Chapter 1: Part One: August '94, July '97, May '98
Chapter Text
August, 1994
The first thought that crossed Charlie’s mind when he met Harry Potter was simply: adorable.
The Wizarding World had sure made a fuss over this scrawny, awkward teenage boy. His dark, curly hair was a mess, his clothes were too big—not that Charlie had any room to talk, of course, as his mother loved to remind him. And for the first few days of his stay at the Burrow that summer, Harry was quiet and unobtrusive, nervous and awed, blooming so very slowly among the riot of colour and noise that was the Weasley family, as if re-learning how to take up space.
Charlie had seen similar behaviour in dragons rescued from cages, when they were brought to the sanctuary.
It made him curious. It made him watch Harry closely, as he would a new dragon. Harry seemed to watch him right back—Charlie could feel his gaze lingering on him whenever he entered a room, and noticed how Harry’s sentence would stutter in distraction, how he would clam up and go even quieter in Charlie’s presence. Tight, tense, a slight choking feeling in the back of Charlie’s head.
Like a dragon, when it had never experienced compassion from a wizard.
Charlie had even pulled Ron aside to ask if Harry was alright, if Charlie was doing anything to make him uncomfortable, which Ron vehemently denied.
“It’s like this every summer,” Ron said with a shrug. “Give him a couple days. Usually can’t get him to shut up, but it takes a bit for him to be himself again.”
Charlie could tell there was more beneath that statement, from the grim, protective look in Ron’s eyes, but he didn’t want to pry. He remembered feeling that from Bill, when he was a kid, whenever the other students were talking about Charlie behind his back.
He tried his best to make Harry feel comfortable. Safe.
Sure enough, a few days later, Harry was laughing more, standing straighter, his green eyes gleaming with excitement as the Quidditch World Cup approached.
And when Ron mentioned the name Malfoy offhand, as they all lazed about in the garden after dinner, Harry came alive.
Charlie had never heard of a fourteen-year-old with a "nemesis", as Fred had called it with a dangerously gleeful grin, but he supposed that there was much about the Boy Who Lived that he wouldn’t understand.
It was just that—when Charlie thought of Harry Potter’s enemy, he thought of the wizard who’d murdered Harry’s parents and kept trying to kill him. Not another teenage boy, with fanatical pureblood supremacist ideals and a nasty, old-money family, and probably the same amount of body odour and acne and raging hormones as every other fourteen-year-old at that school.
Charlie had been one, once, not too long ago. He was only twenty-two. He remembered the painful awkwardness, the inflated self-importance, the feeling that everything was simultaneously too big and not enough, especially himself, especially his feelings. He’d avoided it all as much as possible, preferring to spend his time with Hagrid, helping to care for the creatures when he wasn’t studying or on the Quidditch pitch. He might not have been able to see the thestrals, or touch the unicorns, but they certainly never asked him what he wanted to do with his life after Hogwarts, or what he thought of Mindy Barnes in Hufflepuff, or if Bill was single and if so, could he pass this note along?
Dragons were easier than teenagers—than people—without a doubt.
There was something about this one, though, who was animated enough while ranting and raging over his supposed nemesis to slosh milky tea over the side of his mug, that was just… adorable.
***
Just over two months later, the word felt different when it entered Charlie’s head.
He hadn't known it could be laced with fear, like this.
But Harry was swooping and diving through the air on a broom, narrowly avoiding Rosa’s jets of dragonflame, and Charlie realized Harry was actually teasing this irritable Hungarian Horntail and it was… adorable.
He looked so small, up there, flitting around Rosa’s massive head like a fly, tempting her away from her charge. Charlie knew Harry was barely a gnat, to Rosa, but she never backed down from a challenge—part of the reason she’d been picked for this particular event, to Charlie’s great displeasure. Using dragons as entertainment, pitting them against children… It was barbaric, but the Ministry hadn’t given them much of a choice. It was either comply, and be able to keep both dragons and champions as safe as possible throughout the whole bloody process, or don’t, and let the Ministry bring the first rogue dragons they could find to a school, and take the blame for anything that happened thereafter.
Rosa’s head swayed as she followed Harry’s dizzying path. Charlie was stupidly impressed, recognizing the quick, precise agility of an excellent Seeker. He could see Harry’s mouth moving, but no spells came forth, which meant Harry was talking to her, coaxing her up off the ground, and the thought came again, unbidden and twisted with worry: adorable.
Finally, Rosa’s front lifted into the air, her wings spread and raised for flight, and Harry dove, faster than gravity could pull him down; Charlie felt the drop in his own gut, in the thrilled gasps and shrieks of the students in the crowd. Harry disappeared beneath the furious Horntail’s belly and re-emerged with a golden egg, shooting off over the ecstatic, cheering stands to escape Rosa’s belated wrath.
Charlie raised his wand, cutting off all extraneous thoughts and overexcited emotions as best he could, and did his job.
Once the bitter and disgruntled Rosa was subdued, he managed to find Harry in the champion’s tent, being fussed over by Madam Pomfrey. Harry was panting with adrenaline, flushed and shaky, covered in dirt and soot and a little blood. But when he saw Charlie, his green eyes lit up, torn between cautious and embarrassed and hopeful, and Charlie immediately forgot whatever he’d planned to say.
So he shook Harry’s hand, and congratulated him, and told him Rosa had fun, even though she nearly killed him a few times. Harry smiled at him, lopsided and abashed, and thanked him, which prompted Charlie to escape before he could say anything truly stupid, like you treated that dragon like an equal, not a monster, or you belong in the air, on the wind, like I do, or I doubt even your “nemesis” could keep his eyes off you, out there.
He did not see Harry again for almost three years.
July, 1997
The moment Charlie laid eyes on him again, his heart leapt to his throat.
Oh, no.
Taller. Harry was taller—a little taller than Charlie, now, which wasn’t much of a feat, but still. He was broader, with Quidditch thighs and toned arms and tense shoulders under a thin t-shirt, and Charlie hadn’t thought seventeen-year-olds were allowed to look like that, yet: world-weary, quietly grieving, and ridiculously attractive.
Harry greeted him warmly with a firm handshake, his voice much deeper than expected, and smiled at Charlie in a sort of commiserating way, as if to say, I know we’re on the brink of war, but I’m happy to see you. And Charlie said nothing, like an idiot, blushing and more than a little flustered, until Bill elbowed him hard in the side and he remembered to spit out the bare minimum:
“Happy Birthday, Harry.”
It earned him another one of those smiles, it crinkled the corners of those outrageously green eyes, and it caused an awful swooping sensation in Charlie’s belly. Bill grabbed his arm and dragged him away to wedding preparations, rolling his eyes. Charlie was so caught off guard by the whole thing that he forgot to protest when his mother demanded to cut his hair.
He cursed Dumbledore—a little bit, to himself, it wouldn’t do to speak ill of the dead—for making Charlie traipse around Europe on Order recruitment missions, for so long. He’d missed so much.
The garden was full of people. The tables groaned under the weight of all of the food, and laughter prevailed after enough butterbeer was passed around, though the vibrating undertone of grave anxiety never really lessened. With each drink, Charlie felt less and less in control of himself, and it felt so nice to just relax, for a bit, swimming in the pool of turbulent emotion without letting any of it touch him.
No one seemed to notice how his eyes kept drifting back to Harry, nor how Harry kept meeting his gaze and smiling that lopsided smile, his bronze skin glowing under the many lanterns, his eyes sparkling with candlelight and warmth as they set down one of Molly’s finest, snitch-shaped birthday cakes in front of him.
“Oh, I just can’t wait for Ginny’s wedding,” his mother sighed wistfully next to him, and Charlie nearly spat out his butterbeer.
“Mum!” he chastised, incredulous laughter spilling from his throat as he wiped his mouth. “Haven’t even got Bill married yet, and you’re already trying to sell off Ginny?”
Molly swatted at his arm, her cheeks red from drink. “I can’t help it, hearing about her and Harry finally getting together—”
“What?” Charlie choked out through a coughing fit. On his other side, George started thumping his back.
“Could hardly keep them off each other,” George said, grinning.
“Until you couldn’t get Harry near her again, of course,” Fred chimed in.
“Oh, stop it!” Molly clucked. “He’s been through a hard time—”
“An understatement,” George grumbled, raising his eyebrow. It disappeared under the bandage around his head. Charlie grabbed his arm to stop his incessant thumping.
“He and Ginny…?”
“Star-crossed lovers, indeed,” Fred said with a solemn nod, mischievous blue eyes glinting in Charlie’s direction. Charlie looked down the table at his sister, and sure enough, her gaze was glued to Harry, uncharacteristically sad and longing, and Charlie had never felt such a bizarre mixture of his own emotions at once.
The first was instinctual, petty jealousy. Then exasperation at his mother, then protectiveness over his baby sister, who looked heartbroken by whatever had happened with Harry. Confusion, because Ginny’s crush had been more than obvious all these years, but Harry had never given her more than a passing glance, as far as Charlie knew. She’d dated a few other boys, which Ron had been more upset about than anyone.
Then there was shame, and a little fear, because Fred was watching Charlie in that calculating, knowing way, and Charlie wondered how obvious he had been in his own silly crush. Not enough for his mother or sister to notice, thankfully, but Bill definitely had, he knew Charlie better than any of them, and Fred certainly looked like he was reading Charlie’s thoughts. And it was surely weird and predatory for a twenty-five-year-old to be lusting after a seventeen-year-old, wasn’t it? Not that what he was feeling was lust, exactly, or that Bill wasn’t literally getting married to the seventeen-year-old he’d lusted after a couple years ago—
“He’ll come around,” Molly said confidently, “he and Ginny were so happy together. It’s just all this—this war business, you know—”
George snorted. “They were barely together two months, Mum.” He exchanged a look with his twin, one that told Charlie there was much more to that story than Molly knew. Charlie could feel more wild laughter building in his throat, as the last emotion made its way to the surface. He covered his mouth with his hand, but Fred was still watching him, suppressing his own giggles. Perhaps they were thinking the same thing.
Harry looked over at them, dark eyebrows lifting as he watched Charlie and the twins snickering next to their tipsy, wistful mother. Charlie felt a rush of sweet warmth, like hot chocolate moving slowly down his throat, a feeling that he was beginning to think was just Harry. The corner of Harry’s lips lifted in that familiar, crooked smile, and his green eyes met Charlie’s for only a moment, before darting down to his own hands, a blush blooming on his cheeks.
Fred released his laughter, to more of Harry’s confusion, and Charlie’s own laughter felt giddy, his face just as warm, not entirely from the drinks.
Charlie would bet money that Harry would never get back together with Ginny, and he was sure George was hoping for such a gamble. But Charlie knew better, as did Fred, he guessed, and he knew it in the way Harry looked at him, he knew it in the fire in Harry’s eyes when the name Malfoy left someone’s mouth, and he knew it like he knew himself.
He decided, rather diplomatically, not to mention it to his mother—she’d figure it out herself, eventually—that Harry was gayer than a maypole.
And then their party was crashed by the Minister for Magic himself, and Charlie had to watch all the levity leave Harry’s eyes, watch him transform from joyful, bashful teenager to a wary young man on the brink of war, ready to take on the world with his bare hands.
Charlie never forgot who Harry was. It was impossible to, with the way violence and the eyes of Wizarding Britain followed him, and the way he always ended up in the middle of everything, a perpetual eye of a storm. But Charlie fought with himself often, not wanting to think of this boy as the unstoppable force he knew him to be. Because he was just that: a boy, barely seventeen, having received his first wizard’s watch that morning, and playing Quidditch in the garden, probably wondering why dating girls was so bloody uncomfortable.
But he was also a boy who played with a pissed off Hungarian Horntail, and dueled with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and led an underground resistance army inside a school, and battled Death Eaters. And he was, for some reason, the one person everyone was looking to to guide them through a war he had no say in, and to be the one to end it, once and for all.
It made every cell in Charlie’s body want to revolt, to kick and scream at everyone for not letting this boy just be a boy. Charlie’s hands shook as he watched Harry walk into the house with Hermione, Ron, and Rufus fucking Scrimgeour, and no one did a damn thing about it. He kept his eyes glued to the door, fighting every instinct that begged him to run in there and surround Harry and stop this.
But he couldn’t stop an unstoppable force, which was what Harry was, and always had been. Charlie could do nothing but watch from the sidelines, as he always did, when Harry disappeared only days later, amidst the chaos of a wedding and a Ministry takeover and a Death Eater ambush, and hope that no one else would be able to stop him, either.
May, 1998
The first time he laid eyes on Draco Malfoy, Charlie was already half out of his mind.
Because he was shaking with an overflow of rage and adrenaline, fear and grief he wasn’t allowed to feel, yet, his entire body lit up with it, with everyone. It was more than he’d ever felt in his life, it was manic agony, a barrage of knife-sharp stone-heavy white-hot feeling in his head, his chest, his stomach, his hands, and soon he would surely drop dead from it all.
But he couldn’t think about it, because he was watching Harry, his Harry, circling Voldemort in the middle of the Great Hall, the energy of his fury crackling in the air around him, igniting Charlie’s bones. He could barely register the words coming out of Harry’s mouth, quick and sharp and sure. He heard something about Harry dying, about his sacrifice protecting everyone in the room from Voldemort’s wrath, and his ears started to ring; he felt he might explode, right then and there, and hoped the blast would at least be strong enough to off Voldemort before he could try killing Harry again.
In his daze, Charlie looked directly across the circle and saw a tall, lean boy with white-blond hair and a sharp, angular face, covered in as much soot and dust and blood as the rest of them. He recognized this boy, not only because of the two older Malfoys on either side of him, but because of the expression he was wearing: full of the same raw, terrified emotion that Charlie could feel in himself, directed entirely at Harry.
Then silver eyes slid past Harry’s head and found Charlie’s, and he swallowed hard at the strength of it, the collision of heart-wrenching fear and guilt. And maybe he was truly going round the twist, this time, because he swore this boy recognized the same emotion in him, the same impossible, inevitable attachment to Harry—his Harry, and his Harry.
And instead of anger or jealousy or bitterness, he saw something like respect in that recognition. Understanding, the same way Charlie could understand him; he knew the feeling of wanting Harry too much, and being completely vulnerable to it. He knew the ache and terror of watching Harry dangle on the precipice of life and death, and being powerless to stop it. And maybe that was what he saw in Malfoy, and what Malfoy saw in him, and maybe that was just what loving Harry felt like:
Helpless.
As Charlie dragged his eyes back to Harry, he couldn’t help thinking this Malfoy must not be much of an evil bastard, if he was as helpless as Charlie felt.
***
Charlie arranged to return to Romania as soon as he could.
It felt horrible, leaving his grieving family behind. He gave in to a single want and hugged Harry goodbye, feeling Harry’s arms tight around him, his face ducking into Charlie’s shoulder.
Tender and heartsick, guilty, alive. Charlie had no idea how to make it better. He held him tighter. You are safe, now. You are home.
What he’d never been able to explain to his mother, before, was that people were always too much.
Charlie had always felt everything too strongly. He hardly knew how to manage what he felt on his own, and he couldn’t help picking up on what everyone around him was feeling, too, and it was all so much, too much. He could normally handle being around his family and friends for a few days at a time, before he got overwhelmed. But now…
He couldn’t breathe under the weight of his own grief, let alone everyone else’s. He hoped they understood. Harry said he did, even seemed a little envious, and Charlie wished he could steal Harry away and give him the peace of the sanctuary in Romania, but Harry needed to stick around for all those bloody Death Eater trials, because apparently he could never catch a break from giving everything he had to Wizarding Britain.
“What are you planning for Malfoy?” Charlie asked in a hushed tone, as Harry reluctantly pulled away.
“Which one?”
Charlie raised an eyebrow, and Harry’s mouth twisted. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t know,” Harry sighed, looking utterly exhausted. “He—helped me. So did his mum. And I did save him from—but they still…” He huffed, shook his head, completely vexed. A familiar sort of prickly heat, when he thought about Malfoy. A reluctant admiration, maybe for Mrs. Malfoy. “What do you think?”
Charlie hesitated. “I think teenagers don’t deserve Azkaban,” he answered. “No matter who their parents are, and no matter how many mistakes they’ve made in adolescence.” He managed a faint grin, but he couldn’t find any joy to fuel it. “And dragons aren’t meant for cages.”
Harry’s lips quirked, and he nodded once. Ginny appeared in the garden to hug Charlie goodbye, and Harry returned to the house, leaving the two of them alone.
Ginny sighed into Charlie’s shoulder, despondent. He kissed the side of her head. There was so much he didn’t know how to fix. He didn’t even know where to start.
“It’ll be alright,” he said, though he wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to console. Maybe everything. “I’ll see you at Christmas. If you can manage time away from being a professional Quidditch star to see your boring, caveman older brother, that is.”
Ginny huffed a wet laugh and pulled away. “I wouldn’t miss it,” she said, wiping her eyes. She glanced once at the door Harry had disappeared through, her smile falling.
“I’m so tired of waiting,” she admitted, a little absently, as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Charlie’s heart clenched, at her heartbreak and grief and loneliness, written plain on her freckled face.
“Then stop waiting,” he said, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder. “You were never meant for waiting. You spent years breaking into the broom shed and practicing with our brooms when we wouldn’t let you play Quidditch with us.”
She looked back at him with a sad smile. “I’m not talking about Quidditch, Charlie.”
“Neither am I,” he replied.
Then his Portkey started to glow blue, and he stepped back, gave his sister as much of a reassuring smile as he could, and was yanked through space to the calm, quiet hills of Romania.
Chapter Text
December, 1998
“I know, I don’t like the cold either,” Charlie muttered. Philippe grumbled low in his belly, which warmed above Charlie’s hunched form as he twirled his wand over the damaged scales on the dragon’s hind leg. “You get used to it.”
Philippe huffed his displeasure, and Charlie covered his nose and mouth with his scarf to keep from inhaling any of his highly flammable and slightly poisonous breath.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s no Côte d'Ivoire,” he mumbled into his scarf. The cracked scales would need another three weeks of treatment, at least. It took months, sometimes years for a dragon’s body to grow fully accustomed to a new climate, and West Africa to Romania was one hell of a transition. He furrowed his brows as he raised his wand again, and rolled his eyes when Philippe tried to bowl him over with a massive, clawed foot, the size of a motorcycle. The pale scales of his stomach glowed and shimmered slightly as Philippe’s patience wore thin, but that gave Charlie a bit more light to work with, anyway—
“You’re doing it again.” Andrei’s voice drifted to him from a safe distance away. Charlie frowned, peeking his head out from behind Philippe’s ankle, still holding his scarf in front of his face.
“Doing what?” The words were unintelligible, thanks to the scarf, but Andrei understood him anyway.
“Nice try.” Andrei raised his hand, waving the cheap plastic comb he was holding in the air.
Charlie cursed under his breath. He holstered his wand, gave Philippe a few soothing pats on the knee, and ran out from under the dragon’s belly before he could let out another grumpy, venomous huff. He jogged over to Andrei, who held out the comb Portkey and Charlie’s satchel with a long-suffering look on his weathered face.
“Every year,” Andrei said, reluctantly fond.
“Yeah, well—” Charlie motioned to Philippe behind him, who was indeed letting out his customary poisonous huff, spreading his wings and leaping into the sky as if to say, watch me, I don’t need you. Andrei chuckled, tugging his own woolen hat further down over his grey-streaked hair.
“Puiule, they’ll be fine for a few days. They always are.”
Charlie knew he was right. He also knew that Andrei knew that wasn’t the whole reason for his hesitation, every year. Charlie missed his family, of course he did, but it was always hard to leave the peace of the sanctuary, for a week of noise and conversation and feeling simultaneously left out and smothered.
This Christmas would be especially painful. So it was perfectly understandable, Charlie thought, that he had put off leaving until the very last minute.
“Happy Christmas,” Andrei said, patting his cheek and stepping back. “I’ll see you in a week, licurici.”
“Right,” Charlie replied, steeling himself as the comb started to glow blue, “a week. Happy Christmas.”
And then a hook and jerk behind his navel, pulling him through space in a dizzying blur until he landed clumsily in the garden of his childhood home, his boots crunching in the sparse snow on the frozen grass.
He took a deep breath as he looked up at the crooked structure, held up by magic and love and more spellotape than Arthur would ever admit to his wife. He let the warmth of coming home suffuse his chest as he worked up the strength to actually go inside.
But a loud crack sounded just a few feet away, making him jump, and Harry appeared in the garden, too, slipping his wand into his pocket and smoothing out his jumper. When he eventually looked up and saw Charlie standing there, gaping foolishly, he gave him a hesitant, lopsided grin, which unfortunately knocked the wind from Charlie’s lungs.
He disguised it as a laugh as he ambled over to Harry, who looked somewhere between delighted to see him and worried Charlie would slug him. Charlie drew him in for a hug, instead.
“Hullo, Harry,” he said, and something in his chest loosened, untangled. Harry’s arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing tight, burying his face in Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie breathed him in, that perfectly Harry scent, woody and earthy and crisp, like the smell of the forest from high, high above it.
Harry mumbled something into his shoulder, his voice a low, incomprehensible rumble. Charlie chuckled at him, squeezing his shoulders as he pulled back.
“What?”
“I said, you smell like kerosene,” Harry repeated, bright green eyes glinting with the many fairy lights Molly had put up over the door. Charlie laughed, reached around to the back of Harry’s head, and tugged on the little bun of dark, curly hair.
“And you look like—” Charlie paused, racking his brain and coming up with nothing other than Harry, Harry, Harry. “—I don’t even know.” His hand fell to Harry’s shoulder, then without thinking, slid over Harry’s jaw. “And this—trying for a beard, are we?”
Harry’s cheeks were rosy, perhaps from the cold, or the lights, and Charlie finally realized how close they were standing. He lowered his hands as Harry huffed an embarrassed laugh.
“What do you mean, trying?” Harry scoffed weakly, touching the stubble on his own face. “It’s very successful, I think.”
“Right, very dashing,” Charlie said, hoping the teasing tone would hide just how much he meant it, because oh, Merlin.
He’d gotten one letter from Harry since May. It was short, simple, only the quick update that Charlie had requested in his own letter on Harry’s birthday. Harry had started Auror training with Ron, he’d bought a small flat instead of trying to live in the wreck of Grimmauld Place, and he was spending as much time as possible with his godson, Teddy. As Charlie had expected, there hadn’t been a single mention of Ginny.
He hadn’t even thought of the effect Auror training would have on Harry, physically.
He hadn’t expected all this… muscle, straining the sleeves of Harry’s green jumper, apparent through the fabric over his chest, making the tension in his shoulders even more obvious. His hair, usually a chaotic, tumbling mess, was long enough to be pulled back into a little bun that showed off his neck and strong jawline, shadowed with more stubble than any Weasley brother had had at that age. Charlie didn’t know why he was surprised, anymore; it had been this way every time Charlie saw him, since the day they’d met. Charlie would look away, and every time he looked back, there was so much more of Harry to witness.
Harry looked much older than eighteen, and Charlie told himself it was the facial hair, and not… everything else Harry’d been through, the dark, gritty horrors where his childhood should have been.
Another loud pop announced the arrival of Charlie’s father, who hugged them both quickly in greeting, then herded them into the house. A glance sideways at Harry told Charlie that he wasn’t the only one fighting off a feeling of dread.
It took twenty minutes for Charlie to figure out the source of the discomfort in the house, where his family was more boisterous than ever, as if trying to fill the void of Fred’s absence and George’s quietude. Grief hung over them all like a cloud, threatening rain, but there was a coldness among them, too, and it seemed to be centered around Harry.
Hermione, Charlie, and Arthur appeared to be the only ones willing to engage with him, and it turned Charlie’s stomach. Not even Ron would look him in the eye. Bill was being civil, instead of friendly, which didn’t bode well at all.
When Ginny finally arrived, she greeted Harry hesitantly, formally, radiating unease. Charlie was about to snap by the time he finally got Hermione alone.
“Hermione, what the hell happened?”
She raised her eyebrows at him, setting out more mince pies on a platter to bring back to the sitting room, where they’d all gathered for the annual Celestina Warbeck torture.
“You didn’t know?”
“Obviously,” Charlie grumbled. Her eyes darted to the doorway, then back.
“Well,” she began. “Harry and Ginny broke up.”
Charlie waited, but nothing else came. “That implies they got back together.”
“They did, in June. Ginny was very persistent. Told him she wouldn’t wait for him forever. And Harry—” she sighed, tucking a stray piece of dark, curly hair behind her ear. “He gave it his best shot. He didn’t want to disappoint her, or anyone else.”
Charlie scrubbed his face with his hand. That was not what he’d meant when he’d told Ginny to stop waiting. “Come on, Hermione.”
Her expression pinched, not wanting to gossip about her closest friend, but she was the only person Charlie trusted to give him an unbiased account of what he’d missed.
“He was assigned a partner, in Auror training. Draco Malfoy.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “They let Malfoy into Auror training?”
“On Harry’s word, they did. I’m sure they thought partnering them would cause an explosion, enough to boot Malfoy out and prove Harry wrong. But they work well together, once they’d stopped antagonizing each other all the time.”
“Right,” Charlie said, thinking this at least explained Ron’s cold distance. Ron would be furious not to be partnered with Harry, and even more livid if Harry was enjoying not being partnered with him, but with his nemesis, instead.
“And—well, he kind of lost interest in Ginny. He and Malfoy started to spend more time together outside of training, and Harry started forgetting things he’d planned with Ginny, and their schedules were already so busy, with Ginny being away with the Harpies half the time.”
“So, they broke up. So what?”
Hermione stared at him, a familiar, calculating look. “They only broke up two weeks ago,” she said. “And it was Ginny who finally did it. He’d been dragging her along for months.” She let out another sigh, her eyes darting to the doorway again. “As you can imagine, it was a heavy blow that Harry was more eager to spend time with Malfoy than with her.”
Charlie rubbed his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. He waved a hand in frustration.
“And, what, no one saw this coming?” he asked.
Hermione’s eyebrows climbed even higher. “What?”
“Honestly? This is a surprise?”
Hermione blinked, dumbfounded, and Charlie couldn’t believe that he was the only one—
No, he hadn’t been. Fred had known, too, Charlie was sure of it. Fred had to have shared his suspicions with George, but…
Fred was gone. And George wasn’t himself, because he’d lost half of himself. The rest of his family was apparently completely oblivious, and debilitatingly heterosexual.
The only surprise, to Charlie, was that Harry had gotten back together with Ginny at all.
“They’ll get over it,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Merlin. Not a good enough reason to treat him like this.”
“I know,” Hermione replied. “But they follow your mum’s lead. And Ginny doesn’t know how to interact with him as just a friend, yet. She’ll learn, but she’s always tried to act a certain way around Harry, you know?”
Charlie nodded and took the platter of sweet rolls Hermione offered, following her out of the kitchen.
He sat down in the available seat next to Harry, who was staring into his empty teacup, holding it in a tight, white-knuckled grip. Charlie gently bumped his shoulder, and he managed to look up, searching Charlie’s expression through his round frames.
Charlie wasn’t too good at nonverbal communication—or communication in general—and he was absolute pants at Legilimency, but he tried his best to project his most prominent thoughts: You are loved. You are home. I will always have your back.
The corner of Harry’s lips lifted, just enough, and Charlie felt a little bit successful. He kept his shoulder right where it was, pressed lightly against Harry’s, and imagined creating a shield of warmth around him, protecting Harry from the worst of his family’s misdirected frostiness.
At least it was Christmas.
Harry seemed delighted by the dragon leather wand holster Charlie had crafted for him, and Charlie had to try not to cry at the small, braided leather bracelet Harry had made him. He chuckled a little as he let Harry tie it to his wrist. It was certainly the oddest gift he’d ever received, especially from Harry, and he’d never have expected Harry to give him something so… superfluous. People didn’t give Charlie adornments. With good reason.
“Don’t blame me if it’s singed off the second I get back to Romania,” Charlie said. Harry’s blush deepened.
“Erm—it’s charmed, actually,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. It’ll protect your arm against dragonfire… Haven’t figured out how to make the charm expand over the whole body, yet, but I figured—wand arm, you know, yours gets hit more than the other one. Andromeda’s been teaching me…” Harry waved his hand vaguely as he trailed off, looking sheepish, and Charlie felt too stunned to speak, worried that if he did, an entire river might burst forth instead of the customary thank you.
He looked down at the bracelet on his wrist. Harry was right, of course: his wand arm sported twice as many burns as his left arm. Because dragons that wanted to burn him, usually wanted to because of the wand in his hand. His legs were hit often, too, because unhappy dragons aimed for the ground around him as a warning, and he couldn’t exactly blame them for being a little off the mark. His own aim wasn’t very good, either, in times of distress.
The fact that Harry had noticed this about him, had paid enough attention to him in the small windows of time they’d seen each other in the last several years, had thought about it enough to craft this little protection by hand—
“Harry,” he finally choked out, looking back up. “Thank you.”
Harry bit his lip, hiding a smile—so warm—and Charlie felt like he was losing his mind, again, because how was this the same boy who’d teased a dragon on a broom, and defeated the darkest wizard of their time? He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t reconcile the two—beautiful boy, unstoppable force; teenager, war hero; adorable, invincible.
He wondered which one Ginny had been so enamoured with.
The thought made him look away, and unfortunately catch Bill’s eye. Bill raised an eyebrow, his expression wry and exasperated, even through the scars. Charlie raised his own eyebrows, decidedly not thinking about why he was trying to look innocent right now. Bill would see straight through him, regardless, as was clear with the tired-but-fond way he was shaking his head in disapproval: Of course you are, you bloody idiot.
How Arthur had convinced Harry to stay at the Burrow the full week between Christmas and New Years, Charlie would never know. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful for it.
It meant he got to spend more time with Harry, which was always nice, especially without the threat of war hanging over their heads. But it also meant he had to see Harry first thing in the morning, all sleep-rumpled and loose-limbed and raspy, because both of them woke with the sun. He had to make Harry coffee—Harry didn’t know how to do it the magical way—and try not to stare at the way Harry’s hands cradled the chipped mug for warmth, and ran through his loose, tangled hair, and propped up his chin as he smiled at yet another of Charlie’s dragon stories. He had to play Quidditch in the garden and circle Harry in the sky, watching Harry watch him while they both kept an eye out for the snitch and the Chasers below them, showing off the riskiest moves they could manage on the old Cleansweeps.
He had to witness Harry’s triumphant smile, brighter than the sun off the snow, no matter who caught the snitch in the end.
He didn’t think he’d ever spent so much time around Harry, before. He’d certainly never spent this long in the direct beam of Harry’s attention, and it was heady and intoxicating, which was stupid, because it was just Harry, and Harry was also Ginny’s ex, and Harry was eighteen and training to be an Auror with his former nemesis, and Charlie belonged with dragons, far away from him and everyone else.
Charlie usually never stayed all the way through to New Years. He was surprised he hadn’t tapped out by now and activated his return Portkey. But then Harry would shuffle down the stairs in the morning, tired eyes squinting against the dawn, already scanning the room for Charlie and his coffee, and it wasn’t as surprising as he’d thought.
Charlie made it to New Year’s Eve—the longest he’d ever stuck around after Christmas.
Unfortunately, that meant enduring the nonsense his mother was carrying on with around Harry, her angry huffs and sad looks and cold, short words, for a full eight days. By the end of supper on the thirty-first, Harry was so miserable that he walked right out of the house after cleaning up, and Charlie valiantly managed not to punch something.
“Mum,” he snapped, hushed. She turned around from the sink, drying her hands on her skirt. “Enough.”
“Enough what, dear?”
“You know what,” Charlie retorted. “So it didn’t work out with Harry and Ginny. Big deal. That’s no excuse to treat him like this.”
She pressed her lips together, her hands on her hips. “It’s much more than the fact they didn’t work out, Charles. You would know if you spent more than a week here every year—”
“Mum,” he cut her off, because of course she was turning it around on him. “He is practically your own son. At least, you’ve treated him like one since the day you met him. You can’t freeze him out just because you don’t like who he hangs out with.”
“It’s not a simple matter of befriending the wrong sort—!”
“No, it’s much more complex than that, because you haven’t stopped to think about why he would want to be around that boy instead of Ginny, or why Ginny even wanted to be with him, or why he agreed to get together with her when he’d not shown any inclination for her before!” Charlie was trying not to shout, but as always, he was feeling too much, finally spilling over. “You haven’t thought that maybe, he spends time with the Malfoy kid because that’s surely the one person who won’t treat Harry like a fragile hero, and the one person whose pain Harry doesn’t feel personally responsible for? And maybe, Harry got with Ginny because nothing could bring him further into this family than a relationship, and it was all he could do to make everyone happy? And maybe, he let it go on for so long because if he didn’t, if he ended it, this would happen! He would lose the only real family he’s ever had!”
Molly gaped at him, fumbling for words. “That’s not—of course he’s still family—”
“Really, Mum? Because right now you’re treating him like a bloody disease. All you’ve done, all week, is confirm what are probably his worst fears: that your love for him is conditional. That his place here depends on his ability to sacrifice his own happiness for everyone else.”
The entire house fell silent, and Charlie realized he had indeed been shouting, despite his best efforts, and it was very likely his whole family had heard his little tirade. His mother stared at him, brown eyes wide and shiny, defensiveness slowly being replaced by shame. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d raised his voice at his family. Of course, he never stuck around long enough for anything to build up like this. His hands were shaking, his stomach roiling, his body felt cold, and he did what he always did when everything became too much: he escaped to the outdoors.
Walking felt too slow, so he jogged out to the orchards, trying to dispel the restless energy in his limbs. He heaved in lungfuls of frigid air, the smell of fresh snow and chimney smoke, and hoped it would run through him completely. The snow crunched under his boots, the cold air burned in his nose and throat, grounding him.
By the time he reached the orchards, he felt like a person again. Albeit a cold one.
Until he saw Harry, standing still in the middle of the orchard with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his neck craned to stare up at the wide, starry sky, and Charlie immediately forgot how to use his legs and stumbled over a protruding root.
He swore aloud and managed to keep himself upright, but not before Harry noticed and let out a quiet chuckle.
“Alright?”
“Yeah,” Charlie answered, running a hand through his hair, which probably only served to mess it up more. “Roots, you know. Out to get me.”
“Bastards,” Harry agreed, and Charlie couldn’t see his face too well in the darkness, but he could hear the smile, he knew what it looked like from memory. He approached Harry with barely-suppressed eagerness, wanting to see it for himself.
“Sorry I disappeared, there,” Harry mumbled. “Just needed—” he waved his hand absently before returning it to his pocket, “—a moment.”
“I don’t blame you,” Charlie said, shoving his hands in his own pockets to fight the urge to reach for him. “I just ran out, too. But I usually do, and much quicker than you.”
“I know,” Harry replied. Charlie was close enough to see his eyes, now, his vision adjusting to the darkness as he watched Harry chew his lip. “I’m glad you stayed.”
Charlie nodded, savouring the little ball of warmth in his chest, even though Harry was probably only glad because Charlie was the only Weasley with his head screwed on right, at the moment. Harry pulled out his wand and flicked an easy warming charm at him, and Charlie shivered as it fell over him like sunshine, sweet and natural.
“They’ll come around,” Charlie said, clearing his throat. “They’re just being stupid. You’re still a part of this family, Harry. Always will be.”
Harry looked away as he slipped his wand back into its holster—the one Charlie had given him, the outline barely visible under the sleeve of Harry’s jumper. He seemed to be fidgeting, wrestling with something in his head, but he didn’t move, so Charlie simply waited, watching him.
“I did try,” Harry said eventually, just loud enough to hear. “With Gin. It seemed right that we would get back together, and everyone seemed to be waiting for it, so I figured they knew something I didn’t. I thought I would just—be able to love her, if I wanted it bad enough.”
Oh, that hurt. Charlie could feel his shame, his confusion and sadness; Harry was an open book, but he’d never opened up to Charlie like this, before. He’d never given Charlie any part of him to hold, on purpose.
The show of trust nearly blew him away.
“But you couldn’t,” Charlie said. Harry shook his head slowly.
“Don’t think I’m meant for it, to be honest.”
“Meant for what?”
Harry shrugged. “A relationship, a girlfriend, or whatever. Everything that’s happened—” he hesitated, but barreled on, “—it might have been too much, you know? I think I’m just too…”
Charlie couldn’t help it; he stepped closer, aching with empathy. His hands escaped his pockets and found Harry’s arms, making Harry meet his eyes.
“You’re not broken, Harry,” Charlie said, with as much conviction as he could fit into the fragile quiet they’d fallen into. He licked his lips, and Harry’s eyes dropped, and this was too much, too close, but Charlie suddenly needed him to know, couldn’t go another minute with Harry thinking there was something wrong with him.
Charlie had always known he was gay. He’d never formally come out to his family, but he was sure they all knew, anyway. He’d never had any interest in girls, the way his brothers had. He had only felt comfortable acting on his attraction with some of the men at the sanctuary—close friends, and Andrei—he couldn’t imagine not knowing this about himself.
But he’d had plenty of time, in his adolescence, to think about these things. He’d caught two fifth-year Gryffindor boys snogging in an alcove in his first year, and he’d been able to imagine himself in that scenario, to ponder how right that felt. He’d known it was an option. He’d never been shackled to anyone’s expectations. He’d grown up free to be whoever he wanted to be.
Harry hadn’t. According to Ron, Harry had lived in a cupboard until he was eleven, forced to repress everything about himself. And then he’d gone to Hogwarts, and had to come to terms with the fact that he was a famous wizard, and fight for his life and save the day all the bloody time. And then he’d been at War, and on the run, with the weight of Wizarding Britain resting on his teenage shoulders.
But the War was over, and Charlie realized with a jolt that Harry had no idea who he was if he wasn’t fighting something, he’d never had the time to figure it out. He’d let everyone else tell him what he should be, who he should love, what career he belonged in. Charlie didn’t want to think about who Harry would be if he didn’t have Malfoy, the exception to the rule, showing Harry he didn’t have to live like the puppet he’d grown up as. Showing Harry he could even upset people he loved with his choices, and survive it.
“Harry,” Charlie said, and his voice came out a little huskier than expected, because Harry hadn’t moved away from him, hadn’t said a word, hadn’t stopped looking at him, nervous and tense and warm, and it was having a worrisome effect on Charlie’s heart rate. “I’m going to—try something. Alright?”
Harry furrowed his brows, confused, but nodded. Charlie’s hands slid slowly up to his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, until they cradled Harry’s face, and Charlie was pretty sure his heart was trying to leap out of his chest. This was a terrible idea. But he didn’t have a better one, and it was so recklessly selfish, but—
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Charlie whispered as he leaned in, and Harry’s breaths quickened, his eyes frantically darting between Charlie’s eyes and mouth.
There was no going back, now.
Charlie tilted his chin up and kissed him, so lightly, just a brush of lips, perfectly restrained. But it wasn’t enough, and Harry didn’t push him away. So Charlie kissed him again, firmer, a little more sure. Harry seemed completely frozen, until Charlie felt two shaky, hesitant hands on his waist, gripping the fabric of his flannel shirt.
And then Harry was kissing him back, slow and tentative. Something about the way his warm breath shook against Charlie’s lips sent a wave of heat through his veins—something protective and instinctual that made Charlie want to surround him, to know every inch of him, to be the first thing Harry saw in the mornings and the body he came home to in the evenings and oh, fuck, he was in so, so much deeper than he’d thought.
He pulled back to rest their foreheads together, brushing his thumbs over Harry’s cheeks. Harry’s face was slack and incredulous, his eyes still closed, but he hadn’t lost that crease between his brows.
Harry’s trembling hands moved to Charlie’s stomach, wandering up to the planes of his chest. Charlie’s breath hitched, and Harry let out a quiet exhale, an impossibly soft, broken, awed, “Oh.”
Charlie could practically feel it all rearranging, pieces clicking together inside Harry’s head, safe between Charlie’s hands. Harry traced the line of his throat with careful fingers, which then buried themselves in Charlie’s hair.
Another stuttering inhale, like Harry was remembering how to breathe, and then, “Charlie.”
Charlie didn’t have time to respond before Harry was kissing him again. He didn’t know what they were doing before, but this—Harry kissed him like he meant it, like he wanted to, like it was the only thing in the world worth doing, and Charlie felt faint. His mouth opened under Harry’s, letting him in, letting him finally take whatever he wanted; Charlie would give him the sky, if he asked.
He pulled Harry in, wanting nothing more than closer, swiping his tongue into Harry’s mouth. Harry leaned forward until they were pressed together, knees to chest, and an involuntary sound left Charlie’s throat, something small and low and desperate.
Harry pulled away with a gasp, stumbling backward a couple steps, his wrist covering his mouth. Charlie blinked his way back to the present, still a little dazed, to find Harry staring at him with wide, terrified eyes, dark and colourless under the night sky. He was breathing heavily; Charlie could see the quick, harsh rise and fall of his shoulders, could hear the air rushing through his nose.
“Fuck,” Harry said, his voice cracked and muffled into the skin of his wrist, “fuck. Fuck!”
Charlie hadn’t noticed him pulling his wand, but he must have, because in the next second a loud crack wrent the air as Harry disapparated, abandoning Charlie to the dark, empty orchard.
“Oh,” Charlie breathed into the stillness, his blood running cold. “Shit.”
He’d never felt so completely alone in his life.
It took a moment for his limbs to unfreeze themselves, for his brain to begin to comprehend the magnitude of this fuck-up. He ran back to the house, and he did not cry, he didn’t. He didn’t cry when Ginny tried to stop him as he bolted up the stairs, he didn’t cry when Bill simply watched him dash around with concerned, knowing eyes, he didn’t cry when he kissed his mother on the cheek and ignored her protests as he ran back outside and activated his Portkey.
He landed directly in Andrei’s hut, as usual, where Andrei was sitting in his half-singed armchair, reading a yellowed paperback by the light of the hearth. Andrei tossed the book aside and stood immediately, shocked and concerned. Whatever he saw on Charlie’s face made him rush forward, already reaching for him.
Only when Andrei’s arms were around him, the familiar rumble of his gravelly voice in his ear—“oh, no, licurici, what has happened to you?”—did Charlie finally break, tears soaking through the flannel of Andrei’s sleep shirt.
Notes:
puiule - vocative singular of pui; term of endearment for a younger person. Like “cub”
Chapter 3: Part One: December, 1999
Chapter Text
December, 1999
The second time he laid eyes on Draco Malfoy, Charlie was furious, smoking (literally), and covered in dragon bogeys.
For that, he blamed Marguerite and Andrei. Although, Marguerite couldn’t really help it. Dragons were such babies about colds, and Charlie had been determined to make sure she was comfortable before he left, that was all. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that Marguerite chose the moment Andrei showed up to let out the nastiest sneeze he’d ever seen from a Welsh Green, all over Charlie. Of course, that also meant a good portion of his clothes were singed and smoking. At least she’d missed his hair.
His wand arm, of course, was unharmed.
Andrei, though, could be blamed entirely for the situation, because he’d pinned Charlie’s Portkey to the back of his Charlie's shirt that morning, with Charlie unawares, knowing that Charlie would do anything to get out of going home for Christmas this year. He’d shown up just in time to throw Charlie’s satchel at him, choking out a “Happy Christmas!” through his uproarious laughter, just as the unexpected Portkey yanked Charlie into the aether.
And Charlie’d landed to find Draco Malfoy standing in the garden of the Burrow, in a soft-looking, royal blue jumper with a white collared shirt underneath. His long, lean legs were clad in pressed grey trousers that were probably worth more money than Charlie had ever seen at one time. He held a bottle of wine under his arm, looking generally posh and clean and very tall. While Charlie looked like… this.
Of course, Charlie recognized him immediately—it was impossible to forget someone who looked like that, even though the only other time he’d seen him was on the day of the Battle, watching him watch Harry.
The differences between then-Draco and now-Draco were staggering. As was Draco Malfoy’s presence in general.
“Hello,” Draco said, recovering from his shock rather admirably, though his eyes continued to peruse Charlie’s snot-and-soot-covered body. “You must be Charlie.” His polite tone suggested an impending handshake, but of course, he did no such thing, choosing instead to stare at Charlie with a blank, placid expression.
His discomfort was practically palpable. Charlie could have reached out and plucked it like a taut guitar string.
Charlie blinked, finally adjusting to the nightmarish reality that was the last five minutes. He looked down at himself, and yes, it was as bad as he thought. Even the hip of his jeans had been burned off, and massive globs of green snot adorned what could be seen of his boxers, an obnoxious red pair covered in Christmas lights that twinkled when he moved—once again, Andrei’s fault. Bastard.
“Right.” Charlie remembered he was holding his wand, and did what he could to Vanish the snot, but it was no use. A shower was in order, and a change of clothes, and it was far, far too late to make any sort of good impression on this controversial young man in the garden. He sighed heavily and straightened up to face him, plastering on a smile.
“Draco,” he said, watching those pale eyebrows lift in surprise. “Yes, I’m Charlie. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Is it?” Draco mumbled absently, apparently in a new wave of shock. Charlie furrowed his brows.
“Is it not?” He looked down at himself again and shrugged. “Well, I suppose it could be better. And I don’t actually know why you’re here, loitering in my mum’s garden, but you look much more suited to it than I do, so.”
“No, I only meant—” Draco’s mouth snapped shut; Charlie could practically see the options being carefully considered in his head, until he decided on, “That was the easiest Weasley introduction I’ve ever had.” Even then Charlie saw the slight wince, the flicker of regret.
“Ah.” Charlie nodded, wondering why they were still standing out here in the cold. “And the weirdest, I’m sure.” He waved a hand over his body in emphasis.
Draco’s lips twitched in a hesitant smile. He really was pretty, Charlie thought. Completely and utterly out of Charlie’s league—hilariously so. Especially now, with Charlie’s shirt stiff with dried dragon bogeys and his clothes burnt and his embarrassing Christmas boxers flashing intermittently.
Charlie realized he was laughing when Draco’s smile grew, sheepish and confused, a little concerned, but so bloody amused. Giggles were bubbling up Charlie’s throat, uninhibited, because this was probably the most ridiculous situation he’d ever found himself in, and he was going to kill Andrei.
A loud crack, and another figure landed next to them in the garden, causing Draco to let out a heavy exhale of warm relief. Charlie’s laughter stopped almost immediately.
“So good of you to join us,” Draco grumbled, at odds with his adoration. “I was beginning to think you’d sent me into a trap.”
“Oh, shut it,” Harry said, but it was perfunctory, because his attention was entirely on Charlie, who was just standing there, looking like this, trying to remember how to breathe.
For a brief, wild second, Charlie considered moving back to England, because if he was around Harry more often, he surely wouldn’t be so caught off guard by Harry’s looks, every year.
His hair must have gotten longer, according to the size of the barely-restrained bun at the back of his head. His shoulders were straining the fabric of his old maroon Weasley jumper, and that shadow of stubble on his jawline was killing Charlie very slowly, but very efficiently.
“Charlie,” Harry greeted with a tentative, nervous nod, and his familiar, signature warmth, and it echoed in Charlie’s head with the last time he’d heard Harry say his name, which only made him want to turn tail and sprint back to Romania. Daydream over.
There was no easy, lopsided smile, there was no welcome home. There was, in fact, nothing to indicate that Harry was even happy to see him, which Charlie had expected. Didn’t make him feel any better, though.
“Hullo, Harry,” Charlie remembered to say. Now, Harry’s gaze flitted nervously between Charlie and Draco, who was doing the same thing between Charlie and Harry, and Charlie had never had a worse start to a Christmas.
He grabbed his satchel off the ground and sighed, “Right. I need a shower," then strode into the house without looking back, hearing two sets of footsteps crunching in the wintry grass behind him.
***
As usual, a lot had happened in the last year, and not one member of the Weasley family—Harry and Hermione included—had seen fit to keep Charlie properly updated.
Sure, they’d written him, and he’d responded, curious about their lives. He’d written Harry for his birthday, as he always did, with the usual Romanian candy he liked. He’d gotten back an earnest thank you, and a hope that everything was going alright at the sanctuary, and a note that the Ministry had no idea what to do with the recent influx of dragons in the UK, so they kept sending the new Aurors out to investigate, since Harry was the only one with “experience.”
Which had made Charlie cackle, of course. The Ministry would set the Boy Who Lived on just about anything, like Harry was some sort of cure-all. They’d probably send him to stop a hurricane, telling him he was the only one who could do it.
But that was the most he’d gotten from Harry. Bill and Fleur were working happily together at Gringotts, George was thinking of reopening the shop, Percy was much too busy to go into detail, but such is life in court, Arthur had discovered Walkmans, Molly was worried about everyone, Ginny was giving the Harpies their highest goal-scoring season in three decades, and Ron was saving his Auror wages to buy a small house with Hermione.
No one, not one person, had mentioned Draco Malfoy. And yet, no one was surprised when he walked into the house behind Charlie and Harry. In fact, they all seemed more surprised to see Charlie.
It didn’t feel very good at all.
Charlie stepped out of the shower, pressing his face into the pink towel and trying to keep his sanity intact. He wrapped it loosely around his waist and wiped the fog off the mirror with his hand.
He’d never given much thought to his looks, before, but now that Harry Potter and Prince Fucking Charming had gone and bowled him over in the garden, he couldn’t help but examine himself.
He wasn’t bad-looking, he supposed. His hair almost reached his chin, and it was trademark Weasley ginger, with gentle waves that always looked a bit windswept. Like his brothers, his light blue eyes were a handsome feature, as were his full lips, and the wave of freckles over his nose and cheeks. He was short and stocky, compared to his lanky siblings. But there was plenty of muscle, he noted with some satisfaction, that came from chasing dragons all day, and a freckled tan on his broad shoulders from long hours in the sun. There was a bit of auburn hair on his chest, trailing down past his navel, the same colour as the thick stubble that shadowed his square jaw—he obviously hadn’t had time to shave before coming. It drove his mother mad.
The burns and scars weren’t pretty, of course, and there were so many, twisting and mottling his skin. With a short huff of a laugh, he remembered the Puddlemere United scout that had offered him a reserve position upon his graduation, the brief daydreams he had entertained about being a Quidditch star.
He’d turned it down, because though he belonged in the air, he didn’t belong in the spotlight, surrounded by thousands of people.
He traced the line of a thick, straight scar from his shoulder to the side of his neck; it had miraculously missed the artery. From a baby dragon—still the size of a large horse—who’d wanted to get Charlie’s attention, to show affection the only way she knew how. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know the horns on her muzzle could wound him. How was she supposed to know not everyone had scaly, armoured skin like she did?
No, Charlie thought wryly, he wasn’t bad-looking. But he was sure no Quidditch scout would want to put him under the floodlights, looking like this. He wasn’t really meant to be… beheld.
He dressed quickly and shuffled back down the stairs, with the air of a man approaching the gallows.
His family was willing to touch him, now that he was clean, so he let himself be wrapped up in their warm welcome, steadily ignoring the distracting, intrusive blond head, which was sitting primly at the table with Harry, pouring a cup of tea.
As if no one was even considering flinging hexes.
Well. If everyone else was going to pretend it was fine, so was Charlie. Perhaps this was all some sort of elaborate joke they were playing on him, in the hopes that surprising him like this would make Charlie hex the sleek, platinum hair right off of Draco’s head. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Charlie sat down at the table and poured himself tea, grabbing one of the sandwiches Molly had made. He started interrogating Ginny for details on last week’s game, since the announcer on the wireless had been so obviously biased.
It took five whole minutes for George to plop down next to him with a dramatic sigh, throwing a put-out look in Draco’s direction.
“What? He didn’t curse you on sight?” George asked Draco, propping his chin in his hand. “Or have you already dueled it out in the garden, and of course Charlie lost miserably, but you let him tell us a dragon sneezed on him to preserve his dignity?”
Draco answered without missing a beat: “Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Oh? You lost miserably, and Charlie just looked like that anyway?”
“No,” Draco chuckled, his eyes darting to Charlie and back. “He didn’t curse me at all.”
“Damn.” George clicked his tongue in disappointment. “Could you be more boring, Charlie?”
Charlie frowned at him. “I’ll just bring the congested dragon with me, next time, shall I?”
“Yes, perfect,” George said, his mischievous grin making Charlie’s heart hurt with bittersweet happiness. He hadn’t seen it in so long. “That ought to liven things up around here.”
Charlie shook his head fondly.
It seemed to break some sort of tension in the room. Draco was brought into multiple conversations, both with and without Harry, and he smiled more, blushing when Molly piled more sandwiches onto his plate and squeezed his shoulder. It felt a bit like Charlie had walked into some alternate universe, but he tried to take it all in stride.
He stayed quiet, observing the interactions around him, parsing through the many different feelings in the room, fiddling with the bracelet on his wrist—a habit he’d picked up in the last year. Draco said something that made Harry shove him playfully, blushing like mad; Charlie’s breath caught as a wild heat filled his belly. He coughed lightly and shook it off, getting up from the table to make more tea.
He wasn’t surprised by that at all, but he knew everyone else should have been. Maybe they just couldn’t see it as well as Charlie could, though it seemed pretty fucking obvious, from where Charlie was standing. Maybe he’d actually been gone for many years, and he just hadn’t noticed the time flying by, and they hadn’t noticed his continued absence, and in the meantime Harry getting with a former teenage Death Eater became completely normal.
At least he now knew that kissing Harry had had one good outcome.
He slipped a bit of firewhiskey into his tea when his mother wasn’t looking, and Bill rolled his eyes and grumbled something about not even three in the afternoon, Charlie, but held out his own cup anyway.
It didn’t get any less weird when Ron and Draco started a game of chess in the sitting room. It appeared Ron had finally met his match, chess-wise. They snarked and sniped at one another over each move, both of their foreheads wrinkled in concentration, eyes narrowed at the board. It was the longest game Charlie had ever seen Ron play.
Harry sat down on the worn red sofa to watch, snug between Charlie and a dozing Arthur. Charlie was hit with a waft of his scent as he settled in, like clouds above a forest, and had to blink a few times to remember he wasn’t flying.
Merlin, what a mess he was.
“Andromeda and Teddy are in France, at the moment,” Harry said lightly, quietly, not looking away from the pair hunched over the board in the middle of the room. “With Narcissa. His mum.” He waved a hand towards Draco, as if Charlie wasn’t aware of who those people were.
“Okay,” Charlie replied slowly, unsure of what else he was supposed to say, or why Harry was telling him this at all.
“I figured you’d be wondering why he’s here,” Harry said, turning his face toward him. Bloody hell, his eyes. Charlie looked away, huffing a short, incredulous laugh.
“That absolutely does not clear things up, Harry.”
Harry smiled a little, embarrassed, and shrugged—which, once again, provided no answers.
“A lot’s happened while you were away.”
Charlie hummed. “I wondered who would be saying that, this year. There’s always one, every year. Usually Mum.” He sighed, wishing he wasn’t feeling so bitterly left out. “I’ll let her know you’ve got it covered, this time.”
Harry’s smile fell, and Charlie berated himself internally for being a dick. But this was a big fucking surprise to come home to. He felt like he was intruding on something, like there was something he wasn’t getting, like he was taking an exam in a class he’d slept through. It was all he could do not to squirm in his seat like a first year, when movement meant coming in contact with Harry.
Draco emerged victorious from the chess game, and Ron let out a melodramatic groan in defeat. Harry laughed softly at them, until Draco stood, and Ron begged Harry to play, because he was an easy win and it would assuage his damaged ego.
Harry agreed, which meant Draco had to take his seat next to Charlie.
Charlie had never seen anyone sit so damn straight. Draco might have been a carved marble statue. Charlie would believe it, if he couldn’t feel the waves of discomfort rolling off of him, nervousness and guilt and determination, making Charlie’s skin crawl.
“Calm down,” Charlie murmured, after several unbearable minutes of this. Draco’s shoulders tensed further, which Charlie hadn’t thought was possible.
“Pardon?”
“You’re—” Charlie waved a hand at him vaguely, searching for the words, “—practically vibrating.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, as if he were mildly amused, which Charlie knew he wasn’t. “I’m sitting perfectly still.”
“Yes, that’s the problem,” Charlie mumbled. “You’re tense. Nervous. You’re waiting for something to blow.” He sighed again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The sofa was so old that it dipped toward the middle. Charlie decided he hated it. “I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Draco raised the other eyebrow. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” he said quietly. Charlie frowned.
“Why is everyone so convinced I’m going to curse you?” he asked. “I don’t even know you.”
“You know enough,” Draco countered, holding up a slender finger to start a list. “You know who my family is, what my father has done. You know I bullied Harry at school for years. You know I’m the reason your older brother is scarred, and your youngest brother was nearly poisoned to death. I’m sure you know about the—the Mark on my arm.” He fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. It looked soft. Cashmere, maybe. Charlie wouldn’t know. “I’ve already had it out with your siblings, your parents. It seemed only natural that I should expect the same from you.”
Charlie frowned harder, watching him try to conceal his emotions behind a smooth, aristocratic expression. It was weird, Charlie thought, watching someone intentionally try to hide their feelings from him, and feeling them anyway. “You’ve never even met me.”
“Perhaps not,” Draco said. “Not properly, anyway.” His eyes darted to Harry, and Charlie wondered if Draco remembered that moment in the Great Hall, too—if he recognized Charlie, again.
“Well,” Charlie began, sifting through everything Draco had said. “Yeah, I know who you are, who your family is. Rotten luck, getting a father like that—no offense, I think.” Draco’s lip twitched. “I know you’ve got the Mark, I know you let Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Very shitty. But it sounded more like the workings of someone in way over his head, not someone evil. And the bullying—” Charlie couldn’t help but chuckle, “—sure, you bullied him. Relentlessly, from what I heard. Couldn’t keep your eyes off him, and Harry wouldn’t shut up about you, and I’m sure it was all very nefarious.”
Charlie watched with immense satisfaction as Draco’s sharp cheekbones flushed a bright pink. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, at a loss for words, but Charlie brushed him off.
“You have to understand, I’m only ever around for a few days at Christmas. I don’t know you like my siblings think they do. Maybe in time I’ll learn to hate you like everyone else—”
“That’s not true,” Draco interrupted, then snapped his mouth shut again, regretting it.
“What’s not?”
Draco hesitated. “You were at the World Cup,” he said. Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. “And you were at the Battle—you led the charge from Hogsmeade.”
Charlie blinked, stunned. “Right.” He cleared his throat, slowly recovering. Draco was probably just told those things, by someone. Draco had been at the Battle, too, of course, but— “Well. Things have been slow, lately, so. I only come home for Christmas. Normally.”
“But you come home if you’re needed? Or wanted?”
Draco’s eyes bore into him, closer than he’d been a second ago, and Charlie couldn’t tell if this was actually a question. He took a deep breath, feeling his cheeks heat traitorously as he caught a whiff of expensive, citrusy cologne. How many times could this nineteen-year-old throw him off in one conversation?
“I suppose, but… I’m not, usually.”
Draco looked like he didn’t believe him, which was odd, but Charlie was starting to think Draco was just a bit odd, in general. He leaned back, and Charlie sighed in relief as Draco finally relaxed a fraction, loosening his ramrod-straight posture. They both went back to watching Harry’s pitiful chess pummeling.
Unfortunately, Draco’s relaxation meant he had no qualms about his thigh pressing against Charlie’s as his legs spread a little. Charlie admitted to himself that maybe he was the weird one, if the firm warmth of Draco Malfoy’s leg was throwing him off more than any of his words had. Maybe he just needed to get laid. Maybe Andrei would be up for it, when he got back.
***
In some sick twist of fate, Charlie was forced to sit next to Harry for dinner, all of them packed in close at the scarred wooden table, and maybe it was just the presence of one extra person, but Charlie didn’t think he’d ever felt so… crowded.
And Harry was nearly buzzing, squirming, clearly uncomfortable with the proximity. Charlie even saw a thin sheen of sweat break out on his forehead, and wondered if Harry’s discomfort was making him ill.
It really was too warm in here. But he did his best to power through it, even though it felt like he had to force down his mother’s delectable cooking.
Then Ron and Ginny started bickering over something Quidditch-related, annoyed and vexed. Percy and Hermione engaged in a heated debate full of righteous indignation on some new goblin manifesto.
Charlie stared at his plate, breathed in slow. This was fine.
Molly scolded George for flicking food at Percy’s head; she almost called him Fred, on accident, hitting that half of the table with a gut punch of grief. Somewhere, the name Lucius was mentioned, drawing a flash of rage from Arthur and a surge of sheer terror from Draco, and Harry wouldn’t stop glancing at him, nervous, antsy, worried, and if he thought that was fucking subtle—
Calm.
Charlie blinked. Waited.
Sounds were happening around him, conversations and debates and mood swings clearly undisturbed, but Charlie felt… peace, a sweet, calm quiet, heavier than everything else, swaddling him like a warm bed in winter.
He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. He slowly loosened the vice grip on his fork and set it down, relishing in the bizarre quiet of his head. He straightened his hunched spine, rolled the tension out of his shoulders, and looked up.
Draco was sitting directly across from him, staring at him. His expression was so intense, but smooth, focused. Charlie felt like those bright, silver eyes were actually holding on to him, tethering him.
He had no objection to staring back, with this lovely serenity surrounding him, so he did. Draco was rather nice to look at, anyway. Charlie could probably do this for ages.
He frowned a little, realizing distantly that was a pretty weird thing to think, even if it was true. Or maybe it was just a thing he’d never felt okay enough to think.
“I didn’t realize you were an empath,” Draco said in a low tone, that only just carried over the noise of the table.
“A what?”
Draco’s brows furrowed. “An empath, Charlie.”
“Who’s an empath?” Ginny asked, distracted. Draco hesitated, but nodded toward Charlie.
“Empath, like—” Hermione cut in, confused, “—like… just an empathetic person?”
“Of course not,” Draco said, sending her a mild glare. The diversion of Draco’s focus took away most of Charlie’s calm, causing his stomach to sink with dread—had he just been Imperiused, or something? What was that? “Charlie’s a wizard.”
“Can he not be an empathetic wizard?” she retorted.
“He is. He’s also an empath.”
“Oh, Charlie,” Molly breathed, her face falling with sorrow and sympathy, “why didn’t you tell us?”
“Draco,” Harry said quietly, darting another glance at Charlie. “This something only people who grew up in Wizarding homes know?”
“No,” Charlie answered instead. “Because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Draco’s eyes widened in surprise. He cleared his throat, sending apologetic looks at Harry and Hermione.
“An empath is a witch or wizard with the ability to feel the emotions of anyone in close proximity,” Draco explained, a bit uncomfortable with the sudden shift in attention. “As in feel them, entirely, not just read them. It’s considered a gift, a branch of Divination.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped. The room was an unnerving mixture of intrigue, shock, understanding, and guilt.
And, yeah. He could see it, now. That certainly sounded like him. And he did not like it at all.
“A gift?” Charlie repeated, trying not to snarl at the word. Draco winced sympathetically, and nodded once.
“Yes,” he said. “My mother says it’s much more of a curse.”
Harry’s eyebrow raised doubtfully. “Your mother is an empath?”
Draco glared at him. “Yes. But she’s also a powerful Occlumens.” He twisted the fork in his hand, looking back at Charlie. “She feels only what she wants to. As you can imagine, it’s extremely overwhelming, and utterly exhausting.”
Another rolling wave of guilt. Merlin, Charlie hated this.
“Is that what you just did to me?” Charlie asked, and it came out more accusatory than he’d hoped. “Occlumency?”
Draco nodded slowly. “You looked… uncomfortable,” he said, which was an obvious understatement.
“I didn’t know you could do Occlumency to someone,” Hermione said, both concerned and awed, in her familiar, academic way. Draco shook his head, setting down his fork and lacing his elegant fingers together.
“You can’t. I only created a mental space strong enough for Charlie to pick up on.” He shifted a little. “I apologize, Charlie. I thought you knew, and you looked like you needed it—we were all very emotionally charged, just then. It must have been horrible.”
Charlie looked around the table, finding every face turned toward him, apologetic and thoughtful. Charlie’s discomfort grew, and it was definitely, very much his own.
“Well, don’t apologize for—for feeling things, obviously, no one can help it, I didn’t know—I thought you were all just easy to read—”
“But this explains a lot, don’t you think?” Ginny interrupted gently.
It did. It explained why Charlie hated being around too many people for any extended period of time, and why he always felt better, calmer, alone in the wide outdoors. Andrei always said Charlie understood dragons better than anybody; maybe this stupid ability extended to intelligent creatures, too.
“Wait,” Harry said, glancing at Charlie again, and Charlie could feel his unease, a slight wariness, curiosity. “Can empaths—project emotions, too? Make people feel things?”
Charlie’s heart plummeted.
He stared at Harry in shock, though Harry wasn’t looking at him, and felt a weird annoyance from Draco, which prompted him to realize how much that really fucking hurt.
“Yes,” Draco answered hesitantly, “but—”
He was cut off by the sound of Charlie’s chair scraping across the floor.
“Charlie—”
Charlie walked out without a word, letting the door slam shut behind him, because no way was he sticking around for that conversation.
He couldn’t believe how much that hurt. His shoulders hunched inwards, he didn’t know what to do with his arms; he wanted to run, or hide, or both, it didn’t matter as long as he could get this thing out of his chest, his gut. Once he got far enough away from the house, enveloped in the stillness of night, he had to admit that this hurt was all his own—nothing he could attribute to anyone else.
He strode in the opposite direction of the orchards, away from the place where Harry had kissed him like Charlie was the air he needed to breathe—something Harry apparently thought was artificial, a feeling Charlie had planted, a want Charlie had forced upon him, because the idea that Harry would do that of his own volition was just that unbelievable.
Charlie swore aloud, upping his pace. He wondered if he could summon his Portkey from here. Something wet fell down his cheek, but he did not cry. It would take about twelve apparition jumps to get to Romania from here, which wasn’t ideal; dangerous, but not impossible—
“Charlie!” Fuck. Charlie wanted to run, but that would be pretty cowardly, at this point. He was almost at the property line, anyway. He slowed, hurriedly wiping his face before turning to face Harry.
Harry jogged the remaining distance between them. Charlie was annoyed to hear he wasn’t even winded. Harry’s face was full of regret—no, Charlie corrected himself, Harry was full of regret, and Charlie had to feel it too, and notice what it did to Harry’s face. This was such a nightmare.
“Fucking hell, Harry,” he snapped. “I already knew you regretted it, you don’t have to be so bloody loud about it.”
“Regret—? Charlie—”
Confusion, gut-churning shame, skin-crawling embarrassment. Charlie hadn’t had to feel Harry’s rejection so acutely, last time. Harry had bolted before it could reach him. Small mercies, perhaps. Charlie groaned, covering his eyes. It didn’t help.
It hurt, it wouldn’t stop hurting, a hot knife twisting in his chest, over and over.
“Bastard,” Charlie bit out, trying to stay upright under the weight of it all. “Just stop it, Harry—go away, or something, I get it, alright? You’re ashamed, you’re embarrassed, it was clear enough when you fucking fled. You’re confused, you can’t believe you’d have done something like that all on your own, let alone enjoy it for even a second, of course I must have bloody bewitched you—”
“No,” Harry’s hands landed on Charlie’s arms, Charlie reared back. “Charlie, stop,” but he didn’t, he took another hurried step back, still covering his eyes, “Charlie—”
Charlie’s heel caught on something hard, and he swore as he lost his balance, falling backward, arms flailing—
Strong arms clamped around his waist, pressing him into a firm body and yanking him upright.
Relief, guilt, determination; clouds over the treetops, fog over wet earth.
“Roots,” Harry said, and he did sound a little winded, now, his voice in Charlie’s ear sending shivers down his spine, but he was already shaking, anyway. “They’re out to get you, I think.”
Charlie said nothing. He waited for Harry to let him go, keeping his hands clenched into fists against Harry’s chest, but Harry only tightened his arms, sighing out, “Charlie.”
The last time Harry had said his name like that, he’d kissed Charlie like he meant it. Like he wanted to.
“You can feel what I’m feeling,” Harry murmured, “but you’re not a Legilimens. You don’t know why I’m feeling it.”
Charlie closed his eyes. One of Harry’s hands started rubbing slowly up and down his back. Charlie hated that he was soothed by it.
“You felt my unease, or suspicion, when I asked that question,” Harry continued, undeterred by Charlie’s tension, “because I lived with a chunk of Voldemort’s soul in my head, for most of my life. I was remembering the things he made me feel. But that’s not why I asked.”
Charlie’s shoulders were softening, unfortunately. He wished he knew Occlumency. He wondered if it could block out his own emotions, too. He was tired of them.
“I asked because you’ve always made me feel… good. Safe, and home. Even when everything around us is going to shit.” He sighed again, and Charlie hoped it disguised the small sound that escaped as he tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. “I wondered if you did it on purpose. If you even knew you were doing it.”
Harry was so warm. Charlie forgot they were out in the cold.
“Sometimes,” Charlie finally admitted, his voice more of a rasp. “I wanted you to feel that way. I hoped you did. I didn’t know I’d… I won’t do it again.”
“I didn’t say you should stop.”
Charlie gave in and dropped his forehead onto Harry’s shoulder, exhausted and embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Why? I’m glad you did. I, er.” Harry swallowed. “Thoroughly enjoyed it.”
Charlie’s fists clenched again, but he refrained from spitting out something stupid, like liar. Harry still wouldn’t let go of him.
“I know you didn’t make me feel that way about you, Charlie,” he said. “I never thought you did. I’m sorry I ever gave you that impression. I don’t regret that kiss at all.”
“You ran, Harry.”
“So did you,” Harry retorted. “I came back an hour later, and you were long gone.” He turned his nose into Charlie’s hair. “I thought an hour was a pretty decent amount of time to have a sexuality crisis, get yelled at by Draco, and get over it. Personally.”
At that, Charlie couldn’t help but snort. Harry reluctantly let go of him as he pulled back. Charlie had no more excuses to avoid meeting his eyes.
“You ran to Draco?” he asked, watching Harry’s small, tentative grin. Harry nodded.
“He said something like, ‘Of course you’re not straight, Potter, you complete imbecile, now get back there and be a bloody Gryffindor about it.’” Charlie laughed softly at Harry’s imitation of Draco’s posh accent. It was spot on.
“Ah, well. Good on you, for being a bloody Gryffindor about it.” He paused. “I’m glad you had him. To go to.”
Harry nodded again, thoughtful. “Did you?”
“Did I, what?”
“Have someone to go to?” Harry raised an eyebrow, like he already knew the answer, which he probably did—Andrei was featured in enough of Charlie’s stories, and Charlie spoke of him fondly. Charlie gave a short nod. “Good.”
Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, and it was such a youthful gesture that Charlie wanted to slap himself in the face.
“Come back inside?” Harry asked, biting his lip, his whole person still stuck somewhere between endearing and powerful, adorable and unstoppable. Charlie took a deep, fortifying breath, still a little shaky.
“Alright.” He walked around Harry, leading the way, so he didn’t have to look at him so much. He could feel Harry’s giddy relief just fine, without having to see it, and yeah, this gift of his was most definitely a curse.
Perhaps it was time to write a letter to Narcissa Malfoy. What had his life come to?
“Sure you don’t need me to carry you?” Harry offered, catching up. “I don’t want to alarm you, but… I saw some sketchy-looking roots on the way over—”
Charlie shoved him, but he couldn’t suppress the laugh, which was bolstered by Harry’s complete and utter delight.
***
“What’s wrong with the one I’ve got?” Charlie teased, even though his heart felt like bursting at the sight of another Harry-made bracelet, much more intricate than the first. Harry chuckled, motioning for Charlie to give over his wrist, which of course, he did.
