher. His skin feverish and overcome with the need to kiss Draco again and again, letting him pick up where he had left off. When he flipped them again, Harry moaned, the sharper thrusts hit right where he needed them to. He carded his fingers in Draco’s hair, mouthing at his earlobe while he reached where they were connected and pumped his co*ck, playing him like quick scales until at last Harry sang out. His breath caught in his throat as he dragged it out, keeping Harry suspended in bliss as he rolled into Harry again and again. Joining him with a call of his own. Panting between peppered half kisses on Harry’s face, his neck, his collarbone. Harry held him in his arms. A squeezing hug. Like if they held each other tightly, if they held each other closer, they could keep the feeling of safety and pleasure and calm just a little longer.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. Harry nodded, bumping their noses together when he went to kiss him lightly. Feeling his shoulder blades under his arms and Draco’s chest against his own. Their breath slowing.
They held each other until the moonlight passed through the blinds and everything was black.
It was still fully dark when Harry stirred. They’d fallen asleep facing each other, bodies intertwined. They must have slept for only an hour or two. When he chanced a look at Draco’s face, he was awake, too.
“Can’t sleep?” Harry asked and he shook his head. Though Harry was loathe to lose his warmth for even a fraction of a second he summoned his wand using a bit of wandless magic. With a few twirls he produced a small orb of glowing amber light and let it float high above their heads. Just enough so that he could look into his eyes.
After he placed his wand on the nightstand he reached back for him and he took Harry’s hand, pressing his lips to his knuckles. Harry liked to trace the lines of his fingers with his own, linking them together and feeling the smooth pads against his own. The little bits of scarred flesh like hieroglyphics for Harry to uncover with every touch.
“What do you have to do? For your probation?”
He furrowed his brow, the grip on Harry’s fingers tightening. “What do you mean?”
Harry swallowed. “You told me about all the limitations but not the rest. You said you had to do…boring things. Like what?”
For a while he was quiet, and Harry tilted his head to look at him. He sat up against the pillows, pulling Harry up with him. “You really want to know?”
“Of course I do,” Harry said, brushing his hair back. Letting the soft strands fall back into their newer style. He reached over Harry for his wand and summoned a small wooden box, letting it drop on the bed at their feet.
“Go ahead,” he said, sitting up to lean against the headboard. Harry looked at him curiously before reaching for the wooden lid, tilting it open. Inside the box was dozens of letters. Harry ran his fingers over the indentation from his signet ring in the shimmering wax seal. “Open one.”
Harry snapped his head back toward him “What? I can’t just open someone else’s mail.”
With an impatient sigh he ripped the letter from his hand and used his wand to slide the paper from the wax seal. Then he handed it back to Harry. In the elegant script he’d grown so accustomed to was a letter addressed to Colin Creevey’s parents. Harry scanned it and one part stood out among the rest.
Please know that I am very sorry for the loss of your son and for the part I played in the war that took his life.
“Are they all like this?” Harry asked, lowering the letter to his lap. The words were genuine — he could feel it in the slope of his penmanship. He nodded and held Harry’s gaze.
“Part of my probation is to seek atonement. Writing seemed like the best option, for me.”
As he spoke Harry sifted through the letters, tallying them. “There’s a few dozen here—”
“Yes, Raymond collects them in batches of 50.”
Harry paused and turned back to him. “How many have you written?”
“Hmm, maybe a few hundred? Lost count weeks ago.”
In his hands Harry held letters to names familiar and unknown. The parchment thick and creamy, a warm beige. “Have you—Does anyone ever write back?” He asked.
“Not sure. Raymond takes them to the Ministry and they do the rest,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not sure I need them to write back.”
Harry closed the box and he flicked his wand to return it to its resting place by his desk.
“My therapist…She says I have to find a way to forgive to myself.”
“For what?”
Of all the things they’d talked about and written about, he’d always held this one final truth close. Because if he said it out loud, he would see everyone’s faces. Harry took three measured breaths. “I’m the cause of so many people's deaths. Of Sirius’ and Remus, the cause of the War. I wasn’t able to save everyone and I know I could have tried harder. I could have prevented so much. I’m also the reason for those scars littering your chest. I think about it every night. Not sure it can be forgiven.”
But Harry wasn’t confronted with a confused look on Draco’s face. Instead he saw the understanding in the eyes of the young man beside Harry.
“The worst thing I’ve ever done,” Draco looked at his hands and paused. Harry rested a hand at his jaw, tilting it so that he faced Harry. “Is nothing.”
The pad of Harry’s thumb brushed his cheek and he leaned into Harry’s touch, the edge of his lips grazing her wrist. He watched his pale throat rise and felt his jaw clench and release.
