When Harry woke up, he was a bit puzzled to find he appeared to be lying mostly naked on some grass. He was wearing his glasses and his bathrobe, which was only loosely fastened at the waist. He did a quick exploratory grope for his wand, but couldn't feel it beside him. Where was he? He was on his Quidditch pitch, he quickly realised, recognising the distant, ornately-painted ceiling of famous Quidditch victories from years past. There was a heavy, warm weight curled up against him, and Harry decided not to move another muscle, because clearly something embarrassing lay in store for him. His head hurt, and his mouth felt dry and furry. Despite the headache, though, Harry felt surprisingly well rested. Like he'd slept better than he had in weeks.
He had slept better than he had in weeks.
"Draco, wake up!" Harry said in excitement, and gave Draco's shoulder a shake. "You didn't have a nightmare!"
Draco snorted and didn't move. "I did have a nightmare," he said, into Harry's shoulder. "I had a nightmare that I woke up half-naked in a field, next to Harry Potter. I'm hoping that if I lie still, it will soon be over."
Draco was half-naked, too. Harry glanced over at him, to see that Draco was only wearing a pair of jogging bottoms. Harry's jogging bottoms.
"Why are we here, anyway?" Harry asked the ceiling, trying not to blush. He could remember the flying. He could remember the drinking. He could remember – God, he could remember – the showering. But he couldn't remember much else after.
Harry was suddenly gripped by a nameless dread, which he found that he could, very quickly, name. They'd . . . together. In the shower. They hadn't accidentally completed the bond, had they? He felt light-headed and slightly sick. It hadn't even occurred to him at the time. He'd been too caught up in the moment, caught up in the demands of his cock, caught up in Draco.
"I can't remember exactly," Draco mumbled against him. "I'm sure it was your bright idea though. I expect we came back here after showering for a bit of nude Quidditch. It seems the sort of lewd thing we could expect from a man with hundreds of erotic conquests." Draco rolled away from him and sat up, blinking hard and scrubbing his hands through his bird's nest hair. He looked dishevelled, and soft, and . . . thank fuck, Harry thought, reaching for his magic and finding he couldn't do anything, they hadn't completed the bond, after all.
"What?" Draco asked, suspicious. "You look like you just lost a sickle and found a galleon."
Harry reran what Draco had said in his head. "I don't have hundreds of erotic conquests!" he protested.
Draco's lips quirked. "It was you who boasted of all your experience, if you'll recall." He looked down at himself and shuddered. "Why am I wearing your hideous Muggle trousers," he said piteously. "Why."
"I didn't boast!" Harry protested, feeling a vague, embarrassing memory resurface. "I just – I wanted to make it clear I'm not some blushing virgin!"
Draco's face did something complicated. "Heaven forbid the great Harry Potter would be a virgin," he said politely.
"Well, I'm not," Harry said. "I've slept with . . ." He hesitated, wondering why he was sharing this information with Draco. Wondering why he wanted to share this information with Draco. "I dunno – five people?" he said.
"You 'dunno'?" Draco raised an eyebrow.
Harry didn't know how an eyebrow could look scathing, but it did. He could feel himself flush. "I had a few one-night stands," he said. "You know how it is."
"Indeed," Draco said sarcastically, and looked away.
Harry wished he hadn't said anything. The thing with sharing confidences was that it only counted as sharing confidences if more than one person was talking. Otherwise, it was just an embarrassing confession. "Well, shall we, er, go and get ready?" he asked, moving to wrap his robe more securely around him.
Draco seemed oddly hacked off at him, his whole back a sarcastic, stiff line. Harry wasn't sure what he'd done wrong. OK, so it wasn't exactly dignified to wake up in a hungover sprawl on the Quidditch pitch, but it wasn't the end of the world, was it? And Draco hadn't had a nightmare, either, Harry remembered, and wondered why that was. Did alcohol act in the same way as Dreamless? Or had the physical exertion, on top of a tiring week, just exhausted him so much that his body had given in and let him rest for once?
"Yes, all right," Draco said, his voice hard. "It's back to the Ministry today, if you'd forgotten."