“That one’s only good for one arm,” Harry explained, tying on the new one with a careful knot. “This one will protect at least the top half of your body from dragonfire—the charm is activated only by your magical signature, so it sort of… goes where your magic is? It’s concentrated in the torso, head, and arms. According to Hermione.” He twisted the two bracelets idly around Charlie’s wrist. “It’ll protect your lungs from poisonous gas, too. Lots of magic around the lungs, apparently.”
“Wow, Harry,” Charlie said, his eyes wide. “Impressive.” The word didn’t even come close. Harry tried to brush it off.
“Want me to take off the old one? It looks a bit worn out—”
Charlie snatched his wrist away. “Not a chance.”
Harry grinned, and Charlie heard a huff of laughter from somewhere above him.
Draco was sitting on the sofa, relaxed and amused, while Harry and Charlie sat with their backs against it on the floor. He was smiling at them, in some fond, exasperated sort of way, which only made Harry grin wider. Charlie rolled his eyes, and handed Harry his gift.
“A journal?” Harry asked, unwrapping the leather bound book. Dragon leather, of course. There was a serious overabundance at the sanctuary, and it felt wrong to try to sell it.
“I figured you could use something to put all your notes and calculations in,” Charlie said, a little awkward. “For your bracelets, and things.”
“Oh, finally,” Draco mumbled, still smiling down at them. “His flat is covered in scraps of parchments. A complete mess.”
“Organized chaos,” Harry corrected. He hadn’t looked away from Charlie, full of tangible gratitude, and that sweet, familiar warmth that was just Harry, Charlie thought, because Harry always felt like that. “Thank you, Charlie. This is perfect.”
Charlie blushed, then berated himself internally, because it was just a Christmas present, it was only polite, you lovesick wanker. He turned to Draco to change the subject.
“If anyone had bothered to tell me you would be here, I might’ve had something for you,” Charlie said wryly.
“Thank Merlin they didn’t,” Draco replied, smirking. “Then I’d have had to bring something for you, as well. And I wouldn’t have gotten the surprise introduction that I did.”
Charlie huffed. “You won’t let me forget it, will you?”
“Of course not.” Draco’s eyes glinted when he laughed; it was a nice sound. Warm. Maybe it just felt warm. Maybe Charlie was just overheating. “You were positively unforgettable.”
Charlie was probably coming down with something. A fever. Or something. Whatever it was, it was amusing Harry greatly.
But all traces of warmth and laughter vanished abruptly with the arrival of a shining, silvery lynx Patronus, which stopped directly in front of the sofa and spoke in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s booming voice.
“Rogue dragon, hostile, two muggle farms attacked. Approaching Ashcombe. Aurors, meet at Ideford Common in five minutes.”
The three of them moved without thinking. Ron burst out of the loo, red-faced. Charlie hurried to the door, with Molly muttering something about and on Christmas, no less! but Harry grabbed his arm.
“Charlie, what are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Charlie pulled on his boots with one hand. “We need to go.”
“You’re not an Auror—”
Charlie barked a laugh, wrenching himself out of Harry’s grip. “What are you gonna do, Harry, arrest a dragon?” He ducked out the front door and summoned four brooms from the shed.
Harry and Draco thankfully caught up in time to catch two of the brooms. Charlie threw the last one to Ron. He gripped his broom and held out his arm, wand in hand. Ron held out his own arm, looking excited, but Harry glared, worried, and Draco looked skeptical, and that was all very annoying.
“He’s been wrangling dragons for nearly a decade, you idiots,” Ron snapped, and that seemed to get through, because Harry grabbed Charlie’s forearm with only minimal hesitation, while Draco took Ron’s. Charlie closed his eyes, concentrated hard, and apparated.
His mum was going to kill him for forgetting a coat, but as usual, warming charms would have to do. He felt Harry’s familiar magic wash over him the moment they landed in what looked like a large, empty nature preserve, in the middle of a clearing filled with nervous, agitated Aurors, most wearing their trademark crimson robes.
Charlie blocked them out as best he could, falling into the mindset as easily as breathing. This was what he was good at, what he was meant for. He looked around the clearing—it was a bit small, but big enough for his purposes. He tapped his own head with his wand, a quick Disillusionment charm, then mounted his broom and shot off into the air, ignoring Harry’s shouts of protest.
Kingsley hadn’t mentioned from which direction the dragon was coming. Charlie’s veins thrummed with adrenaline and excitement, but he kept himself still, high in the air, his eyes wide and searching for—
There, a kilometer to the east, the faint distortion of stars, a dragon’s natural concealment magic. Charlie couldn’t tell the species from here, but she was big—definitely a she, then, what was she doing out here? If she was nesting, she should have found a place months ago. And if she was nesting and attacking farms at night, she must have been furious, terrified, and fiercely protective—perhaps her nest had been attacked—
Charlie gripped the broom between his thighs and dove as fast as he could, back to the clearing, hoping it would be too fast and too far for her to see. He landed a bit clumsily, but it was awfully dark, even with the few lumos lights of a couple knuckleheaded Aurors.
“Harry!” he called, cancelling his charm, then jumped a little, because Harry was already close behind him. “Get everyone spread out, fifty feet back at least, I need this clearing empty. Wands at the ready to put out fires, but do not aim them at her.”
“Her?” Harry furrowed his brows. A couple more Aurors were starting to take notice.
“Potter, who the hell is this?”
Harry sighed. “This is—”
“Didn’t realize the Saviour had a free pass to bring any old arsehole along—”
“Hendricks!” Kingsley silenced the mouthy Auror, whose bitterness turned to shame faster than he could blink. “That’s Charlie fucking Weasley. Show some respect. He’s more qualified than anyone here.”
Hendricks scowled, but thankfully shut his mouth. Charlie raised his eyebrows.
“Hi, Kingsley.”
“Charlie. What do you need?”
Charlie ordered everyone out of the clearing, though he could hear the grumbling, could feel the discontent and bitterness of taking orders from a civilian. He rolled his eyes. Aurors.
He raised his wand and transfigured a few nearby shrubs into goats—they stood out against the snow, bleating convincingly. Dragons could identify transfigured things, and magical concealments, but not from that high up. He only needed to tempt her down.
He heard her before he saw her. The whoosh of a massive wingspan, the air splitting around an aerodynamic body as she dove, and right on cue, Charlie’s transfigured goats went up in a blinding burst of dragonflame, the ground quaking with her heavy landing. Several of the Aurors shouted in shock and outrage, but Charlie held his hand up to stop them.
Of course, the movement caught the dragon’s attention. Her concealments dropped as her fury rose, and Charlie barely had a split-second to appreciate the sight of her before he had to leap out of the way of another jet of fire, aimed solely at him, the biggest, most obvious threat.
He landed and rolled to his feet, wand held high above his head as he cast some preliminary wards to keep her in. She did not like that at all. She could break out, if she really wanted, but she was angry, now, and confused, and so, so scared.
She was immense, bigger than a house, far too big for small muggle farming towns. Charlie could practically hear the boulder-sized heart pounding inside her chest. He dove to avoid another stream of white-hot flame, but the burst of light illuminated a swathe of iridescent scales, a bright, azure blue, and a horned head the size of a car, at least, and meter-long talons on feet meant for rocky cliffsides—
Wand up, more wards. Aurors were shouting behind him, but he ignored them. They were angry, too. Distrustful. Scared. Not nearly as scared as the Tyrrhenian Cliffdiver in front of him, whose long neck was glowing pink as she built up more heat, preparing more attacks.
The ground shook beneath Charlie as she followed him around the clearing. He let her get a little closer, far enough that he could escape those talons if she swung at him, but close enough that she could tower over him, more than she already did. He craned his neck and met her huge eyes, glowing with the fire inside her mouth, pearlescent yellow, like the sun on a white sand beach.
She paused when Charlie stopped moving and lowered his arms. She was terribly afraid, and angry, and she had every right to be. She didn’t trust him one bit, but he hadn’t pointed his wand at her, which made her equal parts suspicious and curious. They both knew she could destroy him easily enough, if she really wanted to. There would be nothing left of him to bury, even.
But dragons weren’t monsters. They didn’t kill for fun. They killed for survival: food, territory, defense.
Humans were much more likely to kill for fun.
Charlie panted as he tried to catch his breath, in total awe of her. Now that he could see her properly, all at once, he noticed the roundness of her belly. She would lay an egg, soon, maybe more than one. She needed to find somewhere to nest, away from all of these muggles, and wizards, and whatever else wanted to harm her and her babies. She was desperate.
A low, deep sound rumbled through her, shaking the now-soggy, upturned earth. Smoke huffed out of her nostrils; sparks spat through her huge, sharp teeth as she snarled at him in warning. Charlie moved slowly, to put his wand away. She was even more confused, huffing and stamping her foot restlessly. Small fires crackled away nearby, the wreckage of their little dance illuminating the aftermath.
Someone behind him was furious.
“Now! STUPEFY!”
Charlie whirled around at the first sound, wand already raised—
“Protego Totalum!”
Five stunners bounced off Charlie’s shield. Aurors started shouting, at him or at one another, he didn’t care. He’d never been so angry at anyone’s sheer stupidity. He held his shield and cast it higher, wider, adding more protective charms until it made a huge dome around him and this vulnerable, displaced, fifty-tonne dragon.
His arms were shaking by the time he was finished, and he realized it was probably not a good idea to drain himself magically in case he did need to use it in defense against her, but he had already turned his back on her, which Andrei would have kicked him for. That was reckless. But a better option than letting this dragon get hit by stunners that would do nothing but provoke her into a rage. It would take at least ten powerful, perfectly-aimed stunners to subdue a dragon this size. Morons.
He turned around slowly, pocketing his wand once more, to find that massive, van-sized head barely eight feet in front of him, watching him with careful, piercing eyes. She was taking short, deep breaths through her nostrils—smelling him, trying to figure him out. Her long tail whipped agitatedly behind her, uprooting a few burning shrubs. He kept his hands where she could see them.
“Hello,” he said softly. “Sorry about them. They’re stupid and scared.”
The shouting had died down, but that might have been the result of Charlie’s shields, blocking out most of the sound.
“It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.” He took another breath, and coughed a bit from the smoke building up under the shield. His body was still shaking from adrenaline and magical exertion, a chilling layer of sweat covering his skin. “Are you hurt?”
She blinked, growling a little. It sounded like what Charlie assumed the earth sounded like, when it made mountains: huge, rocky plates shifting over each other. He took it as a yes.
“Do you want me to look at it?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. Andrei and the others at the sanctuary always teased Charlie for talking to the dragons, but it seemed rude not to. And dragons were so bloody intelligent, anyway; he was sure they understood him, somehow.
He waited for her to finish her inspection of him, until she finally came to a decision. She lifted her head, and stretched her front leg a little out to the side, unfolding the wing.
He hadn’t actually expected her to do that, if he was honest. They usually made him wait a few days, until they were sure they could trust him. But perhaps watching him defend her from other wizards was proof enough of his intentions.
With slow, careful steps, he approached her outstretched limb. She followed him with her head, spitting more sparks through her teeth in warning. It made him grin. He wanted to tease her, but now probably wasn’t a good time.
He examined the ten-foot-long limb with only his eyes, admiring the shift of muscle beneath iridescent blue scales, shimmering in firelight. He found the problem at the very top of it: a small, dark spot on the sensitive, thin scales of the underarm. He clicked his tongue in sympathy.
“I can get that, if you want,” he murmured, rolling up his slightly singed sleeves. The heat and smoke were making it hard to breathe, trapped beneath the shield and her wing. “But, ah. I can’t really reach it, from here. I don’t want to use my wand on you.”
She let out a huff, which blew his hair into his face, making him chuckle. He felt like he was being teased for being short.
But she reluctantly leaned down as he reached up on tiptoe, until he could see what was clearly a bullet, from a muggle shotgun, lodged between scales. Not enough to hurt—how a muggle ever thought it would was beyond him—but enough to be itchy and uncomfortable, like an insect bite. It would have come out on its own eventually, as new scales grew in, but Charlie’s deft fingers were convenient.
He slowly pinched the bullet between his fingers, wincing at the hot metal on his calloused skin. He braced himself, and yanked it out.
She reared back with a surprised cry, almost hawk-like—if hawks were the size of train cars. He tensed and waited it out, because sudden movement on his part would alarm her more. She landed in front of him again, growling low in her throat. He held up the bullet, and the noise ceased.
“Feel better?”
She narrowed her eyes again, as if she wouldn’t dare admit it. Her pride wouldn’t allow it. He bit his lip to keep from laughing, and pocketed the hot, bent bullet.
“Alright,” he said, walking backwards. “You need some cliffs, don’t you? Don’t know how you ended up out here, my dear, but you’re not far off. Can I show you?”
She was almost painfully perplexed by him. It was so endearing. He bent down and picked up his broom, from where it had been kept safe under many fire-repellant charms.
“Some of them might follow, but they won’t hurt you, alright?” He glared at the blurry, red-robed figures on the other side of the shield, speaking loud enough for them to hear. “They’ve learned their lesson.”
She didn’t believe him for one second, but she was desperate enough to try. He mounted his broom and hovered a few feet from the ground. She crouched, preparing for flight.
The second he touched his wand and lowered the shields and wards, she leapt fifty feet into the air and beat down hard with her wings, the wind almost throwing Charlie off his broom. He laughed as he stabilized himself and shot off after her, gulping in clean, cold air.
He overtook her, urging her higher and higher as she started blending in with the night, above the cloud line, until they could both see the edge of the land to the south, the glint of the moon off the water. The old Cleansweep wobbled and swayed in the airstreams; it was not meant for this kind of altitude, and neither was he, the prolonged lack of oxygen was making him dizzy. He held on tight to the broom as she surged forward, the gusts of her wings tossing him about again, and then she was gone, making a beeline for the coastal cliffs with a warbly, grateful sound. He smiled and sighed at the hopeful feeling that rushed through him.
He closed his eyes, it was too much to keep them open—which didn’t help with the dizziness at all.
And then he was tipping, tipping, his sweaty hands slipping on the wood and his stomach swooping and fuck, now he was falling, and falling—
“Oof,” a strong, vice-like arm around him, spinning, disoriented, “Come on, Charlie,” his name in a posh, crisp accent through gritted teeth, and he remembered to move, “That’s it,” leg over the broom, the arm let him arrange himself, and he clung to the warm, sturdy back in front of him, the smell of smoke and winter and citrus cologne.
Draco descended slowly, full of relief and something else, like admiration, but that was also coming from Harry, to his left, Charlie recognized the warmth of it. Draco simply dropped the broom as they landed and swooped under Charlie’s arm, keeping him upright—good thing, too, seeing as Charlie wasn’t entirely sure he was conscious.
“You are something else, Weasley,” Draco panted. Charlie squeezed his shoulder in response, letting Draco take his weight. His neck wasn’t doing a good job of holding his head up.
“Charlie,” Harry’s voice, concerned, a gentle palm on his cheek. “Were you hit?” Like an Auror.
Charlie forced his eyes open; everything was spinning, including Harry. But he managed a weak smile, and held up his wrist, displaying Harry’s latest creation. Some of his clothes might have been singed, but he was otherwise unharmed. Thanks to Harry. Who made Charlie bracelets, to protect and adorn him.
“Adorable.”
Harry and Draco chuckled softly, and Charlie was too oxygen-deprived to be embarrassed by the fact he’d said that aloud.
***
His mother was, as usual, losing her marbles by the time they brought Charlie home, still hanging off of Draco’s shoulders, but Charlie thought she was secretly a little bit pleased to be able to mother him like this.
And she was, of course. A little pleased, guiltily so. Charlie kept having to remind himself that those were real feelings, not just his impressions of them. He gave her a knowing smile, and let her wrap him up in blankets and feed him and wipe the sweat and soot off his face with a damp flannel.
Draco and Harry hovered—everyone hovered, actually, and Ron was engrossed in retelling the entire event in extravagant detail for their siblings. But eventually, the three Aurors were called back to help clean up after the poor dragon, and they left after many assurances that Charlie would be properly pampered.
As soon as he felt alive enough to speak, he seized the rare opportunity of Draco and Harry’s absence.
“Alright, you lot,” he said hoarsely, drawing their attention. Molly stopped dabbing at his face for a moment. Hermione looked like she’d known this was coming. “Spill. Explain.”
They all exchanged looks, a little wary, a little eager.
“Well,” Ginny began hesitantly, “Harry stopped coming to Sunday lunch, after last Christmas. He spent his weekends with Teddy and Andromeda—and Draco, who lives with them at the Tonks cottage.”
“By the time February rolled around, I was getting worried,” Molly added, getting up to boil more water for tea. “I marched right up to that cottage and demanded to see him, but—”
“But Draco Malfoy answered the door instead, nearly giving our poor mum a heart attack,” George interrupted, amused.
“Yes, well, can you blame her?” Arthur said. “Good thing it wasn’t me—I’d have slugged him, thinking he was Lucius, now that he’s all—” he waved a hand, adjusted his glasses, “—grown up.”
“Anyway,” Molly said firmly, “Draco was polite enough to invite me in for tea, even though Harry was out shopping with Andy and Teddy.”
“Tea?” Charlie repeated, incredulous. “With Malfoy? You just went right in?”
“It would have been rude to decline!” Molly insisted. “It was obvious he was as uncomfortable as I was, but he was making an effort, so I did, too. I watched him make the tea, though,” she added darkly. “He didn’t comment on it.”
“Big of him,” Charlie muttered, smirking, knowing his mother would have been anything but subtle in her suspicion.
“It took a bit, but we eventually started talking,” Molly continued, pretending she hadn’t heard him. “He gave me a very earnest apology for all the harm he caused us. He told me how good it felt when Harry chose to forgive him, and how that forgiveness was driving him to be a better person all the time, and how much he’s learned since the war.” She took a deep breath, removing the kettle from the hob. “And he told me how miserable Harry had been since Christmas, because you were right, Charlie. We were being so… we made him feel unwelcome. Unwanted. Because he hadn’t turned out the way we’d hoped.”
Charlie nodded, taking the proffered mug of tea. He squirmed through their guilt and his own discomfort.
“So I told Draco he was welcome at our home anytime, but that I wouldn’t make his apologies for him.” Molly sniffed. “He earned my forgiveness the day he brought Harry back to the Burrow.”
“And that was when Dad slugged him,” George chimed in. Arthur went red in the face.
“Punching Lucius Malfoy is—is muscle memory!” he argued. “I was acting on pure instinct, alright? I saw the hair, the pointy face, I couldn’t help it.”
“Yes, I should have warned you, dear, terribly sorry,” Molly said, though she was clearly not sorry at all. “Shouldn’t have expected you to act like anything other than a mindless brute! And poor Draco, he just—he just let him.”
Charlie’s head snapped back to his father. “Draco let you hit him?”
Arthur hung his head in shame, and nodded. “Nearly broke his nose, poor lad. I’m sure Harry would have stopped me, were he not being smothered by your mother’s weepy embrace.” Molly smacked his shoulder with the damp flannel.
“Getting to witness that was more than enough atonement for me,” George said, poorly suppressing his laughter. He closed his eyes, giddy as he replayed the scene in his head. “I wanted to bottle that memory and sell it. I’d have made a fortune. Make it a deluxe package with the memory of Dad punching Lucius in ‘92, and the memory of Malfoy trying to run from Harry’s Patronus while on Goyle’s shoulders—in a dementor costume—in the middle of Quidditch—” he couldn’t finish, he was laughing too hard. It was infectious, it always was with George.
Charlie’s shoulders shook with laughter under his many blankets. He was already too warm again.
“But after that,” George sighed, laughter subsiding, “I told them to keep it this way. Draco’s induction into the Weasley experience needed to be completely genuine. Best not to give anyone time to prepare for a Malfoy apology, and let it happen naturally.”
“Dangerously, you mean.” Charlie smirked, mirroring George’s mischievous expression. George sent him a little finger gun.
“Exactly.”
“I was next, I believe,” Ginny said. “I was too hungover to punch him, so he got a mediocre Bat Bogey Hex when I saw him in the kitchen. Even he said it wasn’t my best. And he would know.”
Percy cleared his throat importantly. “I, in a severe lapse of judgement and common sense,” he said, somewhat haughtily even through his embarrassment, “tried to call the Aurors on him.”
Charlie cackled. “He’s an Auror!”
“Yes, not just him, but Ron and Harry as well, who were all sitting there, waiting for me to stop shouting like a lunatic. But oh, he was such a nasty little prat in school—”
“I walked out,” Bill said.
“The most civil of us,” George nodded solemnly.
“That would be Charlie, actually,” Bill corrected. “I saw Malfoy sitting there at the table, and I turned right around and went home. Fleur stayed…” he looked over at his wife, who grinned and shrugged.
“I told him if he hurt any of us, I would use the full extent of my Veela ancestry on him. The papers would be printing tales of his desperate attempts to impress me for years.” She looked extremely happy with herself. Bill was so fond. “And then I smacked him, on the head, just once. For the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges. Though he didn’t hesitate to remind me I had no objection to them at the time.”
Bill chuckled, grabbing her hand. “He was still there when I came back the next week, though. So I let him talk.”
“Sounds very civil,” Charlie said. His younger siblings snickered. Molly sighed again.
“When he says he ‘let him talk,’” Ginny chortled.
“Fastest nonverbal incarcerous I’d ever seen,” George sighed wistfully.
“Yeah, alright,” Bill grumbled. “I tied him to the chair, cleared everyone out, and made him talk.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. “You made him—”
“Oh, he talked freely,” Bill flapped a hand at him. “He couldn’t do much else.”
Charlie giggled, he couldn’t help it. Because George and Ginny and Percy were laughing again, and Bill was smiling and Fleur was so in love, and even Arthur and Hermione were chuckling, and Molly was so reluctantly fond of their antics.
“So Draco’s just been coming to Sunday lunch, popping up out of dark corners with apologies?” Charlie asked.
“Sometimes, he does,” Molly answered. “Though he doesn’t pop out of dark corners with apologies, Charlie, that’s ridiculous. And he’s, well—he’s good for Harry, I think. Harry’s becoming his own man, more and more every day, and it’s made us realize how little chances he’s had to do that, in his life. He did everything for everyone else.”
Ginny’s eyes fell to her mug. “It’s been nice, though,” she said. “Getting to know Harry, properly. As a real friend. He’s happy. He deserves it.”
Charlie smiled. She really was happy for him. And Charlie was happy for her.
“What about you, Charlie?” she asked. “How did your One-of-a-Kind Draco Surprise go?”
Charlie raised his eyebrows. “You mean the time when I arrived in the garden three seconds after being sneezed on by an ill dragon?”
“That's the one.”
“Well… That was it,” Charlie said awkwardly. “I tried to clean myself off a bit, said hello. He was very polite.”
“That’s it?” George scoffed.
“Yeah… I said it was nice to finally meet him.”
“‘Nice to meet him?’” Ginny repeated incredulously, while the rest of them laughed and laughed. She shook her head fondly. “Oh, Charlie. If only you knew.”
“You’re the best of us, young Charles,” Bill said, ruffling Charlie’s hair. Charlie swatted him away, extricating himself from the blankets. “Polite greetings to former Death Eaters, saving poor muggles from dragons on Christmas—”
“Saving them,” Charlie scoffed indignantly. “Saving her, more like. They shot at her!” He pulled the bent, mottled bullet from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “Who does that? As if a gun will do anything against those scales—”
“How did you get that?” Arthur asked, prodding it with his finger, eyes sparkling with curiosity behind his smudged glasses.
“Pulled it out of her, how else?”
“Ron was serious about that?” Bill picked the bullet up off the table, twisting it in his fingers.
“Yes?” Charlie answered, his tone lilting into unsureness, because he’d thought that was previously established. The room let out a collective, exasperated sigh. Molly was fighting back a fit of raging worry. She kissed the top of his head.
“We love you, Charlie.”
***
The three Aurors returned to a sleeping Burrow, feeling vindicated.
It was a surprising feeling, making Charlie snort as he stood from the table, abandoning his lone mug of cold tea. He was the only one who’d stayed up waiting for them.
“What on earth have you done?” he asked, studying their satisfied grins and darkly amused eyes. Ron threw a triumphant fist in the air.
“Hendricks is suspended!”
“Without pay,” Draco added.
“The mouthy bloke?” Charlie mumbled. Harry hummed in agreement.
“Nicest way anyone’s ever described him,” he said. “Real piece of work.”
“He’s the idiot responsible for those stunners,” Ron explained. “Him and his little friends got a full dressing down for disobeying orders and reckless endangerment. It was brilliant.”
Charlie laughed a little more, infected by their satisfaction. “Well. Good, then. That was some top-tier stupidity.” He scratched his jaw absently as Harry approached him, protectiveness and lingering indignation and those hands, pushing up a sleeve, unbuckling the familiar forearm wand holster. “Although, it did help me earn Francesca’s trust. Maybe I should bring Hendricks to the sanctuary—I’d be able to get close to wounded dragons a lot quicker—”
He was babbling, because Harry’s intense green eyes were locked on his, and he was close enough now that Charlie could smell the outdoors on him, and he hadn’t had Harry’s direct attention, like this, in a year, and it made him feel like they were the only two people in the world—
“Somehow, I don’t think he’d appreciate the career change,” Draco said, breaking the spell, and when had he gotten so close? There was a low, simmering heat in his belly, climbing up to his cheeks; Charlie couldn’t tell where it was coming from, if it was his own. He blinked, overwhelmed, coming back to the reality of his mother’s kitchen, dimly lit by the lamp over the sink. He looked away and focused on the sound of Ron rummaging through the cupboards for biscuits, grumbling about worse than bloody Zacharias Smith, that one, good riddance. His annoyance was familiar, gritty in the back of Charlie’s head. Grounding.
“Charlie,” Harry said, getting his attention again. “How are you feeling?”
Charlie huffed, shifting on his feet. It was then that he realized he was barefoot, and in his pyjamas: a pair of faded, blue plaid bottoms and an old Puddlemere United t-shirt with a huge hole in the collar, that he’d gotten for free from the Quidditch scout.
While Draco was still wearing those expensive trousers and that crisp, collared shirt, a couple buttons undone at the throat, not a speck of soot on him, though he’d done away with the maybe-cashmere. And Harry was still wearing snug jeans and the maroon Weasley jumper that was really getting a bit tight on him, and they were both standing rather close, and taller than Charlie—Harry a little, Draco a lot—and had someone asked him a question?
He ran a hand through his wind-tangled hair—which never helped it—and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Charlie?” Draco’s brows furrowed. Charlie closed his eyes, wanting to hit himself.
“Fine,” he answered, finally. “It was just a little oxygen deprivation. Nothing to worry about.”
“Right, fainting off a broom five-thousand feet in the air is nothing to be worried about,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. He paused, frowning in realization. “Oh. It’s weird to be on the other side of that.”
Ron laughed. “Yep, I believe you were more upset about losing the Quidditch game than you were about fainting off your broom from that high.”
“Oi!” Harry turned to face Ron, and Charlie was just doing his best to keep up. “That was the fault of dementors.”
“And flying way too fucking high. In the middle of a thunderstorm, no less.”
“Maybe that’s why my costume didn’t work,” Draco mused, rubbing his chin in thought. Harry punched him playfully in the arm, chuckling. “I’ll keep the weather in mind for next time.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said, but there wasn’t any bite in it, and Draco was grinning under his hand, and Ron was shaking his head at them in fondness and a little vexation, getting biscuit crumbs on his new jumper.
Charlie turned to make his way up the stairs to bed, knowing he no longer fit into this dynamic.
“Charlie,” Harry called quietly, and Charlie paused, looking over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. Harry was nervous, again. Awkward. Concerned. Definitely not as carefree and amused as he’d been a moment ago, reminiscing with Ron and Draco.
“How long are you staying?” Harry asked.
“Er… I don’t know,” Charlie answered, fiddling with the bracelets on his wrist. “Not long.” He hoped Harry would understand it, the unspoken not as long as last time. Not long enough to ruin everything, again.
Harry winced. Sorrowful. Met Charlie’s eyes again—hopeful.
“I’ll see you in the morning, then?”
Charlie’s lip twitched, and he nodded, then escaped up the stairs before he could make a bigger fool of himself.
As he closed his bedroom door behind him, he heard Draco’s low, smooth voice downstairs: “Did he call the dragon Francesca? Did I hear that right?”
And Ron’s fond reply: “Probably. He names every dragon he meets. Every creature, actually. Always has.”
And Harry’s familiar, emotional warmth, a wave of unmitigated affection Charlie could feel from two floors up.
He’d never fallen asleep easier.
Chapter Text
Charlie’s hand shook as he ground the coffee beans with his wand. Some grounds escaped to the countertop. Oh, well.
He glanced out the kitchen window at the fresh snow that had fallen overnight, piling on the branches of the trees like sugary icing. The horizon glowed a faint lilac, a gradient in the cornflower blue of the clear, pre-dawn sky, tinting everything in the garden a shade of periwinkle.
It’d be a good day for Quidditch.
He funneled the grounds into the large French press, just as the kettle started hissing on the hob. He filled it to the brim, as usual, setting the press atop the soaked grounds to wait. Two minutes, counting down in his head.
The steam curled dusky pink in the faint light from the window. A pair of birds greeted each other in the garden, Charlie’s only company.
For now.
Thirty seconds. Charlie’s hand rested on the press, waiting, watching the horizon turn rose gold.
It was no Romanian mountainside, but it was beautiful. Home.
The distant creak of a floorboard on the top floor. Ron’s room. Not Ron, though. Charlie let the weight of his hand press the filter down, nice and slow. In his other hand, he warmed an empty, chipped, maroon mug with the heat of his palm.
Shuffling steps down creaky stairs, avoiding the loose one just below the second floor landing. Charlie gripped the mug harder.
By the time Harry descended, wearing hand-knit yellow socks and rumpled pyjamas, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, Charlie was pouring his coffee into the chipped mug. Three spoons of sugar, a half-second pour of milk. Perhaps he should have asked if Harry drank it differently these days, but Harry smiled so wide it took Charlie’s breath away, his tired face glowing like sandstone as the sun finally clawed its way over the treetops… so Charlie figured he’d done alright.
“Morning,” Harry rasped, running a hand through the mess of his long, curly hair. It had reached his collarbone, and flopped lawlessly over the top of his head, no part in sight, completely averse to any sort of discipline, including gravity.
Charlie forgot how to speak, for a moment, so he simply set the spoon stirring in the mug and slid it across the table in invitation. Harry sat down, taking it gratefully, cradling the warm mug in his gorgeous hands and bringing it close to his face. He took a deep breath of the steam, closing his eyes and sighing in satisfaction. It fogged up his glasses, a little.
Charlie poured his own coffee while he waited. Black.
When Harry opened his eyes again, a nervousness was trickling into his sleepy, affectionate warmth. Charlie frowned, disappointed.
“I hate that I make you nervous,” he said, his own voice hoarse from sleep. Harry’s lips quirked sadly.
“You’ve always made me nervous, Charlie.”
“Not always.” Charlie regretted the words as soon as they were out, but Harry didn’t seem upset by Charlie telling him what he was feeling. Like an arsehole.
Harry hummed, sipping his coffee. “No. Sometimes you made sure I wasn’t. And sometimes I was having too much fun with you, I’d forget to be nervous.”
“I don’t want to make you nervous.”
Another sad smile. Harry lowered his mug, clearing his glasses of fog.
“I don’t want you to misunderstand the nervousness,” he murmured. “I think—I think I make you a bit nervous sometimes, too.”
Charlie almost laughed. Of course Harry made him nervous. Harry held far too much of Charlie’s heart for him to not be nervous. Harry was everything he wanted, and everything he could not have. Harry was something Charlie was helpless to, for, against.
It was a different nervousness than what he was feeling from Harry. Harry’s was the anxiety of facing something bigger and more powerful than him, the fear of odds stacked against him, the worry of all the things that could go wrong to break the fragile happiness he’d found.
He didn’t want Harry to feel that way. He didn’t want to be something Harry had to face, and he’d do anything to preserve Harry’s happiness, now that Harry finally had it.
“He’s happy. He deserves it.” Ginny was right.
“Tell me about him,” Charlie said, taking a long gulp of hot coffee to wake himself. Harry gave him a tentative smile.
“Who, Draco?”
Charlie hummed. “I’ve never heard you talk positively about him,” he said. “Merlin knows you talked about him enough, though. Nemesis, honestly.”
Harry rolled his eyes, his blush made deeper by warm sunlight and steam. His smile grew, seemingly without his permission. He bit his lip to hide it, which it never did.
The burst of heat, like sparks, like stars, was familiar, Charlie realized. Harry had always felt this way when he talked about Malfoy, but it was a bit different, now. Less barbed. Less painful.
But he felt so bloody alive. As if Draco made him real. Human.
“I returned his wand to him, after his trial,” Harry began. “It didn’t go well.”
“No?”
“No. He was still at the Manor, with his mum, and his dad had just been sentenced to twenty years in Azkaban, so. He wasn’t in the best mood.”
“Even though you spoke for him?”
“I’m pretty sure that made it worse, to be honest,” Harry chuckled. “He’s got a lot of pride. He hates being in anyone’s debt.” He hesitated, lowering his voice further. As if anyone else was awake to hear them. “He thinks every kindness has a price, you know? Slytherin nonsense.”
“Of course,” Charlie replied. “And I’m sure you were on your best behaviour, a complete saint.”
Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright, I was a bit of a dick, too. Couldn’t be helped.” He twisted the mug around in his hands. “But I gave him a couple days, and I went back.”
“Why?” Charlie asked. He had his own theories, but—
“I wanted him to join the Aurors.”
Charlie raised his eyebrows; that was not anywhere on his list of theories. “Why?” he asked again.
Harry shrugged. “Thought it’d be the greatest ‘fuck you’ the Ministry had ever seen. They’d give me anything, money, medals—but they were trying to pretend I hadn’t been ‘Undesirable Number One’ just a few months prior. And Malfoy was always good at being sneaky and underhanded and cunning. I thought he’d be better at it than I would, and I was joining anyway.”
Harry was babbling a little, looking away. Adorable. Charlie decided not to ask why Harry wanted to join the Aurors in the first place.
“He agreed, eventually. Mostly because it would get him out of the Manor, I think. Give him something to do. He was convinced it wouldn’t work, but it did, and then we were in Auror training together.”
“And how’d that go?” Charlie felt almost giddy—or Harry felt almost giddy, and Charlie got to feel it, too. Harry couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from ticking up, staring into the sweet coffee as if it were a Pensieve, playing out the memories.
“Awful,” Harry said, but he was smiling, full of grim amusement, a little indignation. “They tried everything to sabotage us both—Draco for, well, being Draco, and me for flagrantly undermining the Ministry. But we turned out to be a really good team, when we actually worked together.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“Would you really?”
Charlie blinked, taken aback. Harry was serious about the question, watching Charlie’s face carefully, curiously, cautiously. Charlie took a moment to think before responding.
“Yes,” he said, his quiet voice splitting the silence of the sunlit kitchen. “I would have bet on it. I’m sure Fred would have, too,” he added, enduring Harry’s flinch of grief alongside his own. He slid his foot forward on the floor under the table until it met Harry’s, giving him the only comfort he could think of, without giving himself time to second-guess it. “You two were always in each other’s heads—not literally, obviously—at least, that’s always what it seemed like, when I listened to you rant about him.”
Harry’s foot slid along Charlie’s, his eyes wide and his lips parted and Charlie probably should have thought this out, more, but the contact was everything, the feel of Harry’s socked foot on his and the warmth of Harry’s full attention; he felt almost high. Or Harry did. Nineteen, he’s nineteen, he’s not yours, don’t fuck this up again—
“I know it may have been a bit of a shock to see you two together, for the rest of my family,” Charlie said, looking up at the ceiling to cool down. Harry snorted a little. “But for me… I’ve seen your face when you talked about him, I’ve watched you—” he huffed a short, self-deprecating laugh at the ceiling. There was a water stain above the table that must have been there for two decades, at least. “I suppose I could—I could feel it. You. When you thought about him. Perhaps if anyone else had felt that, they would have seen it like I did.”
“And how did you see it?” Harry prodded in a low voice. His toes brushed over the knob on Charlie’s ankle. Charlie forced himself to meet Harry’s eyes, and the movement ceased—guilty pleasure, warmth in his belly, like Harry was getting away with something.
“Inevitable.”
Harry grinned, lifting the mug to his lips to hide it. The blush hadn’t left his cheeks. His eyes crinkled just a little bit at the corners, a relaxed, languorous happiness. A wayward curl of dark hair fell into his face, and Charlie tightened his hands around his own mug to keep from reaching for him. Harry’s warmth was building, affection, adoration, even a little lust, so bloody strong, filling Charlie’s chest to the brim, making it hard to breathe.
Harry’s. Charlie’s felt different. This was different. Untethered, almost. It felt a bit like Bill and Fleur’s wedding, or the time Charlie and Arthur caught Molly dancing by herself in the kitchen, or Ron whenever Hermione got into a heated, academic debate—except this, this was so undeniably Harry.
“You can feel this?” Harry asked softly, watching him over the rim of his mug. Charlie couldn’t do anything but nod. Harry seemed pleased, for some reason.
“So you know, then,” Harry murmured.
Charlie tried to clear space in his brain to think. He remembered Draco’s ‘mental space’, the calm emptiness of it, and tried to make something similar. It wasn’t even close, but.
Charlie knew. He might not have been thinking about it consciously, but there was so much going on, anyway. Harry was letting him feel it, now, without anything else to distract him. Giving Charlie a part of him to hold, on purpose. Charlie knew this feeling.
Harry was in love. He’d never been happier. Charlie could practically taste it, sweet and thick and light like a spoonful of whipped cream on his tongue, as Harry let it fill him up.
He felt like he was being lifted—supported, Charlie decided. Draco was always there for Harry, now. Draco always had his back. Harry felt strong, capable, and also humble. Charlie floated through it all, his mouth dry, his face warm.
Capable, humble—Draco made him human. Draco never saw him as a symbol, or some god-like figure, Draco only saw Harry. Draco liked what he saw. Had been rather obsessed with it, if the tales were true, and consistently so, throughout the time they’d known each other. Draco believed Harry had more worth than the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and the Saviour, combined. Charlie had felt that from Draco as soon as Harry had appeared in the garden with them: recognition, relief, there you are, my heart.
Charlie knew this feeling, all of these feelings, because they were similar to what he felt for Harry. But Harry’s love for Draco was tinged with a sort of awe, respect, disbelief, and a familiar bullheaded stubbornness that was perfectly Harry. A mixture of equal parts I can’t believe I get to have this, and I won’t let anyone take it away from me, now.
Draco’s love for Harry had been more relatable, Charlie thought. In the Great Hall, during the Battle, and in the Burrow, during this mad Christmas. Loving Harry was vulnerable, and protective; it was like loving a dragon, even though—and perhaps because—it could never be tamed. It was fire, beautiful and bright, warm and dangerous, all-consuming. Loving Harry was an ache, but maybe he and Draco had simply ached for what they could not have, for the part of them that was walking around outside of their bodies, dueling Dark Wizards and toying with angry dragons, a perfect, untouchable, unstoppable force.
It was helpless. Drowning, burning, flying, falling.
But Harry felt anything but helpless. Harry was in love; it was fiery and fierce, magnificently selfish. And it was requited. As Charlie had known it would be.
“Yes, Harry,” Charlie croaked, his throat tight, his eyes wet. “I know.”
Harry bit his lip again, tucking the distracting lock of hair behind his ear.
“Well, don’t go blabbing about it,” he muttered, a little embarrassed. Charlie never thought he’d be grateful to feel Harry’s worry, but it was a respite from the profound, overwhelming love Harry had for someone else. “It’s obviously frowned upon, in the DMLE.”
Charlie took a deep breath, trying his very best to make that empty mental space again and lock himself inside it.
“Well, joke’s on you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m telling every dragon I see. They’re insatiable gossips, you know.”
Harry laughed. Charlie let himself feel it, instead of anything else. Perhaps he could make a mental escape purely out of that sound, and live inside it.
***
Draco arrived later that morning, helping himself to what was left of the coffee Charlie had made, kept hot under a stasis charm. Molly squeezed his shoulder again when he did, excited to be able to extend her motherly affection to another soul, and Ginny promptly followed it up with a punch in the arm, for balance.
The weather was still perfect for Quidditch, if bitingly cold, so Harry and Ginny herded everyone outside as soon as possible. Charlie sat the first few games out, claiming he wasn’t awake enough for it, yet, but really he just wanted to watch Draco and Harry play against each other.
It was certainly much more intense than when Charlie played.
The second Draco got on a broom, wrapped in a black peacoat and a green and silver Molly-knit scarf, he was filled with a liberating, devilish glee. It drew a delirious giggle from Charlie’s throat.
Harry had been right: Draco was sneaky, and underhanded. He played like a professional Seeker, if that Seeker was also an assassin, proficient in sabotage. Half the time, Charlie wasn’t sure he was playing for the snitch at all—Draco was playing for Harry, riling him up, distracting him, toeing the line of fair play. He was pushing up his sleeve and catching the sunlight on the face of his expensive watch, weaponizing it to reflect into Harry’s eyes. He was flying close enough to talk shit where no one else could hear him, then diving out of the way and laughing when Harry lunged for him. Charlie could almost imagine the Hogwarts Quidditch uniforms on them, could imagine that this was exactly what their games had looked like in school: nothing else existing but each other, the rush of competition, and the elusive snitch.
Charlie could feel Harry’s irritation, his competitiveness, but it was more thrilling than anything. It was antagonistic, but it was exhilarating, and when Draco finally caught the snitch from right under a distracted Harry’s nose, a wicked, triumphant grin on his pale, flushed face, Charlie felt a wave of something so hot and ferocious and carnal that he blushed fiercely, crossing one leg over the other in his chair.
Merlin.
How anyone had ever been surprised by the two of them was beyond him. Charlie wouldn’t have been shocked if they started going at it in midair—and then his mind was consumed with images of exactly that, and oh, sweet Circe, he needed to take a dive into an icy pond right fucking now.
“Come on, Charlie,” Harry said, appearing right in front of him, and Charlie nearly fell out of his chair.
No, no, no.
Harry was smirking at him, like he knew exactly what Charlie was thinking, which was embarrassing, even though he was only feeling it because Harry was feeling it, and bloody loudly, at that. Charlie took in the sight of him—the bronze cheeks rosy from exertion and cold and probably lust, and his scarred hand gripping the broom, and his wild curls escaping from his ponytail, and his too-green eyes bright from sun and snow and competition—a man made of fire and flight.
Charlie couldn’t breathe right.
“What?” His voice cracked. Pathetic. Harry grinned wider.
“Your turn.” He thrust the broom in Charlie’s face, jerking his head behind him, where Draco waited impatiently in the air, holding the snitch, surrounded by Charlie’s siblings. Fucking hell.
Charlie closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, filling his head with an unfortunate memory of stepping in dragon dung. Nothing killed a boner quite like dragon shit.
He stood reluctantly, handing Harry his coffee mug and taking the broom. Harry continued to smirk lasciviously at him, and it was all Charlie could do to hold onto his sanity.
“Go take a cold shower or something, Merlin alive,” he grumbled as he passed him. Harry laughed at him, and Charlie gave him a half-hearted shove. “No wonder he trounced you, with your mind where it is—”
“Any day now, Weasley,” Draco called lazily from the air, and though there were at least five Weasleys within hearing distance, Charlie knew it was aimed at him alone. “I want at least one chance to beat the legendary Charlie Weasley to the snitch before we all die a natural death.”
Charlie laughed. Draco was nervous. Excited, determined, awkward, all carefully concealed behind a mask of lazy confidence. It was even a little endearing.
“Are you really pulling my pigtails right now, Malfoy?” Charlie launched himself into the air, relishing the cold bite of the wind on his cheeks, barely warmed by the brightness of the sun.
“Is it working?” Draco muttered, as Charlie came level with him. Nervous, excited, nervous, excited. Charlie grinned at him.
“Perhaps.”
Draco released the snitch, Harry threw the quaffle toward the Chasers, and the game began.
Charlie and Draco flew in wide circles high above the garden, watching each other carefully while looking for the snitch. Draco’s curiosity was fun, not quite malicious, but certainly not innocent, either. Charlie laughed when Draco tried to fool him with a feint. It looked convincing, but Charlie could feel the mischief, determination—not the giddy exhilaration of actually chasing the snitch. Harry, and Charlie’s siblings, had known they could never fool Charlie.
That particular ability of his made a bit more sense, now. He wondered if that was even legal in Quidditch.
Draco harrumphed his disappointment, and switched tactics.
By flying just close enough for Charlie to hear him, and see his sharp, smug, pretty face, but not touch him.
Draco’s eyes roved over Charlie’s body on the broom, feeling like he’d already won something, which made Charlie admittedly a little worried.
Draco hummed in thought, sun-bright grey eyes lingering on Charlie’s thighs. “Yes, I can see what’s got Harry so… transfixed.”
Charlie spluttered, his hand slipping on the broom as his head whipped around to face him.
“You—”
“Can hardly blame him for losing against you as often as he does, with a sight like this to distract him,” Draco continued, his triumph and glee nearly overwhelming. Charlie’s face heated enough to forget it was December.
“What the—”
Draco winked, then tipped back and dropped into a stupid impressive backwards dive, his scarf trailing in the air behind him, and Charlie swore as he realized he was actually definitely chasing the snitch this time, after successfully throwing Charlie off with… with nasty, sneaky, horrible awful underhanded flirting, the absolute bastard, utter fucking prat—
Charlie shot off after him toward the orchard, a litany of grumbled swears in his wake.
He caught up with him shortly, his body nearly flat against the broom. He rolled and dipped until he was flying upside down, directly underneath Draco, to Draco’s thrilling surprise. Draco’s arm was stretched out in front of him, long fingers mere inches from the quick, fluttering snitch.
“Sexier than a dementor costume, I’ll give you that,” Charlie said, and laughed as Draco choked on the air, returning his hand to the broom to stabilize himself. Charlie surged forward and upward, barely missing the top of a snow-covered apple tree, and grabbed the snitch out of the air while Draco growled and floundered, flustered and aggravated.
“Poor Draco,” Harry called from the ground, grinning and applauding. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance to beat the legendary Charlie Weasley someday.” Draco scoffed and rolled his eyes as the Weasleys laughed, and Charlie laughed even harder as he felt just how hard Draco was working to be a good sport about it.
After enough internal warfare, Draco settled on darkly amused, watching Charlie fly teasing circles around him.
“You’ll pay for that one, Weasley.”
“I wrangle dragons for a living, Draco,” Charlie retorted, thrilled to be the object of such fierce competition. “You’ll have to work a little harder than that.”
“Ah, but you’ve never met a dragon who could talk while flying.”
“Never met a dragon wearing a bloody peacoat, either, but you learn something new every day.”
It was shocking, how easy it was, engaging in playful competition and flirty banter with the young man Harry was in love with. For a second, he worried that he was crossing some sort of line, but Draco was having so much fun, even through his constant nerves, and Harry wouldn’t stop smiling as he watched them, almost unbearably fond and adorably excited.
They stayed out there all afternoon.
By the time they finally called a tie and went inside, with numb fingers and windbitten cheeks, Charlie’s face hurt from the cold and the permanent grin.
He watched Draco’s elegant, slender hands wrap around a mug of Molly’s hot chocolate, and realized he wasn’t just indifferent to Draco—he enjoyed Draco, and the odd, secretive dynamic they shared. Draco had noticed enough about Charlie in the span of a few hours to diagnose him with a magical ability he and his family had never even considered. In less than a day, Draco had seen him, given him respite, relief, understanding, saved his life, and beaten him at Quidditch (once, while Charlie had trounced him twice).
And Charlie seemed to see him in a way no one else could—Draco was clearly adept at hiding his feelings, but he couldn’t hide from Charlie. Not without smothering Charlie with Occlumency, anyway. Draco probably looked cool and aloof to everyone else, but to Charlie, his anxiety was obvious, as was his desperation to prove himself, and his delicious, dangerous, helpless love for Harry.
Charlie made sure to sit across from Harry and Draco at supper, this time. Hopefully it would be enough to avoid another emotional disaster. And he hadn’t gotten to observe their interactions much, today, when they weren’t in the air.
They were so bloody pleased by it. Harry sat down with a poorly stifled smile and an endearing blush, and Draco sat himself primly, looking like this was the most boring and unimportant thing to ever happen to him, but feeling on top of the world. Charlie couldn’t suppress his own smile. It was a nice thing to feel, even though it felt like feelings he was borrowing, to cover up and distract from his own.
He dug into his roast and potatoes in silence, and let himself feel it, savouring Harry’s well-deserved happiness.
He didn’t engage in much conversation, and his family didn’t try too hard to make him. He alternated between staring at his plate and staring at the two blissful lovers across from him, floating in secondhand contentment. He couldn’t even feel much of Draco’s perpetual anxiety, or Molly’s exasperation, or Bill’s grim protectiveness, if he stayed as focused as he was on just this.
A small movement caught his eye; Draco’s arm, clothed in a charcoal grey shirt, probably silk—again, Charlie wouldn’t know, but it looked nice—moving from Draco’s own thigh, a few inches over, to Harry’s. A thrill ran through both of them, making Charlie’s breath hitch.
Did they think they were being subtle? Charlie giggled to himself. He felt Harry’s eyes on him, amused and sensual, but he couldn’t meet the gaze. This wasn’t about him. This was actually pretty intrusive, when he thought about it.
Until a socked foot met his under the table. Again.
His whole body tensed. Charlie’s fork paused on its way to his mouth.
Then nervousness, guilty pleasure, from Harry. Curious excitement from Draco. Piling on top of their intense, consuming love for one another. Charlie didn’t know what to do, what to think.
Harry’s foot slid against Charlie’s, toes over the arch, the inside of his ankle, even slipping inside the hem of his jeans and resting there, and bloody buggering shit, Charlie was half hard already. At dinner. With his family. What the fuck was happening?
Charlie raised his eyes an inch, enough to see that Draco’s hand hadn’t left Harry’s thigh, and Charlie could guess from the angle of Harry’s forearm that he was holding Draco’s hand in his lap, like Draco was the rope to hold onto while he dove blindly into the unknown. Raised his eyes another inch, and met Harry’s, unsure but sure, nervous but hopeful; an inch to the side, and found Draco’s, bright silver and unmistakably heated under a mask of indifference, trained resolutely on Charlie.
He had no idea what was going on. His heart was racing in his chest, his skin felt hot and too tight, like he was carrying a dragon’s core inside this weak human body. It was all so much, way too much. He wanted to get up and run, as he always did. He wanted to launch himself across the table and bury his face in Harry’s neck, to feel those hands in his hair again.
He wanted to hear Draco’s smooth voice and posh accent in his ear, to feel that tall, lithe body pressed up behind him.
He almost laughed at himself—and would have, if it was funny at all—because he would dream up another impossible crush on another controversial teenager, who happened to be happily in love with the one Charlie had regretfully-not-regretfully snogged into a sexuality crisis a year ago, the one Charlie was already in love with. He must be some sort of masochist, he thought, or just a complete tosser, a weird predator, because Merlin’s saggy sodding left nut, there was something seriously wrong with him.
Perhaps Harry could sense Charlie’s latest crisis, because he slowly, reluctantly pulled his foot away. He didn’t stop watching Charlie, though, and didn’t stop feeling things, which Charlie supposed was a bit much to ask of a person.
So Charlie finished his dinner in silence, his eyes glued to the last streaks of mashed potato on his plate, hardly tasting a thing.
There were so many different emotions going through his head by the time everyone retired to the sitting room for a nightcap that Charlie actually felt a bit numb, a little detached from his body. He caught himself staring blankly at the wall a few times, until he’d catch another flicker of lust and familiar warmth from Harry, and that helpless want and curiosity from Draco, and it wasn’t really fun, anymore, feeling what they felt for each other; smothering him, instead of carrying him.
He never stuck around, when it got like this. When the feeling became too much. He’d have been out the door with a perfunctory kiss to his mother’s cheek an hour ago, activating a Portkey with shaking hands. Or just running through the quiet orchard until he felt strong enough to return. Neither seemed a good option, right now, with the phantom touch of Harry’s socked foot still lingering on the inside of his calf.
Holding him here.
Harry and Draco eventually stood and made their farewells, claiming work in the morning, promising to stop by tomorrow for supper. Charlie let them go; he would see them tomorrow, after all. He’d have to endure the evening without Harry’s sweet emotional warmth, but he’d get a break from everything else Harry and Draco were feeling, too. It would maybe be a bit quieter in Charlie’s head. His heart. His stomach. His groin.
But even with them gone, Charlie felt too much. Too much to name. He faced the realization that maybe most of it was his own, this time.
And if this turbulent, gut-churning feeling was only him, and he still felt like a pot about to boil over, then where was the line? Where did he end and everyone else begin?
He got up to take a walk. Everyone let him go, and there was a lot more understanding in the room than Charlie had expected. He pulled on his slightly-singed overshirt, laced up his boots, and stepped out into the cold, December night. Alone.
A wave of warm, giddy, lust-filled happiness quickly quelled that assumption.
Hesitantly, silently, he rounded the corner of the house, and barely suppressed a gasp.
Harry was pressed securely between the side of the house and Draco’s lean body, his lips locked with Draco’s, his hips grinding slowly, hypnotically against Draco’s thigh.
Charlie watched Harry’s hands grip the fabric of Draco’s expensive shirt, then slide over to his stomach, up his chest, until they buried themselves in Draco’s sleek, white-blond hair. Draco let out a hushed moan, gasped into Harry’s open mouth.
Charlie shivered; he knew what that felt like. From memory, and not some stupid ability.
He watched Draco’s hand slide down Harry’s back, encouraging the movement of Harry’s hips with a greedy grip on his arse.
Charlie had never wanted anything so much in his life.
He covered his mouth with his hand, his entire body tense and trembling with the force of it. Purely his own—whatever Harry and Draco were feeling lingered at the outskirts of his mind, drowned out by the sheer strength of Charlie’s desire, built up over so many years of watching from afar and holding himself back, fighting a gravitational pull that never lessened, never relented.
Helpless.
For a second, Charlie imagined himself in that position, imagined Harry’s firm, round arse under his hand. Smelled the trees of the orchard behind them, and wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t run. If Charlie had stayed. Would Charlie have been the one that ended up with the privilege of kissing Harry Potter, like that? Again and again, day after day? Would Harry have fallen into Charlie, instead of Draco?
The what-if was crushed as soon as it was formed, because Charlie was never meant to stay. He’d have had Harry perhaps a day more, and then he’d have left, as he always did, and Harry and Draco’s inevitable union would have only been delayed by twenty-four short hours.
Draco’s mouth moved to Harry’s stubbled jaw, his neck. Harry’s head tipped back with a small thud against the house, his lips swollen and parted, his panting breaths making little clouds in a shaft of moonlight. His eyes opened to the stars, reflecting their gleam; even now, Harry was sky incarnate.
His head tipped to the side, and he finally saw Charlie standing there, like a pervy, lovesick creep. A short gasp escaped Harry’s throat.
“Charlie.” But Harry didn’t stop, didn’t push Draco away, didn’t feel an ounce of shame. Didn’t break Charlie’s gaze. Draco simply hummed, continuing his ministrations on Harry’s neck, as if Harry gasping out Charlie’s name like that was at all normal.
“Draco,” Harry said hoarsely, turning to his paramour, pulling Draco’s head back a little by the grip in his hair. Draco looked dazed as he met Harry’s eyes, and his thigh was still between Harry’s legs, pressing him into the house, and Charlie desperately wanted to know what that felt like.
From both perspectives. Because he was some sort of fucked up, apparently.
“Charlie,” Harry repeated, the word hitting Draco’s lips as he turned and met Charlie’s eyes again. Draco followed his gaze; Charlie heard the breath catch in his throat.
“Oh,” Draco said, and Charlie couldn’t tell what either of them were feeling, through the all-consuming force of his own longing.
He should leave, he thought. He should look away, leave them alone, turn around and walk back into the house, or just keep walking until he fell off the edge of the earth.
He couldn’t move.
Draco released a breath and peeled himself off of Harry, who was still staring wide-eyed at a frozen Charlie. He leaned forward, whispering something into Harry’s ear.
Harry tore his eyes away from Charlie to give Draco an incredulous, hopeful look, his hands falling from Draco’s chest, which made Draco smile, soft and easy. Charlie didn’t have the wherewithal to try to feel or comprehend any of it, as Draco put a hand on Harry’s hip, and gave him a gentle push in Charlie’s direction.
But now Harry was walking slowly toward Charlie, as one would toward a terrified, wounded dragon, and Charlie abruptly felt like one. Wounded. Terrified. Trapped.
His gaze darted between Draco and Harry, confused, but he felt like his feet had grown roots and tangled themselves into the earth, holding him there.
And then Harry was in front of him, his hand gently pulling Charlie’s away from his mouth, warm fingers wrapping around Charlie’s wrist. Charlie was barely holding himself upright, Harry’s touch already burning on his skin, but he made himself look over Harry’s shoulder at Draco, in case this was some sick, elaborate trick.
Draco’s hands were in his pockets, watching them with heated eyes and a small, helpless grin on his shiny, reddened lips.
Nothing made sense. Maybe Charlie was dreaming, hallucinating—
“Charlie,” Harry murmured, and no, there was no way his subconscious could dream up that fire in Harry’s darkened eyes, cautious hope apparent behind round frames, nor the lingering trace of citrus cologne mingling with his already heady, earthy scent, nor the warm moisture of his breath on Charlie’s lips.
Fucking hell, he was so beautiful. It was maddening.
A warm hand landed on Charlie’s cheek, a gentle thumb swiping under his eye.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Harry whispered—as if Charlie knew how to speak—and leaned in.
Harry’s kiss was just as good as he remembered—better, because Harry’s lips were already warm and slick from Draco’s mouth, and something about that heated Charlie’s blood faster than fiendfyre, drawing a choked sob from his chest. Charlie’s hand found the back of Harry’s neck on its own, pulling him in, and Harry’s hands slid into his hair, where they belonged, and this was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that existed.
Harry’s needy grip, his eager tongue, so much more confident than he’d been a year ago; his intoxicating taste, slightly tinged with somebody else.
Charlie tried to pull back, overwhelmed, but being separated from him at all felt wrong, like trying to breathe water, so he kept falling back in, pressing himself against Harry’s body, feeling the hard ridge of Harry’s clothed erection against his hip. He fisted the fabric of Harry’s jumper and kissed him harder, nearly rising on tiptoe; he let his hand slide down Harry’s firm chest, around his waist, taking Draco’s place and palming his arse, finally. Harry whimpered, crashing into him like a wave. He seemed to be holding onto Charlie for dear life, as lost in this craving for closeness, for home, you’re here, I’m home, as Charlie was.
A small, vulnerable, desirous sound from somewhere behind Harry, and Charlie tore himself away, forced himself to take a step back, though it felt more like tearing his own heart out of his chest and dropping it in the space between them. Against every instinct.
He looked up, panting, to the sight of a blurry Harry, and a pale figure a few steps behind him. Blinked, and Harry became clearer, as did a flushed, wide-eyed Draco, whose hand had moved from his pocket to his mouth, as he bit down on his own fist to stop another noise from escaping.
Harry stared at Charlie, breathing hard, but he wasn’t swearing or fleeing. He was—Charlie shoved his own feelings aside as best he could, though it was impossible to steer a hurricane—awed. Transfixed. Worried. Nervous. Giddy. Happy.
“Merlin,” Draco whispered, his fist lowering. Charlie kind of hoped Draco would just punch him with it, because that would make sense. But he didn’t.
Draco stepped up behind Harry, instead, snaking an arm around Harry’s waist and resting a splayed hand on his stomach, and Harry’s happiness multiplied tenfold, his full, shiny lips spreading in a dazed, involuntary grin. Harry leaned back against him, and Draco kissed the side of his head, both pairs of eyes still fixed on Charlie.
Charlie shut his mouth and swallowed hard. His vision blurred again; he closed his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath.
He focused on things he knew for certain.
One: Harry and Draco were madly in love, and so perfectly happy, regardless of whatever-the-fuck just happened. They were happy. Charlie was practically choking on their happiness.
Two: Charlie wasn’t staying. He never did.
And perhaps that was all he needed to know for the next few moments. Months.
Years.
“Okay,” Charlie croaked, huffing a short, joyless laugh. He tried another deep breath before opening his eyes, hoping it was dark enough to disguise any tears that escaped. “Okay.” He took another step back.
“Okay?” Harry repeated softly. Nervous. Draco kissed his head again, reassuring. Cautious. Curious.
Happy.
“Okay.” Charlie managed a tremulous smile, and nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
He focused on the two of them—he wasn’t sure how to do this on purpose—and put everything he had into reassuring them that their love was perfect, well-earned and untouched, entirely their own. You are safe. You are home. You are loved.
Their smiles reached their eyes. Harry’s hand found Draco’s on his stomach, and laced their fingers together.
Charlie let himself stare, let himself fill up with their happiness, burned the image of them into his memory.
With every ounce of strength he had left, he smiled, turned, and walked away, back into the house, leaving his heart on the snowy ground at their feet. They didn’t stop him, didn’t call after him, and that was alright.
Charlie winced at the sound of the door shutting behind him. The house was almost dark, completely silent—everyone had gone to bed, apparently.
Except for Ginny, who sat alone at the table with two mugs of hot tea in a stasis charm, illuminated by the sole lamp above the sink. Waiting.
Worried, knowing, hurting. Fuck.
Her lips quirked sadly. “He’s out there with Malfoy, isn’t he?”
Charlie could feel the faint stirrings of resentment, disappointment; it took everything he had not to disapparate on the spot. He nodded slowly.
“Ginny—”
“What happened?”
Charlie shook his head, a bit frantically. “I have to go.”
Ginny stared at him a second more, her brown eyes piercing. Everything hurt.
“I know, Charlie,” she sighed. “It’s alright.”
Charlie shook his head again, and said nothing.
How could he have done this to her? To Harry, to everyone? Why was he like this?
“Listen, Charlie… I know how much it hurts, now,” Ginny muttered, fidgeting with the teacup in her hands. “But it hurts less, over time. And—” she huffed a short, self-deprecating laugh, “—if he does choose you, which he should—”
“No,” Charlie cut her off. She looked up at him sharply; the lingering sting of a long-ago broken heart. “No choosing. I have to go, Gin.”
Her mouth twisted in disapproval. “You’ll come back.”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, though it wasn’t enough.
She furrowed her brows, staring at him again with that pained, concerned look. “Mum’s asleep. You can’t wait til morning?”
“No.”
She sighed again, looking down into her tea, clearly fed up with him. “I’ll let her know you’re safe.”
“Thanks,” Charlie replied. He couldn’t keep his voice from shaking. She made an absent gesture with her hand, avoiding his eyes. She did not get up to hug him goodbye.
So Charlie went upstairs to his room, without another word.
He was already packed—he never unpacked—and the Portkey, an unobtrusive candleholder, sat waiting for him on the short table next to his bed.
It was rude to Portkey indoors. But he couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t run into Harry and Draco again, if he left the house, and he needed to leave. Now.
He still hesitated as he pulled his wand. He took one long, last look at his childhood bedroom, which still had his toddlerish drawings of dragons stuck to the walls, permanently, thanks to an accidental permanent sticking charm when he was seven. He’d shared this room with Bill for years. The window was crooked—the room was crooked, actually, but he’d never noticed until he took the time to look at the window from the outside, where it was perfectly straight.
He was sure there was still a single galleon hidden under the loose floorboard by his small bed, one he’d found on the ground in Diagon Alley when he was six. His dad had told him to keep it safe, to save it for a day when he’d really need it, and to not tell his mother or his brothers about it. Charlie hadn’t even had that many brothers, at the time, and Bill was the only one who would have known that a galleon was big and important.
The bright, full moon illuminated said floorboard through the crooked-not-crooked window, but he didn’t go near it. He didn’t need the galleon, if it was still there, and he wasn’t coming back.
He tapped the candleholder with his wand and grabbed his satchel, taking relief in the familiar blue glow, allowing the hook and jerk behind his navel to tear him away from the Burrow, back to where he belonged.
Where he couldn’t ruin anything, or distract anyone from their happiness, or get caught up in the scraps of a love he could never, ever have.
He landed clumsily in Andrei’s hut.
He closed his eyes and tried to feel more relief. He always felt better when he came back here. Safer. Easier. But all he could feel at the moment was a gaping hole in his chest.
Then large hands, on his arms. The familiar scent of smoke and leather. The crackle of the small fire in the hearth. Breath, forcing itself in and out of his lungs, as his body stubbornly kept itself alive without a heart. He dropped the satchel and candleholder and raised his hands, until they found warm skin—Andrei was shirtless. Okay.
And protective, and worried. Andrei always was, just a little bit, about everyone. He was mostly very carefree. Not at the moment, though.
“Charlie?” Andrei’s gentle, gravelly voice washed over him. One of those calloused hands moved to Charlie’s cheek, a rough, work-worn thumb swiping under Charlie’s eye. Second time tonight, Charlie thought dimly. “Licurici, you’re crying.”
Charlie leaned into his warmth, and laid his hands on Andrei’s broad, muscular chest, covered in coarse hair and burn scars and tattoos; he knew it so well. He opened his eyes.
Andrei’s weathered face was full of concern, and that familiar protectiveness, and maybe this was enough.
They didn’t love each other—well, they did, but not in the way Charlie loved Harry, or the way Harry loved Draco. Andrei loved him like family, almost. Everyone was sort of family, out here—it was too isolated from the world for the people here to be anything but close. And casual sex was the norm, because they refused to be ashamed by their loneliness, and Andrei had been so constant, over the years; Andrei knew him better than anyone. Andrei had taught him everything. They gave each other intimacy when they needed it, but it wasn’t romantic love, and maybe that was enough.
Andrei was here for life. Andrei had no intentions of finding love and romance; he didn’t need it or care for it. If he could do it, Charlie could, too.
Charlie surged forward and kissed him, eliciting a shocked sound, but Andrei took it in stride, familiar with Charlie in a way no one else was. He took Charlie’s face between his hands, tilting his head to kiss him deeper, taking over, as Charlie wanted him to. Charlie whimpered at the brush of his tongue—he knew this, he liked this, it wasn’t Harry, or Harry with the lingering taste of Draco, it was enough—
Andrei separated their lips long enough for Charlie to breathe, “Fuck me.”
Andrei drew in a sharp breath, uneasy. “Puiule—”
“Please.” He clung to Andrei’s waist, pulling him closer. Andrei wouldn’t judge him for being pathetic. “Just fuck me into the mattress. The wall, the floor, anything. Fuck him out of me, Andrei, I need it—please, I need to—to forget him—”
He was gasping at this point, trembling, trying not to break into sobs like last time, though he knew it was safe to do so in Andrei’s arms. Andrei growled faintly and kissed him again, and it was a relief, finally, relief, he thought, as Andrei pulled Charlie’s shirt off and walked him backwards to the wall, pushing him against it with a careful, cushioning hand behind Charlie’s head. Even though his stubble was thicker and coarser than Harry’s, his skin rougher and littered with scars from dragons, not war or dark wizards or basilisks, and he was just bigger than Harry, and about twenty years older than Harry, but that was alright, that was perfect, because he wasn’t Harry, and that was the point.
Andrei broke the kiss and swiftly turned Charlie around, pulling Charlie’s back against his chest and mouthing at his neck. Charlie put his hands on the wall, pushing his arse back, and Andrei groaned. Familiar. Fun. Enough. Andrei’s hand slid down Charlie’s stomach, cupping him hard through his jeans, grinding against him as Charlie bucked into his hand.
“I’ll fuck you, licurici,” he murmured, and the low, rough tone was intended to sound lusty and a little dominating, like Charlie liked, but the effect was lost in Andrei’s innate tenderness, his worry, his desire to fix something, to put Charlie back together.
“But you’re never going to forget him,” Andrei added, and the care and friendship seeped through his hoarse voice, in the kisses he pressed into Charlie’s neck after biting. “You’ve been trying for years.”
Notes:
End of Part One! 😱 Interlude coming this Thursday, and Part Two starts next Monday, Dec 20 💖
Chapter 5: Interlude: George
Chapter Text
George knew, as he usually did, that something was terribly wrong when he came downstairs for breakfast.
Granted, he hadn’t felt like anything was right for a long time. Something always felt wrong, off, missing, and he knew exactly why. But this was different, already.
Because Charlie wasn’t at the table, nursing his usual cup of coffee. Ginny was there, instead, fumbling with the French press, a grimace of grumpy fatigue on her face. George winced preemptively; Ginny’s coffee was always terrible.
“Why don’t you leave that to the master?” George grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Where is he, anyway?”
Ginny opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the front door swinging open, and a cheerful-looking Harry Potter waltzing in.
“Morning,” Harry said, taking off his coat and hanging it on one of the many hooks by the door.
“Don’t you have work?” Ginny asked, not very nicely.
“Robards gave me the day off,” Harry answered distractedly, looking around. Looking for someone.
George sighed, rubbing his eyes again, and waited for the inevitable:
“Where is…?” Harry trailed off, perhaps realizing how tactless it would be for him to ask Ginny where Charlie was right now.
“He left last night,” Ginny answered flatly, returning to her struggle with the French press. George opened his eyes, waiting for the spots to clear in his vision. It didn’t look like Ginny had even attached the filter to the press—the coffee poured out like thick black sludge into her mug, complete with floating beans, and she scowled at it.
George watched as this news trickled into Harry’s consciousness, slowly, as if his mind was fighting the truth. Harry’s brow furrowed slightly, his head shook just once. His smile fell—George hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling, until it was so clearly gone.
“Charlie’s left?” George asked. Ginny pursed her lips and nodded, still glowering into her mug, and George groaned in vexation. “Bloody hell, Harry, what’d you do, kiss him again?”
Ginny jolted enough to spill her sludge a bit, and she hissed as the hot liquid splattered the back of her hand. Harry’s eyes snapped up to George’s, extra guilty, and George wanted to throw his hands up in sheer frustration.
“You kissed Charlie?” Ginny snapped. She stood abruptly, grabbing the dish towel from the sink and dabbing at her hand. “Again, Harry? But Draco—!”
“Wanted me to!” Harry cut her off desperately. “And I—I wanted to and he didn’t tell me to stop and he—” Harry swallowed hard. “He said it was okay. Charlie said he was okay… and I felt…” his voice broke, and George realized that whatever Harry had felt was surely something Charlie had wanted him to feel, and not at all consistent with Charlie’s actual feelings on the subject.
Which meant that George’s beloved big brother, the best and most genuine of them all, had finally told a lie. Of sorts. Charlie said he was okay.
When was the last time Charlie had been okay? Or any of them, for that matter? Was anyone okay?
George turned to his left, then re-re-re-remembered that Fred would not be there, looking back at him with the same knowing, exasperated face, and suddenly, George wanted to turn tail and run back upstairs to bed, or maybe just keep running and running until it stopped hurting so much.
Out of all of them, George thought he understood it the most: Charlie’s penchant for running. Unfortunately for George, even running felt wrong without Fred by his side. It was something they’d always done together—running to save Harry from the Dursleys, running from a prison-like school, running a thriving business, running in a War. And besides, George had nowhere to run to.
