Archive of Our Own

It’s Friday afternoon and Harry has washed up on Draco Malfoy’s doorstep again.

He hesitates before ringing the bell. He doesn’t come here every Friday, but he seems to round out his work week in Draco’s study more often than not these days. Harry always owls ahead—just because they’ve fallen into a routine of sorts doesn’t mean he’d dare show up unannounced. Draco is always available and happy to receive him.

Or so Harry likes to think.

Today’s going to be different, though. Today Harry’s going to ask Draco something that’s certainly beyond the usual scope of their arrangement. He squares his shoulders, mutters a few words of encouragement to himself that only the potted topiaries on either side of him can hear, and rings the bell.

Gimsy answers promptly, with a wobbly curtsy and Mr Potter is being welcome, as she does every visit. Harry follows her into the foyer, but instead of going down the hall to Draco’s study, the house-elf leads him upstairs. He’s never been upstairs before.

“Master is in the young Master’s nursery,” Gimsy explains as they climb the stairs. “Master said to bring Mr Potter there when he arrives and also to bid him to be quiet.”

“I’ll be very quiet,” Harry says obediently. “You can call me Harry, you know. I don’t mind.”

Gimsy comes to a halt four steps above Harry. They’re almost eye to eye, but he’s pretty sure she would look just as haughty if she was craning her neck to look up at him.

“Gimsy is a proper elf and she will address Master’s guests by their proper names.”

“What if I asked Draco to order you to call me by my first name?” Harry asks, grinning. But Gimsy looks so appalled at the suggestion that he regrets teasing her immediately.

“Master would not be giving orders that upset Gimsy,” she says firmly. “Master understands the importance of etiquette, unlike certain wizards.”

“All right, all right. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to upset you, either.”

The house-elf turns around with a disapproving hmph and continues up the stairs. Harry follows meekly, taking the opportunity to look around this previously-unseen part of Draco’s home. It’s as bright and elegant as the ground floor of his and Astoria’s Pembridge Square house, decorated in pale tones with stylish, comfortable furniture. Astoria’s photography adorns the walls—stunning landscapes and abstract images alternating with candid family photos. Harry would like to stop and look at them more closely, but Gimsy has already started up the next flight of stairs and he doesn’t want to upset her further by making her wait.

She pokes her head around a half-closed door on the second floor and whispers something that Harry can’t hear. Then she gestures for him to go inside before vanishing with a faint pop.

Harry pushes the door open and steps carefully into Scorpius’ nursery. The curtains are drawn over the large windows, yet his eyes immediately find Draco in the shadowy room. He’s in a rocking chair in the corner, with a sleeping Scorpius nestled against his chest. Draco presses a kiss into his son’s pale hair, then looks up at Harry with a soft smile.

“He wore himself out at the park and fell asleep right in the middle of a book,” Draco says in a low voice.

Harry can’t reply for a moment. While he waits for the painful little twist in his chest to ebb away, he crosses the room to stand closer. The thick carpet muffles his footsteps as he steps around blocks and wooden animals that appear to have been arranged to form a miniature zoo.

“Should I come back later?” Harry whispers.

“No, it’s fine. He shouldn’t sleep so late in the afternoon anyway or he’ll be up half the night. It’s all right if we wake him.”

“I’d hate to do that. He looks so cosy.”

“I know. Astoria’s going to be cross about it when he’s wide awake after dinner, but I’m not sorry. He’s going to be too big to sleep on my lap soon,” Draco says sadly.

“Almost two, huh?”

Draco hums in agreement, then asks, “So, what did you bring me today? Conjure yourself a chair. I can’t reach my wand.”

Harry does, then reaches into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a small ornate box with tiny, curved legs and a hinged lid. He holds it out for Draco’s inspection.

“Mrs Willoughby says it was a gift from a French king to her ancestor, as a reward for saving his life, or something.”

Draco huffs out a sceptical laugh. “Right. If I had a Galleon for every alleged gift from royalty I’ve heard about, I’d be able to buy myself a palace.”

“This isn’t far from one,” Harry remarks, looking around the spacious nursery. He doesn’t even see a cot in here, which means this room is just for playing in. Before they bought their cottage in Ottery St Catchpole, Ron and Hermione had Rose’s cot wedged into a corner of their bedroom and all her toys fit into one basket in the sitting room.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hardly a palace,” Draco says. “It only has five bedrooms and barely any garden to speak of. Now tell me what your client would like me to do with this. Provenance, I assume?”

“Yes, and an estimate of its value.”

“She’s going to be disappointed, I’m afraid. I can tell, even in this dim light, that it’s brass underneath, not gold. Look how tarnished it is. A polishing charm now and then wouldn’t have hurt it. What was done to it?”

“Just your standard anti-theft charms, but they either degraded over time or someone tried to tinker with them. It started stinging anyone who came into the room a couple months ago, so Mrs Willoughby owled me to come pick it up and fix it.”

“Not one of your more glamorous cases,” Draco smiles. “Are you sure you don’t want to go and raid tombs for the goblins instead?”

“Nah, I knew I didn’t want to do that when Bill trained me in curse breaking, and it’s not like the goblins would trust me with one dented Knut anyway. You know I enjoy what I do, and I get to be my own boss and skip out early on Fridays.”

Draco laughs softly. “And drink my Firewhisky.”

The idea for the business had come to Harry while he was still learning curse breaking. Every week, it seemed, someone Bill knew would ask him to take care of a cursed object or three that they found in their house. After the war, owning anything with the slightest hint of Dark magic became less of a reminder of a quirky ancestor to chuckle about and more of a shameful liability. Ministry employees, in particular, were subject to a great deal of scrutiny, since some of their colleagues were complicit with the Death Eaters. They were eager to rid their houses of any family heirlooms that might get them sacked.

What was a regular source of irritation to Bill became a steady source of business for Harry. Once Bill declared that his training was complete, Harry wasted no time setting up a workshop in the old scullery of Grimmauld Place and (with Hermione’s and a solicitor’s help) established Curio Curatives. It’s been almost four years now and demand for curse breaking is as strong as ever.

Draco came into the picture not long after Harry started taking his first clients. People were curious about the objects they brought to Harry, which were often quite old and presumably valuable. Harry didn’t have the first clue about antiques, so after removing any curses, he started bringing them to the one person he knew who had an interest in those sort of things: Draco Malfoy.

They both returned to Hogwarts after the war, ready to put the past behind them. In the camaraderie of the Eighth-Year dormitory, a truce was nurtured into a cordial relationship. Harry often overheard Draco talking to his friends about cataloguing the contents of Malfoy Manor, which he and his mother had decided was uninhabitable. He seemed to relish the task and spent a few hours every weekend at the Manor, eager to discover the forgotten histories of the objects he never gave a second thought to as a child.

Harry has no idea what became of all the figurines and tapestries and brooches that Draco found in his ancestral home, but he suspects that they’re probably in one of the oldest, deepest vaults beneath Gringotts. Other than a few pieces in Draco’s study, they’re nowhere to be seen in the bright rooms of his and Astoria’s home. Knowing Draco’s attachment to his hoard of Malfoy treasure, it must have been a matter of tense negotiations. Apparently, Astoria’s vision for their home won out.

After a dozen visits from Harry, Draco agreed to become his official consultant for clients wanting more information about the objects that Harry cleansed of curses. He enjoyed the work, he told Harry, and it wasn’t as if he had a job to fill up his days. His reports are written out on the heavy parchment letterhead of his business, Armand Antique Appraisals—never signed, to protect his anonymity—and he donates his modest fees to charity.

And thus began Harry’s regular visits, first to Draco’s expansive Chelsea flat, then to this house in Pembridge Square after he and Astoria were married three years ago. Their complementary skill sets may have brought them together professionally, but Harry likes to think that they’re inching their way towards friendship, Friday by Friday. It’s a friendship that’s limited to the panelled confines of Draco’s study, he’ll admit, but nonetheless one that Harry is glad to have.

Even if, lately, he’s had the nagging worry that his feelings about Draco are… confusing. Seeing Draco like this, cradling his sleeping son with such tenderness, certainly doesn’t help. Harry gives himself a shake to remind himself that there’s another matter he needs to discuss with Draco today.

“Speaking of glamorous cases, I have a big one I’m thinking of taking. An entire house with dozens of cursed objects, up in Scotland.”

“Oh?” Draco says, shifting Scorpius a bit to keep him from slipping sideways.

“Yeah, Ernie Macmillan’s great aunt. He owled me last week about it. She passed away a couple of years ago, but no one in the family has wanted to take on the task of clearing out her house. She got a bit senile towards the end and cursed all kinds of things in there. She wouldn’t let anyone in the house for the last ten or fifteen years of her life. Anyway, Ernie’s decided to do it now so they can use the house for summer holidays.”

“Do you think he’ll be wanting some of the items appraised?”

“He does, and I told him I might be able to arrange that.” Harry pauses, knowing what he’s about to ask needs to be phrased carefully if he wants to convince Draco to help. “The problem is, there are ten rooms crammed with stuff, so I’m going to be working on site. Ernie’s going to arrange for me to stay at the nearest village, since it’s too far to Apparate back and forth every day and they’re not connected to the Floo Network out there.”

“I see. Where exactly is this place? Orkney?” Draco asks.

“The Outer Hebrides. Even Hogsmeade is a couple of jumps by Apparition. So… if you were interested in helping, it would mean coming along with me. Ernie would like everything sorted so he knows what might be worth selling and what can just be Vanished. He said he’d hate to get rid of something that might be valuable or have some kind of historical significance.”

Draco tilts his head to rest his cheek against Scorpius’ flaxen hair. Harry knows this is no small thing he’s asking. As far as he remembers, Draco’s never been away from his son for more than a day.

“I’m not sure I can help you with this one, Harry,” Draco sighs. “An entire houseful of items to examine and research would take some time. And to be honest, I doubt Macmillan’s great aunt managed to acquire anything of historical significance, then kept it hidden away in the Outer Hebrides for Merlin knows how many decades.”

Harry tries to tamp down his disappointment. He’s not ready to give up just yet, knowing he still hasn’t played his trump card.

“Well she was a famous collector, apparently. Ernie said she inherited a lot of gold from her parents, who made a fortune in designer robes, or something. She spent her life travelling and bringing home things from all over the world and—”

“Wait, wait,” Draco interrupts. “What was her name?”

“MacDonald,” Harry says. “Um, Ervine, I think?”

“Erwina,” Draco corrects him. He shakes his head in disbelief. “She was the President of the Magical Antiques Society for years. I’ve seen her name dozens of times in my research, when I was reading through the articles that the Society published in their quarterly reviews. Erwina MacDonald… Salazar.”

“Yeah,” Harry grins. “You’ll be the first person to go through it all. After I get any curses off, that is.”

He can tell that Draco’s considering it now. He’s practically squirming in the rocking chair, obviously tempted by the opportunity to examine the personal collection of such a renowned collector. Harry sits back in his chair and watches Draco’s internal debate via the expressions flickering across his face.

Awakened by his father’s sudden restlessness, Scorpius stirs and blinks his eyes open. His small hand grips the fabric of Draco’s button-down shirt while he orients himself.

“Papa?”

“You fell asleep while we were reading,” Draco murmurs. He keeps his arms around Scorpius while he sits up and looks around the dim nursery. “Harry’s here. Can you say hello?”

Scorpius just stares, too groggy for manners just yet. Harry smiles at him.

“Hi, buddy. I heard you had fun at the park today.”

Scorpius rubs his eyes and falls back against his dad’s chest, making Draco grunt.

“I think we need to get you a snack, and maybe some fresh air in the garden to wake you up,” Draco tells him. He stands up, hoisting Scorpius onto his hip, then turns to Harry. “I’ll discuss it with Astoria. She may have appointments she’d have to reschedule. She said something about a photo shoot in Kent next week.”

“All right. I have some work for a few other clients that I need to wrap up before I can get away. I reckon it’s going to take at least a week to go through ten rooms. I’d really appreciate your help. And the company,” Harry adds lightly, following Draco toward the stairs.

His eyes stay fixed on Draco’s back as they descend to the ground floor. He wears his hair long now, always pulled back into a low ponytail held in a silver clasp. Scorpius has one arm wrapped around Draco’s shoulder, and Harry can see his chubby fingers inching towards the silky tail between his dad’s shoulder blades. He knows Draco won’t scold Scorpius, even if he does grab it.

When they reach the foyer, Draco turns to Harry.

“I’m sorry we won’t be able to discuss the Falcons-Puddlemere game. I assume you have plenty to say about Whitman’s catch. Which was perfectly legal, of course.”

“Oh, I think that’s debatable,” Harry chuckles, “but it will have to wait until next time, won’t it?”

“I’ll send my owl when I decide so you can let Macmillan know. He can arrange lodgings for me, as well?”

“Er, yeah. He said he knows a witch there who has a small inn or guesthouse. I guess I’ll talk to you soon, then.”

Draco nods and gives a small wave before turning away.

Harry’s about to step out the front door, which Gimsy’s holding open for him, when he slides his hands into his jacket pockets and finds the box. Draco has just disappeared through a doorway down the corridor, speaking softly to Scorpius.

“I forgot to give this to him. Could you put it on his desk, please?” Harry asks the house elf.

Gimsy takes the box with a curtsy and wishes Harry a pleasant evening.

Casting a wistful look over his shoulder, Harry leaves the house, drawn back into the currents of the city like a bit of sea wrack carried out by the tide.

Harry sets the small mantel clock on his workbench with a satisfied sigh and tilts his head from side to side to stretch the tension out of his neck. It was a tricky Furnunculous Curse, hidden underneath multiple Concealment Charms. Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell inspires people to curse anything, much less something as mundane as a clock. Sometimes while he’s working, he likes to invent lurid tales of bitter feuds between family members over a prized object, cursed gifts sent by jealous rivals, or discontented servants seeking revenge.

Draco told him that, a century or more ago, it used to be considered amusing to place cursed objects around one’s home, usually in plain sight where an unsuspecting guest who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves would find it. Nothing deadly, he reassured Harry, with a wry grin. Nothing that St Mungo’s couldn’t sort out with a few counter curses or potions, with an overnight stay to regrow a limb or put their internal organs back in their rightful places, at worst.

Hearing that reminded Harry for the first time in years how his Muggle upbringing sets him apart. It doesn’t happen often anymore, after sixteen years in the magical world. He’s relieved that the Weasleys didn’t decorate the Burrow with cursed knick-knacks. The twins’ pranks were enough of a threat, thanks ever so. And thank goodness the war seemed to be the death knell for that sort of thing.

Harry smiles as he rises from his stool and heads for the kitchen. He probably shouldn’t be too hard on people. After all, without them, he wouldn’t have his business.

Ducking through the low door, Harry feels the protection and alarm spells on the workshop brush over his skin like a static charge. Bill taught him that working alone requires safety precautions. When Harry converted the old scullery, he layered the walls with spells that would detect an activated curse and set Ron and Hermione’s wands buzzing to notify them. Harry’s proud to say that he only tripped them once and had already cast the counter curse to separate his fingers and toes by the time his friends came tumbling through the Floo.

There’s a tapping on the window just after Harry lights the hob beneath the kettle. He pushes up the sash to let Draco’s eagle owl hop inside, where she nimbly takes a treat from Harry’s fingers. Harry feels anticipation sparking in his chest as he detaches the letter from the owl’s leg and hooks a finger beneath the wax seal to open it.

Draco’s coming to Scotland with Harry, the letter informs him.

Astoria agreed to it and made arrangements for Scorpius to go to his grandparents’ house when she has something scheduled for her photography business. Draco only requires that he can return home every three or four days to spend time with his wife and son. He’ll arrange the Portkeys for himself. Enclosed with Draco’s letter is a separate list of his standard services and rates to forward to Ernie, so that an agreement can be drawn up in advance.

Harry sets the letter down on the kitchen table and lowers himself onto a wooden chair. They’re really going to do this. The prospect of spending a week together excites Harry in a way that his conscience does not approve of. If he doesn’t want to humiliate himself—and jeopardise their friendship—he’s going to have to get control of... whatever this wriggling, self-conscious thing is that he’s started feeling around Draco. And quickly.

He scribbles a reply at the bottom of Draco’s letter and sends the owl back out into the dreary October afternoon. While his tea steeps, Harry leans against the window frame and looks out over his sad excuse for a garden. Maybe next spring will finally be the year that he does something with it. He thinks of Draco and Astoria’s garden, which can be seen from the windows of Draco’s study, with its elegant stone planters that overflow with cascades of flowers in the summer and the wrought iron table and chairs—a perfect place for tea. Harry huffs a laugh under his breath. He should start with pulling out all the weeds before he makes any grandiose plans.

The front door slams upstairs. By the time Ginny clatters down the stairs and appears in the kitchen doorway, Harry has already pulled her favourite mug from the cupboard. It’s been four years since she moved out, but Harry still recognises her footsteps immediately. Her hair’s damp and her eyes are bright, which means she must have just finished practice and Apparated straight from the Harpies’ training centre.

After accepting a kiss on the cheek and her mug of tea, Ginny sits across from Harry at the table and looks him over with a critical eye.

“You’ve been working too much again,” she says after a few minutes. “You’re going to start looking like the ghoul in the attic if you keep working twelve hours a day.”

“I’m not, honestly. I just finished up a piece that gave me a little more trouble than most.”

Ginny props up her feet on an empty chair. “You should go out more. Have some fun instead of sitting around this dreary old place.”

“I do go out! I went out for Hermione’s birthday, remember?”

“You didn’t seem to enjoy yourself very much. You barely even laughed when Seamus got the olive from my martini stuck up his nose. Even Ron noticed, and he’s not particularly observant at the best of times.”

Harry slumps forward, cupping his mug with both hands. “I’m just in a bit of a rut, that’s all. I’m sure I’ll snap out of it.”

“You need to go out with people, on dates, is what I meant. How long has it been? A year?”

“I don’t know! It’s not like I keep track.” When Ginny looks at him sternly—something Harry’s certain she unconsciously picked up from Molly—he throws up his hands in frustration. “All right, it was last autumn. That bloke from Denmark that was consulting for the DMLE. Hermione set us up.”

“You can’t even remember his name, can you?” Ginny laughs. “He must not have made much of an impression. And before that, there was that witch who works in the Cannons’ team office. You had a few dates with her, if I recall, then dropped her like a flaming Quaffle. Have you given up? I know no one’ll ever hold a candle to me, Harry, but they can’t all be terrible.”

“Cute,” Harry says. “There was just never any spark, you know? They were nice. I had fun hanging out with them. But I didn’t feel like I wanted more than that with any of them. And eventually they would have wanted more, and I just felt…”

“Meh?” Ginny finishes for him. She takes a few more sips of tea and looks thoughtful. “We were kind of meh for the last year. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry says quietly, looking away from Ginny. He’d rather not think about that time, to be honest. Those months when they barely touched each other anymore, even in a casual way, were painful. Harry felt terrible that he was a little relieved when she started staying at a teammate’s flat during the week. He knew the relationship was over long before she sat him down to tell him she was moving out, forcing him to admit aloud for the first time that things between them had withered away.

“I’m not sure you’re just in a rut this time, Harry. This seems different, like there’s something else going on.”

“Now you sound like Hermione. I got a talk about high-functioning depression and compulsive overworking the other day.” Harry sighs. “I really do think it’s just a recent thing. A short-term thing. I’ll get through it. And as for dating, yeah, it would be nice to find someone but I’m content to wait until the right person comes along.”

“What about a shag?” Ginny asks with a grin. “Everyone needs a good romp once in a while, to perk them up. You know I can help you find someone who’s fit and can be discreet, if you just want to have a bit of fun.”

“Christ, Ginny. I don’t know which is more horrifying: having my ex-girlfriend arrange a one-off for me, or sex with a complete stranger. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Fine, let me know if you change your mind.” Ginny tugs her wand from the back pocket of her jeans and levitates her empty mug to the sink. “There’s nothing wrong with casual sex, you know.”

“I do know that. I’m not a prude. But it’s really not for me,” Harry says firmly. Merlin, he cringes at the very thought of trying to muster enough interest to even give it a proper go. He has a feeling it would end in utter humiliation.

“Well, if I can’t persuade you to take that kind of ride, I can at least get you on a broom. I’ll be home for Sunday roast next weekend and we can have a few Seeker’s games after lunch.” Ginny puts her hands on her hips, as she always does when she’s imitating Hermione. “Exercise is an important part of good mental health.”

Harry laughs. “No can do. I’ve got a job up in Scotland, and I’ll be there at least a week. I’ll have to take you up on that offer some other time.”