Harry . . . had forgotten. Was it really Saturday already? Had he really been stuck in his house with Malfoy – with Draco – for a whole week and survived the experience? "Thank fuck," he said, feeling a rush of relief at the fact they could now return triumphantly from 'honeymoon', meaning they could stop skulking in the house like lunatics. They needed some more food, besides. And more Firewhisky, Harry thought, catching sight of the mostly empty bottle lying at a distance. If anything was to blame for them sleeping on a Quidditch pitch, Harry thought with a grin, it was the Firewhisky.
"Yes," Draco said, very cold. "As you say – thank fuck." And he got up and started to walk away, without looking back.
Harry blinked at his retreating back. He would never understand Draco, not if he lived a million years. Presumably Draco was equally pleased about the idea of freedom? He shook his head, which was a mistake as the world spun for a moment, and then rose to his feet and shot after Draco. "Oi, don't be like that," he said, catching up with him and nudging him with his shoulder.
"Like what?" Draco snapped.
"Like – like a Crup pissed in your morning cereal," Harry said cheerfully, and nudged him again.
Draco nudged back, clearly enraged, which had been Harry's plan. By the time they reached the kitchen, still pushing and squabbling, Draco's face had relaxed, and they were able to eat their breakfast together in an uneasy peace.
^^^^^^
As soon as they arrived at the Ministry, Kingsley clapped them both on the shoulder with enthusiasm. "Blaise tells me he's got a solution for you!" he said, also with enthusiasm. "Oh, good to see you both," he added, taking a step back and looking them over. "I'll admit I was worried we might have to break into your house, Harry, to retrieve your mangled corpses, after a week without distractions."
For some reason, a vision of Draco in the shower, hands braced against the wall as Harry slowly rubbed a washcloth over his twitching arsehole, flashed into Harry's mind, and he blushed.
Draco gave Harry a hard, unamused stare. "We managed to restrain ourselves from murder," he said, and turned back to Kingsley. "What's this about a solution?"
"It's just the temporary one he spoke of before," Kingsley said apologetically, which made Harry's stomach drop in disappointment, "but he thinks we can link the two of you, so you don't need to keep in constant contact to use your magic. I'll leave him to explain."
The solution, when it was explained to them in Zabini's ridiculous chintzy floral office, seemed a logical one to Harry. To his pleasure, Zabini didn't do them the courtesy of showing up himself: he sent in one of his minions, a pleasant but nervous Unspeakable called Kevin, who stuttered and fiddled with his tie while he spoke. The tie had Kneazles on it, and they jumped and groomed themselves as he talked, in a distracting manner.
"So, you can magically link a wizard to an object," Harry said, trying to make sure he had it right in his mind. "Meaning all we then need to do is switch objects with each other?"
Kevin nodded fervently. "Y-y-yes!" he said, tie flapping and Kneazles gambolling. "If you keep the object touching your skin, it will be like you're touching each other."
"And what if someone, say, crushed the object?" Draco suddenly interjected, mouth sour. "Would the link rebound, crushing the wizard in turn?"
"N-n-n-no, of c-c-course not!" Kevin said, and folded his arms. "It would just b-b-break the link for you b-b-both. No one would be in d-d-d-danger like that."
No, there would be no danger, Harry thought. Except the danger of the link suddenly failing in the middle of one of them Apparating, for example. Or flying on a broom. Or casting a shield spell. And the link wouldn't need to fail, would it? All Draco would need to do to screw Harry over – or vice versa, he supposed – was take his hand off the object at a crucial moment.
As far as temporary solutions went, it was far from perfect. But . . . it was better than nothing, Harry thought, trying not to feel ungrateful. It would, at least, allow him to go back to work, even if Robards made him stay in the office and do paperwork.
"All right," Harry said. "It sounds OK to me. Draco?"
Draco shrugged. "I suppose so."
Kevin sagged in relief. "O-O-OK, I need two objects, then," he said. "P-p-preferably ones you've h-h-had a while and which are a-a-already s-sympathetic to your m-magic."
"The ring Potter's wearing will work for me," Draco said, sounding irritated. "It's an ancient family heirloom."
'Potter'? What had he done wrong now, Harry thought, now also irritated. Were they back to Harry's lack of family jewels? "I can always dig my parents up, see if their skeletons are wearing wedding rings."
There was a horrified silence.