“Alright, then,” Harry said, perhaps to himself, his shoulders sagging. His jaw clenched, and George thought maybe he was finally getting angry enough to do something about this… this thing he had for Charlie. “Fine. A simple ‘no thank you, not interested’ would have worked, but—”
Or not. “Don’t be stupid, Harry,” George said. “Maybe you thought you were obvious, but you had Malfoy hanging off your arm all bloody weekend—don’t pretend with us—” he held up his hand as Harry opened his mouth to interject. “If you want Charlie, too, you’re going to have to go out there and get him. He’s thicker than Filch’s file cabinet—” he paused, and couldn’t hide the flinch in the absence of Fred’s usual addendum; Thicker than McGonagall’s accent, Georgie. Thicker than the galleons lining the pockets of the Slytherin Quidditch team, right Freddie? That’s our Charlie. “—so you’ll have to spell it out for him. Knowing Charlie, he probably thinks he’s doing what’s best for you, or something equally outrageous.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry huffed, “no, thanks. I think him fleeing from me two years in a row is a big enough hint for me to take. I’m just sorry to have fucked up your time with him by scaring him off again, alright?” He grabbed his coat off the wall. “I’m sorry. It’s a stupid crush and we all know it. So when he comes back next year, I promise, I’ll stay out of his way.”
George and Ginny were too stunned to reply, and Harry took the opportunity to yank open the front door once more and march out of the house, the door shutting jarringly behind him. The kitchen was quiet enough that they could hear the crack of Harry’s disapparition—or maybe it was just louder when Harry was upset. Come to think of it, George didn’t even know if Harry had ever gotten his license to apparate after the War, or if they just gave Chosen Ones honorary Apparition Licenses.
It’s not Christmas without a bit of unresolved sexual tension, is it, Georgie?
Too right, Freddie.
“You know, Georgie,” Ginny said quietly, and George’s heart simultaneously soared and sank at the nickname, “that didn’t go at all like I’d hoped.”
“No, Ginny?”
“No.” She slumped back into her seat at the table, looking despondently into her mug of sludge. George waved an absentminded healing charm at her hand. “Thing is, Charlie didn’t say he was coming back.”
George sighed, pulling out the seat across from her and sinking into it. He poured some sludge for himself, valiantly refraining from grimacing at it in disgust.
“He always comes back.”
Ginny’s mouth twisted doubtfully. “It was bad, George.”
“Well, he’d better come back,” George grumbled. “He owes me a galleon.”
Don’t blame your lost bets on him, Georgie. How dishonourable.
You still owe me for the Malfoy lover, Freddie. I haven’t forgotten.
Chapter Text
October, 2000
As slowly as he possibly could, Charlie lowered himself to the floor of the empty barn, sitting cross-legged on the dusty, fire-repellant wood.
He kept his eyes glued to the dark, silent corner of the ceiling, where a pair of glowing yellow eyes watched him just as carefully, radiating enough fear and distrust to fill the wide, empty room.
Just a baby. Barely six months old, by the look of her—he’d only gotten a glimpse when they managed to knock her out, to rescue her and bring her here. A baby, without a mother, without even a human surrogate of a mother.
Dragons bonded with the first being they laid eyes on, when they hatched. But this dragon was born in darkness, in a cage, fed with gloved hands and disciplined with cruel wands. This dragon hadn’t seen the light of day until she’d opened her eyes inside this barn, seen the shaft of grey light illuminating her opalescent black scales, and fled, clawing her way up the walls to the cool, dark rafters, terrified.
She’d been there for days. She hadn’t eaten. So Charlie had done this, at the same time every day—sat here, on the floor, and let her see him. Hear him.
The window for proper bonding was long past. She was the size of a moose—a moose that could curl itself into a ball so small Charlie could have wrapped his arms around it and tried to carry it off. As if she needed to take up as little space as possible, as if she could fold in on herself like a black hole and disappear.
You are safe, you are home, you are loved. He’d learned to recognize when he was doing it, in the last few months. It used to just be… something he wanted. He’d look at Harry, or George, or a scared dragon, and want nothing more than to make them feel okay. And apparently, he’d actually done it.
This little one was a tough nut to crack, though. He was pretty sure she knew what he was doing, and wouldn’t trust those feelings he gave until she could be absolutely sure of him.
Charlie set down his pail of raw steaks next to him, on top of a folded blanket, so it wouldn’t make a harsh noise. He pulled a sewing kit and a few articles of clothing from his satchel, threaded the needle, and began darning a hole in a sock. No magic.
“You remind me of someone, you know,” he murmured into the stillness. He heard her flinch, saw the cascade of dust pass through the shaft of evening light from the small, high window. A pair of swifts trilled excitedly from their nest under the overhang, just outside. He wondered if they made her hungry, or curious.
Needle through the fabric, over, then under, weaving closure over the tear. This sock had really been through it. He might need to see about getting new ones. Perhaps his mother would send some.
“He lived in a cage for ten years,” he mumbled distractedly, attention split between his holey sock and the darkest corner of the ceiling. “He never knew his mother, either. Though everyone else thought they did. Can you imagine? Having everyone else tell you, ‘you have her eyes, how proud you must be that she died a hero.’” He frowned at his sock. The light wasn’t great for detail, but it didn’t need to be pretty. “He’s so strong, though. Brave. He got out of the cage, and found a family, and grew, and grew.”
A faint rustle, more dust. Glowing eyes blinked.
“He’s so big and bright, now. Unstoppable.” This thread was running low, a faded blue. Fire-repellant, at least. “It’s a bit like standing in front of the sun, if I’m honest.” He huffed a gentle laugh at himself, weaving the needle back through his work. “Unfortunately for you, I could talk about him for ages. Shall I tell you about the time he and my brother stole my dad’s flying car?”
And so it went, until it was too dark to see his hands, the only light coming from the luminescent yellow eyes in the top corner of the barn.
He sighed softly and packed away his things, standing extra slowly. In previous days, she had growled a little at this part, scared of his movements, but today she remained silent. Watchful as ever. He left the pail of meat where it was, on the blanket, on the floor.
He brought a blanket every day. Though she wasn’t taking the meat, the blankets were always gone by the time he returned—which meant she was either eating them or hoarding them. Either option was good, at this point.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, little one.”
***
Charlie didn’t usually eat in the mess hall at supper. Breakfast was easy, with everyone either grumpy or fond and not quite awake enough to feel so much. But supper was different.
There were sixteen magical folk living at the sanctuary, at the moment. They were lonely, worried, grieving, amused, angry, affectionate, protective, anxious, melancholic, randy, annoyed… It felt a bit like the Burrow, or the Great Hall, and yet entirely different. It felt more like the Gryffindor common room, comforting in its familiarity, in the way everyone knew him and joked with him and welcomed him into their conversations. But, like the Gryffindor common room, it was at times rather overwhelming, often making him want to slip outside and find some peace and solitude, or a creature to care for and spend time with.
He stuck close to Andrei, as he always did. Andrei was easy. Andrei didn’t expect anything from him, except for good work, and the same unconditional care and support he offered Charlie, which Charlie could always provide. Andrei was a good listener, funny and tenderhearted, an excellent mentor, a great shag. He was easier to understand than anyone else in this mess hall, laughing and shouting and being generally rowdy after a long day of caring for grumpy dragons.
Charlie took a deep breath and stabbed a green bean with his fork. “Busy tonight?”
Andrei, of course, knew exactly what that meant. No one was ever ‘busy tonight,’ around here, unless they were specifically occupied. Andrei also knew that meant Charlie was in another desperate mood to forget, to escape into a familiar release, to feel something other than the ache of what he was missing. He was usually up for it, but tonight, Andrei only laughed gently, shaking his head.
“Licurici," he said, "bad time.” Charlie frowned.
“Oh.”
Andrei bumped his shoulder. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll be in the mood,” he mumbled through a mischievous grin.
“What—?”
But the door to the mess hall opened, drawing the attention of the noisy group, and Molly Weasley walked in, holding a large wicker basket on one hip and a knit shawl around her shoulders, looking wary and determined.
“What.” Charlie dropped his fork. Andrei was highly amused, his body shaking with silent laughter. “Andrei, what the hell is my mother doing here?”
“Should be asking her, shouldn’t you?”
Molly’s eyes scanned the room until they finally met Charlie’s. She worked hard on a carefree smile as Charlie stood, swinging his leg over the bench and hurrying over to her. He opened his mouth to ask, but she simply grabbed him with the unladen arm and pulled him in for a fierce hug.
“Oh, Charlie, look at you.”
He released an incredulous laugh as he returned her embrace, taking the basket off her arm. She smelled so familiar, soothing, like warm bread and her floraly, homemade laundry potion.
“Mum,” he greeted, and it came out a little wobbly, so he cleared his throat and tried to control himself, wrapped in her worried, motherly love.
He pulled back as the noise of the room returned around him. He held the basket between them, lifting the corner of the cloth over it—it smelled amazing—
“Pumpkin bread?”
“Your favourite,” she affirmed, pleased and proud.
“What…”
“Not all for you, of course, I’ve made enough for all of your friends, and your…” she looked over Charlie’s shoulder, suspicious yet grateful, and waved excitedly to Andrei, who waved back with poorly concealed giggles, his face red and gleeful.
“My… what?” Charlie clutched the basket of deliciousness to his chest. No way was he sharing.
“Your… lover? Partner? He seems much too old to be your boyfriend, but I wouldn’t really know—”
“Mum!” He started herding her out of the building before this could spiral out of his control. She tutted about not being a good guest, but was secretly pleased Charlie wanted it all to himself. “Mum, Andrei is not. We’re not. That. Merlin.”
“Are you quite sure, dear?”
Charlie recoiled as the door shut behind them, but recovered enough to lead the way out of the commons to his hut.
“What do you mean, am I sure?”
“Well, Charlie, it’s just that, he’s the only one you talk about, isn’t he? You seem fond of him, and he of you, and you have a toothbrush in his bathroom and two of your jumpers are in his bureau.”
“That’s where those went, the thieving—wait a minute. You Portkeyed in—you landed in Andrei’s hut, while he wasn’t home, so you just decided to have a look around?!”
“It’s a very small building, Charlie, I was only taking in my surroundings,” she groused shamelessly. Charlie groaned in embarrassment. The leaves crunched under their feet, and somewhere in the distance Philippe let out a low roar of triumph as he returned from a successful hunt. Molly jumped, clutching her shawl to her chest, and Charlie did his best not to laugh.
“Mum, why are you here?” he asked. “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”
“Can a mother not pop by and visit her son on a whim?”
“Not when the son lives on a dragon reserve in the mountains of Romania, and the mother dislikes leaving home.”
She huffed a little as Charlie opened the door to his hut.
“Well. I missed you, Charles. I wanted to see you.”
“I missed you too,” he said, leading her in. “I’ve only been gone ten months, though.”
The door closed gently behind them. “That’s a long time—”
“No, it’s not, Mum.” He knelt in front of his hearth, stacking a couple of logs for a fire. “Not long enough for… this.”
“Well, I say I don’t need an occasion—”
“You’re worried,” Charlie cut her off, standing and sending a quick incendio at the fireplace. “You’re nervous. Scared. Of something, about something. And Mum,” he snorted gently, “you hate being here. You’ve been here, what, twice? I’ve lived here almost ten years.”
Her shoulders fell in defeat. She removed her shawl, draping it awkwardly and carefully over the back of Charlie’s armchair.
“All these years, I just thought you were… sensitive, and intuitive,” she said softly. Guiltily. “I feel terrible for not noticing your ability, Charlie dear. Had I known—”
“I didn’t know, either, Mum,” he mumbled, uncomfortable.
“Yes, well. You’re right. I’m… worried.” She steeled herself a little bit. She looked so out of place in Charlie’s sparse hut. “You left so suddenly at Christmas—which broke Harry’s heart, I might add, you know he loves it when you’re home—” Charlie flinched, “—and you didn’t say goodbye to anyone but Ginny, and you’ve been writing the same things in your letters for months, and Harry went and cut his hair off and Draco keeps glaring when anyone mentions your name and I wanted to make sure nothing… drastic was happening.”
Charlie gaped at her for a second, then gathered his wits, and transfigured another armchair out of a log and a wool blanket. He waved his wand to get the kettle going, and motioned for his mother to sit in the original chair.
She settled herself a little uncomfortably, pulling out half-knit socks and a ball of yellow yarn from somewhere on her person, and started to knit while she waited for him to respond.
But the only thing Charlie’s brain could come up with was, “Harry cut his hair?”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “A few days after Christmas. Shaved it all right off. Of course, I always think you boys look a little more polished, more gentlemanly, with a shorter haircut, but Harry—he loved his long hair, I know he did.” She shook her head in disappointment, and Charlie miraculously refrained from blurting out, I loved his long hair, too.
“Alright,” Charlie said slowly. “I’m sorry I left so suddenly. I wasn’t trying to worry you.”
“Oh, you—” she exhaled sharply. The knitting needles made little clacking noises against each other. “You kids never intend to worry me, but I worry anyway. I can’t help it. And I’m worried—” she paused to count stitches with a wrinkle of concentration between her brows. Charlie waited patiently. “I’m worried that if Ginny is worried, and George is looking grim, and Harry’s upset enough to shave his head, and Draco is angry enough to let us all see it on his face, and your letters are so formal and monotonous, then maybe—I’m worried you’re not coming home!”
She looked up at him and slammed the knitting down in her lap—as much as one could slam knitting. Charlie winced through her surge of anxiety, feeling his leg start jumping. He was thankful as ever for the kettle, which started whistling, giving him the opportunity to get up and avoid her gaze for a bit.
He silently poured the tea, and carved a hefty slice of pumpkin bread for them both, floating them over on mismatched plates.
She set down her knitting to take the mug, watching him with wide brown eyes. He settled once again in his chair, knowing he couldn’t stall anymore, and he couldn’t lie to her, either.
“I’m not coming home.”
Her face crumpled, but she recovered as best she could. Her dismay was almost unbearable. He took a sip of tea, letting it warm his chest from the inside out. There was so much empty space in there for it to fill.
“Oh, Charlie,” she sighed. “What is it? Is it because Harry and Draco got together? I didn’t think you’d disapprove.”
“You know about that?”
“Well, they’re hardly subtle, are they?”
Charlie chuckled a little. It felt like it echoed in his ribs. “No, I don’t disapprove. I’m happy for them.”
“Then why on earth won’t you come home?”
Charlie fidgeted. This was such a weird thing to discuss with his mother. But he really was terrible at lying to her—it was part of the reason he’d left without saying goodbye. He twirled the bracelets around his wrist, over and over.
“I’m, erm.” He cleared his throat, staring into the crackling fire as if it held a way to make this less awkward. “I’m happy for them, Mum. I’m happy for Harry. But when I’m there—I’m a bit…”
Understanding exploded through her like a firework. He was surprised to not hear a gasp. Her eyes were wide as saucers, and the corner of her lips ticked up involuntarily, as she settled into an odd glee.
“Distracting…!” she finished for him, the syllables like delicate plucks of a violin string. “Oh.” She covered her mouth with her mug, but Charlie heard a stifled giggle. He was so confused, but she wasn’t done.
“Of course. He’s always been… and you, Charlie, you never could take your eyes off him, could you?” Another giggle.
“Mum—!”
“Goodness, never thought I’d see the day you’d turn Harry down. Wonderful, just wonderful.”
“How is this—?”
“Not to worry, dear. I know just the thing. It’ll be alright, and you will come home.”
“Mum, you’re scaring me,” he mumbled. His mother was scheming, that much was clear. “And I’m not coming home. I belong here, Mum.”
“We’ll see. Now, eat. You look like you could be toppled by a slight breeze.”
Charlie glanced down at himself. His arms were tightly wrapped in the sleeves of his flannel shirt, which he wore open over a plain t-shirt, because it no longer buttoned comfortably over his chest. But he didn’t argue.
Pumpkin bread was his favourite.
***
“Do you want to see a dragon, Mum?” Charlie offered with only a little bit of wicked glee.
Fear—he’d known there would be—then determination. She fussed over her skirt, tied her shawl around her shoulders. The dishes from breakfast were scrubbing themselves in his tiny sink. He had no idea how she’d managed to cook such an impressive spread with only a single burner.
Come to think of it, he didn’t even own half those dishes.
“Well. I’m already here, I suppose I should see what it is you do. If you’re absolutely sure it is safe, Charles Gideon—”
He chuckled at her, and reluctantly started untying the tight knot of Harry’s first bracelet.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually been alone with his mother. Having so many siblings would do that. But even the two times she’d visited for Christmas, his dad had come with. Which was great, of course. But Charlie and Molly had never actually spent this much quality time together, just the two of them.
It was a bit annoying, and embarrassing, and stressful, but it was also kind of nice. She kept fussing over things, chastising him for not “doing more with the place,” whatever that meant. She’d rearranged his sparse furniture, organized his kitchenette, refolded all of his clothes. She’d hung the framed family photo on the wall, the one from Harry’s seventeenth birthday, because “It should be where you can always see it, Charlie, not hidden behind a pile of post!”
She’d cleaned up the mess of his tiny desk, covered with said pile of post, sorting it into stacks of Replied, and Yet to Reply.
The only letter in that last stack was from Harry:
1 Aug, 2000
Charlie,
Thank you for the candy. I hope things are going well at the sanctuary.
Harry
Charlie didn’t think that one needed—or wanted—a reply. But he’d kept it open on his desk since it arrived, pretending he was still undecided. He was sure his mother saw right through him.
“Isn’t that lovely?” Molly mused as he tied the simple leather braid to her wrist. “I didn’t know you wore accessories, Charlie.”
“It’s charmed,” he said absently, already feeling bereft without it. He hadn’t taken it off since Harry first put it on. “It’ll protect your wand arm from dragonfire, though you won’t need it.” He’d have given her the stronger one, but that one only worked for Charlie. According to Harry.
“That’s quite impressive,” she said, lifting her wrist to her face to examine it. “One of Harry’s, is it?”
“Er.” He cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Oh, how wonderful. He’s so talented with those charms of his. Did you know my garden is finally free of gnomes thanks to him?”
She waxed poetic about Harry’s incomparable charm skills all the way to the ‘Senior’s Meadow.’ Agnes heard him coming—or heard Molly, and smelled Charlie. Either way, she was happy to see him, and came ambling out of her barn to say hello.
Molly jumped, of course, the second she heard movement inside the barn, which was understandable, because Agnes was clumsy in her old age, especially with that leg, and tended to cause quite a racket. Charlie had offered to get the others to help engorgio the barn more, so she might fit better, but she’d seemed so completely unimpressed by the idea that he’d long since let it go.
Charlie chuckled as Molly clutched at his sleeve, feeling her fight terror and curiosity and awe, all at once.
“Goodness me,” she breathed.
“Mum, this is Agnes. She’s a hundred and fifty years old, and she’s not going to hurt you.”
He could tell Agnes was amused at the thought of anyone being afraid of her, right now. He wondered if she’d try to play it up and look fierce for the newcomer, but she simply limped her way over to Charlie’s outstretched hand and let him give her a gentle pat between the nostrils.
She’d broken her left hind knee in a fall, long before Charlie was born. It hadn’t healed right, and she couldn’t really fly without a powerful launch, nor land safely. So she lived here, at the sanctuary, the largest Welsh Green and the oldest dragon present.
She let out a low, gravelly trill, nuzzling him gently with her massive head, which shoved him a few steps to the side. He laughed, delighted at her cheerful mood, and walked back to take his mother’s hand and pull her closer. She resisted, clearly still terrified.
“Now, Charlie, dear—”
“Mum, she’s happy to see us,” he assured her. She looked at him shrewdly, as if just now comprehending that he could feel the dragon’s emotions, too. Then he realized he could literally reassure his mother—he’d never tried that with her before, not even unconsciously, but he gave it his best shot.
Her shoulders relaxed, and she reluctantly let him pull her forward, leading her hand to Agnes’ waiting snout.
“George will never believe me,” Charlie laughed, watching his mother gently pet the nose of an elderly dragon. “Proud of you, Mum.”
“Oh, hush,” she said, shooting him a weak glare before returning to her cooing. “She’s a lovely creature, aren’t you, dearie? It’s a pain, getting old, isn’t it? Hope I can live as long as you, though, what’s your secret?”
Agnes was terribly amused. It was a common emotion for her, around humans. She was either amused, fond, or unimpressed. And she was indeed lovely.
Charlie let them interact for a few more minutes before herding his mother back to the commons.
She followed him around most of the day, chatting away while he shoveled dragon dung and strengthened wards and charms and checked on whomever needed checking on. He even let her come with him to spend time with the new little one, who was still in her dark corner on top of the rafters, though a few of the steaks from last night were gone. Progress.
The little one was much less threatened by Molly, but still refused to come down. Molly softened at the sight of her suspicious, glowing eyes, and sat down next to Charlie, right there on the floor, taking out her knitting, with plentiful stories and name suggestions.
She insisted on cooking for him again, before she left, which Charlie would never decline. But as she swished her wand to summon all of her things after supper, rummaging in her skirt pocket for the thimble Portkey, Charlie noticed she’d left a small package on his little desk.
“Mum, you forgot something.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said lightly, guilty but determined, making Charlie very suspicious. She swished her wand again, changing her transfigured bed back into a transfigured armchair.
“Mum—”
“That’s for you, dear, and you’ll go along with it if you know what’s best for you!”
“Mum, what—”
She patted his cheek gently, excited and fond, she loved him so much; that guilt was quickly slipping away, which was even weirder.
“I love you, Charlie. Please try to write more. There’s a new pair of socks in your drawer, I left a roast chicken under a stasis charm in the cupboard, and—and she’s going to help you learn Occlumency so you won’t get so overwhelmed, alright? Then you’ll be able to come home—maybe even to stay. Think about it!”
She pulled his head down to give him a quick kiss on the forehead, then stepped back, and disappeared from Charlie’s hut in a vacuum of blue light, leaving only the lingering ozone scent of Portkey magic and something floral.
“What?” he whispered to himself, turning to the tiny package on the desk, unassuming brown paper tied with very thin blue ribbon.
He approached it warily, untying the delicate knot and peeling back the paper.
It looked like two muggle cassette tapes—Arthur had a few of these in his shed—but with all the tape ripped out. His fingers brushed the edge of a folded note between them as he picked them up, but he glanced at the handwritten titles on the tapes first:
Dragon Sanctuary of Romania to Villa Mathilde, Corsica, France. 31 October, 14:00 GMT
Villa Mathilde, Corsica, France to Dragon Sanctuary of Romania. 31 October, 20:00 GMT
Charlie’s stomach sank with dread. He dropped the tapes on the desk and tore open the note.
Dear Mr. Weasley,
It has been brought to my attention that you have recently discovered your gift of empathic and pathokinetic abilities.
As someone who has spent her entire life aware of and managing these abilities, I would like to extend the offer of my expertise, both in general Occlumency and targeted pathokinesis. It is my hope, and the hope of your loved ones, that such training could improve your quality of life.
Included are two Portkeys: one will bring you to my home in Corsica, and one will take you back to Romania, six hours later, on the thirty-first of October.
I look forward to meeting you.
Sincerely,
Narcissa Malfoy née Black
Charlie rummaged his mind for the date. “Oh, fuck.” Threw the note down on the desk; very unsatisfying. “Fuck, fucking shit—” he yanked off his clothes and crawled into bed, grumbling to himself. He pulled the blankets up over his head, groaning with nerves and melodramatic despair.
He had a big day tomorrow, apparently.
Right before sleep claimed him, he jolted awake with the horrific realization that his mother still had Harry’s bracelet.
***
“Call me Narcissa,” she said. “Please.”
Charlie gulped. Maybe it was the opulent furnishings, the high, echoing ceilings, or the piercing stare of this unshakeable-looking woman in front of him, but he felt a bit like he was on display, like every single one of his flaws and shortcomings was out in the open, under the intense scrutiny of the upper-class.
“No need for that,” Narcissa murmured, and to Charlie’s relief, her carved marble face softened just a bit, as if she knew exactly what Charlie was feeling. Which of course, she did.
He felt wrong-footed, uncomfortable with how vulnerable he was, when he couldn’t read a damn thing about her other than her stoicism and wealth.
She let out a small, almost-imperceptible sigh as Charlie continued to fidget and avoid her gaze.
And then Charlie was hit with a tsunami of emotions, like a dam had burst and flooded the room: wariness, just as much fear as Charlie, the fear of being judged and shamed, of someone weaponizing weaknesses. Empathy, pity, eagerness to help, to make a positive change in someone’s life, for once. Curiosity, protectiveness, loneliness. Bitterness. Depression. Motherly love. Grief. It was too much, for one person, he couldn’t keep up, he didn’t know how to endure it—
And then it was gone, as quickly as it had come, leaving a vacuum in Charlie’s head that made his ears ring.
“Erm,” Charlie said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Her lips twitched. Her light brown eyes hadn’t left him once. She picked up the pot of tea and poured him a cup, which Charlie was grateful for; it was a posh, flashy thing with gold leaf bits, he was sure he would shatter it with a single touch. Her lip twitched again.
“It’s unbreakable,” she said softly. Charlie closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand over his face. He reminded himself that he was a bloody Gryffindor, and he was already fucking here.
“Right,” he said, straightening his spine, “Narcissa. Thank you for meeting me.”
“My pleasure,” she replied with a barely-there nod. She picked up her own teacup with dainty fingers. “I would congratulate you on the gift of magical ability you’ve come into, but I doubt you think of it as such.”
“No,” Charlie said grimly, shaking his head. He picked up his teacup as gently as he could. Even though it was unbreakable. It felt so fragile. His hands felt too big. Everything was fine. “And I’ve always been this way, I just—didn’t know it was. A thing. I thought I was just…” he trailed off, fighting the urge to wave his hand around, because surely the unbreakable teacup required both hands.
“…Too much?” Narcissa finished for him, and he nodded, sipping his tea to stall.
Fuck, that was really good tea. Rich people tea. Narcissa did that thing again with her lips.
“So you isolate yourself,” she guessed, and Charlie frowned.
“I’m not… isolated, there are about fifteen people living at the sanctuary at any time, and of course, there’s the dragons—”
“I’m assuming you live in a small structure, alone, at least fifty feet away from anyone else. You don’t stay in large groups for longer than you can help it. You are close to very, very few, and you can’t experience a social situation without feeling simultaneously smothered and excluded. And you almost never enjoy romantic relationships.”
Charlie’s mouth snapped shut. He managed not to spill the rich-people-tea in his shock. Narcissa sipped hers smoothly, watching him over the gold-leafed rim of the cup.
“Forgive my presumptuousness,” she said. “It’s how I would be living if I didn’t know how to control it.” She hesitated a little, adjusting her light hold on the teacup. “If I didn’t know what it was… I would be taking every emotion as fact. I would believe that I was simply reading truth in every face. I would believe that I knew more than anyone else, that I knew better. Even though it hurt me.”
Charlie frowned harder. “I do not—”
“Are you sure?” she interrupted him. Again. Weren’t rich people supposed to be big on not interrupting? “You felt like you couldn’t interact with me until you knew what I was feeling. You rely on it quite heavily, as much as you despise it.”
Charlie glared at her. He didn’t care if it was rude.
Her lip did the thing again. “It’s annoying, isn’t it? Being on the other side. Having someone think they know everything about you, simply because they know what emotions you’re experiencing at the moment.”
Oh. Damn.
“Emotions are the least reliable part of a person, Mr. Weasley,” she said, in a gentler tone than he’d expected. “Of course, they expose an inner truth, but they are separate from logic and reason. They do not equal the things we say or the choices we make. You don’t have the slightest clue of what’s really going on in someone’s mind, though it feels like you do. You know—you feel—only a small part, and a part no one has any control over.”
Charlie set down his cup, very delicately, feeling a bit defeated.
“When I came in here, I had no idea what you were feeling. You were just—there. Looking at me. Quiet.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is that what everyone else feels like? All the time?”
She nodded slowly. “People have to actually talk, if they want to get to know each other. Some people are more adept at reading expressions and nonverbal cues than others, but even then, no one is capable of knowing another person if both parties aren’t willing to give away that knowledge.”
“You’re saying it like I’ve got it all wrong,” Charlie grumbled. “My whole life. I’ve done it wrong. I don’t know anyone.”
“That’s not true,” she said. “You know the people you’ve chosen to open up to, and who have opened up to you in return. But the number is probably small, because people are overwhelming—they have to be worth it. And there’s so much you think you already know, you probably don’t bother to try getting to know people properly.”
“I sound like an arsehole,” he noted, wincing at the careless slip of a swear word around a mother. A very bourgeois mother, at that. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Her head tilted to the side, a little. Charlie wasn’t entirely sure, without the emotion, but she looked thoughtful. Not malicious. She wasn’t trying to make him feel bad. Probably.
“I won’t lie to you, Mr. Weasley—”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie,” she corrected with a gentle nod. “I’ll be honest. I believe you may have caused harm you aren’t yet aware of, because it is so easy for people like us to become… trapped, in our own heads. We have our own emotions, values and worldviews, our own self-image and perception of those around us. Whatever we absorb from others goes through those same mental filters, and tends to be manipulated in order to support those existing structures, until we believe our own opinions to be fact, thanks to all of those manipulated emotional experiences backing them up.”
Charlie squirmed uncomfortably. “That does sound… pretty awful.” She nodded again.
“I can’t help you fix anything,” she said. “But I can teach you a little of what I know. Basic Occlumency, though you might want to consider more specialized training. Deciphering foreign emotions, and separating them from your own. How to project emotions, though you must already be perfectly capable, if you’re working with intelligent creatures like dragons. Six hours isn’t nearly long enough, to instruct you properly, but I didn’t want to keep you from your work, or overwhelm you.”
Charlie felt unaccountably soothed by that, looking down at his hands. Maybe she’d made him feel that way. “Thank you.”
“Charlie.” Charlie looked up. Her gaze was back to piercing. “I can teach you, but you need to be willing to learn, do you understand?”
“I am.” Charlie frowned. Was he being chastised already? “I’m here, after all.”
“Yes, but you’ve been living this way, with these thought patterns, your entire life. Dismantling them might feel frightening. You’ll have to learn to be okay with not knowing. You have to be willing to accept that you were wrong about many things, all along—which, as I know from experience, is one of the most difficult things to do.” She set down her teacup. It didn’t make a single noise. “Any knowledge I impart upon you will be worthless if it isn’t put to use, repeatedly and with full intent.”
Charlie swallowed. He tried to remember why he was doing this, other than the fact his mother made him.
He wanted to be able to be around people without wanting to flee. He wanted to sit in the mess hall with his friends and colleagues and not get annoyed by everything. He wanted to be able to interact with someone without having to endure everything they were feeling. It would be easier, if he ever saw Harry again, to not get caught up in Harry’s emotions, his feelings for someone else, which would have no doubt grown and solidified by the time Charlie ever deemed it safe to go home.
He wanted peace. Quiet. He wanted to stop being a bloody hurricane of a person, too big and too much and wrecking everything in his path.
“I believe you may have caused harm you aren’t yet aware of,” Narcissa had said.
“Which broke poor Harry’s heart, I might add, you know how much he loves it when you’re home,” Molly had told him.
“You can feel what I’m feeling,” Harry had murmured in his ear, holding Charlie tight. “But you’re not a Legilimens. You don’t know why I’m feeling it.”
“Alright,” Charlie said finally. “Yes. I, er. Accept. I want to learn.”
Narcissa smiled, then, properly, and Charlie felt a bit warm, realizing that Draco had his mother’s smile. Sharp and thin and bright, higher on one side, most of the joy left to simmer in the eyes like a secret. These smiles were probably just as rare on Narcissa as they were on Draco. Just as precious.
He shook himself, because surely he didn’t know Draco that well, at all, having only spent a couple of days with him. And Narcissa probably knew what he was feeling, considering the knowing sort of glint in her eyes, and she seemed much better at knowing the thoughts and motivations behind his feelings, and maybe she was actually a Legilimens and sweet Merlin, if she knew the thoughts he’d had about her son—
“Relax,” she said gently, her smile still in place. He did, much more easily than he would have on his own, but he supposed he was grateful for it. She reached a pale, flawless hand across the table.
Charlie stared at it for a second, like an idiot, because Draco had the same hand shape, too, the same long, slender fingers, though his were bigger, his palm only slightly broader, the back of his hand more veined and masculine—
He snapped out of it again and took her hand, shaking it gently. Hopefully she could help him keep his shit together.
“Excellent,” she said, standing from her seat as if she’d never fully sat down. “Shall we begin?”
Notes:
sorry had to exercise my huge Narcissa crush muscle for a bit, u kno how it is 😂
Chapter Text
November, 2000
Wary, curious. A little bit betrayed.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday,” Charlie murmured, settling down on the dusty barn floor. He didn’t have any mending, so he’d brought a belt he was working on, a Christmas gift for his dad. “I missed you, though. I was in bloody France, if you can believe it. At least, I think it was France. A French island, for rich people.”
The dragon shifted infinitesimally on the rafters, causing a little fall of dust in the shaft of light from the small window.
“But, I think I’ve found the perfect name for you.” He looked up at the glowing yellow eyes. “Mathilde. What do you think?”
The eyes blinked. Charlie waited, watching the dark corner closely. After a long moment, she let out a faint, low trill, so quiet he wouldn’t have heard it if they weren’t alone, and his heart soared.
“Mathilde,” he repeated, high on triumph. “It’s a good name. I like it, too.” He had to stop himself from doing a little dance, while sitting on the floor. The sudden movement wouldn’t be appreciated. “I brought more steak, of course—” he gently pushed the pail out in front of him with his foot, “—you should eat, Mathilde.”
The eyes narrowed. He chuckled a little.
“I went to France so a woman my family used to hate could teach me how to discipline my mind,” he said, shaking his head incredulously. “It was… a lot. It all sounded so simple, when she spoke about it, but I had trouble putting it into practice. It’s weird to think that all I have to do to keep everyone else’s feelings out is… imagine a room, sort of like this one. I can fill it with a sound, or an image, but it has to have many doors, and I have to imagine going around and closing all those doors, until I’m alone in my imaginary room.”
He pinned one end of the belt under his boot. With one hand holding the other end aloft, keeping the leather taut, he dragged the burnisher along the raw edge, over and over.
“I practiced with the sound of the waves on the cliffs below the villa,” he continued, smiling to himself. “She said that’s what she uses, these days. It’s nice. I can still hear it, if I try hard enough—hm. Maybe that’s what it is. Trying really hard to listen to a memory of a sound, and closing myself off from everything around it. I have to keep practicing, anyway.”
A small huff. Exasperated, a little afraid. Curious.
Now was as good a time as any, he thought. He set down the leather and wood, rested his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes.
He started with the waves.
He remembered how they’d looked, as he’d leaned over the side of the terrace, a deep, ultramarine blue strewn with streaks of white foam. The feel of saltwater wind on his face, Narcissa’s calm presence next to him, the scent of the potted lemon trees, ripe with fruit. And the sound: low, susurrant rumbling, the hushed crash against weathered stone, rhythmic and relentless. Like breathing, Narcissa had said.
He breathed in deep, following the rise and fall of the ocean in his mind, and started building imaginary walls around it. Numerous doors appeared with each one, open wide and swinging in a turbulent sea breeze. A roof and a floor, encasing the sensation. Trapping life inside a room.
In, then out. Easy as breathing; the ocean does it, too, Charlie thought. Natural, beautiful, an exhale against a cloud of steam over a hot mug. He closed door after door, isolating the pulse of the ocean, push and pull, back and forth, like a finger over chipped maroon ceramic. The bright sun on the waves, glinting off chaotic dark curves, darker, tucked behind an ear, falling over a collarbone peeking out from under a sleep-rumpled t-shirt. Crashing against the cliff, unstoppable, splashing and churning with foam, gleeful, infinite, adorable.
He tugged the final door closed, locked it, and exhaled in silent laughter.
His imaginary room was no longer awash with sapphire blue and lemon yellow, but glowing with emerald green and rose gold. The saltwater smell had made way for fresh coffee, and the sound of the swishing, crashing waves had morphed into the sound of Harry’s hushed, sleepy laughter, and Charlie should have expected this, really. He couldn’t keep his thoughts away from Harry for long.
Nothing to be done for it now, though. It felt like getting away with something, living inside a locked room of secret indulgence; no one else needed to know. But it had a purpose, he remembered.
And it must have been working, because he couldn’t feel the buzzing fear, trepidation, or curiosity he expected from Mathilde. Perhaps she was bored of him, or had fallen asleep, or maybe this was just really working. He was really doing Occlumency. He opened his eyes.
Mathilde was sitting fifteen feet in front of him, on the floor. Watching him.
He had no idea what she was feeling. But she was on the floor, not in the rafters. He could see her better in the scant light, her black scales barely catching the beam from the window, refracting it into rainbow shimmers. She’d made no sound; common, for a Nightwing like this one, but he hadn’t thought she’d have mastered that particular skill, being raised in captivity. He smiled gently at her, and her glowing eyes darted to the pail of raw meat in front of him.
From this close, with her body unfurled and sitting normally, he could see she even had a little snaggletooth, stark white and sharp against her upper lip. Adorable.
“Hello there, Mathilde,” he murmured. “Hungry?” He slowly gathered his tools to himself. She tensed, eyes wide and bright; he had expected that. But he scooted backward on the floor, giving her more space.
He kept himself still, talking softly at her—about Harry, since that laugh still lingered in his head—until she took a shaky step forward, claws barely scratching the floor. He watched and cooed but kept his projections to himself, and her emotions out of his head, until she knocked over the pail with a sudden clang that made them both jump, a little, and started eating.
The rush of pride and fulfillment was enough to topple those Occlumency walls, and he was filled with her own relief, tentative trust, curiosity and the constant undertone of wariness she might never shake. But she’d come so far already, and Charlie hadn’t felt this good all year.
***
Bill showed up at the sanctuary a couple of weeks later, also unannounced. Andrei seemed to be relishing the shock on Charlie’s face. This was probably the most entertaining thing he’d done in years, scheming with Charlie’s family behind his back, to… surprise him. Or whatever this was.
Charlie quickly dragged his reticent older brother out of the mess hall before he had to feel any more uncomfortable secondhand attraction from his colleagues. Merlin alive, it was just Bill.
“Hello to you too, Charlie, I’m well, thanks so much for asking,” Bill grumbled. Charlie slowed down and released his arm.
“Right,” he said. “Sorry. Everyone in there was—you know.”
“I don’t, actually,” Bill said lightly, but he was amused, so Charlie figured he was just taking the piss. He flapped a hand at him, annoyed, but still happy to see him.
“Why are you here, Bill?”
“To visit my little brother, of course.”
“Oh, come on,” Charlie huffed in vexation. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face Bill, who simply stood there, watching him, amused and a little sad, with a familiar, protective undertone. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his old brown coat, half his ponytail stuck in the upturned collar. He still wore the fang earring Charlie had made him years ago, a serendipitous acquisition from a year-old Peruvian Vipertooth called Penelope, who had lost it to make way for the much bigger, adult viperteeth she currently owned. He was smirking; it had taken Charlie a while after Bill was attacked to recognize the expression, due to the thick scar that ran through his lips.
“Mum send you, or something?” Charlie asked. Bill grinned.
“No. Though she still won’t shut up about all the dragons she bravely encountered here, and your incredible, heartwarming hospitality, et cetera.”
“My hospitality?” Charlie scoffed. “She practically hosted me, in my own place. It was all very strange.” He turned to continue leading the way to his hut.
“Yeah, but you loved it,” Bill said, catching up easily. “Admit it.”
“Alright, yeah. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here, though.”
Bill hesitated. “Well. The way Mum was going on, it sounded like…” He paused, pulling his ponytail out of his collar. “It sounded like you wouldn’t mind visitors.”
“Er.” Charlie frowned as he opened the door to his hut. “What?”
“We—I didn’t know that you wanted visitors, Charlie. The way you run off to this place… I always thought you just… couldn’t stand us, for more than that long. I thought that Christmas was all you wanted to see of us. Every year. But now I know that’s not true.”
Charlie stared at him, mouth agape, with his boot halfway off.
He blinked a few times, then toed off his boots completely, like a person, setting them neatly by the door, and hung up his coat with care.
“I thought none of you wanted to visit me,” he admitted, after a long, uncomfortable moment. Bill clicked his tongue, hanging up his own coat.
“And therein lies the miscommunication, I suppose,” he mumbled. “Or lack of communication, in general. But now we know that you enjoy visitors, which means you enjoy spending time with us, maybe especially one at a time, given your—” he waved a hand at Charlie’s head, “—you know. Listen, you got any firewhiskey?”
Charlie raised his eyebrows as Bill’s nervousness grew. Bill was never nervous.
He grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey from the cupboard, and the two old mugs he owned. He poured them both a generous finger, though it was hard to really measure, with the mugs. He started a fire in the hearth and watched Bill settle into the transfigured armchair, grimacing from a hefty sip of liquor.
“Bill—”
“Wait, there is another reason I’m here. Just—let me get it out, yeah?”
Charlie leaned back in his armchair. He had a feeling this was the sort of thing Narcissa had talked about.
“You don’t have the slightest clue of what’s really going on in someone’s mind, though it feels like you do.”
He knew Bill was nervous. He didn’t know why. It seemed Bill was asking for the chance to tell Charlie, himself.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the crackling sound of the fire. He breathed in the scent of cinder and cinnamon. Closed door after door after door. Opened his eyes, and nodded. Bill looked relieved, maybe.
It wasn’t very strong, but it was the best Charlie could do at the moment. Bill didn't seem too keen on waiting to say whatever it was. Charlie took a careful sip as Bill opened his mouth to speak.
“Fleur’s pregnant.”
Charlie spit out the burning liquor, coughing a little smoke. “Oh.” Coughed some more, wiped his chin. The coughing transformed into laughter. “Oh, Merlin. Bill!” He set his mug on the floor. Bill watched him with wide blue eyes and a tentative smile. “Are you serious? This is real?” Bill nodded. Charlie leapt from his chair and dragged him up into a hug, giggling with delight. “Bloody hell, congratulations! You’re gonna be a dad!”
Bill chuckled with him, returning the excited embrace.
“Yeah,” he said, squeezing Charlie’s shoulder. “I am. It’s completely barmy. But there’s more.”
“Oh.” Charlie sobered as much as he could, returning to his chair. “Okay.” Maybe this was the bit that had Bill so nervous. Babies were good news, Charlie thought. Bill took a deep breath.
“Fleur and I have done a lot of thinking, and we’ve both decided that—” he cleared his throat awkwardly, adjusting his grip on the mug. He held Charlie’s gaze intently. “Charlie, we’d like you to be the godfather.”
Charlie lost his breath for a moment. The fire crackled on in the hearth, the noise trapped inside Charlie’s head, where the whirlwind of his own emotions was rattling the shutters.
“Oh,” Charlie said. Again. Bill’s hand tightened on the mug, waiting.
Joy. Charlie felt his own joy, dancing around his skull. Love, for his brother and sister-in-law. For the trust they were putting in him, giving him this position of honour. Excitement, for the family they were creating. For their happiness.
Fear. He had no idea how to handle a baby. He didn’t even know how to hold one—a human one. Bill had been the helpful, responsible older brother when their siblings were babies. Charlie hadn’t been very good at it. He didn’t even know what to do with a baby. He hadn’t even met Teddy, yet, and Teddy was probably not a baby anymore—
Despair. Being a godfather meant—being around, being a staple in that child’s life. He didn’t have a godfather, he didn’t think, but he’d always thought that was because so many people his parents had known at the time were being murdered or exposed as traitors and nobody trusted each other, back then. But now—there wasn’t an excuse. There wasn’t war. There was only Charlie, who couldn’t come home without fucking something up. And now he couldn’t stay away without fucking something up, either. And Merlin forbid something happen to Bill and Fleur… the child would be thrust upon Charlie, and have to grow up out here, in the middle of nowhere, among dragons, and Charlie was shit at maths, he had no idea how to raise a child and teach it the right things.
Bill and Fleur were setting themselves up for disappointment. Disaster.
“It is so easy for people like us to become… trapped, in our own heads.”
“Wow,” Charlie said eventually, a little hoarse, trying to shake himself out of his head. “Bill—thank you. This is a huge honour.”
Bill gave him another hesitant smile. “You deserve it, Charlie.”
Charlie took a sip of his firewhiskey. The hearth spat a little. Sparks in his head.
“And…” Bill continued slowly, as if speaking to a spooked animal. “It’ll give you a reason to come home, more. If you want. Maybe even… you know the Ministry’s still sending Aurors after these rogue dragons?” His voice sped up, gaining a little confidence. “As if they have any idea how to handle it. There must be one every few months, at least. You’d think this would be a problem for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but apparently they’re not equipped for anything larger than a hippogriff. As if only the magical fauna that can fit in London are of any importance. Britain hasn’t seen resident dragons outside of Wales or the Hebrides in…”
Bill’s rambling trailed off uncomfortably as Charlie continued to stare at him. It was a bit of a relief, not feeling Bill’s feelings alongside his own. His own were quite enough, right now.
“Right,” Charlie said. “What are they doing with the dragons, then? If they’re not arresting them, or something.”
“Stunning them,” Bill answered. Charlie winced. “Yeah, I know. Then about twenty Aurors levitate it back to Scotland or Wales or wherever, on brooms, let ‘em down in the middle of nowhere. It takes ages, and so much manpower. There’s quite a few loud voices pushing for just killing the poor beasts, harvesting the valuables.”
“Fuck that,” Charlie snapped. Bill nodded.
“My thoughts exactly. Harry and Draco, along with Ron and Hermione, are particularly vocal against it.”
Charlie frowned. “Hermione’s not an Auror.”
“No. She’s very smart, and very loud when she needs to be. She’s becoming quite the legislator.”
“Oh.” Charlie paused, taking another sip. “Why are you telling me this?”
Bill blinked a few times, as if this was a surprise question. “Because no one knows more about dragons than you, Charlie.”
“That’s not true, first of all,” Charlie said, raising a hand to stop Bill’s argument. “Second of all, I don’t know why dragons are flocking to Britain. I don’t—if you’re implying I should offer myself to the Ministry, to fix their little problem, I won’t do it. I can’t make a dragon do anything it doesn’t want to do, and I’m not going to spend my days casting offensive spells at dragons with Aurors. I can’t make dragons leave England, if England is where they wanted to go in the first place.”
“I’m not saying you should,” Bill said. “Just… think about it. Mull it over, in that big, dragon-infested brain of yours.”
Charlie rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile on his face.
“How’s Fleur, then? When’s she due?”
***
Bill stayed the night, transfiguring the makeshift armchair into a makeshift bed, just as Molly had done. It was still weird, sleeping with someone else in the room, but familiar, because it was Bill.
Charlie listened for the sound of Bill’s breathing as the embers died out in the hearth. He wasn’t asleep. Charlie still knew Bill’s breathing patterns, like he knew what his footsteps sounded like on stairs. They’d lived in close quarters most of their lives, after all.
“Bill.”
“Hm.”
“Can I…” Charlie fiddled with the blanket under his chin. “Can I visit just you and Fleur? At Shell Cottage?”
“‘Course, Charlie,” Bill answered, slurred with firewhiskey and fatigue. “You’re always welcome, you know that.”
“No, I don’t.”
A pause, then shuffling fabric as Bill rolled to face him on his cot by the hearth. “Well. Sorry about that, little brother. Now you know. You’re always welcome.”
Charlie stared at the ceiling, letting that sink in.
“You have to be willing to accept that you were wrong about many things, all along…”
This felt like a pretty nice thing to be wrong about. Considering all the things Narcissa had probably been wrong about.
“Bill,” he said again, breaking the silence.
“Yeah?”
“How old does a kid have to be before they can wear an earring?”
Bill chuckled softly. “It’s a topic of heated debate, in my house.”
***
“Godfather,” Charlie said, letting the word fill the stillness of the barn. “Can you believe that?”
Mathilde was sitting in front of him again, a safe distance away, watching him with those unnerving, glowing eyes. Curious, always curious. They were alone; Bill had left earlier that morning, for work. For his life, actually. For his pregnant wife and everything.
“Godfather,” he repeated, still not sure if he believed it. “I mean, why would they trust me with a baby? Me!”
He looked up from the wand holster he was finishing up for Ron. If Mathilde had eyebrows, he was sure she’d be raising them at him, unimpressed.
“Yeah, well, you’re not really a baby anymore are you? And human babies—if you ever get to see one, though I don’t know why you would—” he returned to the holster, stitching on the final buckle. “They’re really small. And so breakable, and loud, and you have to always be watching them because they fall over and get into things they shouldn’t, and they’re always either upset or confused or they’re giggling and babbling and peeing themselves…”
She was a bit fed up with him, but in a weird, fond way. Still wary. She’d already eaten, too; she seemed to just be waiting to see what he would do next. As if he were an odd show she was subjected to every day.
“I mean, I haven’t been around babies since my siblings were babies, and that’s what it was like. Especially Ron. He was bloody loud. Bill was the one who got stuck helping with them most of the time. I ran off outside to avoid it, especially when the babies got upset. Their screaming would make everyone else upset. It got to be too much, sometimes.”
This might have been his best wand holster yet, Charlie admitted to himself with a little pride. He was getting good at this. Only took him ten years.
“Oh, no,” he said, spine snapping straight with a fresh realization. Mathilde tensed, barely; her eyes widened. “I’ve got to make a present for the baby. Babies need—things!”
Okay, she was definitely teasing him now. Somehow. Unmoving and silent. Charlie felt like he was being made fun of.
“Fuck, what do babies even… I’m sure Bill and Fleur don’t need a crib or, or baby clothes, my mum’ll be all over that, and I was only half joking about the earring, but I know I can’t give an unborn child an earring. Obviously. Oh, Merlin.” He sighed, inspecting his work on the holster. Ron better love this. “A mobile, maybe. Babies like to look at pretty, shiny things… right? They have mobiles, that hang over their beds. Dangling pretty things… Ginny had one with little birds, that changed colours…”
He trailed off as a wisp of an idea entered his mind. He looked up, studying the young dragon, whose scales were glimmering like fire opals wherever the light found them. But he dismissed the thought just as quickly, with a firm shake of his head.
“Ah, no.” That was the whole reason Mathilde was here, the reason she’d lived the first six months of her life in a dark cage with no meaningful contact. Mongolian Nightwing scales were outrageously valuable, and easy enough to harvest from the babies, who outgrew and shed their scales every few weeks. But he didn’t want to use her like that, the way her captors had. “Maybe I can whittle some small things. I need the practice. I could charm them to glow a bit at night, I think… I’ll have to write Hermione—”
Mathilde turned her head toward her tail, the tip of which was swishing idly back and forth. Charlie held his breath—it was the first time she had ever looked away from him, while he was with her. The show of trust made his chest constrict.
She nibbled at her tail for a second, as if scratching an itch, then turned to face him again, a little nervous. Her head stretched out in front of her—he hadn’t known her neck was that long, she must have been a lot bigger than she looked—
With a near-silent clatter, she dropped four pristine scales onto the wood floor between them, and retreated a little, looking back up at him expectantly.
Charlie’s jaw dropped. “Mathilde,” he breathed. Bloody hell, she was so smart. And so kind. “You don’t have to, you know. You matter to me more than those scales.”
She blinked at him, then settled down on her front, her tail still swishing gently back and forth. He could see the patch the scales had come from, where the new scales were already half grown in. Her position reminded him of a cat. A cat with opalescent, indestructible scales and reptilian claws, glowing eyes and a mouth big enough to fit Charlie’s head, with rows of long, sharp white teeth, one of which stuck out over her top lip. A cat who could spit fire at a range of about fifty feet, if she ever dared to try.
Whatever she was feeling was warm, almost familial. It made him feel warm, too. He couldn’t think of anything to say that would convey his gratitude well enough.
“Thank you,” he said, because he had to try anyway. “The baby will love these, and I’ll tell them they came from you.” A smile made its way onto his face, without his permission. “I can’t wait to tell them all about you.”
Chapter Text
December, 2000
“Ah.”
It was all Charlie could think to say, when Draco Malfoy showed up at his door a few days before Christmas, raising an imperious eyebrow and delicately pulling off some very expensive-looking leather gloves, finger by finger. His cheeks and nose were pink from the cold, the colour emphasized by the form-fitting crimson Auror uniform. Charlie didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look so put-together after Portkey travel, not a platinum hair out of place in its stylish sweep back from his forehead. Perhaps Draco had taken some time in Andrei’s hut to recover before sauntering over here, and wasn’t that an odd image? Andrei would have loved the view, at least. Shamelessly so. Charlie wondered if the blush wasn’t solely from the cold.
“Are all dragonologists this eloquent?” Draco’s posh drawl slapped him back to reality.
“Hello, Draco,” Charlie sighed. “Welcome to Romania.” He stepped aside to let him in, trying not to inhale so obviously as Draco sidled past him, the slight ozone tang of Portkey magic and chimney smoke in winter and that enticing lemony cologne—
“Charming,” Draco observed as he took in the space, his tone painfully sarcastic, his sneer almost audible. He looked extremely out of place. “I can tell your mother’s been here. The bed likely wouldn’t have sheets on it, otherwise.”
It was certainly a diversion from the last time Draco had greeted him, and probably closer to the nasty, cruel Draco everyone else was familiar with, but Charlie couldn’t find it in him to take the bait. This felt relatively deserved, somehow. Draco had come all the way out here, after all, apparently just to be pissed off.
“Tea, Mr. Malfoy?” Charlie asked dryly. Draco sniffed.
“I think not,” he said, slipping his gloves into the pocket of his uniform jacket. So many gold buttons, black leather accents, a shining Ministry badge. Charlie had never been this distracted by the Auror uniform, before—had it always looked like this? “I won’t be burdening you with my presence much longer. This is more of an errand.”
“An errand,” Charlie repeated, disbelieving. “To the mountains of Romania.”
“Yes. Last minute Portkeys aren’t too difficult to come by, for the right price.” Charlie rolled his eyes at the unsubtle dig on Weasley finances. “I am merely the latest in the ‘Bring Charlie Weasley Home’ campaign, unbeknownst to your family, and against my better judgement.”
“The what?” Charlie wondered if Draco had been taught from an early age how to make people feel stupid, or if it just came naturally to him. “Why are you here, Draco?”
“I’m here because your family is under the impression that Harry Potter, Wizarding Britain’s Pro-Bono Miracle Worker, is the only person who can get you to come home. They’re trying to convince him to traipse out here and drag you back to England with his secret Chosen One abilities, because if Harry Potter can’t do it, who can?”
Draco’s voice was transforming from a cool drawl to cold glass shards, clipped and angry, which matched better with what he was actually feeling. Charlie closed his eyes, trying his best to put up an Occlumency shield. Imagining that peaceful room, closing the doors. It was similar to the space he’d picked up on in Draco’s head, all those months ago—easier to remember, with Draco here. But different. More visual.
It felt quieter in his head than it should have, with a person this angry in front of him, so he figured he’d done alright.
“Okay. Harry’s not here, though,” Charlie said calmly. “You are.”
“Well-observed,” Draco nearly spat. “I needed to interfere quickly, Merlin knows he can’t say no to them for long. I have to try to get you to return to England, myself, before they wear him down and send him out here against his will.”
“Against his—?”
“Yes, Charlie. He doesn’t want to come here and drag you home, because he’s convinced you want nothing to do with him. He knows you don’t want to leave here, and coming here to try his hand at it in person is only setting him up for more heartbreak.”
“That’s not true,” Charlie argued. “Of course I—I mean, you’re right. I don’t want to come home. But not because I don’t want to be around him. I don’t want to come home because—” he shook out his hands a bit, refocused his Occlumency. “I do want to be around him. And I can’t. I belong here, and Harry is… yours. He’s happy with you.”
“It really is a Gryffindor thing,” Draco mused, his tone light with surprise. Sarcasm, Charlie reminded himself, since he couldn’t feel it. “Being this bloody dense. Harry wants you, Charlie, you idiot.”
“Er…” Charlie had no idea what to say to that. “I’m sorry? I’m not coming home, I’m not going to—to take him from you, or anything, Merlin, Draco, that’s the whole point—”
Draco covered his eyes with his hand, taking a deep, fortifying breath through his pointy nose.
“Charlie,” he said flatly. “Come home. The Ministry will be looking for a dragonologist, soon. And I know you want Harry, too. I know you love him enough.”
“Draco—what?” Charlie couldn’t help taking a shocked step back, closer to the wall, raising his hands and shaking his head furiously. “What are you even saying? The Ministry—no, I’m leaving you both alone, alright? I’m not going to make him, I don’t know, cheat on you or something—”
“I’m not worried about infidelity, Weasley, will you get that into your thick skull?” Draco was clearly trying not to shout, gritting his teeth. “I am what Harry wants. I am not all that he wants, which is a miracle to me—not because I think so highly of myself, that I should be everything for him, but because Harry is so new to wanting anything, and allowing himself the gratification of getting it, I practically rejoice any time he does. Do you understand?”
Charlie stared at him. He did not understand, not entirely. Draco sighed, actively calming himself.
“Harry wants me, Charlie. Harry loves me, and I love him more than anything. We bicker almost constantly, and he’s a bullheaded, reckless, self-righteous Gryffindor moron with an insufferable hero complex, and I’ve never been happier. I would do anything for him. I am what he wants, miraculously, and I am enough. But I am not all he wants.”
Charlie felt stupid. He wasn’t getting it. It seemed so impossible.
“Harry also wants you, Charlie,” Draco said firmly, as if it were that simple. “He wants us both.”
Charlie shook his head, feeling small. “That doesn’t—”
“Doesn't what? Make sense? Of course it makes sense. Harry wants you. He wants the feeling of safety and home you provide, he wants the way you treat him and care for him when you’re around, he wants your ripped-shirt-wearing, dragon-taming, unfathomable kindness and unique understanding of him and your stupid gorgeous body. He’s wanted you since before he knew what it was he was feeling. Personally, I had no idea someone could talk so much about a man he’d only met a handful of times—until I met you, too, and I must say, I understand it better, now.”
Charlie reeled. He felt a bit dizzy, too stunned to speak.
“But here’s what worries me, Charlie: Harry wants all of you, all the time. He wants you around, every day. He wants you to be with him, like I am—not replacing me, but alongside me. I want him to have you. But I have had to watch as you dangled your love in front of him, only to rip it away from him when he finally got a taste. I’m the one who cleaned up the aftermath, Charlie. Twice. So Merlin help me, if you hurt him again—if you let him have what he wants, just to take it away again—” Draco huffed, shaking his head. He rubbed his mouth with a tense hand, then dropped it. “If you can’t commit to him, or if I’m the dealbreaker, then tell him so. A kiss means a lot more to him than it does to you. He doesn’t trust people to know him well enough, you know. He doesn’t trust people to want him for him—except for you and I.”
Charlie finally found some speech. “Kissing him was everything, to me.” It still came out hoarse. A simple fact his body provided with sound, no input needed from his brain.
“Then stop being a bloody coward and tell him so,” Draco retorted.
Charlie fell back against the wall with a groan, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t—what’s in it for you?”
“For me?” Draco parroted. Charlie’s vision cleared to see Draco’s pale eyebrows lift in surprise. “Other than seeing Harry truly happy, and watching him be as selfish as he wants, for once?”
“Yeah. It’s—honourable, I guess, sure, but somehow I don’t believe this is purely selfless,” Charlie said, feeling like an arsehole, cursing his ineloquence. “Not very…” he waved a hand vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Slytherin.”
Draco huffed a derisive laugh. “Don’t insult me.”
“Then, what?” Charlie asked, exhausted. So was Draco. Damn, his shield had come down at some point. It was tiring, keeping it up. Or maybe this whole interaction had done him in.
Draco’s brow furrowed, concealing the storm of emotion behind his eyes, from anyone but Charlie. Familiar, earth-shattering love, for Harry. Cautious, angry, curious, worried, protective, afraid, and then—selfish.
What an interesting emotion, Charlie thought distantly, as Draco took a step toward him. It felt like having tunnel vision, like seeing the snitch. Fierce, acute, uncaring of anything other than closing the distance between himself and his prize. Draco took another step, and Charlie’s belly filled with an effervescent heat, his nose with expensive cologne, a hint of lemon.
Oh, there’s no bloody way he—
Draco raised a slender hand to the middle of Charlie’s chest, with only minimal hesitation.
Charlie’s breath quickened, his eyes widened, and Draco continued to study him with that slight frown of concentration, or conflict, watching his own hand press Charlie against the wall, then glide up to Charlie’s neck.
Charlie’s eyes were glued to his, entranced by the otherworldly grey, like a blanket of thick snow just before dawn. Draco was so close, and he smelled so good, and he was tall and strong and more elegant than anyone Charlie had ever seen. Except maybe Narcissa. But he didn’t want to think about her right now, because Draco’s fingers were tracing his jawbone curiously, mapping out his edges, and Charlie wanted to think about how Harry knew what this felt like, too.
Draco leaned down, slow and sure, and Charlie held his breath, sure he was about to be kissed. Maybe the same way Harry was kissed, these days. But Draco swerved slightly at the last second, pressing in further, nosing at the corner of Charlie’s jaw. All of Charlie’s breath left him in a heavy whoosh, his head thunking back against the wall, overwhelmed. Draco hummed, satisfied with this reaction.
“I am neither selfless, nor honourable.”
The words were low and hot in Charlie’s ear, making him shiver. They were impressively confident, as if there were no doubt in Draco’s mind that he was equally desired, if not more. Charlie’s mind whirled, because he did want Draco, which was odd, because he’d never wanted a stranger before, not like this. But Draco wasn’t really a stranger, was he? Could two people really be strangers if they were in love with the same man?
The next contradiction came in the form of Draco’s nerves. He was just as nervous, just as scared, as Charlie was. It was impossible to tell, for anyone who couldn’t feel what he was feeling. Charlie had never known anyone like this, almost a completely different person on the inside versus the outside.
The fear was shoved aside abruptly to make way for a quiet, simmering rage. Charlie blinked, confused, until he realized he’d unconsciously put his hands on Draco’s waist. He dropped them back to his sides, but Draco didn’t calm, and didn’t retreat. He gripped Charlie by the jaw, hard, and tilted Charlie’s head to the side, exposing his neck, making his breath hitch.
“Listen to what I’m telling you, Charlie,” he said, smooth and threatening, his lips barely brushing over Charlie’s fluttering pulse. “If you hurt him again, I don’t care how many Weasleys I have to fight to get to you. I will make the most murderous Horntail look like an irritable fucking Kneazle. I will make you wish you were never born—Merlin knows I’ve done worse.”
Oh, Charlie hated that he was turned on by this, he really, really did. Draco could probably feel it, close as he was, which was just—bloody shameful, honestly. There was something wrong with him, surely, but hearing that fierce protectiveness over Harry, feeling it, intimately, combined with Draco’s lingering, endearing nerves, his righteous anger and his curious, selfish desire—Charlie wanted to get closer, test his limits, take him apart and learn every little thing about him.
Well, he always felt that way about dragons. The intense sexual attraction was new, though. It was all he could do to keep himself still, when he wanted nothing more than to grab Draco’s arse and pull their hips together, to sink to his knees and make this marble fortress of a man come undone.
Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched after all—wanting two people at once. His love for Harry wasn’t diluted at all by this development. Neither was Draco’s.
The near-violent hand left Charlie’s jaw; he stretched it out, rolled his neck. The air grew cooler in front of him, and he opened his eyes, blinking his way back to reality, half-hard and panting.
Draco’s expression had returned to that infuriating blankness, though his cheekbones had a lovely flush, and he stood unnaturally straight and uncomfortably tall in the middle of Charlie’s hut. Charlie couldn’t feel him anymore, quiet, too quiet. Draco didn’t say another word as he reached into his pocket, pulled out an old wine cork, and tapped it with his wand.
Charlie’s sore jaw dropped as Draco winked, then was yanked away by the Portkey in a rapid swirl of blue light and crimson robes.
His ears rang with the sudden silence. His hut had never felt more empty—was he already so accustomed to visitors that the lack of them was this jarring?
Or was he just finally becoming aware of the weight of his own loneliness?
He shook himself, pushed off the wall, and stomped to his bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. His shock and sadness was sharpening into fear and anger, faster than he’d thought possible.
No. This was insane. Another splash. It wasn’t enough.
What did they expect him to do? Move home and become the equivalent of the Ministry’s animal control so he could be around whenever Harry wanted to kiss someone other than Draco? Or fuck someone other than Draco? Did they think he would come round the Burrow every Sunday for lunch, and hold a baby and not break it or make it cry? Wear shirts without holes and cut his hair and live without his dragons?
Did they expect him to buy a flat, with enough room in his bed for three? Keep one or two extra toothbrushes next to his sink? Take one or both of them to bed whenever they wanted him, and watch them leave for their own home when they were done with him? Or would they invite him over instead, would they make him sleep in a separate room? The sofa? Would they make room for him at all? What would happen when it inevitably became too much, when he became too much?
Yes, he was in love with Harry, to the point where being so far away from him physically hurt. But wouldn’t this hurt worse? Giving up his work, his peace, his life… just to be an add-on to their relationship? Harry’s supplemental boyfriend?
He wouldn’t, ever. That was the whole reason for his absence, especially this absence. He couldn’t give up his purpose, the one thing he was truly good at, what he was meant to do. And he’d be miserable living in a city, no matter the company. They didn’t want a bonus lover who’d end up acting like a downright arsehole every minute they weren’t fucking. And when Charlie became exactly that, Harry would realize he’d been attached to a fantasy of Charlie this whole time, and Draco would probably eviscerate him for crushing Harry’s dreams, and then he wouldn’t have any fingers left to wrangle dragons with, ever again. Probably. And his whole family would be disappointed in him for—for being a disappointment. And for making Harry unhappy. And for not turning out to be the perfect son, brother, godfather they wanted. And they’d wish he’d go back to Romania, but they wouldn’t tell him, they’d just let him feel their disappointment in every interaction until he couldn’t take it anymore—
No.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
***
Charlie pounded his fist on Andrei’s door, feeling a bit unhinged.
Andrei swung open the door, rubbing his eyes sleepily and grumbling unintelligible Romanian. Well—Charlie didn’t actually know Romanian, so it might have been intelligible—
“Licurici.” Charlie knew that one. Sort of. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yeah, sorry. I, erm—” he forced himself to loosen the grip on the parchment in his hand. He felt supremely stupid now that he had to say things out loud. “I need your help, with—with a Christmas present.”
Charlie had never seen him look so unimpressed. Andrei frowned at him, eyes half-closed with fatigue, then glanced to the very-slightly-crumpled scroll of parchment in Charlie’s hand. His frown morphed into a lascivious smirk.
“Aha,” he said hoarsely. “I always thought erotica was a wonderful gift, for lovers, but clearly, you are not as experienced—”
“Oh, fuck off,” Charlie groused, pushing past him into the hut and ignoring his amused chuckles. “It’s not—erotica, Merlin, your mind—”
“Sure, puiule. A tip, though, it’s not so much about the choreography—”
“Andrei!” Charlie cut him off, trying to suppress his own smile. “It’s… Harry and Draco are having to deal with a lot of rogue dragons, as Aurors, lately, and the Ministry is so pathetically ill-equipped, as usual, and I couldn’t think what to give them that would be helpful except knowledge, so. I’ve been writing down everything I know about handling hostile rogues. But I’m…”
“...Special,” Andrei supplied, still smirking. Charlie rolled his eyes.
“Different. I can’t tell them how to gauge what a dragon is feeling, because I don’t know, really. I just feel it. And they can’t do that. But you know how to do it, like a normal person—”
“Charlie, we’re dragon wranglers. None of us are normal.”
“But you can help me? To explain it?” Charlie hated how small his voice was getting. He’d been staring at this parchment for hours. It was a bit of a shock, to realize he didn’t quite know how to read a dragon’s body language in a direct confrontation, because he always felt the emotion first, and could therefore act a split-second sooner. He wouldn’t be nearly as good at his job without this stupid ability of his, and it made him feel like a fraud. A cheat.
Andrei searched his face for a moment, amusement edging into concern.
“Alright,” he sighed eventually, waving Charlie to the little table and heading to his kitchenette to put the kettle on. “But I’m not writing, you are.”
“Yes, thank you, thank you.” Charlie plopped down at the table, relieved. He unrolled the parchment, wincing at his messy scrawl, his scattered mind on paper.
Dear Harry and Draco,
Happy Christmas. I hope the next year is a good one. I hear you’ve wrangled a few dragons this year - congratulations.
I can’t think of a single thing that would be more helpful to you at this time than knowledge, so I’m giving it my best shot. I’ve never actually written it all down, before, but I hope that this will help you in your future dragon encounters.
“O-kay,” Andrei said, energizing himself. He set down two steaming cups of tea in front of them, and rolled up the sleeves of his sleep shirt. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” He made a little grabby motion with his hand, and Charlie gave it over sheepishly, feeling like a first year all over again.
Andrei read quickly, then grunted, motioning for the quill. “Ba. Don’t want to look at their eyes, if they’re already hostile,” he mumbled absently.
“That’s a challenge. Not for you, obviously, Mr. Mind-Meld.” He scratched something out, scribbling something above it, and Charlie didn’t bother to remind him he’d offered to do the writing. He was squinting; Charlie made a mental note to get him some reading glasses from the village a few miles away, for Christmas. Andrei would never admit that he needed them.
“Should be looking at their feet, tail, and throat. Feet for their direction and swipes, tails that will swing out of nowhere and crush you, and throat for the glow, when you need to get the fuck out of the way.”
Charlie grinned, sipping his tea, grateful and fond.
***
It was Christmas Eve, and all the gifts were strewn across the floor of Charlie’s hut, as they were every year.
This year was a bit different from other years, though.
Charlie’s satchel remained empty and untouched, hung up next to his coat by the door. Instead, he held a small leather sack in his hand, which nearly vibrated with extension charms, while a Great Gray owl by the name of Roger waited patiently on his windowsill.
He carefully and methodically filled the little bag with his family’s gifts: a roll of dragon leather for Harry, for his bracelets and charms. A new belt for Arthur, a fancy-looking leather desk tray for Percy, the wand holster for Ron. A book of Romanian folklore for Hermione. A small package of electrically-charged dragon scales from Buzz, the Finnish Horned Electrophorus, for George, that zapped upon touch (unlabeled but for George’s name). A bag of dried linden flowers he’d foraged throughout the year, for Molly’s tea. A Nightwing-scale mobile for Bill and Fleur (and the baby), and a scroll of Charlie’s and Andrei’s combined and abridged knowledge of dragon confrontations, for Draco and Harry both (Charlie had rewritten it all to include Andrei’s helpful additions, without any messy scratch-outs).
He peered inside the bag, checking that it was all secure, and frowned, feeling off. Unpacked it all, repacked it again. Roger simply looked on, snacking on leftover bacon, utterly bored by him.
He gave up and tied the bag closed, affixing it to Roger’s leg. It would never feel right, because it was the method of delivery that was wrong, not the package itself. He wrote a short, apologetic note to his mother, and tied that to Roger’s other leg, then sent him off.
He watched the owl grow smaller and smaller as he gained altitude, feeling quite shit. Behind him, a tiny fwip sound told him his Portkey had activated right on time, and disappeared to the Burrow without him.
Charlie turned around, surveying his empty hut. His family, including Harry and Hermione, waved at him from the framed photo on the wall. Harry’s staid, concise, unanswered letter from August mocked him from the top of his desk. The empty, transfigured armchair seemed to take up more space than usual, as if emphasizing the lack of anyone to fill it, the inability of this place to hold more than one person.
He threw on his coat, and spent Christmas with Mathilde and Andrei, in companionable, disappointed silence.
Notes:
Happy Christmas to anyone celebrating! Part Two is not over yet ;) next chapter on the 26th!
Chapter 9: Part Two: February, 2001
Notes:
My friends, you've earned it. This is a big one. 😂Enjoy! 💖
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February, 2001
The heavy leather pouch squirmed against Charlie’s stomach, straining the muscles of his back and shoulders. He patted it consolingly, eliciting a series of content little chirps and puffs of venomous smoke, which made him smile.
