Chapter Text
When Harry Potter was 7, he was given a toy—a spare, of course, one that Dudley didn’t have a use for anymore. It was a little teddy bear with a heart on its stomach. When pressed, the bear said, “I love you!” in the innocent, upbeat voice of a child. It was dusty and one of its ears was cut off, but Harry had never protected anything more. No one had ever said those words to him before, but he grew up thinking—hoping—one day, someone would say that to him. And it would be unconditional, forever.
When Harry Potter was 11, he met the most handsome boy he had ever seen in his entire life. He’d been starstruck at Madam Malkin’s when the boy asked Hogwarts, too? but the boy seemed like he was in a hurry to run away, his face red and flushed. It was only later that he’d realize that the boy was Draco Malfoy and he was a bit of a prat because he’d been mean to Ron Weasley, but that didn’t make him any less handsome. Harry went to bed that night thinking of Draco Malfoy and wondering if he should have turned down that handshake. It would have been nice, he thought, to be friends.
When Harry Potter was 16, he spent more days following Draco Malfoy around than not. Over their years at Hogwarts, it had become abundantly clear that whatever he felt for Malfoy was not… hatred. It was something else, with equal conviction but not nearly enough vitriol. Every time he followed Malfoy around, he’d get a bit lost in the sharpness of his cheekbones or the firm press of his mouth or the deep, irreparable sadness in his eyes. Those eyes haunted Harry’s dreams, but he knew he’d lost his chance to be friends with Malfoy. So instead, he opened the map and fell asleep each night staring at Malfoy’s name. He never regretted anything in his life more than what happened in the girl’s bathroom.
When Harry Potter was 17, he was not going to let Draco Malfoy die and certainly not the horrifying death that awaited him in a room full of Fiendfyre. Despite the protests from his friends, he turned back around to save him because Malfoy had lied to protect him. Had told Bellatrix that he didn’t recognize Harry, that they couldn’t be sure. He’d lowered his wand, like he never really wanted to hurt Harry at all and Harry knew he didn’t have it in him to kill Dumbledore either. Harry wanted to reach a hand out all over again—tell him they could be friends and Harry would help. But as he walked into the forest, he never said a word, only to be saved by the hands of Malfoy’s mother.
When Harry Potter was 18, he found out that Draco and Narcissa Malfoy were to be sentenced to Azkaban. Livid that he wasn’t privy to the timing of these proceedings, he pulled his robes on and hurried to the Wizengamot, where he saw the pair of them looking paler than they ever had in their entire life. Demanding an audience, Harry spoke the truth—how he wouldn’t have been alive if it weren’t for Draco or his mother and how the entire Wizarding World owed them a debt for turning the tide of the war against Voldemort. Once they’d been freed, Harry waited for an hour to see Malfoy and offer that hand he’d been wanting to extend. Malfoy never showed, though he sent a simple note to Harry that read thank you.
When Harry Potter was 19, he received news that Narcissa Malfoy had passed away. It was a passing remark made by Andromeda when Harry had gone to visit her, but the words settled into Harry’s stomach like a lead weight. Harry had missed the funeral, but he still went to visit the grave—unlike anything he would have expected from someone of the Malfoy stature. Andromeda told him later that Malfoy had been afraid of overtly displaying his mother’s name, lest people come and desecrate it because of their tarnished reputation. Harry’s heart hurt. The woman deserved a final resting place that would have lived up to her honor, but he didn’t want to disrespect Malfoy’s wishes. Instead, he would visit every single week and leave a fresh wreath of narcissus on the cold slab of marble, hoping it would make her smile.
When Harry Potter was 20, he was informed that Draco Malfoy had donated the entirety of Malfoy Manor to children orphaned by the war. Far too curious for his own good, he visited the home one day, but hadn’t expected to see Malfoy himself there. Keeping himself out of view, Harry noted how attentively Malfoy would listen to the kids who wanted to speak to him and how earnestly he took all of their requests and promised to make them true. Malfoy didn’t want any of the credit or his name to be anywhere on the home, in case it gave anyone pause. He wanted it to be a home for the children, not tainted by his reputation. Though Harry was grateful for the gesture, he couldn’t help but feel like Malfoy was being a bit too harsh on himself—after all, he’d given up everything he ever had to help other people.
When Harry Potter was 21, he was sent to St. Mungo’s for some spell damage he’d sustained while fighting a crazy woman who was trying to bond herself to Harry. It was embarrassing and annoying, but Robards still made him get checked out. While there, he noticed that they had a new Healer in their midst—one Draco Malfoy—who seemed to be the best one there. The chatter on the floor was that he was attentive to his patients and brilliant at everything he did. Harry—21 year old man that he was—really only noticed how bloody fit Malfoy was. He was all long limbs and hard planes and chiseled perfection. That blond hair was no longer slicked back, but rather fell in a soft wave that framed his face perfectly. Harry went home that night with only one thought in his mind—he needed to get reacquainted with Draco Malfoy.