"Too much?" Harry asked, folding his arms. "You did ask for that, Malfoy."
"I-I-I don't think we need to go that far!" Kevin stammered.
"Sorry," Draco said, sounding sulky. "I . . . Never mind."
Harry racked his brains. What did he have that might do for his object? He had a brainwave and rummaged in the pocket of his outer-robes, withdrawing his watch with a flourish. "Will this do?"
Draco peered at it. "What is it?" he murmured.
"It's a watch!" Harry said, back to irritated. "It was a coming of age present, so I've had it a few years now. It's gold and it's old," he said to Draco, "so stop complaining."
"Who gave it to you?" Draco asked, as if he was prodding at a bruise – he knew it would hurt, but he wanted to do it anyway, just to check.
"Mrs Weasley," Harry said calmly.
Draco choked, and then stilled. "It's got a dent in the back," he commented, as if he was talking about the weather.
Harry nodded. "Yes, it has."
There was a grim and deathly pause.
"T-those s-should be f-fine!" Kevin squeaked, when the tension got too much for him and his Kneazles: some were covering their eyes with their paws. He held out his hand to Harry. Harry handed the watch over, then pulled the ring off his finger and handed that over too. The ring didn't seem to want to come off, and his finger felt cold and naked without it, but he tried not to notice.
"L-let's go to my lab," Kevin said firmly, and so they went.
Several hours later, and it was finished. They had their magic back. Well, sort of, Harry thought, trying not to shudder. Kevin and several other Unspeakables, who had the air of mushrooms who'd grown up in the dark and had never seen the outside, had cast dozens of spells over both them and the objects. Spells which had felt creepy and invasive, sending tentacles probing through Harry's body, burrowing inside his organs and wriggling inside his head. It felt like dark magic. He hoped he wasn't making a terrible mistake. Draco, by his side, had seemed similarly disconcerted, which had been the only reassuring thing about the whole horrible business.
When it was done, though, Harry had passed the watch over to Draco, and Draco had given the ring back to him, and . . . the feeling, as Harry had slid the ring back on his finger while Draco simultaneously strapped on the watch, was indescribable. It was like the ring was where it belonged: soft, and warm, and home. He tried to pull himself together. It wasn't the ring, it was his magic. He could feel it now, a peaceful, thrumming undercurrent, albeit faintly muffled. When he got his wand out and cast a spell, it worked, but it, too, felt faint and underpowered. He had his magic back. But only just.
Draco, by his side, was scowling sourly at the watch. He glanced over at Harry, then used his own wand, before stowing it back in his sleeve, and turned, briefly, to take the lenses out of his eyes. Harry had all but forgotten he was wearing them in the first place. "Yes, seems adequate," he said, blinking hard as he looked around.
Kevin and his mushroom-staff seemed a little underwhelmed by this show of gratitude. "It's great!" Harry said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Thank you! Er, but have you made any progress on reversing the bond itself?"
From the panicked look on Kevin's face, Harry deduced that no, they had not. He supposed they'd been busy with this temporary solution. And that had only taken a week, really, he told himself, trying to cheer up. Maybe they'd only take a week to fix the spell too. He could last another week like this, hanging out in his house with Draco and . . . hanging out in his house with Draco. Was Draco even going to stay in his house, though, he wondered uncomfortably. He supposed that now he had access to his magic, he could go home. Back to Malfoy Manor. The idea was unnerving and unwelcome.
"You're going to carry on living with me, aren't you, for a while," he told Draco, and tried not to sound nervous.
"Well, duh. We're hardly fixed just because now we can turn the lights on and off all by ourselves," Draco said snidely, to Harry's great relief, even as Kevin rushed to say:
"O-oh yes! Y-you must! T-this is a r-risky s-solution. M-M-Mr Potter, you must s-stay n-near Mr Malfoy in case o-of disaster."
"Call me Harry, please," Harry said automatically, and reached out to whack at Draco as the git mouthed the same words, even as he said them. He didn't mind being predictable when it came to things like that! He wanted people to call him by his first name!
But as Harry enjoyed the odd relief he felt at the idea that Draco was going to carry on living with him, he simultaneously realised a chilling fact: Draco was going to carry on living with him. Harry knew he couldn't last another week just hanging out in his house with Draco, even with their new amazing light-switch powers. The last week had already been confusing, and trying, enough. Another would be too much for him entirely.