“You’re staying up there? What’s cursed, all the desks in Hogwarts or something?”

“No, an entire house full of antiques that Ernie Macmillan’s great aunt left behind when she passed away. She spent her final years putting curses on half her collection, apparently. Give Molly my regrets, will you?”

“Sure.” Ginny cocks her head at him. “Wasn’t he that pompous Hufflepuff in the D.A.? What’s he doing now?”

“That’s him. He works at the Ministry now. Public relations, I think? He writes all those press releases announcing the wonderful things our government is doing for us.”

Ginny snorts. “Perfect. When you get back from Scotland, I’m going to get some people together for a night out. And you can’t say no.”

“Don’t worry, I know better than to try,” Harry laughs. “Did you just drop by for a cuppa and a chat, or was there something else?”

“Oh, yeah, I was wondering if you still have those trunks of old robes up in the attic. I’m thinking of using one for a Halloween costume.”

“Yeah, they’re still up there. Are you going to dress up as Walburga? Filth! Defiling my noble house!” Harry cries shrilly.

“Nice idea, but I don’t think my teammates would get the joke. I’m going for Celestina, if I can figure out the charms for my hair. I don’t think she was ever a ginger.”

“Ask your mum. She’d probably know.”

“Probably,” Ginny laughs. “I’ll be sure to ask when I have a few hours free to listen to her go on about it. I’m gonna go rummage around your attic now, if that’s okay.”

Harry feels a twinge of wistfulness at her words. It used to be their attic. At least he thought of it that way. Ginny never loved any part of the house, and she didn’t live here long enough even to grow fond of it.

“Sure, go on ahead. Let me know if you want a hand.”

“I’ll be fine. It shouldn’t take too long to find something ugly and gaudy. Go out for a walk. Get some fresh air in your lungs before you compulsively overwork yourself to death.”

“Bossy, bossy. Hermione’s going to demand that you join forces with her if she hears you talk like that.”

“Well, you should listen to her. You know she’s smarter than both of us combined.” Ginny reaches down and tousles his hair as she stands. “And pick up some curry while you’re out. Practice was brutal today and I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ginny Disapparates with a pop, leaving Harry to sip the rest of his tea alone.

He didn’t need to ask her what kind of curry she wants. If it was Ron or Hermione, Harry wouldn’t give it a second thought. But every time something like this happens, he’s left feeling a bit bereft. It’s not that he misses being with Ginny, per se—their relationship was never going to work in the long run. But he does miss those small intimacies that come with having a partner, the little things that only they shared, and the comfort of being understood without words at times.

The remaining sheets of Draco’s letter at the other end of the table catch Harry’s eye. He knows very well why he’s been feeling more lonely lately. He knows why he’s been trying to keep as busy as he can, accepting more jobs than he usually does to keep his mind away from other things. Let Hermione call it whatever she likes. Harry’s certain it’s just a passing fancy at most, something that will fade eventually and then he’ll be back to his old self again.

Harry tips the last bit of his tea into his mouth and sets his mug next to Ginny’s in the sink. He knows there’s a Stinging Hex with his name on it if she comes back downstairs and finds him here. With any luck, he can convince her to stay for a while after dinner. There’s a quarterfinal game she’ll want to listen to on the wireless, and Grimmauld is as good a place as any to do it.

And Harry will be grateful for the distraction.

Harry half runs, half leaps down two flights of stairs when he hears the Floo in the kitchen roar, silently cursing himself for forgetting to open the one in the parlour. The kitchen is hardly an appropriate place to greet a guest, especially one he’d rather like to impress. Or not offend, at the very least.

Draco’s standing by the wide kitchen fireplace with a small trunk at his feet, waiting patiently for Harry to show up, with no recrimination beyond a raised eyebrow. Thank goodness Harry ate early and made sure to take care of the washing up, or Draco would be treated to the sight of dirty dinner dishes and Harry might never live it down.

“Hi. Um, sorry, I forgot that this was the only connection I have open,” Harry says breathlessly, dropping his rucksack next to the duffel bag of books and equipment on the table. “Um, welcome to Grimmauld Place?”

Draco smirks at him and makes a show of looking around the room, from the grimy ceiling beams to the chipped flagstone floor. “Thank you. I assume there isn’t time for a tour before the Portkey activates. I’d love to see what you’ve done with the rest of the place.”

Harry doesn’t permit his eyes to stray toward the cobwebs in the corners, lest he draw Draco’s attention to them. “The rest is much nicer, I swear. I just haven’t done up the kitchen yet.”

Thank Merlin the Portkey is going to whisk them away to Scotland in a few minutes. The truth of the matter is that Harry only uses about four rooms in the old townhouse, not counting his workshop. If allowed to see it, Draco—either by virtue of his curious nature or solicitousness for a place that used to belong to his great aunt and uncle—would probably throw open the door of every dusty, neglected room in the place.

Draco looks at his pocket watch. “Seven minutes.”

“Ernie said to wear something warm and waterproof. It’ll likely be raining when we get there, and the Portkey will set us down outside.”

“Lovely. I brought appropriate clothing, don’t worry. I know the weather out there is quite wet most of the year. So... did Macmillan have any concerns about my taking the job?”

“Er, why would he? I told him we’ve been working together for years and I could get references for him, if he wanted them.”

Draco gives Harry a pointed look. “Our paths haven’t crossed since the war. I would understand if he wasn’t eager to see me, much less give me access to his great aunt’s house. And I notice you didn’t answer my question, Harry.”

Harry winces. Christ, he really should know better than to underestimate Draco.

“It’s fine, Draco, I promise. It’s been ten years. People from school have moved on more than you think.”

Draco shakes his head, but doesn’t contradict Harry. It’s been a point upon which Harry has pressed him more than once, after a few sips of Firewhisky loosened his tongue. Draco prefers to keep out of the public eye, even declining invitations to join their eighth-year cohort at a pub. He’s content with his small group of Slytherin friends, he insists, no matter how many times Harry tries to lure him out with Quidditch tickets and invitations to small parties hosted by someone from their Hogwarts year.

Harry convinced himself, at first, that he was trying to help Draco, as he would any friend. But Draco’s not unhappy, and he never seems to feel left out. Now Harry suspects that his motivations were probably selfish—an hour in Draco’s study each week isn’t nearly enough anymore—and he resolves to stop inviting Draco places before he embarrasses himself.

“Two minutes,” Harry says, happy to change the subject before Draco can ask him about Ernie again. He reaches for the jacket draped over the back of a chair. It’s not the warmest one he owns, but he doesn’t expect to spend much time outside while he’s in Scotland, and he packed a couple of jumpers to wear as well.

Draco pulls out a black woollen cloak from his trunk, then carefully relatches it. With a deft swirl, he drapes the cloak around his shoulders and fastens the jet buttons that run down the front. Harry drags his gaze away from Draco’s hands. He shoulders his rucksack and picks up his duffel bag and the Portkey that’s waiting on the table.

The Portkey is a dented aluminium saucepan. Ernie dropped it off yesterday and gave Harry the name of their hostess in the village of Loch nam Madadh. He’s to meet Harry and Draco after breakfast tomorrow to take them to his great aunt’s house on the other side of the island.

Draco raises an eyebrow at the saucepan, muttering under his breath about why in Salazar’s name the Ministry can’t find more dignified objects to charm. He takes hold of the rim when Harry steps forward to stand beside him. Harry keeps his eyes on his own hand for the last, slow minute before the Portkey activates.

With a jerk that feels like a hook through his gut, the Portkey pulls Harry into the blackness, then sets him down on a squelchy surface just as abruptly.

“Aaarrrg!” Harry shouts, as he gets a faceful of wind-driven rain. “Bloody fuck!”

Draco laughs, the prat. Harry can see through the dripping lenses of his glasses that he’s grinning inside the deep hood of his cloak, which is probably charmed to keep the rain off his face. Harry feels like an idiot for not pulling his own up.

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Draco says, turning to look at the cottage in front of them. It’s quite modern-looking, with large picture windows and a deck. It seems they landed in the middle of the front garden. Harry leads the way, stepping around the soggy remains of a flower bed, to the front steps.

The door opens before they knock. A middle-aged witch with greying brown hair beckons them inside with a friendly welcome, stepping back from her dripping guests. She shows them where to hang their coats before introducing herself.

“Mary Morrison,” she says, shaking their hands in turn. “Welcome to Loch nam Madadh. Come sit and have some tea, and then we can get you settled in for the night.”

Harry and Draco follow her to a table in front of one of the large windows, where tea and a plate of shortbread are waiting.

“Thank you for having us. I know Ernie said that you usually only take guests in the summer months,” Harry says.

“Not enough come other times to make it worth staying open.” Mary smiles and gestures towards the rain-smeared window. “As you can see, the weather’s a bit rough for outdoor activities, and there’s not much else to do out here. I do like the company, though. And Ernie’s a MacDonald through his mum, and the MacDonalds have been here on the island for hundreds of years.”

“Oh, I was under the impression that his great aunt built the house here,” Draco says.

“Aye, she did, but most of the MacDonalds left a hundred and fifty years ago, in the Highland Clearances. They were driven off their farms or paid by the landlords to emigrate, many to Canada, Muggle and magical alike. The MacDonalds managed to hold the land where Erwina built the house because it’s a small island, and they kept it warded well, even when no one lived there. You’ll see the shell of an older house when Ernie takes you out there tomorrow.”

Draco is fascinated and asks more questions about the history of the island as they have their tea. Their hostess seems pleased to share her knowledge and goes on enthusiastically until she notices that it’s completely dark outside.

“All right, let’s get you settled in over the way. I didn’t mean to chatter on for so long!” she exclaims, rising from the table and putting on a yellow macintosh.

“We aren’t staying here?” Harry asks as he brushes shortbread crumbs off his jumper.

“No, the guest cottage is across the lane, but you’ll have breakfast here in the morning.”

Harry remembers to pull up his hood this time, and he and Draco follow Mary out into the wet night. They crunch down the gravel walk by the light of their wands. They’ll have to wait until morning to get a better look at their surroundings—the only thing to see now is the tall wet grass being whipped by the wind, which carries the tang of the sea.

It only takes a minute to reach the cottage. Harry’s so intent on keeping his chin tucked down in an effort to keep his glasses dry that he almost runs into Draco’s back when he stops. He peers up at the building as Mary unlocks the door. It’s built of whitewashed stone, with a thatched roof and a red door flanked by two small windows.

“Well,” Draco says, unable to conceal his surprise. “It’s quite… rustic, isn’t it?”

“Only on the outside,” Mary assures him cheerfully. “It’s quite comfortable on the inside. There aren’t many traditional cottages left anymore, and I wanted to keep it as authentic as possible on the exterior, as a reminder of the way people here used to live.”

She lights the lamps and the fireplace with a few swishes of her wand as Harry and Draco file in behind her. They’re in a small but cosy sitting room with a short sofa and two armchairs clustered around the fire. After they take off their coats, Mary leads them through the rest of the cottage.

“This is the bedroom and the bathroom’s through that door. Towels are in that cupboard. I’ll be round to collect them and the linens at the end of the week, but let me know if you need anything sooner. Oh, there’s a charmed kettle and some things for tea on the sideboard out in the sitting room.”

Harry exchanges a look with Draco.

“Um, isn’t there another bedroom?” Harry asks. “Ernie said…”

“Ah, how could I forget!” Mary turns and pats a ladder behind her. “Two more beds up in the sleeping loft. Plenty of room up there.”

“Right, thank you,” Draco says stiffly.

“It’s lovely,” Harry adds, lest Mary think they’re ungrateful. “What time is breakfast?”

“Half past seven, unless you want it a bit later.”

“That’s fine. Ernie’s coming at nine o’clock to take us over to the house.”

“All right, sleep well, lads.”

After Mary closes the door behind her, Harry walks to the ladder and climbs just far enough to poke his head through the opening in the ceiling. Then he casts a Lumos and holds his wand out over the top of the ladder.

Fuck. It’s tiny. And there aren’t any windows. There are two low beds, one at each end of the loft under the slope of the roof. A lamp hangs from an exposed rafter in the centre of the room. Harry’s heart starts to pound and he quickly scurries down the ladder.

“What’s the matter?”

Harry startles at the sound of Draco’s voice, just behind him. He realises that he’s gripping the rungs of the ladder so tightly that his hands ache, and he forces himself to let go and sit on the edge of the bed.

“It’s really small,” Harry grits out.

He can feel Draco watching him as he takes a few breaths to pull himself together.

“You’re claustrophobic?” Draco asks softly.

“Yeah, I… yeah.” Harry pulls off his glasses and runs a hand over his face. “I can’t sleep up there, I’m sorry.”

Draco huffs. “Nice of you to assume that I would insist on taking this room, Harry.”

He climbs the ladder himself, spends less than ten seconds with his head and shoulders in the loft, then descends with a dismayed hum.

“It is quite… compact.”

After watching Draco avoid his eyes for a minute, Harry says, “You don’t want to sleep up there either, do you?”

“Not particularly. The lack of windows is very unsettling.”

“Transfigure the sofa?”

“I’m afraid my Transfiguration skills are a bit rusty. Even if I could make a passable bed, there’s always the possibility of it suddenly reverting to its original form in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t think I could do it, either.” Harry sighs. “Christ. I’m sorry. I should have asked Ernie for more details about this place. I would have had him make other arrangements if I’d known.”

He’s suddenly very tired, even though it’s not yet nine. Maybe it was the shot of adrenaline when he looked up in the loft, or maybe the long days he’s been putting in have finally caught up with him. It’s tempting to let himself fall back and lie on the bed, but that might look like he’s claiming it for himself.

Just as Harry’s about to offer to sleep on the sitting room floor with some Cushioning Charms, Draco makes a suggestion.

“It’s a double bed. We could share it.”

Harry shoves his glasses back on so he can see if Draco’s serious.

He looks serious. Harry’s at a loss for words.

“You don’t flail around in your sleep, do you?” Draco asks, Summoning his trunk with an elegant swirl of his wand. “Or snore? Why are you looking at me like that? It’s the obvious solution.”

“No. Yeah,” Harry says, flustered. “I mean, no, I don’t snore. And I guess that is the only thing to do.”

“Good. If it doesn’t work tonight, we can talk to Mary about other arrangements. She may let us take some of the furniture out of the sitting room so we can fit another bed in there.”

Draco opens his trunk and begins hanging his shirts and trousers in the wardrobe. Harry glances over his shoulder at the top of the bed, where two plump pillows sit, side by side. Where he and Draco will be sleeping shortly, inches apart, unless some other option magically presents itself in the next hour or so.

“Are you going to unpack tonight?” Draco asks. He’s moved on to putting clothes in a chest of drawers while Harry was lost in his thoughts.

Harry stands. “Yes, I’ll just wait out there until you’re done. So we’re not in each other’s way.”

Merlin, it’s only their first night here and things have gone tits-up already. He sprawls in one of the sitting room armchairs and stares into the fire, trying to think about anything else. Teddy’s upcoming Junior Quidditch League game. The steps for safely removing a Skin-blistering Curse. All the dishes that Molly made for the last Sunday roast at the Burrow. He manages to calm himself a bit by the time Draco calls out that he’s done unpacking.

The bathroom door is closed when Harry takes his rucksack into the bedroom to put his things away. Draco emerges a short time later wearing navy blue flannel pyjamas. His long hair is unbound and loose around his angular face. The low light from the lamp makes him look softer than usual, Harry thinks. More vulnerable.

Harry moves to take his turn in the bathroom, but then Draco calls his name, making him pause.

“Which side?”

“Huh?” Harry asks.

“Which side of the bed would you like?” Draco clarifies. “Do you have a preference?”

Harry shakes his head. “Um, no. I usually just sprawl in the middle. Since I sleep alone these days.”

Draco opens his mouth to say something, then seems to change his mind. He flips down the corner of the duvet. “All right. I’ll take this side.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and steps into the bathroom before he has to endure seeing Draco getting into bed. He’s afraid he might lose his nerve and end up sleeping on the sitting room floor after all, if he does.

After brushing his teeth and changing, Harry navigates through the darkened bedroom without lighting his wand. He manages to avoid walking into anything and slips under the covers as quietly as he can, facing away from Draco.

It’s not as startling as Harry feared, to be lying next to Draco. The bed is comfortable and the steady tap of rain on the window covers the sound of Draco’s breathing. Harry lays very still, coaxing his muscles to relax. Then he starts silently reciting the Arithmancy formulas he had to memorise during his training.

Within minutes, he’s fast asleep.

Harry wakes in the dark, disorientated and stiff from sleeping curled in the same position for so many hours. When he remembers where he is, he carefully rolls onto his back and turns his head to look at the other side of the bed. It’s empty. Harry takes the opportunity to stretch like a starfish beneath the duvet.

It’s only half six according to the clock on the bedside table. Harry wonders how long Draco’s been up. There’s a thin line of light beneath the door to the sitting room, but no noise. The heavy rain seems to have stopped, too. Resigning himself to being awake, Harry casts a Lumos and heads to the bathroom for a slash and some cold water on his face to wake himself up properly. Then he dresses warmly and slips into the sitting room.

Draco’s on the loveseat, dressed, with a book and a mug. He nods in greeting when he sees Harry.

“Good morning. Did you sleep all right?”

“Yeah. Like a log, actually. You?”

“Very well. I made some tea,” Draco says. “It’s the breakfast blend I brought from home.”

Harry laughs softly. “Of course it is. Thank you, I think I will have some. Merlin, it’s still pitch black out there. I forgot how quickly the days get short in the autumn up here. By mid-November, we used to go down to the Great Hall for breakfast before the sun rose. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Draco says, watching Harry pour his tea after adding a splash of milk to the mug. “It won’t be as cold here, by the sea, as it was in the mountains.”

“Hmm,” Harry agrees, taking his first sip. It’s delicious. Leave it to Draco to remember to pack his own tea supply. “I won’t interrupt you if you want to go back to your book.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve just been passing the time.”

Harry considers sitting down, but feels too restless. He carries his mug to the low window and leans down to look outside. The sky is brightening a little at the horizon, a thin streak of pale gold. The house must face east, towards the inner islands. He moves to the front door next, opening it enough to feel the cool, wet air on his face. It’s still too dark to see much and the lenses of his glasses quickly get covered with a fine mist.

Harry retreats back to the sitting room and decides to sort out the supplies he brought so they’ll be ready when they go to the house. He sets out the equipment he’ll use—charmed dragonhide gloves for handling objects whose curses are activated by touch, a modified Foe Glass that can detect Dark magic, a set of heavy goggles to enhance his vision while he’s working on the smallest items. He adds a few notebooks and biros to the pile, then Summons his empty rucksack.

Draco sets down his book and watches with interest while Harry packs.

“I thought it was just a matter of knowing the appropriate counter curses,” Draco says, gesturing at the small pile of gear. “Will I be able to watch you work?”

Harry’s warmed by his interest. He’d love to show Draco how he does his job, but there are safety issues to consider. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea for some of the more dangerous curses, but I can show you how I remove the smaller ones. If Erwina made any nose-biting teacups, I’ll let you watch.”

“If she went to the trouble of putting curses on things, she very well may have chosen worse ones than that.”

“I know, believe me. And you’re not even going to be allowed in the room if I find anything like that. I’ll find a place for you to work so that I won’t have to worry about you being within range of anything I might set off, and you’ll need to stay there unless I call you. All right?”

Draco is sobered by Harry’s serious tone. “I won’t get in your way, I promise.”

“It’s not a matter of getting in my way, Draco. It’s a matter of keeping you safe in a house full of cursed objects,” Harry says urgently. “I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt, even in a way that’s easily healed.”

Draco looks moved by Harry’s concern. He holds Harry’s gaze for a moment, then reaches into the pocket of his waistcoat for his watch.

“It’s about time for breakfast. Shall we?” he asks, rising from the loveseat. “I think, since we both slept well, that we needn’t bother Mary about rearranging the furniture for a second bed, don’t you agree?”

Harry bends down to zip his rucksack closed so that Draco can’t see his cheeks colouring. “No, I think it will be fine as it is.”

Merlin, he hopes it will be fine.

Mary feeds them a hearty breakfast in her front room, then sends them off with a paper sack of sandwiches, biscuits, and apples for lunch. Harry and Draco take a few minutes to look around on their way back to the cottage. It’s still drizzling, but brighter than when they arrived last night. The land is low around them, barely broaching the grey sea that’s only a few hundred feet from the lane. Seabirds call to each other in the mist, hidden from view in the low clouds or in the browning grasses that haven’t yet been flattened by wind and rain.