“You were almost given to Voldemort in front of me. Right before my eyes, you could have died right there. You were tortured by Bellatrix and my Father that night. If I said something the torture might of stopped but I risked them possibly hurting me for speaking up, or worse calling Voldemort himself. You were hurt and almost given up for slaughter in my own house. And I did nothing, took no action. I knew that it was you the moment I looked into your eyes. I don’t know how I’m supposed to apologize for that.”
The shimmer in his eyes matched Harry’s own. Tears that settled in. Never quite falling.
“I find that I’m sorry works well. Perhaps you should start there. See how it goes.” Harry smiled, and felt one of his tears waver. Then blinked it away.
He gently removed Harry’s hand from his face and moved to the edge of the bed to put his boxers back on and grab his wand.
“Would you cast a silencing charm?” he asked as he left the room, walking on quiet feet to the piano. “I’m not supposed to but it’s late and the tenants below us…”
Harry summoned his underwear from the living room, laughing to himself as he did so, and snagged Draco’s jumper from the floor. It was heaven against his skin and fit him perfectly. Then he performed the spell and joined him on the bench.
There was a chill to the air that didn’t seem to bother him, but Harry cast a warming charm anyway. Draco waved his wand to produce sheet music. Then he muttered a spell as he trailed it over the keys and onto the paper before setting it down on the music rack.
With his eyes closed he rested his hands above the instrument and took a breath. Then he started. As he played the notes began to write themselves onto the parchment. Each one more sure than he’d heard before. The composition was soft like melancholy, and Harry knew the feeling of it better than anything. It had comforted him for weeks. The song was complete now, Harry knew by the way he formed the chords and flowed over the keys with precise movements. It was beautiful and haunting, like the blue smoke of his eyes, clear and focused. As the melodies washed over Harry he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Harry felt hopeful.
The song finished in a series of soothing notes, trailing off until he lifted his hands from the keys to gather the sheet music.
“You finished it,” Harry said. “I’ve been waiting for the end.”
“I’ve always known how it ends,” he replied, grabbing a quill from the cup on top of the piano.
“But it sounded like you were changing it whenever you’d play it. Like it wasn’t complete.”
“Because I wasn’t ready before.” He dipped the quill in fresh ink. In his precise script he wrote For Harry at the top. Harry’s name had never looked so beautiful.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what to say for months,” he said. “At first I wrote you letters…a lot of letters but they sounded hollow. Then I saw a picture of you in the paper one day, a few weeks after I moved in.”
Harry remembered it. They’d done a fluffy little feel good piece about Harry’s return to Hogwarts as a young war hero. Taking pictures and asking basic questions, nothing too controversial. Nothing that might make it seem like anything wasn’t normal. While his other friends had smiled, Harry couldn’t bring the muscles in his face to make the shape. On the front page of the Prophet was a photo of Harry, flanked by Hermione and Ron’s grins. And between them Harry looked small and sad and broken. The castle behind them full of ghosts.
“You just looked so…different, than I remembered. Something in your eyes was like mine, when I look in a mirror. I started composing,” he stopped himself and laughed. The warm chuckle that fit so well with the deep notes of his song. Harry’s song. It was for him. “Don’t know why. It’s not like I knew you. What if you didn’t like music or you preferred the cello or something and yet I was spending months trying to write you an apology on the piano.”
Harry took the sheet music and traveled over the lines with his eyes, reading it with his limited knowledge of major and minor and adagio and rests. “Will you teach it to me?”
“This might be a bit advanced for you—” Harry pinched his side and grinned, earning one of his rarest smiles in return. Boyish and unplanned. The echo of the music still hummed in his ears. Harry watched his face crumple, felt his hand tense at the small of his back as he leaned closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against Harry’s skin. “I’m so sorry, Harry.” He said it over and over until the words were just shapes against his temple.
Harry nudged his chin to rest his forehead on Draco’s, forcing him to look at Harry.
“I understand,” Harry said. He frowned at Harry and he continued. “You were scared. We were—”
“They didn’t believe me. They didn’t care. But I should have done… anything . I was a coward—”
“I forgive you,” Harry said, hoping that his words were clear even though they were ragged with emotion. “It’s okay. I forgive you. It’s going to be okay. We’re okay.”
And as Harry said it he knew that for the first time in over a year it was okay. He was okay. Because he was finally ready to start to forgive the one person he hadn’t planned on forgiving. Himself.
When Harry kissed him it was delicate. The kind of kiss you kept cradled in your memories, careful to keep it forever. Wrapped in wispy clouds and starlight.
“You really want me to teach you?” He asked, running a hand over Harry’s messy hair. Lingering behind his ear for an extra moment. Harry nodded.
The first keys were clumsy, but he was patient with Harry. For every note he played Harry heard his apology. When Harry repeated them back he hoped Draco heard his own, too. When it indeed became too advanced for Harry he watched his hands dance across the keys. And Harry felt another stitch mend his healing soul.