There was only one thing for it, Harry decided: he was definitely going to have to persuade Robards to let him go back to work.
^^^^^^
Robards was very happy to let Harry go back to work. Ron was deliriously happy to see Harry back at work, weeping on his shoulder in joy and Levitating a huge pile of paperwork surreptitiously over his shoulder and on to Harry's desk as he did so. "We nearly died without you, Harry," Ron said as he mock sobbed, waving his hand to indicate that Williamson, Proudfoot and Savage, who were lurking nearby to also welcome Harry back, should do the same. "We had so much work."
"Congratulations on your marriage," Perpetua Proudfoot said solemnly, when Ron had released Harry and Harry had Levitated the pile right back.
"Er, thanks," Harry said, not sure whether she was taking the piss or not. It was always difficult to tell with Perpetua. Beside her, Chad Williamson and Rowena Savage exchanged bemused glances. "Let's get back to work though, shall we, rather than chat?"
Chad and Rowena took the hint, although Ron had another go at the Levitating when he thought Harry wasn't looking. There really was a shitload of work, Harry thought, and felt guilty all over again for dropping his colleagues in it, even though it hadn't exactly been his fault. He'd left the office with too much to do, and he returned with an impossibility of a workload.
Harry thought he was happy about that. It was a distraction, he supposed, from the bond thing. From Draco, waiting for him at home. Draco, who seemed to be the only one who wasn't happy about Harry going back to work. He'd been silent with disbelief on the Saturday, when Harry had suggested it, and then red and angry in his silence on Sunday. They'd slept in the same bed, as usual, but it had been awkward, and Draco's nightmares had returned, leaving them both overwrought and overtired. This morning, when he'd left for work for real, Draco had barely spoken to him. He definitely hadn't said goodbye.
Not that Harry cared, he told himself firmly. It was just – oh, all right, he admitted miserably, in the privacy of his own head, he did care. A lot. It was horrible living with someone who was mad at you, and when it came to Draco he barely knew which way was up. He'd got used to having him around, barely, but nothing about him was comfortable, or easy to understand. And when Harry tried to examine his own feelings about Draco, they didn't make any sense either. He disliked him, and yet he didn't. God – he really, really didn't. Sometimes, he even thought he . . .
No, Harry told himself. No. Even if he did have feelings for Draco, it would be deeply unhelpful to let himself act on them, other than in a basic, biological sense. Draco was unpredictable, and moody, and brave when it didn't matter, and spineless when it did. He wasn't someone Harry could ever rely on. And – even if that was a bit unfair, Draco was a Malfoy, and he cared about that stupid bloodline shit. If Harry allowed himself to imagine a future with Draco, it was a bit like standing on the railway tracks at the mouth of a tunnel, seeing sunshine at one end but hearing the shrill whistle of an oncoming train.
It was hard to remember any of this, though, when he returned home from work – late – that evening, and as soon as he got through the door, Draco, his face set and pale, rushed at him. Harry thought he was going to hit him, but instead it was a hug that just felt like a punch: hard, and tight, Draco tucking his face into the side of Harry's neck and clinging on. "You're late," he said disagreeably, after a while, but he didn't pull away. "I made dinner, but it burnt."
"You could have eaten without me," Harry pointed out, just to be an arse. Draco seemed wound so tight he might snap, and Harry thought a bit of bickering might be just the ticket. "There's no need to be an idiot about it."
"Oh, I saved you some, don't worry," Draco said, pulling away, and he led Harry to the dining room, where a pile of blackened something sat neatly on a china plate, knife and fork either side of it.
Harry started laughing, and after a while Draco reluctantly joined in.
They ordered a takeaway delivery through the Floo, and sat down in the living room to eat it, balancing boxes and utensils dangerously on their laps.
"I'm not working in the field," Harry said through a mouthful of noodles.
"I know," Draco said faintly, and fiddled with his chopsticks.
"You don't need to worry about me," Harry continued stoically, munching away.
"I wasn't," Draco snapped.