“A bit bleak, don’t you think?” Draco asks. “It’s so quiet.”

“It probably just seems that way to us after London. And Mary said the sun does come out. Other times of the year. Some days.”

Draco laughs softly. “I’m sure it’s very beautiful in the summer. Let’s wait for Macmillan inside, please. There’s no way of knowing if he’ll be prompt or an hour late.”

Harry doesn’t think Ernie will keep them waiting, but he doesn’t object to getting back inside by a fire. The air is raw and damp, and he can feel it seeping through his jacket. And despite the fact that he can see the rooftops of Loch nam Madadh in the distance, he finds the emptiness of this place unsettling.

Back in their little sitting room, Draco lights the fire again and puts a few reference materials into his own satchel. Harry finds a few books about the Western Isles tucked inside the sideboard. He flips through them, looking at the photographs, while they wait for Ernie. There are hills and glassy lochs and sand dunes covered with wildflowers to be seen here, apparently. It looks much more appealing in the photos than the tiny part that Harry’s seen so far.

Ernie arrives at nine o’clock, as promised, with a brisk knock on the door and a cheerful smile that fades when he sees Draco. Harry invites him inside, but he tells them he’s due in Hogsmeade for an important meeting in an hour. And he wouldn’t want to keep the village Merchants’ Association waiting, would he? Harry looks over Ernie’s shoulder and catches Draco rolling his eyes.

Back outside in the drizzle again, Ernie offers his arms for Side-Along Apparition. He seems to flinch when Draco takes hold of his elbow, but doesn’t falter when he spins them away into the breath-stealing blackness for a few heartbeats.

They land on a rocky shoreline in front of an enormous grey house, all smooth stone and sharp gables. It stands halfway up a gentle rise, with no sign that there was ever a garden or any other attempt to make the outside more welcoming. Harry thinks it fits into its environs as well a garden gnome among fairies. He knows if he asks Draco, he’d say the same.

“Welcome to the island,” Ernie says grandly. “If you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll key you into the wards so that you can come through without me. The house has separate wards, of course. It took three warding experts to help us get inside after Aunt Erwina passed away, ha, ha. She certainly did her work well!”

Harry looks behind him, away from the house, where a long stretch of pale sand connects the two islands. It must be low tide. It’s difficult to judge how far it is, and there don’t seem to be any houses on the opposite shore. He wonders if the wards the MacDonalds set make the island invisible or just appear to be empty.

“All righty, here we go!” Ernie leads them across the invisible threshold of the wards, then up the gentle slope towards the house. “My Aunt had this house built in 1935 in the Gothic style, as you can see. She was always fond of the island as a child and thought it a shame that no one else from the family wanted to live here, so she designed the house to be large enough to accommodate guests. She spent most of the year travelling, but she was always here in the summer. My parents and I visited several times when I was small. But that was obviously before she stopped letting people into the house. Now we know why, don’t we? Well, everyone has a dodgy apple in the family tree, right?”

Ernie looks at Malfoy and his eyes go wide. He then tries Harry, but realises that his joke likely fell even flatter there. He keeps silent for the rest of the walk to the front door.

They wait again while Ernie adjusts the wards. When he’s done, he opens the door and extends his arm like a gracious host admitting his guests. Harry catches Draco by the cloak before he can step through the door.

“Has the house itself been checked for curses?” Harry asks.

“Oh, we don’t think she did anything to the house. I’ve been all through and nothing’s happened to me, ha, ha!”

Harry’s not reassured. “I’d like to go through myself, if you don’t mind, just to be sure. Some curses are tuned to exclude family members, so there’s a possibility that Draco or I could trip something that you didn’t.”

Ernie assents readily, saying he’s happy to defer to the expertise of a professional curse breaker. Harry belatedly realises that he’s still holding Draco’s cloak in his fist. After releasing it, he draws his wand and starts with some standard revealing and detection charms on the doorway. When he clears that, he tells Draco to stay outside while Ernie takes him through the rest of the house, top to bottom.

“Do you mind if I walk around to see the outside of the house?” Draco asks Ernie cordially.

Ernie shakes his head, unable to produce one of his customary little speeches in reply. Draco flicks his hood up with a flash of a smile for Harry, then sets off. Harry watches him crane his neck up at the edifice of the house for a moment before focusing on the task at hand.

Draco’s back by the door waiting for them when Harry finishes, half an hour later. Ernie was correct: the house itself hasn’t been rigged with any curses or traps. Harry was even able to find a room already free of any dangerous items for Draco to work in, at least to begin with.

Ernie promises to send Harry his owl for an update in a couple of days and asks if the accommodations in Mary’s cottage are comfortable. Harry assures him that they are, with his cheeks warming again when he thinks of their sleeping arrangements. Then Ernie shakes Harry’s hand and nods briskly at Draco before Disapparating.

“Well,” Draco says. “That went about as well as I expected. How hard did you have to lean on him to hire me?”

“What? What makes you think I had to lean on him?” Harry asks, knowing full well that Draco will be able to see right through him again.

“Harry, he could barely look at me. Not that I’ve been yearning for Macmillan’s good opinion all these years, of course, but I hoped he might be willing to speak to me, at the very least.”

Draco’s clearly not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be. He doesn’t seem hurt by Ernie’s discomfort as much as he’s pained by the reminder of his past. No matter who he is now and how much his beliefs have changed in the past ten years, Harry has the sense that Draco’s still struggling to forgive himself.

It’s hard for Harry to see that. He impulsively decides to tell Draco what he swore to himself he wouldn’t reveal.

“I told Ernie I wouldn’t take the job unless he hired you, too,” Harry says. “If he wasn’t going to take my word for your expertise and your character, I told him I couldn’t work with him.”

Draco stares at him in stunned silence for a moment. Harry raises his chin and stares right back.

“I see,” Draco says at last. “I’m… not sure what to say. You really needn’t have done that.”

“I wanted to. And I knew you’d love to see Erwina MacDonald’s famous collection, so I didn’t mind strong-arming Ernie a little.”

Draco smirks faintly. “You knew I’d agree as soon as I heard her name, didn’t you?”

“Yep,” Harry says cheerfully. “But more importantly, I knew that it would be hard for Ernie to find another curse breaker willing to take on a job as big as this without charging a small fortune for it. You should have heard him go on about how nice it was going to be to have a holiday home for future generations to enjoy and the importance of preserving unique architecture, etc, etc. He was very excited about it.”

“I can imagine.” Draco straightens his cloak with a sigh. “Thank you. I really am looking forward to seeing what’s inside.”

Harry smiles and extends his arm as Ernie did.

“After you. I found a room where you’ll be safe, with a large table where you can spread out your books.”

“Ah, thank you. The dining room?”

“Nope. The kitchen,” Harry says, following Draco into the house. “It just needs a few dusting and scouring charms. And you might want to clear the chimney before you start a fire, in case birds nested in there. There’s a strange smell coming from one of the cupboards, too.”

“Wonderful,” Draco says.

“That’s a cat,” Harry says from the kitchen doorway.

“Yes, well spotted,” Draco replies, tossing a small scrap of sandwich meat from their lunch sack to the corner where the grey tabby is sitting. “Don’t startle her. I want to see if she’ll let me pet her before I run out of ham.”

“Erwina’s, d'you reckon?” Harry whispers as the cat creeps forward a step to snatch up the meat. How does Draco even know it’s female?

“I assume so. She must have been living on birds and mice these past two years—yes, there are mice; I can hear them in the walls. I can’t imagine someone else’s cat could have wandered all the way out here, and she doesn’t seem feral, just shy. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Draco reaches into the bag for more ham while he keeps speaking to the cat in a soft, coaxing voice. Harry has to lean against the doorway. His stomach is doing the fluttery thing again for about the fifth time since they arrived in Scotland two days ago, and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

Just last night, Draco emerged from the bedroom in a Muggle outfit so stylish that Harry found himself gaping like a fish. He was wearing jeans, for Merlin’s sake—black ones that fit perfectly— and a pearly grey blazer over a white t-shirt. His hair was still tied back, but more loosely, as if Draco wanted a few strands to slip out around his face.

He looked bloody gorgeous.

“Is it too casual?” Draco asked when he saw Harry’s expression. “Is everyone in the restaurant going to stare? Astoria said it looked good. I don’t wear Muggle clothing like this very often.”

“No, it’s good. Just different… than what you usually wear,"  Harry assured him, then busied himself with putting on his shoes and jacket. They were meeting Mary so she could take them to the Apparition Point in Portree, the closest town where they’d be able to find a few restaurants to choose from for their dinners.

As it turned out, people in the restaurant did look at Draco, but thankfully he didn’t notice and Harry was spared having to explain that it was because he’s so damn eye-catching. In a good way.

And now, this—Draco’s befriending a skittish cat with a focus and patience that would shock Harry if he hadn’t seen him with Scorpius.

“I came downstairs to ask if you wanted to stop for lunch. Just in the nick of time, I see,” Harry laughs as the cat jumps onto the table to sniff at the paper bag. “Maybe we could walk over to the other side of the island afterward. The rain has stopped.”

“Yes, that sounds nice. Sorry, Lillian, I need to keep the rest of my sandwich for myself. I’ll see if I can bring you some proper cat food tomorrow.”

“You’ve named her?” Harry asks.

“No, I didn’t,” Draco says defensively, pointing toward the corner, where a pair of ceramic bowls sit on the floor. Lillian is painted in block letters on both of them.

“Oh, right. How does she get in and out of the house, do you think?”

“Who knows? There might be a broken window somewhere, or even a cat flap.”

Draco reaches for the bag before the cat decides to climb inside. She leaps off the table and trots through a door that Harry knows from his tour with Ernie leads to a storeroom.

When lunch has been eaten and the table tidied up for Draco’s afternoon work, he and Harry step out the back door and climb over the windblown dunes to the western side of the island. The air is sharp and salty on their faces as they trudge over the rise to get their first glimpse of the open sea since they arrived.

“Shall we walk down?” Draco asks. “I think we’re safe from a downpour for a little while.”

Harry agrees. He feels invigorated by the fresh air after the dusty, close rooms of the old house. And he certainly doesn’t mind the company.

“Find anything interesting this morning?”

“One of those little chest things for cigars,” Harry says. “What are those called?”

“Humidors.” Draco chuckles. “I didn’t imagine Erwina as a smoker.”

“I don’t think she was. It was empty. And it had a nasty little curse on it, so she couldn’t have used it anyway. It’s a beautiful piece. I’ll bring it down to you later.”

“Ah, she must have simply admired it. Like the violin.”

Harry lets his heels sink into the sand to slow his descent. “What makes you say that?”

“There wasn’t a bow in the case,” Draco says, with an arch of his eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah. You’re right. There’s something strange about all of it, though. The more things I examine, the more I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The age of the curses,” Harry explains. “At least some of them are older than ten or fifteen years, which is when Ernie thinks that his aunt was doing it. I can’t date them very precisely, but I can get a general idea sometimes. And there’s also the fact that I haven’t encountered the same curse twice, which doesn’t seem like the work of someone who’s senile, you know?”

Draco raises both eyebrows this time. “That’s quite a clever deduction. I’d have to agree with you. It sounds like a fascinating mystery.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m just getting paid to remove the curses. Maybe you’ll find a common thread when you examine more of the items. Or maybe Ernie knows more about what Erwina was up to and just didn’t want to tell me. I hear a lot of stories from clients that I’m pretty sure are a pile of Hippogriff dung, even though it honestly doesn’t make a difference to me if their granddad was a Dark Wizard or if they really did buy a cursed necklace by accident.”

They reach the small beach at the bottom of the slope and cross the smooth wet sand to the water’s edge. The water is a dark grey, reflecting the heavy clouds above them, heaving gently all the way to the horizon. All the way to Canada, Harry thinks, where Mary told them many of the families settled when they were forced to make way for their landlords’ flocks of sheep.

Harry turns when he hears Draco laugh and follows his gaze back toward the dunes. The cat is picking her way down to the beach through the clumps of blowing grasses, her tail held high. She seems to be heading their way, but veers off to the right as soon as she sees them watching her.

“She must have been lonely, all by herself out here for two years,” Harry says sadly. “Maybe one of us should take her back to London with us.”

Draco snorts. “Astoria wouldn’t let me in the front door if I showed up with a cat. She’s terribly allergic. And I doubt poor Lillian would enjoy living with a toddler.”

“Scorpius might want a pet someday, when he’s older. Would you tell him no?”

“I’d probably give him a kennel full of crups, if he asked,” Draco says fondly, “but it’s not going to be entirely up to me. I think I could persuade Astoria to let him have one dog. He does love animals.”

Harry watches his wistful smile as he looks out at the sea. “You must miss him terribly.”

“Yes, very much.” Draco looks down to where the foamy edge of a wave slides toward his feet. “I think he’d enjoy a day at the beach. I’ll have to plan a little trip to the seaside next summer.”

“Bill’s kids love it. They could dig in the sand and splash around all day,” Harry says, remembering the afternoons when he was invited to join the family at Shell Cottage. Bill and Fleur were very kind when he and Ginny broke up, and they made sure Harry still got to spend time with their kids. He’s still Uncle Harry to them as much as he was four years ago.

Five years ago, he thought that he and Ginny would have a growing brood of their own by now.

Three years ago, he thought he’d moved past their break-up and felt optimistic about falling in love again one day.

One year ago, he had his last date and secretly gave up hope of meeting anyone for whom he felt more than a tepid interest.

He’s twenty-seven years old now and has what he can no longer deny is a crush that’s as hopeless as it is inappropriate. Which is a step down even from being chronically single, Harry thinks.

Harry glances at Draco as they start to stroll down the beach. He looks austere and pale in his black cloak, out in the daylight. Harry tries to remember the emotions that used to rise in his chest when he saw that same, sharp profile while they were chasing the Snitch for their House teams. Or in the firelight of the eighth-year common room when bottles of assorted Muggle and wizarding liquors were passed around on Saturday nights. But Harry can’t bring forth any feelings about Draco other than the ones he has now. He’s just going to have to live with them—the aching fondness, the deadweight of hopelessness—until they burn themselves out.

And, Merlin, Harry hopes they will burn out. These past two days have worked like bellows on the sparks of his newfound feelings for Draco. To think, he was most afraid of embarrassing himself when Draco agreed to come to Scotland with him. Now, Harry’s more worried about how much worse things are going to become over the next few days.

“Shall we head back?” Draco asks.

Harry notices that his ears are burning from the cold wind and agrees. The sooner they get through this wretched house, the better.

“Out of curiosity, what should I do if you accidentally get cursed by something?” Draco gives Harry an anxious look. “Not that I doubt your abilities, but I’d like to know how I should help you.”

“Oh, thank you. I have this necklace, which is charmed to make an alarm sound if I activate a curse.”

Harry pulls the fine, silver chain from inside his jumper and shows Draco the tiny medallion strung on it.

“This is for when I’m working outside of my workshop, which has alarms built into the wards to alert Ron and Hermione that I might need help. I can connect this necklace to someone’s wand the same way, but I just put the alarm charm on it this time, since I knew you’d be in the house with me.”

Draco frowns. “And what should I do if it goes off? Go for help or get you to St Mungo’s?”

“If the room doesn’t seem damaged, you can come in and see if I’m still touching the item. Try to move it away from me without touching it yourself, then Side-Along me to St Mungo’s. Or if it’s really bad, Hogwarts would be closer. The Mediwitch there could stabilise me until a Healer came.”

They walk for a half a minute before Draco speaks again.

“I don’t like the idea of something happening to you so far from a Healer,” he says, barely audible over the wind and the hiss of the surf.

Harry stops and instinctively puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “It won’t. It’s only happened one time when I was rushing, and I wasn’t hurt at all. I learnt my lesson and I really am very careful. The necklace is just a precaution. I don’t want you to worry.”

Draco nods, but the crease between his eyebrows doesn’t leave. Harry squeezes his shoulder and lets his hand drop, then turns toward the dunes before he has the impulse to pull Draco into his arms.

“Do you think we could go to Portree early this evening, before the shops close? I’d like to find a souvenir for Scorpius, to take home with me on Friday.”

“Sure, of course,” Harry replies. “I wouldn’t mind looking around a bit, before it gets dark. Maybe find something besides a posh seafood restaurant this time.”

Draco gives him an unimpressed look. “You’re the kind of bachelor who lives off takeaway and cheese toasties, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Not all of us have an elf to make our meals, you know,” Harry laughs.

“I’ve heard you say you can cook, though.”

“I can cook,” Harry admits. “I just don’t feel like doing it if it’s only me, that’s all. And there’s nothing wrong with cheese toasties,” he adds, so that he doesn’t sound quite so pathetic.

“I feel like I should start inviting you to stay for dinner on Fridays, just to save you from yourself,” Draco says.

“That’s… You really don’t have to. I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Harry flounders, quailing at the thought of subjecting himself to Astoria’s sharp eyes right now.

“Well, I won’t force you, of course,” Draco says acerbically, making Harry wince.

It starts to rain again while they’re catching their breath at the crest of the dune, providing a perfect excuse to hurry the rest of the way back to the house without speaking.

There’s a small stack of cat food tins—in an assortment of flavours, judging by the different colour labels—on the cooker the next morning when Harry brings a freshly de-cursed music box to the kitchen for Draco to examine. He must have ducked into a shop in Portree to buy them when he and Harry split up before dinner to search for souvenirs and restaurants, respectively. The thought of Draco carrying around magically-shrunken tins of cat food in his cloak pocket for the entire evening makes Harry smile to himself.

There’s been no sign of Lillian today, Draco informs Harry when he asks, but he’s going to put some food in her bowl tonight before they leave. He accepts the music box from Harry with only a cursory glance at the outside before placing it at the end of the row of objects on the kitchen table.

Harry can’t think of an excuse to linger, so he trudges back up the creaky stairs, down the corridor where the wallpaper is peeling from the sea-damp air, to the bedroom where Erwina seems to have stashed a large part of her collection. He surveys the room from the doorway.

It’s disturbingly… organised. Other than the layer of dust that coats everything, dulling their colours and sharp edges, it’s almost tidy. Whatever malevolent turn Erwina’s thoughts took near the end of her life, Harry gets the impression that she never lost her fondness for her collection. All the pieces are carefully arranged on the shelves, as if she liked to come in this room and admire them, like a visitor to a museum.

Except for the box that Harry found earlier this morning.

It was wrapped in a moth-eaten woollen blanket and hidden away in a locked wardrobe, which, at first glance, held nothing more interesting than a few sets of formal robes. After using his wand to move the bundle onto the floor and unwrap it, Harry was stunned to find an exquisite wooden box with a Chinese dragon carved into its lid. He wondered why such a piece would be hidden away.

When he cast his array of revealing and detection spells that he always leads with when examining a new item, Harry found that the box itself wasn’t cursed, but it was sealed with a devilish combination of wards that Merlin himself would think twice about touching. Whatever the fuck is in that box is something that Erwina never wanted to see the light of day again.

It’s back in the wardrobe now, where Harry put it after his initial examination. It’s a puzzle that will need a great deal of thought, and he has dozens of other items to work on in the meantime. He casts a charm to give himself better light to work by—the island is blanketed by heavy fog today—and gets started on a hideous statuette of a unicorn perched on a heavy, quartz base.

He’s so engrossed that he’s late to lunch and is dismayed to find that Draco ate without him. Harry can’t find a reason to tell him off for it, though. He gave Draco strict instructions to stay in the kitchen (and the small bathroom off the entry hall) and not interrupt him unless it was an emergency. He pulls out a chair at the table, intending to move a few things out of the way and eat his sandwich there, but Draco gives him such a stern look that Harry retreats back upstairs with the paper sack.

By the time they’re ready to wrap up for the day, Harry is more than eager to get away from this dreary house and have some human company and conversation. For someone who usually doesn’t mind working alone, Harry felt the solitude more keenly today. Maybe it was simply his awareness that there was someone else in the house. Harry decides to pretend that’s what it was, rather than the pull of the man sitting in the kitchen.

Harry tells Draco about the box while they’re having tea in their little sitting room.

“It could be something as benign as personal letters or mementos,” Draco suggests. “Something she wanted to keep private after her death.”

Harry laughs. “It would have to be something pretty scandalous to justify those kinds of wards. No, my instincts tell me that it’s something much more serious. Probably dangerous, too, since two of the wards are the kind that are used for containment, not just security. If Erwina was the one to set them, I’m not surprised it took three warding experts to get into the house.”

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Draco asks soberly.