When Harry Potter was 22, he made it happen by pretending to casually run into Malfoy at the pub. Never mind that he had done extended amounts of reconnaissance work to discover where Malfoy met up with his friends—turned out that he rarely ever took time for himself, always signing up for extra shifts at the hospital to help people in need—and just planned to be there right when he knew Malfoy was going to be there too. Malfoy had been shocked but cordial, none of the snarky rudeness that he was filled to the brim with in his youth. Well, that certainly wouldn’t do. Harry played up what little charm he had, flirting egregiously and hoping Malfoy would know that he was serious. When he asked Malfoy to dinner that weekend, he was surprised Malfoy said yes. Honestly, Malfoy seemed surprised too. It took three dates for Malfoy to let Harry kiss him. It took seven for Malfoy to invite him home. It was in the middle of one of their slow, languid morning kisses that Malfoy demanded Harry call him Draco . Harry was only too happy to oblige his boyfriend.
When Harry Potter was 23, he told Molly Wealey that he was bringing his boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, home. Molly had simply blinked once, twice, and then nodded saying she was going to have to make more focaccia for the special guest. Draco had been so nervous, changing his outfit no less than fourteen times before he finally settled on trousers that were still too formal and a crisp blue shirt. But shortly after Harry urged him through the Floo, Draco was chatting seamlessly with Arthur about Muggle appliances and besting Ron in a well-matched round of chess. Seeing him make such an effort to get along with the only family Harry had ever known was too much for his poor heart. That night, when he pressed Draco into the sheets, the words he had been holding in for far too long slipped out. Draco had just smiled, held Harry’s face in his hands and whispered, I love you too.
When Harry Potter was 24, he was on a fast-track to Head Auror, which consumed his waking days. He spent ridiculous hours at work, trying to prove himself to Robards—even though he really didn’t need to—and all he wanted at the end of the day was to come home to Draco. Draco’s open arms, his soft words and gentle kisses. That was all he could think about all day at work. When Draco finally agreed to move in with him—the horrific fight notwithstanding—he thought he could never be happier in his entire life. Within a couple weeks of Draco moving in, Grimmauld had completely transformed itself. It was brighter and fresher and actually seemed like a home —Harry was sure it was magic but he didn’t know if it was the house or Draco. Either way, he was all too happy to wake up to the love of his life every morning and hold him close as they fell asleep, sweaty and exhausted.
When Harry Potter was 25, he felt like he was ready for the next big step. He spent months researching pureblood customs but then thought to hell with it when he saw how Draco teared up at a typical Muggle proposal that they’d happened to witness after dinner in Muggle London one day. And so, Harry prepared a lovely dinner and set up the entire house as romantically as he possibly could—watching far too many Muggle romance movies than a man ever should—so that when Draco came home, he could get down on one knee. The nerves had blocked out most of his memory, but Harry remembered saying something along the lines of will you spend the rest of forever with me? He wasn’t sure if Draco ever said yes, but the way he sobbed and collapsed and mumbled nonsensically in Harry’s arms seemed like a pretty good sign.
When Harry Potter was 26, he held Draco’s hand in front of all their friends and family, exchanging vows and teary kisses. Finally, after years of being in love and dreaming of this day, Harry married the love of his life and promised to love him forever.
When Harry Potter was 27, he held his son for the very first time. Leo looked like a perfect mix of both of them, but Harry was secretly thrilled that he had gotten Draco’s gray eyes. Harry had always loved looking into those eyes and now, set in the frame of his darling child, they seemed to shine even brighter. He spoiled Leo rotten and Draco would always half-heartedly tell him off about it, but how could he help it? This child was a perfect mix of him and the love of his life—he was allowed to be a little indulgent, wasn’t he? With every day that passed, he thought that he couldn’t possibly love his husband more, but he was proven wrong over and over again. There was nothing more incredible, Harry thought, than seeing your soulmate become a parent. It was… a feeling unlike any other.
When Harry Potter was 28, he was promoted to Head Auror. After years of hard work, he thought he was going to savor the moment more but all he could see—or even think about—in the crowd of people cheering his name was his husband and his son, looking at him so proudly. It made his heart burst to see them there, waving ecstatically and Leo giggling even though he had no earthly idea what was going on. This was why he did it. For them. He worked hard to come home to them. He kept the streets safe so it would be safe for them . Everything he did was for them—his family. And he would do it forever.
When Harry Potter was 29, he was feeling a bit lost. It seemed like he was losing control of everything around him. Draco seemed distant and tired, no longer interested in taking walks with Harry or touching him at night. He felt guilty, of course he did, because he knew he was busy but he was doing his best trying to balance work and being at home with the baby. But no matter how hard he tried, the house got quieter and the only sound of laughter was from Leo and Draco before Harry walked in; then, it would fall silent. There was no more talking, no more of that unbridled happiness that he had gotten accustomed to. Draco didn’t want him around anymore. And so he said yes to more cases, said yes to more assignments, said yes to it all—just so he wouldn’t bother Draco too much and suck out all the happiness from the house.
At 30 years old, Harry was scared for a bit there, but knows, more than ever, that he and Draco will be in love until the end of forever.
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