As both of them knew Draco was lying, Harry didn't feel the need to reply. But he felt guilty, all the same. "I'll try to be home on time tomorrow," he said, emphasising the 'try'.
"You won't be," Draco predicted, and wrinkled his nose. "But shut up about it and eat your food."
Harry shut up about it and ate his food. After dinner, they hung out awkwardly together in the living room, as usual. But, not as usual, rather than sitting at opposite ends of the sofa and attempting to ignore each other as they tried to read, Draco twisted at his end. He leaned back against the sofa's arm and put his bare feet in Harry's lap, before Summoning his book. It was the book without a title on the spine.
Harry looked at Draco's feet in his lap, and then he looked at the book. "What are you reading?" he suddenly found himself asking.
Draco looked over the book and examined Harry's face for a moment, his expression conflicted. Then he passed the book over.
Harry took it. It wasn't a book, after all, he found. It was a journal of some sorts, and he wondered if it was all right to actually read any of it. But Draco was watching him now, quietly, and so Harry thought he might as well. He skimmed a few pages, flicking through and skimming more. It seemed to be list upon list of notes. Wizarding etiquette notes. Bullet points of Muggle customs and traditions. Potted biographies of senior ministry employees, and foreign dignitaries, along with scurrilous gossip, some of which had emphatic ticks by it and some of which had been firmly crossed out. There were odd, unnerving columns, too, of pros and cons: Are wizards superior to Muggles? read one heading, followed by House-elves: For and Against and Pure-bloods vs —. The word there was scribbled out, and above it was written, in a tiny, cramped hand, Wizards Born With Muggle Parentage. It was as if Draco had been painstakingly trying to work through his prejudices.
There were, Harry noticed, still a good number of things in both columns, for all these issues. He decided not to read them in detail, for the good of his blood pressure. When he got to a section that seemed to be at least a dozen pages, headed with 'Harry Potter', he handed the book back with a shudder. There was no way he wanted to read whatever that said.
"I – didn't mean to pry," Harry said, as Draco continued to look at him, not embarrassed, but not entirely comfortably either.
"You always were a nosy fucker, weren't you, though?" Draco finally said, and turned his face back to his book, although the line of his shoulders had dropped. He clearly felt as if he'd faced some sort of hurdle, and had cleared it without injury.
Harry supposed it was a bit weird to write down that sort of stuff, and then to re-read it, as if you were revising for an exam, or a debate or something, but it wasn't that weird.
"What are you reading?" Draco asked, looking up from the book again. "Some of your mail, I hope? Soon the dining room will be more mail than room."
"I look forward to it," Harry said, who wasn't reading anything, but certainly wasn't planning on tackling his mail. All those letters from Pansy lurked in there, along with scrolls from Draco's own parents. There was a new thing to dread too, now, as well: the copies of the Prophet that kept piling up relentlessly, and which no doubt featured long, embarrassing and factually inaccurate stories about his and Draco's happy ever after. He'd cancelled his subscription, yes, but it seemed that nothing short of closing down the newspaper itself would stop the thing from arriving. He wasn't going near his post until he had to. "I'm reading . . ." What was he reading? "The Auror rules handbook," he said, having a sudden brainwave and Summoning it. Harry only remembered, as the book shot in the room and nearly brained him, that Draco had been angry with him about work, so maybe bringing it up again wasn't the smoothest of moves.
Draco's face was alight with laughter though when Harry looked over. "You really are a wanker, aren't you?" he said peaceably, and turned back to his book, trying to suppress his smile.
Harry rested the book in his lap, on top of Draco's feet, in response. Draco snorted, but didn't move his legs, and as Harry started reading, he found himself flicking the pages with one hand, while his other hand rested lightly on one of Draco's ankles. Draco's skin was warm and soft beneath his fingers, and Harry found it even harder to concentrate on the boring book than usual. They didn't need to be touching each other now, for Harry to able to feel the thrum of magic beneath his skin. But Harry found he still wanted to touch Draco, all the same.