“You know I will,” Harry answers. “I’m not even going to attempt anything until I can mull it over for a while, make sure I’m going about it as safely as possible. I can always consult with Bill if I’m not one-hundred percent confident about what to do.”

“All right.” Draco Scourgifies his mug and sets it back on the sideboard with the tea things. “I need to change my clothes before we leave for dinner. Lillian’s fur is resistant to cleaning charms, apparently.”

“Oh, you managed to pick her up?”

Draco laughs ruefully. “I don’t know that it qualifies as picking her up if she immediately wriggled out of my hands, climbed over my shoulder, and used my back as a springboard for her escape. I think I might have got ahead of myself in my attempts to befriend her. I just hope she’ll come back for the food I left out for her before the mice find it.”

“I’m sure she will,” Harry says. “She knew to look in the dish in the kitchen as soon as she saw people in the house again.”

Draco hums in consideration and leaves to change. Harry’s still smiling at the image of him wrangling an unwilling cat when he calls to Harry from the bedroom.

Harry opens the door, then almost pulls it closed again out of instinct.

Draco is standing next to the wardrobe, wearing only a pair of black boxers. He’s facing away from Harry, providing a breathtaking view of the pale expanse of his shoulders and back. Then, if that weren’t enough, Draco reaches over his shoulder and pulls his ponytail over it. Harry stares helplessly at the curve of his bicep, the bones of his wrist.

“Are there scratches on my back?” Draco asks without looking at Harry. “I couldn’t see in that tiny mirror in the bathroom.”

Somehow, Harry gathers his wits enough to shut his mouth and step into the room, until he’s so close he can see the muscles beneath Draco’s skin shift when he moves his shoulders. Merlin’s tears, Harry’s hand itches to press his fingertips against that skin and feel the warmth of it. His mouth almost salivates to taste the slope of Draco’s shoulder. He swallows hard.

“No, I don’t see any scratches,” Harry grits out. “Not a mark.”

“Oh, good,” Draco says, reaching for a shirt from the wardrobe. “It felt like her claws went right through my clothes. I’m almost ready, just give me five more minutes.”

“Okay,” Harry says and retreats not only from the bedroom, but from the house as well. Standing in the cold mist on the doorstep, he takes off his glasses and runs his hand over his face.

What the hell was that?

Harry’s not an idiot. Rationally, he knows what it was. It’s just that those kinds of feelings are so far in Harry’s past that it’s startling to have them again. Not since Ginny has his body reacted to someone with an unmistakable surge of… want.

He’s been waiting for four years for this to happen, hoping to find someone who could arouse in him more than a mental awareness of their attractiveness. And now he wishes he could Obliviate that moment in the bedroom from his memory.

As Harry’s trying desperately to convince himself that this isn’t any worse than the crush he’s already harbouring, Draco opens the door behind him.

“There you are. Are you in such a hurry to go that you decided to wait out here in the rain?” he asks.

“Um, no. I just wanted a little fresh air for a minute.” Harry looks past Draco and sees that he has already turned off the lamps in the sitting room. “I’m ready to go now.”

“Don’t you want a coat?”

“Right, yeah.”

Harry squeezes past Draco to go back inside and pulls his jacket off the hooks behind the door. After putting one arm in one sleeve, then taking it out again, he hangs it back up. He’s not ready to sit across a small restaurant table from Draco yet.

“Hang on, I need to use the loo before we go,” he calls.

Walking through the dark sitting room, Harry hears Draco step back into the house with a dramatic sigh. He closes the bathroom door and sits on the closed lid of the toilet without bothering to turn on the light.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Get a grip on yourself, mate, he orders himself.

Harry resolutely keeps his thoughts away from Draco for a moment. Instead, he takes some deep breaths and counts up to ten and back in time with them, just as he does to prepare himself for casting a tricky counter curse. When he’s successfully—he hopes—cleared his mind, Harry splashes some cold water on his face and rejoins Draco.

“Ready,” Harry says again.

He’s grateful that the darkened room will keep Draco from noticing that Harry can’t look him in the eye.

Draco has a Portkey to take him back to London at noon the next day, and he insists that Harry return to the cottage with him when he’s ready to leave Erwina’s house.

“I was just going to finish clearing the dining room for you, so you can start putting things in there instead of piling them in the kitchen,” Harry says.

“You might be tempted to work, and I don’t like the idea of your being alone out here,” Draco insists.

Harry knows better than to do that, but he’s secretly pleased that Draco’s concerned about him. He pretends to give in reluctantly, just so he can see Draco’s face relax into relief. He’s rewarded with a gentle cuff on the shoulder as they walk outside to Apparate back to Loch nam Madadh. Harry thinks he manages to hide the thrill that runs down his spine at the touch.

“I’ll be back at nine o’clock,” Draco says after he retrieves the shopping bag with Scorpius’ gift from the bedroom. He’s also carrying the empty can that will transport him to Pembridge Square. “What will you do to keep yourself occupied?”

“I don’t know. Maybe take a nap. Or walk over to the village if it’s not raining too hard,” Harry replies, even though he’s thinking, try not to imagine you in your pants and have another crisis. He didn’t even bring anything to read, other than his curse breaking books, and he already knows that the next nine hours are going to drag on if he doesn’t find something to do.

Draco glances at the can in his hand. Harry can tell by the way Draco’s gripping it that the Portkey must be about to activate. The rising magic always makes one’s palm tingle.

“Don’t go back to the house.”

“I won’t!” Harry promises, exasperated. “I’ll offer to take Mary to lunch and then have a stroll.”

With a curt nod, Draco vanishes.

Harry exhales in relief, finally able to relax for the first time in almost eighteen hours. Merlin knows how long he lay in bed last night, so aware of Draco only inches away that he couldn’t fall asleep. He collapses into an armchair for a few minutes, staring out the small window, unable to stop himself from imagining Draco’s reunion with Astoria.

Harry doesn’t like the bitter twist of jealousy that he experiences when he thinks of it. He likes Astoria. She has a genuine warmth and sharp sense of humour, and it isn’t hard for him to understand why Draco’s face always lights up when she comes into the room. Even if she doesn’t make an appearance, Draco always mentions her during Harry’s Friday visits, his pride and affection for her obvious.

Christ, Harry’s an idiot. When he thought about falling for someone new after his breakup with Ginny, he didn’t think it would be with a straight, married man. Even before Draco got engaged to Astoria, when Harry first started taking him items to be researched or appraised for his curse breaking clients, it never occurred to Harry to think of Draco as someone he might go out with. Their tangled past still seemed too recent.

Harry pushes himself out of the armchair. He needs to have lunch and get some sleep while Draco’s gone. Then maybe he’ll be able to think through the situation more clearly and, if he’s lucky, find a way to cope with it all.

If only there were a handy counter curse for inconveniently fancying (and apparently lusting after) your friend-slash-business associate, Harry thinks grimly as he crosses the lane to Mary’s house.

There’s no answer to Harry’s knock. He considers Apparating to Portree for lunch, or even making a second, longer jump to go to Hogsmeade, but then remembers that Mary told him and Draco of a small museum and arts center in Loch nam Madadh that has a little cafe. The idea of staying close to the cottage (and the bed inside it) is appealing. Harry pulls up his hood against the drizzle and heads back to the lane.

Harry’s warmed by the brisk walk and invigorated by the fresh air when he finds the museum. After a strong cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich that’s a welcome change from Mary’s ham-on-wholemeal, Harry explores the museum, which houses historical artefacts and photographs of the island. Other than a family with two young children, the place is empty in the off-season.

The Muggle ferry terminal is just a bit further down the road, but Harry abandons his plan to go see it when he steps out of the museum into a steady rain. He stops at a shop on the way back to the cottage to buy a book of crossword puzzles and some biscuits to have with his tea later. The cashier looks at him curiously while he’s paying, so Harry feels obliged to tell her that he’s here for a little holiday on the recommendation of a classmate.

“You should come to the hotel tomorrow. It’s been closed for renovations, but the bar’s open on Saturday nights and there’s live music, if you’re looking for something a bit more lively than the museum,'' she tells Harry, pointing out the window at a long, white building across the street.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” Harry says, tucking his book inside his jacket to keep it dry. “Thank you.”

Despite walking quickly and breaking into a trot when the cottage is in sight, Harry’s soaked through by the time he gets inside. Sitting by the fireplace is tempting, but the bed and its heavy duvet sound even better. He hangs his wet clothes over the curtain rod around the bathtub, then returns to the bedroom to pull on a fresh pair of pants.

The sheets feel wonderfully soft against his bare skin when Harry stretches out beneath the blankets. He lays on his side, facing the middle of the bed and the place where Draco sleeps. His pillowcase is still as smooth as when Harry watched him make the bed this morning. Harry was putting away his pyjamas after getting dressed in the bathroom, and he saw Draco give each pillow a little shake before setting it back in place and smoothing out the wrinkles.

Harry reaches his hand over to the empty side of the bed. He used to do the same thing when Ginny lived with him, when she used to slip out for early-morning practice without waking him up. Sometimes the sheets still felt warm and he could catch the faint click of the front door closing, two storeys below, if he listened hard enough.

And when Ginny didn’t have practice, sometimes his hand would find the curve of her waist. Or he would lightly trace the muscles of her thigh upwards to her hip. If she stirred, only then would Harry open his eyes, hoping to catch that first, slow smile of the morning, her red-gold eyelashes fluttering open. More often than not, she would reach across to pull him closer.

Harry took it for granted, he realises now. He took for granted the way his body responded to her without hesitation, even when she initiated the intimacy. And he was proud of the fact that he never even thought of anyone else in that way while they were together. He was devoted to her, body and soul. When their relationship began to fade, Harry felt guilty that his desire for her faded with it. He couldn’t even give her that anymore, and after a while, she gave up asking him.

He thought maybe he was just brokenhearted. Then, after realising that he never craved physical intimacy with anyone he dated after Ginny, he thought he was simply broken. What else could explain why he was suddenly a cold fish while he was still in his mid-twenties, the supposed prime of his life?

Now Harry isn’t sure which is worse—thinking he might never want someone sexually again, or wanting someone who is completely off-limits. God, Draco would be horrified, repulsed, if he knew what Harry was thinking last night when he practically ran out of the bedroom. He might never want to see Harry again.

Ever-so-unhelpfully, his mind conjures the image of Draco, nearly bare and almost luminously pale in the dim light of this room. Even though he knows he couldn’t have been looking for more than a second or two, Harry can easily remember the slight swell of Draco’s arse beneath his boxers. Merlin, they looked like silk. Of course Draco would wear silk pants.

Harry’s breath catches as he thinks about what it would feel like to cup that arse in his hand, to feel the heat of Draco’s body against his. What would Draco’s mouth taste like if he opened it, so softly, for Harry to explore? Would he tremble when Harry’s fingers slid under the warm black fabric?

Harry’s abdomen clenches with desire and he quickly rolls over onto his stomach to resist touching himself. He presses his face into the pillow, but he can’t stop his hips from rutting against the mattress, once, then again. God, this is a terrible idea, he thinks. Draco’s going to be sleeping on these sheets tonight. He’s going to lie right where Harry’s fist is gripping the bedding.

Rolling onto his back, Harry kicks down the duvet in the hope that the cool air of the room will help. He reminds himself that Draco is with his wife right now, who’s clever and talented and whom Draco adores. They’re probably playing with Scorpius in his nursery or, if it’s a pleasant day, taking him to the small park across the street from their house.

That thought leads Harry back to the last time he visited Pembridge Square and the sight of Draco cradling a sleeping Scorpius in his lap. Harry can still remember, vividly, Draco’s smile when he looked up at Harry. He still remembers the ache he felt when he left that day, standing back on the doorstep sooner than he anticipated and wishing he could have followed Draco instead.

Was that only two weeks ago? Harry grossly underestimated the depth of his feelings. He would never have invited Draco to come along if he’d realised… if he knew he’d be stretched out on a bed, tormenting himself with images of bare shoulders and warm smiles and those pale, piercing eyes. Harry rests his hand on his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants.

No. He can’t let himself do this.

Oh, fuck it. He’ll do it, but just not here.

Harry launches himself off the bed and hurries towards the shower.

When Draco returns that evening, stepping through the front door of the cottage with a gust of briny wind, Harry’s wedged into the loveseat with his crossword puzzles.

“Hello, have a nice visit?” Harry asks as Draco casts a drying charm on his cloak and hangs it up.

“Very lovely. Astoria sends her regards. What did you do today?”

Harry squirms against the cushions. “I went to the museum Mary told us about for lunch, and then I stopped at a little shop in the village and bought some biscuits.”

“And you took that nap, I see,” Draco says, approaching the open bedroom door.

Harry forgot to make the bed. He forgot to take the nap, too, after his shower.

“Yeah, I did,” he says, sinking further down in the loveseat to hide his burning cheeks. “And I got some takeaway in Portree and brought it back here for dinner.”

Harry fidgets with his biro until he notices that Draco’s still lingering by the bedroom door. He sits up and looks over the back of the loveseat.

“What?” Harry asks.

“Did you go back to the house?”

“No! I honestly didn’t, Draco.”

He seems satisfied with Harry’s answer. “All right. I’m going to turn in early. We took Scorpius to the zoo and I’m beyond knackered.”

Harry tosses his crossword book on the armchair after Draco closes the bedroom door behind him. A coil of shame wriggles itself into Harry’s chest when he thinks about his afternoon. He stares into the fire until he’s sure Draco’s had enough time to fall asleep.

Good thing I skipped the nap, Harry thinks as he slips into bed later. This time, he’s asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow.

Harry isn’t trollied, but he’s definitely good and tipsy when they leave the hotel bar. His tolerance has taken a nosedive, he realises, since Seamus and Dean moved to Dublin a few years ago and pub nights became much more sedate. And infrequent. Harry’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have hesitated to Apparate home after three pints once upon a time, and now he’s gripping Draco’s arm like he’s going to tumble down the short set of stairs from the door to the car park.

Or maybe he’s just less inhibited about grabbing Draco after a few rounds.

“Steady on there, Harry.” Draco laughs, holding onto the railing so that Harry doesn’t make him lose his footing. “It’s a good thing we left while you’re still able to walk. There’s no telling if there are cabs here to drive us home. You can let go. We’re back on level ground now.”

Harry releases his arm. “I’m fine, honestly. The steps looked crooked, that’s all.”

Music and the low hum of voices rise behind them as someone else opens the door to the bar. This time Draco’s the one to reach out, pulling Harry toward the lane so they aren’t obstructing the stairs. He goes along willingly, relieved that he doesn’t have to find his way back to the cottage by himself in the dark.

Draco’s wearing his black jeans and Muggle coat again. His fair hair shines brightly under the lights of the car park. The air has a sharper bite tonight, a hint of the winter weather to come. Harry pushes his fists into the pockets of his jacket and glances longingly at the soft scarf wrapped around Draco’s throat. He obviously paid more attention to the weather forecast when he was packing than Harry did.

“Did you have fun?” Harry asks anxiously.

He enjoyed the cheerful crowd and the music, himself, but Draco looked like a fish out of water the entire evening. Harry wanted to reach across their little, square table and touch his hand to reassure him that people were just looking their way out of curiosity, as the cashier in the shop did when she saw a face she didn’t recognise. And it’s not Draco’s fault that no amount of Muggle clothing can make him blend in with a crowd.

After all, even Harry finds it hard not to stare at him.

“I did,” Draco replies. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been out to a pub. I forgot how loud it can be.”

“It was a little loud,” Harry agrees. “This is a quiet place. Sometimes people want, er, not quiet, you know?”

Draco snorts softly. “I suppose that’s true. I like to think I lead a rather quiet life, even in the middle of London, and yet I can’t honestly think of a time when I’ve craved a noisy crowd. Then again, having a toddler can be rather deafening, at times.”

“Ha! You know you miss it.” Harry narrowly avoids stepping off the pavement and into the road when he laughs. Then he over-corrects and almost collides with Draco before settling back into place beside him. “Did you get another Portkey to go home again this week?”

“No, I think I’ll only need a few more days to get everything sorted. Aside from whatever you bring me, most of the remaining work is just writing up my report on the objects with magical origins. I’m afraid he’s going to have to find a different appraiser for the Muggle items in the house. I can distinguish the ones that might be valuable from the ones that aren’t, but I don’t have enough knowledge of Muggle antiques yet to make an estimate of their worth.”

“Don’t you think it’s odd that so many of the pieces with curses on them were Muggle?” Harry asks. “From what you’ve told me, it’s almost three-to-one, Muggle to magical.”

“But not all of the pieces made by Muggles in the house are cursed. She seems to have spared the better ones that fate.” Draco sighs. “It’s all very confusing, but I suppose it really isn’t our problem to sort out Erwina’s reasoning, is it?”

“Well, I’m curious. I’ve never had access to so many things that might be cursed by a single person. It’s hard not to try to find a pattern. I wish I’d had Ron teach me how to match magical signatures. I know he learnt in Auror training.”

“Why is that?”

“Some of the curses are old. Maybe even more than twenty years old. Remember I told you? If I knew how to test if two magical signatures match, I could check the curses against something in the house. Something I was sure Erwina cast herself, like the locking spell on a drawer.”

“That’s rather clever,” Draco says, sounding impressed. “But what could you deduce if the signatures didn’t match? That Erwina had an accomplice in her madness?”

“Or maybe she inherited part of her collection. I’d say ninety percent of the items I remove curses from were handed down through multiple generations to my clients. Maybe Erwina happened to have a lot of curse-happy ancestors.”

Harry laughs again but manages to stay on course this time. Draco’s quiet for a few minutes. They’ve passed the last houses of the village and their lights now, so they both draw their wands to cast Lumos charms. Harry notices that Draco’s expression is furrowed in concentration.

“That wouldn’t explain all the Muggle-made objects. Not their presence in Erwina’s collection. I’m not surprised that she had an appreciation for anything with exquisite craftsmanship and beauty. I mean, it wouldn’t explain why she obtained or kept some clearly inferior pieces, only to curse them later.”

Harry shrugs. “Sometimes people just like the way things look, Draco. Even if they’re not stunning examples of exquisite craftsmanship.”

Draco comes to a halt and rounds on Harry with a suppressed smile. “Are you making fun of me? Do you think I’m that much of a snob?”

“I’ve been in your house, remember? I’ve never seen anything in it that isn’t nice. I mean, every single thing is fancy. And they match the other things.” Harry growls impatiently when Draco laughs at his fumbling words. “You know what I mean!”

“That’s all Astoria’s doing. I don’t know anything about decorating. If it were up to me, the house would be as full as Erwina’s with things from the Manor. She was remarkably patient about finding a way to incorporate some of my favourite pieces, such as that small tapestry in the dining room. She understood that it was important to me to have some things from my childhood home.”

“She’s a very nice lady,” Harry says graciously.

“She’s a complete and utter gem, and I still don’t know why she agreed to marry me. I’m not much of a catch,” Draco says, shaking his head. “I’m sure she could have done much better if she’d waited a few years.”

“That’s not true!” Harry cries, more loudly than he intends to.

“Other than financial stability, I’ve never thought I possessed the kind of personal qualities or charms that could explain her decision. I’m quite certain I’ve never done anything to deserve the happiness she’s given me.”

Harry is so dismayed by Draco’s pained expression that he steps forward and wraps his arms around him. Draco grunts in surprise, but carefully returns the embrace.

“You do deserve to be happy,” Harry says fiercely, holding him tightly. “You shouldn’t think that about yourself.”

Draco huffs a bitter laugh next to Harry’s ear. “I know that’s not what everyone else thinks.”

“Well, I think you’re pretty wonderful.”

Harry gives Draco a final squeeze and draws back just enough to see his face, wanting to make Draco understand. He keeps one arm around Draco’s waist and takes hold of his chin with the other, to make sure he’s listening.

“I mean it, Draco,” Harry says.

Draco closes his eyes, giving Harry the opportunity to take in, at a startlingly close range, the smooth planes of Draco’s cheeks, the way his eyebrows arch slightly, the tension in his mouth that’s pushing his lips together.

“Harry—”

As soon as he sees those lips part, Harry can’t stop himself. He tilts forward and presses his mouth to Draco’s, needing to release even a tiny portion of the longing he’s been carrying around for the past few weeks. It’s been building up, making him feel like he’s going to burst sometimes when he looks at Draco.

Harry barely has the chance to register the taste of Draco’s cool lips when he’s gripped by the shoulders and gently, but firmly, pushed back. He keeps his eyes shut, trying to hold onto the sensation of the kiss for as long as he can.

“Are you drunk?” Draco demands.

