The Years That Walk Between

by Femme (femmequixotic)

Summary:

Draco finds his way after the war.

Notes:

Written just after Deathly Hallows was published (and before we knew Astoria's name.)

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking
--Ash-Wednesday, T.S. Eliot

"He's dead," Narcissa says quietly, touching his arm, and Draco's throat tightens. He stops in the middle of the Hogwarts corridor, just outside the Headmaster's office, and he looks at her. He won't believe Potter, would never believe Potter because Potter can't know—would never know—but Mother--

It's too much.

Draco pulls away from his mother, stumbles backwards blindly, hits a wall. He slides down, knees pulled to his chest, and his eyes burn. He dips his head; his hair falls forward, he presses his forehead to his thighs and breathes.

Just breathes.

He can still feel Severus's last touch, the press of his mouth against Draco's only a night before. A slow kiss, given just steps away from where he's now sitting, and then another, and another, and Draco had twisted his fingers in Severus's robe, not wanting to let go. Ever.

Perhaps he shouldn't have.

Draco brushes shaking fingertips across his lips, chapped and broken, still swollen from Weasley's punch only hours before.

It doesn't hurt any longer. He blinks hard, swallows, and his jaw clenches.

Nothing hurts. It can't. Not after—

He's not certain which is worse, Severus's death or the realisation that their kisses, their touches, their nights spent sweaty in Severus's bed meant nothing. Not in comparison to her. His Lordship's taunt to Potter still echoes in his mind: your mother, Snape's supposed great love…

Draco shudders, swallows against the bile rising in his throat.

His mother pulls him into her arms, and he realises only then that Narcissa Malfoy is curled on the filthy Hogwarts floor, robes twisted beneath her, and when she strokes his hair and whispers it will be fine, darling; it will be fine; you'll be fine, her voice cracks.

She knows. He doesn't know how, but she does and he looks up at her. She's paler than usual, and he can see the lines and crepey skin at the corner of her eyes that she tries so hard to hide. Narcissa touches his cheek.

Draco crumbles then, clutching at her arm, and he turns towards her, presses his face against his mother's shoulder. His whole body shakes when the tears finally come.

He's lost everything, he knows.

Draco doesn't care any more.

***

They go to collect his body.

Lucius asks permission from Potter stiffly, refusing to look him in the eye. Potter says nothing for a moment, then nods and says, "He's in the Shrieking Shack. I can send Neville and Bill to help—"

"We are quite capable of taking care of him ourselves," Lucius says, mouth tight, and Draco's eyes flit between Potter and his father. Potter tenses for a moment and then shrugs.

He has the oldest Weasley follow them anyway. At a distance.

They walk silently to the shack, as a family. It's only fitting for an old friend, Lucius says, voice tight, and it's only then that Draco remembers through the fog that has enveloped him that Severus has been his father's closest confidante for years. How losing him must hurt.

His father seldom shows pain.

Narcissa slips her fingers through Draco's. He clutches her hand tightly. Desperately.

As if he can make it all not true by the pressure of his fingers.

She pulls him back before he enters, letting Lucius go before them. "A word, Draco."

He turns his head; he can barely feel the movements of his body. This is surreal, strange. He's drifting, floating, lost.

Draco wonders if he'll ever find his way again.

Narcissa brushes his hair back out of his eyes. He feels a strange annoyance with her, and dips his head forward again, letting dirty strands swing back into his face. A lock of hair catches on his grimy cheek.

His mother sighs. "Don't let your father know," she says quietly. "Let him think—"

"That his only heir's not a poof?" It bursts out bitterly, and Draco looks away. Bites his lip.

"Yes," his mother says, and her voice hardens. "It's for the best."

Draco brushes past her, anger twisting in his stomach. He doesn't care how she knows. Doesn't want to ask. It doesn't matter any longer because Severus is—

He can't even think the word.

The shack is filthy and the walls are scarred with long, deep claw marks, as if a beast had gone mad. Draco shivers. He's never been inside this place. Never wished to be.

Severus has told him tales, though.

Draco touches a scratch on the doorjamb. Scrapes his thumbnail over the rotting wood. It flakes away, and a splinter catches in the ball of his thumb. Draco doesn't care.

His father is kneeling next to Severus's body and Draco stops, his heart in his throat. There's blood, so much blood. Everywhere. Spread across the floor. Thick, sticky pools curdled over worn wooden planks.

A muffled cry rips from his throat--half a sob--and then he's on his knees beside Severus, touching his robe. The wool is stiff with drying blood; Draco can feel more blood soak through his trousers, smear against his knees, his shins.

Severus's blood.

Lucius has pulled off his own robe, has transfigured it into a shroud. Draco reaches for it. "Let me," he says, and he doesn't look at his father.

There's a moment's pause, and then Narcissa says Lucius quietly from the doorway, and Lucius lets go of the shroud and stands.

Draco waits until his parents' footsteps echo down the hallway.

Severus is pale, so very, very pale, and Draco touches his cheek almost hesitantly.

He remembers the first time he'd touched Severus, ten months ago, in the middle of yet another argument on why Draco was an utter fool for taking the Dark Mark. Severus had shoved him against the wall of his bedroom in the Manor, his eyes bright and angry, and Draco's breath had caught in the back of his throat. He hadn't been able to stop his hand. His knuckles had brushed Severus's cheek, lightly, and Severus had jerked back as if Draco had burned him.

It was the first time Draco had ever seen his Head of House run from anything. Anyone.

Severus's skin is cold beneath his fingertips. Unnatural. Draco shudders, just slightly, but he strokes his fingers over Severus's mouth, across his nose.

"Stupid arse," he whispers roughly, his throat closing on him. Draco smoothes Severus's lank hair back from his forehead and he tries so bloody hard not to think of how he loved to twist it in his hands when he was pressed against the door of the Headmaster's office, Severus on his knees, sucking him as the portraits looked away, faces flushed in disapproval.

All but Dumbledore's, that is—and he had stopped Draco in the corridor afterwards, displacing a group of picnicking sisters in a field of poppies. Mr Malfoy, he had said, his eyes somber over the rims of his spectacles, if you must conduct yourself in such a manner… The old man had looked away then and sighed. Make him happy, Draco, he had said quietly, hands clasped in front of his garish blue-purple robe. It was the only time Dumbledore's portrait had spoken to him.

Draco strokes a fingertip over heavy black eyebrows. "Did I?" he murmurs, and he chews on the slick skin inside his lip. He doesn't know. He supposes he never will now.

He's suddenly angry again, and it's better than the ache. He jerks the shroud over Severus's feet, and he pulls it up beneath him, pushing Severus over onto his side as he lays the shroud open across the blood-soaked floor. "Bastard," he says tightly. He pulls Severus onto his back and begins wrapping the shroud tightly around him. "You promised--"

The shroud tears just a bit and Draco stares down at it.

His cheeks are wet again, and he can taste the salt on his lips. He leans his head on Severus's chest and he listens for the familiar thump-thump of his heartbeat.

It doesn't come.

"I hate you," Draco says weakly, but he knows it's not true. He's never said the words, never had them said to him, and it's mad--useless--to bare his soul now. But he knows, and he thinks perhaps Severus did as well.

He takes a shaky breath, sits up. The shroud is fastened up to Severus's chin. Draco trails his knuckles over Severus's mouth. This is the last time he'll touch him; he knows this. The last time he'll see him.

Draco almost never wants this moment to end.

And then he kisses him softly, his lips warm against cold, and he lets the words be whispered just once, from his mouth to Severus's, a near silent declaration.

Draco pulls back. "Always," he murmurs, and he pulls the shroud over Severus's face, ties it closed.

His parents find him there, five minutes later, silent and still, his hands and trousers covered with Severus's blood. Narcissa helps him stand; he sways once, and she clutches him. Draco leaves a smeared handprint on the sleeve of her robe.

Lucius carries the body. No magic. Just the weight of an old friendship hefted in his arms.

Potter and Granger are waiting for them when they leave.

Lucius looks at them with disdain. "Let us bury our dead," he says with a curl of his lip, "before you round us up for Azkaban."

Potter's mouth thins; his eyes are cold. "I'll leave that for the Ministry, thanks." He looks at Draco then, and his face softens, almost imperceptibly, but Draco catches it. He frowns.

"I've something for you," Potter says to him. "I'll come by in a few days."

Draco just nods. He doesn't know what to say. All he can think is I hate your mother.

He turns away.

***

Severus is interred in the Malfoy crypt.

There's not a ceremony. No fanfare. Only Draco and his parents and a few house elves are present.

Oddly, Draco thinks Severus would have preferred it that way.

With his wand, Lucius inscribes Severus's name on the outside marble, along with his dates, and Draco traces one finger along the deep curves of one S.

He still can't breathe at times, can't think. He hasn't eaten in several days, despite his mother's worried looks and the elves' preparing his favourite foods at each meal.

Draco's not certain when Severus became this important to him. Perhaps he always was in one way or another. He thinks he might have known the first time they kissed. It had been after Burbage, and Draco had been horrified to watch her spin above them, a human toy waiting for His Lordship's interest. Draco had disappeared to his room afterwards, pleading exhaustion, and the Death Eaters had mocked him for his weakness.

The moon had hung low in the sky, barely brushing the tops of the cypress trees his great-grandfather had imported for the gardens, and Draco had been curled on the wide window seat, still shaking when Severus had entered—without knocking, of course. Severus had always eschewed social niceties unless forced otherwise.

He had pressed a glass of whisky into Draco's hand with a curt drink as he sat down on the windowseat, shoving Draco's bare feet out of the way.

Draco had said nothing for a long moment, turning the glass in his hands. He can still remember how the moonlight shone through the amber liquid, shadows curling around his wrist. Is it always that way? he asked finally, and he lifted the glass to his mouth.

The whisky had burned its way down his throat, smooth and rich, and Severus had smoothed a hand over the cool glass of the window, staring down at the gardens below.

This is what you wished for, Mr Malfoy.

Draco hadn't answered, had merely drained the whisky.