Joey was only a few days old, and he was already getting too big for the sling. He’d earned the name immediately, with how attached he was to being carried around in a pouch, the clingy bugger. Of course, Charlie was the only person at the sanctuary immune to the poisonous breath, thanks to Harry’s bracelet, so he was stuck with the task of playing kangaroo.
He complained, but he didn’t really mind. Mathilde was off flying and hunting with Norberta, finally learning how to be a proper dragon. Andrei was busy training some new recruits for Search and Rescue. And Charlie had only gotten letters from his mother and Bill, since Christmas, so. It was nice to have someone to talk to, even though that someone insisted on being carried around like a fire-breathing joey and shooting sparks at his chin if he was quiet for too long. At least it got him out of barn cleaning duties.
He circled the perimeters of all the buildings, instead, strengthening the fire-repellant charms and murmuring quietly to his charge.
“Charlie!” Andrei called. Charlie adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder and turned around, then froze, his stomach landing somewhere in the snow around his feet.
Andrei beckoned him over with a wave and a smile, as if everything was totally fine, as if he wasn’t standing next to a strained and apprehensive-looking Harry Potter.
Nothing could have prepared Charlie for this. Not once, in the years he’d known Harry, had he ever imagined Harry caring about him enough to visit him. Here. In fact, until his mother had burst through the mess hall doors a few months ago, he hadn’t believed anyone cared about him enough to try.
Draco had said Harry didn’t even want to. That the Weasleys were pressuring him to go.
Charlie forced himself to move, drawn out of his head by a concerned chirp from the pouch, which was heating up in preemptive defense. He gave it a few more gentle pats, then started to walk, his boots crunching in the thick snow.
Charlie had never felt Harry more nervous. Charlie hadn’t felt Harry in so long. Harry was feeling bitter, jealous, tired, excited. Hurting, hoping, afraid. Warm.
He was chatting politely with Andrei, who was probably enjoying the hell out of this, but Harry was unable to keep his eyes off Charlie for long. Harry’s jaw kept clenching with his forced smiles, his eyes narrowed against the setting sun. His shoulders were drawn up and tense, and he seemed to be actively trying not to cross his arms over his chest, or retreat his head into his scarf. His hair was just long enough to curl around his ears, sticking up in a few places. His breath kept fogging up his glasses; he’d gotten new frames. Larger, still round.
What an inconvenient time for Charlie to be nursing a baby dragon.
Then again, Harry probably didn’t want to be that close to him, so maybe the clingy baby dragon was serendipitous.
Charlie stopped a safe six feet away from them, staring at Harry, just taking him in. It was too much for his brain to handle, his own turbulent emotions alongside Harry’s, topped with Andrei’s amusement and the baby dragon’s worry; there was no room for speculation as to why Harry was here, so he didn’t let himself try.
“Ah, here he is. Puiule, you’ve got company,” Andrei said, quite unhelpfully, through a shit-eating grin. He stepped up to Charlie and gave him a pat on the cheek, which Harry hated.
“Baftă, licurici,” Andrei muttered with a lecherous wink, then walked past him to pick up where Charlie had left off on the charms. Charlie blinked dumbly, until his vision refocused on a bitter, jealous, beautiful Harry, emerald eyes brightened by the winter sun. His chest grew tight with longing.
There was his heart, out in the open, illuminated in rose gold sun off snow; better for him to see, but not touch.
“Hi,” Charlie said.
“What did he say?” Harry asked, in place of a greeting, his dark brows furrowed in a frown. Charlie blinked again, thinking back.
“Erm… which time?”
“Puiule. What does that mean?”
Charlie’s cheeks heated. Harry was conflicted about that. Or something else. Charlie started to walk toward his hut, motioning for Harry to follow, but giving him a wide berth. Because of the dragon. Mostly.
“It’s a… term of endearment, for a younger person. Sort of like ‘cub,’” Charlie explained, uncomfortably. “He calls a lot of us that, those who’ve been around a long time.”
“And the other thing?” Harry walked next to him, maintaining the distance, eyes on the ground in front of him.
Charlie swallowed. Harry was here. This was fine. The dragon squirmed.
“Er, ‘baftă,’” Charlie said, “means ‘good luck,’ and ‘licurici’...” he adjusted the pouch, cleared his throat. Glanced at Harry. “Means ‘firefly.’”
Harry’s gaze snapped to him, burning a hole in the side of Charlie’s face. “‘Firefly’?”
“Mm.”
“Does he call everyone else that, too?” Harry asked flatly. “Or just you?”
Charlie’s jaw tensed, enduring Harry’s gut-churning bitterness. “Just me.”
“Huh.” Harry paused. “Why?”
“Dunno,” Charlie said with a shrug, which was difficult, with the heavy burden.
“You don’t know?” Harry repeated incredulously. Charlie felt small. “You never asked?”
“Nope,” Charlie grunted. “Thought it was the hair, or something.”
Harry snorted. “Right.”
They completed the rest of the walk in silence, and it was so uncomfortably tense that Charlie wanted to evaporate and disappear with the wind. Joey shifted and chirped and huffed, picking up on the air of discontent. Charlie tried his best to stay calm.
But Harry was here. And Harry was upset. And Harry was definitely not happy to see him.
By the time Charlie closed the door of his hut behind them, cutting them off from the world, he realized Harry was terrified.
This was the first time they’d ever been truly alone together—except for the bloody dragon—and Harry was scared shitless.
So was Charlie, anyway.
He pulled the sling over his head and set Joey down on the floor. The dragon rolled clumsily out of the pouch and started scampering figure eights around Charlie’s ankles, whip-sharp tail scratching the floor and Charlie’s socks, because he hadn’t yet figured out that that only slowed Charlie down in feeding him. Harry wandered the small room in silence, inspecting the little details of Charlie’s life, making no move to get comfortable.
With Joey finally fed and settled in his cupboard nest under plentiful heating and air-filtering charms, Charlie turned his attention to Harry.
Still terrified. His skin crawled with it. Charlie’s heart ached fiercely. He wanted so badly to make it better.
You are safe.
Harry’s shoulders relaxed, watching the family photo wave over and over, then tensed up all over again with resentment. “Don’t.”
It felt like a spear to the chest. Harry turned to face him, eyes burning with betrayal.
“That’s what got us into this, Charlie. You making me feel like everything was okay, when it wasn’t. You lied.”
Charlie shook his head futilely. He’d never had Harry’s anger directed at him, before, and it was honestly a wonder anyone had ever challenged Harry, regardless of his age, if that’s what he looked like when he was angry.
Unstoppable force.
“I didn’t,” Charlie said weakly. “It was okay. You were happy. With him.”
“And with you, Charlie,” Harry retorted. “You weren’t okay. You told me you were, you made me feel like everything about that was okay, was brilliant, and then you ran, again. Without a single fucking word. I thought, fine. He doesn’t have the guts to tell me I made him uncomfortable, he doesn’t want to be around me, I’ll have to just—learn to get over him, move the fuck on, and leave him alone—”
Joey let out a nervous trill, muffled by the cupboard. Harry froze, closing his eyes, his hand held still in midair, slowly clenching into a frustrated fist.
Charlie shook himself, hurrying over to the cupboard and projecting plenty of emotional security on the worried dragon, who settled once more, seeing that Charlie was okay. He put up a few one-way silencing charms and another heating charm, for good measure, watching to make sure Joey laid down to sleep.
He was lying to the dragon, too. Charlie was not okay. He didn’t want to return to Harry’s anger, but he did. He needed to.
He needed Harry, any way he could get him.
“Put up a shield,” Harry said quietly, calmly, which was scarier than the raised voice, considering his emotions. “Occlumency. I know you learned how. I don’t want you knowing what I’m feeling, right now.”
Charlie really didn’t want to. It didn’t feel right. He’d never not felt Harry, when Harry was this close.
“Now, Charlie,” Harry urged, upon Charlie’s obvious hesitation. He swallowed audibly, and gritted out, “Please.”
Charlie took a deep breath, reminding himself that half of his terror was probably coming from Harry. He sent a quick incendio at the hearth, then set his wand down on his desk—a small burst of warmth told him Harry likely recognized it for the show of trust it was, Charlie making himself even more vulnerable than he already felt.
He sat down in his armchair and closed his eyes, hearing Harry finally remove his coat and settle in the transfigured chair across from him.
The waves, for this one. The ocean was strong, deep and constant and reliable. He built a shield so thick it felt a bit like being underwater, lonesome and heavy. Isolated with his own thoughts, his own emotions.
Charlie was scared. He was afraid of everything that could go wrong, everything that had already gone wrong. He was horrified that he’d hurt Harry like this, that he’d done enough to deserve Harry’s anger, when he’d only been trying to preserve everyone’s fragile happiness. More than just Harry’s anger, even—Draco’s, outright. And that of his younger siblings, who hadn’t written him since before Christmas.
Narcissa had been right about him.
The other prominent emotion, louder than all the rest: love. Sweet Circe, did he love this man. All of it his own, all for Harry. He felt it all the way down to his toes, warm honey in his veins, every cell in his body drawn to Harry like flowers to the sun. He felt it in his skin, tingling with the absence of Harry’s touch, starving for it. He felt it in his muscles, a memory his body would never forget, honed with years of practice: the strict, uncompromising tension of holding himself back.
The waves rose and fell, over and over. It wasn’t quiet, but it wasn’t anyone else. He opened his eyes.
Harry was watching him, eyes wide, arms crossed over his chest in a royal blue jumper—very soft-looking, a bit tight.
Draco’s. Definitely Draco’s. Charlie looked away.
“You didn’t come home,” Harry said, his voice a little shaky. Charlie couldn’t meet his eyes. He could only nod.
Harry huffed. “Gin and Molly were worried about it, but I didn’t actually believe it. Until you really—you didn’t come home. Because of me,” Harry added. Charlie winced. “I know it wasn’t because of Draco. You were fine with Draco. I’m pretty sure you even liked Draco. It was me you had a problem with.”
“I didn’t have a problem—”
“Bullshit.”
“Fine,” Charlie snapped. “But it’s not—there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“You sure, Charlie?” Harry retorted. “You kissed me and fled, two years in a row, and didn’t even show up the next year. You’re that worried I’m going to—I don’t know, assault you or something? I gave you the opportunity to stop, to not kiss me, and you didn’t take it. You did the opposite, and you told me everything was okay, you made me believe it, when in reality I was enough of a problem that—that the thought of me kept you from your bloody family, the one time of year you let them see you—”
“What do you want me to say?” Charlie cut him off, so frustrated his hands shook with it, Merlin, how long had he been this frustrated? “What am I supposed to do, Harry? You were happy. I'd never felt you so happy. But you kept—you kept looking at me, and touching me, you were distracted by me, when you already had something so wonderful, I had to feel how wonderful it was all fucking weekend. And I shouldn’t have let you get distracted, I should have left sooner, but I’ve been surviving on the crumbs of you for so bloody long, and I couldn’t—” Charlie stopped, groaning in irritation at himself; he shouldn’t be getting this worked up. His eyes burned, his throat hurt, but the shield was intact, the doors were closed, it was all his own.
“Crumbs, Harry, that’s all it was. Scraps. I was taking whatever I could get of you, as if that ever made leaving hurt any less. Because you know I had to leave, I always do. I don’t belong there. I took the crumbs you offered me even as your boyfriend watched, and I left before I could make it any fucking worse, and I didn’t come back for fear that I would fuck it up beyond repair, the next time. I didn’t want to ruin what you have, with my… selfishness.”
Harry looked frozen in his seat. Charlie couldn’t hear him breathing. Harry’s arms had unfolded at some point; he was gripping the armrests, holding on tight through the flood Charlie was releasing. Charlie looked up at the ceiling, so he wouldn’t be so tempted to know what Harry was feeling, hoping gravity would pull any tears back in.
“I just wanted you to be happy, alright? That’s all I’ve ever wanted. I wanted you to be safe and happy and loved, to get to live like someone who didn’t have to carry the world on their back… I wanted you to be the carefree teenager you should have been. You deserve to have stability, and peace. As far as I know, it was the kissing part that fucked it up, the anomaly in the routine that threw you off. Not the leaving. Because the leaving always happens, Harry. I never stay.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. The ceiling wasn’t helping. The waves crashed over and over, like the breaths moving in and out of his lungs, repetitive and relentless.
The silence stretched, pulling him in every direction, until he was sure it would tear him apart.
“Charlie,” Harry rasped. Charlie shook his head, rubbing his face with his hand. “Look at me.”
“Can’t,” Charlie said, huffing a joyless, self-deprecated laugh. What a fucking mess. “Want to feel you so bad, Harry.”
“You don’t have to, because you’re going to let me tell you what I’m feeling,” Harry said, and it was gentle in a way Charlie didn’t think he deserved. He should be taking care of Harry, he should be consoling Harry, not the other way around. He told himself to grow a pair, and opened his eyes, meeting Harry’s intense, enthralling, too-green eyes, wet and glittering with firelight behind round frames.
“I—I adore you, Charlie,” Harry said, his voice rough but firm, as if this were an indisputable fact, and Charlie forgot how to breathe. Harry laughed a little, like releasing it had made him lighter. “I’ve loved you for a long time, in different ways. And it’s a bit fucked, because I don't know you nearly well enough to love you like this, do I? We don’t really know each other, the way Draco and I do. But I like that about you, that you know me differently. You didn’t have to witness so much of what I went through, and you—you still made me feel like I was good, worthy. And I got to have my normal teenage crush on my best mate’s hot older brother, and it just never went away, no matter how long you were gone. It only got stronger.”
Harry didn’t seem able to suppress the smile, shaky though it was, and Charlie wanted to touch him so bad he was worried his hands would fly off and do it themselves.
“You are good, Harry,” Charlie said hoarsely. He’d never actually gotten to say these things, out loud, before. Things he thought Harry knew. “You’re wonderful. You’re kind and funny and fierce, as much as you’re brave and strong, and I never stood a chance, with you walking around looking like you do. And it is fucked, because you’re right: I don’t know you well enough to feel like this, I’m not even around enough to deserve it, but—fucking hell—that’s never stopped the wanting.”
Harry shook his head slowly in agreement, that little smile reaching his eyes. “I want to know you, Charlie,” he said softly, bronze fingers picking at a loose thread on the armrest. “But you tend to run off before we get the chance.”
Charlie looked at the fire for a brief respite. “I have to.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” Charlie said firmly. “I belong here, Harry. With the dragons. I live here. I can’t—I can’t be around people, all the time. I’m a mess. It’s too much. This is my life, this is what I’m meant for. Nothing else in the world can fulfill me like these dragons do.”
Harry’s lip quirked, but it didn’t look like a happy movement. “I know.”
“Then…” Charlie huffed, making an abortive gesture with his hands. His whole body felt too heavy, too tense, too warm. “Then that’s that, yeah? We need to just—I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what you want me to do.”
Harry’s eyes tracked over Charlie’s face, looking for something. He took another deep breath, then stood from his chair and walked over to his coat, rummaging in a pocket. Charlie only ogled his arse a little. He couldn’t help it, the way those jeans—
“Right, then,” Harry said, clearing his throat. He unshrunk a pile of neat, hefty folders in his hand. The top one was a somewhat familiar shade of gold. Charlie raised an eyebrow in question, but Harry held up a hand as he returned to the chair, setting the pile on his lap.
“I’m required by my superiors to present this to you,” Harry said loftily, handing over the top gold folder. Charlie frowned, and it deepened into a scowl once he saw the unmistakable Ministry logo emblazoned on the front.
“Tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” Charlie grumbled. Harry looked like he was trying to stifle a grin.
“Depends,” Harry said. “Do you think it’s a prestigious job offer from the Minister himself, for the newly-created position of Ministry-Appointed Dragon Control Expert? Complete with your own smart uniforms and an office and a salary and everything?”
Charlie grimaced in disgust. “Yes.”
“Then, sorry, but it is exactly what you think it is.”
“I don’t even want to open it, Harry,” Charlie admitted. Harry gave him another small smile. Charlie felt like he was collecting them, stowing them away in a little jar in his mind, for later.
“I figured,” Harry said with a nod. He fidgeted with the remaining folders in his lap, thick and plain. “I at least know you well enough to know you’d rather cut off your own hand than start tranquillizing dragons for a Ministry paycheck.”
“Got it in one.”
“So,” Harry continued, drawing out the word, “we—that is, me, your family, Hermione, Draco and his mum, and Andromeda, even—have come up with something I think you might like better.”
Harry hesitated a little, but handed over the heavy stack of plain folders, which were labeled in a neat, elegant script. Charlie’s eyes widened as he read the first one: Land Deeds and Transfer Certificates.
He glanced up at Harry for a last reassurance, then opened it, slowly.
The legal jargon was baffling, the ivory parchment crisp and posh-looking, but Charlie caught the words Malfoy Estate and bequeathed and Charles Gideon Weasley, then for the purpose of creating England’s first nonprofit dragon sanctuary—
“Harry,” Charlie said, the text swimming in his vision, “what is this?” He closed the folder, overwhelmed by it already, and lifted it to see the next one: Nonprofit Registration Forms and Beast Sanctuary Permits.
“Charlie.” Harry’s hands were clasped tightly together in his lap, but his voice was steady. “You can do exactly what you do here, in England. If you want.”
“I’m…” The forms were already filled out, in what looked suspiciously like Hermione’s neat handwriting, except for blank spaces that appeared to be waiting for Charlie’s signature, marked with little adhesive pink tags.
He went back to the first folder. “Harry, why am I holding the deed to the Malfoy Estate?”
Harry shifted a little in his seat. “Because Narcissa and Draco—who are in charge of all Malfoy holdings, with Lucius locked up—have decided that since they never want to step foot in the Manor again, they’re donating it to a worthy cause. Putting the land to good use.”
“As… a dragon sanctuary?” Charlie ran his finger over his name on the thick, textured parchment. He’d never felt his own name embossed before. “The Malfoys are giving up their property… to dragons?”
“To you, Charlie,” Harry corrected. “To you, for the purpose of creating a dragon sanctuary. Your own. If you want it. It’s… it’s a lot of land, still heavily warded against muggles. It’s perfect for it, actually… plenty of wildlife, territory…”
Charlie’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the page, where another blank line awaited his signature.
“Oh, Merlin.”
He snapped the folder shut, sifting to the third one: Trustees and Initial Funding. He glanced inside just long enough to see numbers with more zeros than he dared to count. Slammed that shut, too, looking up at Harry with wide eyes.
“Bloody hell,” Charlie breathed. Harry bit his lip, and Charlie could absolutely not deal with that right now. He stood up, too quickly, nearly dropping the folders, which felt heavier than they did a second ago, and his hands felt weird, like he’d forgotten how to hold folders, but these weren’t just any folders, these were folders that contained the promise of more money than Charlie had ever seen—more money than could physically fit in this hut, he mused distantly—and a swathe of wild English land, that he could fill with as many displaced dragons as he could fit, if he wanted to, but he didn’t understand why—
He set the folders awkwardly on the chair, “Circe’s sagging tits,” made his feet move toward the hob, because tea, this probably required tea, one foot in front of the other, filling the dented kettle in the sink with a shaking hand.
Could he really do that? Do this… in England?
With Harry?
Fuck, the kettle was overflowing. He dumped half of it out. Harry already had a job, and a boyfriend, and a life, he was only here to deliver this insane paperwork that Charlie had no idea what to do with. And tell Charlie he loved him. Adored him.
“Harry wants all of you, all the time. He wants you around, every day.”
The kettle hit the hob louder than it should have. Thank Merlin he’d put up those silencing charms on Joey’s cupboard. His hand went for his wand to light it before remembering he’d left it on the desk, and had he really forgotten how to light a bloody hob? How was he supposed to run his own dragon sanctuary if he couldn’t remember how to light a hob?
“Charlie,” Harry said, right behind him. Charlie gripped the counter, determined to remember how to light a hob before showing his face, but Harry flicked his wand under Charlie’s arm, lighting it himself. Charlie closed his eyes, overwhelmed and embarrassed, as Harry took him by the shoulder and turned him around.
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Harry said, rubbing Charlie’s arms, and that was a serious understatement, but Charlie didn’t say so. “But you don’t have to decide right this second, yeah? And if you do decide to take it, you won’t have to do it alone. You have all of us ready and eager to help you, and Hagrid even mentioned a couple recent and soon-to-be graduates who’d jump at the chance to work with you.”
Charlie opened his eyes. Harry was close. Charlie’s breaths felt too deep and too quick, as if his lungs were desperate for as much of that intoxicating, earthy-aerial scent as he could get. How he’d missed him.
“Why…” Charlie cleared his throat. “Why do you all want me home so badly?”
Harry’s hands paused. He blinked, looking surprised.
“Because we miss you, Charlie,” he said. “We love you, and we enjoy having you around, and if there’s a chance you might want to be near us, too, then. We’ll do whatever it takes. We want you to come home.” He squeezed Charlie’s arms again. Charlie couldn’t look anywhere but him. So close.
“I would do anything for him.” Apparently Draco would even give up an estate… his childhood home…
“Harry—”
“I want you to come home,” Harry said in a rush, and out of everything he’d said so far, nothing cut through Charlie as efficiently as that did. “Fuck, Charlie, I want you so much. I want to be near you, I want to know everything about you. When it was a stupid fantasy, I could ignore it, but this—” he kept shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, which was odd because he was just seeing Charlie, who was staring back at him like a lovesick idiot. “Now that I know—”
“I want him to have you. But I have had to watch as you dangled your love in front of him, only to rip it away from him when he finally got a taste.”
Charlie growled faintly, clenching his fists at his sides, shaky with the shock of everything he’d just learned, with the effort of holding himself back. Harry stilled, eyes wide and waiting.
“If you can’t commit to him, or if I’m the dealbreaker, then tell him so. A kiss means a lot more to him than it does to you.”
Charlie needed to decide. He didn’t want to promise Harry something he couldn’t follow through on. He didn’t want to hurt him again, but he wanted—
“This is bloody huge, Harry,” he said, “I don’t know. It’s so much—”
“You don’t have to decide right now,” Harry repeated. Charlie gritted his teeth, as if that would hold him together. Harry’s hands were still on his arms, probably burning holes in his flannel shirt, by now. Charlie’s shield was still up, barely, and he still felt like he was too much, spilling over and flooding the room around them.
“I do, Harry,” Charlie said, his voice tight. “I have to decide, because you’re here, and you smell like flying and you look like that and if you don’t back off in the next ten seconds, I’m going to kiss you, and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to not hurt you again.”
Harry’s hands dropped. He took a step back. Charlie held his breath, for one full second, then two.
Harry let out a frustrated huff, then rushed back in, fisting his hands in the flannel of Charlie’s shirt. He looked wild. Desperate. Unstoppable. So, so close.
“Crumbs,” he said, then crashed his mouth down onto Charlie’s.
A small sound left Charlie’s throat, and his hands came up of their own volition, clinging to Harry’s waist as the Occlumency crumbled and everything became Harry, Harry, Harry, inside and out.
Charlie kissed him back fiercely, with kisses that felt like they’d been waiting in a cage all year, or years. Harry’s hands were everywhere, in Charlie’s hair, on his face, his neck, trembling and clumsy as they pulled at the buttons on Charlie’s shirt, nervous as Harry’s body pressed him into the counter, hungry as he gripped Charlie’s arse; Charlie had held this away from him for so long. He’d held this away from himself, and he was struggling to remember why at the moment—
“Fuck,” Charlie gasped, breaking apart from Harry’s lips. His hands slid down Harry's back, feeling firm muscle under soft cashmere, into the back pockets of Harry’s jeans, pulling him closer. Harry’s mouth moved to Charlie’s jaw, his neck, sucking at a spot just below his ear. “You have a boyfriend, Harry. You love him.”
Harry gave a grunt of acknowledgement, but didn’t stop for a single second. “He wants this, too,” he mumbled against Charlie’s skin. One of Charlie’s hands slipped under the jumper, Draco’s jumper, Harry’s skin, hot to the touch; Charlie needed so much more of it, all of it. “Probably wishes he was here, right now.”
Charlie groaned as a wave of heat rolled through him, slotting his thigh between Harry’s. Harry answered it with a groan of his own, pressing Charlie even harder into the counter and grinding his trapped erection against Charlie’s hip. The edge of the wood dug into Charlie’s back. Harry’d managed half of the buttons, and his mouth was exploring every inch of skin his hands uncovered.
“He’s probably touching himself, right now, thinking about it,” Harry said, before dragging the shirt out of the way to lave his tongue over Charlie’s nipple. Charlie hissed with the bolt of pleasure—he was burning up, he was losing his mind, he’d never wanted anyone like this.
“Fuck, Harry,” Charlie breathed. He didn’t know if it was because of Harry’s tongue or his hands or his hips or even the thought of Draco thinking about them, he just knew he would die if he didn’t get more of Harry, right now. At the sound of his name, Harry’s mouth left his chest to kiss him again, deeper, and Charlie buried his hands in Harry’s hair.
“Your hair,” Charlie managed between kisses. “I love your hair. I miss your hair.” He combed said hair back from Harry’s forehead, giving it a gentle tug that made Harry’s mouth drop open.
“I know you did,” Harry said. Charlie pushed off the counter, walking him backwards in the direction of the bed.
“Do,” Charlie corrected. “Present tense. I miss your hair. I miss you, Harry, all the fucking time—” He got distracted halfway across the room by more of Harry’s kisses, with Harry pressed against the back of the transfigured armchair, his arms locked around Charlie’s body. Charlie pulled on his hair again, tipping his head back, so he could finally, finally put his mouth on Harry’s neck.
“I can grow it back,” Harry slurred; another little gasp as Charlie scraped his teeth along sensitive tendons.
“Anything you want,” Charlie said, slipping an earlobe between his teeth, just to feel Harry’s body react. “Any way you come, Harry. I want you any way you are.”
“God.” Harry’s hips bucked a little against his. Charlie’s hands slid all the way down his sides, slipping under the posh jumper again. “Charlie—”
“This doesn’t even fit you,” Charlie mumbled against the column of Harry’s throat. He pushed up the hem of the jumper, exposing his stomach. “You really wore your boyfriend’s poncy cashmere to come here and—”
Harry laughed, a little breathless. “He insisted.” He raised his arms so Charlie could pull it over his head. Charlie fixed the glasses he’d skewed with the movement, kissing the tentative smile on Harry’s rosy, kiss-swollen lips.
“‘Course he did,” he said, and would have continued his not-complaints, if he didn’t have the full expanse of Harry’s chest in front of him, a resurgence of Harry’s nerves in his head. His hands roved over the scarred, tawny skin, the planes of hard muscle and the dusting of dark hair, following the trail of it down past his navel.
“I can feel you,” Charlie said quietly. Even Harry’s nerves were a treat, a part of Charlie’s brain he’d not gotten to use in so long. “Do you want me to… not?”
Harry let out a short sigh.
“Fuck it,” Harry said, grabbing the back of Charlie’s neck and kissing him hard. There was something bitter, now, small but sharp, prickling with Harry’s nerves. “I don’t care. I’ve waited long enough.”
Charlie agreed, wholeheartedly. He needed this, needed him, he’d waited so long. He’d tortured himself with stolen kisses, with crumbs and scraps, he’d gotten himself irreversibly hooked. He thrust his tongue into Harry’s mouth and was hit with a painful wave of helpless want, from Harry, that sharp bitterness expanding into a searing throb, and Charlie realized he’d tortured Harry, too, and now he had to feel Harry’s hurt.
What a punishment—made even more twisted by the fact that it didn’t curb Charlie’s hunger for him in the slightest. It didn’t lessen Harry’s, either.
“Harry.” Charlie pressed himself against Harry’s body. “Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” For so much more than their last encounter. The kettle started whistling; Harry doused the flame with a flick of his wrist, not taking his mouth off Charlie’s, and Charlie groaned faintly at the thoughtless display of wandless magic, his hand moving to the waistband of Harry’s jeans.
Charlie pulled back just long enough to look at him.
Harry’s glasses were crooked, his lips swollen and slick, his pupils blown. His dark hair was a mess, sticking up in places from Charlie’s greedy hands. The jagged scar on his forehead stood out pale and stark against his flushed, coppery skin. His hand remained on the back of Charlie’s neck, holding on tight, in a way that might have felt dominant if Charlie couldn’t recognize clinging—as if Charlie was going to disappear at any second.
Charlie pulled the cashmere from Harry’s other hand, dropped it on the floor at Harry’s feet, and sank to his knees on top of it.
Awe, fear, desire, anger, so much warmth, sweet and heady, Charlie’s mouth watered with it. And there was the hurt, betrayal, abandonment, a blade in his back, making his eyes burn with tears Harry wouldn’t shed. Charlie had lied to him, made him feel something untrue, and abandoned him.
Charlie didn’t think Draco would mind the use of his threatening jumper for this sort of atonement. It wouldn’t even matter if he did; Charlie was going to do it anyway. He dragged his hands down Harry’s sides, nuzzling his cheek against the bulge in Harry’s jeans. Harry drew in a sharp breath, his hands tangled in Charlie’s hair.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Charlie said. Harry growled softly. Frustrated.
“Charlie, when have I ever—” his hands left Charlie’s hair to fumble open his own jeans, “—turned you away?” He pushed jeans and pants down to his thighs in a single movement, freeing his hard, heavy cock. Charlie took him in hand immediately, with a few slow strokes over hot, velvety-soft skin, drinking in the long-awaited sight.
Charlie could think of only one instance when Harry had turned away from him. But even then, Harry had left him for an hour. Charlie had left him for a year.
He watched Harry’s face as he licked over the leaking head, tasting him—bitter, musky, Harry—a furrow of tense pleasure between Harry’s eyebrows, his elbows leaning on the back of the chair, as if he were completely confident and relaxed, as if he could fool Charlie for even a second.
Charlie wrapped his lips around the head, and swallowed him down.
“Fuck!” Harry gasped, surprised, his elbow slipping as his hand found Charlie’s hair again. His hips jerked, pushing deeper into Charlie’s throat, and Charlie let him, sucking back up, while scraping his blunt nails up the backs of Harry’s thighs, grabbing his arse, encouraging his shallow thrusts.
“Christ, Charlie…” Harry’s hand tightened in his hair, and he seemed to be battling his own hurt, trying to shove it aside for something easy, as if this was—just sex, scratching an itch, when Charlie could feel that it wasn’t, Charlie had never experienced sex that was so clearly more than sex, but Harry was scared of how much he was feeling, how much it had hurt him and could hurt him later—
Charlie pulled off with a small pop, kissing his way down the shaft, breathing hard.
“Harry,” he mumbled into dark, wiry curls, pressing his face into the crease of Harry’s hip and thigh. “I’m here. It’s alright. You’re—” safe, home, so loved—
“Don’t lie,” Harry said weakly, his hand shaking in Charlie’s hair. “Please don’t make me feel a lie, Charlie.”
“Not a lie.” Charlie took him in his mouth again, suckling at the head, experimenting to find what Harry liked. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking what his mouth was too busy to. Harry moaned in a way that went straight to Charlie’s cock, still trapped uncomfortably in his jeans, but Charlie made no move to relieve it. He rolled Harry’s balls in his free hand, sliding his finger back behind them, and redoubled his efforts.
“Fuck, oh, fuck, Charlie wait—” Harry gripped his hair with both hands and pulled him off. Charlie’s hands kept working as he looked up at Harry’s lust-blown eyes, the shadows of firelight on his flushed face, the muscles tensing in his neck and shoulders.
“You’re gorgeous,” Charlie blurted, voice hoarse, head held still in Harry’s hands. Harry’s breath caught. “So beautiful, Harry, it drives me mad, every fucking year—”
“Every year,” Harry repeated absently, quietly, catching his breath. “Once a year. Sometimes less.”
Longing. A heart beating bloody in the snow, waiting. It ached, as strongly and heavily as it always did around Harry, and maybe that meant it was Harry’s, too, not just his own.
Harry pulled him to his feet, grabbing hold of Charlie’s half-unbuttoned shirt.
Nervous, determined. “I want you to fuck me, Charlie,” spoken into Charlie’s open mouth. Charlie’s knees went weak. Bitter, yearning; “I want you to fuck me like you want me more than once a bloody year.”
“I do, Harry.” Charlie’s hands immediately went to his arse, grabbing a cheek in his hand and slipping a finger down the crease. Harry’s jeans fell to his ankles; Charlie held them down with his foot, so Harry could step out of them. “I want you all the time.”
“Then show me. Take me.” Desperate. Harry’s breath stuttered out of him as the tip of Charlie’s finger circled his hole. Charlie couldn’t help but watch his face in wonder, increasing the pressure just to taste the sound he made. He delved his tongue into Harry’s mouth, chasing it, before taking a step back.
Fear, worry, as Harry’s hands reluctantly left his shirt. Harry opened his eyes, a little dazed. Charlie had never seen his expression so completely open: raw and terrified and vulnerable and wanting, standing naked in front of him.
“Bed,” Charlie said, in more of a rasp, quickly undoing the rest of the buttons on his shirt and pulling it off. Harry glanced at the bed, then started walking backwards towards it, not taking his eyes off of Charlie’s scarred, freckled skin.
Charlie followed him, his heart pounding as he peeled off the rest of his clothes, as Harry’s bright eyes perused him, awed and curious, lingering on Charlie’s flushed, painfully hard cock.
Relief, when Charlie pushed him gently onto the small bed; excited, as Harry scooted up to the pillows and tossed his glasses aside; nervous, when Charlie crawled over him, his cock dragging against Harry’s thigh, but Harry’s hands were on his chest, wandering down, his legs spread wide around Charlie’s hips, his eyes locked on Charlie’s own, and Charlie couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Harry,” he breathed. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me,” Harry repeated, immediately. Charlie grabbed his hips and yanked him closer, delighted by the surprised almost-smile. He settled his hips against Harry’s, stifling a moan as their cocks dragged together, reaching over to his bedside and rummaging blindly through the drawer until he found what he was looking for. More nervous excitement, tinged with jealousy, as Charlie sat up just enough to coat his fingers with lube. He tossed the bottle aside and reached between Harry’s legs.
“What else?” Charlie asked, watching Harry’s breaths quicken as he pressed a wet fingertip against Harry’s hole.
“I want to know who else you use that with,” Harry answered, then winced, regretting it. Charlie raised an eyebrow.
“Do you really?”
“Yes—” Harry cut off with a groan as Charlie pushed in. Charlie held still, waiting, turning his mouth to Harry’s nipple for a moment of distraction.
“Andrei.”
Harry grimaced at him in response, bitterly jealous, until Charlie’s finger started moving, pushing deeper into Harry’s tight, wet heat.
“Occasionally,” Charlie added.
“That’s it?”
“Mm.”
“You’re not—?”
“Merlin, no. Friends.” Charlie leaned in to kiss him again, swimming in Harry’s relief. His finger moved slow and easy, matching the pace of his lips. “What else?”
“Want to kiss you. Always.” Harry’s voice was growing breathless, his hips pushing back onto Charlie’s finger. Charlie pulled out, then pushed back in with two, swallowing Harry’s whine. Distracted by Charlie’s driving tongue, by the loose fist stroking his cock, Harry’s hips started moving with him, his hands clutching hard at Charlie’s shoulders.
Until he gasped against Charlie’s lips, and Charlie pushed his fingers deeper, curling them slightly—
“Fuck, yes,” Harry gasped again, his body tensing with each brush over his prostate, “yes, there, Charlie, please—”
“What else?”
“I want you to—” Harry’s face pinched with pleasure, nervousness being shunted aside by urgency and lust, by that decadent warmth Harry exuded, “—to fuck me, want me—”
Charlie pulled his fingers out, adding more lube and stroking himself slick as he watched Harry watch him, rapturous and hungry. So, so beautiful. Charlie wanted to tie him to the bed, keep him here forever. He was used to crumbs and scraps, but Harry was offering him a full meal, and Charlie wanted to devour him, to take every bit of this incredible, impossible chance. He pushed Harry’s knees to his chest, lining himself up, watching Harry’s mouth drop open in anticipation.
“What else?”
Harry reached for him. “Please.” Begged for him.
“I’m right here,” Charlie murmured, kissing his palm before lacing their fingers together and pinning that hand to the mattress. Harry’s breaths were quick and shallow, a small whine escaping as the tip of Charlie’s cock pressed a little harder, stretching his rim. “Tell me.”
Only because it was divine, hearing him say it, feeling what Harry felt when he said it, a surety and bliss and relief Charlie thought prophets and seers must have been familiar with: the joy of finally spilling a perceived truth.
Free in his want, safe where Charlie could fulfill it.
“I want you, Charlie,” Harry said in a heavy exhale. “I want you, to come home—”
Charlie filled him in one long, torturously slow push, feeling this was the closest to home he’d ever gotten. Sex had never felt this good, this real, this important, ever. Harry groaned roughly, his eyes shut tight, his hand squeezing Charlie’s hard enough to hurt. Charlie clenched his jaw, stilling his hips, trying to calm his racing breaths and the torrents of sparks in his veins.
His head had never felt so sweet. So intoxicatingly warm. He braced himself on his elbows, still holding tight to Harry’s hand, and brushed Harry’s sweaty curls off his forehead. Harry’s eyes opened, glimmering and so fucking green; it felt like they were digging into Charlie’s soul, dragging out everything he’d ever held back, as if he was finally within Harry’s reach.
“Harry…” Charlie caressed Harry’s face with careful fingers, wondering how he got so lucky. He didn’t know what else to say, if there was anything he could say. Harry lifted his hips a little, and Charlie gratefully started to move, groaning faintly at the heavenly feeling of Harry surrounding him.
“God, yes…” Harry moaned his approval, his pleasure apparent on his face. “Charlie—finally…”
Charlie couldn’t take his eyes off him, couldn’t contain himself at all. “You’re here, fuck—Harry, my Harry, you’re here.”
Harry pulled him down into a rough, eager kiss, making Charlie up his pace. The room filled with the sounds of their heavy breaths, bitten back moans, the creaking of the old wooden bed frame; the amber glow of the fire, the heady scents of sweat and sex and Harry, utter perfection.
The tight, coiling pleasure at the base of his spine made him feel out of his mind. Charlie was as close to Harry as he could get, pounding into him as Harry’s legs wrapped around him, sharing the same breaths, but all he wanted was more, closer, harder, deeper. He would never get enough. He couldn’t think straight, but he wanted to, he wanted to remember every single detail, he wanted to take as much of Harry as he could get, to hoard his scraps and crumbs and lick the fucking plate, to stay present in this moment for as long as possible.
His arm snaked under Harry’s back, lifting his hips and holding him tight, and he realized he was actually speaking.
“Beautiful boy,” Charlie slurred against his lips. “You impossible dream, Harry, I want you so much, it kills me—” he was thankfully cut off by Harry’s delicious moan, Harry’s hand wriggling free of Charlie’s to wrap his arms around Charlie’s neck. Harry’s cock was trapped between their stomachs; he locked his legs around Charlie’s waist, arching for more friction, and Charlie’s arm tightened around him, letting him rut against his abdomen, angling him to hear that sound again.
“Charlie, please… fuck, there, yes, I want—”
“Tell me, baby, anything.”
A broken sound was wrenched from Harry’s chest. His arms clamped around Charlie’s neck, locking them together. Charlie felt the shudder roll through him, another hoarse cry in Charlie’s ear. He thrust as deep as he could, feeling Harry’s orgasm in every part of Harry’s body; the warm wetness spreading between them, Harry’s arse clenching down on him, Harry’s thighs seizing around Charlie’s hips.
“That’s it, baby, you’re perfect, Harry—”
“Want you,” Harry panted, shivering with overstimulation. Charlie kissed him once, thrusting into him hard and fast. “Want you to come, want to watch you, Charlie, want to—god—”
Charlie’s hips stuttered, and whatever Harry said next was lost to a roaring in his ears as he peaked, cresting and crashing like a devastating wave. His cock pulsed deep inside Harry’s arse, hot and slick and sending surges of pleasure zipping under his skin, tingling in his fingers and curling his toes and sweet, warm, Harry, mine.
Harry’s hushed voice returned as Charlie’s hips slowed.
“Fuck, I can feel you,” Harry said. “You feel so good—Charlie, you feel like…”
Happiness, utter bliss. All because of Charlie; he wanted Harry to feel that way as long as possible, he wanted to be the cause of it. Charlie carefully slid out and rolled off of him, pulling Harry to his side, running a hand through those damp, inky curls. Harry’s fingers wandered over Charlie’s chest and stomach, a touch so light it was almost ticklish, skating over the remnants of come.
“I can still feel you,” Charlie murmured, bringing Harry’s hand to his mouth to kiss it. “D’you want me to shield?”
Charlie couldn’t decipher that feeling, too many at once, all conflicting.
“No,” Harry said, eventually. “It’s okay. You can feel me. Just—talk to me. About it. Please?”
“Okay.” Charlie kissed his palm. He’d always been obsessed with Harry’s hands.
“You’re happy, I think,” Charlie mumbled against his fingers, closing his eyes to feel it. “It’s… a little scared, but safe, happy. Relieved. You feel… small. In a good way.”
Harry curled up against him. “What else?”
Charlie laced their fingers together, turning his nose into Harry’s hair and breathing him in. “Hopeful. Nervous. And… determined.” He chuckled faintly. “Stubborn. Classic Harry.”
Harry squeezed his hand. “What else, Charlie?”
Charlie thought for a bit, trying to figure out a word for that big one, the feeling that was just Harry, the one he couldn’t get enough of.
“Warm,” Charlie said.
“Warm?”
“Mm.” Charlie brought their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Harry’s knuckles, over the scarred words on the back of his hand; I must not tell lies. “Like a hearth. Or a cake, fresh out of the oven. It’s sweet, really sweet. I want to live in it. You always feel this warm.”
Harry sighed deeply.
“You’re an idiot,” Harry said, a little exasperated, but so bloody fond it felt like Harry was squeezing Charlie’s ribs himself. “That’s love, Charlie.”
“What?” Charlie pulled his face back. Harry lifted his head to look at him, and Charlie’s breath caught at the emotion he saw there, warm, indulgent, he wanted to drink it, drown himself in it—
“S’what loving you feels like,” Harry murmured, shaking his head, smiling down at him, a little embarrassed. “I always feel that way, when you’re around.”
Charlie stared at him, dumbstruck.
“But that’s…” Charlie frowned. “You always feel like that, Harry. Every time I see you…”
Harry raised an eyebrow. Charlie didn’t know what to think.
“Your love feels different, though,” Charlie tried to argue. “I felt it. Around Draco.”
Harry only smiled wider. “Because my love for him is different, Charlie.”
“But I—”
“Merlin, Charlie,” Harry said, through Charlie’s favourite lopsided grin. “You really thought my feelings for you were just… a personality trait?” Charlie frowned harder, which made Harry snort. “The day I learned you were an empath, I thought I was done for. I thought there was no way you couldn’t know how I felt about you, if you could feel it yourself.”
“I…” Charlie’s eyes roamed his face, as if there could possibly be a trick, as if Harry could have hidden a feeling from him, ever. He couldn’t, and hadn’t; Harry’s love had been right in front of him, the whole time.
Why on earth…? Was that really what it was?
“The whole time?” Charlie echoed his own thoughts. Harry bit his lip—damn him—and nodded.
“Don’t worry,” Harry said, feigning nonchalance, “you weren’t the only one to not see it for what it was, at first.”
Charlie took a deep, shaky breath, feeling like the earth had tilted on its axis.
“I love you, Harry,” Charlie admitted, finally, though the words were so utterly inadequate. Harry relished them anyway, if the surge of joy and heat was any indication. “I love you, so much. But I’m—I’m not very good at it. I don’t know how. I don’t trust myself with it.”
Harry smiled softly. “I think you’re very good at it,” he said. “When you want to be. No one can love me the same way you do.”
Charlie swallowed, shaking his head. “I don’t think—” What was he even trying to say? “I’m not used to… I don’t want to come between you and Draco. I don’t want to—ruin anything, Harry, you don’t know what I’m… and you’re so young—”
“Don’t you dare,” Harry cut him off, his voice hard and cold; he didn’t like that at all. Which was fair, Charlie supposed. Harry was young, but he’d also never been young, in his entire life.
Harry rolled on top of him, straddling him. “I know what I want, Charlie.” Nervous, stubborn, determined, warm.
Charlie’s breath caught. “But—”
“My love for you has been so bloody obvious, that everyone in your family somehow knows and is trying to do something about it. Even my partner, my lover, knows that I love you, and knew it long before I did.”
“Harry.” Charlie’s lip ticked upward into a sad smile, his hands sliding up Harry’s thighs. “They know how I feel about you. Draco did, too, long before I ever met him.” Harry’s brows furrowed slightly. “That’s why they were apparently so determined to send you, for this weird, out-of-the-blue recall mission. You’re my ultimate weakness.”
Harry rolled his eyes, a blush appearing on his cheeks. Pleased, despite himself. Aroused, as he sat up and stared down at Charlie, already half-hard again. He wiggled his hips, making Charlie squeeze his thighs.
“This is half my confusing teenage wet dreams, right here,” Harry purred, eyes and hands roaming Charlie’s body, injecting confidence to cover his conflicting emotions. Charlie didn’t comment on it; Harry could try to hide, if he needed to.
“Only half?” he teased, instead. Harry smirked.
“Half.” He braced his hands on Charlie’s chest, grinding his arse down on Charlie’s cock. “Think you can get it up again?”
Charlie smiled, sitting up to pull him into a kiss, nipping gently at his full bottom lip.
Dessert sounded lovely.
***
Charlie woke slowly, to the novel feeling of a warm, warm, warm body pressed up behind him, a gentle hand over his heart.
He breathed deep, holding Harry’s hand to his chest. Harry kissed the back of his neck, sighing against his skin, and Charlie wanted to melt into the flannel sheets, into the heat of Harry’s body.
“Come home, Charlie,” Harry whispered. “We could have this.” He tightened his arm around Charlie’s chest. “…All of us.”
Charlie’s stomach twisted. He opened his eyes.
Dawn was barely breaking through the window, bathing the room in a gauzy purplish hue. It looked cold, but the chill couldn’t touch them, as long as Harry didn’t let go. Charlie rolled carefully in Harry’s arms, laying a hand on his cheek, fingers tracing over a faint pillow line.
Harry pressed their foreheads together, brushing Charlie’s nose with his own. Afraid, quietly so.
“I want you to want me like this,” Harry said, soft as a secret. He threaded his hand in Charlie’s hair, unbearably gentle, winding the fiery, tangled locks around his fingers. “Want to see you all the time, feel you, kiss you. Want to make you dinner.” The flicker of a smile, the ache of longing ever-present, even locked in each other’s arms. Charlie swallowed hard, brushing his thumb over Harry’s cheek; he didn’t know what to say.
“Want to wake up with you, like this, want you to make me coffee,” Harry continued, combing through Charlie’s hair. “Want to learn everything about you. Want to watch you do what you love, in a place you can call your own. Want to watch you get to know him, and him you—want to watch you kiss him, if you’re up for it.”
Charlie snorted weakly. None of this felt real. He knew Harry was telling the truth, but—Harry already had those things, with Draco, he had everything he needed, he had no idea what having Charlie around was really, truly like—
“I know it sounds mad,” Harry said, hushed and fragile. “I know. But we’ve done madder things, haven’t we?”
Charlie couldn’t help a sad smile, humming softly in agreement. He opened his mouth to reply, but their bubble of solitude was broken by a sleepy, inquisitive chirrup sound, muffled by a closed cupboard.
So he kissed Harry, instead, because he could, and reluctantly got out of bed to tend to the hungry baby dragon, throwing a quick shield around the bed to protect Harry from any poisonous fumes or overexcited sparks.
***
Charlie at least found the time to make him coffee, which Harry drank sitting half-nude at Charlie’s little table, his foot hooked around Charlie’s ankle, smiling softly around the rim of the mug.
Hopeful, hopeful, hopeful. Charlie’s heart was crumbling into dust.
Who was this man Harry loved so much? Who was it Harry saw when he stared at Charlie like this?
“I’ll see you soon,” Harry mumbled against his lips, his tone barely lifting at the end. He kissed Charlie so deeply he went weak at the knees, preventing a response, which was fine, because Charlie couldn’t tell if that was a question or not, and he didn’t know how to answer it if it was.
The swirling blue glow of the Portkey took Harry away, and with him that comforting, sugary warmth. Charlie shivered, wrapping his arms around himself as familiar fear and anxiety and self-doubt trickled over his skin. He replayed the entire visit over in his head, Harry’s every word, every feeling, every touch, trying to hold on to the last echoes of his voice, the lingering taste of him on his lips.
Joey wound around his ankles, demanding attention, so Charlie quickly finished dressing and donned the pouch. Joey scrambled into it, giving Charlie a few new accidental scratches, but Charlie didn’t mind. He needed the company, and the extra warmth.
On the desk, he found a familiar braided leather bracelet, on top of a soft, folded royal blue jumper that smelled like citrus and smoke and sky.
He glanced at the stack of folders still on his chair, decided not to think about any of it just yet, and strode out of his hut to get started on chores.
Andrei found him soon enough, grinning salaciously. Charlie blushed and tried futilely to ignore him.
“You didn’t tell me your boy looked like that, puiule.”
“Hush,” Charlie said, frowning down at the chittering dragon in the pouch. “There’s a baby here.”
“They only understand your words, Charlie, not mine,” Andrei laughed, following him around undeterred. “How was he, after all these years? You’re walking fine, so I can only assume—”
“Andrei!” Charlie cut him off, to more mischievous laughter. He sent a mild stinging hex in Andrei’s direction, but Andrei simply giggled and deflected it.
“Fine, fine,” Andrei said, waggling his eyebrows. “But I’ll get it out of you sooner or later, you know. You’re making dinner tonight.”
Charlie’s face was stupidly warm. “Whatever,” he grumbled, fighting the smile. Andrei chuckled at him, whistling and fanning himself as he sauntered away.
Charlie started repairing the shoddy plumbing in the mess hall, decidedly not thinking about whether or not he’d need a mess hall on a hypothetical sanctuary of his own in England, and what that would entail, if he’d have to hire cooks and hands and whether Malfoy Manor was fit for such a thing, or if it was too big and posh for dirty dragon wranglers, or if it was too polluted by dark magic for anyone to want to go near it, dragons included…
***
“So, when are you leaving?”
Charlie’s shoulders stiffened, turning his attention to the potato soup on the hob. Harry must have told Andrei the reason for his visit.
“I don’t know.”
Charlie heard Andrei hanging up his coat, sighing as he made his way to Charlie’s kitchenette. Surprisingly, a little frustrated.
“Which part?”
“I don’t know, Andrei. I want to… but it’s so—I live here—”
“This is not your home, puiule,” Andrei interrupted firmly. Charlie dropped the spoon into the pot and turned, unaccountably hurt. “It never was. This is a place you run away to. Your home is in England. With them.”
“No,” Charlie argued. His voice cracked on the word. “This is the sanctuary I found. This is the only place I’ve ever belonged. Here, I have dragons, I have what I’m good at, and peace, and—and I have you—”
Andrei cut him off with a groan, vexed and reluctantly fond. “Don’t pretend this is more than it is, Charlie. I love you, but not like you need. You don’t love me like that, either. I was an escape, for you, and so was this place, but you can’t keep running. They want you home, and you need more of them than the short blinks you’ve allowed yourself.”
Charlie’s lungs felt all wrong. Too tight. “But… the dragons—”
“You have the chance to start your own sanctuary, Charlie. You’ve been helping me run this place for almost a decade, I know you can do it. I’ll even help you. And you have so many more people willing to help you.” He paused, deep brown eyes roaming over Charlie’s face, dark brows furrowed in concern. “The little one—Mathilde—she will probably go with you, if you ask. She’s very attached to you.”
Charlie looked down, rubbing his face with his hand. The words bubbled up in his throat, like bile, but he forced them out:
“I’m scared.” His shoulders sagged in defeat. “I’m so fucking scared, Andrei. Harry—he’s only known me in short bursts. What if that’s the only way he likes me? What if Draco only likes me for Harry’s sake? And what if I don’t measure up to whatever fantasy-Charlie they’ve built in their heads—what if the rest, all of me, all the time… what if it’s too much? For everyone? And I don’t have any idea how to be a—a godfather, either, what if—what if I can’t stand it, being around them all, all the time? Disappointing them—constantly…”
Andrei’s eyes filled with sympathy. He closed them briefly and sighed, long and slow.
“Do you know why I call you licurici?” Andrei asked. Charlie blinked, taken aback.
“Er… is it not because of the hair?”
Andrei barked a soft, surprised laugh, then shook his head sadly. “No.”
“Okay…”
“Licurici,” Andrei repeated. “Firefly. I call you that because you remind me of one, Charlie. You live in flashes. The people who love you experience you only in brief flickers. You’re here, you’re at rest. Quiet. You go home, you light up their world for a moment, and then you’re gone. Over and over, in a pattern of blinks—licuricii are doing it to send messages, putting out calls for homes and mates. Hoping they will be noticed, and recognized, and answered. Do you see?”
Charlie tried to swallow around the painful lump in his throat. He couldn’t. Andrei stepped closer.
“They’re answering, Charlie. They see you. They’re calling you home.”
Charlie’s lip quivered; he tried to hide his face in his hands. And then he was being pressed into Andrei’s chest, held tight against his body, and it was okay, that was a place he could cry.
Andrei held him until he stopped shaking, until the soup grew a rather unappetizing film over the surface that made Charlie laugh and sniffle and swear when Andrei prodded at it. Andrei ruffled his hair, then left Charlie to serve them both.
When Charlie brought the steaming, slightly burnt bowls of soup over to the little table, Andrei was waiting there with the stack of terrifying folders, a pot of ink, and a ruffled old quill. He grinned at Charlie’s look of utter dread, eyeing him until he gave in and sat down in the open chair, soup bowls momentarily set aside.
Andrei opened the first folder, letting out a low whistle at the unsigned deed on top of the stack. He pulled out the reading glasses Charlie had gotten him for Christmas; unbreakable tortoiseshell frames. They made him look rather distinguished.
“Charlie, this is perfect. There’s even a house on the property for you.”
“Er…” Charlie squirmed in his chair. “Not too keen on living in that particular Manor—”
“Not the Manor, didn’t you read this?”
Charlie looked away. Andrei huffed.
“There’s a small cottage for a groundskeeper, three full-size barns, one stable, two guest houses, a greenhouse, a small lake, a boathouse, and that’s not even… Doamne, who needs all that for one family?”
Charlie’s jaw dropped, dumbfounded. Andrei shook himself, flipped the folder around, and slid it across the table in front of Charlie. He even dipped the quill in ink for him, holding it out for him to take. Charlie still hesitated.
“Andrei—”
“Puiule, you can’t stay here your whole life.”
“I was planning on it,” Charlie grumbled.
“No, you were resigned to it.” Andrei raised an eyebrow at him. Charlie’s mouth twisted, but he reluctantly reached over and took the quill from Andrei’s hand.
It hovered over that blank line, waiting for Charlie’s name at the bottom of the ivory parchment. He looked back up at Andrei.
“You’ll still…” Charlie twisted the quill in his fingers. “We’ll still be friends? You and me?”
Andrei smiled gently, filled with that comforting, unconditional platonic love, and nodded. “As if you could ever get rid of me.”
Reassured, Charlie returned his attention to the parchment.
His hand shook, a drop of ink threatening at the tip of the quill. He thought of Harry, his stubborn hope and adoration, and Draco’s devotion and understanding. He thought of how happy his mother and Bill and Fleur would be to see him, and imagined that continuing for more than a few days a year. He thought of watching Ginny’s games, and George’s laughs, and Percy’s dedication—Percy might have helped with all these forms, come to think of it—Hermione and her perseverance, and Ron’s optimism, and Arthur’s endless patience.
He tried to imagine what it would be like, getting to see their lives as they happened, not having to learn about everything after the fact. Being a part of the madness, well-loved chaos, but having a sanctuary of his very own to return to.
He imagined sitting on the worn red sofa in the Burrow, with Harry nestled into his side, with Draco watching them and radiating fondness only Charlie could feel. He thought of flying with both of them, conducting the electricity between them. He wondered if Draco wanted to kiss him, too.
But in the end, it was Narcissa Malfoy’s voice in his head that gave him the final push:
“You’ll have to learn to be okay with not knowing.”
Charlie lowered the quill to the parchment, signing his full name as neatly as he could, watching the magic shimmer around it, feeling it settle around him, as he took ownership of the Malfoy Estate and everything it entailed—accepting Narcissa and Draco’s unfathomable gift.
He only spared the tiniest bit of smug satisfaction at the thought of what old Lucius would have to say about it.
“Da! Înainte!” Andrei fistpumped the air with a triumphant laugh, and flipped the page for him.
The soup went cold, and Charlie’s hand started to ache, but with each careful signature a significant weight tumbled off of his shoulders, to be replaced by an odd, incredulous excitement, bolstered by Andrei’s uplifting, unwavering support.
Notes:
"Doamne" - "God", an exclamation.
"Da! Înainte!" - "Yes! Onward!"End of Part Two! Interlude coming on the 30th, then Part Three starts up on the 3rd! <3
Chapter 10: Interlude: Draco
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Draco rolled over in bed, reaching out his arm, though he knew he would encounter a cold, blank space.
It didn’t upset him; Harry always woke before he did, and Draco was always grateful for any opportunity to sleep in. Draco had the privilege of falling asleep with him, after all. It was his favourite part of the day: crawling under the covers of their bed, feeling the heat of Harry’s body against his own, feeling the resilient beat of Harry’s heart beneath his palm.
His Harry, sleepy and sated and open, after a full day of being the impossible, invincible Saviour; it was like watching a lion roll over for a belly rub. Draco knew the patterns of his breathing by heart, knew that Harry fell asleep faster in Draco’s arms. It was Draco who could feel when the nightmares were coming on, who knew how to hold Harry tight tight tight, to contain him when panic tore at his seams. It was Draco who knew exactly how to take him apart, to make him come alive, to make him let go.
And it was Harry who had poured himself like molten gold into Draco’s bones, burning and bright and beautiful, until Draco felt like he’d burst into flames, until he couldn’t imagine an existence without Harry that wasn’t cold.
Harry gave Draco his all, and Draco savoured every drop; his.
Not only his, of course, Draco thought as he rolled sluggishly out of bed, sliding his feet into his slippers.
He padded his way quietly to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, and paused in the doorway, taking in the lovely sight.
Harry was sitting at the breakfast counter, with a steaming mug and the leather-bound journal Charlie had given him splayed open before him. He had one hand wrapped around the mug, his index finger idly tracing the ceramic rim, back and forth. His other hand was thumbing the pages of the journal, with a soft, repetitive fwip sound.
Harry had filled about half of it by now, with notes and charms and drawings of different knots. But he wasn’t looking at them—he was staring into his mediocre coffee, so deep in thought that he jolted when Draco cleared his throat.
Thinking about Charlie, again.
“Hi,” Harry said, clearly trying to affect some cheerfulness into his tone. It had been three weeks since Harry visited Romania, and he had to work harder at staying positive the longer he didn’t hear from Charlie.
Draco had to work harder at controlling how much he wanted to throttle the stupid, sexy, ginger git, with every day that passed with no word on whether or not Charlie was making a move.
But all he had to do was remember how desperate Charlie had looked, his blue eyes wide and shining; how it had felt to have that look aimed at Draco over a crowded dinner table, and over Harry’s shoulder in the dark, and across the scant space of the wooden floor in Charlie’s hut. Draco’s lips pressed together as he crossed the kitchen to Harry, wrapping around him from behind, breathing in his incredible scent.
He could be patient. For Harry.
He knew how terrifying it could be, loving Harry like this. Wanting him so much he thought he might die with it.
“He’ll come,” Draco murmured into his warm neck. Harry sighed, leaning his head back against Draco’s shoulder.
“I hope so.”
“He knows I’ll kill him if he doesn’t,” Draco added. Harry snorted.
“Does he?”
“Mm.” Draco planted soft kisses along the tendon in his neck, tightening his embrace. “He will, Harry. I’m afraid you’re quite irresistible.”
Harry snorted again. “You’re just trying to get into my pants, Malfoy,” he teased, as Draco’s hands slid down his chest.
“You have no idea, Potter,” Draco mumbled against the shell of his ear, thinking of just how long he’d been hoping for such a thing. Harry might have thought he was being facetious, but he didn’t know how Draco had wanked over the memory of their brawl in fifth year for ages, or woken up crying from dreams of Harry kissing him bloody at seventeen, or mastered Occlumency just to stay alive, to keep his horrible, impossible desires hidden from anyone who would use them against him.
Harry didn’t quite understand that Charlie Weasley could look at Draco, just once, and instantly know the depth of his greatest weakness, the earth-shattering strength of Draco’s devotion.
“Do you know why he had to be so far away, Harry?” Draco whispered, thumbing Harry’s nipples through his ratty t-shirt.
“Because he works at a dragon sanctuary, and isn’t comfortable living around so many people,” Harry answered breathlessly, automatically. His hands came up to Draco’s arms, holding on tight to his biceps.
“Because it’s impossible to be near you without touching you,” Draco said, his hands gliding down Harry’s stomach.
“Oh, I don’t—fuck—I don’t know about that—” Harry squirmed, while Draco’s hand ghosted over the growing hardness in his soft pyjamas. “You managed not touching me for several years, living in the same bloody—”
“No, I didn’t,” Draco corrected, finally gripping him through the cotton, eliciting a sweet moan. “I didn’t manage at all.” Harry turned his head, reaching for Draco’s kiss, which Draco happily obliged, as it kept him from confessing anything more embarrassing.
“Draco,” Harry whined into Draco’s mouth, his hand sliding up into Draco’s hair, and this, this was why Draco knew Charlie would return.
Because Draco would surely perish without this, now that he finally had it.
Charlie Weasley didn’t stand a chance.
Notes:
Part Three starts posting on January 3rd! :)
Chapter 11: Part Three: March, 2001
Notes:
Happy New Year, folks! <3
Chapter Text
March, 2001
Charlie was frantic.
He’d felt frantic for the past few weeks, actually, and maybe even before signing those documents, and maybe he shouldn’t think about just how long he’d been a bit of an anxious mess. But he couldn’t help it, since he was once again pacing around his hut, sitting down at his desk every few minutes to try to write a letter, then getting up again in a huff when he couldn’t think of a single thing worth sending.
Dear Harry,
I’m coming home. If you still want to make me dinner, I’ll make you coffee. You can find me roaming your boyfriend’s former childhood home like a ghost, muttering about posh coffee pots and fire-repellant charms.Dear Draco,
Thanks for that big chunk of land you grew up on. Your boyfriend left your nice blue jumper at my place. I’m not eager to give it back, though it’ll never fit me. It smells like both of you.Dear Bill,
You’ll have to show me how to hold a baby and not break it. Don’t expect me to teach them any maths. I’m piercing the kid’s ear the second they ask me to.Dear Ginny,
Please don’t hate me for this.Dear Mum,
I’m not sure how to make a home.Dear Narcissa,
Thank you.
He sent the last one. The others remained in piles of crumpled parchment on his desk, mocking him.
He’d learned quickly that he actually owned very few things. He was able to shrink his whole life to fit inside his satchel, everything in the hut that wasn’t the furniture it came with. Some dragonology books, his clothes, his kits, a few tools and things he’d made for dragon care, those folders… In fact, the only thing that had to travel with him outside of the satchel was Mathilde.
She seemed open to the idea. Charlie felt that she didn’t really care where she was, as long as Charlie was there, which was… well. He only teared up a bit. He promised to make sure a place was ready for her, then to come back and lead her to her new home.
Of course, he couldn’t follow through on that without actually going there, first. The leaving part. And he didn’t feel right showing up to Malfoy Manor—he refused to call it Weasley Manor—by himself, unannounced, even though the estate was completely vacant except for the wildlife. And it was actually Charlie’s land, now, even though he’d never seen it. But it also felt wrong to drop in to the Burrow in the middle of March, even though he was welcome and they might even be excited to see him, because he hadn’t written anyone informing them of his decision, because he didn’t know what to say, and he felt like a fragile mess, like someone was going to tell him it was all just a big joke, all of it, and that he really should stay in Romania, and he wouldn’t even have much unpacking to do.
But Andrei never let him fester in his thoughts for long. He kept keen eyes on Charlie, like Charlie was the opposite of a flight risk, like if Andrei left him to his own devices for too long, he’d spiral in his fear and doubt and dig a little hole and bury himself in his hut and never leave.
It wasn’t entirely out of the league of possibilities.
So Andrei burst through his door right on cue, grinning like a loon, glancing around once to make sure everything was packed. He threw Charlie his satchel, which was heavier than it looked, then straightened Charlie’s hair a little, tsked and ruffled it again. Charlie tried unsuccessfully to dodge.
“What the—”
“You’re going to the Burrow,” Andrei said, almost giddy, and thrust what appeared to be a well-used pink ballet shoe into Charlie’s hand, ribbons and all.
“What—now?”
“Da, and you’re going to love it, and you’ll do what you need to do to get set up, and you’ll owl me if you need my help, but I might stop by at some point anyway, just to check in—”
“Andrei—!”
Andrei enveloped him in a crushing hug, even lifting him off the floor a bit. “Licurici, I’m so proud of you, I can’t wait to see what you make, how happy you’ll be. And if they hurt you, I’m telling the dragons—”
“Andrei—”
“And don’t forget to talk, puiule, they haven’t spent every waking moment with you for the past ten years like I have, they can’t read you like I can, and they will learn, but you have to talk, about everything, yes? And ask for help, not just when you need it—actually, if you think you don’t need help, that probably means you should ask for help, everyone wants to help—”
Charlie tucked the shoe under his arm and shut Andrei up with a quick, chaste kiss, his hands on either side of Andrei’s face. Andrei chuckled, but his voice was thick, and Charlie realized upon getting a proper look at him that Andrei was trying to cover up his sadness before Charlie could feel it. It didn’t work.
“I’ll miss you,” Andrei said, still smiling, “but I’m so happy for you, Charlie. You have no idea. I know it seems scary, but I think this can make you really happy.”
“I won’t miss your aggressive Portkey tendencies,” Charlie mumbled, trying to make him laugh again. “And you know you can’t fully get rid of me, either, no matter how hard you try. Someone has to make sure you update your reading glasses, every year.”
Andrei rolled his eyes, checked his watch, and kissed Charlie’s forehead. The shoe under Charlie’s arm started to glow, and Andrei stepped back, winked, and smiled brightly, his brown eyes wet and gleaming with reflected light from the open door.
“Baftă, licurici.”
Charlie’s panic rose. “I’ll see you soon, promise—”
He was cut off by the hook and jerk of the Portkey, yanking him out of the haven he’d known and loved for the past ten years, away from his peace and his stability and his closest friend, and he found himself surprisingly relieved.
He complained about Andrei’s Portkey habits, but he was usually grateful to have the actual decision of uprooting himself taken away from him. It was easier for him to be thrown bodily into uncertainty and chaos than to step into it willingly. He worked better on the fly.
He landed heavily in the garden of the Burrow, on damp, early spring grass, the air chilly and thick from the melted snow.
It was Sunday, around lunchtime, and he could already hear the noise inside the house, and see the many red-headed figures moving around in the kitchen window, until one of them—undeniably Ginny—did a double take, her jaw dropping as she stared at him through the glass. Charlie tried to smile at her, his heart pounding relentlessly in his ears, as the nerves returned in full force.
Then the door burst open to reveal Harry, his Harry, hopeful and shocked and so warm, staring at him with wide, disbelieving green eyes and parted lips Charlie could almost still taste.
Charlie dropped his satchel, his head echoing with I’m glad you stayed and I’ll see you in the morning and I want you to come home and then he was moving, and Harry was stumbling out of the house and running.
Harry slammed into him, knocking the wind out of him, maybe laughing, because Charlie was laughing a little, too, and it was the best kind of spilling-over he’d ever experienced. It meant breathing in more of Harry’s scent, it meant feeling Harry’s arms locked around him and Harry’s smile against his neck, it meant holding Harry as tightly as he could, clenching his fists in the back of Harry’s hoodie and riding the wave of both of their joy and relief.
“You came home,” Harry said. “You never said—I didn’t think—”
“I’m here,” Charlie interrupted. “I’m home, now. I’m sorry it took me so long.”
“Tell me you’re staying.”
“Harry.” Charlie pressed a discreet kiss to his cheek. “I’m—I’m staying.”
More waves and another oof as Ginny collided with them next, then a high-pitched warble as Molly joined, already weeping, and then there was a giddy, overjoyed mass of Weasleys and Harry in the garden, all talking over each other and feeling happier than Charlie had felt them in a long, long time.
When he opened his eyes and looked over the jostling shoulders, he saw Draco leaning in the open doorway, cool and casual in a long-sleeved black shirt and dark, tailored jeans, the corner of his lips tilted up in an almost-smile.
To anyone else, he looked relaxed and a little amused. But through the elated noise of his family, Charlie could feel Draco’s fondness, his interest and curiosity. His fierce protectiveness. Worry, Charlie wasn’t sure over what, but he thought Draco always felt a little worried. Anxious.
Draco winked at him, which prompted Charlie to notice that his family was dispersing and Charlie was still standing there clinging to Harry and staring at Draco over Harry’s shoulder. No one mentioned it, thankfully. He cleared his throat roughly, releasing Harry with some reluctance. Fleur was teasing Ginny for struggling to lift Charlie’s satchel; Ginny retorted that limp noodles like her and Bill wouldn’t stand a chance. Then all of Charlie’s siblings were squabbling over the satchel, and Fleur was laughing with a hand on her pregnant belly, and Ron and George were trying to gamble with Percy over how far he could carry it, but Charlie was busy watching Harry’s handsome face light up with happiness, directed at Charlie alone.
It was all Charlie could do not to kiss him, right then and there.
“You smell like kerosene,” Harry said.
“Yeah, well.” Charlie rubbed his neck, over the place Harry’s lips had been. Philippe had been a right tit that morning about his scales, grumbling and huffing like a grumpy old dog. “You’ll have to get used to it. I’m a flammable man, Harry.”
Harry threw his head back and laughed, really laughed, and Charlie’s heart skipped, and it brought a real, proper smile to Draco’s face, and maybe everything was going to be okay.
“Don’t I know it,” Harry said, grabbing him by the bracelet-clad wrist and dragging him inside.
***
Charlie had dealt with numerous baby dragons in his lifetime. Several newborn creatures. But an unborn human child had so far remained at the top of the list of weird natural phenomena, and as Fleur put Charlie’s hand on her belly, its first place spot was cemented forevermore.
Something moved under Charlie’s hand, and Charlie made a shocked, strangled sound. Fleur laughed, and he could feel that, too.
“Bizarre, I know,” Fleur said.
“It’s…” Charlie couldn’t think of anything polite. He pulled his hand away, listening to her chatter about nurseries and exercises and other things he couldn’t keep up with, until his curiosity got the better of him.
“Can I…?” He held out his hand again, sheepish, but she smiled at him knowingly, placing it on her round belly once more. Charlie tried to listen to her, he really did, but his mind was getting carried away with thoughts like what it would be like to actually meet this baby, soon, and if they would like being carried in the pouch Charlie used for Joey, and if they would like Charlie at all.
And how exciting it was, how hopeful he felt, for this baby that wouldn’t have to grow up in wartime.
Fleur was so happy. Nervous, a little unsettled, exhausted, but so excited, with a strong, maternal sort of love he recognized from Molly and Narcissa and several nesting mother dragons he’d known.