“No, just a little tipsy…” Harry opens his eyes in horror. “Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. I’m sorry!”

Draco releases his shoulders. He studies Harry for a moment, and Harry wishes he could sink into the ground rather than meet those penetrating grey eyes. Draco doesn’t seem angry, but his expression is rigid and closed off.

“You are definitely drunk. Let’s just get home. Someone’s bound to drive by and see our wandlight if we keep standing here,” Draco says.

Harry follows him, silent and mortified and cursing himself with every step. What the hell was he thinking? He knows the answer to that. All the times he allowed himself to indulge in those inappropriate thoughts about Draco in the past few days undoubtedly brought Harry to this point. He should have quashed them as soon as they arose, even if it never occurred to him that he might do something as rash as kiss Draco.

Oh Merlin, he really fucked up.

They reach the unpaved lane that leads to Mary’s house and the cottage at last, and the final part of their walk feels both neverending and too short. While Draco unlocks the door, Harry hangs back, trying to tamp down the slight panic that’s clutching his throat at the thought of going inside with Draco.

But then Draco looks over his shoulder as he’s crossing the threshold and sees Harry hesitating.

“Come on. We need to talk, I think.”

Harry would rather Apparate back to London and risk vomiting after the third or fourth jump than talk right now. He follows Draco inside anyway, wincing at the light when Draco turns on a lamp. They hang up their coats and each take an armchair by the unlit fireplace.

Before Draco can speak, Harry asks, “Do you know how to cast a Sobering Charm? I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough for one night.” He tries to say it lightly, but the small laugh at the end comes out wrong.

“I do. I was usually the one charged with casting it on Pansy back in the day, when it looked like she was about to do something she’d regret later. Which was almost every time we went out. Are you sure you want me to?”

“Yes,” Harry says, gripping the arms of the chair and closing his eyes. “Please.”

He hears Draco whisper the incantation and grits his teeth while the charm breaks down the alcohol in his bloodstream, burning like a chemical fire through his veins. When the sensation fades, he forces himself to relax his muscles and look up at Draco.

“Thanks.”

Draco nods. After watching him shift in the chair a few times, Harry opens his mouth to apologise again. Draco cuts him off before he can.

“In light of what just happened, I’d like to share something with you. I wouldn’t want you to find this out later from someone else and think that I... deliberately let you feel more embarrassed about what you did than you should. Or rather, that I let you think you’ve entirely missed the mark, so to speak.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve only told a few other people, so I need to ask for your discretion, please.”

“Of course,” Harry says, intrigued.

Draco crosses his legs and runs his hand over his mouth, then takes a deep breath. “I’m gay.”

“You’re…” Harry can’t finish. His blood feels like it’s leaving his head, making him feel a bit dizzy.

“Gay, yes. As I said, only a few friends know, and though my parents may suspect, I’ve never discussed it with them. In their eyes, it’s the kind of very personal information that ought to be kept to oneself. A private preference that shouldn’t interfere with family duties or become fodder for the Prophet’s gossip columns. Do you understand?”

Harry shakes his head, rolling it against the back of the chair, still trying to wrap his head around what Draco just told him… that he’s…

“What about Astoria?” Harry blurts out, unthinking. “I mean, did you only realise after you got married?”

“No, I’ve always known. That is, I knew as soon as I was old enough to understand that other preferences besides heterosexual ones were possible. But I had already accepted my obligation to marry and have an heir to carry on our name by then. That didn’t change, and I can’t say I regret fulfilling those obligations.”

“So you married Astoria just because you needed an heir? How could you—”

“Astoria has known all along,” Draco says firmly. “I was always open with her about it, as I would be with anyone I considered marrying. It would have been a disaster, otherwise. I never would have been able to keep up the deception. We became quite close through her sister after we all finished school. She truly became the best friend I’ve ever had, and I was able to confide things to her that I never spoke about to anyone else. So of course she was the person I went to when my parents began pressuring me to marry. I had hoped that their move to France might buy me more time, but I was wrong, unfortunately.”

Harry, now clear-headed thanks to the Sobering Charm and recovered from the first shock of Draco’s confession, takes a few moments to study the man sitting across from him. He doesn’t seem agitated anymore. Rather, he seems quite resolute. Almost defiant in the way he’s meeting Harry’s gaze, as if he’s ready to keep defending his decisions if challenged.

“And Astoria?” Harry says after the pause in the conversation. “Why would she want to, um…”

“Marry a gay man with a chequered past?” Draco asks with a bitter twist to his lips. “Not for money, don’t worry. She has enough of her own, between what her parents give her and her photography business. She simply wanted a family—a child of her own, to be specific—without the complications of a traditional marriage.”

“What complications?”

Draco sighs. “Her parents have an extremely unhealthy and unhappy marriage. Astoria grew up witnessing all the ways that two people could make each other miserable, both intentionally and unintentionally. Divorce wasn’t something they thought their social standing could survive, and going through the messy legal process probably would have been worse than just putting up with each other. So, the long and the short of it is that Astoria swore she’d never marry. Unfortunately, wizarding society isn’t quite ready yet to accept witches who choose to conceive out of wedlock and raise children alone. And that’s how she and I found that we could satisfy her wishes and my obligations by marrying each other. And we both agree that it’s worked out wonderfully.”

Harry suddenly understands why Draco is telling him this, and it sinks like an icy weight into his stomach.

“So, you’re happy. That’s what you’re saying?” Harry asks. The words come out rough and low.

“Yes, we both are. And we have Scorpius, who’s a greater joy than either of us ever could have imagined.” Draco smiles again, without bitterness this time. “I didn’t know how much I would adore him, from the moment the mediwitch set him in my arms. Or how content I would be with family life.”

Even though Harry never had the faintest hope that Draco would return his affections, he nonetheless feels a crushing sense of disappointment. Draco’s trying to tell Harry that, even though he is gay, he’s happy in his marriage to Astoria. He’s making sure Harry understands and he’s setting a boundary that mustn’t be crossed again. Harry supposed he should be grateful that Draco isn’t packing his trunk right now, or telling him off. But it still hurts like hell.

“The reason I’m telling you this now, after what just happened, is that—”

“Look, can we just forget it?” Harry interrupts. He doesn’t need or want Draco to spell it out for him. “I was a little drunker than I thought, that’s all. I’m really sorry I got carried away and did something stupid. I promise it won’t happen again.”

Draco is still as stone while he watches Harry rise from the armchair.

“All right,” he says, at last.

“I’m going to have a short walk, I think,” Harry tells him, making the decision almost as the words form in his mouth. “Would you rather I sleep out here tonight? I’ll understand, if you do.”

“No, it’s fine.”

Harry can’t bear to look at Draco, all of a sudden. He strides across the room, grabs his coat, and closes the door behind him so hard it sounds like a clap of thunder in the quiet night. Adrenaline is making him feel like he wants to run or scream or cry, but his body seems to settle for getting away from the cottage as fast as it can in long strides.

When Harry slows down to catch his breath and zip up his coat, he tilts his head back and sees stars rather than clouds. The sky has cleared for the first time since they arrived. And it’s so still that the faint lap of the waves against the shore can be heard in the distance.

Taking deep lungfuls of cold air to calm himself, Harry looks over his shoulder just in time to see the light in the sitting room window blink out. Draco must be going to bed. Harry continues down the lane, away from the cottage and Draco and the awful conversation they just had. With any luck, he’ll be asleep when Harry gets back.

Tomorrow will come soon enough, and Harry just knows it’s bound to be miserable.

The next morning is miserable, and it only gets worse as the day goes on.

Once they get to Erwina’s house, it’s not difficult for Harry to avoid Draco. He stays away from the kitchen, sets the objects he finishes clearing of curses in the hallway rather than delivering them to Draco, and eats his lunch in a dusty parlour with a carpet so moth-eaten that the floorboards are visible through the holes.

After forcing down yet another ham sandwich, Harry takes his apple and goes for a walk to consider the warded box still sitting in the wardrobe upstairs. He thinks better when he’s moving. Many a difficult curse has been unravelled in his head on the pavements of Islington, at every time of day and night and in every season. Harry hopes for the same luck today, despite the dramatic difference in the scenery.

Lillian shows herself before Harry’s a hundred yards from the house and follows him at a safe distance. He walks along the ridge of the narrow island until he comes to the ruins of the older house that Mary told them about. Like Erwina’s house, it’s made of grey stones, but in a style that more closely resembles their cottage. It was built on a much larger scale, obviously intended to house an extended family, with crumbled remains of several smaller buildings clustered nearby. The thick walls and massive chimneys still stand, exposed to the weather inside and out, due to the missing roof.

Harry makes his way, cautiously, around the old house. His hand itches to cast the detection charms that are second nature to him now, just to be sure there’s nothing lurking behind those empty window wells and weedy doorways. He gets a glimpse of a sleek grey tail going through what was the front door and shrugs off the sense of foreboding. It’s just an old house, long-abandoned and probably an excellent hunting ground for a cat.

He continues across the highest part of the island, allowing himself to be buffeted by the winds that have blown a fresh layer of clouds over the island. The clear sky of last night was short-lived, after all. Harry was half frozen when he got back to the cottage, and he sat in front of the fire in the sitting room for an hour with a pot of Draco’s tea before he went to bed.

They barely exchanged ten words when they were getting ready this morning. Harry felt sick with shame all over again when he saw Draco sitting with a book, in the same armchair where he explained his marriage last night and broke Harry’s heart a little. Draco kept up a conversation with Mary over breakfast, as if he had been saving up a dozen questions about the island’s history and couldn’t hold them in any longer. It kept Mary from noticing the tension between him and Harry, which was almost certainly Draco’s design. But it also gave Harry an excuse to look at Draco, something he had avoided in the cottage. He didn’t seem any worse for their evening, Harry thought, as he watched every quirk of Draco’s mouth and every flash of interest in his eyes.

Harry spends the afternoon finishing the upstairs rooms. While they’re walking down the hill to get beyond the wards, he tells Draco that he’ll only need a couple of more days to finish his work.

“I should be done by that time, as well,” Draco says. “I can write out the final inventory for Macmillan at home if I need to, using my notes.”

“All right, I’ll let him know that we’ll be done on Tuesday.”

“Any luck yet with that box?”

“I think I’ve worked it out, but I want to think it through one more time before I try anything. Check my calculations again. But I’ll probably try it tomorrow. Any guesses what’s in there?”

“I already told you that I thought it might be letters. Of the personal variety. But perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part.”

They cross the boundary of the wards. Harry turns to look at Draco before taking out his wand to Apparate.

“Are you hoping for something interesting to read?” Harry asks. “Some dark secrets revealed?”

“No, and I have no intention of opening someone’s private letters,” Draco frowns. “I meant that I’d be relieved if you found something harmless inside, rather than something that might blow us halfway to Glasgow.”

“Draco, I know very well how to un-ward something without setting off a curse. None of the spells protecting the box are linked to the object inside. I already made sure of that. And if I get it open and find something unstable inside, I’ll get us both out of the house right away. I promise.”

Draco smiles grimly. “You have a lot more nerve than I do. My idea of danger these days is letting Scorpius play with a self-inking quill.”

“Wow, that’s living on the edge, right there,” Harry says. “You might have to call Gimsy to clean up the mess.”

“Oh, you have no idea what kind of lecture I’d get from her if I did. She keeps us all in line in that house, and Merlin help us if we cause her any grief.”

Draco’s expression turns serious again, as if he forgot himself in their moment of camaraderie. Harry catches his cloak before he can Apparate away.

“Are we... okay now?” Harry asks very quietly. He didn’t intend to bring up what happened last night, but now it feels like he’s grasping at a Snitch that’s slipping through his fingertips.

Draco stiffens. "Yes. I think so.”

“Good. This friendship—and our business relationship—is important to me. I want you to know that,” Harry says fervently.

“It is to me, too.”

Draco’s hand, gripping the familiar hawthorn wand, emerges from beneath his cloak. With a sharp crack, he vanishes.

Harry’s left standing on the shore, alone. On an island next to an island next to a bigger island, feeling like a castaway watching his ship sail away without him.

The next afternoon, just as the light is beginning to fade, Harry carefully unravels Erwina’s spellwork and gets the mysterious box open.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Harry backs out of the room, wand still held out before him in a shaking hand, then reaches out to yank the door closed before rushing, almost blindly, down the corridor toward the stairs.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, Oh, fuck.

His mind overwhelmed by the high screech of panic, he misses the bottom stair and almost falls. He catches himself against the front door of the house. The voice that just whispered directly into his consciousness, icy and female, echoes in his head.

“Harry Potter,” it hissed. “Harry Potter, reach out thy hand and take what is thine.”

Draco’s standing beside the kitchen table, bending down to stroke Lilian’s arched back. When he sees Harry staggering toward the kitchen, he rushes forward.

“What happened?” Draco asks, gripping Harry by the shoulders. “Are you cursed? Should I take you to Hogwarts? Just nod or shake your head.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not cursed,” he gasps, as if his body just remembered to breathe. “Just rattled.”

Draco leans forward with a sigh of relief and presses his forehead against Harry’s. Harry lets the touch centre him. He takes deep lungfuls of air until the shock recedes.

“You scared me,” Draco murmurs. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m not hurt, I promise. Can we get out of here?” Harry asks. He’s shaking now. The only thing he wants is to get as far away from the source of that voice as he can.

“Is there something upstairs?” Draco demands, straightening so that he’s holding Harry at arm’s length. “Is it safe to leave it?”

“I managed to ward it back in. It can’t hurt anyone now,” Harry tells him. “I’ll explain back at the cottage. Please?”

Draco Summons their coats from the kitchen and guides Harry out the front door and away from the house. Harry barely registers the hand that’s pressed against his lower back while they walk down the slope. When Draco murmurs that he’s going to Side-Along him, he nods and reaches, almost blindly, to take hold of Draco’s arm.

As soon as they’re in the sitting room of the cottage, Harry sinks into an armchair. Draco moves toward the sideboard with the kettle, then changes his mind and squats down in front of Harry’s knees. It reminds Harry of the way he speaks to Scorpius sometimes, when Draco needs to reassure or console him.

“Would you like me to see if Mary has any Calming Draught? Or even some Firewhisky?” Draco asks, keeping his voice gentle.

“No, I’ll be fine, just—” Harry shakes his hands to release some of the tension he’s holding. “—give me a few minutes. I’m okay.”

Draco stands and makes the tea, keeping his back turned to give Harry some privacy while he pulls himself together. When it’s ready, he hands Harry a mug and takes a seat on the end of the loveseat closest to him. The tea is just the way Harry likes it—a splash of milk and no sugar.

Even though he must be curious, Draco waits until Harry has finished his tea before asking him any questions. Harry meets his eyes with a slight nod to show that he’s feeling better and sits back in the chair to wait for Draco to speak.

“So?”

“Well, I got the box open,” Harry tells him.

“Do we need to call the Aurors?” Draco asks, still gripping his mug. “Was it… someone’s remains?”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Harry says. He busies himself for a moment with lighting the fire while he decides how much to say and how to explain his horror at his discovery.

“Oh. Good.”

“It was a dagger,” Harry says, sitting back and looking into the flames. “A very old, ornate one. I didn’t get a very good look at it before I closed the box, though. And then I warded the fuck out of it again, almost as well as Erwina did,” he adds with a bitter laugh.

Draco waits for him to say more, but after a full minute he breaks the silence to ask, “What was done to it? What was it cursed to do?”

“Not a curse,” Harry says. “It was turned into a… receptacle, I suppose you’d call it. To hold a piece of someone’s soul.”

He hears Draco draw in his breath.

“A piece of— How could a soul be broken into pieces, Harry? I don’t think that’s even possible.”

“Oh, it’s possible.” Without thinking, Harry touches his fingertips to the place on his chest with the oval scar. “Voldemort did it.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever said that name to Draco, not in any of their Friday conversations, not even during their last year at Hogwarts, when they made amends and Draco apologised for his part in the war. Harry looks over to see Draco frozen in shock.

Christ, maybe he shouldn’t have told him. Maybe it would have been better to take care of it by himself, but the aftermath of his own shock has left Harry less guarded than he should be. He moves over to sit beside Draco on the sofa.

“I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to know about it,” Harry says. “I won’t tell you any more.”

Draco shudders. “No, I’d like to know what we’re dealing with in that house, please. I can’t work there, otherwise.”

“No one’s going back in there until I get rid of it,” Harry says firmly. “I need to send an owl to Professor McGonagall. Do you think Mary has one?”

“I think so. I noticed a perch next to one of the windows. Would you like me to go ask her? And then, perhaps, you can tell me more about that dagger.”

Harry agrees. While Draco’s gone across the lane to Mary’s house, he roots around in his bag to find a notebook and a biro and takes them back to the sofa. He’s almost done writing the short note when Draco returns with a diminutive barn owl clinging to his outstretched arm.

“Does McGonagall know how to help you? Will she come here, do you think?” Draco asks as Harry attaches his note to the owl’s leg.

“I don’t need her help. I just need to borrow the Sword of Gryffindor,” Harry tells him. “So I need to make sure she’s there to let me into her office when I take the dagger to Hogwarts.”

“Ah, I see. Let me take her outside. Stay there,” Draco orders him. He carries the owl back to the door and launches her from the front step. When he returns, he sits down beside Harry again, stretching one arm over the back of the sofa and crossing his legs. “Tell me, please,” he says.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Harry asks. “It’s… really awful. I mean, he did a lot of truly monstrous things, but this might be the most horrible.”

“If I’m going to help you convey that thing to Hogwarts, I’d like to know what it is.” He holds Harry’s gaze until he gets a nod of agreement.

Harry begins to speak, haltingly. “It’s called a Horcrux. There’s a spell—very dark, as you can well imagine—that helps a person tear off a piece of their soul and hide it, usually in a small object. That way, if the person is killed, a part of their soul is still here. They’re still alive, in a way. Do you see why Voldemort would have done such a thing?”

“Immortality,” Draco murmurs, shaking his head. “So when, for example, a Killing Curse rebounds unexpectedly, he wouldn’t truly be gone. That’s how he survived it.”

“Yes, that’s how. It’s a terrible thing to do, to tear your soul apart like that. And if you do it repeatedly, you’ll inevitably turn yourself into a monster.”

“Repeatedly.” Draco looks a bit ill. He glances down at his left forearm. “I understand a little about the demands of casting a spell that dark, but I can’t begin to imagine what he had to do to make such a thing even possible.”

“Murder,” Harry says. “Cold blooded, premeditated murder. Not in self-defence or in a fair duel. The act of killing tears one’s soul. Damages it irreparably. As you know, he could commit murder without a second thought. Just a wave of his wand, really, and another life snuffed out like it meant nothing.”

Draco notices the anger in Harry’s voice and moves his arm from the sofa back to Harry’s shoulders. “What happened to them? The objects he used to hide pieces of his soul? Merlin, please tell me they’re gone now.”

“Yes, they’re gone. Dumbledore worked out what he was doing eventually, but he wasn’t able to find any himself until the summer before our sixth year. After he died, he left it to Hermione, Ron, and me to take care of the rest. That’s what we were doing the last year of the war when we were on the run.”

“Ooh,” Draco says. “Gringotts? Oh, bloody hell, that thing you were looking for in the Room of Hidden Things. Harry. When I followed you, with Greg and Vince… Fuck.”

“Yes, that’s why we broke into Gringotts. There was one in Bellatrix’s vault. And strangely enough,” Harry says with a grim smile, “Fiendfyre is one of only two things that can destroy Horcruxes.”

Draco shudders again, and Harry resists the impulse to rest a hand on his knee in consolation.

“And the other?” Draco asks.

“Basilisk venom. The sword of Gryffindor is—what’s the word?—imbued with it. If I stab that dagger of Erwina’s with it, it will destroy the bit of soul inside.”

“Oh, Salazar, does that mean that she murdered someone?” Draco asks, appalled. “And we’ve been in her house for a week?”

“No, I’m sure she didn’t make that Horcrux. Merlin knows how she acquired it, but I could tell right away that it’s very old. Probably centuries old.”

“How could you determine that?”

“The voice. It spoke to me when I got the box unwarded and opened it, called me by name. It spoke in a very old-fashioned way. Thee and thou.”

“It spoke to you?”

“Yeah, that’s how they, er, lure people to touch them. So the shard of soul can possess a person and make them do its bidding. Carry out the evil deeds that they never got to finish, I guess. Or simply drive them mad.” Harry closes his eyes, remembering the words that seemed to reach out and wrap around his throat like an icy hand as soon as he laid eyes on the dagger. “It can be very strong.”