We are foolish men caught in a dangerous trap, Severus had said after a moment, and his long fingers traced over a leaded pane. He had looked at Draco then. Watch yourself.

Draco had leaned back against the wall, digging his toes into the velvet of the cushion. He ran a thumb over the lip of the empty glass. It squeaked softly. I'm frightened, he had admitted, and his hair fell into his face, obscuring his eyes. He'd curled his palm over the Mark on his arm. It had burned still that night, and Draco had the wild desire to claw it off his skin. Impossible, he knew; it was seared to the bone. A permanent remind of his stupidity. Severus had watched him, had said nothing. Will He kill me?

No. Severus's mouth had tightened and the word came out in an angry snap. I won't let Him.

And then Draco had looked at him, had seen then.

His breath had caught, and he had reached for Severus just as Severus's mouth came down on his.

The whisky glass had fallen to the floor and shattered.

Draco presses a shaking hand to the smooth, cold marble.

Saying goodbye is hard.

***

Potter arrives two days later. Draco is sitting in the conservatory with his mother when the elf announces him. The Ministry has come for Lucius; the Aurors have marched him off not to Azkaban, but rather to a holding cell far beneath the Ministry until he stands trial before the Wizengamot.

At least it's charmed to filter light through the bars.

Narcissa leaves them after a moment, pointedly summoning the elf to remain. His mother may be many things, but she's not a fool.

Potter merely seems amused.

"What do you want?" Draco says finally, weary. He hasn't been sleeping, though his mother coaxed him to eat a scrap of salmon at lunch. It's just too much effort to do anything other than lie curled in his bed, staring at the wall.

It's where he wants to be right now.

Instead he sits silent as Potter pulls a small phial from his pocket, along with an envelope, sealed with the Hogwarts crest. He hands them both to Draco; Draco turns the envelope over slowly.

His heart clenches at the sight of his name in Severus's hand.

"It was in his drawer," Potter says, meeting Draco's gaze. "Warded, but…" He looks away.

"You broke his wards?" Draco wants to laugh hysterically. Of course. The great Harry Potter could break any ward of Severus's—

Potter shakes his head. "When he—" He breaks off, and runs a hand through his hair. It stands up wildly on end. "Passed—"

"Died, Potter," Draco says tightly. He makes himself say the hated word again. The euphemisms are worse and he knows full well Severus would mock him for anything less than the proper terminology. "When he died."

"Yeah." Potter sighs. "When he died, he gave me some memories to see. About—" Potter chews his bottom lip. "About my mum and all."

Draco's mouth tightens. He loved her for nearly all of his life echoes in his mind. His stomach twists with hatred. Anger. Fuck you, Severus, he thinks for one wild moment. "Your mother."

"It's how I knew about him. And Dumbledore." Potter clasps his hands between his thighs, his elbows on his knees. "Look, it's just at the end of them, I saw him put that in the drawer and ward it. And I reckon he wanted me to give it to you. So."

The clear phial is heavy and cold in Draco's palm. He twists it slowly, fingers smoothing across the sealing wax. Silver liquid sloshes up the side, shimmering in the late afternoon light. Dust motes dance around the phial. "All right."

"Yeah." Potter rubs his hands across his thighs, then stands up with a sigh. His glasses are smudged with fingerprints. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says, and Draco curls his lip.

Gryffindors.

"Get out, Potter," he says tightly, and Potter dips his head, that ridiculously messy fringe of his falling across his forehead.

Draco sits silently for a long while after Potter leaves, shadows darkening around his still figure.

***

Two weeks pass before he opens the phial.

He chooses his time carefully, picks an afternoon when his mother has gone to visit his father. Draco pleads a headache at the last moment. He's quite certain his mother is suspicious, or at the least curious, but she says nothing, just kisses him on the cheek and Floos out.

Draco gathers what he needs and carries it out to the mausoleum. It seems fitting, he thinks. He spreads a blanket over the worn flagstones in front of Severus's vault and sets his great-great grandfather's Pensieve on it.

He holds the note for a moment, fingers smoothing over the heavy cotton paper, then sets it aside, still unopened. He can't. Not yet.

His hand barely shakes as he empties the phial into the Pensieve; Draco stares down at the swirling silver-white liquid for a moment before he touches it, almost hesitantly,

He tumbles forward.

The mists clear; he sees himself on a windowseat next to Severus, kissing him, their bodies pressed tightly together, his white shirt a stark contrast to Severus's black robe.

He turns, and it's another night, another room, Severus's office at Hogwarts, high in the Headmaster's tower. They're arguing, bitterly, and he can remember how angry he was at Severus for denigrating him in front of His Lordship for yet another mistake Draco had made. An infant, Severus had called him, an inept brat—the memory still stings.

I'm not a child, Draco shouts and pushes past Severus only to be stopped by a firm hand on his elbow.

Do you wish to be killed? Severus's eyes are so dark, so bright, fixed on him and Draco shivers at the memory. He watches himself hesitate, watches Severus move closer.

Severus touches his cheek. Draco, he says quietly.

Draco's breath catches and he puts a hand up to his face. He can almost feel the press of Severus's fingers. He blushes at the sight of himself, at the raw want he can see on his own face.

But Severus--Draco's throat tightens. The way he looked at him that night--

Severus pulls Draco against him almost angrily, and Draco remembers how rough his mouth had been against his. How desperate.

They kiss for what seemed like ages, mouths open and wet, until the need slows finally into soft, slow presses of tongue to tongue. Draco twists his fingers in Severus's sleeve, holding him fast when he begins to pull away. Don't, he whispers, and Severus presses his forehead against Draco's.

I won't have you harmed, he says with a sigh.

Draco nods. I won't be, he murmurs, hands still fisted in Severus's robe. You promised me, remember? You won't let Him.

And then Severus laughs softly, a faint huff of breath against Draco's temple. Brat. He leans his forehead against Draco's.

Your brat.

Severus smoothes Draco's hair back. Yes. A quick kiss, hard and demanding. Mine. He pulls away, straightens his robe. Now return to your dormitory before Horace catches you out after curfew.

Draco watches himself frown. I could stay.

Severus hesitates, then shakes his head. Bed, Mr Malfoy. Your own. Kisses are one thing. Anything more, however… He turns away, into the mist.

Draco steps forward. "Severus," he whispers, but the room shifts around him, rearranging, and he's standing in Severus's sitting room.

Amycus and Alecto have orders to stay away from you, Severus says tightly, and he kneels in front of Draco, curled in the chair, shaking from the Stinging Hexes. A cut on Draco's cheek drips blood; Severus wipes it away with a cloth before smearing a dittany salve across it.

Draco still recalls how that stung.

All of Slytherin house, Snape continues, but you in particular.

Draco catches his hand. Won't they wonder?

Snape's mouth thins. They're too bloody stupid. He folds the cloth and sets it aside. Keep away from them.

Let me stay tonight. Draco looks up at him with wide eyes, catching Severus's hand and twining their fingers. Please.

Draco. Snape sounds almost helpless. It is not a good idea.

I think it is. Draco slides off the chair, between Severus's thighs. I'm tired of kisses.

He presses his mouth to Severus's throat, to the curve of skin just above that high, black collar. Please. His hand slips between them, fingers trailing over the swell of Severus's cock in his trousers. Please, he whispers again.

Severus closes his eyes, slides his hands into the back of Draco's hair, thumb rubbing tiny circles over Draco's skin. Madness.

Yes. Draco bites Severus's jaw. Please.

The mist returns, drifting across the room, and Draco closes his eyes because he remembers, he knows how Severus had pulled him to his feet, had led him into the bedroom, had pressed him onto the bed—

A gasp and a groan of Severus, yes, and Draco's eyes fly open. He sees himself sprawled across Severus's bed, long and white against dark blue cotton sheets, thin thighs wrapped tightly around Severus's hips. Please.

Draco circles the bed, and he's trying not to shake.

They move with the practiced rhythm of lovers familiar with one another's bodies, and Draco grips Severus's shoulder tightly with one hand. Don't stop, he breathes, staring up at him. Don't ever—oh God--

Shut up, Snape murmurs against his throat, and Draco can remember the sharp nip of teeth against his skin.

He groans softly, wraps his arms around his waist. He doesn't know why Severus left him this, doesn't know what he did to merit this torture, but his cheeks are wet and hot and he wants so badly. Needs.

"Severus," he whispers and he reaches out to touch his back, to feel the smooth warm skin stretched taught over Severus's spine.

He touches nothing.

Draco hates Severus right now. Hates him for this cruelty. Hates him for leaving him. Hates him for being gone. Hates him for her. For all he did for her sake. It's all about Potter; it always has been. The son of the great love of Severus's life, and Draco hates them. Hates them all.

"You bastard!" he screams into the memory, and he's answered only by gasps and groans and the slick-wet sound of skin against skin.

Draco runs towards the mist.

They lie together on the floor in front of Severus's Floo, wrapped in a blanket that barely reaches Severus's ankles. A cushion from a chair serves as a makeshift pillow. Draco can see their bare skin, and he presses his mouth into a thin line. He recognises the moment—only a few weeks past. Before everything. Severus had taken him roughly, desperately, there on the floor of his sitting room. They'd never even made it to bed. They'd slept wrapped in a blanket.

Draco wants out of here, away from these memories.

Away from Severus.

He never thought he would wish that.

Draco curls into Severus's chest, and he sleeps fitfully, making soft noises, his brow furrowing. Severus smoothes Draco's hair back from his forehead. Hush, he says softly, demandingly, and Draco quiets, his breath steadying.

Severus watches him sleep.

Draco pauses, looks back. It's a moment he's never been aware of, this. He'd be a fool not to be curious.

Severus brushes a thumb over Draco's mouth, drags his knuckles across Draco's cheek, his jaw, his throat. Beautiful, he says, and Draco smiles.

A quick kiss, and Draco shifts, half-awake and murmuring something under his breath before settling against Severus, his head on Severus's shoulder.

He sleeps again.

Severus watches.

And then he whispers it, softly against Draco's skin, and Draco can barely hear the words.

But he does.