Bill sat on Fleur’s other side with his arm on the back of her chair; Charlie could practically see the hearts in his eyes. Lunch was winding down into inevitable tea, and Charlie had so far managed to distract himself from the jittery-eager glances from Harry and Draco at the other end of the table by throwing himself into this baby conversation with Fleur.
He was ashamed that he was overwhelmed already. His own emotions were running high, and everyone else was practically vibrating with excitement, and he shouldn’t have been feeling like this, because it was all good feelings, things he should have been more than happy to feel.
But it was all so much. So fast. He couldn’t really think straight. His instincts told him to run, or hide. He tried to concentrate on Occlumency, but there was so much noise, and everyone kept trying to talk to him—
“Have you been ‘round your new place, yet?” Ron asked. Charlie blinked at him.
“Er…”
Ron frowned. “You haven’t even seen it, Charlie?” He shook his head, his mouth full of steak and kidney pie. “Brave of you, taking on that pile of—”
“Would you like to?” Draco interrupted, bright grey eyes intent on Charlie. He raised an eyebrow, barely, and Charlie grabbed onto the opportunity like a life raft.
“Yeah.” Charlie wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood. Harry stood too, for some reason, but Charlie wasn’t complaining. “Care to show me around?”
***
The gates of Malfoy Manor were as big and imposing as Charlie had thought they would be: at least fifteen feet high, dark, twisting cast iron, the image of them oscillating a bit through the thick, centuries-old wards. Draco looked small, standing in front of them. He felt small, too—belittled, vulnerable. Charlie watched Draco’s fingers twitch at his sides, the only outward sign of the turbulent mess of emotion within, as they all stared up at the proud, ominous wrought iron “M”, the overgrown, dilapidated drive behind it.
Harry wasn’t much better. He was restless, grim, bitter, afraid—like he was being forced to walk into his own nightmare. He stood close to Charlie, watching with a grave expression as Draco examined the wards.
Draco stepped back, next to Charlie, and pulled out his wand.
“It’s yours, alright,” he said dryly, trying for a smirk. “Go on, Lord Weasley.”
Harry made a quiet retching sound, darkly amused, which Charlie mirrored completely as he shook his head and stepped up to the gates.
He still had trouble believing it, that this place was his. This place he’d never even seen before, until now. This place he’d only ever heard horror stories about, and read about in mind-boggling legal jargon on important-looking documents.
He could feel the vestiges of dark magic, a whisper of warning on the land, echoes of what it had seen. But it was just land, potent with centuries of magic, and it remembered, like humans did, like dragons did. It needed patience, time, persistent love. Healing. Like anything else.
Charlie pushed through the wards, feeling them shudder and give under his hand, and wrapped his fingers around a cold bar of the gate.
“Don’t make a fuss about the half-blood, please,” he whispered, just in case. “I’m fond of him. I’ll take good care of you, alright? I think you’ll like dragons as much as I do.”
And with that, he pushed open the gate and walked in, listening for the sounds of the two wary, traumatized men behind him, two sets of footsteps crunching on gravel.
They were losing the light, so by an unspoken agreement, they followed the gravel drive all the way down to the Manor itself, which couldn’t be seen from the gate, thanks to the towering hedges along the main road. Charlie managed not to let out a shocked giggle at the sight of it, mostly because Harry and Draco were the opposite of amused.
But Charlie was looking at a building made for at least fifty very expensive people. It was outrageous, ridiculous even, that for most of Draco’s life, only three had lived there, and what must have been a whole army of house elves. Not quite a castle, but it definitely wasn’t a house. It was made entirely of formidable grey stone and mullioned glass, but the earth was already trying to reclaim it, after only a couple years of vacancy. Dark vines wrapped around the windows, climbing up to the gables and enveloping the stone in an oppressive—or protective—embrace, as if it could be dragged back into the dirt.
Draco moved forward to open the door, but stopped himself, stepping back next to Charlie under a surge of something—hurt? Disappointment? Grief?
Draco cleared his throat. “Probably shouldn’t be me.”
And with that, Draco closed his eyes briefly, and Charlie felt what he now knew were Occlumency walls going up, cutting everything else off. Fuck, but Draco was so good at this. Draco was doing it for himself, to protect himself and probably to keep Charlie out of his emotions, but it had the bonus effect of being strong enough, powerful enough to drown out everything in Charlie’s head, filling it with a sort of white noise. Like being submerged in a warm bath, weightless and silent—
Someone jostled his shoulder gently. “Might have to tone it down, Draco,” Harry mumbled. Charlie opened his eyes. When had he closed them?
“Right,” Draco said, in a tone more conflicted than Charlie had ever heard from him. “My apologies, Charlie.”
The white noise quieted a little, and Charlie shook himself, returning to reality. He adjusted the strap of the satchel on his shoulder and walked ahead decisively, scaling the marble steps two at a time. The tall, ornately carved doors opened ahead of him with a foreboding, echoing creak, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. He went straight in.
Reaching the middle of the cold, expansive foyer, he spun around slowly, taking it all in. Harry and Draco remained a few steps behind him, standing close enough that their fingers brushed, looking around warily. Charlie watched Harry lean into Draco a little, feeling a sweet, comforting relief as Draco leaned back. He didn’t care who it was from. Might have been his own, even.
“This is…” Charlie paused to let the echoes bounce around. “A lot.” Draco snorted.
“This is only the entryway.”
“Yeah, can we…?” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. He met Draco’s eyes, then Harry’s, for reassurance. “Can you show me… the important bits? I mean—the good parts.”
Draco’s eyes softened. It was hard to tell, through his mild Occlumency, but it almost looked like pity. Harry looked up at Draco, equally curious.
“I’ll show you the useful parts,” Draco replied. “But I’m afraid there isn’t anything left here that is good.”
Charlie hummed, frowning slightly. “For now.”
Draco proceeded to lead them through what must have been the most abridged tour of the Manor he’d ever given. He recited its facts and history in a flat, bored tone, as if that would hide his disdain, and never let them linger in any room long enough for his fear or his memories to overcome him. The kitchens, the largest bedroom suite that was not the master suite, the sunroom, the study, the drawing room—Harry didn’t go in that one—neither of them would even look in the direction of the cellars—
Charlie could feel Harry’s panic, the pain of his trauma just under the surface, could see it in the way his shoulders bunched and his eyes darted around and his hand clenched around his wand, waiting for an attack. He was restless and agitated, so much so that he eventually excused himself from their tour to go wait for them in the foyer.
Draco made it to the dining room before he cracked.
“This is—ah.” Those walls crumbled like a dam, his eyes locked on the long, polished mahogany table. “This is.” He let out a huff that might have been a giggle, if Charlie didn’t know better. Terror was spilling out of him, slowly at first, then all at once, making Charlie’s blood run cold.
Charlie stepped towards him, feeling like he was walking upstream, fighting a current to reach him. Draco’s face was bloodless, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Charlie got close enough to hear his quick, quivering breaths, see his pulse racing in his throat, matching his own. He stood in front of him, though he wasn’t tall enough to block Draco’s view, and Draco met his eyes, frantic and horrified by the memories in his head.
“This is where the Dark Lord made us watch his pet snake eat my Muggle Studies professor,” he said, his voice shaking through the recitation of another fact. “Merlin, Charlie, I’m so sorry to have given you this wretched place. To have put all this on you—”
Charlie took both of his hands without thinking, holding them in his own.
“Draco,” he said. Draco stared at his hands in shock. “Are we safe?”
Draco blinked a few times, looking back up. Charlie rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Draco’s clammy hands, suppressing his own secondhand shivers.
“I—yes,” Draco eventually replied. “It’s safe. The Aurors—Unspeakables and cursebreakers, went through every inch—”
“Then you’re safe,” Charlie said, and meant it, and it wasn’t a lie as he pushed it gently towards Draco, you are safe, you are safe. “It’s just me, here. We’re alright.”
He breathed in slow, exhaled slower, watching Draco shakily try to match the rhythm. In, then out, their breaths the only sound in the grim, echoey room; like distant waves. Draco leaned toward him subconsciously, and Charlie had to close his eyes upon catching a whiff of his cologne, concentrating hard on his projection, and not on how tall Draco felt up close, nor how unbelievably good he smelled, nor how his hands felt squeezing Charlie’s own.
It took a few minutes, but eventually, his shoulders relaxed, his breaths slowed. Charlie opened his eyes to see Draco’s head tipped forward, exhausted and embarrassed, a lock of white-blond hair falling into his face. Charlie fought the urge to touch it.
“I’m sorry,” Draco said, but Charlie didn't know what for, so he just squeezed his hands and released him.
“As lovely as this fortress is, I can’t see myself sleeping here,” Charlie said, the dry tone making Draco’s lips twitch. “You know what I’m used to living in, after all. ‘Charming,’ I think, was the word you used.”
Draco was trying not to smile, which felt like such a huge accomplishment that Charlie had to stop himself from preening. Draco’s hands were clasped in front of him, his thumb rubbing over the back the same way Charlie’s had, as if he wasn’t ready to give up that comfort just yet.
“Yes, we’ve selected a proper replacement for your former… abode.” Draco swept out of the room, letting Charlie grin as wide as he wanted. He’d never thought he’d be happy to hear such a haughty, imperious tone in a man’s voice. But it meant Draco was okay—it meant Charlie had done a good thing.
And he’d gotten to touch Draco Malfoy, just a little, and the world didn’t implode.
Harry was delighted to see them both in better spirits, and he seemed to be feeling better, too, lighting up the steps of the Manor with colourful floating lumos lights in his boredom. It made the dark, oppressive stone look almost whimsical. Charlie immediately started dreaming up ways to make them permanent.
Harry and Draco led him around the massive building and through winding, overgrown gardens, casting more pretty lights in their path.
“Personally, I thought the barn would provide the most familiar atmosphere—” Draco cut off with a quiet snicker as Charlie tried and failed to trip him.
“Git,” Harry mumbled, shaking his head, smiling at the ground.
“But alas, Potter here has demanded only the best for his favourite Weasley—”
“Do not let Ron hear you say that,” Harry said, blushing a bit. Or maybe that was the lights.
“You’re worried about Ronald? I’m more afraid of Molly, personally…”
Charlie let their conversation fade out as they rounded a corner of tall hedges to find a cottage, dark and empty with a garden full of wild grasses, tan with sprouts of bright green barely visible in the low evening light. The house was made of the same grey stones as the Manor, the same mullioned windows, but it looked like a place meant for one or two, maybe three people. A place built for utility and comfort, not for grandeur and spectacle. Charlie would bet there wouldn’t be a scrap of velvet in there, or furniture one couldn’t actually sit on, or mahogany tables long enough for a snake to eat a person on, or any chandeliers.
Perfect.
“The groundskeeper’s cottage,” Draco declared. “There hasn’t been a groundskeeper here since my fourth year, but everything’s still fully functional. We’ve thoroughly inspected it.”
“We?”
“Mother and I,” Draco said, with a flippant wave of his hand. Charlie felt unreasonably warm.
He strode up to the tasteful red door, which opened at his touch, as if it’d been waiting for him. The entryway was small, comfortingly so. There were hooks on the painted yellow wall, a small rack for shoes. Further in, a tiny grey sitting room with a cozy leather sofa, a wide hearth big enough for a floo, a small green armchair by the fireplace. Walls of empty shelves for books, a large bay window with space to sit in, a little wooden coffee table. Charlie swished his wand to light the lamps, moving on, a jittery, hopeful feeling in his belly.
The kitchen was small, the same cheerful yellow as the entryway, and had a real hob with four burners and an oven, and a wide, white farmhouse sink with a big window over it. Plenty of cupboards, clean and white, even some leftover cookware, and a simple wooden table big enough for four.
“Used to be an atrocious amount of Malfoy green in here,” Draco grumbled, looking around with his hands clasped behind his back. “We figured you’d appreciate some variety. It’s easy to change if you don’t like it.”
“If I don’t like…?” Charlie could barely keep up with his own racing thoughts. How could he not like something that looked like it was made just for him?
He found a blue room that must have been some sort of study, if the desk by the window was any indication, and more empty shelves. He didn’t know what to fill those with. He thought it might make a better bedroom, honestly—in case—Merlin, in case he wanted to have guests, if his family or Andrei wanted to visit, or—
The master bedroom was, for lack of a better word, perfect.
Although he’d never slept in a bed that big in his entire life.
A king, or maybe even bigger; it took up half the room, an inviting swathe of fluffy white duvet and more pillows than any one person would need. He wrapped a hesitant hand around one of its tall, carved wooden posts, dropping his satchel on the hardwood floor and pressing his other hand into the duvet, just to see if it was as soft as it looked.
It was.
Nervous, excited, a little lusty, warm, warm, warm. Charlie turned around.
Harry and Draco stood awkwardly in the doorway, watching Charlie expectantly. Charlie smiled, incredulously grateful, and enjoyed the feeling of their relief.
“All this is really…?” Charlie waved his hand around, walking to the window to pull aside the gauzy curtain.
“Yours?” Harry offered, sounding much closer. The moon was rising over the tops of the hedges, blurred behind translucent clouds, casting an eerie glow over the lush back garden.
“All yours,” Draco confirmed, still in the doorway. Charlie could picture him leaning on it, his arms crossed in nonchalance. “We believe you’ll do much better things with it than we did.”
Charlie released the curtain and turned to find Harry right behind him, watching him anxiously with those impossibly green eyes behind round frames, biting his lip as if he had no idea that could stop Charlie’s heart.
“I love it,” Charlie said, and he wasn’t just talking about the cottage. Behind Harry, Draco smiled, his second proper smile of the day, setting off a flock of pixies in Charlie’s stomach, and there was a bed right there, big and soft and inviting and Charlie’s—
“Hungry?” Charlie asked, his voice a bit higher than usual as he stepped around Harry to make his way past Draco and out of the room. “I haven’t forgotten, Harry, you did promise me dinner—” he winced at himself in the hallway, speeding up to the kitchen, because Harry had said that while lying naked in Charlie’s bed, whispered between them like a secret, with his boyfriend a continent away, but the boyfriend was here right now, watching Charlie with keen grey eyes—
Harry laughed. “I did. If you’d given me any warning, I’d have prepared something super impressive.”
“Yeah, well, let’s see how you work on the fly,” Charlie muttered, opening the many cupboards. “Aha.”
“Beans on toast it is,” Harry said, reaching over Charlie’s shoulder to pull out the canned beans and bread in a recent-looking stasis charm. His chest brushed against Charlie’s back, making Charlie’s breath hitch. Charlie tensed, which made Harry nervous, regretful, and that only made Charlie feel guilty when Harry backed away, and was he fucking it all up already?
Draco clicked his tongue in frustration as he entered the kitchen. “Should have stolen some of that hundred-year scotch from Father’s study while we were in there—we should be celebrating,” he said, uncaring of his boyfriend’s proximity to another man.
Charlie knew this. Charlie knew Draco knew what went on between him and Harry. Draco knew Harry loved Charlie, and that Charlie loved him, and Draco supposedly wanted this. But it still felt odd, it felt almost wrong, it felt like something Charlie should hide and push deep down inside himself, and maybe that was because he’d been doing just that for years. He didn’t know how to love out in the open, especially not with a third variable in the mix. A spectator.
“I’ll get it,” Charlie said. Draco frowned.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, it’s my hundred-year scotch, now, isn’t it?”
Draco chuckled. “Shall we accompany you?”
“No, I know the way,” Charlie said, putting his boots back on. “Your tour was very helpful, and the path’s lit by Harry’s lights.”
“If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, we’re coming after you,” Harry called, and there was legitimate fear under his teasing tone, so Charlie called back, “I’ll send a Patronus if I get caught up with any Malfoy ghosts.”
He heard Draco’s disapproving “Potter, you’re not actually making beans on toast, are you—” just before the door clicked shut, and he allowed himself a deep breath of late March English air and solitude.
The path was indeed still lit by Harry’s lights. He wondered how long they would stay up, and if he could get Harry to come back and cast them over and over.
In the quiet of the empty Malfoy estate, illuminated by Harry’s magic, Charlie had no excuses left to avoid his thoughts.
He was here. And so were they.
It felt like ages, instead of hours ago, that Andrei had kissed him on the forehead and sent him Portkeying out of the sanctuary. And now he was here, at his new home, on a ground full of nightmares he hadn’t been around to see.
The horrors of the Manor felt closer, more tangible, without Harry or Draco by his side. It really was a creepy place, all echoes and shadows and flashes of movement in gilded mirrors; haughty, grumbling portraits and creaking doors. It was easy to see why Draco and Narcissa had been eager to give it away for free, regardless of their history with it.
The study was just off the main staircase on the second floor, carved double doors obviously meant to look impressive and threatening, which opened easily at Charlie’s approach, giving up the pretense. He rummaged around until he found a dusty bottle of liquor, sealed tightly shut. He resolutely did not think about how Lucius had probably sat at that desk, plotting little Ginny’s demise, or paced the room eagerly while Draco was getting Marked downstairs, or met with Voldemort discussing ways to kill Harry well into the night.
He did not—through great willpower—leave any excrement on Lucius Malfoy’s huge, pretentious desk. It was Charlie’s desk, now, after all.
The lights were unfortunately fading by the time Charlie made his way back down the path to the cottage. He tried to cast some of his own, but they weren’t the same. He wondered if Harry could cast them wandlessly, send them floating through the air from the tips of his fingers. He wanted to see their gleam in Harry’s eyes, up close. Maybe Harry would let him. Maybe Harry would kiss him. Maybe Draco would kiss Harry, too.
Was that why they were here? Did they offer to show Charlie around to get him alone? Was that why Draco really suggested liquor? Was this actually a—date or something?
Fuck, had Charlie ever been on a real date? How the hell did it work? Were they really trying to date him—now? Right now—
Charlie shut the door of his cottage behind him, and hurriedly followed the burning smell and the sound of raised voices to the kitchen.
“—told you, to stir, on a low heat—”
“It’s not my fault, you’re the one who threw your outrageous magic at the hob like a—”
“Still requires stirring, Draco, concentration—!”
“You had no objection to my distraction at the time—!”
The small kitchen was filled with garlicky smoke, coming from a cast iron skillet full of what looked like completely charred chopped onions. The can of beans must have exploded, or something, because it was all over their clothes and there were—were those beans on the ceiling? And the loaf of bread was still flaming a bit, half consumed by fire thanks to its unfortunate proximity to the hob, and whatever noise Charlie made in reaction made both men snap to attention, eyes wide as first years caught out of bed past curfew, and then Charlie was roaring with laughter.
Harry and Draco looked on in shame and amusement as Charlie doubled over, tears pouring from his eyes. Soon they were giggling helplessly along with him, stepping away from the food with sheepish expressions as Charlie salvaged what he could of the bread and took out another can of beans, opening a window to let out the smoke.
“I leave you alone for ten minutes…” Charlie laughed again, shooing them to the table. “How does beans on toast turn into such a disaster?”
“Draco insisted that beans on toast required caramelized onions—”
“It’s how the house elves always made it for me—!”
“But the posh prat has no idea how to caramelize onions, so I tried to—”
“Tried to sabotage me, is what you did, that incendio had the force of a bombarda—”
Charlie drowned them out with more laughter, setting plates of normal, barely-singed beans on toast in front of them before making his own.
“Is this what it’s going to be like, with you two?” Charlie sat down with them and took a bite of his toast, before looking up at their blushing faces and realizing what he’d just said. “Er—”
“Pretty much,” Harry said, his lips spreading in a tentative grin.
“If you think you can handle it,” Draco added, and he looked much less intimidating with beans in his hair. Charlie paused, gauging their feelings.
Nervous, as usual, from Draco, though he’d spoken the words like a lazy challenge. Curious attraction. Excitement, from Harry, and that sweet, familiar, intoxicating warmth—love, Charlie corrected himself. Harry loves me. He loves me.
If he was honest, he had no idea if he could handle it. But he was here. He was learning to be okay with not knowing, and he wanted to try. He wanted Harry, more than anything.
He wanted Draco, too. He couldn’t deny it.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Charlie said. He hesitated, hearing Andrei’s voice in his head; talk, puiule. “If you—ah. Want to try. I’m here… I’m staying. I’m—” yours, no, that was too much, even if it was true; he’d been Harry’s for too long, and he could see himself falling into Draco too easily, and this was so bizarre. He rubbed his face with his hand, pushing it back into his hair, noting that though this was a day of many firsts, one of the weirdest firsts was that he was currently the cleanest person in the room.
Giddy. Draco felt giddy, triumphant, and annoyed; what an odd combination. After a small burst of lust, Charlie figured the annoyance might have been directed at Draco himself, because Charlie certainly wasn’t doing anything particularly lust-inducing.
“I promise to make you a proper dinner,” Harry said, his voice low, his full lips curled in a heated smirk. “In our own kitchen, so I won’t feel so bad if Draco destroys it.” He hissed and laughed mischievously as Draco kicked him under the table.
Charlie blinked, realizing for the first time that Harry and Draco did actually live together, now, in their own lives, here in England, not just in Charlie’s head. He wondered when Draco had moved out of the Tonks Cottage.
“Can't wait,” Charlie said, trying to smile, but the weight of the day was finally crashing down on him, and he was so, so tired. They must have seen it on his face, because they simply smiled back at him, like it was okay, and went back to their singed meal, and Charlie didn’t freak out externally when he felt Harry’s socked foot against his under the table—still and innocent, just resting there, grounding him, but giving Harry a comfort and a thrill nonetheless.
It was actually rather nice.
They finished their meal in an easy contentedness, talking occasionally about the land or the cottage or the places Charlie could go for supplies. They helped clean up the kitchen without being prompted, and soon it was back to its normal, cheery yellow and white, beanless and onionless, with the offending cast iron skillet properly scrubbed and the dishes washed and dried.
As if this was their kitchen, too. Or something.
They didn’t try to stay longer, for which Charlie was grateful. A little disappointed, but he knew he’d probably have some sort of breakdown if he had to deal with any more heightened emotions, today, from himself or from Harry and Draco. He walked them to the door—though it wasn’t much of a walk at all.
“Shit.” Charlie clicked his tongue, causing them to look back at him, with Draco’s foot halfway out the door. “I forgot about the liquor.”
Draco chuckled. “Bring it over on Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Eight pm, sharp,” Draco said. “For that super impressive dinner Harry has promised.”
“You are such a prat,” Harry grumbled through a reluctant grin, shaking his head. “That is not how you ask someone out, you know.”
“Are you quite sure?” Draco lifted a shoulder in a shrug, sending Charlie a mischievous smirk, as if Charlie couldn’t feel both of their nerves bouncing around in his own stomach. Adorable. “Worked well enough with you.”
“Yeah, well, I also didn’t know the first three times were dates.”
“I’m assuming Charlie here is just the slightest bit cleverer than you.”
“How kind,” Charlie muttered, unable to stifle his grin. Their energy was infectious, and Charlie could feel their overwhelming love for each other, their obvious desire, all sizzling heat and sparks, exactly as he’d thought it would be from the moment he first heard the name Malfoy leave Harry’s mouth.
And there was Harry’s love for Charlie, too, the sweet warmth of hot chocolate in his chest, spreading outward into his limbs. Like relief, like safety, like home. And Draco’s curious desire, his perpetual nervousness, his unshakable devotion.
“Charlie,” Harry said, clearing his throat, “would you like to come over for dinner on Friday? With both of us.” He shifted on his feet, sneaking a look at Draco, who just watched Harry’s awkwardness with a smirk of relish. “To be perfectly clear, we—” Harry gestured between himself and Draco, “—want to date you. Very much.”
Charlie couldn’t help it, he snorted a bit, flustered and endeared, grateful it was too dark for them to see how red his face probably was. He grinned and rubbed his warm cheek with his hand, glancing between the two of them.
“Yeah, alright.”
They practically beamed at him, delighted, making Charlie even giddier. Harry stepped closer, then stopped himself, biting his lip. Charlie’s eyes darted between them again. Draco seemed highly entertained.
“I think he wants to kiss you, Charlie,” Draco purred, and Harry shook his head fondly, but didn’t take his eyes off Charlie, who was now staring at that maddening bitten lip.
He was here. They were here. Harry really wanted to kiss him, and Draco wanted them to. Charlie could stand to do one more brave thing today.
He closed the distance between them, took Harry’s face between his hands, and kissed him.
It was unlike any other kiss they’d shared. It had none of the urgency, desperation, bittersweet bliss that Charlie was used to. Charlie kissed him sweetly, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Because they did, now. Charlie was here, and he wasn’t leaving, and neither was Harry, and though Charlie had adored those fierce, fiery kisses of their brief encounters, nothing felt better than this slow, leisurely slide of his lips over Harry’s warm, irrepressible smile.
Harry didn’t grab his shirt and pull him in, didn’t bury his hands in Charlie’s hair and press him into the wall for more, more, more. He wrapped his hands lightly around Charlie’s wrists, holding him in place, content with whatever Charlie wanted to give him, and Charlie was so moved by his patience and understanding that an irksome lump formed in his throat, and he had to pull away long before he was ready to, so they wouldn’t have to see whatever sort of mess Charlie was about to become.
Draco’s desire and love for Harry nearly bowled him over. He was standing casually in the doorway, his lips parted, his grey eyes heated, fixed on the two of them. Charlie met his gaze, and Draco licked his lips, then took Charlie’s hand in his own.
“We’ll see you Friday, then,” Draco said, nervous-excited under his cool confidence. He brought Charlie’s hand to his face and kissed it, and Charlie was too flustered and stunned to tease him for how insanely genteel that was. Harry seemed a bit dazed, speechless with happiness. Charlie felt like he was floating.
“Friday,” Charlie confirmed distractedly, and maybe that was his own nervous-excitement, after all.
Charlie closed the door after them, and soon he could feel they were gone, and his mind was filled with love and desire and fear and excitement that was purely his own.
He was alone, in a house that he owned, even though he hadn’t done anything to earn it except be convenient and very good at his job. And it was small and cozy and lovely, and wonderfully isolated. He could already tell it would be a perfect sanctuary, in every sense of the word, not only for displaced dragons.
He missed Andrei and the dragons fiercely, but he’d never felt more hopeful or excited for the future as he did in that moment, making his way through his own cottage to his own bedroom, dousing each lamp as he went.
He launched himself onto his huge bed with a childish glee, and fell asleep fully clothed on top of the covers.
Chapter 12: Part Three: April, 2001
Chapter Text
April, 2001
Friday came fast. Charlie hardly noticed until, of course, it was half past seven, and he was halfway through hauling out trees he’d cut the previous day for another clearing further into the woods, and he was dripping sweat and a bit shaky from the exertion of his levitation charms, and he’d hoped to finish the charms on Mathilde’s barn today and he was expecting a shipment of meat tomorrow that would require a tightly-warded shed stuffed with cooling charms—
But Harry and Draco were waiting, and Charlie had said he would go, and he wanted to go, and he wanted to kiss Harry again and maybe, maybe something more. But no one would want to get near him in this absolute state he was in, which meant a shower was in order, and a change of clothes, but he wouldn’t have time for a shave, and this was already not going at all how he’d hoped.
He apparated straight to his cottage, bursting through the door and hurrying to his bathroom. He took the fastest shower he could, putting on the first clean clothes he could find, optimistically hoping they wouldn’t even stay on, anyway, and not having the time to brew a full freakout on what would happen if they came off. He checked himself briefly in the mirror, trying to straighten his hair, then ruffling it again, and running a dejected hand over his stubble. The bottle of scotch had been waiting there on the kitchen counter for days; he grabbed it in his rush through the kitchen to the sitting room.
Standing in front of the hearth, which had only recently been connected to the Floo Network, Charlie took a deep, calming breath, shaking out his unburdened hand at his side.
Everything was fine. Just to be safe, he spent the last few minutes before eight setting up some mild Occlumency walls.
He wanted to start fresh, so to speak. He’d been wrong about their emotions and motivations before, and this was his first real chance to get to know them, the right way. This was their new beginning, and he didn’t want to start it off with—what had Narcissa called it?—manipulated emotional experiences.
At exactly eight o’ clock, Charlie grabbed a pinch of floo powder from its pouch on the mantle and threw it into the fireplace. He stepped into the green flames, called out, “Harry Potter’s Flat!” and was sucked into the twisting, nauseating Floo Network.
Not his favourite way to travel.
He stumbled out of a hearth into a modest sitting room. Immediately, he could tell he was in the city—the sheer number of people living nearby was a low, quiet hum prickling at the base of his skull, shockingly noticeable after being completely alone for the past few days. It was nothing his Occlumency couldn’t handle, but it wasn’t ideal. Just something he’d have to get used to, if he planned on spending more time here.
A large, grey sofa took up most of the room, joined by a squashy red armchair that Charlie kind of wanted to fall asleep in. There was even a muggle boombox, on a small table by the wall, with several mismatched bookcases stuffed with CDs and books of all kinds. Framed photos decorated the mantle and hung proudly on the wall: Narcissa in Villa Mathilde, what looked like a bunch of Gryffindor boys in a pub, Draco and his posh-looking friends laughing together, the Weasley family on Harry’s seventeenth birthday, with Harry and Hermione, the same one Charlie had. Charlie’s hand was on Harry’s shoulder, Harry’s youthful smile wide and bright—
“Charlie,” Draco greeted from the doorway, the corner of his lips turned up as he watched Charlie take in the space.
Charlie blinked, confused for a moment, until he realized he was expecting to feel Draco’s anxiety underneath that relaxed, amused expression. He wouldn’t, of course.
But now he had no idea how to interact with Draco. How much of it had been in his own head? The whole time?
Charlie opened and closed his mouth a few times, gave up, and lifted the bottle of scotch awkwardly. Draco raised an eyebrow, then beckoned him forward. Charlie expected him to turn and lead the way somewhere, but Draco simply stood there and watched him approach, completely unreadable.
Charlie didn’t know what to feel about it. Draco looked positively mouthwatering, in a deep blue silk shirt with the top two buttons undone, and snug jeans that fit his legs like they were made just for him, and they probably were. And he was wearing velvet house slippers, which Charlie was too shocked about to even chuckle at. He wondered if that ornate gold embroidery on the black velvet was a monogram. It probably was. Another step closer, and Charlie could smell that expensive, citrusy cologne, sharp and fresh, as if he’d just put it on.
“So glad you could make it,” Draco said, looking down his nose at Charlie, which should have been infuriating, but there was something soft about his tone, his eyes, the way his lips looked like they were existing in the potential of a smile, not forbidding it. Charlie nodded, well aware of the traitorous heat in his cheeks.
“Me too.”
“Are you?” Draco held his gaze, his hand aloft between them. Charlie handed over the scotch.
“I am,” he said, and mustered up a bit of bravery to add, “I’ve been looking forward to it.”
A tease of a grin on those lips, and Charlie wondered when he had become so fixated on how and when Draco Malfoy smiled.
“Good,” Draco said. The almost-smile moved to his eyes, instead. “So has he.” He turned with another beckoning motion, leading the way down the hall. Charlie tried very hard not to get stuck on the way Draco left himself out of that sentiment.
Draco led him into a well-lit kitchen, filled with noise. There were several pots and pans on the hob, sizzling and simmering, filling the room with the rich smell of tomatoes and oregano that made Charlie’s mouth water. Dishes were scrubbing themselves in the sink, music was playing on the wireless—something about “seems to act just like a drug, you’re getting to be a habit with me.” And there was Harry, facing away from them, standing at the counter and opening a bottle of wine, his shoulders swaying slightly to the music.
Charlie looked at Draco, whose smart mouth curled in a smirk, which seemed to kickstart Charlie’s heart again. Harry turned around and grinned, crinkling the corners of his brilliant eyes, then sauntered over as Draco moved away from them into the kitchen.
“Hi,” Harry said, kissing Charlie on the cheek without hesitation. “You look nice.”
“Hi,” Charlie replied, a little dazed. “What…?” He looked down at himself; he wore the same sort of clothes he always wore. A blue and green plaid flannel over a white t-shirt, a pair of relatively-new jeans. Thankfully, these didn’t have holes. And were very clean.
Harry raised an eyebrow. He was wearing a green jumper, one Charlie thought he recognized from a previous Christmas. It made his eyes look even more vibrant, behind his glasses.
“Dinner,” Harry supplied, his tone a little teasing. He squeezed Charlie’s hand, then pulled out a chair for him at the breakfast counter. “A super impressive one, I hope.”
“I’m already impressed, Harry,” Charlie said, smiling back at him as he took the offered seat, settling in to watch him—them. Harry laughed as he made his way back to the hob.
Draco pulled three wine glasses off the top shelf of a cupboard, setting them down on the island. He moved to grab the recently-opened wine, but Harry intercepted him with an arm around his waist, and Draco grinned and rolled his eyes as he took Harry’s hand and spun around with him, as if dancing with Harry in the kitchen was completely expected and utterly normal. Charlie’s heart ached sweetly, watching the effortless way they moved with and around each other, as the singer crooned from the wireless, “I used to think your love was something that I could take, or leave alone,” as Draco released Harry back to the hob with a flourish that made Harry laugh, “but now I couldn’t do without my supply…”
Draco poured the wine, handing over Harry’s glass with a kiss to the side of Harry’s head, then brought his and Charlie’s glasses to the breakfast counter, pulling out the seat next to Charlie. Draco’s cheeks were pink, as if he was a little embarrassed, though Charlie couldn’t tell for sure.
“Is it always like this?” Charlie asked in a low voice, taking his wine gratefully. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drank red wine, out of a real wine glass. Draco looked over at him, treating Charlie with that sneaky smile in his eyes.
“I can’t say no to him, when he’s cooking,” he answered, just loud enough for Charlie to hear. They turned their gazes back to Harry, who was sticking his finger into a pot of simmering red sauce, tasting it, frowning in concentration as he pulled another unnamed spice from the cupboard. His hips were swaying, ever so slightly, his fingers relaxed where they held the wine glass. “He needs joy, in his kitchen.”
Charlie hummed. It was difficult not to feel like an intruder, a voyeur on their love. He hadn’t realized just how nervous he was, until he was here, diving head first into their life together. He could feel the heat of Draco’s thigh close to his, and tried to hold himself still and unobtrusive.
Harry tasted the sauce again. Charlie had to force himself not to stare at the way Harry’s lips wrapped around his finger. He took a sip of wine instead, swishing its dry, fruity flavour over his tongue.
“Well, I like it,” Charlie said, his eyes drawn back to Harry again. “Fun to watch.” He winced at himself. That was stupid.
“Yes, he is,” Draco replied, looking amused.
“And you.” Charlie glanced sideways, seeing Draco’s eyebrows lift in surprise. He took another sip, as though it would hide the heat creeping into his cheeks.
Harry saved them, setting a timer and leaning against their counter, distracting Charlie with a flash of collarbone beneath the collar of the jumper.
“Well, Charlie?”
“Well, what?”
Harry only smiled at him. “We haven’t heard much from you all week.”
Charlie huffed a laugh. “Setting up dragon habitats doesn’t provide for a ton of downtime,” he said.
“Well, now you can catch us up,” Harry retorted, sipping his wine. Charlie blinked.
“Really?” he asked, looking between him and Draco, who looked equally expectant. “You want to talk about dragon habitats?”
Harry laughed. “We want to spend time with you, and get to know you better,” he said. Draco raised an eyebrow, grinning mischievously, which prompted Harry to add, “And kiss you. Et cetera. Anyway, telling us about your life is very much a part of a date.”
Charlie laughed, his face heating under both of their direct attention. Maybe that was the wine. He took another sip.
“Alright,” he said. “Well, first, I had to adjust the wards, to allow dragons in, but not out—honestly, I’ve never seen a place that had wards to keep out dragons, was that really an issue, for Malfoys?”
Draco snorted. “A few centuries ago, yes.”
“Wow. And the wards survived that long?”
“They did—I admit I forgot about them, until now.”
“Tell me which pretentious ancestor’s portrait I can go apologize to,” Charlie said, and Draco laughed, a real laugh that even seemed to surprise Harry, who had returned to the hob to stir things. Charlie felt unaccountably proud, transfixed by the smile on Draco’s face.
Conversation felt almost easy, after that. It was different, with Draco, who seemed so much more confident and intimidating when Charlie couldn’t feel his thorny nerves lurking beneath his cool, intent expression. But he was so entirely convincing, and he looked so interested in what Charlie was saying, that eventually Charlie gave up wondering about his feelings, and just… talked.
His confidence was bolstered by wine, and by Harry, who kept smiling at him, watching him, laughing easily. Who was liberal in his casual touches as he passed between the kitchen and the table, his hand brushing Charlie’s shoulder, his gaze heated as he watched Draco and Charlie interact.
Charlie was continually, relentlessly, forcefully reminded of how pretty Draco was. In his sharp cheekbones, his delicate golden eyelashes, the petal pink colour of his lips. Even his hands, slender and elegant, held his glass as if he wasn’t touching it at all, his fingers adorned by a couple of rings Charlie desperately wanted a closer look at. His hair was such a unique shade of blond, almost unnaturally bright and sleek, and his skin was flawless—except for a tiny freckle next to his eye, and another on the side of his neck, just above his collar, that Charlie couldn’t help thinking about kissing.
And of course, there was the blush. Draco couldn’t seem to keep it off his skin, as pale as he was, especially when he laughed, and it became more prominent as he finished his first glass of wine. Charlie was just gearing up to see how deep he could make that blush when Harry pulled them to the table, promptly diverting his attention with unbelievably delicious pasta.
“Merlin, Harry,” Charlie groaned, and there was the blush he craved, on both of them. “I didn’t know you could cook like this. This is incredible.”
Harry shrugged. “Sometimes. I like cooking like… like this.”
Charlie valiantly managed to swallow before speaking. “Like what?”
“Like…” Harry hesitated, glancing at Draco, who must have given him some silent reassurance. “For people I love. People who appreciate it.”
Charlie let those words sink in before responding. Harry was having trouble meeting his eyes, and Charlie thought this would be a moment when Harry’s emotions would have been helpful, but it might have just confused him more. This was what Harry was giving him—this was all Charlie needed to know, right now.
“Well, I’m honoured, Harry,” Charlie said, and meant it. “And super impressed.”
They both grinned softly. Charlie had to force his eyes back to his plate.
“He needs joy, in his kitchen.”
For the rest of dinner, Charlie listened intently as they described their daily lives as Aurors. It sounded like a lot of paperwork, and a lot of bureaucracy, and a lot of seeing the absolute worst in humanity, all the time. If he was honest, Charlie didn’t know why anyone would want such a career. Thanks to the glass and a half of wine and the disarming atmosphere, he was honest.
“Why do you do it?” Charlie asked, before he could stop himself.
They both looked surprised by the question. Charlie thought Harry would have the straightforward, easy answer, but it was Draco who spoke first.
“I like the challenge,” he said hesitantly. “There’s probably some sort of—” he waved his hand gracefully, his mouth twisting in a grimace, “—guilt involved, but I do—I like being able to do something—good. And I’m good at it. I like the strategy, I like solving the mysteries, catching the criminals, helping people. I like working with a partner, and with a team.” Draco took a breath, spinning his empty wine glass between his fingers on the surface of the table. “I didn’t think I would enjoy it, at first.” He smirked at Harry, who shook his head with a gentle laugh.
“No, you certainly didn’t,” Harry agreed. “But you are—you’re very good at it.”
“What about you, Harry?” Charlie asked. Harry’s smile fell, and he shrugged again.
“I mean, it’s what I do,” he said, his eyes darting between them, as if this were the obvious answer.
“Do you like it?”
Harry huffed. Almost a laugh, even though Charlie had meant it as a serious question.
“It has its moments,” Harry mumbled, with a secretive grin in Draco’s direction. Draco rolled his eyes.
“He’s good at it, to no one’s surprise,” Draco added. “The Ministry’s prized Golden Auror—” this earned him a kick under the table, which only made Draco laugh. “But of course, the great Harry Potter’s good at everything—” another kick, more laughter.
“Except chess,” Charlie wisely pointed out.
“Very true,” Draco agreed with a sage nod, clearly trying to dodge Harry’s attacks under the table. “At chess he is, fortunately, quite shit. A relief to the rest of our fragile egos.”
Charlie laughed. He was so damn entertained by them. He was already becoming addicted to their attention, their care for one another. Their joy, their love, their laughter.
Charlie helped clean up, just as they had in Charlie’s kitchen, and his nerves grew with their proximity, as they moved around him in the tight space. Every touch of Harry’s hand on his waist, every brush of Draco’s fingers as Charlie handed him a clean dish, sent a frisson of anticipation through Charlie’s veins.
They retired to the sitting room, with the bottle of Lucius Malfoy’s scotch floating in their wake. Charlie sat in the armchair, while Draco and Harry cozied up on the sofa, Draco’s arm resting leisurely behind Harry’s head. Harry summoned three tumblers from the kitchen, which landed neatly on the coffee table next to the dusty bottle. Charlie moved to open it, but Draco stopped him, pulling out his wand.
He then went through an extensive series of what looked like diagnostic and detection charms.
“Good call,” Harry said.
“You really think he’d have poisoned it?” Charlie asked, incredulous. “I did make sure to grab a sealed one.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Draco grumbled. The charms took him almost ten minutes, but Charlie was hypnotized by his magic—graceful, efficient, precise. He could have watched him for hours, the way his fingers tensed around the wand, the way the charms illuminated his angular face in a myriad of colours, the way his lips moved around quiet Latin incantations.
A glance at Harry told Charlie he wasn’t the only one mesmerized by him.
By the time Draco was done, Harry and Charlie were sitting very, very still in their seats, and Charlie’s palms were sweating. Draco easily broke the wax seal and removed the cork, then poured a finger for each of them.
Blinking his way back to the present, Charlie grabbed the proffered glass and swiftly drained it, because fuck, this was really happening. He was really here at Harry’s flat—Harry’s and Draco’s flat—and Harry danced in the kitchen and wanted to kiss him, and Draco looked like an expensive piece of art, and they were having a nightcap in the sitting room and Charlie was only half sure he knew how this was supposed to go, because he’d never done this before—in a way that really, really mattered.
His mind started running through every possible way this could all go wrong. If he fucked this up, now, when he’d already uprooted himself completely, and Andrei had probably already replaced him, and—
“Charlie,” Harry said. “Alright?”
Nervous, warm, nervous, oh.
“Ah…” Shit. “I haven’t really mixed Occlumency and alcohol before.” He closed his eyes. He wasn’t even that tipsy, but his mind couldn’t control those walls, couldn’t keep track of the doors, the sound of the waves getting all mixed up with his own flurried heartbeat, his spiralling thoughts, then Harry’s nerves, and Draco’s familiar anxiety, tripling his own.
“You were using a shield?” Harry asked. Confused.
“Yeah… I wanted to…” How could he explain himself? “I wanted to know only what you wanted me to know.” Charlie cleared his throat, setting down his empty glass. “To do this… right. But I didn’t think about what alcohol would do. I’m sorry.” He rubbed the tops of his thighs with his hands, unsure of himself. Should he leave? If he couldn’t do this the right way?
“It’s alright, Charlie,” Harry said, looking to Draco for backup. The low, golden light from the lamps made Harry’s skin look radiant, where he’d pushed up the sleeves of his jumper, exposing his forearms.
“We don’t expect you to shield all the time,” Draco said. He was nervous, as always, but there was that delicious devotion, that fiery, enthralling love for Harry, alongside his protectiveness. “But we appreciate your honesty.” The hand resting on the back of the couch moved to Harry’s hair, and both Harry’s and Charlie’s breath caught at the rush of heat it produced in Harry. Harry’s eyelids fluttered shut, leaning back into the touch, and Charlie’s pulse jumped.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” spilled quietly from Charlie’s mouth, without his permission. “What I’m supposed to do.”
Harry chuckled, opening his eyes. “Neither do I, Charlie.” He put his hand on Draco’s thigh, squeezing gently. “And neither does he, though he’s good at pretending otherwise.” Draco tugged his hair in reprimand, which seemed to have the opposite effect, making Harry’s thighs fall open a little.
“Sometimes,” Charlie said, because Draco was only good at it if Charlie was letting him be good at it. Which he had been, all evening—not anymore. Draco was just as nervous, as cautious, as clueless as Charlie was.
Harry grinned, then turned his attention toward Draco—Charlie felt a rush of heady adoration, Draco’s, he could see it in Draco’s eyes. Pinned by it, helpless to it.
“I know a good place to start,” Harry said, then reached up to the back of Draco’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss.
Charlie covered his mouth with his fist to prevent any sound from escaping, anything that could disrupt this precarious, surreal moment. Draco melted under Harry’s lips, his body relaxing into the cushions, his mouth opening for Harry’s tongue—
Charlie’s head fell back against the chair as the rush of it ran through him, lighting him up from the inside. He wanted them so badly, every muscle tensed with the effort of holding still. He couldn’t take his eyes off them, their wandering hands, their sensual kisses. The way they so obviously craved each other, savoured each other, relished in this intimacy, a kind Charlie had never really known.
He didn’t want to intrude, or mess it up. He also wanted to plant himself between them, to take those deep kisses and reverent touches for himself. To know what it felt like to be loved by them. Which was so much, way too much to think about on a first fucking date—
Harry pulled away, spearing Charlie with a heated gaze, his pupils blown. Draco maneuvered Harry’s head by the gentle grip in his hair, laying kisses down Harry’s neck, his free hand gripping the fabric of the jumper on Harry’s chest. Charlie realized he’d forgotten to breathe; the exhale stuttered out of him, clumsy and unsure.
“Charlie,” Harry said hoarsely, and this was suddenly very familiar, and so terrifyingly new. Charlie swallowed hard. Draco looked up, his eyes tracking down Charlie’s tense form. Charlie felt his nerves, of course, but more than anything, Draco was madly in love, and hot with desire; he’d get what he wanted either way, whether Charlie joined them or not. Which was, actually, somewhat reassuring.
Charlie tried another full breath, unlocked his stiff muscles, and stood.
Harry gave him a tentative smile. Neither of them had touched their drinks, Charlie noted. Draco’s eyes flashed, but it wasn’t threatening—it was that familiar nervous-excitement, anticipation, his grey eyes darting between Harry’s hopeful expression and whatever pitiful, desperate face Charlie was probably making.
Charlie unbuttoned his flannel overshirt with trembling fingers, and shrugged it off, tossing it onto the chair, revealing the plain white t-shirt underneath. Harry bit his lip as he watched, and Charlie rounded the coffee table, pulled down to the sofa by Harry’s hand, by the unmitigated hunger in his eyes.
When Harry kissed him, he was intertwining his fingers with Draco’s, pulling Draco closer. Charlie was overwhelmed with the surge of heat in his veins, his hand lifting to Harry’s cheek to hold him in place. He could hear Draco’s quick breaths, the sounds of his lips against Harry’s skin, he could feel Draco’s proximity and lust, but he could also taste Harry’s tongue in his mouth, and that was stealing most of Charlie’s concentration, at the moment.
It was heaven. Harry was kissing him, so obviously wanting him, while Draco had his mouth on Harry’s throat, his hand so close to Charlie’s on Harry’s chest, and it was one of the greatest things to ever happen to him—second only to being inside Harry, and then he was thinking about that—
Harry’s arm wrapped around Charlie’s waist and tightened, nearly pulling Charlie onto his lap. His hand slipped under Charlie’s t-shirt, blunt nails scraping lightly over the skin of Charlie’s back, making him shiver. He turned his face away from Charlie’s, and Charlie opened his eyes to see him claim Draco’s mouth once more, his fingers buried in that sleek, silvery hair that Charlie was dying to touch, but wouldn’t.
Draco kissed Harry like he needed it, like he couldn’t survive without it. There was a furrow of tension between his brows, his hand clenched tight in the jumper, as if he was barely holding back the sheer desperation Charlie could so clearly feel from him. Charlie had wondered if that feeling would ever smooth out, calm itself, when fulfilled by Harry’s physicality and love on a daily basis, but now he had his answer.
Combined with Charlie’s own helpless love for Harry, Draco’s was making him shake.
Charlie put his mouth on Harry’s neck, breathing in that intoxicating skyline scent of just Harry. The growing tension and urgency inside him had him restraining harder bites on the soft place Harry’s neck and shoulder met. Harry gasped a little and groaned, the hand on Charlie’s back sliding down beneath Charlie’s waistband, his head lolling back against the sofa.
“Darling,” Draco murmured, his voice low and surprisingly hoarse, his hand rucking up Harry’s jumper to get at his skin, “tell us what you want.” Cautious, devoted, determined, while Harry’s heart fluttered over the endearment. Charlie lowered his mouth to the skin Draco revealed, making Harry’s grip tighten on them both.
“I want—ah—” Harry arched into Charlie’s mouth as Charlie’s tongue found his nipple; Draco pulled the jumper up even further. “I want…”
“Go on,” Draco said. “We’re both here. Tell us.”
Harry’s chest rose and fell as he tried to catch his breath. Charlie lifted his face to see Harry’s answer, and to see the flush on Draco’s cheeks, creeping down his neck. Harry’s hand had pulled the collar of his silk shirt aside; Charlie’s eyes caught on his pale collarbone, on the tip of a thin, silvery scar peeking out from behind the fabric.
Charlie tamped down his curiosity, and focused on Harry, whose eyes were on the ceiling, as if the sight of the both of them wanting him like this was overwhelming. Harry even laughed a little, at himself, his desire effervescent with joy. It pulled the corners of Charlie’s lips up, it fizzed inside his chest, it made him feel lightheaded.
“I want you both,” Harry said. “Fuck. So much.”
“What else?” Charlie asked automatically, thumbing Harry’s nipple, sliding down to grip him gently through his jeans.
Harry hummed, closing his eyes for a moment.
He really did love them—both of them. Charlie could feel it, now, and tell the difference. The sweet, soothing warmth and admiration, the feeling of safety and home Harry felt with Charlie; the fervent respect and stubborn adoration, the heated, spitfire passion with Draco.
He was magnificent.
Harry tipped his head down and kissed Draco deeply. Charlie rubbed his palm over the enticing bulge in Harry’s jeans, light and teasing.
“Draco,” Harry said. Charlie’s breath hitched—Draco loved when Harry said his name, like that. Apparently. “I want you to fuck me—” both pairs of eyes turned to Charlie, “—while I suck him off.”
Charlie, miraculously, didn’t implode. Harry palmed Draco’s conspicuous erection through his trousers, his other hand resting under the waistband of Charlie’s jeans. Draco lit up with fierce, ferocious want, need, obvious only to Charlie—or maybe Harry had learned how to tell, with the darkness of Draco’s eyes, the quickness of his breaths, the strength of his grip.
Draco exchanged a look with Charlie, and it was enough for both of them to understand just how much the other wanted this. Draco’s lips twitched.
“Show him to the bedroom, Harry.”
Harry smiled wide and kissed him, full of excitement and gratitude. He disentangled himself and stood, grabbing Charlie’s hand and pulling him up. On their way down the hall, he stopped only once, to push Charlie into the wall and snog him senseless.
Draco soon caught up and pressed himself against Harry’s back, his hands skating up Harry’s sides under the jumper. Charlie helped him pull it off, tossing it carelessly on the floor. Draco clicked his tongue, and Harry chuckled, and Charlie deduced that Draco was the neat one around here.
Draco’s hands reached around Harry’s hips, making quick work of Harry’s belt, his knuckles brushing against Charlie’s abdomen. Charlie arched closer to the touch, to no avail; Draco pushed Harry out from between them, herding him the rest of the way to the bedroom. Charlie followed, dazed and aroused.
Harry laughed as Draco pushed him onto the bed, pulling off Harry’s jeans in one swift movement. Charlie circled to the other side of the bed and climbed onto the soft, dark green duvet, just as Draco rolled Harry over. With Harry grinning at him like that, naked and wanting on his hands and knees, Charlie couldn’t help but grab his face and kiss him with everything he had.
“Harry,” Charlie managed between feverish kisses, tossing Harry’s glasses onto the bed. Draco grabbed them and set them on the nightstand, next to Harry’s wand. Harry’s hand curled into the waistband of Charlie’s jeans. “Baby. You’re so gorgeous—”
Harry whimpered, and it turned into a whine that echoed in Charlie’s mouth, as Draco leaned down and buried his face between Harry’s cheeks.
“Draco.” Harry’s arm buckled, and he caught himself on his elbows, his hands fumbling on the button of Charlie’s jeans. Charlie finished the job himself, rolling onto his back and pulling jeans and pants off his legs, trying to convince himself he had no reason to be shy or embarrassed, for how desperate he so obviously was for Harry.
He was used to feeling protective over his love, secretive, holding it close to his chest and hoping no one would see. But this—Draco might have been the only other person in the world who could understand this, this profound need to give Harry the world, to know every inch of him. To take him apart and make him let go, to be the safest place for him to do so.
He knew—he’d felt it before, and he could feel it now, that Draco was just as desperate as he was.
Draco’s hands gripped Harry’s round arse, his eyes closed in satisfaction, like he was savouring it, working Harry open with his tongue. Charlie had to tear his eyes away, because Harry was taking Charlie’s hard cock in hand and smirking like he’d won something—
Charlie bit back a moan as Harry licked indulgently up his length, trying to keep his hips still. He propped himself up on his elbows, and couldn’t stop the next sound from leaving his throat, now that he had a perfect view of both Harry’s sinful mouth and Draco behind Harry—Charlie wasn’t going to last very long at all. Harry took him in his mouth and sucked, and Charlie’s hips jerked deeper into that wet, decadent heat. One of Draco’s hands moved where Charlie couldn’t see, and then Harry was moaning around him—
“Fuck, Harry, that’s so good.” Charlie slid his fingers into Harry’s hair, tugging gently. Harry’s hand moved over Charlie’s abdomen as he bobbed and sucked, pushing up Charlie’s t-shirt.
Draco straightened, his mouth obscenely pink and wet, his fingers deep inside Harry; Charlie could only tell from the rhythmic movements of his arm—his very clothed arm. Draco hadn’t removed a single item of clothing, hadn’t even loosened any buttons. He was probably still wearing his posh house slippers, Charlie thought.
It was driving Charlie mad, how much he wanted to see Draco. He wanted to see the pristine, untouchable outside match the turbulent, passionate, helpless inside he could feel so distinctly in his head. Charlie felt too vulnerable, half-naked and rapidly approaching orgasm while Draco stood there fully clothed, brows furrowed in concentration, his eyes dark with lust as he watched his own fingers. Charlie felt a little insane, a little dirty; desperately curious, outrageously nervous, and so fucking turned on.
It felt silly, with his legs already bare and his cock in Harry’s mouth, but Charlie wouldn’t take his shirt off. Not unless Draco did, too, and Draco was already climbing onto the bed, kneeling behind Harry—Charlie heard the belt unbuckled, the zipper pulled down, the slick, wet sound of a lubrication charm. Draco watched Charlie as he stroked himself, hidden by Harry’s body; nervous, protective, desirous. Stubborn. This was as naked as Draco was going to get, in front of Charlie.
Charlie swallowed down his disappointment and gently pulled Harry off by his hair. Harry’s lips were swollen and slick, his face flushed, his eyes glazed with pleasure. Draco laid a hand on Harry’s lower back, splayed over his heated skin.
Charlie had never seen anything hotter, in his entire life.
“Fucking hell, Harry,” Charlie panted, sitting up to pull him into a kiss, tasting himself on Harry’s tongue. He could tell the moment Draco entered him, by the gasp and broken moan against Charlie’s lips. He swallowed every sound, drowning himself in Harry’s love and pleasure, holding Harry’s face against his own.
Behind Harry, Draco let out a shuddering breath. In the corner of Charlie’s vision, he saw pale hands soothing up Harry’s sides, over his muscular shoulders, down his glistening back. Harry breathed quick and shallow against Charlie’s lips, his hands clenched in the duvet on either side of Charlie’s bare thighs.
Charlie turned Harry’s head, combing his fingers through those perfect curls, and brought his mouth to Harry’s ear.
“How does he feel, Harry?”
Harry shivered, mouthing at Charlie’s neck. “So good—Draco, please—”
Draco leaned over Harry’s back, planting a kiss between his shoulderblades, rolling his hips enough to make Harry gasp again.
“I’m here, darling.”
Harry tilted his head back, pushing himself up higher, his whole body reaching for the sound of Draco’s voice. Charlie held Harry’s face in his hands, mesmerized, as Draco picked up a slow rhythm, finally releasing a half-stifled groan against the skin of Harry’s shoulder, the sound sending another surge of hot, thrilling attraction through Charlie’s body.
Charlie took in every inch of Harry’s face, his shining green eyes, feeling as much of that smooth, sweet warmth as he could, swimming in Harry’s ecstasy.
“You love this,” Charlie breathed, the realization hitting him again—differently. “You want us to fill you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Harry moaned. Draco straightened up, his thrusts coming faster, the loose belt buckle jingling with each one. He pulled it out of the loops absently, tossing it on the floor—evidently well over the threshold of orderliness. “Yes, Charlie, you’re here, I want—”
“I know,” Charlie murmured. He had to focus, on Harry, Harry, Harry, giving himself to them like this, laying himself bare; Harry wanted to feel whole, alive, adored, with his two loves surrounding him. “We’ll take care of you. We want you so much, Harry.” Charlie rose to his knees. Harry descended on his cock eagerly, but Charlie stopped him with a grip in his hair. Harry looked up at him, his lips parted and panting.
“Tap my thigh, if you need me to stop,” Charlie mumbled. Excited, endeared, warm; Harry nodded as much as he could. Charlie guided himself in, groaning in satisfaction, and let himself fuck Harry’s mouth.
Harry, Harry. Harry hollowed his cheeks, putting his tongue to use, fucking exquisite. He took it like he loved it—and he did, Charlie could feel it, could hear it in the occasional moan around his shaft. He wouldn’t last much longer. He looked away from Harry’s face, only to watch Draco’s hips, to try to match Draco’s pace, as Draco’s breaths grew more vocal. He was entranced by the rhythm of Draco’s thrusts, by the possessive grip of those elegant hands on Harry’s hips—
“Oh, fuck, Harry,” Charlie groaned, closing his eyes to revel in sensation, and to prevent himself from looking at Draco, “ah—Harry, baby, I’m gonna—”
Harry pushed himself even further down, swallowing around him. Charlie’s grip tightened in his hair, his free hand moved to Harry’s neck, feeling his cock slide into Harry’s throat. Charlie’s eyes flew open in shock, his body tense on the precipice, and locked with Draco’s.
Want. Draco couldn’t hide it, losing himself in his pleasure. His eyes dropped to Charlie’s lips, and Charlie came hard down Harry’s throat, his hips jerking, torrents of tingling heat shooting through his veins.
“Shit,” Draco bit out, faster, harder, his hands grabbing at Harry’s sweaty body. Charlie pulled out of Harry’s mouth, still breathless with aftershocks, and pushed Harry up against Draco’s chest. Harry moaned hoarsely with the change in angle, as Draco’s arms wrapped tight around him. Charlie took hold of Harry’s cock, smearing precome around the head, and stuck two fingers in Harry’s mouth; Harry grabbed his wrist to hold him there and sucked. There were tear tracks drying on his cheeks.
“Darling,” Draco said, his eyes closed as he chased his pleasure. Harry’s head tilted toward him again, keening as Charlie jerked him off, as Draco pounded into him from behind. “You can come. I've got you.”
Harry’s lips parted around Charlie’s fingers, his moans rose in pitch. A few more quick strokes and he was coming, coating Charlie’s hand with it, his body shuddering in Draco’s arms. Draco followed soon after, biting down on Harry’s shoulder, with a euphoric, broken sound he couldn’t suppress.
Charlie pulled his fingers from Harry’s mouth and kissed him instead, as Draco carefully slid out. He kept kissing him, soft and gentle, wrapping his arms around him, while Draco climbed off the bed.
“Perfect, Harry,” Charlie murmured softly against his lips. Harry’s arms folded against Charlie’s chest, his palms on either side of Charlie’s neck, sweaty and shaky. “You were so good for us, baby. You’re wonderful.”
Draco returned and pulled down the covers on their bed, then handed Harry a glass of water. He had already tucked himself away again—only his flushed face, and his hair, a bit disheveled and slightly darkened with sweat, were any indication of what he’d just done.
Draco watched Harry closely, attentively. Protectively. He waved a gentle, but thorough cleaning charm over them both with his wand, for which Charlie was grateful. It even cleaned the sweat from his t-shirt.
Harry finished his water, opened his eyes, and smiled, so bright and uninhibited that Charlie and Draco both mirrored it. Harry’s joy spilled over into a little laugh, making Charlie kiss him again, his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his smile.
They maneuvered Harry under the covers, settling in on either side of him—securing him between them, warm and safe and so unbelievably happy, Charlie was sure even Draco could feel it. Harry’s fingers twined with Charlie’s, his legs tangled with Draco’s. Charlie propped up on his elbow to comb through Harry’s hair with his free hand, brushing it gently off his scarred forehead. Harry’s eyelids fluttered shut at the feeling, speechless in his afterglow.
He was out within minutes.
And then it was very, very quiet—but for the distant, prickling hum of the city around them. They must have been in a block of flats, with people above and below.
Draco’s anxiety simmered under his intense devotion. Charlie hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry, but now he was fully aware that he was lying in their bed, half-naked. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the feeling in his stomach. It came out shakier than he’d hoped. He kept his fingers moving slowly, steadily through Harry’s hair, aiding his peaceful sleep.
When he finally looked up, Draco was watching him, his expression unreadable, but his emotions obvious. Uneasy. Protective. Curious.
“Took you long enough,” Draco muttered, barely audible. His hand lay flat on Harry’s chest, just over his heart, underneath an oval scar Charlie remembered tracing with his fingertip in Romania. The dim light of the lamp caught on the small gold signet ring on Draco’s pinky finger.
Charlie’s fingers paused, then resumed.
“About as long as you,” he said, just as hushed. Draco’s eyebrow twitched. He was neither amused nor put off by it; it was a simple fact. Draco looked down at Harry between them, blissful in sleep.
“Are you doing this?” Draco asked, waving a finger over Harry’s face. Charlie frowned, checking in his own head to be sure.
“I don’t think so. I think he’s just…” he watched the soft, dark curls slip through his fingers. He didn’t think there was a word for what Harry was feeling, like he was finally home, whole, overflowing with love. Like he could finally rest. It brought a soft, involuntary smile to Charlie’s face.
He’d made Harry wait so long for this.
He could feel Draco’s eyes on him again, and when he met his gaze, he held it as long as he could, until Draco broke the silence once more.
“Was I imagining it?” Draco asked, swallowing in hesitation. “In the Great Hall.” Another unbearable pause, before forcing out: “You saw me.”
Charlie hadn’t expected this at all. He was so taken aback that he had to remember to breathe normally, feeling terribly exposed.
“I saw you,” Charlie whispered, nodding once. Draco’s lips pursed. Charlie didn’t think Draco would be able to ask what he really wanted to, so he mustered his own courage to answer it for him.
“I saw you, Draco,” he repeated. “I knew that you loved him.” Another breath, in and out; “I’d hoped you did, before that.”
Draco’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
Charlie glanced at Harry’s beautiful, sleeping face. He remembered the life and energy in teenage Harry’s eyes whenever he went off about Malfoy, how hard it was to stop him once he’d started. He remembered hearing about Malfoy every time he saw Harry, and he remembered watching the two of them play Quidditch in the garden of the Burrow, invigorating, electric and inevitable.
“I’d hoped that someone who could capture so much of Harry’s attention, would be someone who loved him.”
Draco’s mouth twisted, remorseful. He ran the pad of his thumb over Harry’s full bottom lip, a barely-there touch. It was enough to rouse him a little; Harry sighed and curled closer to Draco’s chest.
Then, Draco felt… honoured. Relieved. Charlie understood—this was where his date ended. He removed his hand from Harry’s hair, and Draco replaced it, holding Harry tight to his chest.
When Harry’s breaths evened out again, Draco looked up, his gaze calculating, his whisper tentative.
“I saw you, too.”
Charlie’s hand clenched in the sheet. “I know you did.”
He watched the path of Draco’s hand over Harry’s head, the touch as reverent as Charlie felt, seeing them together.
Charlie laid a soft kiss on Harry’s shoulder. For a moment, he considered taking Draco’s hand and returning the kiss to his knuckles. Kissing his ring, seeing it up close. Adding himself to their embrace, falling asleep with them, waking up with them.
But Draco was still fully clothed, and Harry was asleep in Draco’s arms, and Draco loved him so, so much, and he was just as nervous as Charlie.
Instead, Charlie said, “Don’t let him wake up alone.”
Draco grinned faintly, clearly grateful, and held Harry tighter.
“I never do.”
So Charlie slipped out of their bed, careful not to wake Harry. He put on his pants and jeans in silence and turned off their lamp, then tiptoed out of their room.
He allowed himself one look over his shoulder, where he saw Draco finally relax into the pillows, his nose buried in Harry’s hair, his eyes half-closed as he watched Charlie leave from the darkness.
“Goodnight, Draco.”
Draco didn’t respond, verbally. He waved two of the fingers in Harry’s hair, and Charlie felt his gratitude and satisfaction, and it was enough.
This was their life—their flat, their bed, their love. Even their city, keeping Charlie awake and restless, without Harry’s touch or Draco’s attention to distract him.
Charlie left his flannel shirt draped over the back of the armchair in their sitting room, for some reason he couldn’t articulate, even to himself.
***
“What do you think?”
Mathilde sniffed around the corners of the large stone barn, curious and excited. The building was cool and dark, even in the middle of the day. The temperature and light regulation charms Charlie had installed would make sure it stayed that way. He saw Mathilde’s glowing gaze turn to him from the opposite corner, just before she launched herself to the rafters.
She was much bigger than when he’d last seen her, and it had only been a couple of weeks. He hoped she wouldn’t outgrow this barn, but of course, he’d just build a bigger one if she did.
He smiled at her tentative satisfaction. She was happy to see him, and he’d missed her company. He was so glad she was here, now, even though she’d come without any warning and with a small squad of rookie dragonologists, in typical Andrei fashion. Charlie heard his loud laugh outside the door of the barn; the sudden noise made Mathilde wince a little. She curled herself into a little ball, but her long tail dangled languidly from the heavy beam.
“Yeah, I bet you’re tired,” Charlie said. “That must have been your longest flight yet. Plenty of excitement for one day.”
Mathilde blinked, her eyes already half-closed.
“Welcome home, Mathilde,” Charlie said, grinning softly as he left the barn, leaving the huge door slightly ajar.
He rounded the building and approached the rowdy but tired group, doing what he hadn’t yet gotten to do and punching Andrei playfully in the shoulder before pulling him into a hug.
“I would have come and got her, you prat,” Charlie grumbled, without any bite. He should have seen this coming, honestly, because—
“Where’s the fun in that?” Andrei chuckled, patting him on the back as he returned the tight embrace. “I wanted to see the new place, and these newbies needed transport practice.”
Charlie rolled his eyes, but thanked each wind-bitten “newbie” personally, enjoying their feelings of excitement and accomplishment.
“Wow,” Andrei breathed in wonder behind him, an updraft of amusement and appreciation. Charlie turned around, and felt all the breath vacate his lungs at once.
Harry and Draco were walking toward them across the wide, untended lawn, looking unfairly attractive as always.
“I was going to ask, but I think I have my answer,” Andrei muttered through a smirk. Charlie would have smacked him, but his brain had filled with static.
Harry was wearing Charlie’s shirt.
The blue and green flannel was a little too big on him—it was mostly buttoned, except for the top three, enough for Charlie to tell he wasn’t wearing anything under it. He had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
As they got closer, Charlie could feel them: curious and wary, then Harry’s intoxicating love, and his silly, petty jealousy at the sight of Andrei. Who had, of course, moved to stand even closer to Charlie, delighting in the reaction on Harry’s face, like the agent of chaos he was.
By the time Harry and Draco were standing in front of them, Charlie still hadn’t remembered how to speak.
“Draco!” Andrei greeted jovially, grabbing Draco's hand and shaking it. Draco was completely taken aback, and Charlie wondered how often people greeted Draco first out of the pair of them, if at all. “Lovely to see you again. And you, Harry,” he took Harry’s hand next, as Harry forced a smile, “glad to see you’ve both been helping Charlie here unpack.”
Charlie made a strangled sound, his eyes glued to the vee in the flannel on Harry’s chest. Andrei laughed.
“Don’t go in that barn without Charlie, by the way,” Andrei said, motioning to the large building behind them. “Mathilde is partial to Charlie, and dragons can be a bit, er…” he waved his hand vaguely, “irritable, in an unfamiliar place.”
“Mathilde?” Draco mumbled incredulously, raising his eyebrows. Charlie’s face was hot enough to glow.
“The Mongolian Nightwing. We flew her over today,” Andrei clarified, misinterpreting Draco’s confusion. “Anyway, we’ve got to get back. Oi!” he called to his team, who were standing by the barn, glancing curiously in their direction. Charlie finally snapped back to reality.
“So soon?” he asked, tearing his gaze away from Harry with considerable effort. Andrei grinned, seeing right through him.
“I left Tobias in charge.”
Charlie grimaced in sympathy. “Are you trying to get the place burned down?”
“It builds character,” Andrei replied with a shrug, completely unbothered. “He has Bea for backup.”
“Right.” Charlie rolled his eyes. He pulled Andrei in for another hug, even though Harry and Draco were watching.
“Puiule,, you’re doing great,” Andrei mumbled in his ear. “You were meant for this.”
Charlie grunted in acknowledgement. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”
Andrei pulled back, surprised, still grinning as he held Charlie’s shoulders.
“I do. I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud, though.” He patted Charlie’s cheek, with a conspiratorial wink, because they both knew he was only doing it to make Harry jealous. “Now I’m the one that sees you in flickers, eh?”
Charlie shook his head fondly. Andrei ruffled his hair, and Charlie swatted him away, because Harry felt like he might hit something. Draco was wary as ever, annoyed, but curious. Andrei walked away, turning around only once to shout:
“Take care of our licurici, boys!”
Charlie groaned in embarrassment.
As soon as Andrei’s Portkey took him and his team away, Harry spoke.
“Why was he here?”
Charlie tried to suppress his grin. Harry’s jealousy was endearing. Hot, even. And so hilariously unnecessary. Charlie’s heart had only ever belonged to one person.
“He transported Mathilde,” Charlie answered, his cheeks heating again as Draco’s interest piqued over the name. “She’s a rescued Nightwing. About a year old. I promised her she could come with me, when I left.”
He stepped closer and took Harry’s hand out of his pocket, then started pulling him in the direction of the cottage, away from the sleeping dragon.
He needed to get Harry inside. Or something. Draco’s presence was a bonus, at this point, and no longer a deterrent.
“So, why are you here?” Charlie asked the pair of them.
“We’re going to visit Teddy and Andy,” Harry said. “I know you haven’t met them, yet, but Andy’s eager to meet you—would you like to come?”
Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. Harry’s grumpiness was making way for a slight nervousness, and a familial sort of love. Harry felt that way at the Burrow, sometimes, but this was a little different. There was more… responsibility. Charlie could only assume it was for Teddy.
“I’d love to,” Charlie said, as they rounded the tall hedges into the garden of the cottage. “Er… how much time do I have?”
“Half an hour,” Harry said, letting himself be dragged into the house. Draco closed the door behind them, heated and amused; Charlie figured he’d have caught on, by now. Charlie brought them to the kitchen, so Draco could at least have a seat. “But you don’t need to rush, Charlie, and you look—”
Harry cut off with a gasp as Charlie flung Harry in front of him, pushing him back against the counter. Draco pulled out a seat at the table to face them, sitting down with a leisurely, knowing smirk.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Charlie said, his voice low, pressing Harry into the counter with his body. He was already half hard, and he knew Harry could feel it.