Draco shifts closer. “That must have been a terrible shock. No wonder you came downstairs looking like you’d seen about fifty Boggarts. What a thing for Erwina to keep in her spare bedroom, even warded so tightly.”

“I know. I’ve spent more time than I ever want to in close proximity to those things,” Harry says, “and I never thought I’d find another one. I’m sorry if I scared you earlier.”

“It’s all right. I should have known you weren’t cursed, since your necklace didn’t go off. But would it have, if you’d touched it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not a curse activating, technically.”

“Salazar,” Draco whispers. He pivots towards Harry and grips his shoulders. “I’m not letting you go back to the house alone. I’ll do exactly what you tell me to do, but I want to be there in case something happens.”

“Okay. Tomorrow, though. I don’t think we’ll hear back from Professor McGonagall for a few hours, at least, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face that thing again yet.”

“I’ll go to Portree and pick up something for dinner. We can eat here tonight.”

“Yeah, that would be great, thanks.”

Draco gets up to pour himself another cup of tea, then potters around the cottage, keeping a close eye on Harry, until it’s time for dinner. Harry stays put on the sofa, lost in his own thoughts even after Draco leaves for Portree. He remembers those cold nights in the tent... Ron’s face, twisted with anger… the weight of the locket around his own neck. By the time Draco returns, Harry has sunk so far into the dark waters of his memories that he barely feels like eating.

It must show. Draco forces a plastic dish of Indian takeaway into Harry’s hands and keeps up a steady conversation while they eat. Then he insists on getting some fresh air. Just a few turns up and down Mary’s lane, he says, to clear their heads. Harry is warmed beyond words. It’s been so long since someone’s taken care of him like this. Not since he used to put his head in Ginny’s lap to release some of his grief after the war, he thinks.

When they’re in bed, back to back as usual, Draco is quiet until Harry stirs behind him.

“Harry?”

Even though he’s still wide awake, hearing Draco’s voice is jarring. They’ve never spoken to each other while lying in bed, as if there was an unspoken agreement that it would be too awkward. Or too intimate.

“Hmm? What is it?”

“Did Dumbledore know about… the damage murder does to a soul? Is that why he wanted to help me?”

“Yes,” Harry whispers. “He didn’t want you to do it, not just to save his own life, but to save yours. He was already dying. I think he’d already made peace with that. He was trying to do as much as he could in the time he had left.”

Draco shifts behind him, shaking the bed a little. When he speaks again, his voice is closer.

“That’s what you were doing with him that night, isn’t it? Looking for one of those…”

“Horcruxes. Yes, we were,” Harry sighs. “But we didn’t find it. I’ll tell you the story of what happened to it some other time. I think you’ll be interested to hear who was involved.”

Draco hums. “All right.”

“Look, I need to ask you not to tell anyone about this. About the Horcruxes. Hermione and Ron and I agreed that we didn’t want it to get out, in case someone decided to try to do the same thing. It’s safest if as few people know as possible.”

“Of course. I won’t speak of it to anyone, not even Astoria.”

“Thank you,” Harry says.

They both fall silent after that, seeking sleep, but neither of them seem able to let go of the disturbing conversation earlier. Harry can’t help thinking about tomorrow, when he’ll have to take the dagger to Hogwarts and unward it long enough to destroy it. He’ll be vulnerable then, as will anyone in the room with him. The knowledge that he’s going to hear that voice again makes his muscles tense up, no matter how many times he tries to relax them.

“Harry,” Draco whispers again. “Would you like me to get closer? Would that help you sleep?”

He touches Harry’s bicep lightly, then wraps his warm hand around it when Harry doesn’t object.

“Okay,” Harry says, wriggling back a few inches with his heart in his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

Draco shifts until his chest is against Harry’s back and their bent legs notch together, then he carefully lays his arm over Harry’s waist. Harry feels a puff of hot breath on the back of his neck, just above the collar of his t-shirt. Taking a deep breath, he lets his body go slack against Draco.

Oh, Merlin, it’s heavenly to be held like this. It’s been so long that he almost forgot the comfort of it, the perfect way two bodies can fit together. Harry’s filled with gratitude that Draco would offer him this, especially after what happened two days ago.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

He falls asleep clutching Draco’s wrist against his chest.

Harry wakes from his dream with a jerk, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. He opens his eyes, but the room is still pitch black. It could be midnight or six o’clock, for all he knows. While the dream image of a long, dark staircase and the echo of snake scales sliding across a bare floor are still fading from his mind, Harry registers the warm body curled against his back.

Draco.

He stirs, pressing against Harry as he stretches slightly, arching his back.

“Mmm. Nightmare?” he murmurs against Harry’s shoulder. “Harry.”

Harry’s abdomen tenses at the unexpected pleasure of hearing his own name, spoken so low and close to his ear in Draco’s deep voice. He wills himself to lie still.

“Yeah, sorry I woke you.”

He thinks Draco’s already falling back asleep, but then he opens his hand and presses it against Harry’s chest. He slides it, so slowly, down to Harry’s stomach, just below the bottom of his ribcage.

“Harry,” he says again.

There’s no mistaking his intentions. It may have been a long time, but Harry knows what Draco’s asking. His soft inhale judders against the side of Harry’s neck. He boldly presses his lips against it, just below Harry’s ear.

Harry’s body floods with heat. It seems to lift him, like a slow wave, and makes him roll over to face Draco. Their knees knock together and their arms fumble beneath the duvet, until they come to rest across each others’ waists.

If Draco wants this, Harry doesn’t think it’s in his power to refuse. He’s too far gone. The clamouring demands of his heart and body are louder than any consideration for the consequences. He nudges a leg between Draco’s and tilts forward until the tip of Draco’s nose brushes his. Draco’s fingertips find the warm skin of Harry’s lower back, just above his pyjama bottoms.

“Are you sure?” Harry whispers, knowing that there’ll be no going back in another moment, once they surrender to this. Draco’s breath is on his lips, so close, but Harry doesn’t give in just yet. He raises his chin so that his mouth is out of Draco’s reach and waits for his answer.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure, Harry.” Draco’s hand skitters upward beneath Harry’s shirt. “Please.”

Harry leans close, sliding his hand up to Draco’s jaw to help guide him in the dark. He presses his thumb into the corner of Draco’s mouth and tilts his head, gently bringing their lips together. Draco doesn’t hold back. With the hand on Harry’s back, he pulls them chest-to-chest and returns the kiss urgently.

And then Harry’s lost—lost to the heat of Draco’s lips and tongue, lost to the desire that’s coursing through him. His hand makes its way into Draco’s long hair, which Draco takes as a cue to deepen the kiss even more. Harry finds himself pushed into the pillow with Draco half draped over him and rutting slightly against Harry’s hip. He can feel that Draco’s already—oh, god—

He breaks the kiss by turning his head away slightly, then gently pushes Draco back so he can go to work on his pyjama buttons. If they’re going to do this, Harry doesn’t want to miss the chance to be skin to skin. Just the thought of it makes his fingers fumble. After two buttons, Draco loses patience and just pulls the top over his head. Harry’s t-shirt follows it onto the floor.

Draco pauses with his fingers hooked onto the waistband of Harry’s pants.

“Okay?” he asks.

Harry nods, then realises that Draco can’t see him in the dark. He lifts his hips and pushes down his pyjama bottoms and pants, kicking down the duvet for good measure. Draco strips them off the rest of the way, then climbs out of bed. Harry hears the faint hiss of fabric as Draco takes off his own clothes.

The mattress dips. Harry can’t hold back a soft gasp as Draco lies over him, bare and warm from chest to feet. Draco keeps himself propped up on his elbows, his soft hair falling over Harry’s chest and shoulders, then lets his forehead rest against Harry’s. Harry can hardly decide where to touch him. He settles on the dip of Draco’s waist, tantalisingly close to the curve of his arse that Harry’s been thinking about ever since the night he saw Draco in his black silk pants.

“Hi,” Draco whispers against Harry’s lips.

Harry smiles, suddenly overcome with the near-giddiness of having Draco like this—his satiny skin and his smell and obvious arousal. He lifts his head to give Draco a soft kiss.

“Hi.”

“What do you want?” Draco asks, before dipping into the curve of the junction of Harry’s neck and shoulder to suck lightly.

Harry almost laughs, and he’s about to tell Draco that it’s obvious what he wants, when he realises that Draco’s asking him to be specific. He turns his head to let Draco kiss his way upward, hoping to buy himself time. A sharp little nip on his earlobe makes his back arch and reminds him that he needs to say something before they go any further.

“I’m not sure. I’ve actually never been with a bloke,” Harry says.

He feels Draco’s weight lift off his chest slightly as he levers himself back onto his elbows.

“Oh. I thought you’ve dated men before.”

“Dated, yes. But not… this.” Harry summons his courage and lets his hands glide downward until they’re cupping Draco’s arse. “I’ve never wanted to, with anyone since Ginny. Until you.”

Until I fell for you, Harry adds silently.

Draco’s quiet for a moment. Harry’s afraid he’s going to want to stop, but then he kisses Harry deeply, slowly building up the intensity until their bodies rock against each other of their own will, sweat-slicked and desperate for release.

Harry lets himself be carried away, forgetting everything but the sensations that are overwhelming him. He hears himself say Draco’s name, feels his legs move apart and wrap around Draco’s thighs, tastes the saltiness of the sweat on Draco’s upper lip. This, this, this, his mind chants in time with his body.

Once Draco reaches between them, it’s only a few moments before they both shudder against each other. Harry cries out into the darkness as his climax overtakes him, wave after wave, while Draco gasps above him. And then Harry comes back to himself, to the damp sheet clinging to his back and the weight of his own body.

Draco tilts to the side and collapses beside him, panting, with an arm and leg across Harry. But only long enough to catch his breath, and then he twists around to get his wand from the bedside table to clean them off. The cool brush of his magic runs over Harry’s skin like a breeze. He knows he should probably thank Draco for that, but the pleasure still singing in his veins has left his tongue as heavy as his limbs.

After turning Harry’s chin a little to give him a quick kiss, Draco settles back down on his pillow, facing Harry.

“So?” he asks, the lilt of his voice telling Harry that he’s smiling.

“Oh, my god,” Harry sighs happily.

Draco laughs, a low rumble. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And only Ginny? Really?”

“That’s what you want to talk about?” Harry asks, incredulous. He sighs again, not in contentment this time, but in resignation. “There are probably other, more important things we need to talk about.”

“I know,” Draco says. He reaches for his wand again and casts a Lumos, just bright enough to see the clock on the table. “It’s only four. We should try to get some more sleep first. Tomorrow’s going to be… eventful.”

In the light of the wand, Harry gets to see him for the first time since he woke from his nightmare. His hair is a bit tangled on his shoulders and his face is still flushed. Harry’s tempted to look at the rest of him, but he keeps his eyes averted.

Draco’s probably not something Harry’s going to be able to keep, and he almost doesn’t want to know what he’s about to lose.

And Draco’s right about getting more sleep. Harry sits up to pull the duvet over them, stopping for one more lingering kiss before he lies back down.

“Okay,” he says.

After extinguishing his light, Draco eases across the mattress towards Harry. He gratefully rolls onto his side and lets Draco spoon up behind him again. His heart stutters, just a little, when Draco wraps an arm around his chest and plants a kiss on Harry’s shoulder.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Harry says.

He stares into the darkness for a long time, mind pitching in a storm of uncertainty and worry.

The second time Harry wakes, he sees a faint smudge of light around the curtains and hears the shower running in the bathroom.

Draco didn’t feel like facing Harry in the bed, apparently. Or maybe he’s upset about it and he’s standing under the spray right now, thinking about the terrible mistake he made. Maybe he’s relieved that last night was their last here in the cottage, and he’ll be back home with Astoria tonight.

Harry pulls the duvet up over his chin and lets himself steep in the disappointment of waking up alone. The water switches off, then the soft clatter and murmured incantations of Draco getting ready seep through the door. When he steps back into the bedroom, he comes directly to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, you are awake. You’d better get up. It’s after seven already.”

“It is?”

Harry lifts his head to squint at the clock, then levers himself into a sitting position. Draco doesn’t move away, as Harry half expects him to. Instead, he eyes Harry’s sleep-mussed hair with a fond quirk of his lips. Harry drinks in the sight of him, dressed with his usual precision with his hair tied back, and tries to reconcile it with what happened in the dark a few hours ago.

“Shower, Harry. Though I’m flattered you like staring at me.”

Harry relaxes. At least Draco’s not going to pretend nothing’s changed. “Tosser. Any sign of an owl yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

Letting his hand rest briefly on Draco’s shoulder as he slides out of bed, Harry attempts to hide his self-consciousness as he grabs some clean clothes and goes to shower. He gets ready as quickly as he can, mindful of Draco’s insistence on arriving promptly for breakfast during their stay here. Rushing has the added benefit of keeping Harry’s mind away from the way Draco’s eyes on him just now felt like the sun on a scorching summer day.

Mary’s owl returns midway through breakfast, dripping with rain and seemingly invigorated by her mission. Harry pushes away his plate of poached eggs and toast to read McGonagall’s reply. He’s both relieved and filled with a cold dread by it.

“She says she’ll be in her office all morning and we’re welcome to come any time,” Harry tells Draco.

“She knows I’ll be with you?”

“Yes, I explained that you’re working with me on this job.” Harry waits until Mary gets up to take the owl to the kitchen for a treat, then asks, “Draco, why do you think she’d be bothered by that? Even if I didn’t tell her, do you think she’d slam her door in your face?”

Draco frowns at Harry. “I don’t want to go unannounced, that’s all. It’s not widely known that we work together, and it would undoubtedly seem strange to her if I were to come along without an explanation.”

“Oh, I guess it would be.” Harry contemplates his breakfast and decides he can’t eat any more of it. He glances up at Draco. “I’m glad you’re here with me. I’m glad I don’t have to do this alone.”

“I’m happy to help,” Draco says softly, then reaches across the table to give Harry’s forearm a squeeze. “Though if I’m honest, I’d like to get it over with. Would you mind going after we’re done here?”

“No, I’d like to go as soon as possible, too.”

After thanking Mary for breakfast and promising to stop by for their lunches on their way back from Hogwarts, Harry and Draco apparate back to Erwina’s island to retrieve the dagger.

“Will you have to take it out of the box? Is it too big to carry?” Draco asks as they’re walking up the path to the front door.

“No, the box is only about this big.” Harry gestures the dimensions with his hands. “And the dagger’s already warded back in there, so I can transport it as it is. I won’t take the wards off until I’m ready to destroy it and have put some other protections in place for everyone’s safety.”

“For your own, as well, I hope,” Draco says, catching Harry’s eyes.

“Of course.”

Harry won’t tell him exactly what’s going to happen, what destroying a Horcrux is like, until he has the sword in his hand. It will be too late for Draco to object to what Harry’s about to do—what needs to be done—at that point.

Draco looks around curiously while they climb the stairs to the room where Erwina stored a large portion of her collection. This is the first time Harry’s allowed him to come upstairs. The dagger is the last object to take care of, then this floor will be safe. They move briskly past the open doors of several bedrooms.

“Stay here,” Harry says when they reach the end of the corridor. “I want to make sure the wards are holding before I get any closer.”

He steps into the room, just far enough to get the wooden box in his sight, then casts his spells. The wards are holding strong. He wraps it in an old sheet that used to cover a rocking horse—Harry removed a nasty splintering curse from that one—and picks it up, making sure that his expression is confident before he turns back around.

“Let’s go.”

Draco follows him silently back down to the shore, only nodding when Harry instructs him to Apparate to Portree, then make the longer jump to the gates of Hogwarts. Before he goes, he cups Harry’s cheek with a cold hand. Harry understands the unspoken command to be careful.

The gates open the moment he and Draco appear, swinging open without a sound. It isn’t raining here and the air is crisp—so different from the raw winds Harry’s become accustomed to, living close to the sea for the past week. There’s no movement on the grounds, which seems eerie until Harry remembers that it’s Tuesday morning and the students will be in their lessons. It would have been fortifying to see kids out on the pitch or strolling by the lake.

Harry doesn’t come to Hogwarts often these days, and when he does, he’s more often at Hagrid’s than in the castle. It hasn’t changed at all since he and Draco returned after the war. Barring another catastrophe, Harry expects that it will still be the same long after he’s gone, slow to change, like the mountains around it.

“Clootie dumpling,” Harry tells the gargoyle at the entrance to the Headmistress’ tower. The door at the top of the moving staircase is already open when they reach it. The familiar aromas of tea and ginger biscuits make Harry smile. She must have called a house-elf as soon as he and Draco walked through the gates.

“Harry,” Professor McGonagall says, rising to greet him with a smile. “Mr Malfoy. Please come in. I assume the item you wrote to me about is in the box? You may set it on that table, if you like. May I offer you some tea?”

Harry shudders at the thought of sipping from one of the Headmistress’ porcelain teacups while that thing is in the room. He shakes his head.

“Perhaps later. I’d like to take care of this right away, if you don’t mind. It’s not something that we should be… lingering around,” Harry replies tersely, letting his eyes dart up to Dumbledore’s sleeping portrait for a moment.

McGonagall raises her eyebrows “All right. I’ll trust your expertise in this matter. Albus wasn’t any more forthcoming than you were in your letter as to the exact nature of the object you discovered. Gracious, to think Erwina MacDonald was dabbling in the Dark Arts.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think she was. It’s much older than that. She seems to have acquired this long after it was… altered. And she did a good job keeping it safe. It took me the better part of a week to figure out how to take her wards off the box.”

While McGonagall takes down the Sword of Gryffindor from its place of honour above the mantel, Harry sets the box on the table that she indicated and unwraps it. He hears Draco hum behind him at the sight of the box.

“You can have a look at it later,” Harry promises without turning around. “Chinese, I assume?”

“At first glance, yes, but I’d need to examine it more closely to see if it’s authentic or a reproduction,” Draco murmurs.

Harry accepts the sword from the Headmistress’ hands with a nod. “I’m going to have to ward myself in with the box before I open it, to protect you and Draco.”

“Harry,” Draco says. “You didn’t tell— What if it talks to you? How can I help you with wards in the way?”

“Sweet Godric, do I even want to know what you’re dealing with here?” McGonagall asks, blanching.

“It’s probably going to talk to me, but I’ll take care of it with the sword immediately. And I’ll key both of you into the wards so you can end them with a simple Finite if something happens. But that’s a last resort,” Harry says sternly. “You’ll be vulnerable to it if you do that. Just get it out of my hands or Stun me, if you have to, then hit it with every warding spell you know.”

Draco runs a hand over his face, looking anguished. “I really don’t like this. I’d feel better if you asked Weasley to come.”

“Both of you are just as capable as he is. And I already feel bad about involving two people; I’d rather not expose a third one to something like this,” Harry says.

Looking up, he notices that Dumbledore’s portrait is awake and watching now. Harry glares at him briefly before taking off his coat and drawing his wand. He doesn’t mind the other portraits watching, but the thought of Dumbledore witnessing this makes some long-dormant anger start to coil in Harry’s stomach.

He directs Draco and McGonagall to the far side of the room and casts the wards in a circle around himself and the table. Then, still gripping the sword in his left hand, he prepares to unseal the box and remove the dagger.

“Be careful, Harry,” Draco calls.

Harry nods over his shoulder. Both Draco and McGonagall have their wands in hand, wearing resolute expressions.

He takes a deep breath to centre himself and mentally runs through the steps that need to be completed in quick succession. Taking courage from the friends behind him, Harry raises his wand.

With a few slashes, the wards fall and the lid of the box pops open.

“Harry Potter.”

Another wordless spell. The dagger rises from the wooden box and falls on the stone floor at Harry’s feet with a clatter. He drops his wand and grips the sword with both hands.

“Harry Potter, take what is thine! Reach forth thy hand for—”

With a long, ear-splitting screech of metal on metal, Harry plunges the tip of the Sword of Gryffindor through the blade of the dagger. The impact jolts through his arms, making his bones vibrate and his knees buckle. He feels himself sinking to the floor with the sword still in his hands.

Before he even touches stone, Harry hears a shout. Someone catches him. He looks up to see Draco, wide-eyed, as he’s lowered to the floor. Draco wraps his arms around Harry and pulls him against his chest.

“Bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell,” he says hoarsely, turning his head to rest his cheek on Harry’s curls.

Harry presses his face into Draco’s shoulder. He stays there, the sound of his own heartbeat drumming in his ears, until McGonagall calls his name.

“Is it destroyed? Is it safe to be near it now?” she asks. Her robes rustle as she steps closer.