And at that moment, Severus looks up, looks at him, Draco's certain of it, eyes dark and unblinking.

The memories come quick and fast, flowing between the two of them. Three children on a playground. A red-headed girl with green eyes. Severus standing in the corridor in front of Gryffindor Tower, the girl walking away from him. A grave in a churchyard with a freshly carved headstone and flowers piled high over leaf-strewn grass.

"Stop it," Draco says tightly, jealousy twisting in his stomach, and he can taste bile in the back of his throat. Tears burn his eyes. He blinks them back hard. He won't. He won't. "I don't want to see her."

Draco. Severus says those damned words again. Clearly this time. And then he looks at Draco and whispers, Forgive me.

"You left me," Draco screams and jerks backwards, and he tumbles out of the Pensieve, sprawling across the mausoleum flagstones with a sob.

He curls into himself, staring blankly at the wall next to him for hours, only rousing himself when he knows Narcissa will be back.

Numb, he refills the phial with the silver liquid, careful not to spill a drop, then tucks the note in his pocket.

Draco pauses at the door, looks back at the vault. Severus's name disappears into the shadows. "I can't," he whispers, and swallows hard. "Not yet."

He pulls the gate shut behind him and wards it closed.

The next time he enters will be to bury his father. The note sits tucked in the back of his wardrobe for decades.

***

Lucius is kept from Azkaban through Hary Potter's testimony.

Potter stands before the Wizengamot and answers their questions calmly. Tells them that during the Battle of Hogwarts the Malfoys assisted him. Kept him alive. He doesn't look at Lucius, but rather at Narcissa.

And Draco.

Draco looks away.

Afterwards, Potter stops the two of them in the hallway as they wait for Lucius's release. "Life debt repaid," he says to Narcissa, offering her his hand, and she takes it with a slight dip of her head. Potter turns to Draco. "Here's your second chance, Malfoy," he says quietly. "Don't cock it up."

"Go to hell, Potter," Draco says, and he means it.

Potter shrugs. "Already been there," he says and he grins as he ambles off, hands shoved in his pockets.

Draco grinds his teeth, lurches forward after Potter.

"Don't," his mother says, and she catches his elbow, pulling him back against her. "That is not a fight you wish to pick."

With a soft huff, Draco leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

He hates it when she's right.

Bloody fucking Potter.

Draco despises being indebted to him.

Despises.

***

Draco marries seven years later. He puts it off as long as he can, but his father is ill and there's the question of the next Malfoy heir to be settled. Aurélie is a pureblood of good family, acceptable to both his parents. He meets her through his position at Gringotts; she works as a charms researcher for the Paris branch.

His mother is relieved.

He asks her one day, two weeks before the wedding, as they take tea in Diagon, how she knew about Severus and himself. It's not a topic they've ever discussed before.

It's one he can't stop thinking of, through fittings and cake tastings and meetings with the vicar.

Narcissa says nothing at first, merely sips her tea, then sets her cup in the saucer with a soft clink. She stirs the Darjeeling with her spoon and sighs. "Because," she says finally, "your grief at that moment was what I would have felt if your father had died." She looks up at him then. "It hurt to watch you. Sometimes…" She hesitates, sets her spoon on the saucer. Tea puddles beneath it, pale brown against the white china. "Sometimes it still does."

Draco looks away. He still dreams of Severus some nights. He spends the next mornings tormenting the elves or that idiot Connors two offices down just to distract him from the ache inside.

He tugs at the sleeves of the black frock coat he's taken to wearing, buttoned high up his throat.

Narcissa's fingers curl around his. She squeezes tightly.

***

Lucius dies a month after Draco's wedding. They've barely been home from their honeymoon to Greece, barely settled into the Bloomsbury flat they've purchased.

The funeral is adequate, though Draco is quite certain his father would have found something to complain about. There are enough friends of the family left that Lucius doesn't have to suffer the indignity of an empty church. Draco sees Potter in the back, for just a moment, and he thinks perhaps he's hallucinating, but his presence is mentioned in the Prophet writeup the next day, and Draco realises the idiot came on purpose. Gave the Malfoys a brush of respectability again.

He doesn't know if he should hate him for that or not. Instead, he writes a stiffly worded, terse thank you—as much as he despises the correspondence, he's learned manners are important in reclaiming the Malfoy name in this new world—and Potter responds with an even shorter note that says simply, I did it for Snape.

Draco wads up the note, furious, his throat tight with bitterness, and then he smoothes it back out. He tucks it in the back of his wardrobe and tries again to forget.

***

Narcissa takes the Bloomsbury flat. Draco and Aurélie move into the Manor.

They have a child a year later. A son, and Draco's duty is fulfilled.

Aurélie wants to name him something ridiculous like Alphonse or Theophile. Draco refuses.

"Scorpius is his name," he says firmly, holding his son in his arms and his mother looks at him from across the room. "Scorpius Lucius Malfoy."

He knows she knows. The name's engraved in marble in the Malfoy vault after all.

Draco lifts his chin.

Narcissa smiles.

***

Life settles into an easy rhythm. Draco's world revolves around his work and his son. Aurélie has her own interests, her stacks of books that fill the Manor library now. They reach an easy comfortableness, a friendship that occasionally finds them in bed together. When she takes a lover, he doesn't object. He finds one of his own.

They're both discreet, as befits a proper pureblood family.

Draco enjoys sex, whether with a man or a woman, though he finds he has a preference for the firmness of the male body, and he shares his bed with a string of lovers. Aurélie teases him about his attention span; she keeps her companions for years at a time.

The years pass. Draco takes Scorpius to the mausoleum twice a year. Once on the anniversary of Lucius's death, once on Severus's.

Even before Scorpius can read, he knows what the engraving on Severus's vault says. He recognises his own name, after all.

Severus Scorpius Snape
9 January, 1960 - 25 May, 1998

He traces the letters, his eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and he asks about him, wants to know all he can about the man he was named after.

Draco tells him almost everything. The good, the bad.

But he doesn't tell Scorpius about lying in Severus's bed, watching dawn crest over snow-capped mountains. He doesn't tell him how safe he felt there. How wanted.

He remembers, though.

And he begins to come to the mausoleum himself. Alone.

He talks to them both, his father and Severus, his voice echoing in the stone hall as he sits on the floor across from their vaults, knees pulled up to his chest.

It's oddly comforting.

Sometimes he thinks perhaps they hear him, and then he laughs. Ridiculous thought.

Still.

He wishes.

***

Draco watches Potter across the platform at King's Cross, surrounded by his children and the Weasel's horde. They make a display of themselves, of course, in that particularly loathsome Gryffindor way.

Aurélie turns her nose up at them. "Who on earth is that?"

Draco sometimes forgets that she wasn't born British. "Harry Potter," he says quietly and her eyes widen slightly.

"I see," she says, and she squeezes Scorpius's hand. "A connection to be made, then."

"Not bloody likely." Draco eyes the Gryffindors. There's a disconcerting amount of red hair visible. He brushes a scrap of lint off the pristinely black wool sleeve of his frock coat. "Potter always was an arrogant arse. I doubt his brats are any different."

Scorpius is watching the younger boy, his grey eyes cool and appraising. "Is he my age, Papa?"

"Thereabouts." Draco frowns. Albus Severus, Potter had named him, and the very audacity curdles Draco's stomach. He has no right. None. Not Potter. Draco's fingers tighten on his son's shoulder. Potter's even forced the Ministry to put a portrait of Severus in Hogwarts, in his rightful place among the Headmasters. Draco had been attempting to do so for years.

Bastard.

Potter looks over, his hand ruffling the child's dark hair, and their eyes meet.

Draco hesitates for just the briefest moment, then ignores the scowl Weasley throws his way, and nods curtly before turning away.

He takes his son's hand. "I fully expect to hear you've been sorted Slytherin," he says, and they walk towards the train.

Draco doesn't spare Potter another thought.

***

The Manor is oddly quiet without Scorpius running through the rooms at all hours. Draco misses his son waking him each morning by flinging himself onto Draco's bed, although he will admit it is pleasant to wake on occasion with a lover beside him and no worries regarding his son discovering them.

When Scorpius's first owl arrives nearly two weeks at the start of term, over breakfast, Draco laughs sharply.

Aurélie looks up from her book. "He is well?"

"Quite." Draco skims the hastily scrawled note, frowning as he attempts to make out a word here and there. His son's handwriting is atrocious. He hands it to his wife. "The Potter brat sorted Slytherin."

Aurélie raises an eyebrow.

Draco smiles, a bright, feral flash of white teeth. "I should rather have liked to hear the howls of anguish at their supper table."

His wife laughs.

Draco is pleased.

He goes down to the mausoleum later. He's quite certain Severus would be amused to know of his namesake's House affiliation.

"It's entirely your fault, you realise," he says, leaning against the bank of smooth marble vaults. "Guilt by association."

He almost thinks he hears Severus's sharp bark of laughter.

***

Draco's delight in imagining Potter's horror upon raising a Slytherin fades a few months later, however, when he is faced with the obvious, and highly disturbing fact that his son has become friends with young Albus Severus.

It discomfits him in many ways. Potter's child, after all, and it burns deep down inside, in the whispers of memories that he's tucked away. Her blood.But he tolerates the owls peppered with references to Potters and on occasion Weasleys, though his son is far more disparaging regarding that particular clan, which reassures Draco. He doesn't think he could bear it if he were forced to endure the minutiae of Weasleyhood, not even for Scorpius.

He sends back his own owls, with polite, if stiff, questions about his son's best friend, and by Easter he's begun enclosing sweets not only for Scorpius but for Potter's brat as well. He doesn't tell Aurélie.

His mother confronts him one afternoon, during their weekly tea. They have their usual table by the window overlooking Diagon below, away from the quiet clink and clatter of teacups and whispers of conversation occasionally directed their way.

People haven't forgotten, after all.

"Scorpius tells me you've taken an interest in young Albus," she says calmly over her teacup, and Draco wonders if he could claim some goblinesque emergency as an excuse to return to the office.