Harry huffed, recovering from his shock with a slow grin.
“I am,” he replied, spreading his legs for Charlie’s thigh. “Draco thought you might like that.”
“Draco thought right,” Charlie said, sinking to his knees. Harry bit his lip, hot with excitement, sweet with love. Charlie watched Draco for any sign of reluctance while he undid Harry’s jeans.
But Draco only smiled, his cheeks deliciously pink. He checked his watch, as if he wasn’t lit up on the inside with desire and fondness, as if he didn’t have a hand on himself over his trousers. As if he hadn’t seen this coming, when he suggested Harry put on this shirt.
“Twenty-five minutes,” Draco said, settling in to watch. Harry laughed softly and put his hands in Charlie’s hair. Charlie didn’t waste another second.
Chapter 13: Part Three: May, 2001
Chapter Text
May, 2001
April passed in much the same way: Charlie spent almost all of his time setting up his sanctuary, exploring the limits of the Estate. Sometimes Mathilde followed him around, sometimes she wandered off on her own to hunt. He set up charms to keep stock of the wildlife, he wrote Andrei with administrative questions, he built dens and purchased supplies and tools using the weird Gringotts card he’d been given, which was apparently connected to a large vault full of all the funding and donations he hadn’t yet had the guts to examine.
It was barebones, for a dragon sanctuary, but it was currently only holding one dragon, who was relatively easy to take care of—for Charlie, anyway.
In his bouts of free time, Harry and Draco would find him, or invite him over to their flat. Or Charlie would visit the Burrow for Sunday lunch, and leave with them. He even visited Andy and Teddy with them again, thoroughly enjoying Teddy’s boisterous toddler joy and Andy’s calm, understanding presence, along with Harry’s too-good-to-be-true familial love and Draco’s admiration and gratitude.
And whenever they were alone… Charlie had never had so much mindblowing, intense, and romantic sex in his life.
Charlie had Harry as often as he could, as if he was making up for lost time, while Draco either watched or joined in, in his simultaneously distant and devoted way. Draco almost never touched Charlie, especially if Harry wasn’t watching. But he watched Charlie, so much that Charlie was starting to associate Draco’s piercing gaze with pleasure.
He talked with Charlie, too—easy, flirty banter before, and sparse, stilted honesty after.
Draco wanted him; that much was obvious, to Charlie. He felt it like he felt his own desire, nervous-excited, clueless and cautious—except where Charlie was willing, Draco was almost forbidding.
Charlie couldn’t figure him out, and he wouldn’t dare ask. Why are you afraid of me?
Charlie didn’t spend the night at Harry and Draco’s, and they didn’t ask him to. Draco never took off his clothes, and Charlie didn’t ask him to, because Charlie didn’t, either. Charlie could tell it was starting to bother Harry, but Harry didn’t say a word about it—just took whatever they were willing to give him, and relished in their closeness, and showered both of them with his endless, exhilarating love.
The bright, spring sun beat down on Charlie’s freckled shoulders, the crisp breeze cooling the sweat on his vest, and Charlie felt a rush of contentment. He was doing what he loved, with the man he loved, in the place he loved… It was more than Charlie had ever dreamed he would get.
Mathilde stirred uneasily beside him, as he finished hammering in a fence post for a paddock. She let out a low, threatening rumble, and Charlie whirled around, alarmed by her fear, his wand already aimed—
“Harry,” he breathed in relief, pocketing his wand. Harry’s eyes were wide, his body tense, but not with fear. He was frozen in place on the opposite end of the paddock, alone, his hands open at his sides, ready to reach for his wand.
But trusting Charlie to make the first move.
“I’ve told you about him,” Charlie murmured quietly to Mathilde. Her ear twitched, her glowing eyes fixed on the ‘threat’ standing fifty feet away. Her head was low, her forelegs bent, ready to defend herself. Even crouched like this, she towered over him. “The boy who lived in a cage, who grew brighter than the sun. You know all about him, by now.”
She relaxed minutely, and Charlie pushed some extra calming security in her direction, just in case.
After a tense, prolonged moment, she sat down in her typical Sphinx pose. Charlie released the breath he’d been holding. Harry did, too; his shoulders relaxed, his arms lowered. Charlie jogged over to meet him, pulling him into a kiss. Because he could do that, now. He could kiss Harry Potter as much as he wanted.
“Hullo,” Harry chuckled against his lips. “Is this the one you named after Draco’s mum’s house?”
Charlie groaned, dropping his head onto Harry’s shoulder.
“Okay. Yes. But I never thought she and Draco would meet, alright?”
“Well, they haven’t, yet,” Harry pointed out, taking his hand. “They should, though.”
Charlie grunted in agreement. “She’s lovely, really. Just scared.”
“I can see that.” Harry looked over Charlie’s shoulder. “Wow. I’ve never seen scales like that.”
“Yeah, she’s really something. Took me ages to name her—”
“The one we broke out of Gringotts didn’t have a name,” Harry muttered absently, still watching Mathilde. “That I know of.” Charlie blinked, dumbfounded.
“Broke out of Gringotts… a dragon?”
Harry hummed. “Ukrainian Ironbelly, Ron said. Blind. Locked up down there, guarding the vaults.” His eyes were distant, mournful. “Covered in scars.”
Charlie put his hand on Harry’s cheek, drawing his gaze back to Charlie.
“I didn’t know that,” Charlie said. Harry’s lips quirked sadly. He lifted his hand to hold Charlie’s wrist.
“We were both a little busy, at the time,” he mumbled. “And the goblins never confirmed it, of course. They wouldn’t admit it. It remains a rumour. People were too distracted by the chaos of the bank robbery.”
Charlie grimaced. He looked over at Mathilde, who was still watching them, her long tail swishing back and forth, nearly wiping out his new fence posts.
“Mathilde is more like that Ironbelly,” he said. “She hasn’t known love, or freedom. She has no reason to trust anyone. She’s learning.”
Harry’s fondness could have toppled him over. Charlie would never get enough of Harry looking at him like this, like he was the most incredible thing in the world.
Harry was still sad, though, and it took a second for Charlie to recognize it as deeply buried grief, closer to the surface than usual.
“Oh,” Charlie said. “Fuck. It’s today, isn’t it?” Harry nodded, eyes darting down.
“Sorry. You should probably put up a shield—dinner with your family, soon.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The Second of May. The three year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts—three years since the day Fred—Charlie hadn’t even realized the date was approaching so quickly, and now it was here, and he couldn’t escape it. He never could, every year, but it was usually just Andrei who kept him company on this day, who talked and drank with him and made sure he wasn’t alone.
But now, he was with Harry, he was closer to his family, he didn’t have the excuse of distance. He had to be there for them, be strong for them. He had to share in their grief.
“If I put up a shield, I won’t be able to…” help them. Help you. Make it easier.
“You don’t need to fix anything,” Harry said. “It’s hard, but it’s all things we need to feel.” Harry kissed the heel of his palm, holding Charlie’s hand in both of his own. “That’s what Ginny told me, anyway.”
Charlie sighed, and started walking in the direction of the cottage. He looked back to see if Mathilde would follow, but she merely flicked her tail dismissively and launched herself into the air, bored of them.
“Speaking of dragons,” Charlie muttered, watching her sail over the treetops. “Where’s Draco?”
Harry huffed a weak laugh. “At the Burrow, with Molly. Every year, he helps her cook.”
“Really?” Charlie’s eyes widened. “Brave man—she doesn’t share the kitchen easily.”
“She’s soft on him,” Harry said, lacing his fingers with Charlie’s as they walked. “It’s a wonder to watch. I think he thinks of it as a sort of…” he waved his free hand vaguely, “atonement.”
“Still?”
Harry looked over at him, a little surprised. “Constantly.” He took a deep breath, returning his gaze to the path in front of them. “Everything he does is completely, painstakingly deliberate.”
Charlie couldn’t help but think of Draco’s very deliberate distance, his words carefully chosen, his rare touches intentionally casual.
“I don’t think he likes me very much, Harry,” he mumbled.
He wasn’t even sure if that’s what it was—he knew Draco felt desire for him, and enjoyed his presence, most of the time. But none of it ever manifested in Draco’s expressions, actions, words. It remained locked up inside him, hidden from everyone but Charlie.
“Oh, he likes you, alright,” Harry said slyly, smirking to himself.
“You sure about that?”
Harry chuckled. They passed under a copse of rowan trees; the dappled sunlight fell over Harry’s untameable curls, his handsome face, alight with soft amusement. Charlie stopped walking, and Harry turned to face him.
“He wasn’t too good at showing his affection for me, either, at first,” Harry said. The corner of his lips pulled up in a lopsided smile, and the flash of canine was an unavoidable and welcome distraction—Charlie kissed him, he had to. Harry smiled into it, sweet and warm.
“He’s learning,” Harry said, as Charlie reluctantly pulled away.
“Alright,” Charlie sighed. “Let’s go see how he’s faring with my mother.”
***
The moment Charlie walked into the Burrow, he felt what could only be described as pressure. In his head, his heart, his chest.
He assumed it was his own grief, pushing from within the walls of his meticulous Occlumency, while everyone else’s grief closed in on it. But at least the shield was holding. He could still breathe.
The sight of Draco in Charlie’s mother’s kitchen, however, did make him a little breathless.
Draco wore a black collared shirt, buttoned up a bit more than he usually was around Charlie. Not even his sleeves were rolled up, despite the mess of food preparation and dirty dishes he was embroiled in; Charlie realized abruptly that he’d never actually seen Draco’s bare forearms. And he wouldn’t, until Draco deliberately allowed him to. But Draco did wear an apron—an apron, one of Molly’s milder ones with blue and white stripes. He padded around the kitchen in his ‘casual’ posh trousers and blue knit socks, reaching for utensils and dishes on the higher shelves with a careful hand on Molly’s shoulder.
“Hi, Mum,” Charlie said, kissing her cheek as she hugged him tight. “Need any help?” Because he always had to ask.
“No, thank you, Charlie dear,” she replied with a weak smile. “Sit down, have some tea.” She waved to the tea and cakes on the table, which his siblings and father were currently indulging in. Charlie’s attention, however, was on the hand that had landed in the middle of his back, as Draco squeezed past them with a waft of citrus cologne and fresh bread and a softly muttered, “Excuse me, Charlie.”
Something very strange and uncomfortable was happening in Charlie’s stomach.
Charlie greeted his family with more tight hugs, joining them at the table next to Harry. It seemed to be understood that they all remain in the same room, today—that their togetherness was the most important thing, even if it was difficult. Even if it emphasized what they were missing.
But Charlie couldn’t keep up with the conversation. The warm tea cake went forgotten on his plate; Ron snatched it from him, and Charlie hardly noticed. Charlie’s hands clenched around his teacup, his eyes repeatedly drawn to the white-blond head in the kitchen, as Harry’s knee pressed against his under the table.
Charlie hadn’t lied: his mother was protective over her kitchen, and wasn’t good at sharing it. She was known for snapping at anyone in the way of her cooking, shooing people out of the room. If she required help, which she rarely did, she lined up tasks at the long kitchen table and delegated them there, out of her way.
Draco, though, was actually cooking with her, chopping and stirring and charming utensils alongside her, as if he belonged there. Harry had been right, too: she was soft on him, every request ending with “dear”, her instructions detailed and gentle.
Occasionally, Charlie saw his mother slow down, or trail off, staring into space, her eyes distant and wet. But Draco caught it, every time—Charlie watched in astonishment as Draco moved closer to her, squeezed her shoulder, and gently took over the task, allowing her to recover.
Every time, Molly simply wiped her eyes and let him, with a grateful, wobbly smile, until she regained her composure.
Charlie had never seen anyone outside of his family treat Molly so patiently, so respectfully. Especially in her kitchen, especially when she was emotional.
Charlie’s heart hammered in his ears. His throat tightened painfully, squeezing the breath out of him. His stomach was in freefall, and it was that soft, understanding look in Draco’s eyes that shoved Charlie into another forceful, horrible, earth-shattering realization:
He could love this man.
Charlie had only ever loved one person, with that intense, unyielding romantic love that felt like it could simultaneously kill him and revive him. Harry had been the only one to ever hold Charlie’s heart, regardless of whether or not Charlie allowed either of them to act on it. But here was Draco, too—clever, conflicting, beautiful, untouchable Draco, turning Charlie’s world upside down yet again, and cooking with a delicate, grieving Molly Weasley.
Charlie could love him. Maybe he was already a little bit in love with him. And there was no way to stop, to turn back, now that he’d started. Now that he was getting Draco’s presence regularly, even if Draco never wanted anything more than looks and conversations. Charlie was already hooked, and it would only get worse.
It was too much, being in love with two people. Charlie loved too hard, too big, it was completely overwhelming. It was raw and vulnerable, dangerous, selfish, magnificent agony.
He could never give it up, now that he had it.
Harry’s knee knocked against Charlie’s again, and Charlie blinked his way out of his thoughts, tearing his eyes away from Draco. He looked at the scarred tabletop for a moment, at the tepid tea in his hands, trying to compose himself.
When he met Harry’s gaze, Harry’s green eyes were wide behind his glasses, darting between Charlie and Draco, his lips parted in an incredulous half-smile.
He looked like he wanted to say something, and whatever it was might even have been a little smug, but Charlie would never know, because Harry only hummed softly to himself and took a sip of his tea. Charlie’s eyes met Bill’s across the table—Bill chuckled and shook his head, in that familiar, tired way of his, and Charlie deduced he’d been pitifully obvious in his besotted staring.
To Charlie’s complete surprise, Harry peeled Charlie’s hand away from his teacup and held it in his own on top of the table, squeezing gently. Charlie’s face heated as every eye in the room caught the movement—even Molly and Draco.
Draco smirked, Molly’s eyes went soft as she clasped her hands to her chest. Bill’s grin was teasing behind his teacup, Fleur smiled as she rested her hand on her round belly, and Ron and Ginny rolled their eyes at each other, but they were smiling, too. Percy was pretending not to notice, poorly, his eyebrows raised and his glasses fogged as he sipped his tea, exchanging an unsubtle look with Hermione and Arthur. George appeared from the loo and sat down on Charlie’s other side with a pleased huff.
“It’s about fucking time, big brother,” he mumbled, as if no one else could hear him. They could. “I owe Fred a galleon, for that.”
Charlie didn’t know what to say. He was happy and confused and in love and embarrassed and missing Fred terribly, imagining what he’d do if he could have seen this, the loud, mischievous laugh he’d surely have released. By the poorly-concealed shine in George’s eyes, he might have been thinking of the same.
“Just a sec,” Charlie said, standing from his chair and freeing his hand from Harry’s. Everyone looked a bit worried all of a sudden, but Charlie assured them, “I’ll be right back,” and made his way up the stairs to his old bedroom.
He went straight to the floor by his old twin bed, and pried up the loose floorboard.
He didn’t know why he was surprised, but there it was: gleaming gold under a bit of dust. Charlie picked it up and examined it between his fingers.
One galleon.
He closed his hand over it, double-checked his Occlumency, and made his way back downstairs.
Returning to his seat at the table, he held out his galleon to George, who stared at it in shock and wonder.
“Charlie,” he said. “This isn’t your super-secret floor galleon, is it?”
Charlie laughed as George took it gingerly from his hand. “Not so secret, if you knew about it, is it?”
“Please. Everyone knew about it.”
“Well, consider your debt to Fred paid.” Charlie grinned, and with a bit of bravery, laid his arm over the back of Harry’s chair. George smiled back, mischievous but subdued.
“I’m keeping this, actually,” he said. “See, Fred bet that Harry would end up with you, and I bet that Harry would end up with Malfoy—”
“Merlin, worse than Witch Weekly,” Harry grumbled, still grinning as he leaned back against Charlie’s arm.
“But much more accurate,” Draco added quietly, removing his apron. It mussed his neat hair a tiny bit in the back, of all things for Charlie to notice—
“—so technically, we both won. Don’t you worry, Charlie,” George wiggled the galleon between his fingers, “it’s going to a good cause.”
Molly interrupted their laughter to get the table set for supper, and the conversation was lost in praises of the abundant spread: steak and kidney pie, green beans, mashed potatoes, fresh flaky croissants, steamed corncobs slathered in butter, roasted carrots glazed in honey—this was apparently as big a dinner as Christmas. No wonder Draco had been here all day.
Draco sat across from them, unfolded his napkin, and placed it in his lap. He cut up his food into even, bite-sized pieces, his slender fingers maneuvering the cutlery in graceful, precise movements.
Charlie let his fingers skim the back of Harry’s neck as he brought his arm back to himself. Harry’s familiar presence grounded him, Merlin, he loved Harry so much, that gravitational ache that had slowly, steadily woven itself into Charlie’s being over the course of a few years, until it was inseparable from him. This love was what Charlie knew—novel only in the recent development of its freedom and candidness.
Draco set down his fork and knife on either side of his plate, perfectly straight, and took a moderate sip of water. Harry laughed at something Ron said, and Charlie saw every subtle change in Draco’s expression: the softness of his eyes and the faint twitch at the corner of his pink lips. Charlie didn’t have to feel it; he could see Draco’s love for Harry in every line of his body. In his well-earned presence, here, today.
Draco met Charlie’s eyes for a second, a slight furrow in his brow, before he was drawn into a somewhat one-sided conversation with Hermione. Charlie blinked, looking down at his own plate; he’d hardly touched his food. A few other plates at the table looked similar. He was surprised Molly hadn’t fussed at anyone yet over not eating enough.
Charlie’s head started to ache, a dull throb at his temples. He checked his Occlumency again—he didn’t think he’d ever held it up for this long, and the shield remained intact, but he could feel it was unsteady, his mind fatigued from the effort.
Perhaps because it was keeping out so much. Shutters rattling against a storm.
Charlie ate another forkful, and tried to focus. The waves, the waves, like the measured breaths in and out of his nose, closing the doors, over and over. He took a sip of cold water. He heard Bill and Fleur announce the name they’d finally agreed on: Victoire. He smiled and cheered with the rest of them.
He closed his eyes, and forced his shoulders to relax. They started reminiscing about Fred, in a way that made Charlie’s heart hurt, in a way they didn’t usually allow themselves the rest of the year. They started reminiscing about the Order, about Remus and Tonks and Dumbledore and Sirius, and Charlie had to endure his own flashbacks, his own lingering fear, remembering all the seedy, gritty places he’d had to go on Dumbledore’s orders, the things that happened when he didn’t make it to a place before the Death Eaters did, and his head was pounding, his temples throbbing—
The walls crumbled under the siege, flooding him with crushing grief and guilt and paralyzing fear, and he couldn’t breathe.
His eyes flew open, panicked, and he noticed that everyone was still talking normally, though most eyes were wet, some were smiling sadly. Charlie didn’t know how anyone was still upright, if they felt like this. He tried to take in air, but his lungs were full of lead, he was suffocating, his eyes burning and blurred—
Calm.
Charlie gasped faintly. Breathed.
Draco was staring right at him, his silver eyes bright and focused, his Occlumency stronger than the stone fortress of the Manor, and Charlie wanted to cry with gratitude. He didn’t.
He stared back, felt Harry’s knee against his, and breathed.
Eventually, the pain in his head subsided. Conversation became clearer around him, and though he didn’t really want to, he was able to look away from Draco, to give the bare minimum of interaction. His head was full of Draco, calm and sure and quiet, and through Draco’s blank space, he found he was even able to laugh, a little, over the more entertaining memories being discussed.
Charlie wondered, for a moment, if Draco was doing this for himself—it would have helped him just as much in an emotionally fraught scenario like this one. But Draco’s eyes never left him, and Draco didn’t speak. Charlie felt his gaze like a touch, like a hand tethering him, holding him here.
Charlie couldn’t feel much of anything, except for Harry’s pinky linking with his under the table, and Draco’s unrelenting, formidable, perfectly-empty mind-haven. Their comfort and care surrounded him completely, rooting him to the here and now, slowly allowing him to access his own thoughts and feelings and desires, without the overwhelm of everything, everyone else.
And when his mind cleared, it revealed only thoughts of Harry’s tender kisses, his earnest gaze. Memories of Draco’s hand gripping his jaw, and the feel of Draco’s lips on his knuckles, of “I am neither selfless, nor honourable,” and “I saw you, too.”
“We could have this,” Harry had said, an impossible hope whispered against the back of Charlie’s neck, in those ephemeral moments in Romania. “All of us.”
Charlie wanted this. He wanted, wanted, wanted them. Selfish, greedy, craving; he never imagined he’d ever want more than this wonderful, surreal dream he was living. More than Harry.
He felt ungrateful. He felt a little insane, insatiable. Desperate.
After supper, Charlie invited them home with him, instead of the other way around.
“Not for sex,” Charlie clarified, a little unsure. He’d never properly done this before—he just didn’t want to be alone, tonight. Harry was still holding his hand, as they stood together in the garden of the Burrow, the brightest stars fighting through the haze of the setting sun above them. “I just want…”
“…Us?” Harry supplied, a soft smile on his lips. Charlie nodded, squeezing Harry’s hand. He wanted to take Draco’s, too, and maybe Draco could tell, because he had hidden his hands away in his trouser pockets, preventing it.
“To… stay. With me,” Charlie finished, wincing at his own awkwardness. Harry’s smile widened. He turned to Draco.
Draco looked placid, perhaps mildly amused; Charlie wouldn’t know, because Draco’s Occlumency was still going strong, swaddling Charlie’s brain, and maybe that was why Charlie couldn’t really form a complete sentence.
Draco nodded, and tentatively reached out towards Charlie. His hand landed on Charlie’s bicep. Waiting.
Charlie pulled out his wand, felt each place Draco and Harry touched him, and apparated directly to his cottage.
They landed in the garden, where fireflies were beginning to blink and flicker yellow lights over the tall, untended grass. Charlie led them into the house, offering tea, but Harry just wanted to crawl into bed, exhausted from the heavy, emotional day. Charlie and Draco followed him, of course.
Charlie walked out of his closet with the least holey pyjamas he owned, handing them over like an offering. Please, stay.
Harry smiled and started stripping. Draco stared at the clothes in his hands, for a long moment, until Charlie realized he’d offered Draco a t-shirt.
Short sleeves.
“Ah,” Charlie said, then hurried back to the closet, rummaging around until he found a soft, worn cotton pullover. It had holes in the hem, but it had long, comfy sleeves. He offered it to Draco, taking the t-shirt slowly out of his hands.
Please, stay.
Draco was still unreadable, peaceful and blank, and now it was probably more for himself than for Charlie. But his lips twitched, just barely, and he managed to say, “Thank you, Charlie,” before making his way to the loo to change.
Harry was already in Charlie’s bed. He’d forgone the t-shirt Charlie had offered, and had instead sprawled topless in the middle of the huge bed with the covers pooled around his hips, watching Charlie with that lovely almost-smile on his face.
Charlie changed quickly and joined him, lying on his side to face him; his Harry, smiling at him in his bed—that alone was a miracle. Charlie couldn’t feel his love, and he wanted to, but he didn’t need to. It was in the way Harry reached for him, touched him in any way he could; it was in the way Harry looked at him, like Charlie was something wonderful, something worth watching. Someone to be proud of.
“Am I any good at it?” Charlie asked.
“At what?”
“Loving you.” Charlie’s hand skimmed slowly up Harry’s neck. He felt the movement of Harry’s smile in his cheek.
“Yes,” Harry said, holding Charlie’s hand to his face. He closed his eyes, kissing Charlie’s thumb. “Charlie. I love the way you love me.”
Draco came out of the loo wearing Charlie’s pullover and plaid pyjama bottoms, and Charlie couldn’t decide between staring at Draco, or staring at Harry’s face upon seeing Draco. The bottoms were a little short, baring Draco’s ankles, and the pullover was too big, the sleeves falling past Draco’s wrists, and he looked so… fragile.
Charlie wanted to hold him. His stomach was doing that awful flipping thing again, seeing Draco wearing his clothes. But Charlie kept his hands on Harry, who was pulling down the duvet on his other side, patting the mattress in invitation.
Draco climbed in silently, pulling the covers up to his chest. Harry rolled over, dragging Charlie’s arm over him, and wrapped his limbs around Draco.
Draco touched Harry idly, rubbing his hand back and forth over Harry’s forearm, and stared at the ceiling.
Charlie had been expecting one of Draco’s sarcastic quips about the state of Charlie’s clothes or Harry summoning him like a pet, when he realized Draco hadn’t actually spoken more than a few words, today. He’d been distant and polite, and a comfort to Charlie’s mother, and a life raft to Charlie.
He’d been a blank space, whatever anyone needed him to be.
Atonement.
Charlie turned off the light, nestling himself against Harry, soothed by the warmth and solidity of Harry’s body. He watched Draco’s profile over Harry’s head, as his eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness.
“Love you,” Harry murmured, Charlie didn’t know to whom. Neither of them responded, verbally. Charlie’s arm tightened around his waist. Draco gently squeezed Harry’s forearm.
A shaft of dim moonlight fell over Draco’s face, catching on his long, pale eyelashes. Charlie watched him blink, occasionally.
His Occlumency was impressive. An impenetrable fortress, a tight embrace. He was holding it for much longer than Charlie had—he’d had a lot more practice than Charlie, after all, and in much more dire situations. Charlie wanted him to stop, but Draco seemed precarious, holding himself perfectly still, staring at a fixed point on the ceiling.
The Occlumency was definitely for Draco himself, now; his own protection and defense.
He couldn’t help the effect it had on Charlie—which was why Charlie couldn’t keep his eyes open, though he tried. He fell asleep with his nose in Harry’s hair, feeling Draco’s body heat against the back of his hand, filling the scant space between them.
It felt like mere minutes had passed before Charlie jolted awake under a crashing wave of pure terror.
He sat up abruptly, his head whipped around—the magical clock on the nightstand read three in the morning, the room was quiet and dark and still, but he felt like he was going to die—
A faint whimper drew Charlie’s eyes down.
Draco’s brow was tensed, his eyes shut tight. His hand clenched in the fabric of the pullover on his stomach; Charlie held his breath, and could hear Draco’s breaths shaking as they left his lips in quick, shallow gusts.
Charlie slowly laid back down, shivering slightly in his cold sweat. He reached over a slumbering Harry, and after only a minimal hesitation, laid his hand on Draco’s arm, as gently as he could.
Draco made another one of those pitiful sounds, but didn’t wake, trapped in his nightmare. Charlie tried to keep his hand from shaking in his secondhand terror. He focused on Draco’s face, glistening with sweat in the faint moonlight. He had to.
You are safe. Another whimper. I’m with you.
You are home. Charlie’s thumb rubbed back and forth over his arm. You are here with me.
You are so loved.
Draco’s breathing slowed, his hand relaxed on his stomach. Charlie watched the lines of tension smooth out in his handsome face, as Charlie blanketed him, shielded him, like he used to with Harry.
Charlie left his hand right where it was, and just before sleep claimed him again, he vowed to himself that he would do whatever it takes to make this place a home.
***
“It’s a lovely colour palette, isn’t it?” Molly mused, trailing her fingers over the yellow walls of the kitchen appreciatively. It was the first time Charlie had ever invited his mother over for tea—she’d shown up an hour after his floo call. Just enough time for tidying up and mild Occlumency.
“I don’t know.” Charlie shrugged, though he did like the colour—he just didn’t know if it was… good? Right? “Is it?”
“Oh, Charlie,” Molly sighed, “you do know, dear. You’re not as clueless as you think.”
She joined him for tea at the kitchen table, pulling a container of fresh, homemade biscuits out of her bag. Of course. Not that Charlie was complaining.
“I don’t know, Mum. I don’t know what makes a place feel—you know.” Charlie shook his head, taking a sip of his tea and claiming a biscuit for something to do with his hands.
“Like home?” Molly offered. Charlie nodded sheepishly. Her eyes softened, and she tsked at him as she busied herself with her tea.
“Well, Charlie,” she said, “it’s not about the place. It’s the people that make a place a home.”
“But there’s no people here,” Charlie said, frowning.
“Don’t be silly. You’re here.”
“Yeah, but I’m not—”
“Charlie, dear, are we talking about the same thing?”
Charlie lowered his mug to the table and dusted his fingers of biscuit crumbs. “I don’t know. I just want this place to feel like a real home.”
“Does it not?”
“I mean…” Charlie shrugged again. “It feels like it could be. I know I’ll stay here, for a long time. But I want…” He trailed off as he felt his cheeks heating, watching her shrewd expression turn into a knowing smirk that reminded him forcefully of Fred.
“You want it to feel like home to somebody else?” she asked lightly. “Perhaps two other people?”
Charlie huffed a weak laugh, shaking his head. He gazed into his tea, as if it would provide him with strength for this awkward conversation.
“You’re not reacting like I expected you to,” Charlie mumbled. “About—that. Harry, and me.” He cleared his throat. “And Draco.”
“Well, triads are hardly uncommon in the Wizarding World, Charlie,” she said, sounding almost insulted. Charlie’s head snapped up.
“Er… aren’t they?”
“Merlin’s beard, did they teach you nothing in that school?”
“Erm—”
“King Arthur, Merlin, and Morgana? No?” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “The Founders of Hogwarts—did you think they were colleagues?”
“...Yes?”
Molly made another sound of exasperation. “Don’t know why we even sent you kids there… Always in danger, and leaving out such important wizarding curriculum; magical empaths, polyamory—”
“To be fair,” Charlie interrupted before she could get into her stride, “I wasn’t exactly a model student.”
Her mouth pursed, but she didn’t argue that. “Still. Even my brothers, Gideon and Fabian, were in a triad.”
“Mum—”
“Oh—” she waved her hand dismissively, “I don’t know if it was—you know. Them, together, too, but they loved Marlene McKinnon very much, and she loved them both.” She sighed heavily. “They were a wreck when she died. But they didn’t survive that year, either—” she cut off with a small hiccup, and Charlie reached across the table to take her hand. She sniffled and took several deep breaths as she composed herself.
“I didn’t know,” Charlie said.
“I’m sorry,” Molly replied.
“What for?”
“For not—for not explaining to you the many ways a person can love, Charlie. It doesn’t always look like Arthur and I, or Bill and Fleur, or Ron and Hermione.”
“I know that,” Charlie grumbled. “But I don’t—it doesn’t sound like a conversation I’d have been eager to partake in, when I was a kid, does it?”
Molly laughed thickly and squeezed his hand. “No, I suppose not. You’d have been outside befriending the gnomes, or sneaking off with a Cleansweep to practice feints.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, better late than never,” Molly said, straightening herself in a way that meant she was gearing up for a lecture. Charlie tried not to sag with dread. “Polyamory is perfectly natural, dear, and there have been many notable instances of it throughout our history. Especially among purebloods.”
Charlie frowned, releasing her hand. “Why purebloods?”
“Because marriages were and are usually arranged, to maintain blood purity, of course.” She rolled her eyes again. “It’s fairly common for people in arranged marriages to have someone else on the side—if they’re lucky, that person will bring the married couple closer together. If not, then they’ll just be satisfied. Although, it’s never that simple.”
“But… don’t they—the ones on the side, or in the marriage—feel…” Charlie waved his head uncertainly. “I don’t know, neglected? Second best? I always thought…”
Molly considered her answer for a moment, a fond look on her face.
“Love is not a limited resource, Charlie,” she said, eventually. “Most people want only one person to give their love to. Harry thought he had to be that kind of person, and hold himself back, until Draco told him he didn’t.” She smiled softly. “Harry would never take on another lover if he couldn’t give them his all, you know.”
Charlie’s lips twitched. His face felt warm again. “No, Harry doesn’t do anything halfway.”
She nodded sagely. “From what my brothers and Marlene told me, it is never about splitting yourself into pieces, making sure everyone gets an even-sized chunk of you. It is about allowing each relationship the opportunity to grow organically, letting the heart want what it wants. As long as everyone involved is on the same page, of course.”
“Of course.”
“What I’m trying to say is, we all know that Harry loves Draco, and that Draco isn’t going anywhere. And we’ve known that Harry loves you, too, for a long time—he had plenty of explaining to do, you know, after you left. Both times.”
Charlie’s stomach dropped. “Oh.”
“And,” Molly continued, “we knew you fancied him, dear, but we didn’t realize you loved him, too, until that last Christmas, with Draco.” Charlie winced at the reminder.
“It wasn’t something I ever planned on doing anything about,” he mumbled.
“But now you can,” Molly said gently, the corners of her brown eyes crinkling. “Have you… you know, talked to them about it?”
Charlie blinked, surprised. “‘Course.”
“I mean, talked, Charlie. Really talked,” she clarified, raising her eyebrows as if she already knew the answer. “About how you feel, what you want from this, what you don’t want—”
“Er… maybe?”
She rolled her eyes yet again and sighed in vexation. “It’s not going to work unless you talk, Charlie. None of you can read each other’s minds, and no, your empathic abilities can’t take the place of conversation.”
Talk, puiule.
“Alright,” Charlie muttered sheepishly. He took a fortifying sip of his tea, and gracelessly changed the subject. “So, what do you think of the sitting room?”
It was a weak attempt, he knew, but she mercifully allowed the subject change as she peered into the sitting room.
“It’s lovely, but a bit bland, don’t you think?”
***
Charlie spent twenty minutes sitting on his sofa, with his eyes closed and his head leaning back against the burgundy knit afghan Molly had provided, setting up the strongest Occlumency he could manage.
He’d been better with crowds when he was younger, as a student. It only took some getting used to, really, but this was something else entirely, and he knew he was out of practice.
He fingered the ivory parchment memo in his hand, running his thumb over the embossed Ministry of Magic emblem. All he had to do was get in, get what he needed, and get out. It was around lunchtime, and it probably wouldn’t even be that busy.
Satisfied with his Occlumency, he got up and walked to the hearth, throwing in some floo powder and stepping into the green flames before he could talk himself out of it.
“Ministry of Magic!”
He endured the awful twisting sensation of the Floo Network, keeping his elbows in tight, and stumbled out onto a dark hardwood floor, into a massive hall filled with the sounds of echoing chatter and splashing water and the whooshes of many floos.
He took a moment to orient himself, rereading the memo in his hand for the tenth time, and walked, keeping his eyes on the path in front of him. He got through wand registration without a hitch, and the security witch kindly gave him directions to where he needed to go. He made his way to the golden grilles of the lifts, and ignored the curious looks of the busy Ministry employees, and tried not to squirm when ten people packed themselves into the lift with him like sardines.
He did launch himself out of the lift with a heavy breath of relief when it finally reached “Level Four: Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”
It was in this Department that he realized he may have underestimated his own post-War reputation in England.
“Charlie Weasley?” a young witch asked, after a double-take that nearly cost her the teetering pile of files in her arms. Charlie was too shocked to do anything but nod.
“Wow,” she said, her dark brown eyes wide behind thick-framed glasses. She blinked a few times as she stared at him, until she apparently came back to herself. “Right. Charlie Weasley. I think I know why you’re here,” she said. “Right this way.”
He followed her through the maze of cubicles and desks and tanks, and managed not to trip on the curious black Kneazle that insisted on joining them. Faces turned and stared as he passed, prodding their neighbours to look. Charlie felt like crawling out of his skin.
Was this what it was like for Harry, all the time?
The Kneazle departed when they finally reached an office in the back with a faded nameplate. The witch knocked twice, then opened the door without waiting for an answer.
“Hiya, Gerry. Charlie Weasley to see you.”
Charlie peered around the doorway, just as an older, harried-looking witch with fluffy grey hair on her head stood from the desk within, giving them a look of utter delight.
“Would you look at that, so he is!” the witch exclaimed, rounding the desk with an outstretched hand. Charlie remembered himself enough to shake it. “Geraldine Smiggins, Dragon Register of the DRCMC. It’s an honour, Mr. Weasley.”
“Er.” Charlie cleared his throat, bewildered, and gripped the memo in his hand to ground himself. “Thank you? It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Smiggins. I’m here for—”
“Yes, you surely are!” Geraldine interrupted, attempting to neaten the files at her desk. “Thanks, Kate, I’ll take it from here.”
Kate looked a bit put out that she wouldn’t get to lead Charlie around some more. She eyed him appreciatively before turning on her heel and returning to whatever she was doing with her precarious folders. Charlie gulped.
Geraldine led him through even more cubicles, asking him endless questions about the new sanctuary and whether Charlie really thought Malfoy land would be fit for it, considering—you know. They nearly collided when Geraldine stopped in her tracks and demanded to have her watch back—Charlie froze with his empty hands held up, baffled, until a Niffler peeked out of the nearest desk drawer, looking forlorn, with the silver watch in his tiny hands. Geraldine still had to wrestle it away from him.
Out of the bullpen, down a dark, lantern-lit corridor and around a corner, they came to a heavy metal door, locked and warded to the teeth.
“Wow,” Charlie said.
“Aurors picked this up from some smugglers, the other day,” Geraldine muttered, her wand flicking and swishing as she undid the many wards and locks. “They’ve been dealing with a bunch of rogues, lately, so it was a surprise to see this little thing come in. They’ll be glad to have you nearby, that’s for sure.”
Geraldine opened the door and lit the nearest lantern, illuminating a small, dusty storage closet full of items that Charlie would never have thought to exist in a closet. Acromantula legs propped up in the corner like wonky, hairy brooms; shelves and boxes of fangs of all shapes and sizes; claws and bones and feathers, Ashwinder eggs and various snakeskins and scales. It was a black market smuggler’s dream closet.
Geraldine stepped in, and pulled a bulky, cloth-wrapped bundle off of a nearby shelf. She held it carefully, delicately, like the priceless treasure it was. Charlie took it from her easily; he was no stranger to handling dragon eggs. Geraldine smiled, rocking back on her heels.
“I don’t know if you’re able to tell the breed from the shell, but—”
“Chinese Fireball,” Charlie said absently, peeling back the cloth, recognizing the subtle chevron pattern in the deep red shell. It was the size of a quaffle, at least. He grinned at Geraldine, finally feeling like he’d found his footing. “Thanks for the heads up, Ms. Smiggins.”
Charlie checked his Occlumency as Geraldine led him back out to the bullpen. Before he could escape, though, she pulled him back into his office.
“Just one more thing, Mr. Weasley,” she said, rifling through a filing drawer. She pulled out a folder as thick as Charlie’s forearm, full of messy, mismatched parchments, and held it up. “These keep coming in—some from Hagrid up at the school, some from all over, and I obviously have no use for them here. I understand you don’t have any staff yet?”
Charlie blinked. “No, I… haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Well.” Geraldine grinned, waving the folder a bit. “Hopefully this is a good starting point. They’ve all got Received dates on them, and they’re sorted by most recent.”
“Merlin,” Charlie breathed, deftly shifting the egg to one arm so he could take the folder. He peeled back the cover with one finger, glancing at the topmost C.V. “That’s—that’s a great help, Ms. Smiggins. Thank you.”
Geraldine beamed. “Just doing my job, of course!”
Charlie looked up at all the filing cabinets behind Geraldine’s tiny desk.
“Are these all really full of…?”
“Dragons?” she answered for him, following Charlie’s gaze. “Most of ‘em. There’s a record of every dragon ever sighted in England, dating back three centuries. Usually it’s not more than, say, three a year, but this one here—” she brightened as she pointed to a much older wooden crate of scrolls in the corner under preservation charms, “—is just one decade in the early nineteenth century, there was a huge migration at the time, and this pile here—” she smacked her hand on top of a pile of at least thirty new pages on her desk, “—is from the last two years. Including the Nightwing you've brought over, thanks for sending that in.” She flipped the topmost form over; a Domestic Beast Registration for Mathilde that Charlie had mailed in a few days ago.
Charlie whistled. “That many, eh? They weren’t kidding.”
“Nope. Like I said, the Aurors'll be really glad you’re here. Especially once you’ve got trained staff, and a hotline set up, so you can be alerted the same time we are.” She gave a self-deprecated chuckle. “And I’m only alerted by default, to keep records. I’m not too good with dragons up close. Don’t have the reflexes for it.”
“Ah. Well, thanks again,” Charlie said, lifting his burdens inelegantly in acknowledgement. “I’m sure we’ll see more of each other.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Geraldine said cheerfully. She held out her hand to shake, before awkwardly pulling it back with a laugh when she remembered Charlie’s hands were full. She led Charlie back out through the maze of cubicles, and Charlie kept his eyes on the back of Geraldine’s head to avoid the stares.
He breathed a sigh of relief once he reached the lifts, until the grille opened to reveal Harry and Draco, in uniform, talking in low, tense voices with their heads bent together. They both had their wands at their sides, ready for action. Charlie froze, but remembered quickly that he had to actually get on the lift.
He swallowed and adjusted the items in his arms, then stepped onto the lift to face them. They looked up as he approached, closer than was polite thanks to the close quarters, and Harry seemed helpless to the smile that overtook his face, despite his previous tension.
“Hi,” Charlie said, as Draco eyed his burdens with a raised eyebrow. He had no idea how to act with them in public. He was pretty sure the public didn’t even know Harry and Draco were together, and they couldn’t, thanks to the strict DMLE Code of Conduct, or something. Besides, there were two other people in the lift, both ill at ease and starstruck.
“Hey, Charlie,” Harry said, cheerful as ever. “Busy day?”
“Sure is,” Charlie replied. He made his way to Draco’s side, bumping his shoulder a bit, trying for a friendly smile. It was easy, looking at Draco’s surprised expression and faintly pink cheeks, while Harry grinned at him from Draco’s other side. “‘S’good to see you, Draco.”
The two other passengers relaxed a little, and Draco’s lips did that now-familiar, minuscule twitch. Charlie thought about the last time he’d seen Draco in uniform, up close, smelling like magic and expensive cologne. His face grew even warmer.
“And you as well, Charlie,” Draco said.
The lift ascended another floor, and another, and Charlie desperately tried to think of something else to say, but nothing mundane or interesting enough came to mind, nothing that wouldn’t reveal how much he cared for them, or compromise whatever business they were on that had them so on edge in the first place.
The grille opened to the Atrium, and Draco strode out purposefully, his long legs carrying him at an authoritative, urgent speed. Harry grabbed Charlie’s shoulder with a quiet “See you later, Charlie,” before jogging after him to the Apparition Point. They reached the opposite end of the room and disapparated without a single pause, Harry’s hand on Draco’s arm like it had been there the whole time.
Charlie stepped out of the lift, just in time to see the other lifts open to release more crimson-clad Aurors with equally grim expressions, wands out as they hurried to the Apparition Point.
Charlie made for the floos to get out of their way, and tried his very best not to worry.
Chapter 14: Part Three: May, 2001 (contd.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Charlie ate lunch by the lake with Mathilde and the new egg, pondering how best to hatch it. He tidied his house a little, and changed his sheets, and didn’t worry. He sat down at his kitchen table with a mug of coffee and started going through the C.V.s of eager young dragonologists, and started over when he realized he didn’t remember a word of the last five he’d read.
He knew this was Harry’s and Draco’s career. They’d been at it almost three years. They were fully trained, and they did this sort of thing all the time—they’d told Charlie so on their first date. But seeing their faces, battle-ready and dangerous, the coiled tension in every line of their bodies, ready to snap; the authoritative aura of the crimson uniform, the wands held tight and combative in their hands… They were going into a fight, and they knew it, and still, Harry had smiled at him like it was any other day, like imminent violence was as normal as lunch in the canteen.
Charlie never forgot—but now he knew what Harry sounded like when he came. He knew what Harry looked like, when he slept blissfully between Charlie and Draco. He knew Harry who danced with Draco in the kitchen and always wanted to kiss them, and the unrelenting violence that followed Harry around like a vengeful ghost kept getting overshadowed by his adorable joy, his sweet, hearthfire love for Charlie and Draco.
Charlie put his head in his hands, C.V.s forgotten.
But a loud pop sounded from outside two seconds before the front door burst open, followed by stumbling and grunts of effort, and Charlie was out of his chair and throwing himself towards the door before he could even register the movement.
Draco straightened as best he could, for someone holding a sickly and shaking Harry Potter upright.
“Charlie,” Draco gritted, looking rather blanched and sweaty himself, and Charlie rushed forward. Harry had an arm around Draco’s shoulders, and he wasn’t breathing right, and his body was curling into Draco, and then—once past the wave of his own shock and adrenaline—the sheer panic and icy terror hit Charlie head on, nearly taking him out at the knees.
“Shit,” Charlie tried not to whimper, bracketing Harry’s other side. His uniform was damp with sweat and smelled of battle and fear, guilt, horror, Charlie could barely see, hear past the hurricane in his head. “What happened?”
“Boggarts,” Draco bit out. “A trap. Charlie, please. He won’t go to Mungo’s, he can’t go back there like this, he needs—”
“I’ve got him,” Charlie said, panting as he took on Harry’s physical and emotional weight. Draco gently pried Harry’s white-knuckled hands off of his uniform, helping Charlie maneuver Harry to the nearest wall, where Charlie pressed his whole body against him, “I’m here,” gathering Harry’s arms to his chest, taking Harry’s stricken face in his hands, “Harry, I’m here. You’re safe, baby. Look at me.”
Draco’s trust and relief felt like a balm in Charlie’s head, a beacon in the storm of Harry’s anguish. Harry’s terrified eyes locked with his, his whistling, too-quick breaths hitting Charlie’s face, as Charlie put his best effort into projections. Harry shook and shook, and Charlie covered him, surrounded him, held him as tight as he could—Andrei had always held Charlie against a wall when Charlie was panicking, or overwhelmed, keeping him together, containing him. It was what he knew.
Soon, it was just him and Harry, Charlie’s body as protection while Charlie’s mind worked to fix, soothe, you’re safe, you’re home, you’re loved, with only their shaking breaths and Charlie’s hoarse, hushed words between them:
“You’re alright, baby, I’ve got you. You’re here with me, in this Malfoy cottage with its massive bed, remember? We’re home.”
It felt like ages: too-long moments of tears streaming down Harry’s cheeks, of Harry’s hands shaking violently on Charlie’s chest and his body vibrating against Charlie’s. The fear and horror seeped away, drop by drop, to be replaced by the devastating guilt. Charlie tried and tried until his head ached from the effort, his heart ached from the empathy, his body ached from the strain of it all.
You are safe, I will protect you; you are home, I am home with you; you are loved, and I am not the only one that loves you, so, so much.
Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, his teeth clattered. His lips were chapped and colourless. Charlie combed his fingers through Harry’s sweaty hair, leaned into him harder, and tried one more time.
You are forgiven.
Harry sobbed. His face dropped against Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie held Harry’s hand to his chest, his other hand on the back of Harry’s neck, fighting off his own shock.
You are forgiven. I forgive you, I forgive you.
Harry’s hands clenched in Charlie’s t-shirt. Charlie felt wet tears on his own shoulder, his neck, Harry’s glasses digging into his skin. He stroked the soft, damp curls at Harry’s nape, whispering to him over and over as he cried, surrounding him as best he could.
What had Harry seen that could possibly make him feel like this? What on earth would Harry ever need forgiveness for?
Charlie waited for Harry’s breaths to even out, for his body to stop shaking, but eventually he realized it was his own body that was still trembling.
Harry came back to himself gradually. His hands relaxed, his body sagged a little between Charlie and the wall. Charlie carefully pulled his head back to see his face, kissing the salty tear tracks on his cheeks. His skin still had a greyish tinge, and his eyes were puffy and half-closed with exhaustion, and he looked at Charlie with such resignation that Charlie wanted to cry.
“Rough day?” Charlie muttered shakily, with a weak, wobbly smile. It was enough to make Harry’s lips quirk upwards, as he let out a faint huff of what could have been laughter, and Charlie finally allowed himself to relax.
“Yeah,” Harry rasped. Charlie slowly peeled them off the wall, making sure Harry could stand, and put an arm around his waist.
“Come on.”
Charlie led him to the bedroom, and into the master bathroom.
“Wait here.”
Harry furrowed his brows and nodded once. Charlie rushed back out to the kitchen, rummaging through his sparse pantry until he found the half-eaten Honeyduke’s chocolate he was looking for. He broke off two large pieces and made his way back down the hall, and only then did he realize that Draco was no longer there.
Charlie’s steps faltered, as he faced the evident truth that Draco trusted him—really, truly trusted him, to love and take care of the person Draco loved most in the world. Draco couldn’t give Harry what he needed at that moment, but Charlie could; Draco knew Charlie meant safety, even in a place he hated.
The thought filled Charlie with warmth. Hope.
Back in the loo, Harry was leaning against the counter, looking dead on his feet. Charlie held up the chocolate as he approached. Harry’s eyebrow raised doubtfully.
“Go on,” Charlie said, placing it in Harry’s hand. “You need it.”
“Charlie, I need to go—”
“Don’t even try, Harry,” Charlie said quietly. “You’re in no state to work, and you know it.”
“But Draco—”
“Can take care of himself.”
Harry huffed. His hand shook faintly as he held the chocolate, staring Charlie down with what would have been an impressive glare, were this any other time. Right now, he just looked tired, like he couldn’t put up a proper fight if he tried, and he didn’t even want to—Charlie could feel it, the warmth and contentment he felt in Charlie’s presence, the lingering safe, home that Charlie had provided.
“Come on, Harry,” Charlie sighed, stepping closer, bringing his fingers to the buttons of Harry’s uniform. “Just—let me.”
When Harry didn’t protest, Charlie started on the buttons. Harry reluctantly ate his chocolate, and Charlie relaxed a little as he felt it working on Harry’s frayed nerves. Chocolate had always helped Charlie, during the War.
He peeled off Harry’s clothes layer by layer, piece by piece. Off came the crimson jacket, with its gold buttons and badges and black leather accents; off came the sweat-soaked white shirt underneath, and the forearm wand holster Charlie had made him; off came the trousers with all their utilitarian pockets full of who-knows-what, and the briefs, the dragonhide boots, the socks. The glasses.
Charlie started the shower, a welcome white noise in the silence. While he waited for it to heat up, he inspected Harry thoroughly, healing every tiny scratch and bruise with gentle charms, which Harry found faintly amusing.
Harry was ushered into the shower, where he stood still under the hot spray with his eyes closed. Charlie stripped quickly and joined him.
He’d never done this before, and he didn’t really know what he was doing. But he knew he wanted closeness, so he wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, pressing their bodies together under the water, skin to wet skin. Harry’s hands found Charlie’s shoulders, his fingers slid into Charlie’s hair, making Charlie sigh against Harry’s neck.
Harry’s contentment developed a niggling worry, confusing Charlie. Harry’s hand tightened in his hair, tilting Charlie’s head to the side. Charlie was going to ask, until Harry put his mouth on Charlie’s neck, his intent clear in the light scrape of his teeth, and Charlie understood.
“You don’t have to, baby,” he murmured, soothing his hands over Harry’s warm, wet back. Harry stilled. “I’m happy to just take care of you.”
You are safe, you are home, you are loved.
Harry remained still for a moment, as unsure in this situation as Charlie was, reminding Charlie of exactly how new this was for them, regardless of how long he’d loved Harry, or how long Harry had wanted this. There was still so much to learn—for both of them.
You are forgiven.
Harry wrapped his arms around Charlie’s shoulders, keeping his hand in Charlie’s hair, and held him closer.
They stayed like that for several long, peaceful minutes, pressed together under the spray, letting the hot water wash away the day’s trials. Charlie felt Harry’s soft cock brush against his, pleasing but not quite arousing, and thought he’d never experienced anything more intimate.
How he had ever convinced himself he could survive without this was beyond him.
Charlie pulled away when the beat of the water on his arms started to make his skin tingle. He shampooed Harry’s hair, cluelessly and clumsily, and Harry tried and failed not to laugh when bubbles began rolling down his face, making him press his eyes and mouth shut in defense. It made his nose scrunch up, and Charlie just had to kiss it, and Harry’s lips remained in that sweet little almost-smile until Charlie had soaped him up completely.
Charlie stepped back and let himself admire Harry as the water sluiced down his chest, clearing his tawny skin of all those bubbles, like sea foam rushing over wet sand. Harry leaned back into the spray, rinsing off his face and hair, tightening the muscles in his neck and shoulders. He tilted his chin back down, shaking out his hair and rubbing his eyes, and when he opened them and gave Charlie a sheepish, lopsided grin, Charlie could only keep staring.
He was breathtaking. He was such a sight to behold, every inch of him nearly glowing, glistening wet in the soft grey light from the fogged window. Charlie’s eyes traced down the vee of his hips, the contours of muscle in his thighs, completely enamoured.
They toweled themselves dry, and Charlie lent him some more pyjamas to wear, with great satisfaction. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet, but he made Harry get in the bed anyway, shutting the curtains to block out most of the light. Charlie cleaned Harry’s glasses and set them on the nightstand, next to Harry’s wand.
He crawled in next to Harry, propping up an extra pillow for himself to sit against. He reached for his own wand, but froze when he felt Harry’s hand on his stomach.
Charlie looked down at him; sweet and warm and only a little worried. Appreciative, grateful, watching Charlie carefully with those startlingly green eyes. Harry’s fingers teased below Charlie’s waistband.
“You sure?” Harry asked. Charlie frowned a little, trying to decipher these feelings, and slid down to the mattress alongside him.
Harry wanted him, Charlie could feel it, but not like he usually did—Harry was exhausted, emotionally drained. Harry wanted him differently, right now, and Charlie didn’t really know why he was offering sex, when he so clearly wasn’t in the mood.
This must have been that talking thing he wasn’t too good at. Harry wasn’t too good at it, either, apparently.
“Harry,” Charlie said. “You know I’m not here just for sex, right?”
Harry grimaced a little, looking down at the sheets between them. His damp curls splayed against the white pillowcase; Charlie reached over to touch them.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “I know.” But he didn’t feel very assured. Charlie wracked his brain for the right words.
“Listen,” Charlie said, rolling slowly on top of him. “I love having sex with you, Harry. Most incredible sex of my life, hands down.” Harry grinned, pleased and amused. Charlie grabbed his wrists, pinning them gently to the mattress. “I love the sounds you make, I love getting you naked. You are so bloody hot, it drives me wild.” Harry laughed a little, as Charlie leaned down, nose to nose. “I love the way you touch me, and look at me. And I love the way you feel. I could never get enough of you.” One slow, soft kiss to Harry’s lips. “But.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“I just love—you,” Charlie continued, meeting his eyes. Harry’s breath caught, awed and gratified, and Charlie resolved to tell him so more often. “I want you any way you are. I mean it—it’s not about the sex, Harry. It’s just you. It’s always been you.” He laced his fingers with Harry’s, sliding their hands next to Harry’s head. He brought his face closer, so Harry wouldn’t see how red Charlie was. “And I know you’re not feeling it right now. I’m not expecting anything, you know. We can just rest.”
Harry took a deep breath through his nose, squeezing Charlie’s hands.
“I love you, too,” he whispered. Charlie smiled under his own wave of happiness, gave him another lingering kiss, and rolled off of him.
“But,” Harry said, and Charlie froze again. “I feel bad that…” he bit his lip; Charlie smoothed it out with his thumb. Harry huffed a little, frustrated with himself.
“What is it?” Charlie prodded, settling on his side to face him.
“You don’t—” Harry waved a hand vaguely. “You don’t usually get to have me—alone.”
“Oh,” Charlie said, eyes widening in comprehension. “Does that bother you?”
“No, I just—” Harry shook his head, “—I just want to be sure it doesn’t bother you.”
Charlie hummed. “It doesn’t bother me, Harry. I know you’re a package deal.” He paused. “And I may also—you know. Like him. I enjoy having him around. I like the two of you together.” Harry was growing amused again, but Charlie barreled on. “Harry—I love the way Draco loves you. And I love the way you love him.”
Harry’s lips parted in astonishment. Charlie grinned softly.
He brought Harry’s hand to his face and kissed it, before sitting up again, grabbing his wand and summoning the folder of C.V.s from the kitchen table.
“Now, rest—I’ll be right here. And if you feel up for it in a few hours, we can do whatever you want.”
“Yeah? Whatever I want?” Harry teased as he snuggled closer. Charlie put his hand in Harry’s damp hair, watching him melt into the touch.
“Whatever you want, baby.”
***
The next time Charlie looked at the clock, it was almost ten pm. He blinked away the dryness in his eyes, looking down at the snoozing Harry beside him.
He hadn’t heard a word from Draco.
Charlie slipped out of the bed to go make some tea. He didn’t want to sleep until he at least knew that Draco was safe. He didn’t exactly know how to go about finding out—floo calling the DMLE, maybe? But that might raise questions about their relationship, which Draco would probably not thank him for—
The floo flared green and bright, lighting up the sitting room just as Charlie entered to call anyway. Draco stepped out gracefully, still in his impeccable uniform, carrying a plastic takeaway bag, an emotional morass of fatigue and anxiety.
For once, Draco seemed unable to control his facial expressions. There was so much relief, and worry, and even embarrassment, and Charlie was so endeared. Draco said nothing—just looked around a bit, grimacing through his emotions, and lifted the plastic bag.
All that came out of Charlie’s mouth was, “You’re okay.”
It took Draco a moment to figure out how to respond, though he didn’t have to; the burst of appreciation within his astonishment was response enough. “Yes.” He lifted the bag again. “I don’t know if you’ve—I thought I might—is he alright?”
Charlie blinked, trying to keep up. “Yeah. He’s sleeping.”
“Right,” Draco said, growing exponentially more uncomfortable as he fought his inner conflict. His eyes hadn’t left Charlie’s, and Charlie frantically thought of anything to keep him there. “I’ll just—”
“Come sit down,” Charlie said, hoping the lamps were dim enough to conceal his blush. “Please. Stay.” He motioned to the sofa, with its inviting new throw pillow and afghan.
Draco debated with himself some more, before finally giving in with a grateful, resigned sigh.
“Do you like curry?”
Charlie grinned with triumph. “I do.”
So Draco set down his burden on the coffee table, flicked open the top two buttons of his crimson jacket, and settled in on one end of the sofa.
Charlie situated himself on the opposite end, his feet tucked up comfortably beneath him. There was a whole cushion between them, but Charlie still felt flustered by the proximity, while Draco pretended not to be, handing him a container of rice and chicken korma.
“You must be tired,” Charlie said. Draco lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
“I should be, but I’m afraid I may have consumed too much caffeine—I’ve only just finished all the bloody reports…”
“Ah.”
“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got the most popular item on the menu. I hope that’s alright,” Draco said, glancing sideways at him. Charlie tried to hold back his pleased smile.
“It is. I love korma,” Charlie replied. “Thank you.”
They ate in silence, while Charlie tried to think of things to say that weren’t the most pressing question in his mind. He let himself ponder all of Draco’s conflicting emotions for a moment, before deciding this would be a good time for Occlumency, after all. He closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of the crickets outside the open sitting room window take over his head, building walls around it, with it, within it. Draco seemed vulnerable, and Charlie could give him this space.
But, damn it, he needed to know.
“Draco,” Charlie said. “What… what happened?”
Draco took a deep, slow breath, his mouth pressed in a thin line. His peace seemed to evaporate as his jaw tensed, his fingers fidgeted. He set his fork down in his curry, staring at a point over Charlie’s shoulder.
“We’d been watching this place for weeks,” Draco began, wiping his mouth primly with a paper napkin. “We’d received some reports about sketchy shipments coming in, loud noises and flashes of light. We thought it was another point on our recent smuggling ring—we thought it’d be an easy bust. As soon as our surveillance charms alerted us of movement, we rounded up and went. As you saw.”
Charlie nodded slowly. Draco looked down at his food.
“We landed and hid, waiting for orders. Waiting for backup. But Harry—” Draco huffed, shaking his head. “We heard a scream from inside, and Harry bolted, I couldn’t stop him. Our cover was blown, and I ran after him, but by the time I got in, he’d already triggered the trap. He was locked in this—this room, and the team came pouring into the building after me, and there was just—no one. The place was empty, except for whatever was in this room with Harry, and I tried everything to get that fucking door open, Charlie, everything. I could hear him—” Draco cut off as his voice cracked, his fist clenching in his lap.
Charlie stretched out his leg on the sofa, knocking his bare foot against Draco’s knee. Draco absently laid his hand on Charlie’s ankle.
Charlie held his breath.
Draco stared at his own hand, and Charlie watched his face fly through emotions he couldn’t comprehend, until Draco apparently decided to leave his hand there. Charlie exhaled slowly, feeling a little triumphant.
“He was in there for an hour,” Draco said. “It took ten of us to break that door down.”
Draco’s voice was tight and flat, as if he was reading this off of a report he’d just written. He put his food down on the coffee table.
“And when you did?” Charlie probed gently.
Draco sighed, idly stroking Charlie’s ankle with his thumb. “I didn’t understand, at first. It was horrible. It was so many—dead,” he fumbled. “Bodies everywhere. It was like the Battle all over again, and Harry was crouched in the middle, his hands over his ears, and I didn’t know until I recognized them, and I realized the bodies were all—whispering—” he shuddered violently, looking ill.
“Those were boggarts?” Charlie rasped, with a sinking feeling of dismay and dread, finally understanding why Harry had needed such a specific emotion from him. Draco swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and nodded.
“I’ve never seen more than one at a time. They were—it was so fucked, Charlie, it felt like Azkaban in there. It was no smuggling checkpoint. It was a sadistic, deliberate trap, made for psychological torture. Breeding boggarts.”
“That is fucked,” Charlie agreed, feeling equally sick.
They were silent for a moment, while Charlie’s brain tried to fathom it all.
“How were you able to get rid of them?” Charlie asked. Draco huffed again, his mouth curving in a humourless smirk.
“My father is terrifying, but the effect is lost if there’s twenty of him.” He turned toward Charlie, who raised his eyebrows at the image, and the startling fact that the one thing Draco was most afraid of was his father. “And once the others came in after me, the boggarts became confused. They were easier to neutralize that way.”
Charlie didn’t know what to say. He wanted to know more, but Draco had already given him so much. He didn’t want to push.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Charlie said.
Draco didn’t answer; simply watched Charlie with that look Charlie was coming to know, like Charlie was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Charlie’s cheeks heated, so he looked at the coffee table, instead. Draco had barely touched his food.
“You should eat,” Charlie said.
“I’m quite alright.”
“Charlie’s right,” Harry said from the doorway, making both of them jump, and the combined paroxysm of Charlie’s and Draco’s adoration effectively toppled Charlie’s half-arsed Occlumency, knocking the wind out of him a bit. Draco growled faintly in frustration, fixing the lock of platinum hair that had fallen out of place with the movement.
“You and your bloody stealthy feet,” he grumbled, but his desire and relief quickly won out over his frustration. Internally. Harry’s lips quirked with fondness as he watched Draco quickly remove his hand from Charlie’s ankle.
Harry had his hand wrapped around the door frame. He looked clean and sleep-rumpled and beautiful, still wearing Charlie’s pyjamas. He was watching Draco with a slightly nervous expression; it made him look small. Adorable.
Charlie didn’t understand why they weren’t rushing towards each other, when it felt like all they wanted to do.
Harry broke first, which he probably usually did. He took a hesitant step closer.
“I smelled curry,” he said, with a small, tentative smile. Charlie ignored their emotions for a second, trying to focus on Draco’s expression.
On the outside, Draco looked… serious. Grave. He looked almost angry, but too composed to be angry; a dangerous, intimidating calm.
And on the inside, Draco felt devastatingly relieved, there you are—and helpless, helpless, helpless, my heart.
Charlie faced the harsh realization that while he had only had to watch Harry throw himself into life-threatening situations a handful of times, Draco was forced to see it almost every day. His heart, brave and vulnerable and unstoppable, running into danger unprotected, trapped in a room full of dark creatures feasting on his anguish.
This was not a feeling Charlie could shield him from. Charlie would have surely lost his mind by now, in Draco’s place.
Harry took another step, and Draco stood abruptly, rounded the coffee table, and collided with him in a tight, furious embrace. Harry locked his arms around him, his “I’m sorry” muffled into Draco’s shoulder.
“I hate you for that,” Draco muttered shakily, one hand on the back of Harry’s head.
“I know,” Harry said. He looked at Charlie over Draco’s shoulder, guilty and relieved.
No, he doesn’t, Charlie mouthed at him. He could see the smile in Harry’s eyes, before Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck.
Eventually, Draco sighed deeply into Harry’s hair. “Only you would smell curry from a distance and come running.”
Harry hummed in agreement. “Which is exactly why you brought it.” He pulled back and kissed Draco deeply, and Charlie got to feel Draco thaw, giving in to Harry’s irresistible, profound tenderness.
Draco sat back down on the sofa, a little dazed. Harry, to both of their surprise, didn’t join them; he settled in the armchair, leaving Charlie and Draco alone on the sofa. Charlie tried to figure out what Harry was thinking, but of course, he was no Legilimens, and Harry was feeling an odd mixture of hope and mischief and admiration that Charlie didn’t know how to interpret.
But the absence of Harry between them made Charlie hyperaware of the short, uninterrupted distance from Charlie’s hands to Draco’s body, and he found it difficult to think of anything else.
Harry’s presence soothed Draco enough to eat again, and Harry apparently loved curry—lamb vindaloo, to be precise—all things that Charlie took mental notes on. Draco and Harry discussed the botched raid and the new, sadistic case in low, muttering voices, with jargon and names that Charlie couldn’t keep up with.
“What did you do today, Charlie?” Harry asked. “Other than. You know.” He waved sheepishly at himself. Charlie blinked dumbly; he hadn’t even noticed the conversation shifting, and Harry knew the answer to that question. It felt more automatic, cursory, like something Harry was saying just to fill the air. Distracting.
“Er.” Charlie squirmed a little. “You saw me. I went to the Ministry, to get that egg.”
“Mm.” Harry settled more comfortably in the chair. “I wanted to bring that straight to you, when we found it, but protocol.” His lip curled, to Draco’s amusement.
“Yes, we all know how little patience you have for rules, Potter,” Draco muttered. Amused and a little bitter. He put down his food, sighing as he leaned back against the sofa. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his arms. Charlie had ideas, which he wouldn’t dare share—though Draco kept glancing sideways at him, pink-cheeked and restless, and all Charlie would have to do was move—
Charlie coughed a little as a wave of something hot and carnal crashed over him, heady and nervous and voracious. He cleared his throat, laid his arm over his lap, and looked at Harry.
Harry was staring at him, sprawled in the chair like he owned it, biting his lip like he did know it drove Charlie wild. With his legs spread confidently, Charlie could see the outline of a semi through the thin, plaid fabric of the borrowed pyjamas.
“Jesus, Harry,” Charlie said hoarsely, adopting one of Harry’s muggle swears, because it seemed the only appropriate way to address this very Harry feeling. He felt Draco watching him, watching Harry. “Feeling all rested up, I take it?”
Harry grinned softly. “Yeah.”
Draco chuckled. Fond amusement, exasperation, desire. “Something you want, Harry?” he asked wryly. Harry’s heated eyes turned to him.
“Yes,” Harry answered, and said nothing else. Charlie furrowed his brows at the growing tension, simmering anxiety.
“Well, then, come over here,” Draco purred. Determined, relieved, in the familiar single-mindedness of fulfilling Harry’s desire. “I’m sure we can give it to you.”
Harry didn’t move. The nerves multiplied. Draco’s cool, confident smirk faltered.
“Harry,” Charlie said. “What is it?”
Harry’s fingers tapped against the armrests, his eyes darting back and forth between them. He wanted, so badly, but he felt—cautious, and desperate. Like what he wanted most was at the other end of a minefield.
Charlie was used to feeling those things in Draco—not Harry. He was used to Harry charging ahead, while Draco hung back, careful and deliberate in his steps.
Harry licked his lips. “I want…”
They waited as he trailed off, but nothing else came. Harry’s leg started jumping a little on the floor.
“Tell us, darling,” Draco said, in that low voice he always used during sex, gentle but firm. Harry drew in a deep breath through his nose, his eyes widening as he looked at Charlie again. Craving.
“Damn it,” Harry huffed, shaking his head at himself. “I want to see—I want you to kiss him.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped. Draco remained perfectly still, determinedly not meeting Charlie’s eyes. Stunned, afraid, hopeful, defensive.
“If you want to,” Harry added, in a small voice that made Charlie’s heart clench.
“I want to.” Charlie barely registered the words leaving his mouth, but then they were out, dropped onto the empty cushion between himself and Draco. Waiting.
Draco finally, finally looked at him.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I want to,” Charlie repeated, with more conviction. Harry’s eagerness was bolstering his own. “If you’ll let me.”
Draco’s hands clenched on his own thighs. Charlie’s stomach was performing some impressive gymnastics feats; the combined turbulent emotions of three enamoured, high-strung men. Charlie couldn’t hear Harry breathing, but he couldn’t really hear anything over the rushing pulse in his ears. He waited, with bated breath, for Draco to make a decision, to land on one emotion and act on it.
That wondrous, helpless love, for Harry. Guarded, sullen, curious, afraid, desirous, and then—selfish.
Yes, Charlie thought, as Draco turned his body to face him, his silver eyes piercing Charlie’s own. Draco moved, slowly, and Charlie sat up to meet him in the middle, and Harry’s excitement tightened whatever was between them, pulling them together.
Draco’s hand lifted from the sofa to Charlie’s jaw. Charlie stared at his lips, pink and parted and perfect.
“You want me, then?” Draco muttered.
“Yeah,” tumbled from Charlie’s mouth as he nodded. “Yes. Draco. Do you want me?”
Draco didn’t answer; he didn’t have to, and they both knew it. Charlie smiled a little, because he could feel it.
Charlie never thought he’d get to be the object of Draco’s desire, like this—he’d experienced only brief glimpses of Draco’s selfishness aimed at him. It was thrilling, being something Draco wanted, as fiercely as a Seeker wants the snitch.
Draco leaned in slowly, so slowly. His nose brushed Charlie’s, and Charlie’s breaths quickened with Harry’s and his own anticipation, but he kept still, and waited.
Draco’s slender fingers slid over Charlie’s stubbled jaw, then further back, into the hair behind Charlie’s ear. Charlie could feel the hard gold ring on Draco’s pinky against the skin of his neck. He could taste Draco’s breath, warm with a hint of masala, making his mouth water, his tongue dart out to wet his lips—
When Draco finally kissed him, it was gentler than Charlie had expected. The kiss was light, and sweet, and breathtaking in its softness. It was what Charlie knew Draco could be—on the outside, for once.
Charlie pressed forward, just enough, and kissed him back.
Charlie’s hands lifted, lowered to the sofa, lifted again, hesitating; Draco’s lips were warm and soft against his, Draco’s hand secure at the back of Charlie’s neck, and Charlie wanted to touch him so badly, but the last time he’d touched Draco when Draco was this close, Draco had wanted to tear his head off.
But Draco’s tongue brushed tentatively against Charlie’s upper lip, and Draco felt so much softer than he did in Romania—
“Can I—” Charlie tried between kisses, his hands balling into fists. “Draco—”
Draco broke away just long enough to say, “Yes.”
Charlie surged forward, grabbing a fistful of that maddening uniform, and really kissed him—similar to how he kissed Harry, encompassing, and to how Harry kissed Draco, galvanizing, but with something so new, so uniquely them, something Charlie could only think of as revelatory.
Draco let out a faint gasp, the hand on the back of Charlie’s neck tightening. His other hand found Charlie’s pyjama-clad thigh, while Charlie’s hands slid indulgently into Draco’s sleek, soft hair, finally. It was, somehow, even softer than it looked. The caress made Draco shiver, sending a wave of warmth through Charlie’s veins, he wanted to hold him, surround him, know him—
Charlie pushed forward again, pressing Draco into the back of the sofa, and climbed onto his lap.