Only then does Harry think to look at the dagger. The blade is almost severed, about halfway between the point and the handle, and it’s lost the alluring shine and pleasing symmetry that seemed to draw his hand to it. He uses the tip of the sword to prod the dagger, then flip it further away from him. Not a whisper of the icy voice remains.

“Yes, it’s safe now. It worked.”

After picking up his wand where he dropped it, Harry lets Draco help him to his feet and hands the sword, pommel first, to McGonagall. He feels a bit shaky, but otherwise fine. Relieved, certainly, that the Horcrux is destroyed.

“All right, Harry?” Draco turns to McGonagall. “I apologise for my language just now. That was… Salazar, that was worse than I expected, even after seeing Harry’s reaction when he found it.”

“I had no doubt that Harry would be up to the challenge, as always,” Dumbledore’s voice calls from his portrait. “It’s in his very nature to carry on the fight against the darker side of magic, no matter where he finds it.”

Harry feels the anger boiling up inside him again, ready for release after simmering for so long. For almost ten years he’s been ignoring it, trying not to think about the foul, evil things that he touched—that his best friends came into contact with, too, trying to help him.

“Shut up,” he growls at the portrait. “Just shut the hell up and never speak to me again. The only reason I knew what to do is because you sent a group of kids off to finish the job you left undone. Because you fucked up and touched that ring without checking it for curses. You exposed us to the darkest, most unholy artefacts with hardly any preparation. God, Ron almost— we took turns wearing that bloody locket around our necks! So spare me your praise. I don’t want it anymore. I didn’t become a curse breaker to please you or anyone else, and I didn’t do it to save people from anything but the idiocy of their own ancestors. I’m not fighting your war or anyone else’s, so just shut up.”

Harry slashes his wand toward the broken dagger and Vanishes it. Then he sinks into a chair and puts his elbows on his knees and his hands over his face. After a moment, a warm hand cups the back of his neck, thumb stroking over the short hairs at the nape.

“He’s gone. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look startled,” Draco says wryly.

“Tea now, I think.” McGonagall’s voice trembles slightly. “I believe we all could use something to settle our nerves after that.”

Harry sits up. “I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just a portrait. It’s not him.”

“I was talking about that cursed dagger, Harry. I assume that it had an unpleasant connection to the war. Albus is strangely tight-lipped about certain topics, given how eager he is to express his opinion most of the time. I don’t suppose you’d like to—”

“No. I’m sorry, Professor, but he’s right that some things are better left untold. And the dagger didn’t have anything to do with the war that I know of. It was much older than that, but altered with the same kind of dark magic that Voldemort used. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind. It’s hard enough to be in this office, thinking about that time.”

“Would you rather get back to Loch nam Madadh?” Draco asks. He’s still hovering beside Harry, wearing a frown of concern.

“Yeah, I think I would.” Harry nods, then turns to McGonagall. “I’m sorry to rush off. You know I’d stay, normally…”

“It’s all right, Harry,” she replies gently. “It was a stressful morning, to be sure. I hope you’ll join me some other time. Gryffindor is playing the first match of the term in three weeks. Consider yourself invited to the staff box.”

Harry smiles weakly. “Thank you. I’ll probably take you up on that. Who are they playing?”

“Slytherin.”

Draco huffs softly above Harry. He looks up to see Draco suppressing a smile. When Harry stands to shake the Headmistress’ hand in farewell, he finds her watching them curiously.

“Take care, Harry. Good to see you, Mr Malfoy. I’m glad to see you’ve found a way to put your knowledge of antiques to good use, helping Harry.”

“Oh, I don’t help him. He won’t even let me in the room when he’s working. I just provide some background research and appraisals, if his clients want to know more about the items they bring to him. It’s more of a way to indulge my interest in antiques than a proper career.”

“Ah, I see. For what it’s worth, I think you would have excelled as a curse breaker, if you chose that path. You had a strong aptitude for Charms Theory and Arithmancy, if I recall.”

Draco swallows above the collar of his cloak and ducks his chin to work on the buttons. “Thank you. I… do enjoy the work I do, even if it’s only a few hours here and there. And it gives me time to spend with my son.”

A rush of warmth fills Harry’s chest, easing the rawness of the past few minutes. “We just have a little more work to finish up today and then you’ll be back with him. We best get back to it,” he says to McGonagall. “Our Portkey back to London is set for six o’clock this evening.”

He thanks her for allowing him to borrow the sword and for her time, clasping her hand to assure her that he’s okay now. With the empty wooden box tucked under his arm, he and Draco ride the staircase back to the corridor, then walk down flight after flight to the entry hall. The bell signalling the end of the class period rings in the distance, just as they’re pulling open the heavy doors to leave the castle.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief when they’re back out in the fresh air. The sun breaks through the clouds while they’re walking down to the gates, and he lets his eyes sweep over the vibrant green lawn around the castle and the deeper shade of the pine trees of the Forbidden Forest in the distance. He didn’t realise how accustomed he’d become to the landscape he’s been seeing for the past week. The sand dunes and the grey waves have their own kind of beauty, to be sure, but it’s lovely to be back here. He’ll make sure to come to that Quidditch game next month.

“Do you need anything in Hogsmeade before we go back?” Draco asks. “I can pop over, if you do.”

“No, I don’t need anything. I really would like to get back to the house.”

Draco insists on having tea when they arrive at the cottage, telling Harry he’s earned a little break after the morning he’s had. Harry accepts the hot mug gratefully. He suddenly realises how tired he is, not just from destroying the dagger, but a very full week of work and all the emotional upheaval besides.

“I think I’m going to take some time off after we get home,” Harry tells Draco.

Draco hums absentmindedly. He’s examining the box that held the dagger, peering at the carving of the dragon on its lid. “That’s a good idea. You’ll be refreshed when you go back to your usual routine.”

Harry doesn’t reply, but there’s something in Draco’s words—and in the distant tone of his voice—that makes him uneasy.

When they arrive at Erwina’s house, Draco gets back to work itemising the pieces he’s examined on a long piece of parchment. The ones he’s felt confident enough to appraise are set at one end of the dining room table, while the ones he’ll recommend Ernie take to a Muggle antiques expert are clustered at the other end. Harry surveys the table from the doorway before he begins his own work. It’s certainly an eclectic collection, with nothing to indicate that Erwina had a preference for any particular style or era or country of origin.

Harry moves through the other rooms of the ground floor—a library with half-empty bookcases, a sitting room, and Erwina’s own bedroom suite—with his detection spells and Foe Glass. There are only a few objects with curses on them, mostly larger pieces of furniture that Erwina must not have been able to fit upstairs. Merlin only knows how she got them to the house in the first place. It was probably a combination of her admirable warding skills and Portkeys, Harry muses.

Because they started later than usual this morning, lunchtime arrives before Harry’s accomplished much. When the grandfather clock (free of curses, thankfully) in the study chimes half twelve, he flips his little notebook closed. He’s been keeping a running list of his work, documenting the items, the curses placed upon them, and the counter curses he’s used to fix them. He likes to keep records of his work, just in case he comes across a similar curse in the future.

Draco’s already tearing pieces of meat from his sandwich when Harry arrives in the kitchen. A wet and bedraggled Lillian is curling around his calves, waiting for her treat.

“Did you run out of cat food?” Harry asks.

“No,” Draco says, chagrined. “It’s our last meal here. I thought she’d like a treat.”

“She’s grown used to us being here. Do you think I should take her back with me? Or at least tell Ernie she’s here?”

“He might already know. She’s an outdoor cat now. I don’t think London would suit her. I asked Mary the other morning, and she said it would be better for Lillian to stay where she is.”

“I suppose she’s been fine for a couple of years. It seems like she misses people, though,” Harry says, watching the cat tilt her head into Draco’s hand.

“I think she does,” Draco sighs. “But I don’t think she’d be too happy about being carried off like a prize. Ah, that reminds me, I made an interesting discovery in one of the drawers of that tall dresser in the dining room. I’ll show you after we eat.”

After lunch, Draco sets a cardboard box the size of a shoebox on the kitchen table. He gestures for Harry to lift the lid, obviously savouring the dramatic tension of the moment.

It’s full of receipts from Muggle shops. Some are handwritten, others printed from an electric till. The ones at the bottom are curling and yellowed with age, but the ink is still legible, though faint. Draco riffles through the pile until he finds the one he wants and hands it to Harry with a flourish. He takes it and tilts it to catch the light from the fixture over the table, trying to make out the script.

“Unicorn statue,” he reads. “Oh! That one standing on the lump of crystal. It’s from a charity shop in Liverpool?”

Draco leans closer to read over Harry’s shoulder. “Is that what ‘Oxfam’ is? I wasn’t certain. What a strange place for Erwina to go shopping. I doubt she was lacking for gold.”

“These are from all over Britain, by the looks of it,” Harry says, pulling out receipts at random. “Antique shops, charity shops, auction houses. And they go back for years.”

He gathers up the pieces of curling paper and returns them to the box. There’s an explanation tickling the edge of his brain, like the spellwork of a curse waiting to be unravelled if only he can find the right starting point. Draco sits back down while Harry is lost in thought.

“You said the majority of the cursed items were Muggle-made.” Harry waits until he gets a nod of confirmation. “And that the better pieces—the ones you thought a knowledgeable collector like Erwina would actually want—weren’t cursed.”

Draco tilts his head slightly, following Harry’s line of thought. “Do you think she was purchasing tacky knick-knacks from charity shops so she could have the fun of cursing them?”

“No, no,” Harry says, shaking his head in faint disbelief as he begins to understand. “Some of the curses are quite old. Older than these receipts. And the dagger was centuries old. I think she bought them cursed.”

“What? Why would she buy them? And why would she keep them in her house? There’s a perfectly good department at the Ministry to sort out things like this.”

“I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t trust Misuse of Muggle Artefacts to be able to safely remove the curses. Maybe she didn’t want the objects to be destroyed, no matter how ugly they were.” Harry thinks of the shelves in the bedroom, where a large part of Erwina’s collection was lovingly arranged for display. “She seems to have been fond of all of them.”

Draco sits back in his chair, staring at the cardboard box for a minute.

“Well,” he says at last, “I suppose there’s no accounting for taste, after all, even that of a renowned expert like Erwina MacDonald. What an odd hobby, bouncing around the country and scouring shops, all for some mass-produced junk.”

“I’m not sure it was just a hobby. I think she was seeking out cursed objects lurking in Muggle shops and bringing them back here for safekeeping. She obviously knew how to handle them and live here safely, surrounded by them. I’d have to look through them more thoroughly, but I’d bet my broom the receipts date back to the time when Ernie said she stopped allowing anyone to visit.”

“Ten to fifteen years, he said, yes?” Draco gives Harry a pointed look. “About the time he was rumoured to be coming back. And about the time certain unsavoury associates of my father’s started coming around to the Manor again. Erwina may have been trying to keep these things out of the wrong hands. Or from ending up for sale in Borgin and Burkes.”

“If I worked in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, I’d start to get suspicious if the same person kept notifying the Ministry about cursed objects she supposedly found in shops. Arthur would have been well aware, as a member of the Order, of what was stirring.”

Draco starts to laugh.

“What?” Harry demands.

“She was doing your job, without the paying clients or the curse breaking, saving the world one humidor at a time.”

Harry makes a frustrated sound. “I’m not sav—oh, I see what you mean. Christ, that was rather brave of her, wasn’t it? She didn’t know how to remove the curses. She could have been killed, or arrested for owning things with Dark magic placed on them.”

“A true hero,” Draco agrees with a wry smile. “But why weren’t the Muggles working in the shops cursed?”

“For the same reason Lillian has been able to roam the house safely, I assume. No magical signature. Some curses won’t activate without contact with a magical signature.” Harry pauses, considering. “The objects Erwina bought wouldn’t have made it out onto the shelves if they cursed some poor shopkeeper first. The Ministry sends someone out when that happens.”

“She was seeking out the ones they wouldn’t find that way.” Draco smiles again. “Do you think she was skulking around the aisles, dressed in mismatched Muggle clothing, casting the same spells you used when you were going through the house?”

“Probably. They aren’t difficult to learn. That was the first thing Bill taught me. Well, the second thing, actually, after don’t touch anything because Mum will kill me if you end up in St Mungos. He didn’t really need to tell me that,” Harry says with a shudder. “I saw Dumbledore’s hand.”

Draco drums his fingers on the table. “That’s the mystery solved, I think. Macmillan will be pleased to hear the story. He’ll probably finagle a posthumous Order of Merlin for her. And regale the Hogsmeade Shopkeepers’ Association and everyone else with the tale of his Great-Aunt Erwina.”

“He’s not that bad,” Harry says. “But I’m sure he’ll share the story. He might even give us credit for uncovering it.”

“We’ll see. I’m content to remain an anonymous contributor.”

Harry watches Draco Vanish the remains of their lunch and Scourgify the empty thermos that Mary sends filled with tea every day.

“You don’t need to be anonymous, you know. It would be a good way to promote your business and—”

“Harry. We’ve already talked about this. I’ve explained my reasons and they haven’t changed. I’m happy with the way things are now, and as long as you are, too, I’d like to keep working as your consultant under my business’ name.”

“Yeah, all right.” Harry knows when not to push Draco. “I guess we better get back to work. I’ve only found a few more things I need to work on. I’ll do the big ones first, so you can come in the room and examine them there. I’ll take the smaller ones upstairs.”

“That sounds fine.”

Harry finishes his last tour of the house just after five o’clock. There’s no trace of curse magic in any of the dusty, silent rooms, just the lingering sadness of a house long-unoccupied. Harry hopes Ernie and his family will bring the place back to life. It may be an eyesore on the outside, but it’s bright and well-designed on the inside.

He finds Draco standing by the open back door, looking out at the rise that shelters the house from the harsh winds blowing off the sea. Harry wants badly to put his arms around Draco, to have the reassurance that what happened last night wasn’t something that they’ll never speak of again. Draco hasn’t tried to touch Harry like that all day, even when they’ve been alone, leaving Harry unsure if he should attempt it himself.

He steps close to Draco and touches his back lightly. Draco merely glances over his shoulder before turning his gaze back outside.

“I was hoping she’d be here when we left.”

“Oh. Lillian. I’m sure she’s nearby.” Harry shivers in the wet breeze. “Ready to go? We need time to pack before the Portkey. And to say goodbye to Mary.”

“Yes, of course. I’m ready. My satchel is in the dining room. I’ll meet you by the front door in a minute.”

Harry hears the sound of a tin being opened behind him as he walks to the foyer.

“Let’s go,” Draco says when he rejoins Harry, cloak over his shoulders and satchel in hand. “We’ve had a very productive week, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think Erwina would be satisfied. Other than the dagger, her collection is intact and finally safe. I hope Ernie keeps the unicorn,” Harry adds with a laugh.

Draco smiles. “If he doesn’t want it, I’ll buy it from him and give it to you for Christmas. You can display it proudly in your parlour, as a tribute to Erwina.”

“It would be a conversation piece, that’s for sure.”

They close the door behind them for the last time and walk down the hill in the dusk and drizzle. Just before they Apparate away, Harry sees a small, grey form disappear around the corner of the house and out of sight. Maybe she was seeing them off, not knowing that it was the last time. Maybe she’ll be confused when the two strangers don’t show up tomorrow. The thought of her returning to her solitary life makes Harry feel bereft himself.

Draco goes right to the bedroom to repack his trunk as soon as they get back to the cottage. Harry follows and lets Draco chatter on about the island and Erwina while he carefully refolds his clothes with wordless loops of his wand. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about more serious things. Harry makes the appropriate responses while he stuffs his own things into his rucksack, trying in vain to provoke a response from Draco with his sloppiness. But Draco just retreats to the bathroom to get his things from there, leaving Harry to sit on the bed with his sinking heart.

Mary knocks on the door at a quarter to six and steps inside only long enough to shake their hands and receive their thanks for her hospitality. She’s off to Inverness for dinner with a friend, she explains. After asking them to turn off the lights and lock the door before they go, she hands Draco a small bundle. It’s a cloth napkin tied with a bit of tartan ribbon.

“Some shortbread, for your little boy,” she tells him with a wink.

Harry checks the wardrobe and bathroom one last time after Mary leaves, then joins Draco in the sitting room, where the only light now is from what’s left outside the window. His cloak is back on and his long legs are stretched toward the cold fireplace. Harry can’t hold himself back any longer. He reaches out to cup Draco’s chin, intending to lean down to kiss him.

“Draco,” he begins.

“Wait.” He catches Harry’s wrist and turns his face away. “I need some time. Just a few days, please. I… have a lot to think about. And I have other people to think about besides myself.”

Harry pulls his wrist from Draco’s loose grip. A coldness settles in his stomach, like an icy surge from the sea. “All right. I understand.”

“Harry, look at me. It’s not because I doubt what I’m feeling. I need you to understand that. Harry, please look at me,” Draco repeats, his voice urgent. “I just can’t throw myself into something—into what, I don’t even know— that’s going to have a profound effect on every aspect of my life. My marriage, my son, my work, such as it is. I need to think this through.”

Harry meets Draco’s gaze and sees his earnest expression and the flush rising to his cheeks.

“I’m not just looking for a fling, Draco, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t want you to think that last night happened just because I was… I don’t know. Upset or horny. And I didn’t kiss you the other night just because I was drunk.”

“I see that now. In my defence, you did try to make me think that after it happened. You said you wanted to forget it.”

Harry winces. “I know. I was a bit mortified that I did it, that’s all.”

“That you wanted to kiss me, of all people?” Draco asks, stiffly.

“No! That I kissed someone who’s married. And who I thought was straight,” Harry says, his voice rising a bit.

“I thought I explained that later. About Astoria and my obligation to have an heir.”

“You explained yourself perfectly, Draco.”

Draco looks taken aback by the bitterness in Harry’s voice. But to Harry’s surprise, rather than replying, he stands abruptly and rushes toward the mantel where Harry set the Portkey.

“We almost missed it,” he says, holding out the small, ceramic ashtray to Harry.

Harry grabs his bags and his jacket and wraps his fingers around the smooth corner of the ashtray. It’s already starting to hum with magic.

“Harry, we need to—”

The Portkey activates, hauling them into the blackness and knocking the air from Harry’s lungs. A few breathless moments later, they land in a bright room. Too bright to be Harry’s kitchen or even the front doorstep of Grimmauld Place.

They’re in the Ministry Portkey Terminal.

Draco’s face is frozen in shock. He almost never sets foot in public, magical places, Harry knows. He lets go of the ashtray and puts his hand on Draco’s arm.

“I’m sorry, Draco! I didn’t know this is where Ernie would have the Portkey go. I thought it would take us back to my house.”

Draco’s eyes dart around the room. They’ve landed in an alcove roped off from the waiting area, in clear view of the people there, who are watching them curiously. He pushes the ashtray back into Harry’s hand and steps away from him while reaching beneath his cloak.

Eyes still wide from the shock of their destination, Draco Disapparates with a crack that rings in Harry’s ears.

“Fuck,” Harry murmurs, closing his eyes.

When he opens them again, he notices that people in the waiting area are starting to whisper to each other. Harry sends the ashtray soaring across the room with a Wandless spell, not caring if it gets broken when it lands in the bin designated for used Portkeys. Then he, too, Disapparates.

After throwing his duffel bag and rucksack at the foot of the stairs, Harry flings himself, face down, onto a sofa in his darkened, chilly parlour. He lies there, furious and frustrated, until he can’t bear the crashing of his thoughts anymore. With shaking hands, he lights a lamp and the fire, and pours himself a glass of Firewhisky from the unopened bottle that Seamus gave him for his birthday.

It burns like a bitter potion in his throat.

Three days.

Three goddamn days Harry’s been waiting to hear from Draco. He ignores the pile of post that accumulated while he was gone and doesn’t set foot in his workshop. When the Floo flares, he crouches down in front of the fireplace and tells Hermione or Ron or Molly that he’s just tired from a long week and a strange bed, and he’s taking some time off.

It’s true that he is exhausted and he does spend a lot of time lying down, drifting back and forth between his bed and the sofa, with brief layovers in the kitchen and the loo. But he doesn’t sleep well. How can he, when he keeps remembering the feel of Draco’s body curled against his back? And when he’s awake, the house seems too quiet without another voice. Without Draco’s voice.

On Friday, Harry begs off pub night, even withstanding Ginny’s threat to drag him out his front door. Something in his voice must make her sense that a night out is not what he needs, and she makes him promise to be at the Burrow for Sunday roast instead. Harry breathes a sigh of relief when she closes the Floo connection. It’s lovely that they’re still friends, of course, but considering the source of his misery at the moment, his ex is not the person he wants to face right now.