Instead he stirs his Earl Grey slowly, adding another lump of sugar. He can almost taste the sweet bergamot against the roof of his mouth. "I will not ignore my son's friends, whomever spawned them."

Narcissa sets her cup down, and she leans her chin against her hand. Her nails are polished a soft pink and when her grey silk sleeve slips down, Draco recognises the diamond baguette serpentine bracelet that curls around her wrist. His father had given it to her on her birthday just before the Ministry imprisoned him in Azkaban during Draco's sixth year.

"I'm not objecting, Draco," Narcissa says. She raises an eyebrow. "Merlin knows my grandson befriending the Saviour of the Wizarding World's child cannot harm our family." She picks up her teacup, takes a sip. "Quite the opposite, I should think."

"Yes," Draco says, and he looks away, staring down into the busy street below.

His tea grows cold.

***

Summer hols arrive, and Draco's grateful to have Scorpius home again.

He's missed his son.

They're sitting along the River Kennet, just outside Avebury, fishing poles in hand, one lazy, warm afternoon the week Scorpius returns. Draco never would have imagined himself in such a plebian position, but it's his son's request.

Draco blames Potter and his ridiculous ideas of childrearing.

Fishing indeed.

Still, he admits that there's a certain peacefulness along the riverbank, his bare feet dangling in the cold, rushing water, his trousers rolled up to his knees. His shoes and frock coat are folded neatly on the grass beside them, and Draco doesn't feel thirty-eight.

And then Scorpius says, "You know, Headmaster Snape has a portrait at school. He comes and talks to me in the common room sometimes." He hesitates, chewing his bottom lip. "A lot actually, and he asks about you. He's called me your name a time or two when he forgets, and then he gets cranky and shouts at me. I didn't know portraits could be embarrassed, but Albus's father says that happens."

Draco's breath catches, and he looks sideways at his son. "Does he? You tell him about these conversations?"

"Albus does." Scorpius kicks at a twig floating by. It spins and dips beneath the water before bobbing back up. "Albus thinks it's odd that he comes to talk to me. They all do." He snorts. "I think they're just afraid of him pointing out how stupid they are."

"Do you want him to stop?" Draco asks lightly, and his stomach twists a bit.

Scorpius shakes his head. "I like the stories he tells me. About you. Albus doesn't like them that much, though. His father's always doing something stupid." His son leans up against him. "Sometimes he talks about Albus's grandmother. He likes that well enough, I suppose."

Draco slides his arm around Scorpius, suddenly cold. Even all these years later he hasn't entirely forgiven Severus for that. He doesn't know if he will. He thinks again of the letter and the phial tucked in the back of his wardrobe. Sometimes, most times, he forgets they even exist.

Draco's a very good liar.

His son touches Draco's arm, his fingers gliding over white scarred skin, tracing the curve of a serpent, of a skull. He looks up at Draco, grey eyes curious.

"It was a very long time ago," Draco says quietly. "And I was very foolish."

Scorpius nods. "That's what the Headmaster says too."

A tug on Scorpius's line distracts them both, and they pull at it, laughing as a trout flies out of the river and lands on the bank next to them, flopping wildly.

Draco watches Scorpius cut it free, holding the fish up, a proud grin on his face.

He wonders what Severus thinks of his son.

***

The Mark hasn't hurt for two decades now.

Draco's grateful for that. It's faded into his skin now, white against white, only barely visible. But there's not a day that goes by that he's not aware of it.

He wears a coat even in the heat of summer. It's easier to keep it hidden from eyes that have yet to forget. And he refuses to let a lover touch it.

He shifts in the bath, and water splashes out onto the black and white tiled floor. An elf wipes it up immediately.

Draco runs his palm over the Mark and sighs. Sometimes he wonders if he could do it over, if he'd make another choice. Another decision.

He doesn't think he would.

It was for his family, after all. All of it. Everything he did. To protect his father, his mother. And if the Dark Lord's demand of allegiance from him was what kept his parents alive through the aftermath of that last battle…

Draco knows he would make the same vow.

It's not something someone like Potter or Weasley would understand, he thinks. Perhaps not even Severus—he had hated his family so very much.

But of course there had been her.

Draco closes his eyes, sinks deeper into the warm, sandalwood-scented water.

Perhaps he might have understood, after all.

***

Potter Floo calls on a Sunday morning, just after brunch.

Draco's abandoned the financial section of the Prophet in favour of the Quidditch scores—which he's only barely managed to wrest from his son's grip by invoking the universal because I'm your father and I say so.

It's strange to see Potter's head floating in the Manor fireplace.

Draco squats next to it. "What do you want?"

Potter sighs. "Hullo to you too, Malfoy."

"Am I to assume this has to do with my son?" Draco casts a glance towards the dining room. Scorpius lounges in a chair, long legs spread out, an apple in one hand, the Quidditch pages that he's stolen back in the other.

"Sort of." Potter coughs. "Look, it's Al's birthday coming up—"

"Al?" Draco raises an eyebrow.

Potter glares at him. "It's Al's birthday week after next and he wants Scorpius to come for visit." Potter's glasses shine in the fire. "Gin and I thought he might stay for a week, if you and his mum agree."

"You're asking me to allow my child to stay at your house?" Draco's mouth turns down. "Ridiculous, Potter."

"Yeah, well, it's not like I'm all that keen on it either," Potter snaps. "But our sons seem to get on better than we ever did, so I reckon for their sakes we can be polite?"

Draco doesn't say anything for a moment, then he nods, a terse, quick dip of his head.

"Right then," Potter says and Draco can see him relax. "Bring him by on Friday afternoon then? We'll make certain to have him back the next Friday."

"If anything happens to him, I'm holding you responsible," Draco snaps, and he shuts the Floo off, breathing out for a moment before he stands, dusting off his hands, and goes to tell his son.

Scorpius's whoop of delight almost makes the sour bile in the back of Draco's throat worthwhile.

***

The week his son is with the Potters, Draco goes to Hogwarts for the first time in years.

He claims, even to himself, that it's merely a desire to make certain this friendship is acceptable.

He knows better.

The portrait is easy enough to find, despite the frame being tucked away in the Headmaster's office. Draco sends Sir Cadogan after him, and Severus arrives shortly thereafter, irritated and haughty.

"Mr Malfoy," he says, with an imperious curl of his lip.

"Stuff it, Severus," Draco says with a small smile and he can't stop looking at him. He's beautiful, in his own way, though Draco's quite certain most others would think him mad for that pronouncement.

But Severus is, pale skin and greasy hair aside, and Draco can almost feel his breath on his neck, his hands on his hips.

"Watch yourself," Severus snaps, and Draco presses his hand to the canvas. To Severus's robe. Over his heart.

Severus's breath catches; he falls silent.

"You talk to my son," Draco says finally.

There's a moment's silence. "Yes."

"Why?"

Severus says nothing.

"Why?" Draco asks again, his voice quiet, firm.

The oil-daubed leaves in the tree behind Severus rustle. "Because," he says reluctantly, "I thought he was you at first."

"He's a bit young," Draco says dryly and Severus shoots him a dark look.

"Not amusing, Draco."

They fall silent. There's so much to say. Too much to say. So many years—

"You've stayed away," Severus says.

"Yes." Draco leans against the portrait frame, stares down the hallway. "It's hard," he says. "Still."

Severus just looks at him.

"Don't hurt my son," Draco says finally, and he meets Severus's gaze.

A curt nod. Severus looks away.

Draco's halfway down the hall when he's stopped by Severus's voice. He turns.

Severus is in a new frame, across from him, and he shoves two witches away from their teatable and into the next frame, a windy seascape. The thinner one curses at him when her hat blows off, tumbling down the painted shore.

He looks out of place among the tufted chairs and pink floral chintz.

"Potter gave you the phial," he begins and Draco cuts him off.

"Don't, Severus," he says and it's only then he realises how angry he still is after all these years. Severus's mouth twists down. Draco recognises the mulish look. "I went on with my life," he says tightly. "Despite you."

Severus crosses his arms over his chest. "One day you'll be forced to forgive me," he says quietly.

Draco meets his gaze. "Not today," he says, after a long moment, and he walks away.

Malfoys do not forget easily.

***

He kneels in front of his wardrobe later that night, turning the unopened letter in his hands. Moonlight streams through the leaded glass windows behind him; his latest lover sighs and shifts in the bed. The wooden floor is cool against Draco's bare knees.

The wax on the seal has begun to crack; the paper is yellowing.

Draco hesitates.

He sets the letter back in the drawer and wards it shut.

He can't.

Not yet.

He returns to bed, and Viktor curls an arm around him, pulling him close and murmuring something to him sleepily in a language Draco can't understand.

It takes a very long while for Draco to close his eyes.

***

The Ministry has always been Draco's least favourite place. Too many memories of his father in a holding cell. Of his trial.

Draco's never asked why he wasn't brought before the Wizengamot. He assumes it's because of Potter.

He hates that thought.

Frances gives him a curious look, as she always does when he drops the monthly Gringotts reports off with the International Wizarding Currency Standards Body.

He meets her gaze evenly. She glances away and flushes.

Draco's used to the whispers and the way their eyes dip to his left arm. It's annoying. Frustrating.

But after twenty years, he's stopped fighting it.

He turns the corner and nearly runs into Potter. And Weasley.

The Weasel curls his lip at him. "Malfoy."

Draco bares his teeth. "Weasel."

"Shut it, the both of you," Potter says easily, and Draco hates him even more at the moment. He wasn't certain that was possible. Potter grins at him. "Al's looking forward to coming over this weekend. It's all he's talked about."

Weasley snorts and says something under his breath; Potter steps on his toes.

"We're pleased to have him," Draco says, polite for the sake of his son—he still denies even to himself that he's secretly grown fond of Potter's brat--and he steps past them both.

Potter catches his elbow. "I've been thinking," Potter says, and the Weasel whispers Harry, come on, mate and Potter says again, more determinedly this time, "I've been thinking that maybe we should have a drink, you and me. Sometime."

"You can't be serious." Draco gives Potter an incredulous look. He pulls away from his grasp. He agrees with Weasley's disgusted expression. "We loathe each other."