It forced a pause, a moment of Charlie’s hands on either side of Draco’s face, of Draco’s eyes opening wide with surprise, his pupils blown with lust. He stared up at Charlie in disbelief, his hands automatically gripping Charlie’s hips. His smooth cheeks were flushed prettily, his neat hair disheveled from Charlie’s hands; he looked vulnerable, and it took everything Charlie had not to blurt out, there you are.
Draco blinked, and glanced over Charlie’s shoulder, so quickly Charlie would have missed it were he not paying close attention to the intricacies of Draco’s face. He remembered that Harry was watching, awash with warmth—love—and incredulous appreciation. Harry loved this, loved them. Charlie leaned down to kiss Draco again, his own desire overflowing, and Draco tilted his chin up to meet him, running his hands up Charlie’s sides.
Draco’s mouth opened under him, letting Charlie deepen their kiss. It was a familiar taste, new in its intensity; something Charlie had only ever caught traces of, secondhand. Charlie slipped his tongue between Draco’s teeth, and Draco let out a short, quiet moan, his fingers digging into Charlie’s ribs. Draco’s legs spread minutely beneath Charlie, and Charlie ground down instinctively on the growing bulge in Draco’s trousers, closer, more.
“Fuck,” Harry breathed behind them in awe.
Charlie broke their kiss to make his way down Draco’s sharp jaw, finding that tiny freckle on the side of his neck and sucking lightly. Draco’s breath hitched, his hands slipped under Charlie’s t-shirt, sliding up his back. Charlie’s hips moved of their own volition, as he explored Draco’s neck with his mouth—he could smell the ozoney traces of potent magic, with that lush, lemony cologne, and the new, natural scent of Draco’s skin, up close, making him more real, more human than he’d ever been around Charlie.
Charlie’s fingers teased under Draco’s open collar, making their way to the buttons. Draco stiffened, his nails digging into the skin of Charlie’s back, making Charlie freeze with his lips on the corner of Draco’s jaw.
A still, suspended moment, silent and motionless in the hush of catching their breath, until Charlie worked up the nerve to whisper another, “Can I?”
Draco let out a shaky, moderated exhale through his nose, and started mouthing at Charlie’s neck. Charlie was too keyed up to decipher any emotion other than fear and desire. He tentatively rolled his hips, and Draco pulled him close, pressing them together.
Draco’s mouth moved to Charlie’s ear.
“Don’t stare, and don’t ask,” he breathed, only loud enough for Charlie to hear, his mouth barely moving against the hinge of Charlie’s jaw. Draco’s breath in his ear sent goosebumps over Charlie’s skin. Draco’s hand left Charlie’s back, moved up to his own neck, and opened another button.
Charlie’s heart pounded against his ribs. Draco dropped his hand to Charlie’s thigh, squeezing gently, and Charlie took this as his permission.
Charlie opened the next button, trying to keep his hands from shaking. Another, his lips finding Draco’s mouth again, hoping his kisses would convey his own excitement and reverence.
He did not ask why Draco would give him such a warning. He took what he was given, gratefully, without question. Draco leaned forward so Charlie could push the jacket off of his shoulders; Charlie moved right on to the white shirt underneath, button after tiny button opening to reveal warm, fair skin, while Draco pulled the jacket off his arms, keeping wary eyes on Charlie’s face.
Charlie pushed apart the shirt, and did not stare. Draco hurriedly undid the cuffs at his wrists and took it off, as if he was trying to get this over with. Fear and guilt were bubbling in Charlie’s stomach, growing to a sickening boil with each jerky movement of Draco’s hands.
Charlie stared. A little.
The painful remorse—Harry’s, Charlie recognized it from earlier—reached a peak, as Charlie’s eyes traced down a long, thin, silvery scar, from Draco’s collarbone to his hip. One of several, cutting dramatically across Draco’s toned chest and abdomen, as if he’d been slashed, over and over.
Don’t ask.
Draco gripped Charlie’s chin with his left hand, bringing him face to face with the twisted, faded brand of the Dark Mark on the inside of his forearm.
Don’t stare.
Draco eyed him fiercely, daring him to say something. As if he wasn’t roiling with shame and anxiety.
He was glorious.
Charlie half expected his eyes and throat to start glowing, threatening sparks to be spat through his gritted teeth. The heated admiration that spread through Charlie’s chest made it hard to breathe, like firewhiskey filling up every hollow crack and crevice in his ribs.
Charlie smiled softly, speechless and awed.
A small furrow of confusion appeared between Draco’s brows. The grip loosened on Charlie’s chin. Charlie grabbed the collar of his own t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one swift motion.
Harry’s relief and affection tasted like sweet, hot coffee on the back of Charlie’s tongue, trickling down his throat, pooling heat in his groin.
Draco’s eyes widened and dropped to Charlie’s chest, taking in all of its imperfections. His fingers skated over Charlie’s stomach, following the trail of auburn hair up his sternum, his fingertips finding every mottled pink scar, like tracing a journey on a map.
“Just scars,” Charlie whispered.
Draco lifted his gaze again, calculating—to Charlie, then to Harry, over Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie looked back, too, and nearly groaned as his blood rushed south.
Harry had one hand in his shirt, teasing his own nipple. The other was gently stroking the outline of his hard cock over Charlie’s thin pyjamas. He was entranced, enthralled, not looking away from them for even a second, his cheeks darkened with a blush.
“Is this what you want, darling?” Draco asked, his hands gliding up Charlie’s arms, unmistakably appreciating Charlie’s biceps.
“Yes,” Harry said, grinning. Charlie rolled his hips again.
“What do you think, Harry?” Charlie said. “Do you want to watch him fuck me?”
“Oh, my god,” Harry groaned appreciatively, gripping himself hard, his head tipping back against the chair. Draco let out a small gasp, eyes snapping back to Charlie’s, almost comically wide with shock. Charlie leaned in to nibble at his jaw, enjoying the way Draco’s head tilted to give him better access.
“You want to?” Charlie murmured in his ear. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he was dying to hear it.
He kissed his way down Draco’s throat, licking over the scar on his sharp collarbone. Draco breathed heavily, selfish, eager, wanting; cautious, defensive, afraid.
“Draco,” Charlie whispered. He planted a light kiss on his cheek. “You don’t have to. But if you want me… you can have me.”
Somehow, that made it worse: for a fleeting split-second, Charlie felt something so hopeful, terrified, wary and powerless and small that his heart broke a little. He started to pull away, his mouth opened to take it all back, to fix it.
But Draco’s strong arms locked around him, and he twisted forcefully, throwing Charlie down to the sofa and crawling over him.
“Whoa,” Charlie gasped, before Draco shut him up with a deep, hungry kiss.
Charlie groaned and arched his back, pulling Draco down to him, craving skin to skin. With the distraction of Draco’s insistent tongue, his hips grinding hard and slow between Charlie’s legs, Charlie allowed Draco to shove aside the fearful, forsaken heart he’d glimpsed.
“You—” Charlie’s hands wriggled between them to Draco’s waistband. “You want to?”
Instead of answering, Draco put his mouth on Charlie’s nipple and sucked. Charlie tried not to be embarrassed by the sound that came out of his mouth. Draco’s trousers were now just out of reach, but Charlie’s hands still wandered, over Draco’s arms, his shoulders, his sleek hair.
Draco reached back, pulling his wand out of his jacket. With a quick wave, he banished the rest of their clothes, which folded themselves neatly on the coffee table, making Charlie laugh through his surprise. The sound sent a rush of warmth through Harry and Draco both, and pulled the corners of Draco’s lips up, just a little, but Charlie didn’t have time to admire it before Draco was on him again.
And finally, there was nothing between them; Charlie’s breath caught at the drag of Draco’s long, hard cock against his. He hooked his legs around Draco’s bare thighs, pulling him closer.
He wanted to see Draco, but he surrendered to Draco’s powerful current, letting himself be swept up in Draco’s desire. For now.
Draco muttered another spell against Charlie’s lips, which was the only warning for the sudden, efficient prepping of Charlie’s arse. Charlie was familiar with the spell; he’d used it before, many times, in his casual encounters at the sanctuary.
It wasn’t something he’d ever planned to use around Harry. Which is how Charlie recognized that Draco did not want to take his time, here—did not want this intimacy, for whatever reason, even though Charlie was offering it.
To Charlie, it would be intimate either way. It couldn’t not be, with his feelings for Draco growing more intense and unavoidable by the second.
“Roll over,” Draco said, and Charlie huffed. He grabbed the back of Draco’s neck and pulled him down into another kiss, slower, more sensual.
“Let me give you this,” he whispered. Draco bit down a little on Charlie’s lip, then moved to Charlie’s ear, where Harry couldn’t see.
“This is what Harry wants.”
“And what we want,” Charlie breathed, bucking up against Draco’s abdomen. “You and me, Draco.”
Charlie flipped them over, to Draco’s surprise—as if he’d forgotten that Charlie was just as strong as he was. Charlie straddled Draco’s hips, with one foot landing on the floor. He reached behind him, finding Draco’s cock and holding it between his cheeks, letting the head catch on his wet, sensitive entrance. Draco groaned roughly, gripping Charlie’s thighs. Charlie splayed his free hand in the middle of Draco’s scarred chest.
“Draco,” Charlie said, barely stopping himself from using an endearment, “Do you want this?”
Draco’s jaw clenched. He turned his head on the throw pillow to look at Harry, so Charlie did, too.
Harry was biting on his own fist, while his other hand pushed the pyjamas down to his thighs and took hold of his cock. He was wearing the same expression of raw passion, heady affection, precarious hope that he’d worn that night Charlie had caught them snogging outside the Burrow. A look Charlie and Draco were both helpless to.
Draco looked up at Charlie again, and gave a quick, feeble nod.
Charlie wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, but this was as much as he was going to get, at the moment. Draco’s cock slipped easily inside him, though the sudden stretch still made him wince slightly. Draco groaned through his teeth, and the sound was echoed by Harry as he watched Charlie sink further, until Draco’s full length was buried inside him.
Charlie had wondered if Harry might be envious, since Draco was getting to do this before he did—Harry had so far only wanted to bottom. But all Charlie could feel from Harry was awe, arousal, and sweet, incredible love. All he could feel from Draco was lust and lingering defensiveness; all he could feel in himself was fullness, and finally, and perfect.
He trained his eyes on Draco’s pretty, astonished face, and rocked his hips.
Draco’s mouth opened in a silent little oh. Charlie did it again, letting instinct take over as he set up a steady rhythm. His eyelids fluttered as sensation rushed through him; it had been a long time since he’d bottomed, and this was nothing like any time before, because this was Draco, Draco, Draco inside him and he couldn’t look away if he tried.
Charlie leaned back a little as he rode him, bracing himself on Draco’s thighs. Draco couldn’t hold back the small, ragged moan, a sound that raced hot and invigorating through Charlie’s body. He heard Harry gasp, heard the delicious, obscene sounds of Harry’s hand, spurring him on.
He found a perfect angle of his hips, and cried out softly with the flurry of sparks in his veins; Draco’s admiration preceded his movement, as he held Charlie there by the hips and fucked up into him, hitting his prostate with relentless precision.
Nearly out of his mind with pleasure, Charlie only belatedly noticed himself talking.
“…yes, fuck, Draco, you feel so good,” he mumbled, panting. Draco bit down on his own lip, staring up at him with wide, shining silver eyes, Merlin. “You’re fucking stunning, you know that? Beautiful.” Charlie leaned forward, bracing his hands on the armrest on either side of Draco’s head, and sank down again, taking control of the rhythm, slowing them. Draco let out a small whine, frustration and want and fear. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“Look at me,” Charlie whispered, brushing a piece of sweaty blond hair off Draco’s forehead. “Draco. Let me make you feel good.” He clenched a little around him, and Draco’s eyes flew open again, as did his mouth in a quiet gasp. His chin lifted almost unconsciously, reaching for a kiss. Charlie leaned down to give it to him.
Another flicker of powerless desperation, quickly suppressed. Draco grabbed his face and kissed him harder.
Charlie’s hand spread over Draco’s jaw and the side of his neck, fingers just curling around the back of his head. Holding as much of him as he could, while holding himself up. But Draco worked his own hand between them, to where Charlie’s cock lay heavy on Draco’s stomach, leaking precome and not getting nearly enough friction. Charlie’s hips bucked into Draco’s grip, tingling pleasure coiling too tight and too fast—
Charlie’s hand left Draco’s face to swat him away. “No, not yet.”
Draco growled faintly. “Fucking—”
“I want to hear it,” Charlie said. He rocked deeply on Draco’s cock, lifting up almost enough to unseat him, sinking all the way back down, torturously slow. Draco looked almost pained, his hands brutally gripping Charlie’s arse. “Tell me what you want.”
“What Harry wants,” Draco slurred. Charlie clenched again, drawing a strangled sound from Draco’s throat.
“Draco,” Charlie almost begged.
Harry’s breaths grew heavy and vocal, a few feet away. Draco’s head turned to watch.
“Don’t come yet, Harry,” Charlie said, still watching Draco. Harry groaned, half pleasure, half frustration.
“Fuck, this is…” Harry’s hand stopped moving, probably with effort, “bloody amazing—”
“Say it, Draco,” Charlie murmured in his ear. Draco’s head tipped back against the throw pillow, and Charlie mouthed hungrily at his neck, biting down. “I want you. I want you, too.”
“Ah—fuck—” Draco’s body tightened in a way Charlie now recognized; he was close. He pushed Charlie upright suddenly, following him with his mouth.
And then Charlie’s arms were around him, his thighs burning as he held himself aloft. Draco braced himself and fucked up into him, hard and fast, one arm wrapped around Charlie’s hips.
“Please, Draco,” Charlie panted against his hair, rapidly approaching orgasm. “Tell me.”
Draco shook his head frantically against Charlie’s shoulder, with the longest glimpse of that sweet, terrified, scarred heart that Charlie had yet seen.
Charlie tightened his arms around him, and gave in.
“Okay,” he breathed, one hand sliding up the back of Draco’s neck, into his soft, sweaty hair. “It’s alright. You’re safe, sweetheart.”
Draco bit down on Charlie’s shoulder, but it didn’t stop the rough, desperate sound from escaping. His hips faltered.
“Harry’s right here,” Charlie continued. “Harry’s watching you, and he loves you, so, so much—”
“Shit—Charlie—” Draco gasped, and Charlie felt the shudder roll through him, the pulses of warmth in his arse. His thighs gave out, dropping him even deeper onto Draco’s cock, which made Draco cry out again, beautifully. Charlie continued rocking while Draco’s hips twitched, and whispered praises into Draco’s ear—so beautiful, Draco, sweetheart—until Draco finally let out a stuttering exhale, and relaxed.
In the silence that followed, no one moved. Draco caught his breath against Charlie’s shoulder, and Charlie kept his hand in Draco’s hair, holding him there.
Until Draco slowly slipped out of him, and said, “Turn around.”
Charlie swallowed, pressing his mouth to the hinge of Draco’s jaw, just for a second. He released Draco from his arms, and turned to Harry, who looked like all he wanted were the next words from Charlie’s mouth:
“Come here, baby.”
Harry stood immediately, letting his pyjamas fall to the floor and stepping out of them. He gripped the base of his cock as he rounded the coffee table with shameless eagerness. Charlie turned around, his thighs shaking, and Draco pulled him back against his chest. Charlie’s head tipped back onto Draco’s shoulder, as his fatigue caught up with him.
Harry knelt on the sofa, his awe and wonder and love nearly palpable. He leaned in and kissed Charlie so deeply Draco rocked backwards a little; Charlie felt Draco’s muscles tighten behind him, around him, as he kept them upright. Harry’s hands explored Charlie’s legs, his stomach, skating teasingly over his cock, gently fondling his balls.
Harry’s closeness was a soothing balm, a relief on Charlie’s and Draco’s nerves. It had felt too volatile, too unstable, almost dangerous without him, and his familiar touch grounded them, smoothing out the barbed tension lingering in their bodies.
“Go on, Harry,” Draco said quietly. He reached forward, grabbing hold of Charlie’s thighs and pulling them up, holding him open. Charlie blushed fiercely, feeling Draco’s come leaking out of him, feeling Harry’s hungry gaze on it. He’d never felt so exposed. Harry looked back up at him, like he couldn’t believe what was being offered.
Charlie nodded, giving him a reassuring smile.
“Jesus,” Harry breathed, lining himself up. “Do either of you have any idea—”
He didn’t finish, sliding into Charlie so easily, loosened by Draco’s cock and slickened by Draco’s come. He let out a more awestruck groan than Charlie had ever heard from him, breathing hard, and Charlie’s eyelids fluttered shut, luxuriating in the new fullness of Harry inside him.
“Fuck, Harry,” Charlie moaned, his hands slipping under Harry’s—Charlie’s—t-shirt, desperate for the warmth of his skin. Harry was a little thicker than Draco, and Charlie was so sensitive by now, he felt every perfect inch.
“Oh, god,” Harry said, eyes locking with Draco’s as he began to thrust. “Draco, I can feel—” he huffed, leaning forward to kiss Draco. Charlie felt Draco’s delighted shiver against his back. He was in the perfect place to watch them kiss, sandwiched between them, his head heavy on Draco’s shoulder. It was even hotter up close, watching their tongues come together between their wet, reddened lips, greedy for each other. One of Charlie’s hands reached up to Draco’s neck, just to touch him, feeling the muscles and tendons shift beneath his smooth skin.
Harry’s hand found Charlie’s cock, where it lay achingly hard and neglected on Charlie’s stomach, and Charlie nearly sobbed with pleasure and relief. Harry broke away from Draco’s lips to claim Charlie’s again, but his kisses were interrupted with his words.
“God, I love this,” Harry was saying. “I love you. I love you both, so much, so much—” He stopped to spit in his own hand, and something about that brought Charlie closer to the edge than his touch did. His spit-slick hand jerked Charlie off with quick, efficient strokes, while Charlie teetered breathlessly on the cusp of orgasm, his body rocking against Draco’s with the force of Harry’s thrusts.
Charlie’s face turned towards Draco’s, and was met with awed grey eyes, staring at Charlie’s lips.
Charlie pulled him in by the back of his neck and kissed him, hard and messy, making Draco’s grip tighten on his legs. Charlie fell apart with Draco’s tongue in his mouth, followed by Harry’s, as Harry leaned forward to join them, and Charlie’d had no idea three people could kiss at once, sloppy and carefree and indulgent in each other, but he thought they should do it all the time. He felt his own come landing hot on his stomach, coating Harry’s hand, while sizzling pleasure and admiration erupted throughout his body.
And then Harry was crying out softly against Charlie’s cheek, filling Charlie’s arse with heat while Draco kissed at Harry’s neck, and Charlie never wanted it to end, this perfect, unbreakable togetherness.
But eventually, it did: Harry slid out of him slowly, and Charlie let out a faint hiss at the soreness, the discomfiting feeling of emptiness. Draco gently released his legs, letting Charlie stretch them out on either side of Harry’s knees. Sweat and come cooled uncomfortably on his skin, but it was cleared with a swift cleaning charm, Charlie didn’t know whose. It only cleaned what remained on the outside of his body.
He sighed, leaning back against Draco’s chest, and pulled Harry closer, burying his fingers in Harry’s soft, messy hair.
“Think this sofa can sleep three?” Charlie mumbled, desperately holding onto his blissful afterglow. Harry snorted.
“Doubt it.”
“I’d try it,” Draco said casually, “if we didn’t have to be at work in a few hours.”
Charlie’s heart sank, as did Harry’s.
Harry hummed shortly. “Kingsley’s pissed, isn’t he?”
“Very.”
“Damn.” Harry sighed. “Guess we better get home, then, if I want any chance of being on time and in uniform for the lashing.”
No, no, no.
Charlie had to release Harry’s hair as Harry pulled back, rubbing his face and straightening his glasses. Draco’s hands lifted from Charlie’s waist, waiting for him to move.
Charlie sat up slowly, still a little dazed, trying not to wince. Draco brought his legs in and stood from the sofa, tall and graceful and nude for all of two seconds, until he quickly started putting his clothes back on. Harry was shuffling around the coffee table, looking for his—Charlie’s—pyjamas, and his wand.
“Mind if I borrow these?” Harry asked, motioning to the clothes Charlie had lent him, even though he was already wearing them.
“Go ahead,” Charlie replied hoarsely, with a weak grin. Harry grinned back, swished his wand, and summoned the rest of his things.
Charlie grimaced a little as more come leaked out of him. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to fend off the impending chill of their absence. He stood on shaky legs, distractedly pulling his pyjama bottoms back on.
Draco did up half the buttons on his shirt, and none on his jacket. He closed up the takeaway containers and sent them to Charlie’s cooling cupboard with a wave of his wand.
Charlie couldn’t think. Couldn’t keep up. He blinked, and Harry was in front of him, still flushed and disheveled and beautiful.
“Thanks for everything, Charlie,” he said, then frowned a little, his hand on Charlie’s cheek. “You’ll be alright?”
It wasn’t really a question, though it sounded like one. They had to go—to their home—under the lame excuse of clean clothes and work, as if Charlie’s floo wasn’t directly connected to the Ministry. And their flat. Charlie just had to deal with it.
Talk, puiule. Talk, puiule. He couldn’t find any words.
Charlie nodded absently, and Harry kissed him, slow and sweet. “See you later.”
Harry stepped back, revealing Draco next to him, and it was then Charlie recognized this foggy smothering feeling as Draco’s Occlumency.
Draco’s eyes tracked over Charlie’s face, as if making an inventory. Charlie could only stand there, cold and numb.
He just wanted them to stay. The words were lodged in his throat, choking him, failing to coalesce into a sentence.
Draco tilted Charlie’s face up with a finger under his chin. He leaned in and kissed him, not innocently, but not meaningfully, either. Just a kiss. A crumb. Not enough.
“Thank you, Charlie,” he said, in his low, smooth voice, though Charlie didn’t know what for.
Charlie blinked again, and the green flames were dying down in the hearth until it was a cold, dark, empty grate.
The chill finally hit him, and he shivered, curling into himself. His throat hurt, breathing was difficult, and he realized he was trying not to cry. Fucking hell.
He groaned in frustration at himself. He grabbed a few logs, stacking them haphazardly in the empty fireplace. He rummaged around until he found his wand, and sent a cleaning spell through his arse, grimacing at the harsh ache.
Empty, empty, empty. The cottage was silent and cold and empty. There was no one else around for miles, except Mathilde, who was probably out hunting. He just wanted—he wanted Harry, and maybe Draco. He wanted warmth. He wanted touch. Not even Andrei had ever just left him, like this, after—
“...talk, puiule, they haven’t spent every waking moment with you for the past ten years like I have…”
Charlie shook out his hands at his sides, pacing. It was too late to see his family, and he didn’t want to see them like this. Andrei was too far away, and probably asleep. Harry and Draco were at home, maybe asleep by now, too, warm in each other’s arms, and Charlie needed something, someone, anything.
He rushed to the kitchen, grabbing the dragon egg from the counter. He set it carefully among the logs in the hearth, and started the fire.
He sat on the floor in front of it, ignoring the discomfort, and welcomed the warmth that hit his chest as the flames grew, licking at the shiny, blood-red sides of the egg. This, he knew. This, he could do.
Charlie pulled his knees to his chest, settling in to wait. It would take a few hours to hatch, but he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, anyway. He rested his chin atop his knees, fiddling with his wand in his hand, and stared at the bright, flickering fire.
Privately, Charlie thought that this—this cold emptiness, this feeling of abandonment and loss, after having something so wonderful—might have been the reason why Draco refused to speak his desire aloud.
Notes:
End of Part Three! Thank you for reading this far 🥺💖 There's an Interlude coming on Thursday, the 13th, and Part Four starts posting on Monday, the 17th.
Chapter 15: Interlude: Harry
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The minute Harry stepped out of the floo, he let out an exasperated sigh.
“Was the Occlumency really necessary?”
Draco didn’t answer. Harry watched him dust himself off—as if there was even a speck of soot on him—then make his way to the bedroom, with that familiar, infuriating expression of blankness that meant he hadn’t even stopped the Occlumency yet, even though they were alone in their flat. Harry followed, because he always did, because two men had a tight hold on his heart, but this one had always been easier to follow.
This one had never left—the way he’d just left Charlie.
But as soon as they’d all come down, Draco had sent him that look over Charlie’s shoulder: the one Harry knew meant he needed to escape, to lick his wounds and recover. He’d seen it before, at the Manor, at the Burrow, at the Ministry. Harry had promised him, when they started this, that whenever it became too much—whenever Draco needed to have Harry alone—Harry would make it happen.
But that disoriented look on Charlie’s face, the dull expression he usually got from Draco's Occlumency intensified by the apparent strength of Draco’s efforts… Harry hadn’t expected—that.
Draco changed into sleep clothes methodically, cleaning both of their uniforms with his wand. He faced the mirror as he buttoned up his silk pyjama shirt, his fingers pausing halfway through as he stared at his reflection.
Harry watched as Draco touched the small, dark pink lovebite Charlie had left on his neck, as the cracks finally appeared in his composure. Draco met Harry’s eyes in the mirror, a little wild and terrified, the same way he’d looked the first time Harry told him he loved him.
“Draco,” Harry breathed, his heart breaking a bit as he cautiously approached him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—I thought you liked him.” He placed his hands on Draco’s waist, resting his forehead on the back of Draco’s neck.
“I do,” Draco said. His voice shook.
Harry sighed. “C’mon. Talk to me. Do you want me to see you both—separately? I can work something—”
“No.” Draco took a deliberately measured breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. “I like him.”
“Then… why would you do that to him?”
“Because he knows,” Draco snapped, the words bursting from him like they’d been held in there all evening. Maybe longer. “He knows and I hate it, Harry. He knows too much.”
Oh.
Harry pulled his head back, turning Draco gently until they were face to face.
Harry knew that Draco loved him, but Charlie knew it, too—Charlie felt it. Harry knew that despite Draco’s relentless composure, his outwardly cool demeanor, Draco was constantly anxious, always on the defensive. He hid his true feelings from everyone; he still hid them from Harry, sometimes. He always thought it was a weakness, something easily used against him.
He couldn’t hide from Charlie.
In a flash of vivid memory, Harry remembered the first time he had sex with Draco, nervous and inexperienced and so in love—he remembered Draco’s confidence, his beauty and strength, his attentiveness.
His trembling hands.
“Draco…” Harry watched his own hands roam Draco’s chest. “Loving him isn’t going to be like loving me.”
Draco tensed. “I haven’t said a word about loving him.”
“It’s…” Harry struggled with the words. Nothing seemed quite big enough to describe how it felt, to be seen and loved by Charlie. “He’ll—be good to you. He’ll take care of you. Whatever he knows about you—he’ll keep it safe.”
“I don’t need taking care of,” Draco retorted automatically. “I don’t need—I don’t love him. I hardly know him.”
Harry’s lips twitched; he couldn’t help raising an eyebrow. Because Harry had once tried to convince himself of the same thing, and Draco had told him to get back there and be a bloody Gryffindor about it.
Harry didn’t think it’d go over well, this time, and by the petulant twist of Draco’s mouth, he didn’t need the reminder.
“Do you still want to see him?” Harry asked. Draco tensed further, if possible, pressing his lips into a familiar, rigid line.
And then, as if it was all too heavy to keep carrying, he sagged with a harsh exhale, dropping his chin slightly in defeat.
He nodded once, of course he did—he was too proud to admit it out loud, and Harry knew that.
“You’ll have to apologize,” Harry said softly. Draco grimaced.
“Yet another Weasley apology,” he grumbled. After a stubborn pause, he sighed and added, “Alright. Just—not yet. Please.”
“Okay.” Harry stepped back, taking Draco’s hand and pulling him to the bed.
“You’re wearing his pyjamas,” Draco said. Harry smirked as he crawled into the sheets.
“Would you prefer I didn’t?”
Draco didn’t answer immediately. He climbed in and rolled Harry over, spooning up behind him, pulling the covers over them.
“No,” he muttered, fingering the laces on the waistband of the plaid pyjama bottoms, his arm secure over Harry’s waist. He tucked his face into Harry’s shoulder, and Harry wondered, briefly, madly, if he was trying to find traces of Charlie’s scent in the cotton. “I like it.”
Harry turned his head for a kiss, which Draco obliged. And when he closed his eyes to sleep, he thought back on Charlie saying I love the way you feel, and I love the way Draco loves you, and the powerless, reverent way sweetheart had slipped from his lips with Draco in his arms.
He didn’t know how it hadn’t clicked before, but now he knew: Charlie really meant it, in a deeper and more intimate way than Harry could ever understand.
Notes:
:') see ya monday, folks <3
Chapter 16: Part Four: June, 2001
Chapter Text
June, 2001
Eva’s spiked tail clattered against the hardwood floor in front of the blazing hearth, twitching gently while she dreamt. Charlie had no idea how it was comfortable, sleeping belly up in front of an open flame, especially with the spikes on her back, but this was the first Chinese Fireball he’d ever hatched himself. Maybe this was how they all slept.
Maybe he was only questioning it because she insisted he lay on the floor next to her, which was decidedly uncomfortable for a human.
She was already getting too big for the cottage; roughly the size of a Great Dane. A Great Dane with a horned spine, that occasionally breathed fire and insisted that Charlie keep her company during in-house socialization naps.
While Harry kept him company, sprawled comfortably in Charlie’s armchair with his socked foot on the floor, allowing Charlie to wrap a hand around his warm ankle, anchoring them both.
Charlie refused to admit to himself that he was clinging, holding onto him to prevent him from leaving again.
Harry’s face was pinched in concentration, his wand aimed at a small, floating bundle of leather strands in front of him. Charlie stared unabashedly, taking in the shadow of his jaw, the untameable mess of his hair, growing longer every day. His glasses were a little smudged, but they couldn’t dull the vibrant green of his eyes. Nothing could.
After a week of no visits and minimal correspondence, Harry had arrived in the morning, alone, pouring himself coffee and nabbing a piece of toast and marmalade as if this was his house, his kitchen. He’d nervously kissed Charlie on the cheek, and at Charlie’s look of bewilderment, kissed him on the lips, again and again, until he ended up shirtless in Charlie’s lap.
And Charlie had just stared, sure he was dreaming. They’d shared the toast, and Charlie held on to him worryingly tight, and if Harry noticed, he didn’t mention it.
Harry also refused to put his shirt back on, which Charlie attributed to the fact he had a fire going in June. It was probably too warm, and Charlie just had to deal with the sight of Harry’s bare chest, radiant and muscular, and the softness of his abdomen when he got comfortable in the armchair, maddeningly touchable.
Completely at home.
Charlie didn’t ask where Draco was, and Harry didn’t say. Eva seemed indifferent to Harry in general—she accepted his curious affections, but preferred to bother Charlie for meat.
“Charlie,” Harry said, breaking his silence. He spun the bracelet around slowly with his wand, glancing down at Charlie, a little worried. He’d been a little worried all day, actually—waiting for something.
“Harry.”
“How do you know when… when you’ve pushed a dragon too far?”
“When it attacks or flees.” Charlie raised an eyebrow. “They let you know real quick. Why?”
Harry finally looked at him, still absently twirling his wand. He stared thoughtfully, taking a deep breath.
“And what do you do when that happens?”
“Give it space, and a safe place to go,” Charlie said. “What’s this about, Harry?”
Harry was silent for a moment. Nervous, guilty, determined.
“I’m sorry we left so quickly,” he said, slowly and carefully, and Charlie furrowed his brows, wondering how the subject had changed—
Oh.
Harry watched comprehension dawn on Charlie’s face, and released the breath he’d been holding. Charlie swallowed hard, and thought yet again about the scared, fragile heart that Draco hadn’t been able to hide from him.
Harry had made a choice—Charlie tried to reason with himself that he couldn’t expect Harry to keep both of them happy all the time. It still hurt, but he could feel that Harry was sorry.
And he understood it: needing to flee, to escape. Needing a safe place to be alone.
He knew he could be too much, sometimes.
“You’re here now,” he said, and Harry smiled a tiny, lopsided smile, full of that sweet, luxurious warmth that was just for Charlie, before turning back to his bracelet.
The leather strands knotted and twisted around each other, while Harry muttered complicated incantations under his breath. Sometimes, he’d frown and feel the knots between his fingers, then carefully undo them by hand and start again. It looked complex, incredibly detailed; something Charlie would surely become frustrated with, after a short time. But Harry looked utterly relaxed, focused, like he was doing something important, like he wouldn’t rather be doing anything else.
Charlie wanted to see that look on him all the time.
Eva’s head lifted up suddenly, yellow eyes wide with excitement and anticipation, just before Charlie heard the loud pop of apparition in the garden. He smiled, watching the baby dragon skitter over to the front door, sharp talons clacking and scratching the floor, spiky tail bouncing along noisily after her.
Charlie heard the front door open, followed by a shocked chuckle and an “Oh, Merlin, of course there’s a baby dragon inside the house” that made Charlie’s heart skip and Harry’s lips curve into a fond smile, loaded with affection.
Charlie had considered the idea that dragons were more aware of his thoughts than even he knew—Mathilde was now quite taken with Harry, whom Charlie had thought and talked about incessantly when he’d first met her. And apparently, Eva was absolutely enamoured with Draco, who had taken up residence in Charlie’s mind for the entirety of Eva’s hatching.
“Careful, silly girl, you’re very sharp, did you know?” Draco’s crisp, posh voice floated into the sitting room, where Charlie was stretching and lifting himself from the floor, and Harry was putting away his in-progress bracelet in the pocket of his joggers. “Merlin’s beard, look at you. Yes, you’re very pretty. No, Charlie wasn’t kidding in that letter, was he?”
“Mother sends her regards—oof—” Eva practically bodyslammed Draco in her excitement, making Harry laugh, “—to both of you. You really are too big for this, mademoiselle,” he said, redirecting his attention to the needy dragon. “Are you like this with everyone?”
“Nope,” Harry said—a little smugly, for some reason.
“You were in France?” Charlie asked, trying to project some calmness. Eva slowed, choosing instead to rub up against Draco’s leg like an oversized cat, while Draco carefully avoided the spikes. An orange shimmer of contentment ran over her scarlet scales. She looked entirely out of place in this mellow cottage, against Draco’s pristine ensemble.
“Yes.”
“Every year,” Harry added, a small grin on his face. “Birthday tea with his mum.”
“Birthday?” Charlie echoed incredulously, while Draco glared, embarrassed, and Harry grinned, mischievous. “It’s your birthday?”
Draco glared some more, before admitting, “It is.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Charlie asked, chuckling as he took over Eva’s attentions. “I’m so unprepared.”
“There’s no need for a fuss,” Draco grumbled.
“Not a fuss. You’re worth celebrating.” Charlie’s eyes widened as the words left his mouth, and he tried to recover with, “Birthdays are important.”
Ignoring Harry’s amusement, Charlie sidled past Draco in the doorway, and nearly melted at the mouthwatering scent of him; fresh lemon and sea salt, like clean air and sunshine and ultramarine waves crashing against cliffs.
“What are your big birthday plans, then?” Charlie asked, his voice higher than usual, heading for the kitchen. Draco blinked at him in surprise, and followed.
“This,” he said.
“‘This’… as in, sitting around here?”
“And entertaining a baby dragon, apparently,” Draco added.
“Well,” Charlie said, trying not to think of it as more than it was, “that’s—nice.” He cleared his throat. “And Eva won’t be staying—I’ve already set up a place for her by the lake.”
“Shame. She’s delightful company.” Draco didn’t even have to bend to pet her again. Eva was being very careful to not set him on fire in her excitement, and Charlie was so proud. She was very clever for her age.
Harry entered the kitchen after them, stretching his arms above his head. Draco’s and Charlie’s eyes were immediately drawn to the tightening muscles in his chest, his arms, following the vee of his hips and the tease of dark hair as his joggers slipped a little lower. Harry smirked.
Bored with the sudden shift in attention, Eva clattered her way back to the hearth with a smoky huff.
“I’m sure we can think of better ways to celebrate your birthday,” Harry said, and Charlie’s pulse jumped. Draco’s did, too, and his grey eyes turned back to Charlie immediately, familiar nervous-excitement, and Charlie couldn’t help curling in on himself, turning away from them.
He didn’t mean to. But his body remembered—the cold emptiness and abandonment, churning his stomach with wariness.
“I’m sure we can,” Charlie mumbled, absently bringing the dirty breakfast dishes to the sink and starting the cleaning charms. Harry felt expectant, stubborn, and Draco was vexed, nervous, guilty; Charlie tried to ignore it. “What do you want to eat? I can make anything, in a kitchen like this, I have to grab some groceries, anyway—”
Hands appeared on Charlie’s sides, and he knew instantly, from the shape of them and the lightness of the touch, that they were not Harry’s. He froze, an empty mug in one hand and his wand in the other.
He heard a small huff behind him, guilt and hesitation and that familiar anxiety, growing by the second. And further, from Harry across the room, more hope and love than Charlie knew what to do with.
Draco moved closer, warming the air at Charlie’s back, and Charlie stared blankly out the window above the sink into the flourishing garden.
“I’m sorry,” Draco murmured, close to Charlie’s ear. “About—last time. I know I’m not exactly—easy.”
Draco’s low voice in his ear sent a shiver down Charlie’s spine. He set down the mug in the sink, letting the charms do their work.
He was completely, explicitly aware of Harry watching them, and couldn’t help but wonder if Draco would be saying this, or acting like this, in Harry’s absence.
He thought it was a pretty odd way to address smothering Charlie in Occlumency so Charlie couldn’t object to them leaving, but Draco was an odd man. Unless he was apologizing for not letting Charlie get into his pants sooner, which was still odd.
But he was making an effort—for Harry’s sake, no doubt—and Charlie did want him. Still.
Draco did, too. He never could hide it.
“I didn’t expect you to be easy,” Charlie replied softly, which was true. Draco was the most difficult, perplexing man he’d ever encountered. “I’m not easy, either.”
“You are,” Draco whispered, and Charlie frowned, because if he was doing this for Harry, why would he lower his voice like that? “You’re far too easy.”
It should have been an insult, maybe, but Draco’s hands tightened on Charlie’s waist, his lips brushed against the shell of Charlie’s ear, and Charlie got the feeling that Draco just couldn’t help it—he was doing it for Harry, but it was so easy for him to do.
Because he wanted to, so badly.
Charlie tossed his wand next to the sink. He turned around and walked Draco back into the opposite counter, satisfied with the little hitch in Draco’s breath, the warm wave of desire he couldn’t suppress. The growing heat of Harry’s arousal and appreciation as he watched.
“I’m… sorry I pushed,” Charlie mumbled. Draco’s lips parted in shock.
“Oh,” he replied, and even that sounded eloquent. Charlie hesitated, but put his hands on Draco’s hips, leaning into him, just a little. He smelled so good.
“Are you staying?” Charlie asked.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Draco said politely, and to Charlie’s surprise, he actually felt a little sheepish. Charlie was fixated on that enticing blush, the colour deepening the more Charlie leaned against him.
“Then we’ll make this the best birthday you’ve ever had,” Charlie said, his lips curving helplessly into a smile, and oh, Draco liked that, very much.
Charlie resolved to smile at him more often.
Harry felt so delightedly triumphant that Charlie was surprised not to hear a cheer from him. Instead, Harry sauntered over with a wide grin and kissed Draco square on the lips, and Charlie got to feel the joy and love and relief that ran through each of them.
He watched them for a moment, indulging in it, before turning his attention to Draco’s neck, to that tiny freckle he adored.
Because Harry’s intentions were clear, and Draco’s arm had wrapped around Charlie’s shoulders, and they were overflowing with adoration and Charlie could have this, maybe, we could have this.
Even if it took forever for Draco to admit, out loud, that he wanted it, and allow himself to have it.
Draco let out a soft moan, sliding his hand into Charlie’s hair. Charlie shivered, because he loved it, he loved this, here, together. A week had felt way too long.
Charlie gripped Draco’s hips, pulling them flush against his own. He loved the way Draco’s body felt in his hands—sharper, more delicate. He opened some of the buttons on Draco’s shirt, because he loved the obvious flush on his skin, knowing Harry and Charlie both had put it there. He loved the way Draco’s expressions of arousal flitted between wondrous disbelief, as if this was too good to be true, and intense possessiveness, taking it all anyway. He loved messing up his soft, artfully styled hair, and seeing the imperfect, fallible human he knew him as.
He loved finally getting to touch him, though he wasn’t brave enough to try to kiss him again, right now.
Charlie’s hand found Harry’s warm skin, and it was a headrush of shifting desire, Harry, Harry, pulling Harry towards him selfishly, claiming his smiling mouth in a deep kiss. He couldn’t ever get close enough, one hand buried in the soft curls on the back of Harry’s head to hold him in place, but Draco had an arm around each of them, bringing them closer. Harry made a pleased little sound, arching his back for more contact, and Charlie wondered if it was even possible to fit more love in this body. He felt mad with it, full to bursting, lightheaded and strained with holding himself together, with keeping the animalistic mine-this-more-take in check.
Harry pulled away for air, nudging Charlie’s chin up to get at his throat. Charlie met Draco’s eyes automatically, as if there was no other place they would ever think to go, and he groaned as he felt Harry’s teeth on his neck, a teasing bite. Draco’s eyes dropped to Charlie’s lips, snapping Charlie back to reality, just long enough for Charlie to remember, cold, empty, and make a decision.
He sank to his knees, dislodging Harry from his neck, and put his mouth on the conspicuous bulge in Draco’s tailored grey trousers.
Harry grinned, kissed Draco once, then lowered himself down, too.
“Oh, Merlin,” Draco said, his bright eyes wide with awe. Harry deftly unbuttoned the trousers—good thing, too, the buttons looked small and complicated. Together, they teased and mouthed at his confined erection, until the front of his black silk pants were soaked with saliva and precome, and Charlie couldn’t believe they hadn’t done this sooner.
Because he was doing this with Harry, who pulled down the pants torturously slow and let Charlie have the first lick; and they were doing this for Draco, who slid his fingers into their hair so lovingly, and it was everything he wanted, everything Harry wanted, and possibly—probably, almost certainly—everything Draco wanted, too.
He lost himself in it, in the slick slide of his mouth down the side of Draco’s cock as Harry did the same, in the eagerness of Harry’s tongue when they met at the tip. Charlie had never snogged around the head of a cock before, and he loved every second of it, knowing that Draco got to feel them kiss like this. Draco loved it, too; Charlie could feel it, but he could also tell from his heavy breathing, the involuntary movement of his hips, his poorly stifled groans and bitten off swears.
He took Draco in his mouth, familiarizing himself with the weight of him on his tongue, and understood quickly how Harry had gotten so good at this. Harry licked and sucked on Draco’s balls, Charlie’s free hand sneaking into Harry’s joggers while he let Draco thrust deeper into his mouth, just to hear the sounds they made together. He ignored the uncomfortable pressure of his own erection, trapped in his jeans.
“Fuck,” Draco said breathlessly, “if you keep doing that, I’m going to come.”
Charlie pulled off, replacing his mouth with his hand, “Yeah, fuck, yes,” just as Harry joined him to lick hungrily at the head, “do it, Draco.”
Draco groaned, a flash of familiar trepidation just before he let himself go. He wrapped his hand around Charlie’s, tightening the grip and upping the pace. He gasped as he peaked, his hips jerking forward against their lips, and Charlie closed his eyes as the warm, wet pulses hit his face, letting Draco’s unshackled, euphoric moan settle into his bones. He hummed in satisfaction.
Draco let out a shaky exhale, and Charlie opened his eyes, because he loved this part, too: seeing the bliss on Draco’s flushed face, the relaxed shape of his pretty, pink lips, his sweet, loose-limbed contentment—in the ten seconds it took him to come back down to earth, until he started putting himself back together, shouldering his armour with methodical shifts of his posture and expression.
Charlie could have watched him for ages.
Charlie turned to look at Harry, and felt a wild thrill in his belly at the sight of Draco’s come on his handsome face. He leaned in and licked it off Harry’s cheek, eliciting a breathy little laugh from Harry, who grabbed him by the back of the neck and returned the favour, then kissed him shamelessly. Charlie thrust his tongue into Harry’s mouth, tasting Draco, Harry, Draco.
Draco’s lust was fully renewed by the sight, and Charlie smiled as he stood, pulling Harry up with him.
Charlie kissed Draco’s cheek; “Happy birthday.” Draco chuckled and dropped his hand from Charlie’s waist, and Charlie belatedly realized Draco hadn’t stopped touching him, the entire time. Harry pressed himself against them, mouthing languidly at Draco’s neck.
Charlie squeezed Harry’s bum, sharing a look with Draco. “I trust you can take care of him?”
A flicker of worry, while Draco’s hand replaced his.
“Where are you going?” Draco asked.
“I have to tend to the other dragons,” he said with a wink, and Draco rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. Harry laughed softly, a low rumble against Draco’s neck.
“Of course,” Draco said, spinning around to press Harry into the counter. Harry moaned, wrapping his leg around Draco’s.
“Good,” Charlie said, forcing himself to step away.
“Charlie,” Harry gasped, pulling his head back to meet Charlie’s eyes. Worried.
“I’ll be back,” Charlie said quickly. “Promise. Try not to set my kitchen on fire, this time.”
Harry laughed again, and Charlie smiled at Draco’s answering grumble against Harry’s neck: “It was one bloody time.” He turned and left the kitchen, gathering Eva and heading out to complete his chores as quickly as possible, unsure what to do with the clashing hope and love and apprehension in his chest.
***
Charlie should have expected that Draco would request something like Boeuf Bourguignon, when Charlie told him he’d cook whatever he wanted. Luckily, Charlie could make it—he was Molly’s son, after all—and he relished the surprise on their faces, the warmth in his chest at the knowledge that he’d actually impressed them.
That Draco and Harry both spent the evening in various states of undress may have also contributed to his contentment. And the sex.
Bloody hell, did he love watching them. They were insatiable, always reaching for each other, touching each other, and Charlie whenever he was close enough. Charlie absently rubbed his finger over a lovebite Draco had left on his collarbone, smiling to himself as he put the kettle on.
He felt so lucky, just to have them around.
He’d come home from his grocery run to find them fucking in the armchair, smiling at him and inviting him to join, but Charlie was content to just watch them, leaning over the back of the armchair with his hands on Draco’s chest, his eyes locked with Harry’s. He’d watched them dance in his kitchen, he’d listened to their laughter and banter filling the room while he cooked. He’d kissed Harry until his lips were numb, almost burning supper. He’d joined them in bed, afterwards, fucking Harry long and slow, letting Draco direct them with his luxurious, sexed-out voice, because “It’s your birthday, Draco, you can watch us fuck however you want.”
The way their love magnified during sex—there was nothing like it. It was exhilarating. It was an honour to witness.
Harry had fallen asleep between them, as usual, his limbs tangled up in them like roots, his breath soft and warm on Charlie’s skin.
But Charlie had delicately extricated himself, after a time, and made his way to the kitchen for some tea. Just to clear his head, to have some space to think, and feel what was only his to feel.
A bit of Occlumency sounded nice, with the dull noise of the crickets coming in through the open window above the sink, so he practiced a little, just for the feeling of it, breathing deeply.
He wondered how Eva was doing in the cave he’d made for her by the lake. How Mathilde was doing in the barn. Who the next rogue would be, and if they’d like it here.
Because Charlie liked it here.
Andrei would be proud, he thought. The kettle started to whistle; Charlie turned off the flame before it could wake anyone.
A small noise behind him made him turn, to find that someone was already awake.
Draco approached slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed, naked except for a borrowed pair of Charlie’s boxers. The yellow light of the lamps in the kitchen cast his pale skin and silvery hair in gold, and Charlie’s fingers itched to touch, to feel that glowing warmth.
“I had a feeling you’d be making tea,” Draco said. It almost sounded fond. Charlie huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes roving Draco’s bare chest, finding all the marks Harry had left. And the small one Charlie himself had made, next to that freckle on the side of his neck.
He poured them both tea, grabbing the carton of milk from the cooling cupboard—Draco usually drank his tea black, but only proper tea, Weasley, I need the aid of dairy to get this PG Tips swill down.
“And why’s that?” Charlie asked, handing over the mug of milky tea.
“Because I don’t think you’ve had any yet, today,” Draco said, something unnameable in his tone, but Charlie was distracted by Draco’s hands as they took the mug from him, elegant as anything. He wasn’t wearing his ring, today.
“I—” Charlie blinked, tearing his eyes away from Draco’s slender fingers. “What?”
Draco’s lips twitched. “I didn’t see you have any tea, today, and I know you prefer to drink coffee in the mornings, with Harry. But I haven’t seen you go a day without a cuppa.” He tapped his finger against the side of the mug, one corner of his lips lifting in that maybe-but-not-quite-smile that drove Charlie a little mad. A smile without proof.
“Oh,” Charlie said.
The kitchen descended into a silence that made Charlie feel awkward and tense and clueless, so he focused on the sound of the crickets, instead. Strengthened his walls. Closed every door.
It didn’t calm the jittery sensation in his stomach.
“You’re doing Occlumency,” Draco said eventually, his quiet voice breaking the taut silence so swiftly Charlie almost flinched. He wondered how Draco could even tell, if he couldn’t feel it. Was Charlie that obvious?
“Yeah.”
Draco opened his mouth to say something, decided against it, and frowned in thought at his tea for a moment.
“I am, you know—” Draco faltered, “—sorry. About… last time. Leaving. And…”
Charlie had never heard him sound so unsure of himself, which prompted the realization that this was important—Draco was choosing every word very carefully, but with what seemed like a fumbling urgency to get them out anyway, even if they weren’t in the right order.
“...Smothering me,” Charlie supplied, and Draco winced a little, nodding once.
Charlie didn’t know what else to say; he’d already apologized for pushing him, but he wouldn’t apologize for seeing him. He wouldn’t apologize for knowing Draco like he did. He didn’t regret the kiss, or the sex—though he wouldn’t be giving away that much of himself again. For a while.
Draco cleared his throat, looked down at his feet for a second, then turned to make his way back to the bedroom, and Charlie panicked a bit.
“Draco.”
Draco stopped, raising a pale eyebrow, a feeble attempt at wry indifference.
“What—” Charlie licked his lips, choosing his own words carefully, too. “What did you expect?”
Draco raised the other eyebrow in a silent question, but he’d settled back against the counter, which was a relief. For some reason.
“When you encouraged me to be with him,” Charlie clarified. “When you gave me what I needed to do it.” He motioned vaguely at the house around them, the estate beyond it.
“I expected…” Draco huffed, shaking his head a little. “Tolerance.”
“Tolerance?”
“Yes. I expected—perhaps gratitude, for providing you the opportunity to be with him, and reluctant acceptance of me because of it. I expected the—sex, sharing Harry occasionally, like that, but not—I didn’t expect you to want me. Around.”
Draco’s cheeks were beet red. Maybe from saying the word sex out loud. Charlie’s emotions spun on a roulette: shock, indignation, sadness, but he eventually, inevitably, landed on fondness.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, knowing his expression was pitifully, obviously besotted. “I want you. Around.” It came out a little teasing, but Charlie didn’t know if he was teasing Draco or himself, because those four words hardly covered a fraction of what Charlie felt for Draco right now.
He felt another ripple of understanding, and maybe it was even empathy, the way normal people experienced it: if Draco knew this about him, could feel this, the way Charlie felt when he watched Draco’s blush deepen, or heard Draco’s posh, wry tone echoing nearby, or saw his hair even a little messy, like it was right now—Charlie would be terrified, too.
Charlie would run, hide, unless he knew he was completely and totally safe.
“I didn’t expect you to want me, either,” Charlie said, with a self-deprecating smile.
Draco’s lips twitched again as he looked away, back into his tea, taking a measured sip and closing his eyes at the warmth.
The silence grew awkward again, as Draco unsurprisingly refused to confirm Charlie’s statement aloud, and Charlie frantically thought of anything to keep him there, his eyes darting over Draco’s body, over the slashing scars on his pale chest—
“Will you tell me who did it?” Charlie asked, then cringed at himself, because nothing killed the mood faster than bringing up past trauma, but it was too late to take it back.
And he was curious. He’d never seen scars like those, and he’d seen a lot of scars in his life. They were long and straight and razor-thin, slightly raised, and pale with the unmistakable, pearlescent sheen of a lot of healing magic.
Draco had told him not to ask, but. They were alone now. It was a simple question with a simple answer, he thought.
Draco didn’t look like he thought so, but he wasn’t fleeing. Yet.
Draco pressed his lips together, taking a deep, slow breath as he considered his answer. He held the mug of hot tea with both hands, his shoulders hunched slightly, and he didn’t look so warm anymore; Charlie wanted to cover him with the nearest blanket, or pullover, or maybe just himself.
“Don’t think poorly of him,” Draco muttered. Charlie frowned in confusion.
“Can’t, if I don’t know who it is.”
Draco clicked his tongue. He shook his head a little, refusing to meet Charlie’s eyes.
“We were sixteen,” he said. Charlie raised an eyebrow. “It was a shit year. For both of us.”
“For—?”
“And he didn’t know what the spell did—which was foolish, of course, using an unfamiliar spell, but we were both so desperate and so angry—”
“Draco—”
“—but I’d still rather have this than have successfully Crucioed him, and not just because I’d have been thrown in Azkaban faster than I could blink—”
“Draco,” Charlie said firmly, cutting off Draco’s bizarre rambling. Draco’s mouth snapped shut. He looked so young, cradling his tea close to his chest, his grey eyes wide and anxious-looking. “You still haven’t told me who.”
Draco furrowed his brows, as if he’d expected Charlie to know by now.
“Harry, of course,” he said. “Who else?”
Charlie’s stomach plummeted, shoving the breath from his lungs.
He wasn’t sure how long it took him to recover from the shock of this revelation. It felt like the slow clicking and turning of rusty gears in his mind, one thing after another gradually falling into place, pieces rearranged after taking a heavy, devastating blow.
The image of two boys, on the cusp of a war, fighting each other with the violent curses of grown wizards. Charlie’s eyes dropped to Draco’s chest, and his stomach roiled with nausea as he imagined all that blood. There was no way it wasn’t a close call—those were the scars of a near death experience. The scars of survival, despite someone else’s efforts to the contrary.
He’d expected Death Eaters, or Voldemort himself, or maybe an Order member in the heat of battle. An adult, infected with cruelty and hatred.
But Harry.
Sixteen-year-old Harry, still growing into his broad shoulders and knobbly knees, his mind aging faster than the rest of him, after all he’d seen. All he’d done. How long had it been? Between the second Harry cast that curse, and the moment Charlie saw him again on his seventeenth birthday? How grave Harry had felt, weary and grieving—
Charlie blinked, focusing on Draco again, on that furrow in his brow, on the corner of his lips turned down in a frown, on his hands clenched tight around the mug.
On another grave-faced teenage boy, powerless against the will of his heart and his dire circumstances and his twisted upbringing.
Charlie set down his tea.
He made himself take a step forward, while he thought about the boy he saw across the Great Hall, the one who saw him in return. He felt like he was finally catching up, steadily, sluggishly; he was starting to understand it better, this fierce, volatile love Draco and Harry shared. It had never been just a rivalry. It was a battle: two perpetually opposing sides, destined to meet only by clashing together in the middle, any way they could.
Inevitable. And a miracle, that they could come together like this, bearing each other’s scars.
Charlie gently pulled the mug from Draco’s hands, setting it on the counter next to his own. Draco’s fingers were warm from clutching the hot ceramic, and Charlie squeezed them briefly before releasing them, trailing his own heated hands over the scars on Draco’s chest. The scars Harry had made.
“This was—” Charlie’s voice cracked, he cleared his throat, “—at school?”
Draco nodded, looking a little cagey. Charlie shook his head in bewilderment.
“And they knew about it?”
“‘Course.”
“And he didn’t…?”
Draco’s hands hung awkwardly at his sides. The furrow deepened in his brow. “Didn’t what?”
Charlie made a noise of exasperation. He didn’t want to say it. “Get… expelled?”
Draco laughed; a quiet, humourless thing. “Dumbledore punishing his Chosen One?” he said darkly. “Certainly not.”
Charlie stared at him blankly, watching Draco’s eyes soften with a look of mild pity. As if Charlie was the young, naïve one, and maybe he was. Draco’s hands landed on Charlie’s hips, thumbs rubbing absently over his hipbones.
“He served detention, and was taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team for the remainder of the season,” Draco said with a small shrug. “It was spring.”
Charlie closed his eyes, trying to sort out what he was feeling.
It took him a moment to recognize it as anger.
He wasn’t angry at Harry—though it had been stupid to use an unfamiliar spell, Charlie only knew a fraction of the story. He dropped his head onto Draco’s shoulder. Draco made a small noise of surprise.
Charlie wasn’t angry at Draco, either, though apparently, Draco had tried to Crucio Harry.
But he was angry. He was so angry. He clutched at Draco’s arms, his shoulders, turning his face into Draco’s neck. Draco’s hands lifted, his arms suspended inches from Charlie’s body like he didn’t know what to do, until Charlie drew in a sharp breath, and Draco finally let himself embrace him, feather-light and hesitant.
“I’ve long since forgiven him, you know,” Draco muttered. “Please, don’t think differently of him. Merlin knows he’s got enough guilt for all of us, and I’ve done so much worse—”
Furious. Charlie’s gut churned with it.
With the school, and with Dumbledore, and with Voldemort. He was livid that Harry had even known such a spell, and that Draco had known how to cast Unforgivables; they were schoolboys. He was outraged that so much of their childhood had been ripped away from them, that they’d been thrown into violent, impossible situations, and encouraged in it by surrounding adults, either through willful neglect or plain cruelty or the merciless, careless idea of the greater good.
He was angry with himself, for not knowing. Not asking. Not being around, because though he wouldn’t have been able to help Draco, he might have been able to help Harry. He might have been able to find a way out for him, for them, he might have been—
But he hadn’t been there. He was either running off to Romania, or running off on another mission for Dumbledore, and between the sanctuary and the Order, Charlie had been kept very busy and very far away. Everyone had been kept exactly where Dumbledore wanted them, Charlie included.
Charlie wondered if anyone had asked Draco why it had happened—if anyone had offered him a way out, anyone remotely trustworthy, or if Dumbledore had needed him to suffer, too, for his grand plans.
Charlie leaned into Draco’s warmth, scarred chest to scarred chest. Draco’s hand rubbed light, impersonal circles on the skin of Charlie’s back.
“I know it’s not a nice thing to learn about the man you’re in love with, but it’s over, believe me when I say we are long past it—”
“Draco,” Charlie interrupted, pulling his head back to see him. He took Draco’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet Charlie’s eyes. “I’m angry.”
Draco’s mouth twisted. “As I’ve said, we’ve already forgiven each other—”
“Not at the two of you.” Charlie huffed, brushed his thumbs over Draco’s pretty cheekbones, and pulled their foreheads together. Draco passively allowed himself to be maneuvered. “I’m upset that—Merlin, it’s so fucked—it’s not fair.”
Draco snorted. “Of course it’s not—”
“Detention, Draco.” Charlie could feel him rolling his eyes, without seeing it. “Dumbledore kept him right where he wanted him, and he did the same to you, and you were kids. Neither of you should have known how to cast those spells. You shouldn’t have had to lay up in the hospital wing, bleeding and scarred, while Harry was stuck with the punishment of boring Saturdays. And you shouldn’t have been put in Voldemort’s path, you shouldn’t have—and I should’ve—I wasn’t even around—”
“Charlie.” The light rubbing on Charlie’s back continued, after a pause. “As if that would have helped anything.”
“I could have—I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let Dumbledore keep me away for so long. I should have stood up to him, and kept him from Harry, and from you, somehow, I’d have… the second your father was arrested, they should’ve—”
“Charlie,” Draco said again, low and quiet. Charlie realized he was gripping Draco’s head, probably uncomfortably. He relaxed his hands, and took a deep, shaky breath. “If my mother and your mother couldn’t manage it, I doubt anyone else could. And it’s over. What’s done is done.”
Charlie tried another breath. “I’m angry,” he repeated. His hands fell to Draco’s chest, but Draco didn’t move away, resting against Charlie’s forehead. “I’m angry that this happened to you.”
Draco swallowed audibly. His eyes were shut tight, and he opened his mouth a couple times, considering and rejecting potential replies.
When he did respond, it was with a slow shift of his body, softening, molding against Charlie’s. It was with his hands splayed over Charlie’s back, pulling him closer almost involuntarily, and a soundless, exhaled whisper:
“Thank you.”
Without thinking, Charlie tilted his chin up and kissed him, soft and insistent and overwhelmed as Draco easily kissed him back. The anger seeped out of him, gradually, with every press of Draco’s lips, every shared breath on Charlie’s tongue.
Oh, sweetheart.
He tried not to think of how rare it must have been for someone to be angry for Draco, these days, if this was the reaction Charlie was getting.
It was a heady rush of surety he wasn’t expecting: I can do this, I get to do this, here, now, sliding his hands into Draco’s hair just because he could hold him, he knew he could.
He knew Draco wanted him to, and he didn’t need an empathic ability to know it.
He tried to convey it through this: the gentle hold on Draco’s head, the weight of Charlie’s body leaning into him. Through soft, easy, unhurried kisses, savouring the sweet taste of him. I can do this, I can fight for you, I can hold you, let me hold you, translated through touch, through his physical closeness and the distancing barrier of his Occlumency.
After a few long, blissful minutes, Draco pulled away, just far enough to open his eyes. Charlie smiled faintly, he couldn’t help it; there you are, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, stubble-burned and so pretty, safe between Charlie’s hands.
Draco looked at him for barely a second, then ducked his head into the crook of Charlie’s neck. His arms tightened a little around Charlie’s waist, and Charlie wrapped himself around him.
If Charlie hadn’t been sure before, he was definitely sure now.
“I can make this a home,” he whispered. “I can… fix this place. For you.”
He felt Draco’s smile against his neck. Draco shook his head gently.
“Admirable ambition,” he mumbled into Charlie’s skin. “But you can’t fix everything, Charlie.”
“Draco.” Charlie pet his hair distractedly as his own thoughts swirled. “What do you want me to do with the Manor?”
Draco snorted. “Burn it down.”
Charlie pulled his head back, forcing Draco once again to look him in the eyes. “Really?”
“Really.” Draco looked slightly amused. As if this was a joke they were both in on, when Charlie had never been more serious. “But it’s yours to do with as you wish, of course.”
Charlie grinned.
If that’s what it would take, then… Charlie was pretty good at handling fire.
“Come to bed,” he said, thinking of their Harry, all sleep-warm and cozied up under Charlie’s duvet. Draco went willingly, abandoning their tea, his finger linked effortlessly with Charlie’s.
Chapter 17: Part Four: June, 2001 (contd.)
Notes:
✨new side character unlocked! ✨
heads up, this chapter includes a brief, indirect gender crisis/revelation. it is also a very Long chapter. have fun! :)
Chapter Text
Charlie woke up tangled in Harry; a little sweaty, a little numb where his arm had fallen asleep under Harry’s neck. He blinked against the faint light of dawn, stretched his legs carefully, and froze when he saw Draco’s hand resting on his stomach.
Charlie’s eyes followed the pale curve of his wrist, over the greyish Mark marring his lean forearm, over the gentle bend of his elbow on Harry’s waist. Charlie couldn’t see his face past Harry’s bedhead, but heard the slow, even sound of his breathing, and felt the secondhand serenity of his deep sleep.
Then his eyes landed on Harry’s face, and he smiled at Harry’s fond, knowing look, unreasonably thrilled to find Harry awake and gazing at him with those familiar green eyes, from under those long, heartstopping lashes.
He couldn’t believe this was his life, now.
“Hey, baby,” fell soundlessly from his lips, easy like a breath of relief. The corners of Harry’s eyes crinkled, and he turned his face into Charlie’s bicep, as if that could hide the starburst of joy.
Harry kissed Charlie’s arm, then settled more comfortably against his shoulder. He looked up at Charlie again, biting his lip, in the way Charlie now understood meant he wanted something, but didn’t quite know how to voice it. Charlie slid his fingers into his dark, tangled curls, and rested his other hand tentatively on top of Draco’s, his thumb brushing over the soft skin on his wristbone.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” Harry whispered, grinning up at him. Charlie’s face heated.
“Yeah,” he answered, just as quiet.
“I’m glad you got to spend time with him,” Harry said, and Charlie then understood the knowing, secretive feeling he was getting, that excited glint in Harry’s tired eyes. His face grew even hotter.
And then he remembered what he’d learned while ‘spending time with him,’ and it was so at odds with the easy fondness and carefree delight on Harry’s face that Charlie tightened his arm, pulled him closer, and pressed his lips to Harry’s forehead. Harry sighed in contentment, blowing warm air over Charlie’s skin.
They stayed like that for a moment, Charlie’s lips against the scar on Harry’s forehead and his breath lightly ruffling Harry’s hair, until Harry tapped his finger against Charlie’s breastbone and said, “Coffee?”
Adorable. Charlie grinned, and they carefully removed themselves from the bed, where Draco rolled unconsciously into the warm spot they’d left behind, snuffling a little in his sleep.
Charlie made Harry coffee while Harry sat on the counter, distracting him with his sunshine smile and reaching hands and bright, vivid eyes, the human manifestation of dawn.
Unstoppable.
***
Charlie couldn’t believe he was actually nervous. He was a professional dragonologist. He was well-known in his field. He was the director of his own dragon sanctuary. He took deep, measured breaths as he strode down the long, dilapidated gravel drive toward the gates of the Manor, where his first potential new hire was patiently waiting to be let in. If the person hadn’t turned and run at the very sight of this place, that is.
The parchments in his hands were a little bit rumpled from his tight grip, and he lifted them to read through them, for the tenth time that day.
One was from Andrei: a lengthy letter that was mostly teasing and updating Charlie on life at the sanctuary, but with a helpful list of questions that Andrei used for interviews. Charlie had been relieved to recognize some of them from his own interview with Andrei, way back when.
The second page was the promising C.V. of Kit Zimmerman, a twenty-four-year-old dragonologist from Yorkshire who’d just returned from a two-year internship at a dragon rehabilitation facility in Brazil. Kit had graduated Hogwarts with an O in Care of Magical Creatures and As and Ps in everything else, which was exactly how Charlie had graduated, too.
Charlie took in Kit’s appearance as he approached the gates.
Kit was Charlie’s height, with suntanned arms covered in tattoos and a short-sleeved, collared shirt—surprisingly formal, but this was a job interview, Charlie supposed. Kit was just as nervous as Charlie was, maybe more, trying to flatten the flyaways in long black hair pulled up into a bun.
Charlie opened the gates, trying for a friendly smile as he let Kit in, introduced himself, and held out his hand.
“Kit,” Kit returned, shaking Charlie’s hand with a tentative smile. “Thanks for the opportunity.”
“‘Course,” Charlie said, beckoning for Kit to follow him. “I know it doesn’t look like much, yet…” he trailed off, but eventually got into his stride, explaining the details and history of the estate, the dragons it currently held, what he hoped it’d become.
There was one thing about Kit that Charlie hadn’t been able to glean from the C.V., and Kit’s appearance hadn’t provided Charlie an immediate answer, either, as he’d assumed it would. The more Charlie tried to look for the answer, the more he berated himself for thinking any of those details—smooth face, big hands, narrow shoulders, flat chest—directly correlated to the answer, and besides, there was only one reason the answer even mattered to him.
“Er,” Charlie said, clearing his throat as they walked down the drive together. “I’m sorry if this is too forward, but—what pronouns would you like me to use?”
Kit’s step faltered, blinking dark brown eyes in shock. The nerves multiplied tenfold.
“Erm.” Kit felt so utterly thrown off by this, Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if he was the first person to ever ask. To Charlie’s surprise, Kit merely gave him an uncomfortable shrug, a tangled mess of emotions Charlie didn’t have time to parse through.
“Alright,” Charlie said gently. “Want me to just use your name? Or do you like ‘they?’”
Kit nearly stumbled, even more shocked, but with an intriguing kind of disbelief and joy and rightness that Charlie had only ever felt from someone once before.
In Romania, from a coworker who, when referred to as “she”, felt so much discomfort it made Charlie squirm. When Charlie awkwardly asked if he could use “he” for him instead, he’d cried in Charlie’s arms, with joy nearly devastating.
Charlie started to panic, thinking he might have accidentally induced a breakdown like that within five minutes of meeting someone and now there was no way Kit would ever want to work for him—
“They,” Kit said softly, lips tugging up into a smile. “They.” They repeated it under their breath a couple of times, as if they couldn’t quite believe it.
“Great,” Charlie squeaked, panic subsiding. “Good to know.”
“Sorry,” Kit said, as if they had anything to be sorry for, when Charlie was clearly the one starting gender crises that were none of his business. “I didn’t know that was an option.”
“Oh.” Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. It definitely is, and if it changes anytime, let me know. Now, why don’t you tell me about the most difficult dragon you’ve ever encountered?”
Kit beamed, suddenly alive with energy, and launched into a story about an adolescent Peruvian Vipertooth with a penchant for sabotage, but with such a familiar respect and admiration for the beast that Charlie declared them hired before they’d even reached the Manor.
***
Charlie spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening with Kit, showing them around, introducing them to the dragons. He keyed Kit’s wand into the guesthouse wards, letting them have the first pick of the five spacious bedrooms.
“It’s much more than I expected from a dragon reserve,” they admitted.
“You’re telling me,” Charlie laughed.
Mathilde was wary, as expected, but not threatened by Kit’s calm demeanor. Eva was thrilled, nearly setting Kit’s trousers on fire (which they dodged admirably), showing them her brand new cave by the lake. Charlie showed them the meat shed, the empty barns, and the outside of the ominous Manor itself—neither of them fancied going inside.
Charlie took them on a flight to view the property and examine the wards (and gauge their flying ability, which was excellent). The sun was setting, and Charlie knew he’d have to let them go soon, but he was so excited to have another dragonologist around to swap stories with.
He was also relieved to have someone around who knew what they were doing, who could help Charlie get this place up and running properly.
So he took up more of Kit’s time, which they were endlessly patient with, and brought them back to the cottage to look over the mess of bookkeeping Charlie hadn’t yet gotten organized. Thank fucking Merlin, it seemed to all make perfect sense to Kit. And thank fucking Merlin, Charlie had so far kept all his receipts.
“I’m staying with my brother at the moment, but I told him I might be back late, so I can get started on a quarterly budget now, if you’d like?” They looked up from the spread of folders and charts and funding reports on the kitchen table, tucking a flyaway lock of dark hair behind their ear.
“Brilliant,” Charlie sighed with relief. “Numbers are my downfall. I helped, sometimes, at the sanctuary in Romania, when Andrei needed it, but I doubt I was much help at all.”
“I mean, I’m no accountant,” Kit said, “and maybe you should think about hiring one, but I can help make this seem less like complete nonsense. My parents ran a nonprofit, for a time.”
“Well, that’s exactly what I need. And, yeah, I probably will hire an accountant, especially with more staff…” Charlie trailed off, looking at the clock on the hob. “Shit, I didn’t even think of the time. Are you hungry? Are you sure you don’t need to be getting back?”
“I’m sure,” Kit laughed. “Could use a spot of tea, though, if you’ve got it.”
“Right! Yes.” Why hadn’t Charlie thought of that? Honestly, his mother would be ashamed.
When they both had mugs of hot tea in their hands, Charlie breathed another sigh of contentment. He thought back on Draco saying I haven’t seen you go a day without a cuppa, and smiled to himself.
“Just gonna step outside for a sec,” Charlie said. “Let me know if you need anything.” Kit nodded, engrossed in the numbers, and Charlie turned to make his way outside for a quick breather.