He’s about to reach for the bottle of Firewhisky and settle in with whatever’s on the wireless and one of Molly’s crocheted blankets over his legs, when the Floo roars again. With a groan of exasperation, he sets down the bottle, prepared to offer whatever reassurances and excuses he needs to get rid of this caller.

Draco’s face hovers in the flames, flickering but unmistakably serious. Harry’s heart leaps into his throat.

“May I come through?” he asks.

“Yes, of course.” Harry stumbles back to make room.

Merlin, it’s only been three days (which felt like thirty, granted), but Harry almost forgot the strength of his attraction. It hits him again as he lets his eyes trace the angles of Draco’s face and the way his waistcoat hugs his chest. Harry grabs the Firewhisky.

“Drink?” he offers.

“Sure,” Draco says. Then he steps closer to take hold of the bottle and twist it in Harry’s grasp so he can read the label. “On second thought, I’ll pass.”

“It is pretty awful,” Harry admits. “I’ve been spoilt by what you give me, I think.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Draco says with a ghost of a smile. “If you want Firewhisky of that quality, you have to be willing to pay through the nose for it.”

“It was a gift!”

“Finnigan? Or was it Weasley?”

“It was Seamus,” Harry says. “How did you guess?”

“Enough eighth-year parties to get a sampling of his taste in alcohol.”

Harry gestures to an armchair and takes a seat on the sofa, tossing the pillows and blanket out of the way. He can’t believe it didn’t occur to him to tidy up sometime in the past three days. Maybe doing so would have been too akin to hope.

“How are you?” Draco asks, as if they’re sitting in his study on a Friday afternoon.

“Bloody confused, if I’m honest,” Harry replies, a bit fiercely. “I really haven’t known what to think these past few days.”

“I told you I needed some time.”

“Not that. The entire week.” Harry gives in and pours himself a glass of whisky so he doesn’t have to look at Draco. “First, you push me away and make a point of telling me how happy you are with Astoria.”

“That wasn’t the point of what I was trying to tell you. You interrupted me before I could finish and asked if we could forget it.”

“Well, it seemed like you were telling me that you’re gay but not interested. And then you paraded around in your pants.”

“I was not parading! I just wanted you to check for scratches, honestly. It took five seconds and I didn’t take a step. Parading,” Draco scoffs.

Harry takes a sip of the wretched whisky. “You obviously can’t say that you didn’t initiate things on Monday night.”

“Yes, I did,” Draco admits quietly. He runs a hand over his face. “And then I wouldn’t talk about it the next day. I know. But that’s why I’m here now.”

After a few beats, Harry prompts, “Go on, then.”

Draco reaches out his hand. Harry realises he wants the glass. He passes it to Draco, who takes a long sip, then passes the glass back with a grimace and a cough.

“I’ve always been a bit of a coward. You know that about me, Harry.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Not since we were kids, anyway,” Harry says.

“Oh, I am. I didn’t do so many things I wanted to—pursue a career after Hogwarts, try to restore my name in wizarding society by doing something productive, something that does even a little good for the world. I didn’t stand up to my parents and tell them I wanted to marry on my own terms. Or not at all if I didn’t meet someone I truly wanted to spend my life with. I’m incredibly fortunate to have Astoria, but that was more luck than anything, and better than I deserve. We’ve been happy, but…”

“But, what?” Harry asks, leaning forward against the arm of the sofa.

“It’s not enough,” Draco says simply, locking eyes with Harry. “Now that I can imagine… something deeper.”

“Can you?” Harry asks. His throat feels tight.

“Yes.” Draco smiles, that slow little smirk that Harry delights in. “I told Astoria what happened in Scotland.”

“Oh, god. Was she angry?”

“No. On the contrary, she was quite smug. She’s been teasing me for years about how much I look forward to you showing up on our doorstep every Friday, and reminding me of how far I’ve come since I used to rant about your very existence at school. Frequently. And dramatically, in the Slytherin common room.”

“Did you? I guess I’m not surprised. I probably did the same. But what did Astoria say about…”

“She said I’d be an idiot if I let you get away, and she’s been trying to push me into the Floo for the past two days.”

Harry winces. “I feel like I should apologise. For mucking up your marriage.”

“Don’t, Harry.” Draco moves to the sofa. His knee bumps against Harry’s as he turns to face him. “I didn’t explain everything about my marriage that night you tried to kiss me. May I now?”

“Please,” Harry whispers.

“When we decided to get married, Astoria and I both agreed to the condition that if either of us was ever unhappy or wanted to pursue a relationship with someone else, we would quietly and amicably divorce. I honestly thought she’d meet someone before we made it to our first anniversary. She’s an extraordinary and beautiful witch. I never thought I’d be the one faced with this decision. And I didn’t realise how frightening it would be.”

Harry brushes Draco’s knee with his fingertips. “What’s so frightening?”

“Everything,” Draco says, taking Harry’s hand. “Leaving the stability of my current life, the inevitable row with my parents, making Scorpius go back and forth between two households, the publicity and nasty speculation that always come with a divorce. And, of course, the uncertainty of… something new that may or may not succeed, if we were to try it. As I said, a bit of a coward,” he adds with a short, rueful laugh.

“None of those things make you a coward, Draco. Just because it was the easier path doesn’t make it the wrong choice. And you’re not the only one. It’s how I became a curse breaker.”

“I assumed you wanted to—how did our beloved Headmaster phrase it?—fight the darker side of magic?”

“No, it was more a matter of not wanting to deal with sycophants who were offering me jobs I wasn’t qualified for and arseholes who wanted to hire me so that they could exploit my popularity. I was inundated with offers during our eighth year, to the point where I started Vanishing most of my post without opening it. I wanted to work with someone I trusted and was comfortable with. I wasn’t even that particular about what the job was, as long as I didn’t have to deal with being famous constantly.”

“You do enjoy it, though? Curse breaking, that is.”

“I do. It’s pretty damn cool, actually, but I didn’t know that when I asked Bill to train me. I wasn’t even sure I could learn. Luckily for me, he had already decided to quit his job at Gringotts when Victoire was born and wanted to try his hand at writing and teaching.” Harry laughs. “I was his guinea pig.”

“His what?” Draco asks, confused.

“Er, his test subject. To see if he liked teaching,” Harry explains. “And he’s trained two more curse breakers since me, so I must not have given him too hard a time.”

Draco looks away. “That’s hardly the same thing as what I did. I think it was a very reasonable choice, and surely one you don’t regret.”

“I don’t think you regret marrying Astoria and having Scorpius,” Harry points out.

“No, I don’t. I wouldn’t trade him for anything.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. And I know what you mean about not wanting to jump into the unknown. I knew that my relationship with Ginny was over for months before she sat me down and told me that we needed to break up. Mine was an unhappy situation, unlike yours, but I still couldn’t bring myself to leave it. I was terrified of the effect it would have on my relationship with her family and our mutual friends. Not very brave, huh?”

“You’re being remarkably understanding,” Draco says. “I was afraid you might hurl that Firewhisky bottle at me when I first came through the Floo.”

“Well, now I understand, because you explained it to me.” A flutter of anticipation stirs in Harry’s stomach. He sets down his unfinished drink on the side table. “So now what?”

Draco tenses. “Now I’d like to see you and spend time together beyond our Friday meetings. Discreetly, of course, just until things are settled with Astoria. If you’re amenable, that is.”

Harry growls in mock exasperation. He shoves Draco’s knee to uncross his legs, then straddles him.

“If I’m amenable,” he scoffs, cupping Draco’s face with both hands. “Is this amenable enough for you?”

Draco sets his hands on Harry’s waist. “I didn’t want to assume that you’d agree to that kind of secrecy. Or if you were certain about wanting this with me.”

“I think you can safely assume a lot of things. Maybe more than you realise,” Harry murmurs, a bit breathless, as he traces Draco’s cheekbone with his thumb. Merlin, he’d accept even more conditions if it meant getting to touch Draco like this and see his eyes darken in response.

Draco still looks like he doesn’t dare believe it, so Harry braces one hand against the sofa back and kisses him, slow and deep. As their mouths slide over each other, Draco pulls their hips together, and Harry feels the heat of arousal again. It pools in his groin, making him push against Draco instinctively, making him wonder at the ease of it, after so many years of not wanting anyone.

Draco breaks the kiss by sliding a hand up to Harry’s chest.

“You’re heavy,” he smiles, his lips full from the kiss. “Lie down.”

They rearrange themselves with Harry on his back and Draco between his legs, but it’s quickly apparent that this isn’t satisfactory, either. They’re both just a little too tall to fit, and the sofa’s too narrow to allow them to move much without danger of rolling off.

“Upstairs? I assume you have a bedroom up there, somewhere,” Draco says as they struggle to get back upright without losing contact with each other.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Harry says, letting Draco pull him to his feet. He’s a bit lightheaded from the snogging and the sudden change of position, so wraps his arms loosely around Draco’s waist and leans against him for a moment. He smells so nice that Harry can’t resist planting a few kisses on the side of Draco’s neck and inhaling his cologne.

“Bedroom,” Draco repeats.

“Right,” Harry says. “Um, just give me a couple minutes to tidy it up? I wasn’t expecting to, you know...”

He backs away from Draco’s smirk and hurries upstairs, feeling like a fumbling teenager again instead of a twenty-seven-year-old. Smooth, Potter, he tells himself. Very romantic.

After changing his sheets and shaking out the rumpled duvet, Harry throws a few dusting charms at the furniture and opens the window for some air. He’s Levitating the dirty clothes from the floor to his laundry hamper when Draco’s voice startles him.

“All done?” Draco asks from the doorway, where he’s leaning with an amused expression. “If I stayed down there alone any longer, I’d be in danger of drinking more of Finnigan’s terrible whisky.”

“Heaven forbid,” Harry says with a shaky laugh. “You can come in now.”

Draco steps closer. “You know I really don’t care what your bedroom looks like. And I’m not going to spoil the mood by teasing you about it now. I have other things on my mind.”

“Yeah?” Harry meets him by the foot of the bed and lets Draco pull him close. He closes his eyes, expecting to be kissed, but Draco doesn’t.

“You seem nervous,” he says gently. “We don’t have to do this right now, Harry. You said you don’t have experience with men, and I don’t want to rush you into something you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with it. It’s more that I don’t usually want to, and now I really want to and… I don’t want to mess it up.” Harry cups Draco’s cheek again. “I don’t want to mess us up, you know?”

“I don’t, either. I’ve never been in a proper relationship before. It wasn’t something I could allow myself to even contemplate. I’m afraid of making a hash of it, if I’m honest.”

Harry leans in to kiss him, gently. “We’ll just have to do our best, then.”

Draco returns the kiss, more intent on slow seduction this time. He begins to trail his hands over Harry’s ribcage, then strokes the back of his neck with light touches that make Harry shiver. By the time Draco pins him with his back against one of the tall wooden spindles at the corners of his bed frame, his tongue doing wicked things in Harry’s mouth, Harry has forgotten any lingering nerves in the wave of desire that’s overtaking him.

Harry lets Draco grind against him a few times before deciding that they really need to move to the bed. Very soon. He manages to convey this to Draco somehow, with a few words between kisses and by pushing his hips away. Instead of looking smug, as Harry expects, Draco is bright-eyed and breathless. He looks so much younger, Harry thinks. More alive.

“What are you smiling at?” Draco asks while Harry unbuttons and pulls off his waistcoat, then immediately goes to work on the shirt beneath it. He raises his eyebrows when Harry reaches around the back of his neck to the silver clasp that holds his hair back.

“Can I take it out?” Harry asks, fingertips grazing Draco’s head just above the clasp.

Draco does it for him, reaching up with both hands to unhook whatever tiny mechanism holds the clasp closed. Harry takes the opportunity to slide his hands into Draco’s open shirt while his arms are raised. The warm skin under his palms holds Harry’s attention until Draco shakes his hair loose and slips the clasp into his trouser pocket.

“I don’t like wearing it down. I look too much like my—”

“No, no, no!” Harry says, darting a hand up to cover Draco’s mouth. “Don’t even say it.”

Draco laughs. “All right, I won’t. Turn off the lamp?”

“No, I want to see you this time, if you don’t mind,” Harry says. He peels Draco’s shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.

“I don’t mind,” Draco whispers.

Harry dims the lamp a little, then tosses his wand next to it. He pulls off his own shirt and wraps his arms around Draco’s neck, bringing them chest to chest.

“Can you stay? All night, I mean?”

Draco kisses him, smiling against Harry’s mouth. “Yes, I can stay, Harry.”

Harry hums happily as Draco’s hands explore his bare back. “I think I like it when you come to my house on Friday, for a change.”

“I just might keep coming back, if you’re not careful.”

Following the line of his jaw, Draco kisses his way from Harry’s mouth to the sensitive place below his ear. Harry tilts his head to the side and lets Draco latch his lips over his skin and suck lightly. Then he gently threads his hand into the silky strands on the back of Draco’s head to get him to look up.

“I might just keep you,” Harry says, changing his tone from playful to serious, “now that you found your way here. I know when I’ve found something special. Something rare.”

Draco’s eyes widen a little, and Harry thinks he understands. And maybe he sees it, too—a future together, stretching out before them like a plain of sand smoothed by the outgoing tide.

“I think… I’m yours for the keeping, Harry. If you want me.”

“I do. I want you very much.” Harry smiles and tugs Draco toward the bed. “Let me show you.”

Eight Months Later

“I think I have sand in places where I’ve never had sand before,” Astoria announces as she sits down beside Harry on the beach blanket. “Someone ought to invent a swimsuit that repels it.”

“Have a long soak in the bath when you get home. That’s what we did last night. One at a time,” Harry adds, when Astoria smirks at him. “There’s no way all three of us would fit at once.”

“I imagine Scorpius was just about worn out by that point. He must have slept well.”

“He did,” Harry assures her. “Not a peep all night, but he was raring to go again this morning. The house across the lane has chickens, and the owner invited him over to watch her collect the eggs. Then he wanted to run to the top of the hill to see the waves. And that was before breakfast. Draco and I might need another holiday just to recuperate after this.”

Astoria laughs beneath the broad brim of her hat. “That’s a two-year-old for you. Thank you again for letting me join you for the day, Harry. I’m glad I didn’t miss seeing this.”

“The island?”

“No, Scorpius enjoying his first time playing at the beach. He was still a bit too young last year. This is a beautiful place, though. Draco described it as rather desolate.”

“That was in October. Rain almost every day and a cold wind off the sea. It’s lovely now.”

It wasn’t difficult to persuade Draco to bring Scorpius to the Outer Hebrides for a little holiday. Harry brought it up while they were getting ready for bed in the en suite of Draco’s bedroom, in his new house outside London, earlier in the spring. Their eyes met in the mirror and Draco’s lips curled into that secret smile that Harry loves, the one that appears whenever either of them allude to something from their first stay here. He agreed to the trip on the condition that they find accommodations that were close to the beach and had a proper second bedroom for Scorpius—no sleeping lofts with ladders. With Mary’s help, they found a cottage that fit the bill and booked it for a long weekend in late June.

Harry shields his eyes with his hand to watch Draco and Scorpius near the water’s edge. They seem to be following each retreating wave out onto the wet sand, then trying to outrun the next one as it rolls in. The wind carries Scorpius’ joyous shrieks when the cold water washes over his feet.

Astoria digs into her beach bag for her wand. She casts a sun protection charm over herself, then stretches out on the blanket, laying her hat beside her.

“What time do you need to leave?” she asks Harry.

“By three. We need time to get ready to meet Mary for tea at four.”

“You’d better see if he’ll lie down with me for a little while. He’ll be out of sorts if he doesn’t have a nap, and I’m sure you don’t want him throwing Mary’s famous shortbread around if he has a meltdown.”

“He wouldn’t! He loves Mary’s shortbread. You’re probably right about the nap, though,” Harry concedes.

“Bring him back over and go have a stroll with your boyfriend.” Astoria lifts her head and slides her sunglasses down her nose to look at Harry. “What’s the point of inviting me if you don’t get some time alone together?”

“That’s not why we invited you!”

Harry throws up his hands when she grins at him. She was baiting him. Again.

He’s still learning how to read her, how to tell when she’s teasing him (almost always) or when she’s challenging him. Draco’s not much help. He seems to delight in seeing Harry on the back foot, never coming to Harry’s defence unless he truly thinks she’s being too much. Harry doesn’t mind. Astoria is still Draco’s best friend (even if she’s no longer his wife) and Scorpius’ mum, and therefore part of the deal.

He stands up and resists the temptation to kick sand on her legs. They’re very nice legs, Harry has to admit. She’s a beautiful witch. But that’s a fact that Harry’s brain can acknowledge without it stirring up any other feelings. He knows now that his heart needs to be won first in order to take that kind of interest in anyone.

And Draco has won his heart, without a doubt.

Harry plods across the beach, a smile stretching his face as he watches his targets. Draco’s wearing dark blue swimming trunks and a white linen button down that catches the breeze. After a miserable ten minutes combing the tangles from his hair after their first day at the beach, he’s wearing it in a tight plait today, bound at the bottom with a Muggle hair tie that Harry bought for him in Portree last night.

Scorpius is a miniature of his father, save for Astoria’s blue eyes. The matching blond heads are bent close together as they examine something in the sand, and Harry can see that Draco’s trying to explain something. Scorpius, however, gets impatient before long and pulls Draco by the hand back toward the water.

Draco spots Harry just before they turn around, and he shrugs with a helpless smile, as if to say, toddlers… what can you do?  Harry follows them to the water’s edge, catching Scorpius’ free hand. They let each wave pull the sand from beneath their feet while the sun beats down on their heads.

“Astoria says he should go lie down next to her, maybe n-a-p a bit,” Harry says over Scorpius’ head. “She’s afraid he might not make it through the afternoon, otherwise.”

Draco nods. “That’s a good idea. I was going to sit with him in the rocking chair back at the cottage until it was time to leave for tea, but it would be better if he had a proper sleep.” He squats down next to Scorpius to get his attention. “Let’s go see Mummy. And drink some water on the blanket.”

“Wave, Papa! It’s coming! Jump, Harry!”

Scorpius gets in a few more wobbly jumps in the incoming waves before he lets Draco lead him away. Halfway back to the blanket, Draco notices Scorpius struggling through the loose sand and picks him up. Even two-year olds have their limits, Harry thinks, as he sees Scorpius droop against Draco’s shoulder.

Draco rejoins Harry by the water and threads their fingers together. “Care for a stroll?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

There are only a few other people on the beach, most of them at the far end near the car park. Harry leads Draco in the opposite direction, towards the place where the land rises up in a bank of green grass studded with yellow flowers. The only clouds to be seen are a few broad wisps that stretch across the sky, thin as brides’ veils. The island’s certainly a different place than it was last autumn.

Erwina’s island is a few miles north. The last time Harry ran into Ernie, he got an earful about the difficulty of finding someone who would take on the job of renovating the remote house. “It needs to be done in a way that’s faithful to the unique history of the place, you know. None of that modern open floor plan nonsense!” Ernie declared, leaning close with beery breath. Even though he was dying to know, Harry couldn’t bring himself to ask about the unicorn statue with a straight face. He was moderately pissed and had barely kept himself from a fit of giggles a few minutes earlier when Ernie was going on about a new Ministry initiative to stimulate the wand industry.

“What are you thinking about?” Draco asks, squeezing Harry’s hand. “Your mind’s halfway across the sea, and you’re smiling about something.”

“Just thinking about Erwina’s house. I wonder if anyone’s used it this summer. The beach is probably as lovely as this one.”

“I hope so. I hate to think of the place sitting empty after all the work you did to make it safe. And if anywhere deserves a second life, it’s that house. I hope MacMillian isn’t going to give up on it.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry reassures him. “The last time I saw him, he still seemed determined to get it fixed up. He just wants to do it properly. It might take a couple years, but I’m sure the house will be fine until then. It’s well-built.”

Draco hums in agreement, but there’s also a frown of concern that Harry’s quick to kiss away. He doesn’t need to ask to know Draco’s thinking about Lillian. She’s probably stalking unsuspecting birds in the dunes right now, the tip of her grey tail gliding above the tall grass like a shark’s fin in the waves. Or maybe she’s curled up for a nap on the kitchen doorstep, fur warmed by the sun. Either way, she’s getting by while she waits for a family to appear on her shore again.

Maybe she’ll be wary at first, but Harry thinks her heart will be ready when it happens.

His heart certainly was.