^^^^^^
As Draco had predicted, Harry was late home every night that week. He mostly left for work early too, to Draco's disgust, although he made a token attempt to conceal it. Harry didn't mean to do it, not really, it was just that there was so much to do. Once he was in the office, he couldn't move for paper. And besides, if he stepped away from his desk, even for a moment, people were waiting to leap out at him and grill him about his wedding, about his husband, asking intimate questions he had no idea how to answer. He found himself making up ever-more elaborate lies, which Draco then repeated back to him the next day, obviously trying not laugh, when they inevitably made their way into the paper. Draco was reading the Prophet, it seemed. He had to, he said drily when Harry asked him about it; how else would he find out that he and Harry were planning on taking a summer holiday to Maui this year, to fulfil Harry's long-held wish of wearing a grass skirt, and then adopting six puppies, to live in their new puppy room?
Besides, while he was at work, slaving away, Draco got to laze around Harry's house all day, sunning himself in the garden, or eating bonbons in one of the enormous drawing rooms, or listening to the wireless, or whatever gentlemen of leisure did to occupy themselves. If he was bored, that was his own business, wasn't it? It wasn't up to Harry to entertain him. Harry remembered one of the sections of Draco's journal that he'd skimmed past – something about getting a job at the Ministry – and wondered whether that was something he actively wanted to do, or whether it was just that that was what his father had done. He could see Draco fitting in very nicely with one of the snootier departments, who seemed very hung up on keeping wizarding culture and tradition exactly as it had been five hundred years ago.
Not that Draco was lazing around all day. Harry didn't know what he was doing, exactly, but the house was certainly a lot more . . . domestic than it had been. Although, was that really the word? Maybe 'lived in' was more apt. The cupboards were always full of food when he got home, and Tupperware boxes full of cake sprang up in unexpected places. Harry hadn't expected to discover that Draco was someone who liked to bake, but given that his mother had always sent him enormous boxes of sweets when he'd been at school, which he'd opened boastfully in the Great Hall, it didn't seem a massive surprise when he actually thought about it.
Harry, who was more than happy to eat cake at any time of the day or night, started to think that if he had to live with Draco for longer than a few weeks, he'd end up the size of a house.
Draco seemed to receive a lot more mail too, which he read in front of Harry in the evenings without saying who it was from, and Harry had stressed out about that for a fraction of a second, before deciding he'd just ask him about it outright.
"Nosy-parker strikes again," Draco said, unimpressed. "What's it to you who sends me post?"
Which, Harry thought, was fair enough.
"It's owl-mail so it's not as if they need to know my current address, if that's what you're worried about. I know you're an ignoramus sometimes, but even you must know that. Maybe I should start owling you when you're at work," Draco continued sweetly, "to ask you what time you'll be home. What time do you call this, exactly?"
Harry picked up Draco's wrist and looked at the watch on it. "Half-past nine-ish," he said. "Can't you tell the time?"
Draco laughed, and then pulled his expression back into sweet snideness. "You don't have a post owl I can use, though, do you?"
Harry felt a bit like Draco had punched him. It must have shown in his face, because Draco's brows drew together and he suddenly looked awkward.
"Hedwig died," Harry said, and it came out flat and awful. He supposed it was stupid to still be so cut up about his owl. She'd only been an owl. But . . . No, he thought fiercely. She hadn't only been an owl. She'd been clever, and loyal, and she'd been his friend and companion through some of the darkest of days. There was a reason why he hadn't replaced her; she couldn't be replaced.
Draco's frown deepened, and Harry looked away. He didn't want to talk about it.
"I never really fancied having a pet, myself," Draco said airily. "I mean, I had an owl at school, but it was more of a working relationship. All I ever wanted when I was a child was a dragon. Not so much to ask, was it?" he continued, getting into his stride. "I mean, it was only a tiny bit illegal. I would have been perfectly happy with a small one. But Father wouldn't let me, can you believe it? Apparently, it could have burnt the house down. I think that was the only time he ever said no to me, now I come to think of it," Draco added, and seemed to shake himself out of the memory.
"Draco with a draco," Harry murmured, grateful for the distraction. "Even as a child, you always were an enormous twat, I see."
Draco made an outraged splutter, and the conversation moved on. But later that night, as they sat awake after another of Draco's interminable bad dreams, Harry remembered it. And felt peculiar that, presented with such a prime opportunity for mockery, Draco had chosen to be sympathetic instead.
Although, now Harry came to think of it, he still hadn't told Harry who he'd been getting all that mail from either, had he?