Potter shoves his hands in his pockets. "Our kids don't."

"We are not our children," Draco points out. He's rather certain Potter's lost his mind. He's expected it to happen one day. All that hanging about with Weasleys would be certain to drive one mad.

Potter's mouth thins. "Yeah, well, I'm tired of Al asking why I can't stand Scorpius's dad. Maybe it's time to at least make an effort to be civil."

"I am civil," Draco snaps. "And I am not having a drink with you."

Potter shrugs. "If you change your mind, I'll be at the Leaky Cauldron after work."

Draco doesn't answer; he just walks away.

He's beginning to think the world's gone mad.

***

It takes Draco a good five minutes to open the door of the Cauldron.

This is utterly mad, he knows. He doesn't want to make peace with Potter. It's been the one constant in his life, this natural hatred. It's easy. Comfortable.

He prefers it this way.

Draco curses his son under his breath.

Weasley stands when Draco walks up to the table. "This is my cue to leave," he says, and he knocks Draco's shoulder with his own when he brushes past.

Draco's mouth tightens; he keeps his tongue. He's learned to over the years.

Potter gives him a half-smile. "Sorry."

Draco sits stiffly. "I'm only here for Scorpius." He orders a whisky, neat.

"It's a start," Potter says.

They sit silently, awkwardly for a long moment. This is ridiculous, Draco thinks. He'll drink his whisky and leave. And then this moronic experiment will be done and they can go back to despising one another comfortably.

"The Falcons are doing well," Potter says at last, and he twists his beer between his hands.

Draco rolls his eyes. "They've not a chance against the United." The barwitch levitates his whisky in front of him. A drop splashes on the back of his hand. Draco frowns. "Shall we discuss the weather now?"

Potter laughs at that, a rich, deep chuckle, and Draco looks up in surprise. "Scorpius's handling a broom quite well. He says he's going out for Quidditch next year."

"Yes. Seeker." Draco takes a sip of his whisky to hide his confusion. "I've been showing him a few tricks this summer."

Potter grins. "Me too. He's pretty quick on a Snitch."

"I should be offended," Draco says. He wonders why Scorpius hasn't informed him of this fact. He suspects he knows. "I think I am."

"You want him to make the team, don't you?" Potter drains half his beer in one swallow. Draco shudders. "He's been going up against James as well in a few drills. He's got talent."

 

"He's a Malfoy." Draco doesn't bother to hide his pride in his son.

"That he is," Potter agrees.

Draco raises an eyebrow and sips his whisky.

Potter smiles.

***

"You're not angry with me, are you?" Scorpius asks, standing in the conservatory doorway and clutching his broom tight in one hand, a Snitch in the other. "It's just James is a brilliant Seeker and Mr Potter—"

Draco holds up his hand. "Don't even say it."

His son falls silent. He chews his bottom lip.

"I'm not angry," Draco says finally. "I'd just prefer to know." He sighs and shakes the Prophet open. "Potter was a decent enough Seeker, I suppose," he admits grudgingly, and oh, how it costs him to choke that out.

Scorpius grins and in a dash and a jump, he's sprawled across the chaise next to Draco. He drops his Firebolt on the floor; it rolls beneath Draco's chair.

"He and James showed me how to do a Wronski Feint. Have you ever tried one, Papa?"

Draco grits his teeth. "No." He keeps his voice level only with a great deal of effort. Really, he despises Potter.

"Albus says I'm a natural, but I think he's just being nice. Best mate and all."

Draco snorts. "Slytherins are never nice unless it's required, Scorpius. Or unless we wish to receive something in return." He raises an eyebrow. "Does he?"

Scorpius thinks for a moment, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. "I don't think so," he says finally.

"Well then." Draco turns the page. Potter's idiotic mug grins inanely up at him from an article regarding a restructuring of Auror Headquarters. Draco bares his teeth at him; Potter merely shakes his head and laughs.

"Maybe." Scorpius stares down at the Snitch fluttering in his fingers, its wings beating lightly against his knuckles. "Papa?"

"Yes?" Draco glances over at an advert for Liam Lichtencraft's Guaranteed Never-Fail Scrying Glasses. Anything to stop staring at Potter's bloody smirk.

Scorpius is silent for a moment; Draco looks over the edge of the Prophet. "Yes?" he says again, and his son looks up at him then.

"Do you think you could come out to the garden and watch me? See if I do it properly?" Scorpius asks in a rush. "I trust you more." He pushes his white-blond hair out of his face, his eyes uncertain, and Draco's suddenly reminded of how young his son is. Barely twelve. He can hardly remember those days. Back when the slightest nod from his father was enough to send him over the moon.

How very different the world was.

He sets his paper aside and stands up. He holds his hand out. "Shall I set the Snitch free?" he asks and Scorpius's face lights up.

The Prophet can wait. His son can't.

***

Scorpius loses control of his broom during the first Slytherin-Gryffindor match of the term. It's a Wronski Feint gone wrong, and he ends up in the hospital wing for two days, Pomfrey forcing bone-mending potions into his system for the first twenty-one hours.

Severus stops Draco in the Entrance Hall to assure him that Scorpius is fine. He walks Draco through the corridors, shoving portraits from their frames along the way. Draco is oddly grateful for his concern.

In the infirmary, Scorpius gives his father a faint smile and nods towards the Snitch lying in a glass flask next to his bed, its wings curled around itself. "I caught it," he says weakly and winces as he shifts in the bed.

Severus takes a seat in the painting across from Scorpius's bed. "Indeed," he says, and Draco thinks he detects a certain pride in his voice. He should be miffed, he supposes. Instead he smiles at Severus.

His son's eyes brighten.

Draco sends the owl to Harry the next morning, a scathing diatribe on parental responsibility that ends with this is entirely your fault and don't even think about showing my son any more of your stupid stunts, you feckless Gryffindor idiot.

Potter's reply is short and to the point.

Slytherin won, yes? Look, stop being such an old woman and have another drink with me. Half five at the Cauldron again?

Draco doesn't even give Potter's owl a rest.

I hate you, you realise. I'll meet you at six.

Aurélie shakes her head when he tells her at dinner. "You're playing with fire, love," she murmurs over her glass of wine.

"I'm quite certain I've no idea what you mean," Draco snaps and he scrapes his fork tines over his salmon.

His wife shrugs one shoulder. "Of course not." She meets his gaze evenly, her dark eyes suddenly so very reminiscent of Severus's.

Draco flushes and looks away.

He later learns that Severus refused to leave the infirmary until Scorpius was released.

Draco sends his son the latest British Journal of Potionbrewing and Herbology with a note informing him to read the articles out loud to the former Headmaster.

Severus will understand.

***

Somehow—Draco's never entirely quite certain how--drinks with Potter becomes a weekly habit.

Every Thursday at six, they meet in the back corner table at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom has a pint waiting for Potter and a whisky for Draco.

They spend approximately half an hour together. Long enough for a drink—or two, if the Ministry and Gringotts have been particularly demanding—and the plate of chips Potter insists on ordering and dousing in vinegar.

Draco finds himself liking the vile things.

At first they're awkward. Uneasy. Their conversation is filled with silences and revolves around their children. Draco has no interest in Potter's oldest, or the girl with that hated name, but on occasion he allows him to ramble on about them. At least then he can sit and sip his whisky rather than be forced to make small talk.

Eight months after their first drink, Draco finds himself calling Potter Harry. He freezes, glass raised halfway to his mouth.

Potter gives him that lazy smile of his and raises his pint. "Draco," he says.

Draco takes a large sip of his Ogden's and swallows past the burn. "Harry," he mumbles, cheeks flushing, and that's that.

***

It becomes oddly, surprisingly easy to find Potter--Harry--insinuated in his life.

The fact that it drives Weasley utterly mad is not lost on Draco. He takes great delight in the Weasel's annoyance.

Draco begins to enjoy his conversations with Harry, to take them past family and work.

Their first argument on politics is spirited. Harry is tired of inept Ministerial involvement; Draco doesn't fault him. He has his own issues with the idiocy of the Ministry.

"Just throw it over," Harry says, irritated. His beer splashes over the rim of his pint as he gestures wildly. He switches hands, licks his fingers before drying them on a grimy serviette. Draco shudders. "Put in something entirely new. Something that works."

Draco snorts. "If you think a new order will be any better than what we currently have, Harry, you obviously learned nothing from the war." He sets his glass down. "Stay with the devil you know. At least you can work around it."

"That's shite," Harry scoffs. "New governments are established all the time—"

"And how many of them fail?" Draco shakes his head. "You can't argue against tradition, you dolt. Or expectations. No one truly wants change because then what would we have to complain about?"

Harry just stares at him. "You can't be serious."

"I can be pragmatic," Draco says calmly. "And if you go about shouting viva la revolucion in the streets, it's only going to lead to you being ostracised by the Ministry and thought bloody mad by society." He takes of sip of whisky. "Which you are, but that's beside the point."

Harry slumps in his chair, runs his hand through his fringe. Draco wants to slap his fingers away. "So stay with the status quo then. Even if it's incompetent."

"I didn't say that." Draco twists his glass between his hands. "But changes can be made discretely. Honestly, Potter, not everything must be a grand, overt gesture of defiance. Subtlety is a virtue, you realise." He snorts. "Gryffindors."

Harry just eyes him.

Draco shrugs and finishes his whisky. He stands, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. "Next week?"

Harry starts to nod, then catches himself. "I can't. Anniversary."

"The week after then." Draco taps down a short burst of annoyance.

"Yeah."

Draco tosses a Galleon down on the table. "Work within the system, Harry. Your life will be much less complicated."

He knows Harry's watching him as he leaves.

He's strangely pleased.

***

A year later Harry and the Weasel are lauded for their reorganisation of Auror policy.

Draco finds this fact highly amusing, particularly given that several of their key ideas he suggested. He highly doubts even Weasley is aware of that.

Harry invites Draco and Aurélie to the Christmas party he and the Weasley girl throw each December. Draco declines—he's no wish to spend his Christmas Eve surrounded by Weasleys—but sends Scorpius in their stead.

He knows that the presence of any Malfoy will be enough to turn some of the Gryffindors off their eggnog, and that's enough of a Christmas gift for him.

Bastard, Harry writes back after his refusal. Don't think I don't know exactly what you're up to.

Draco just smirks and goes to Hogwarts to speak with Scorpius.

This party will require some preparation, he thinks. He has some school secrets to share with his son.

He thinks perhaps Severus will be willing to help.

***

Potter's owl arrives just after Christmas dinner. Scorpius is outside with his mother and grandmother, testing out his new racing broom.

You're a bloody arse, it says. And you owe me a drink. God only knows when Ron's going to be speaking to me again. Romilda's sweets, Draco? Honestly? Did you have to tell him about that?

Draco laughs and pours another glass of wine.

***

Halfway through Scorpius's fourth year, Ginny Potter dies.

Draco takes Scorpius to the funeral. They sit in the back, staying just long enough for Harry and Albus to see them.

The Prophet at first claims it's the work of a rogue Death Eater, implies that perhaps the Potters' association with the Malfoy family might be at fault.

Harry squelches that rumor angrily and in person according to the next day's article which quotes him as saying I won't have my wife's death used against the Malfoys. Leave us all alone, you bloody damn vultures.

Draco is grateful. He sends a note of condolence and waits.

A week later Harry tumbles through the Manor Floo, exhausted, grimy and half-pissed already.

Draco leads him silently into his study and pours him a drink.

Harry takes the glass of whisky and downs it without thought. He holds it out; Draco refills it.

"It was a charm gone wrong," he says finally and he lets Draco push him into one of the large leather chairs next to the fire. "She was working on a new one; Hermione was helping her with the research and they both knew it was dangerous, but Hermione says they had no idea—" His voice breaks; he takes a shaky breath. "She's devastated. Thinks I should blame her." He sips his whisky. "How stupid is that?"

"Do you?" Draco asks quietly and he meets Harry's gaze.

Harry looks away. "I shouldn't."

"You have to blame someone." Draco lifts his glass and sets it back down on the arm of the chair, making interlocking wet circles on the leather. "For at least a little while."

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment. He runs his hand over his face and sighs. "Your dad?" he asks at last.

Draco runs a finger through one of the circles, smearing it damply over the chair arm. "Severus," he says. It's barely a whisper. His stomach twists; he can still feel the pain of that night all these years later. He hates that. He's learned to live with it, learned to ignore it, learned that most days it's not even on his mind. But sometimes….

He looks up. Harry's staring at him.

"Snape."

Draco shrugs. "We were lovers my seventh year." His fingers tighten on the glass. It's cold and slick against his palm. "I—" Draco hesitates, then forces himself to go on. For Harry's sake. "I loved him." He takes a sip of his whisky. Severus taught him to love whisky. His throat closes up; he swallows hard. "I still do, I suppose. In a different way." His mouth twists to one side bitterly. "Fucking bastard."

"I never knew," Harry says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. No one knew. Except Mother. She guessed." Draco shakes himself, looks over at Harry. "I'm only telling you because I understand." He hesitates. "How you feel. Now."

Harry nods. "Thank you."

"Don't," Draco says crossly. He sets his glass aside. "Where are the children staying tonight?"

"With Ron and Hermione." Harry licks his bottom lip. "I didn't want them to see me like this."

"Of course not." Draco crosses one leg over the other. "You'll stay here tonight. Merlin knows there are plenty of spare rooms. I'll have the elves prepare one."

Harry shakes his head. "I couldn't ask—"

"You're not." Draco glares at him. "Drink. And then talk." He looks down at his hands. "It's what I would have wanted the night Severus…" He trails off; his mouth presses into a thin line. "Drink," he says again.

Harry drinks.

***

Draco owls Weasley after Harry goes to bed. He supposes he owes him that much at least. He tells himself it's for the children's sake. For Albus's sake.

Weasley's note arrives half an hour later.

Look after him properly or I'll gut you, Malfoy.

Draco thinks that's as close to a thank you as the Weasel can ever come.

***

Harry stays three days at the Manor. He spends two of them pissed out of his mind.

Draco just sits with him. Talks when Harry wants to talk. Drinks when Harry wants to drink.

"Is he all right?" Aurélie asks after dinner. Harry's gone off to bed, though Draco expects to find him downstairs again by three in the morning.

Draco sighs. "Well enough."

Aurélie gives him an appraising look. "Be careful, Draco," she says and she touches his arm. "He's wounded."

"I'm perfectly aware of that fact," Draco snaps, but he catches her hand, holds it tight. He may not be in love with his wife, or want her in his bed. But he cares for her in his own way.

She kisses his cheek and climbs the stairs to her bedroom.

Draco waits in his study.

For Harry.

***

The first year is always the hardest, Draco knows full well. Not a day goes by without a thought. A remembrance. Something that brings the person to mind.

He recalls all the tears he shed into his pillow at night. How he wanted Severus to be next to him. How he missed his touch. His kiss. His scent.

Draco had slept with one of Severus's robes for six months. Wrapping it around him at night. Hiding it beneath his pillow during the day. It was the only way he could sleep.

Harry admits to doing the same. It's a shirt of Ginny's, he says.

Watching Harry grieve brings it all back for Draco. Not as intensely. Twenty-three years have a way of dulling the pain somewhat. But he dreams of Severus again. Thinks of him.

Finds himself at Hogwarts, standing in front of his portrait.

"I still miss you," he says quietly and Severus presses his palm against the canvas. Draco touches it and he still hates that he can't feel warm skin beneath his fingers.

"Forgive me," Severus murmurs once again.

Draco swallows hard. "I'm trying."

Severus nods.

***

The week after the first anniversary, Draco goes with Harry to visit her grave in Highgate. Harry's been with the Gryffindors already, but he asks Draco to come with him this time.

He doesn't want to, but saying no to Harry is nearly impossible for him to do at the moment.

So he goes, and he watches Harry smooth the grass around her headstone, watches him fix the pile of roses and lilies that have been placed upon her grave, watches him freshen their wilting petals.

Harry is quiet as he works; Draco sits beneath a tree and says nothing. He understands in his own way.

An elderly witch stops by, a spray of wildflowers clutched in her fist. She's going to visit her husband, she says, and she lays a hand on Harry's shoulder, tells him she's so very sorry.

When she leaves, Harry blinks hard behind his glasses and sits beside the grave, knees pulled to his chest. Draco comes up then, sits next to him.

They don't speak.

Draco envies Harry his right to be public about his grief. So many years of hiding his own, and there were times when he wanted so badly to scream it to the world.

Sometimes he still does.

He talks to Harry more often about Severus. It becomes easier as the months wear on. Harry tells him about Ginny.

They find themselves spending more time together. Their weekly drinks turn into twice a week, then three times, and then they're having dinner together.

Going to Quidditch matches even, their sons in tow.

Weasley still gives Draco suspicious looks on the rare occasion that they run into one another. But he keeps his tongue for the most part.

Draco's surprised. His son isn't.

"I've heard Mr Potter tell him to keep his gob shut," Scorpius says at the beginnig of summer hols, his head bent over his broom. He clips a few stray crooked twigs. "And Albus says his Aunt Hermione's said you're good for his dad." Scorpius looks up at him then. He'll be sixth year next term, and he's tall and gangly, still growing into his body. "I don't think she's all that happy about it though."

"Most likely not." Draco chews at his bottom lip.

Scorpius just watches him, grey eyes seeing far too much, Draco suspects.

He scowls at his son. "You missed a twig," he says sharply.

Scorpius just smiles and bends back over his broom.

***

Draco doesn't expect Harry to kiss him.

It's late on a Friday night, and he's come to Harry's house for dinner. No one's about, not even the house elf Harry employs—and Draco is still taken aback by the idea of paying elves wages for Merlin's sake. Albus and Lily are at Hogwarts, James has a flat of his own in Islington.

Dinner has been as usual. Harry's a decent enough cook, and Draco has brought the wine—Harry has atrocious taste in that regard, Draco insists—and they've argued politics and Quidditch and theatre and centaur rights, taking opposite sides even when they agree just for the sport of disagreement.

A pleasant evening.

And when Draco is at the Floo, the wine buzzing warmly through him as he wraps himself in his cloak again, Harry leans in and kisses him.

Soft. Warm. Open.

It takes Draco's breath away and he stumbles back, eyes wide.

Harry looks just as shocked.

A picture of Ginny Potter glares at them both from the mantel. Draco's all too aware of her bright, angry gaze.

They say nothing for a moment, and then Draco blinks. "I should go."

Harry swallows, and he raises his hand, then drops it to his side as Draco steps back.

"I should go," Draco says again.

Harry nods.

Draco stumbles through the Floo, thankfully landing in the foyer of Malfoy Manor. He leans against the wall, staring blankly in front of him.

He touches his mouth.

"Fuck," he says.

He's been so careful.

Bloody fuck.

***

He doesn't talk to Harry for four days. He misses their standing appointment for drinks.

Aurélie confronts him at breakfast finally. "What's going on between you and Harry?" she asks in her blunt manner.

Draco nearly chokes on a lychee.

"Nothing," he says after a moment, and he reaches for his tea.

His wife raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Liar."

Draco sighs. "Leave it, Aurélie."

She presses her mouth tight. He's annoyed her now, he knows, and he'll pay for that somehow.

He doesn't care.

Lychee juice drips from his fingers. He licks them absently.

All he can taste is Harry.

***

"This is ridiculous, you know." Harry's standing in the door of Draco's tiny office, arms crossed. "It was just a ki—"

"Shut it, Potter," Draco hisses, and Harry barely manages to duck into the office before the door slams shut.

Draco lowers his wand, sets it down. He picks his quill back up.

"I thought I was Harry," Harry says mildly.

"You're bloody annoying is what you are." Draco sighs and he runs a hand through his hair. "Shouldn't you be having some sort of heterosexual panic attack?"

"Who says I'm entirely heterosexual?"

Draco gives him a baleful look. "Your wife, if she were alive."

"And what does yours think of you?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

The quill in Draco's hand snaps. "Have you ever fucked a man, Potter?"

"No, but I've been thinking about it." Harry starts to sit in one of the chairs in front of Draco's desk. "For a while."

"Don't." Draco opens his ledger and picks up another quill. "You're leaving."

"Oh for—" Harry lifts his chin and grips the back of the chair. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't." Draco looks at him then, and he's almost pleading. "There's no need to balls this up—"

Harry just blinks. "This."

Draco purses his mouth, looks back down at the ledger. The columns of ink make no sense. He swallows and twists his quill between his fingers. "I don't have many friends now," he says quietly, after a moment. "I'd rather not have you decide that just because you're lonely it's perfectly all right for you to destroy whatever this is—" he motions between the two of them "--for me."

Harry doesn't say anything. His fingers tighten, then loosen on the chair, his knuckles white. "Okay," he says finally, and Draco relaxes.

"Okay," Harry says again. He looks away. He pushes away from the chair.

Draco barely hears the door click shut behind him.

He feels oddly bereft.

Bloody stupid Gryffindors.

***

"You're an idiot," Aurélie says and Draco looks up sharply. His wife drops onto the lounge next to him.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Draco snaps. "He's obviously off his rocker."

Aurélie just glares at him, her arms crossed over her chest, and Draco knows that look so damned well. "I don't know why I talk to you," he says petulantly, an echo of the boy he was so many years ago.

"Because I'm the only one you can trust," Aurélie says evenly. Her mouth twists to one side. "Most wives wouldn't be encouraging their husbands to go bugger someone, you realise. I should be canonised."

"Don't be crass."

Aurélie threads her fingers through his. "He might not be Severus—" Draco's head snaps up and she gives him a gentle look. "I'm not an idiot, you know. And over eighteen years, your mother talks."

Draco closes his eyes and sighs.

"He's not Severus," Aurélie continues, "but you care about him. You know you do."

"Stop it," Draco says and his wife curls her fingers around his, rests her head on his shoulder.

"I just want to see you happy," she says softly. "And I think Severus would too."

Draco thinks perhaps she's never entirely understood him.

Happiness is not something he can comprehend.

"He's sweet, you know," Aurélie says, rubbing her thumb across Draco's knuckle. "He owled me to apologise for kissing you."

Draco grits his teeth.

"I told him not to worry," his wife says, patting his knee. "That you could kiss whomever you want."

"I hate you," Draco mutters.

Aurélie smiles brightly. "I know."

***

Harry arrives in the middle of the night. Draco's been expecting him for the past few days. If there's anything his friendship with the idiot has taught him, it's that Harry Potter is bloody fucking persistent.

"So, here's the thing," Harry says, standing up and dusting Floo powder off himself. "I don't want to cock up our friendship either. It's the last thing I want."

Draco just stares at him from across the hall, his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry steps closer. "But the thing is that I like you." Draco watches him warily. "And I can't seem to stop thinking about you. About what I want."

He's next to Draco now, close enough to touch him, and Draco is half-afraid he might.

"So I talked to Hermione," Harry says. "And she seems to think that maybe I might need to kiss you again. Just to see."

Draco frowns. "Granger always was a moron."

"I think I disagree." Harry reaches for Draco, catches his wrist in his fingers. He pulls him closer; Draco doesn't resist.

Too much.

Harry touches his cheek, callused fingertips skimming over Draco's jaw, and Draco's so very aware of the Harryness of Harry.

He presses a hand against Harry's chest, fingers spread wide. He moves it slowly up, barely brushing Harry's neck, his fingers light against Harry's jaw.

Draco breathes out. Harry's broader than they were in school, and heavier, though not by much. But the planes of his face are wider, less fragile than they were two decades ago.

"I'm going to kiss you," Harry says softly and Draco knows he should object.

He doesn't.

Instead he nods, and Harry's mouth brushes over his, sending a shiver down his spine, and Draco leans into him.

Harry deepens the kiss, slow and soft and sweet, and Draco hasn't been kissed like this in years. Not since—his mind jerks away from that thought; his stomach twists. He can't—not now.

And then Harry's hands are in Draco's hair, pulling him closer, and Draco groans softly at the slide of Harry's tongue against his.

He clings to Harry, his fingers twisted in Harry's robe, and he needs this. Wants it.

"Harry," he whispers.

Harry pulls away, his fingers sliding over Draco's jaw. He stares at him. "Hermione's bloody brilliant," he says softly and for once Draco doesn't object.

Perhaps Granger isn't a complete dunce after all.

He reaches for Harry.

***

Harry is beautiful naked.

He's not perfect, however, and Draco prefers that. He likes the small scars and the knobbly knees and the slight concaveness of Harry's chest.

And when Harry moves over him, dragging his mouth across pale skin, biting at Draco's nipple, Draco grabs his shoulders and gasps.

Harry traces a web of faded scars that twist over Draco's side. "I did that," he whispers, "didn't I?" and he looks up at Draco with horrified eyes.

"Yes," Draco says, a matter-of-fact statement. He can barely recall the pain and the blood and how very much he had hated Potter afterwards. But he can still feel Severus's hands on him, smoothing essence of dittany into the still seeping wounds.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. He kisses one of the scars, licking lightly up it. Draco shivers.

Harry closes his fingers around Draco's wrist, and he presses his mouth to the soft skin there. Draco flinches for a moment, but Harry looks up at him calmly, evenly, and his mouth slides down to the pale shadow of the Mark.

He kisses it. Sucks lightly at the skin.

Draco shudders, shifts beneath him. He can feel Harry's mouth, his tongue; the Mark aches and burns warmly, sending zings of want through his arm, and he twists to one side with a gasp.

"Harry," he says, pulling at Harry's shoulder and it's more of a plea than a demand.

The sheets are soft beneath his fingers and he grips them tightly as Harry bends over his cock, sucking it lightly into his mouth.

"Teeth," Draco chokes out and Harry remembers to curl his lips over them as he sucks. Draco groans and twists beneath him.

It's not a brilliant blow job. It's not even the best that Draco's had. But it's Harry's first and what he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. That alone causes Draco to push his hips up with a soft cry, begging Harry to suck him, to lick him, to let him come in his mouth.

Harry pulls back, eyes dark and bright. "I want to fuck you," he gasps out and Draco slides a hand to the back of his neck, tugging him back down.

"Yes," he says against Harry's mouth and he shudders as Harry's cock rubs across his hip. "Please, yes."

There's lube in the table next to the bed, and Draco rolls over and grabs it, giving Harry a view of his arse.

Harry presses him into the bed, drags his mouth along the curve of Draco's spine, over his arse. He bites at Draco's thigh, just along the bend and Draco's hips buck against the mattress. "Harry—"

"You're beautiful," Harry whispers and Draco twists to look back at him. Harry's hands smooth over his hips, the head of his cock catches on Draco's thigh. It's heavy and hot and wet and Draco makes a quiet noise at the thought of it pressing into him.

He hands Harry the lube. "One finger first," he says breathlessly. "Then two."

Harry nods and slicks up his hand. He pushes one finger against Draco, almost hesitantly.

"Harry," Draco says sharply, and Harry presses his finger in, entirely. Draco cries out, his hips bucking up.

"Are you—" Harry looks down at him, concerned, and he starts to pull his finger out.

"Fine," Draco gasps. He tightens around Harry's finger. "Good. Oh God."

A smile spreads across Harry's face.

"Shut it," Draco says crossly. He pushes his hips up against Harry's hand. "Just fuck me, you tit."

Harry's finger moves slowly at first, and then he finds a rhythm, one that shudders through Draco, deep and strong, and when Draco says another, Harry, oh God, please, Harry doesn't hesitate to press a second finger into him, twisting, pressing, stretching him.

It's almost too much and yet not quite enough. Draco pulls on Harry's shoulders. "More," he groans and he kisses Harry roughly.

And then Harry's fingers are gone and the blunt head of his cock presses against Draco. "Yes." Draco wraps a leg around Harry's hips. "Fuck me. Please."

Harry looks hesitant, for just long enough, and Draco pulls him down into a frantic kiss. "Harry," he says against his mouth. "Please."

Draco groans as Harry pushes into him exquisitely slowly. His body shakes; he spreads his legs wide. "More, yes, God," he chokes out and Harry's shoulders are tight and tense under his palms.

"Fuck," Harry whispers, staring down at him and Draco touches his face, slides his fingers lightly over Harry's cheek.

"Yes."

Harry shivers at the press of Draco's fingers on his lips. He bites at his fingertips, sucks one into his mouth.

He moves slowly inside of Draco, his cock slick and heavy and Draco breathes in sharply with each press forward.

It's excruciatingly, beautifully slow, and Draco wraps an arm around Harry's neck, pulling him down for another kiss. "Look at me," he whispers, and Harry's eyes flutter open.

Draco groans.

He's the first man Harry's done this with, and the thought is beyond exciting. It makes him flush, makes him tremble and he pulls at Harry, arching up to meet each thrust.

"Harder," Draco gasps, and Harry throws his head back, and slams into him then, his neck a long golden curve. Draco licks up the salty-sweet skin, burying his face against Harry's jaw. "Yes," he says. "More, God, yes, more, please—"

Draco can feel Harry inside of him, stretching him, fucking him, each rough thrust pushing him further up the bed until Draco reaches out wildly and braces himself against the headboard.

Harry's beautiful over him, his hair tumbling into his face, catching on sweaty, flushed skin, and his eyes are bright and wide.

Draco spreads his thighs wider, his toes digging into the mattress. He presses up to meet each thrust, and the bed is thumping loudly against the wall, but Draco doesn't fucking care because Harry's inside of him, fucking him and Christ--

He comes on a gasp and a cry, his body shaking, his fingernails digging into Harry's arms, leaving pink-white crescents in soft skin. His legs shake, his thighs tighten around Harry's hips and it's too much.

Too much.

Harry bites his shoulder, slamming into him in quick thrusts, all sense of rhythm gone. His eyes are unfocused, his body tight and tense and Draco whispers in his ear, tells him to come, tells him he wants to see it, needs to see it.

It only takes a moment.

Harry falls against him, gasping. Draco wraps his arms around Harry; they lie there silently.

Draco strokes along Harry's back.

After a moment, Harry lifts his head. "Wow," he says breathlessly.

And Draco laughs.

***

They've been sleeping together for four months when Harry finds the note in the back of the wardrobe.

Draco should have known better. But Harry has been leaving clothes for weeks at the Manor—much to Weasley's consternation and objection which has only caused Draco to encourage the madness—and half of Draco's wardrobe now consists of Auror robes and Muggle jeans.

He'd been in the shower—convincing Harry to join him on a weekday morning was nearly impossible; Harry refused to be late. He claimed it was a need for responsible leadership. Draco secretly suspected that Harry just didn't want to be questioned by Weasley.

Harry's sitting cross-legged and fully dressed on the floor in front of the wardrobe, the unopened letter in his hand.

Draco stops, still dripping from his shower, his towel clutched around his waist. Harry looks up at him and blinks.

"What are you doing?" Draco asks sharply.

"This is the letter from Snape." Harry runs a finger over the wax crest. "You haven't opened it."

Draco grabs it from him. "No."

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment. "You should, you know." He bites his bottom lip. "If it were me—if Gin had left me something—" He sighs. "I'd want to read it."

"I'm not you," Draco says tightly.

Harry touches his arm; Draco pulls away.

"You should go to work," he says.

"Yeah." Harry hesitates, then clambers to his feet. "Read it," he says, and he leans in to kiss Draco's cheek.

Draco sits on the bed after he leaves and turns the envelope in his hand.

He tosses it aside finally and reaches for his clothes.

***

The envelope crinkles in his pocket.

Draco doesn't know why he brought it. He has no intention of reading it, but it was lying on the bed and it seemed easier to grab it and slide it in his robe rather than throwing it into the back of the wardrobe.

Where it belongs.

He takes it out of his pocket, smoothes out the wrinkles against his desktop. The paper is yellowing; the ink has faded.

But it's Severus's handwriting, all sharp spikes and elegant curls.

Draco traces the M.

He doesn't want to read it. He doesn't. There's nothing that Severus can say—

The sealing wax scatters across his blotter, tiny scraps of embossed black.

His hand shakes as he pulls the note out, unfolds the paper.

Draco,

Should you read this, I am dead and someone has delivered this letter to you. I fully expect that you will have thrown at least one tantrum about that matter.

There are things about me you do not know. That you may never know. Secrets I have held close for years.

For most of my life I believed those secrets to be that which defined me.

Now I am not entirely certain.

I am ready to die. I have expected it for quite some time. His Lordship is a fool, yes, but not an utter fool, and such a precarious house of cards as I have built is bound to come tumbling down at some point. For the first time in years, however, I have one person who gives me hope. Who causes me to believe that perhaps I should wish for life.

If you hold this in your hand, I have failed that person. Failed you.

Forgive me.

Severus

Draco sits silent in his empty office, the letter spread in front of him.

His cheeks are wet.

He takes a shaky breath; he knows what he has to do.

***

Draco runs into Neville Longbottom in the Entrance Hall. Strange to consider him a professor.

Longbottom blinks at him, just once, then says, "Should I find Scorpius?"

"No." Draco hesitates. "I'm here to see Sever—Headmaster Snape."

Longbottom gives him a long, speculative look, then nods. He turns to the nearest portrait. "Find Snape," he tells one of the giggling witches making cow eyes Draco's way. She blanches.

"Must I?"

"Now," Longbottom says firmly, and Draco's surprised by how quickly the girl flounces off, dashing through the nearest painting.

He eyes Longbottom uneasily. Draco's never quite certain what to say to old schoolmates, but Longbottom merely claps his hand on Draco's arm with a faint smile. "He'll be here soon."

A gaggle of students swarm past, all black robes and school ties, and one calls out "Professor Longbottom, I've a new clipping to show you when you've a moment—"

"I've one now, Abbott," Longbottom says and he nods at Draco. "Good seeing you, Malfoy."

Draco suspects that he might actually mean it.

He never will understand Gryffindors.

The hall quiets. Students return to class or to their dormitories. A few walk past him, glancing curiously his way. Draco ignores them.

"You've returned," Severus says.

Draco turns around, his breath catching. Severus leans against a portrait frame, his arms crossed.

"Yes." Draco's voice breaks slightly. "Severus."

Severus frowns then, steps further into the frame. "What is it?" His brows furrow. "Your brat is well—I spoke with him just this morning and the portraits are under strict orders to tell me if he's harmed—"

"No, it's not him." Draco licks his bottom lip. "The letter. I read the letter." He flushes. "Finally."

"I see," Severus says.

Draco meets his gaze directly. "I forgive you."

The hall is silent.

Severus nods at last, and his fingertips brush the surface of the canvas. Draco reaches out, presses his fingers to Severus's. For one brief moment, he can almost believe he feels warm skin against his.

It's enough.

"I love you too," Draco says at last.

Severus nods. A faint smile curves his lips. "I know."

Draco laughs, a half-sob. "Bastard."

"Brat."

A sigh, and Draco traces the curve of Severus's palm. "I miss you."

"I'm gone," Severus says bluntly. "You shouldn't."

Draco shakes his head. "It doesn't work that way. You know." He meets Severus's eyes. "Lily Potter."

Severus flinches. He looks away.

"You ought to have told me," Draco says. "It was worse hearing from Harry—"

Severus just looks at him. "She was my only friend," he says at last. "She died because of me—"

Draco shakes his head. "She died because of Him. Not you." He swallows; his throat is tight. "You can let that go now, Severus."

He doesn't say anything. Draco drops his hand.

"Draco." Severus's voice is quiet. Draco looks at him. "Don't make the same mistake I did," Severus murmurs. "Live."

Draco nods and blinks hard.

"Promise me," Severus says, almost angrily.

"I promise." The words nearly catch in Draco's throat.

Severus nods curtly and then he's gone, leaving Draco standing silent and alone.

***

The Pensieve gleams silver-white in the moonlight. Draco takes a deep breath.

"Are you sure?" Harry asks. He kneels beside Draco, their fingers twined together.

Draco nods. "I want you to see." He looks at Harry , at a shock of messy black hair shadowed in the darkness, at bright green eyes watching him steadily. "I want someone to know. About us." He hesitates. "I think he'll understand."

"Right then." Harry nods and squeezes Draco's hand.

Draco leans over and kisses him roughly. "Thank you," he whispers.

He lets himself tumble in, pulling Harry along with him.

***

Aurélie suggests the divorce first.

"I do love you both,," she says over breakfast, passing a plate of toast across the table to Harry. "But I think it's becoming difficult to maintain discretion if Harry's staying over every night." She looks at them both pointedly. "And the children have a right to know."

Harry and Draco exchange a look.

"It doesn't seem fair," Harry says to Aurélie. "This is your home."

"Oh, don't think I shan't force Draco to find me an adequate place," Aurélie says tartly. "A townhouse in Mayfair, perhaps." She eyes Draco speculatively. "Your mother could help."

Draco rolls his eyes and bites into a sausage. "That'll cost a small fortune."

"It's expected, darling." Aurélie laughs. "I'm the cuckolded wife."

Harry licks his spoon thoughtfully. "Can wives be cuckolded?"

Aurélie raises an eyebrow. "By the two of you, yes."

Harry grins at her.

Draco sighs. "Scorpius?" he asks.

"Will be out of Hogwarts soon enough," his wife says. "And I think he'll understand better than you expect, love." She touches Draco's hand. "You know it's time."

Draco glances away; his cheeks flush. He knows she's right.

He's not entirely certain what to think.

"I'll talk to the solicitor," he says at last, and he pours another cup of tea.

***

It takes a year and a day for the divorce to go through.

Harry officially moves in the next week, carting the contents of his cottage into the main wing of the Manor. Gryffindors traipse in and out; Draco has to bribe his father's portrait to remain in one of the unused wings after he sends one of the elves into convulsions and causes Granger-Weasley to spend the next fifteen minutes tormenting Draco about the conditions the Malfoy elves serve under.

Draco still has a headache.

Weasley levitates boxes into the Manor with a sigh that he only suppresses at his wife's frown. He corners Draco in the upstairs hallway.

"I don't like this much," the Weasel says, "but I reckon it's not my choice, and Harry's happy enough now. But if you hurt him, Malfoy—"

"You'll gut me," Draco finishes dryly. "Yes, we've had this discussion."

Weasley grunts. "Just reminding you."

"Duly noted."

They glare at each other for a moment, and then Weasley sticks a hand out.

Draco eyes it suspiciously before taking it.

They shake.

Much to Draco's surprise, the world doesn't end.

***

Draco's standing at the bedroom window, looking out over the manor gardens, a glass of wine in his hand.

He's seen Severus today, both at Hogwarts and at his vault. It's an odd pilgramage, one Scorpius makes with him, even now. Especially now.

Draco's throat tightens. He told his son the truth about Severus and himself when Harry moved in. Harry can be an insistent arse at times.

But it doesn't make him wrong.

Harry slides an arm around his waist, pulling him back against him. "Thinking?"

"Trying not to." Draco sips his wine. May is always a difficult month. Harry knows this. He has demons of his own.

So many dead on one night.

Harry rests his head on Draco's shoulder. "He was a lucky bastard, you know."

Draco turns then in Harry's arms, raises an eyebrow. "I think he might disagree."

"No." Harry shakes his head, smiles faintly. "He was loved. Automatically lucky, there."

Draco snorts. "You're a maudlin old fool, Potter."

"Maybe." Harry shrugs. His fingers smooth lightly across Draco's stomach. "I prefer life that way, though."

Draco leans against Harry. He says nothing, just sips his wine.

Outside, the wind rustles through the tree leaves and long shadows cast by moonlight curl around the mausoleum along the edge of the grounds beneath the cypress trees.

And Draco lives.

As he promised.

Notes:

Noeon has written a wonderful remix of this fic from Harry's POV: The Lost Heart.