And his floo flared with a heavy whoosh, lighting up the doorway to the sitting room just as he passed it.
“Shit,” Charlie said, watching his baby sister stumble out of his fireplace.
She caught herself on the armchair and straightened up clumsily, blowing a piece of long red hair out of her mouth. She tugged the hem of her short, black dress down, and pulled up the strap that had fallen on her shoulder. Charlie hadn’t seen her look so feminine and dressed up since Bill’s wedding—although, she hadn’t been allowed to wear trainers at Bill’s wedding, he thought, glancing at the hi-tops on her feet.
Charlie had also never seen her this… drunk.
“Gin?”
Ginny looked up, and promptly burst into tears.
“Oh, no,” Charlie said, setting his tea down on the side table and rushing towards her. He wrapped her up in a tight embrace, while she sobbed and sobbed against his shoulder, despair simplified by drunkenness. “Ginny, shh. What is it?”
“I just—I just—” Ginny hiccuped. “I love you, Charlie, I do. Best big brother. Don’t tell the others.” Another stuttering inhale. “And I’m so happy for you. I’m so happy you’re home. But—but…”
“Oh,” Charlie said. He was reminded of poor Kit, sitting at the table, out of sight of the sitting room, but certainly still within hearing distance—and this was not something he wanted anyone else to hear, for everyone’s sake. He started to feel for his wand, until he felt the gentle ripple of a silencing charm, and caught a glimpse of its shimmer on the doorway.
He decided then and there that Kit needed a bonus. Or a raise. Or his left arm, if they wanted it.
“Okay,” Charlie said, “we’re talking about it, then.”
Ginny just kept crying, pulling away and throwing herself down on the sofa. Charlie sat down gingerly next to her, while she wiped the running mascara from her cheeks. He wished he had a handkerchief, or something. Ginny curled up, hugging her knees, and Charlie instinctively grabbed the afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. A voice in his head that sounded like his mother’s tutted at Ginny’s shoes on the sofa, but Charlie kept his mouth shut.
Some movement to his left caught his eye, and he looked down to find a clean, purple cotton handkerchief floating by the side of the couch.
He wanted to give Kit this whole house. Maybe a dragon, or two. And a gold crown. There probably was one, lying around in the Manor somewhere.
He handed the handkerchief to Ginny, who took it without question, wiping her eyes, then blowing her nose loudly. She swayed a little from the effort. Charlie waited, trying not to look terrified.
He was a little terrified. He could have sworn Ginny had moved on. He’d thought she was happy.
“Charlie, I just want to know…” she sniffled, crumpling the cotton square in her hands. “Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That he—” her mouth twisted as she sniffled again, “—didn’t love me?”
“Ah.” Charlie leaned his head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling for strength. He needed to be honest, didn’t he? “Sort of? Listen, Gin,” he raised his hand to stop whatever she was about to interject, “I only had a feeling he… wasn’t into girls.”
“But he dated Cho Chang, in school,” she argued.
“Alright,” Charlie said gently. “And how did that go?”
Ginny snorted. “Not good. One date, I think. He said she was ‘weepy’.”
“Right.”
“But if he… why did he date me, if he didn’t like girls?”
Charlie took a deep breath. “I don’t think he knew he wasn’t into girls.”
“But you did,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
Charlie frowned. “When, Gin? At what moment in the few times I saw him would that have come up? And what sort of nerve should I have had to tell Harry who he is or how he feels, or claim that I know him at all?”
She sighed defeatedly, “Touché,” pulling the afghan tighter around her shoulders. “I just—I dunno which’s worse. Him loving Malfoy or him loving my cooler, older brother.”
“Ginny.”
“‘S’true,” she grumbled.
“That I’m older. But you’ve always been way cooler than me.”
She rolled her eyes at him, and Charlie huffed.
“Gin, you’re the one dressed up to go out with all of your friends. Including Harry and Draco, right?”
She smiled sadly, and Charlie recognized the irony of her not being there at all right now.
“I’m a sad drunk,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “My teammates are always ready for the waterworks when we go out, but.” She sighed again. “It’s just hard, when everyone’s all paired up, and we’re all celebrating my ex-boyfriend’s boyfriend’s belated birthday.”
“I can imagine.”
“I just thought—I’ve always been okay with you and him, you know this—”
“I do?” Charlie furrowed his brows. “I mean, I’d hoped, but—”
“I told you, Charlie,” she said, frowning at him. “That night you left. That he should choose you—”
“I didn’t want him to choose,” Charlie said.
“Yes, and,” she waved her hand around dismissively, “he hasn’t. I mean, other than choosing you and Malfoy over me.”
“And that wasn’t a choice,” Charlie said. “You know it wasn’t.”
Ginny dropped her head on top of her arm, hugging her knees close. “I know. I know.”
Charlie watched her for a moment, waiting for her emotions to settle, fiddling with the hole in the knee of his jeans. Drunk people were always a little unpredictable, emotionally.
“Gin,” he said. “I didn’t know that I had this ability until Draco told me I did at Christmas dinner. Anything I felt from people before that… I didn’t know what it was. I just thought it was overwhelming. I thought most of the emotions were directed at me, especially the negative ones. I definitely didn’t think I had any right to tell people how they were feeling—I never planned on sticking around enough to matter, you know?”
Ginny lifted her head, her sadness now tinged with guilt.
“And I must be some sort of idiot,” Charlie continued, “because I didn’t recognize Harry’s feelings for me, either, even though I could feel them. And that night I left—I thought you wanted me gone, too.”
Ginny’s eyes widened. “I didn’t—”
“I know that, now,” Charlie said. “I think. But the point is… I’m sorry. If I had known that this would hurt you so much—”
“No,” she cut him off. “No, no, no, shit.” She pressed her hands into her eyes and groaned in exasperation. “It’s not you who’s hurting me, Charlie. No one is hurting me. Right now. I’m just—” she huffed, “—I’m just hurting. Sometimes. Especially when I’m drunk.”
She lowered her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. Charlie followed an instinct, and held out his arm.
She looked like she was trying not to cry again, but she crawled across the couch, bringing the blanket with her, and curled up against Charlie’s side.
“Sorry to have a meltdown on you like this,” she mumbled.
“Anytime, Gin.” Charlie rested his cheek on her hair. “I’m just glad I get to be here for you, now.”
Ginny sniffled. “Me too.” She wiped her nose quickly with the handkerchief. “You can date all of my exes if it means we get to keep you around.”
Charlie snorted. “Just the one’s good.”
They descended into a mellow quiet, while her sniffles eased into more regular breathing. The faces in Charlie’s family portrait waved at them from the mantle; Harry’s wide smile, Charlie’s hand on his shoulder. Ginny’s big grin on Hermione’s other side, her eyes darting to Harry in the middle.
Charlie rubbed her arm gently, making sure the afghan covered her shoulders.
“You know,” Charlie said, “you’re very special to him.”
She scoffed weakly.
“I mean it,” Charlie urged, shaking her gently. “Don’t you think it’s saying something that though he wasn’t attracted to girls, he dated you? Rather seriously, at that?”
“It says he’s a big fan of Weasleys,” she muttered.
“It says that if he believed he had to be with a girl, there was no other girl in the world he’d rather try with than you.”
“Yeah, well…” She wrapped an arm around Charlie and hugged him tighter. “Okay. You got me there.”
Charlie laughed, patting her shoulder. “You hungry? I was thinking of ordering a pizza from the village nearby.”
“Ugh, yes, I’m starving,” she replied, straightening up. She stood, still a little wobbly, and tugged down the hem of her dress again. “Mmm. Yep, I want pizza.”
“Then I’ll get you some pizza,” Charlie said decisively. She started to make her way to the doorway, and Charlie made a panicked, unintelligible noise to stop her. She still had the red blanket around her shoulders.
“Er, don’t freak out,” Charlie said, to her raised eyebrow, “but my very first, brand new staff member is in the kitchen looking at bookkeeping for me.” Her eyes widened fearfully; she tugged the afghan tighter around herself. “Don’t worry, they put up a silencing charm when you came in. Which was very kind of them.”
“Them?” She tilted her head.
“Them.” Charlie nodded firmly. “So be nice.” She rolled her eyes at him again, but steeled herself, wiping the mascara from under her eyes one last time.
Charlie followed her out to the kitchen, where he’d hoped she’d be introducing herself, or vice versa, but the room was silent. Kit was still sitting at the table, with an empty mug and a sheaf of parchment notes covered in numbers.
And Kit was staring at Ginny, with parted lips and wide brown eyes, and Ginny was staring back with a signature flaming Weasley blush on her freckled cheeks, and it was all a familiar, disorienting, swoopy feeling, similar to the one Charlie had felt upon seeing Harry on his seventeenth birthday.
Oh, Merlin.
“Kit, this is my sister, Ginny,” Charlie said, clearing his throat awkwardly, and Kit stood suddenly, like they’d only just remembered how, the chair scraping the floor loudly in their rush. “Ginny, this is Kit.”
“Hi,” Ginny said blankly, and Charlie covered his mouth with his fist and tried very hard not to giggle. Kit hadn’t yet found their speech. Brilliant.
“Well,” Charlie declared, clapping his hands together cheerfully, “I’m going to grab us all some pizza, while the two of you get acquainted.”
***
By the time Charlie returned with pizza—one cheese and one pepperoni, just to be safe—Kit had remembered how to speak, and was laughing gleefully at one of Ginny’s Quidditch stories about accidentally catching the snitch while holding the quaffle.
“It’s bull, that they didn’t count those points,” Kit said. “Should count for twice as much, since it’s twice as impressive. You did the job of two different players!”
“That’s what I said!” Ginny sounded confident, but her face was as red as her hair.
Perfect.
They sat and talked together while they ate, shoving all of the folders out of the way for the pizza. Ginny was slowly sobering up, with the help of a big glass of water Kit had gotten for her while Charlie was out. She must have informed them of Charlie’s empath abilities, because they kept glancing at Charlie as if he could see right through them—which he could, but not just because he could feel Kit’s burgeoning crush on his sister. Kit was blushing like mad, a dark rosy colour on their copper-toned cheeks, and wouldn’t stop tucking that stray lock of hair behind their ear, a nervous habit. Ginny, on the other hand, couldn’t keep her eyes off of them, and felt a little thrill every time the lock of hair inevitably fell back into their face, to be brushed away yet again by Kit’s jittery hand.
The two of them might have stayed up chatting all night, if Charlie hadn’t declared his own need for sleep. He told Ginny to spend the night—which felt very fulfilling, finally getting to offer his guestroom to a loved one. Kit made their farewells with endearing awkwardness, heading out into the garden to apparate, completely obvious as they glanced back over their shoulder at Ginny’s enduring wave.
“Bloody hell, Charlie,” she said, once she was sure Kit was gone. She didn’t seem able to say much else, so Charlie just laughed, and she whacked him on the arm, unable to suppress the giddy grin.
“Let me get you some pyjamas,” Charlie said.
“You’re hiring them, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Shit, I didn’t even—what if they don’t want the job—?” Ginny mumbled distractedly.
“They do.”
“I don’t have any way to contact them—if they even want me to, oh Merlin—”
Charlie chuckled. “Well, you’ll have to come back to return their handkerchief at some point.”
She gasped, pulling the snotty purple cotton out of the bodice of her dress, staring at it in half wonder, half disgust. “You’re joking.”
“Nope. And, Ginny?” He pulled out the smallest pyjamas he owned, which would still probably swallow Ginny whole. “You know you don’t have to drink to go out with your friends, right? Especially if it doesn’t feel good?”
She sighed heavily. “Yeah.”
“They don’t invite you out to get you drunk, they invite you out because they love having you around,” Charlie said gently. Ginny held the pyjamas close to her chest, looking away sheepishly, so Charlie pulled her into another hug.
“Thanks, Charlie,” she said, muffled in his shoulder.
“Get some sleep,” he replied, pulling away and opening the door to the guestroom. “You’ve got a big breakfast to look forward to in the morning.”
***
The next several days passed uneventfully, which was Charlie’s least favourite part about them.
Harry had been thoughtful enough to send a quick letter from work, explaining that they’d made a huge break in an important case and wouldn’t be able to come round for a few days. Which was fine, of course; Charlie didn’t need to see them all the time. And he had Kit and the dragons to keep him company.
But he didn’t particularly enjoy sleeping alone, anymore. Especially in that massive bed.
Still, there was work to do. He had plenty to keep him occupied.
He set up alert charms in his and Kit’s wands with Geraldine over a firecall. He finished two more paddocks and enlarged one of the barns, with Kit’s help, just in case. He helped Kit move into the guest house, and listened to them explain the quarterly budget and where all the money was coming from—mostly the Malfoys, and the Ministry, and what Charlie assumed were old-money Wizengamot families that had been wrangled into it by Percy and Hermione. He flew with Mathilde and with Eva, and went over rescue drills with Kit, and even started going for swims in the lake when he got too restless.
If Kit noticed his increased anxiety, they didn’t say anything.
It was just that, the last time Harry and Draco had experienced a break in a case, it had nearly torn Harry apart. And Charlie couldn’t help feeling like he was waiting for something, anything, like he wasn’t doing it right, loving them right, he wasn’t protecting them from such obvious danger and hurt.
It was the familiar powerlessness of wanting desperately to keep Harry safe—now doubled with his ever-growing attachment to Draco—and knowing there wasn’t anything he could do to stop them from taking on the world.
There wasn’t, right?
Charlie held his breath, and dove headfirst off of a boulder into the dark blue lake.
He plunged through the water as it rushed past him, crisp and cool on his sweaty, overheated skin, soaking through his boxers. It filled his ears, and he felt his body relax a little into the peaceful, silent isolation of being underwater, just before his head popped back out for air.
He pushed his wet hair out of his face, rubbing the water from his eyes. He could hear the plentiful insects and frogs and birds, the breeze through the trees, the water dripping from his face and hands, and the occasional wingbeats of Mathilde, in her leisurely flight high, high above him, a shimmery shadow circling the sun.
Alone, but not quite.
Treading water wasn’t enough, but he needed to move. He hadn’t been able to concentrate all day, fidgety and agitated and fucking worried, so he’d given Kit the rest of the day off and marched himself to the lake. Nine days—nine days since he’d received that note from Harry, and he’d grown so anxious by day three that he’d gone and bought a subscription to the Daily Prophet, which he’d once sworn to himself he would never do.
But the not knowing was killing him, and there wasn’t anything else to think about, and there wasn’t enough to distract him. But he also couldn’t be distracted—he needed his mind on them, as if it had to be ready for anything.
He felt useless.
Charlie closed his eyes and tipped his head back, sinking lower into the clear water, submerging his ears again. The blinding sun tinted the backs of his eyelids a bright red, but he welcomed the warmth on his face, the weightlessness of his body in the water, and rode the waves of his unending worry, because he couldn’t do anything else.
But they were only getting stronger. And angrier. His mind was spinning into a frenzy, and he realized a second too late that it wasn’t just his own.
A muffled shout reached his ears through the water, and Charlie jolted upright, just in time to hear Draco snarl, “Get the fuck over here.”
“Draco.” Charlie hurried to the shore, blinking against the bright sunlight while a loosely-uniformed Draco paced furiously over the grass, his wand in his hand and his rage crackling the air between them. Harry was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s—?”
“Take me back to St. Mungo’s,” Draco snapped, red-faced and impatient and—and sweaty, covered in dust and bleeding on one side of his face, terrified. Charlie pulled himself from the lake, water dripping down his skin and through his soaked boxers. “Now, Weasley.”
“Why—?”
“Take me there, Charlie, and tell them to let me see him. You have to do it, because you’re a golden sodding Weasley and they’ll trust you, and they’ll do whatever you say and I can’t—” Draco’s voice cracked; he looked shocked by it, but his panic was clearly overriding logic and dignity, Charlie could feel it. “I can’t tell them, and they don’t understand, I can’t leave him—”
Charlie held out his hands and took a step forward, desperate to fix whatever this was, before Draco could spiral any further.
“Don’t—” Draco gritted, “—just fucking take me to him, don’t touch me—” Charlie’s panic rose with his, and Charlie took another thoughtless step forward, and Draco raised his wand, aimed at Charlie’s bare chest.
“Draco, don’t—!”
A furious, high-pitched screech and a whoosh was all the warning he needed. Charlie launched himself toward Draco and shoved the wand down, colliding roughly and sending him stumbling backward into a tree trunk with a heavy oof.
Charlie spun around, one hand holding Draco’s wrist down, one arm out to shield him as Mathilde landed forcefully in the grass on the shore, shaking the earth beneath her, snarling with all of her sharp, full-grown teeth at the perceived threat on Charlie. Her long throat was glowing, rippling orange and blue, sparks flying through her teeth from the back of her mouth in huffs of threatening smoke. She clawed at the ground in agitation, tearing up tufts of grass, her long tail swishing restlessly behind her.
Draco was obviously taller than him—Charlie could feel his heavy breaths on the crown of his head—but he seemed tiny, fragile, in comparison to a huge, livid, protective Mathilde.
“It’s okay,” Charlie said in a rush, projecting it as much as he could in all directions, keeping his eyes on the dragon, “it’s okay, little one. We’re safe.” He paused before adding, “He’s good—I want you to know him. He’s good.”
Mathilde blinked her yellow eyes, huffed some more smoke, and growled low in her throat as she started pacing, not taking her eyes off of Draco. There wasn’t a lot of room for her to do so, among the tree trunks and boulders, but that didn’t impede her. Charlie released Draco’s wrist, finger by finger.
“Wand away, Draco,” Charlie muttered under his breath, frozen in defense. “Slowly.”
Behind him, Charlie felt the slow, subtle movement of Draco sheathing his wand in his uniform jacket, and breathed a sigh of relief as Mathilde relaxed minutely, closing her mouth, slowing her paces. She looked much less threatening with the snaggletooth, but Charlie knew better than to ever underestimate her. Thank Merlin, Eva was out flying—she’d have probably tried to fight Mathilde, or something, for Draco. Charlie scrubbed a hand over his face, coming down from the rush.
He turned around, haltingly, to face Draco.
Draco was panting with the aftermath of adrenaline, his face bloodless from panic and fear, his body trembling visibly, but he wasn’t looking at the dragon. His wide grey eyes fixed on Charlie’s, and Charlie’s heart clenched at the need he saw there, the obvious, transparent desire to be held. Fix this.
“Let me get my things,” Charlie said quietly, and Draco nodded once, holding himself still and unobtrusive. Charlie gathered his dirty clothes and boots from the boulder, murmuring nonsense toward Mathilde until she finally, finally decided Draco was no longer a threat, and wandered off to hunt.
Charlie pulled his wand out of the pocket of his shorts, and held out his arm to Draco, who took it instantly. Charlie apparated directly to the front door of his cottage.
Draco frowned upon landing, looking around. “Charlie—”
“Inside,” Charlie said, still barefoot and in his soaked pants. He cast a cursory drying charm at them and opened the door for Draco.
He sent his things floating to the bedroom and sat Draco down at the kitchen table. Draco went willingly, but impatiently, as if this were just something he had to do in order for Charlie to chaperone him to St. Mungo’s.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Draco?” Charlie asked calmly, wetting a clean flannel at the kitchen sink. “Or, how you ended up here, because you don’t seem like you came by choice.”
Draco pressed his lips into a thin line as Charlie approached with the flannel. He was starting to come back to himself—he was embarrassed, guilty, and glaring at Charlie’s hand like it had personally offended him. Charlie stood there until Draco gave in, a short exhale of resignation.
“I left the hospital,” Draco said, as if that answered any of Charlie’s questions. Charlie sighed, tipped Draco’s chin up with his finger, and started dabbing gently at the drying blood on Draco’s temple; a short gash, maybe from debris. Still bleeding, dripping down his cheek and under his jawbone. Charlie’s pulse quickened with worry. He made himself wait for Draco to continue, keeping his touch gentle.
“I was… removed, from the hospital,” Draco finally corrected himself. “They activated the floo themselves. I couldn’t—couldn’t tell them where I actually live.”
“So you told them to send you to Charlie Weasley’s Cottage?”
“I told them to send me to Malfoy Manor.”
Charlie paused his cleaning, frowning down at Draco. “The Manor—”
“Accepts me by floo, apparently. I’m sorry,” Draco said, and Charlie didn’t know what he was apologizing for, exactly, but the apology broke something in Draco, a thin string of tension snapped. “I’m sorry.”
Charlie continued wiping Draco’s face.
“He got hit,” Draco admitted, answering the unspoken question at last. His leg started jumping a little. “I wasn’t fast enough.” His voice could barely surpass a whisper. “There was so much blood… I couldn’t remember the countercurse—I lost my head, just apparated straight to Mungo’s, and they took him from me, and…”
And Charlie had seen firsthand what happened to Draco when Harry got hurt, and the world of difference in being forced to leave Harry’s fate in the hands of strangers.
Very qualified strangers, Charlie reminded himself, as his hand started to shake through his and Draco’s combined horror. Harry. Harry.
Charlie cleared his throat, turning the flannel to the clean side. Almost done. “What did they tell you?”
“That—that he needed to be kept overnight, under constant healing and potions for pain and sleep. That I couldn’t see him, because I’m not family.”
“And?”
“And,” Draco swallowed, looking down, “that he’ll… be alright, but scarred. And to put him on medical leave for a few weeks, to recover.”
Charlie slumped down in the chair next to him, heavy with relief. He pushed a hand through his damp hair, then pulled out his wand, bringing it slowly to Draco’s head.
Draco flinched. Charlie aimed away immediately.
“I won’t hurt you,” Charlie said. “That needs healing, unless you want me to get the sewing kit.”
Draco’s mouth twisted, but he eventually gave Charlie a short nod, his shoulders tense and his expression stony as Charlie wove his skin back together with a careful healing charm.
Until Draco closed his eyes and said, “I’m sorry I aimed my wand at you.”
Charlie set his wand on the table next to the dirty flannel. “Can I touch you?”
Draco’s brows furrowed, eyes still shut, but he nodded again. Charlie gently cupped his cheek with his clean hand, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone, soothed by his solidity. He’s okay. They’re okay.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” Charlie murmured. “Mathilde doesn’t, though.” Draco opened his eyes.
Unbearably guilty, still reeling with anxiety and shame and fear.
“Tell me what you need,” Charlie said.
“I need Harry,” Draco answered instantly, then winced, as though he’d given too much away. As if Charlie didn’t already know.
“Harry needs more than what we can give him, right now,” Charlie said. “He’ll be okay. We’ll go and get him first thing in the morning.”
“He’s—” Draco huffed in frustration, shaking his head out of Charlie’s hand. “He’s alone.”
“He’s probably with a team of St. Mungo’s brightest, Draco. You know they’ll give him nothing less than their best.” Charlie was convincing himself as much as he was convincing Draco. Draco had been barred from the hospital, at least for the night. There wasn’t anything Charlie could do to help Harry right now, either. Hanging around his bedside would only put them in the way of his care.
Draco got up abruptly and walked to the kitchen counter, clenching an aggravated hand on its granite surface.
“I need to—I was the one who failed him, I have to—”
“Draco.” Charlie stood as Draco turned, pacing back to the table. “You didn’t fail him.”
“Of course I did,” Draco snapped. “It’s my responsibility as his partner—”
“He’s alive because of you,” Charlie said. Draco turned again, pacing away. “He’ll be okay, because you got him help in time.”
“He shouldn’t have been hit in the first place!”
“He shouldn’t have—” become an Auror, Charlie thankfully stopped himself, surprised by the conviction of his own thought.
It wasn’t a new one, but he hadn’t let himself truly ponder it, yet.
It’s what I do, Harry had said. As if he had no bloody say in it. A noncommittal shrug, the same one he’d given Charlie when talking about his failure to love Ginny. Like he hadn’t even considered an alternative.
Draco froze midstep, his grey eyes piercing, as if he could read Charlie’s every thought.
“I’m supposed to protect him,” Draco said flatly, lines of tension appearing between his brows. Another step towards Charlie.
“And you do.”
“He trusted me. He’s my partner.”
“In more ways than one,” Charlie said. Draco clicked his tongue.
“I need—”
“Stay,” Charlie said.
Draco stared at him, that familiar problem-solving look.
“I have to get back,” he said, but he made no move to do so.
“Is the fight still ongoing?”
“No, it’s—” Draco blinked, his hand twitched at his side, “—it’s over, the suspects are… Harry was incarcerating the last—”
“Are they expecting you?”
Draco swallowed. “Ron told me to take Harry and go.”
“Stay,” Charlie repeated, “here. Tonight. We’ll go and get him first thing in the morning. Together.”
“And what on earth am I supposed to do until then?” Draco retorted.
Charlie took a deep breath, resting his bum on the table’s edge, rubbing his hands over the tops of his bare thighs. The comfortable chill of the house’s cooling charms was making him increasingly aware of the difference in their levels of dress; more specifically, of the fact that he was damp and in nothing but his pants, while Draco was in full, if disheveled, uniform.
Draco’s anxiety was bolstering his own, but Charlie tried to shove away the little voice in his head saying why would he stay for you? and instead focus on the present, on Draco, on what he knew he could do, right now.
“A shower’s a good start,” Charlie said, eventually. “Get you cleaned up, and heal what needs healing.”
“A shower,” Draco repeated, sounding unimpressed, but feeling something warm and incredulous.
“And I’ll lend you my highest quality pyjamas,” Charlie continued, aiming for levity and not quite hitting it. “I’ll make you dinner. I’ll…” hold you, kiss you, keep you safe, “take care of you.”
Draco frowned slightly. “I don’t need taking care of.” As if his chest wasn’t aching for it, raw and vulnerable and flayed, as if he could hide it from Charlie.
There was a reason he’d come to Charlie, other than convenience. There was a reason he’d flooed into the Manor, then immediately set out to find Charlie, instead of grabbing another fistful of powder and flooing to his own flat himself.
There had to be. Charlie knew him, better than he’d known him before; he was learning Draco piece by reluctant piece, as much more than his love for Harry.
Charlie stared patiently back at him. Draco’s frown deepened into a scowl. Annoyed on the outside, distraught on the inside. A maddening juxtaposition.
“I’m fine.”
“I can, Draco,” Charlie said. “Take care of you.”
“I don’t need—”
“I want to.”
Draco’s hands were shaking, clenched into fists at his sides. His eyes widened, shiny with distress, his conflicting emotions clashing like a battlefront in both of their heads.
Draco breathed in slow, straightened his shoulders. His expression shuttered, like doors closing in Charlie’s face, cutting him off, and Charlie panicked—
“No, Draco—” Charlie stepped towards him, hands reaching, “—don’t, please, sweetheart—”
Draco’s face crumpled, for a split-second, before he latched onto something easy to hold himself together.
Something aggressive, predatory, craving.
And then he was colliding with Charlie, pushing him back into the wooden table, smelling like magic and carnage and lemons, and Charlie pulled him down and kissed him because he knew, he knew Draco wanted him to, needed him to.
Draco kissed like he was furious, when he was terrified. He bit down hard on Charlie’s lip, his nails pierced Charlie’s skin, and Charlie only held him tighter, kissed him softer. Draco shoved Charlie’s hips onto the table, pressing him down, down against the cool wood, and Charlie let him, squeezing Draco’s hips between his thighs. The wood creaked ominously under their weight.
“The table—” Charlie panted as Draco moved to his jaw, sucking on his neck, “—it’ll break—”
“It won’t.”
“I’m—ah—” Charlie’s fingers mindlessly tugged at the buttons of Draco’s uniform, his head tipped back against the table with a thunk, “—heavier than you think, Draco—”
“It’s loaded with strengthening charms,” Draco muttered against Charlie’s collarbone, before making his way down his chest to his nipple. Charlie groaned, arching into his mouth, wildly aroused and a little confused.
“What? Why?”
Draco grabbed Charlie’s wrists, pinning them to the wood, his mouth hot on Charlie’s skin.
“Because I wanted to fuck you on it.”
Charlie huffed an incredulous, lust-filled laugh. The sound filled Draco with warm accomplishment, for a half-second, before the fear and aggression crept back in.
“That so?” Charlie said.
Draco released Charlie’s wrists and took off his jacket with hurried, jerky motions. “Yes.”
“Doesn’t feel like what you want, right now,” Charlie muttered, his hands freed to assist with the buttons of Draco’s shirt. Draco growled in frustration.
“You don’t know what I want,” he said, grinding himself between Charlie’s legs, making Charlie hiss with pleasure. Charlie sat up while Draco took his shirt off, reaching around to grab Draco’s arse and pull him closer.
“Then tell me the truth.”
“Shut up,” Draco said, a roiling stormcloud brewing above Charlie, his precious composure being stripped from him with each item of clothing. There were a few new bruises on his pale skin, but nothing major. “Shut up, shut up,” kissing Charlie hard to ensure it. Charlie moaned into it, the sweet slide of Draco’s insistent tongue against his.
He then gently pushed Draco away, climbing off the table to follow him. He hooked two fingers into Draco’s belt and tugged, pulling him around to switch their positions. When he pressed Draco against the table instead, slotting his thigh between Draco’s legs, Draco’s breath hitched beautifully, a wave of satisfaction in the sea of contest.
“Does it always feel like something you have to fight?” Charlie asked. Instead of answering, Draco kissed him again, biting down hard on his lip in punishment, grinding his clothed erection against Charlie’s hip. Charlie took his face between his hands, gentling the kiss, but Draco grabbed a fistful of Charlie’s hair and pulled his head back.
Charlie gasped faintly, allowing the sting on his scalp. “Just tell me what you need, sweetheart.”
Draco’s lip curled derisively, but Charlie couldn’t find an ounce of real disdain. All he could feel was scared, and small, and need, all twisted up with inordinate defensiveness and shame. Charlie knew he was pushing—he knew he was being too much. He knew Draco was rapidly approaching a breaking point, where he would either attack or flee.
But Charlie needed this, just as much as Draco did.
Draco grabbed Charlie’s wand from the table and gave it a flick, mumbling a familiar charm under his breath, and Charlie winced preemptively, waiting for the uncomfortable prep—
But it never came, and his eyes widened as Draco winced barely instead, his heavy breaths hitting Charlie’s face. He released Charlie’s hair and set the wand back down, and Charlie felt his own heart flutter at the easy, thoughtless intimacy of Draco’s fingers on Charlie’s wand.
A small, gold signet ring glinted off Draco’s pinky.
“I hate that spell,” Charlie said, and pushed him down onto the table, making quick work of Draco’s belt and fly. “Do you think that will make me want you less?”
“Shut up,” Draco repeated, pushing his own pants down to his thighs, freeing his hard cock. “Just shut up and fuck me.”
Charlie pulled off Draco’s boots and socks, yanking the trousers and pants off in one swift motion, until Draco was naked on his kitchen table, looking utterly delicious and unreasonably nervous.
“This is so much more than a fuck, Draco.” Charlie pulled Draco’s knees up; Draco grabbed them automatically, his face beet-red and defensive. “There is nothing you can do to cheapen this.”
“Stop talking,” Draco gritted. Charlie put his hands under Draco’s hips and lifted, folding him in half, eliciting a shocked little gasp. “What are you—”
“Tell me to stop,” Charlie said, with Draco spread open in front of his face.
Draco opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. His chin was tucked into his scarred chest, his cock leaking precome onto his stomach, and he stared up at Charlie with eyes too desperate and lust-blown to be properly angry.
The only words he managed to say were, “Don’t stop.”
So Charlie tipped his head down and ate him out like a man starving, and Draco positively whined, “fuck, oh, fuck, Charlie, don’t stop.” Charlie gripped the backs of his thighs and held him there, licking and fucking his tongue into Draco’s wet, pink hole, the odd, fresh taste of the spell mixing with the undeniable undertone of Draco.
For a brief, reckless moment, Charlie wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t said a word. If he’d let Draco fuck him into the table, or if he’d pretended to believe his pitiful declaration of I’m fine. If he’d let Harry initiate sex after the boggarts. If he’d ignored what he could feel from them—especially Draco.
Narcissa hadn’t prepared him for someone like Draco. Someone who needed Charlie to know what he couldn’t say, though it scared him half to death. A relationship held within looks and feelings and closed mental doors.
But he pushed all thoughts of her away, because the sound Draco made when Charlie wrapped a hand around his cock took precedence over everything else.
Too soon, Draco’s breaths quickened, a soundless “yesyesyes” and the flexing of his thighs under Charlie’s hands, and Charlie lowered him back to the table, drawing another frustrated whimper. Charlie kept stroking him, slowly, lightly, and let him stretch out his long legs on either side of Charlie’s hips.
Draco pouted. “What part of don’t stop—”
Charlie teased his rim with his fingertip, effectively taking the words from his mouth, far too endeared by his pouting lip. Draco was flushed all the way down to his chest, his bright hair a mess against the birchwood tan of the table.
Charlie leaned down, covering him with his body, and kissed him thoroughly. Draco relaxed into it, and after a moment, Charlie felt strong arms wrap around his neck, shaky fingers thread through his hair.
“You taste so good, sweetheart,” Charlie said.
Draco’s fist tightened in Charlie’s hair, his mouth opened for Charlie’s tongue. Charlie was painfully hard in his boxers, but he kept his hands on Draco.
“Do you want me inside you?” Charlie asked. Draco just nodded, bumping his nose, a quiet groan as Charlie easily pushed two fingers into him.
“Come on, just—”
“Just what?” Charlie interrupted, his lips on the hinge of Draco’s jaw. “Do you honestly want me to rush this?”
“I—” Draco clicked his tongue in annoyance, but his head was tipping back to give Charlie access to his throat.
“Has Harry ever fucked you before?” Charlie asked.
“‘Course,” Draco exhaled.
“And you want me to fuck you?”
“Charlie—” Draco gasped as Charlie curled his fingers inside him, lightly rubbing his prostate.
“I will,” Charlie said, pulling back a little to watch his face. “If you want me to.”
Draco nodded again, but Charlie shook his head, making Draco furrow his brows in confusion.
“Tell me, Draco,” Charlie said, pulling out and pressing back in with three fingers. His hand paused on Draco’s cock. “I’ll take such good care of you—just say it, sweetheart. Tell me you want me to.”
Draco, for once, looked as fearful as he felt. As wanting, as hopeful as Charlie felt. His eyes were wide, locked with Charlie’s, his lips parted for shallow breaths, shiny and pink from Charlie’s kisses. His tongue darted out to wet them.
“I want you,” Draco said quickly, quietly. “Inside me. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think.”
Charlie kissed him, shoving down his own boxers with relief and taking himself in hand. “Okay, Draco.” He straightened up, pulled his fingers out slowly, then lifted Draco’s leg onto his shoulder.
He didn’t make Draco wait any longer. He lined himself up and pushed, watching Draco’s face the entire time, pressing feather-light kisses on the inside of his calf, against the soft, sparse blond hairs there. Maybe Draco had even customized this simple table’s perfect height, when he was installing all those strengthening charms, thinking about fucking Charlie.
Draco’s lips formed that perfect oh, his other leg wrapped around Charlie’s waist, and he looked up at Charlie like he was too good to be true, breathing hard, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
“Fuck, Draco,” Charlie breathed, a rush of rightness in his head, of deep pleasure radiating from his core, “look at you,” a hand gliding worshipfully over Draco’s soft, scarred stomach, over one of Harry’s lovebites on his hipbone, “you look like an angel.” He rolled his hips experimentally, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat; his face had never looked so open, so awed, just for Charlie.
Charlie wished Harry could see it.
He pulled out until just the head caught on Draco’s rim, then thrust back in hard enough to jerk the table forward an inch, shoving a grunt from Draco’s chest. Charlie leaned forward, bearing down on him, and did it again; the sound was more like a cry, this time, an involuntary noise full of rich satisfaction.
So Charlie held him firmly in place and fucked him hard, heedless of the creaking, movable table. His hips snapped against Draco’s arse, relentless and insatiable, until Draco couldn’t hold back the breathless, honeyed sounds in his throat, until he had to let go of the table and touch himself, and Charlie’s adoring thoughts started spilling inevitably out of his mouth.
“That’s it, Draco, so good, fuck, look how well you take it,” he said, voice rough, thrusting into Draco’s tight, sublime heat over and over, losing himself in his pleasure. “So good, so pretty, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He reached down and grabbed the back of Draco’s neck, pulling him up, pulling their faces close. “I’m right here. I want you to come just like this.”
“Charlie—”
“I’m here.”
“Charlie—please—”
Oh, fuck. Charlie kissed him, feeling like he’d die if he didn’t. Draco braced himself on the table with one hand, the other hand flying over his cock. Charlie’s grip was immovable; he upped his pace, curling Draco up tighter, searching for that perfect angle.
“You can, sweetheart. You can let go. You’re safe, now.”
Draco’s arm buckled; he wrapped it around Charlie’s neck, instead, holding on for dear life. His soft moans echoed in Charlie’s mouth, stuttering with the impacts of Charlie’s thrusts, and he practically sobbed when he came, his head filled with euphoria and sweet relief. His arse clamped down around Charlie, and Charlie gasped, watching him fall apart like a beautiful, long-awaited demolition, revealing the fervid, tender, incandescent Draco he knew.
“Charlie,” Draco whined as Charlie fucked him through it, “I want to—”
“Anything.”
“—to taste you.”
Charlie groaned under a wave of intense arousal, pulling out and gripping himself tight to keep from coming. Draco’s eyes were half-lidded with lust and fatigue, and he followed Charlie automatically, his long, loose-limbed body somehow still graceful even as he scooted off the table and fell to his knees in front of Charlie, his chest still covered in his own come.
“Fucking hell,” Charlie breathed, a reverent hand on Draco’s face, “you want this, sweetheart?”
“Please,” Draco whispered, and opened his mouth, looking up at Charlie from under long, golden lashes. Charlie was sure he was about to burst into flames. He guided himself into Draco’s mouth, moaning his appreciation, sliding his fingers into Draco’s soft, sweaty hair.
Draco held onto Charlie’s thighs, relieved and beloved as Charlie began to fuck his face; he was so unbelievably perfect, and Charlie was so close already, nearly out of his mind with it—
“Fuck, you’re so good, Draco,” Charlie said, “I’m so close, sweetheart, ah—just like that, oh, fuck, Draco—”
Charlie held him there as he came, bracing himself on the table and thrusting into Draco’s throat, keeping a protective hand on the back of Draco’s head. Draco swallowed and swallowed around him, while stars burst behind Charlie’s eyes, the tight coils of pleasure unraveling and curling his toes with bliss.
When he came down, Draco was lightly kissing Charlie’s thigh, burying his nose in the crease of his hip, running his fingers through the reddish curls there. Charlie felt a rush of something so heady and strong that he grabbed Draco’s face, bent over and kissed him, tasting himself on Draco’s tongue. He brushed away the tear tracks under Draco’s wet, silver eyes, assuming they were caused by the vigorous face-fucking.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Charlie murmured. “Let me clean you up.”
***
Charlie did exactly what he said he would do.
He ran Draco a bath, healing every minor scratch and bruise on Draco’s skin, except for the ones he could tell Harry had made. He sat next to the bathtub and told Draco all about Mathilde, with one hand idly stroking Draco’s thigh in the hot water.
Draco didn’t speak much, but Charlie finally got it out of him that the ring he wore was a Black family heirloom Harry had found in Grimmauld, among Regulus’ things, and that it was brimming with intricate curse-protection charms from Harry himself.
“Does Harry wear one?” Charlie asked, holding Draco’s hand on the edge of the tub. Draco’s lip twitched, and he shook his head.
“Doesn’t wear jewelry, he says.”
Charlie rolled his eyes, kissing Draco’s knuckles. The leather bracelets on his own wrist were wet from the bath water.
“Or does he just think it’s a waste, protecting himself, when he could protect someone else?”
Draco’s hand tightened, and he didn’t answer, because they both knew it was true.
Charlie lent him his nicest pyjamas, and made him a hearty but simple dinner of spaghetti and homemade meatballs. He herded Draco out into the garden, where they sat in silence on a blanket on the thick grass, watching the sky turn purple, watching the fireflies blink and flicker against the dark hedges.
“And what is the point of this?” Draco asked wryly, without any bite.
“Breathing,” Charlie answered.
Draco rolled his eyes, but watched Charlie spread out on the blanket and breathe in the clean, evening air. Charlie tried to understand the little anxious furrow in his brow.
Draco had been quiet and passive all evening, letting Charlie care for him however he wanted, but Charlie could feel Draco’s wariness creeping back in, that clever mind of his catching up with all the overthinking he’d been putting off since the moment he admitted I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think.
Which, Charlie guessed, meant that Charlie had at least done a good job.
“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Draco said.
“Really?” Charlie raised an eyebrow doubtfully. “Not a clue?”
Draco frowned. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why did you bring Harry to me, after those boggarts attacked him?”
“Because I knew you would take care of him,” Draco said. “Because I knew you loved him.” He pulled one knee up to his chest, resting his arm on it. His feet were bare, and that, combined with Draco’s piercing gaze, his damp hair and pink cheekbones, somehow felt more intimate than the sex.
“Then what don’t you understand?” Charlie asked.
“You don’t…” Draco trailed off, shaking his head.
“...don’t what?”
“Don’t—feel that for me.”
Charlie blinked. “You sound quite sure.”
Draco huffed in irritation. “Why would you?”
“Honestly, Draco?” Charlie said. “Think back over our previous interactions. All of them. Think hard, then try again to tell me I don’t want you.”
“That’s different—”
“Because I know that if I told you what it really is, you’d take to your heels,” Charlie grumbled.
“Oh?” Draco said, almost dangerously light. “What is it, then, Charlie? What is it really?”
Charlie sat up straighter, mirroring Draco’s position. He fiddled with the bracelets on his wrist, parsing through Draco’s many conflicting emotions; fear and hope, admiration and frustration.
As if he actually wanted to hear it.
“Love, Draco,” Charlie answered softly, his heart hammering in his ribs. “Think hard. Look me in the eyes, and tell me I’m not falling in love with you.”
Draco lost his breath for a moment, his body frozen like a deer listening for threatening footsteps. He looked so afraid, so precarious, his entire being balancing on a razor’s edge of tension, his eyes darting frantically between Charlie’s. Charlie ached to touch him, to smooth his damp hair back from his face, to pull him close and hold him tight, but he stayed just as still, daring one more sentence:
“Tell me you’re not falling for me, too.”
Draco inhaled sharply, like he’d only just found his breath, like he was looking down over the edge at the unfathomable drop, and pulling himself roughly back in desperate defense.
“You don’t know me at all,” Draco said. His tone was exasperated, his accent sharper, to cut deeper. But his mind was a maelstrom, terror and hope and wonder and maybe, maybe love. Charlie recognized it.
“I know enough,” Charlie retorted calmly.
“You don’t—”
“I know how you love,” Charlie urged. “I know your loyalty, your devotion, your guilt, your joy—intimately. It’s all I know about you. It’s everything, your fear and strength and friendship, your love, Draco, I know your love like I know my own—”
“Then explain to me why I would want to add more of it to my life,” Draco exploded, defensiveness blooming fiercely in the peace of Charlie’s garden. “If you know how I feel, then you should know better than to think I would ever willingly love yet another person. Why, why would I ever put myself through this—again?”
Charlie took a deep breath, his head reeling with Draco’s tumultuous emotions. “You’re terrified.”
Draco tutted weakly. “I never said I was brave.”
“But you are,” Charlie argued, his lips ticking upwards in helpless admiration. “Brave. I know you are. Because you’re terrified, and you love anyway.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes were worryingly shiny, his expression that of a trapped animal, facing its worst fear.
“Charlie—please, don’t ask me to love you. It’s too much, it’s too…” He shook his head, eyes wide and scared, and Charlie knew this feeling.
“... Helpless,” Charlie exhaled, his own heart breaking at Draco’s devastation.
Draco gave a short, jerky nod, and looked away. Charlie swallowed hard over the lump in his throat.
Charlie’s eyes dropped, and he reached over slowly, taking Draco’s hand from the blanket between them and bringing it to his lips.
He waited for an objection, but none came, so he kissed Draco’s ring, each of his fingertips. He opened Draco’s hand and pressed his lips to Draco’s palm, closing his eyes and breathing deep, a rush of warm, heavy, protective affection in his veins.
When he met Draco’s eyes again, lowering their joined hands, Draco’s pupils were dilated, his ruby blush creeping down his long neck. Charlie offered him a small smile, though it may have been a bit wobbly, and stood swiftly, pulling Draco up with him. A firefly flashed between them, making Draco blink a couple times in surprise, and Charlie huffed a weak laugh at the brief, yellow-green glow on Draco’s face.
“I could go for some tea,” Charlie said, hoping Draco would see it for the offering that it was.
“Of course you could,” Draco replied dryly. He swished his wand to fold up the blanket, caught it in his arm, and allowed Charlie to pull him into the cottage.
***
Draco slept peacefully through the night, with Charlie spooned up behind him like he belonged there.
Charlie woke with the sun, as he always did—but with his nose in Draco’s hair, his hand on Draco’s chest.
Draco was still asleep; Charlie could feel it, like the calm of the sea after a storm. Charlie didn’t want to move, didn’t want to do anything to disturb the still, serene surface. He considered going to St. Mungo’s himself, grabbing Harry and bringing him back here and trapping them both in his bed.
But Draco would surely throttle him.
So he woke Draco slowly, with kisses in his tangled hair, on his shoulder, his warm neck. Draco sighed deeply, leaning back into Charlie’s warmth.
“Harry,” he mumbled sleepily, lacing his fingers with Charlie’s.
“Not quite,” Charlie answered, squeezing his hand. Draco’s eyes opened, looking around, before turning his head to look at Charlie. “Let’s go and get him, yeah?”
Draco grunted in acknowledgement, rolling out of the bed. Charlie watched as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then rolled out his shoulders, stretching his arms over his head. He ran a hand through his sleek hair, and Charlie swore there must have been some wandless magic involved with the way it set every sleep-mussed lock in perfect place.
Touchable to untouchable in ten seconds flat—even in Charlie’s pyjamas. By the time Draco had his uniform on again, Charlie needed bravery in order to look him in the eyes, to feel worthy of brushing the back of his hand against his.
Charlie had only been to St. Mungo’s a couple of times, but Draco led him through its winding corridors like he owned the place, authoritative and intimidatingly handsome in his pristine uniform. Charlie followed closely, glaring at anyone who dared to look at Draco wrong. Draco ignored them all, but noticed every time.
They stopped outside of the door to the Curse Damage ward, where the front desk witch had told them to wait. The door had a window, but not one big enough to truly see through. It was still early, so the hospital wasn’t too busy, but there were enough mediwix and Healers and families around to make Charlie a little overwhelmed and uncomfortably anxious.
Then the door opened, and Harry came hobbling out in grey hospital-issue clothes, hanging off the shoulder of a sturdy young mediwitch, who looked like she’d been up all bloody night looking after him. Draco’s and Charlie’s combined relief made Charlie weak in the knees.
The mediwitch sighed dramatically, seeing Draco and Charlie there waiting. “Yep, here they are, like you told me—”
“Brilliant!” Harry exclaimed, with a big, goofy grin, clearly off his nut on pain potions. “I told you they’d come. They’re my boyfriends.”
“Auror partner, Potter,” Draco said teasingly, a little terrified on the inside. “Nice try, though.” Harry just laughed.
“I love him,” he said to the witch, who rolled her eyes and thrust a clinking pouch out in front of her. Charlie took it immediately.
“Strict potions regimen,” she said flatly. “Instructions are in there. No work for three weeks. Lots of bedrest and stretches. Good luck—not good at sitting still, that one.”
“Right,” Charlie said, trying to keep up. Harry sighed happily at the sound of his voice, then fell forward a bit; Charlie rushed forward to catch him, and Harry giggled, releasing the mediwitch and throwing his arms around Charlie’s neck.
“I missed you,” Harry said, grinning like a loon, and kissed Charlie square on the mouth, right there in the middle of the now bustling corridor.
Charlie froze, Harry’s waist in one arm and Harry’s potions in the other, his legs nearly buckling under Draco’s dismay. Then a bright, blinding flash went off nearby, making Harry pull away in indignation.
Charlie heard a yelp from down the hall, saw a human shape dart around the corner, and caught a glimpse of Draco’s wand slipping back up his sleeve.
“Guess that one really is your boyfriend, then,” the mediwitch grumbled as she walked away, but Charlie was watching Harry’s face fall with shock and sadness, feeling Harry’s heart break like his own.
Harry looked over Charlie’s shoulder.
“It’s alright, Potter,” Draco said softly, though everything was clearly not alright. “There’s no reason to be ashamed of kissing him. But the photographer will have painful, inconvenient boils for at least a fortnight.”
“That’s—” Harry swallowed, still clutching Charlie’s shoulders. “But it’s not—”
“You’ll take care of him?” Draco said, looking at Charlie with a placid expression. He had his hands clasped behind his back, and Charlie knew, could just tell that he was desperate for touch, for reassurance, but Charlie was holding Harry upright, and Harry was holding himself—
“Of course,” Charlie said.
“Excellent. I’ll relay the update to Shacklebolt.” Draco tipped his head at them, unbearably genteel. “I’m afraid I must get back to work.”
And with that, Draco turned on his heel and walked away, a shock of crimson disappearing into the corridor of lime green Healer’s robes.
Chapter 18: Part Four: June, 2001 (still)
Notes:
time is fake, June is long.
cw for a teeny bit of homophobia in this one.
Chapter Text
Harry groaned unintelligibly into Charlie’s pillow, face down and fully clothed on top of the covers.
“What was that?” Charlie prodded him gently.
Harry lifted his head a little. “It’s bad.”
Charlie sat down on the edge of the bed, his fingers in Harry’s curls. “Are you in pain?”
“No, not—” Harry huffed, then grabbed Charlie’s hand and cuddled it under his chest. His face was smushed against the pillow. “Not me. Draco. It’s bad.”
“What’s bad?”
“Draco. When he does that—” Harry waved his free hand around loosely, “—y’know. Polite. It’s bad.”
“I know,” Charlie said with a sigh. “He’ll come round tonight, though, won’t he? And we can talk about it.”
Harry looked up at him with one sleepy, potion-glazed green eye.
“What an insufferable Gryffindor optimist you are, Weasley,” he said, in his best effort at Draco’s posh accent, which was still pretty good, even with the potions slurring his words and the pillow muffling his voice.
He fell asleep not ten seconds later. Charlie charmed a quick note to send to Kit, asking them to take over the chores for the day.
Charlie’s hand was trapped, so he laid down next to Harry, watching him sleep, soothed by his presence and troubled by Draco’s absence.
***
When Harry woke a few hours later, the potions had worn off completely, and he was in enough pain that Charlie had to help him roll over and sit up.
“You know, nobody even told me what you were hit with,” Charlie said, handing him a glass of water, one hand on his shoulder to keep him upright.
Harry grimaced, and downed the whole glass.
“Sectumsempra,” he mumbled, coughing a bit as he handed the empty glass back. “Fuck, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.” He winced again as he tried and failed to rotate his torso. “A very sharp one. Karma, I s’pose.”
“Karma?” Charlie asked, heading to the loo to start the bath.
“For when I used it on Draco,” Harry’s rough voice floated through the doorway, and Charlie nearly stumbled into the claw foot tub.
“Oh,” Charlie said, remembering, while his mind was bombarded with guilt and shame, anger and sadness. He took a moment for himself as the bath filled, breathing in the steam, trying to clear his head.
Harry complained while Charlie helped him into the bath, but with that fond little smile on his face, warming Charlie’s chest. Charlie arrayed all the colourful glass bottles of potions on the marble counter, frowning down at the Healer’s instructions.
“Blood-replenishment first,” Charlie said, picking up a bottle of red fluid, “then the green one for the pain—”
Harry groaned. “Not yet.”
“Harry—”
“I will—I’ll take them, Charlie, just—not yet. I want a few minutes with a clear head.”
Charlie sighed, setting down the bottles and making his way to the tub, where he sat himself down next to it, resting his arms on the edge, forcefully reminded of being in this same position less than twenty-four hours ago.
Harry’s glasses were a bit fogged from the steam. He placed a wet hand on Charlie’s forearm, just for the touch, and leaned his head back against the tub, sinking down a little deeper in the water.
“I missed you,” Harry said. Again.
“I was worried,” Charlie said, though he hadn’t exactly planned to, and his throat tightened up just admitting it. “I was so fucking worried, Harry. And Draco showed up nearly out of his mind, he was so scared—”
“Come in with me?” Harry interrupted, his voice small. He lightly patted the surface of the water, his expression painfully earnest, yearning, even behind the foggy frames.
Charlie hesitated, but gave in with another sigh. He stripped off his clothes without any rush, and Harry watched him, sweet and warm and longing—Harry had missed him. Charlie was feeling how much Harry had missed him.
Harry leaned forward in the water, and Charlie settled in behind him, relaxing into the soothing heat, pulling Harry back against his chest. Charlie’s body wrapped around him, while Harry leaned his head back against Charlie’s shoulder, a heavy exhale of relief and comfort. Charlie pressed his lips against Harry’s neck, taking it all in, trying not to squeeze him too hard. He smelled like Harry—woody and clean, now with the added tang of potions and magic and disinfectants.
There were three new scars on Harry’s body.
They looked very much like Draco’s: long, thin slashes, with the pearlescent sheen of powerful healing magic. But where Draco’s were nearly white, Harry’s were a rosy pink—and fresh. Still swollen, still healing. One ran over his bicep, onto his collarbone; one slashed down his side from his ribs; one sliced from his shoulder blade to his hip, almost touching the second.
“Draco came here?” Harry eventually asked, his soft voice breaking the silence.
“Mm.” Charlie kissed his shoulder, then the side of his head, just behind his ear. Harry’s hands rested on Charlie’s knees, on either side of Harry’s thighs. “Tried to get me to take him back to Mungo’s.”
“Why—?”
“He was going spare, Harry,” Charlie said. “He was thrown out of the hospital. I’d reckon he’d have burned the place down trying to get to you.”
Harry was quiet for a moment, lightly rubbing his hands over the outsides of Charlie’s thighs. It was odd, Charlie thought, knowing what Harry felt like when he was thinking hard about something—stubborn, curious, guilty, important.
“And what did you do,” Harry said slowly, “when he came to you?”
Charlie blinked. The question almost sounded suspicious, but it wasn’t—Harry was hesitantly curious, eager, hopeful, like the answer was something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.
“I took care of him,” Charlie said.
“Oh.” Harry might have been holding his breath, with how still he was sitting. “How—how did you take care of him?”
“I told him to stay,” Charlie said, a little nervous. “I healed his wounds. I offered him dinner.”
“Hm.” Harry squirmed a bit between Charlie’s legs, and Charlie felt his own body snap to attention. “S’that all?”
Charlie’s arms tightened, a little, briefly, and Harry winced.
“Harry,” Charlie said lowly, peering over Harry’s shoulder, “getting off in the bath definitely does not count as bedrest.”
Harry huffed. “What the Healers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“It’ll hurt you, actually.”
“I’m fine. I won’t even—if it’ll make you feel better. But you two have been so…” Harry shook his head a bit, searching for the word, “insulated…”
Charlie lifted his head. “Big word.”
“Oh, shut up,” Harry laughed, winced again. “I just—I’m dying to know what’s going on in your heads. The way you look at him, the way he talks about you—”
Charlie’s mind got stuck. “He talks about me?”
“Of course,” Harry chuckled again. “Mostly to… you know.” He waved his hand, flinging droplets of water. “Rile me up.”
Charlie’s lips parted in shock. “He talks about me during sex?”
“Yeah, but that’s—” Harry squirmed again, his arse pressing enticingly against Charlie’s crotch, “—irrelevant.”
“Your body thinks otherwise,” Charlie said. “Harry. Sit still.”
Harry did. Perfectly still. Holding his breath again, growing more aroused by the second.
“I’ll tell you,” Charlie said. “But only if you’re very, very still. I won’t have you hurting yourself. Relax,” and Harry melted against him, turning his face toward Charlie’s.
Charlie spread his hands over Harry’s stomach. He was sure this was not what Andrei had meant—talk, puiule—or maybe it was.
Charlie’s time with Draco had felt almost… sacred. The way Draco had come apart, had let go, just for Charlie. The way Charlie had to coax him out of his shell, over and over, the triumphant reward of holding him, the kisses on the crease of Charlie’s thigh.
But Draco and Charlie were also Harry’s, and they really were in this together, weren’t they? Draco’s jumper under Charlie’s knees in Romania, Harry’s lovebites on Draco’s hipbones, under Charlie’s gripping hands. They were together, even when they weren’t. Whatever existed between Charlie and Draco existed because of Harry, and though it was blossoming into something of its own, it wouldn’t be the same without their shared, combined love for him.
Charlie wondered if it felt like that for Harry, too—if Harry’s love for Charlie would be different, without Draco’s encouragement.
“I wanted to take care of him,” Charlie said, his hands sliding up to Harry’s chest. “He needed it.”
“What—” Harry cut off with a sharp inhale as Charlie nipped at his earlobe, then forced himself to relax again.
“His kisses get rougher, when he’s scared,” Charlie muttered against the shell of his ear. Harry shivered, though he tried valiantly not to.
“I know.”
“I got him naked on the table.”
“Fuck,” Harry squeezed Charlie’s thighs. Charlie could hear the smile. “Yeah, I knew about the table.”
Charlie’s hand slid up Harry’s throat, over his chin, onto his lips; Harry kissed his fingertips, his tongue darting out to meet them.
“I ate him out on that table. He held himself open for me,” Charlie said in his ear, slipping a finger into his mouth, emboldened by Harry’s quickened breaths. “You know how good he tastes.”
Harry hummed his assent, his lips wrapped around Charlie’s finger. Charlie’s free hand moved lower under the water, his fingers in the curls around the base of Harry’s cock.
“He used a spell to prepare himself,” Charlie said. “But I fingered him anyway. I wanted to take my time with him.”
Harry’s hips moved, and Charlie immediately removed his hands.
“Fuck, no, wait,” Harry said, settling down again. “I’ll be still. I’ll be good.”
Blood rushed to Charlie’s cock so fast, he felt a little dizzy.
“Oh,” Harry said, light with amusement, “you like that.”
Charlie tentatively replaced his hands, as Harry stilled. “You are good, Harry.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you want me to tell you how I fucked him?”
“Yes.”
Charlie wrapped his fingers around Harry’s length, his touch torturously light. “I fucked him hard.”
Harry groaned faintly.
“I held him down, on the table,” Charlie continued, “I fucked him until he couldn’t think, just like he wanted.” He stroked Harry slowly, his other hand keeping Harry’s chin in a gentle hold.
Harry whimpered. “Charlie.”
“He said that, too,” Charlie said, squeezing gently around the head. “When he came, with me inside him.”
“Fuck.” Harry was almost panting, but staying still, as promised. Charlie mouthed leisurely at his warm neck.
“And then he got on his knees.” A gentle twist of his wrist.
“Oh, my god,” Harry whined, clearly working very hard at staying still. “Charlie, please.”
“He said that, too.” Charlie’s hand sped up. “You’re being so good, baby.”
“More.”
“Shh.” Charlie pressed more kisses to the hinge of his jaw. “He opened his mouth for me—you know how pretty his mouth looks, after so much kissing?”
“Yes.”
“Imagine how it looks around my cock,” Charlie said. “With those gorgeous eyes of his looking up at me.”
“Jesus,” Harry breathed. “Charlie, I’m so close—”
“He let me fuck his face,” Charlie said, his grip tightening. “I told him how good he was, and I came down his throat. He swallowed every drop—he was perfect. He’s so beautiful, isn’t he?”
Harry’s whole body tensed, and he came with a low groan under the water, his hips only jerking a little, his hands gripping Charlie’s thighs hard enough to bruise.
“I took care of him,” Charlie murmured, milking the last of his orgasm, “because he deserves to be taken care of, just like you do. I drew him a bath, just like this. I wrapped him up in my clothes. I made him dinner.”
“Charlie,” Harry sighed as he came down, a little shaky. Charlie idly stroked the line of his throat. “I knew you would.”
“I…” Charlie swallowed, mustering up a good chunk of bravery, “I told him I’m falling in love with him.”
Harry sat up immediately, then grunted in pain; Charlie pulled him back down against his chest, a little terrified, the water sloshing in the tub. It was somehow scarier to admit it to Harry than to Draco himself. But once Harry’s muscles relaxed again, Harry felt—elated. And nervous.
“Charlie,” Harry repeated. “Fuck.” A little laugh, warm like hot chocolate in Charlie’s ribs. “I’d hoped you would. I knew you would.”
Charlie huffed, somewhat relieved, but still confused. “And how'd you figure that, o great seer?”
Harry chuckled, turning his face into Charlie’s cheek.
“It’s impossible not to,” Harry said, “when you get to see him like I do.” Harry’s nervousness crept back in as his fingers traced patterns on Charlie’s thighs. “Did he run?”
“No.” Charlie took a deep breath. “Not yet, anyway. But he wasn’t happy.”
“No,” Harry agreed. “He ran from me, when I first told him. Walked right out. Gone for hours.”
Charlie stayed quiet, hoping for more, any morsel of insight into Draco, into Draco and Harry’s relationship.
“Love is not—” Harry hesitated, his mouth twisting in thought, “—it doesn’t always mean—good things. To him. D’you understand?”
“Mm.” Charlie thought about a teenage Draco, kneeling at Voldemort’s feet because loved ones told him to, because they were in danger. He imagined being asked to kill someone to save someone he loved, at sixteen, and his stomach churned with nausea. He ducked his face into Harry’s neck.
He thought about the raw, terrified expression on Draco’s face, watching Harry duel Voldemort in the Great Hall.
The helplessness, carefully hidden and ever-present.
He realized then that in Draco’s eyes, love had never, ever made him stronger. Love had only ever put him in danger, had taken everything important to him and held it over his head at wandpoint.
And he was brave, more than Charlie even knew, for loving anyway.
Harry’s chest expanded under Charlie’s hands, a deep, soothing breath in.
“You haven’t come yet,” Harry said, drawing Charlie out of his thoughts.
“I don’t need to.”
“Your body thinks otherwise,” Harry retorted in that teasing tone of his. Charlie huffed a weak laugh.
“My body can’t help its reaction to having you naked in my arms.” He buried his nose in Harry’s soft hair. It was getting long, sending a thrill through Charlie’s belly. “But I don’t need to come, right now.”
Charlie helped Harry out of the bath, and wrapped him up in Charlie’s softest pyjamas, and made him eat a big, warm sandwich for dinner. Harry took the red potion without complaint.
By the time he’d finished eating, Harry was moving stiffly, speaking one word sentences, his brow permanently furrowed in pain. So Charlie brought him back to the bedroom, grabbed the green potion from the bathroom, and held it in front of Harry’s face as they sat on the bed.
Harry sighed, then beckoned Charlie forward for a kiss.
“I’ll be right here,” Charlie mumbled against his lips.
“I know,” Harry said. “I just wanted to kiss you without—that stuff.” He took it carefully from Charlie’s hand, then downed the whole thing in one swig.
He shook his head, grimacing at the taste, but his body relaxed immediately, that furrow finally smoothing in his brow. Until he tensed up all over again, in an abrupt wave of anxiety.
“Fuck,” Harry said, eyes widening, “the photo. Shit. Forgot about the photo—”
“Harry,” Charlie cut him off, maneuvering him under the covers. “It’s alright. It’s just a photograph.”
“No, Charlie,” Harry said, growing frantic, “shit, don’t leave, please don’t leave. I’m so sorry—Draco’s going to hate me—”
“Baby,” Charlie said. “We could never.” He brushed Harry’s curls off his forehead, then crawled into bed next to him. “Can I make you feel better?”
Harry nodded, his scared green eyes locked with Charlie’s. Charlie removed his glasses, setting them on the nightstand next to Harry’s wand. Harry moved in close, grabbing a fistful of Charlie’s shirt, burying his face in Charlie’s neck.
Charlie held him tight, and did the only thing he could.
You are safe. His fingers played gently with Harry’s curls.
You are home. He pressed his lips to Harry’s head.
You are loved. Harry let out a deep exhale, his grip loosening in Charlie’s shirt.
You are forgiven.
Harry fell asleep within seconds.
***
Charlie woke to a dark room, a warm weight against his side, and a paralyzing fear and helplessness he was beginning to recognize instantly.
Draco stood in the doorway of the bedroom, dimly lit by the moonlight coming in from the open window. Charlie started to move to go to him, but Draco raised a hand to stop him, with that familiar, desperate desire Charlie knew as the need to give Harry the world.
Let him sleep.
So Charlie beckoned to him, instead. Draco hesitated, but eventually stepped into the room, his hands lifting to the buttons of his uniform.
Draco stripped down to his briefs, silently and methodically, laying out his clothes in a neat pile on the end of the bed. He crawled in on Harry’s other side, snuggling up against Harry’s warmth, his nose in Harry’s hair, craving him.
Charlie reached over, tentatively, and pulled the covers up to Draco’s shoulders. He could feel Draco putting up Occlumency walls, and Charlie didn’t even mind; he ran the backs of his fingers down Draco’s soft cheek, comforted by his presence, swaddled in his Occlumency, and fell right back to sleep.
***
When Charlie woke again, the room was purplish-pink with the coming dawn, and Harry was wrapped around him, still asleep, and Draco was gone.
Charlie tried to rein in his dismay. Draco had probably just gone in to work early, having to pick up Harry’s responsibilities, too. Or maybe he was elsewhere in the house.
Harry stirred as Charlie did, stretching his legs, groaning in exasperation as it pained him.
“Ughh.”
“Obnoxious, isn’t it?” Charlie mumbled, kissing him on the head. “That bodies take time to heal.”
Harry grunted in response, his face pressed against Charlie’s chest.
“C’mon,” Charlie said, patting him lightly on the back. “I’ll bring breakfast in here, and then you need more potions.”
Harry groaned again, but slid off of Charlie’s body. Charlie got up and made his way to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
He couldn’t shove down his disappointment at seeing the kitchen empty, and the sitting room; Draco had left no trace, and Charlie wondered if maybe he had dreamed him after all.
He startled at the sound of something hitting his kitchen window, and hurried over to let the owl in. It dropped the sodding Daily Prophet on his counter, but he gave the bird a treat from his drawer, before watching it fly away into the morning.
He squinted against the dawn, and started making some coffee. He pulled out a couple eggs for a fry up, then untied the twine around the newspaper, and let it fall open.
He dropped the eggs.
“Oh.” The eggs splattered on his bare feet, and he nearly slipped as he tried to get away from the eggy slime, but his eyes were glued to the moving photo taking up most of the front page, and the bold, unignorable headline right above it:
POTTER’S PROCLIVITIES: A WEAKNESS FOR WEASLEYS?
“Oh, Merlin,” Charlie groaned, watching a potion-dazed Harry smile and fling his arms around Charlie’s neck and kiss him like a lover returned from war. Charlie put his elbows on the counter, and dropped his face into his hands.
They had cropped Draco out of the picture entirely.
It was this, more than the intrusive photo itself, that made Charlie’s pulse quicken with rage.
Another owl pecked furiously at his window. He reluctantly straightened up, and groaned again at the sight of a red envelope, smoking a little at the seams.
“Fuck.”
A fist started pounding on his front door. Charlie continued swearing the whole way down the hall. He heard muffled, unidentifiable shrieking as the Howler exploded in the back garden. He opened the front door before he could think better of it.
But it was only Kit, wide-eyed and a little fearful, clutching the Prophet in one hand, their wand in the other.
“If you’d told me you were seeing Harry bloody Potter, Charlie, I’d have strengthened your wards on day one,” they said, sliding past him into the cottage.
“Er.” Charlie followed them absently to the kitchen, where they grimaced out the window at the flaming Howler still yelling nonsense in the garden.
“It was bad enough when he was a fourth year,” they grumbled. Charlie joined them at the window; small dots in the distance indicated more incoming owls. Some were trailing smoke.
“Listen, it’s not really—”
“Your business, mate,” they cut him off with a raised hand, tossing the Prophet onto the counter next to the other one. They blinked down at the egg mess in surprise, then Vanished it before turning back to Charlie. “Doesn’t really matter what it is or isn’t. We need to fix your wards.”
“What’s wrong with the wards?” Charlie frowned.
“That, Charlie.” Kit pointed out the window, where the small dots of owls were getting bigger as they approached. And more numerous. “Not only will they make your life hell for the next few weeks, at least, but you have two bored and volatile young dragons here who won’t be able to look the other way for long.”
“Oh.” Charlie’s eyes widened. “Is it really that bad? Just seems like a few Howlers from some crazed fans. I can’t be that interesting.”
Kit closed their eyes, taking a deep, fortifying breath, but Charlie wasn’t sure how to explain that he wasn’t exactly angry that people knew he was with Harry—it was true, after all, though he didn’t get why it was newsworthy—he was angry that they’d left Draco out of it, that it wasn’t a completely accurate depiction of the relationship, and that there was nothing anyone could do to fix it without compromising Harry’s and Draco’s careers.
Another owl hit the window. Followed by another. And a sketchy-looking package, that fell to the ground beneath the window. Purple smoke started rising from it.
“Shit,” Charlie said helpfully.
Kit opened their mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the whoosh of the floo, as none other than Hermione Granger stormed out of Charlie’s hearth, her brown eyes blazing and her curly hair an untied cloud around her head.
She thrust a finger in Charlie’s face. “Do not open a single letter, Charlie,” she said, unflinching and unshakeable, and Charlie automatically stood straighter, for some reason. “Not one. Do you understand?”
“Er—”
“If anyone important needs to contact you, they’ll do it by Patronus or floo. Do not touch the mail, and do not believe a word they tell you—”
The floo flared again, and Ginny nearly ran into Hermione in her rush, still in her pyjamas.
“Charlie!” she exclaimed, a little out of breath, righting herself with a grip on Hermione’s shoulder. “Don’t open the mail.”
Four more owls crashed into the window. Charlie rubbed a hand over his face. Everyone was angry—no, bitter—grim—protective, Charlie told himself, but it was so much to deal with first thing in the morning, and he still needed to make some breakfast for Harry and get his potions—
“Hi, Kit,” Ginny said, blushing like mad, looking past Charlie into the kitchen.
Another Howler exploded in the yard with an ear-splitting screech.
“YOU ARE WAY TOO OLD FOR HIM, YOU FUCKING—”
A horrible shattering noise that made them all jump, as a massive owl crashed through the kitchen window to deliver its explosive burden. The Howler went up in flames, screaming dissonantly with the others.
“HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE WITH ME, FOREVER AND EVER—”
“What do you know about wards?” Kit shouted to the women over the noise.
“—LOW-CLASS NEANDERTHAL—”
“—RUINING HIS CHANCES OF SUCCESS—”
“Enough,” Hermione answered loudly, her wand already out.
“Help me with filters, would you?”
Then Harry stumbled into the room, his face ashen, his wand aimed at nothing, his body vibrating with panic that filled Charlie’s veins with ice.
Charlie watched dazedly as Ginny went to Harry, lowering his wand, pressing her hands firmly on his shoulders.
“Just glass,” she was saying, so gently. “Just a determined owl, Harry. Look at me, we’re alright—”
“—MY SAVIOUR WOULD NEVER—”
“—DISGUSTING, WICKED MAN, DEFILING—”
“—NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM—”
“I’m sorry,” Harry’s quivering voice, despairing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Charlie closed his eyes, somehow still standing upright. He put his hands over his ears, though it didn’t help much. He tried desperately to think of the Villa, of the deep blue waves on the cliffs. Listened to the sound of his own breath, rushing in through his nose, out through his mouth, over and over. Struggled with door, after door, after door.
He wished Draco were here to do this for him.
When the Occlumency was just strong enough that he no longer felt like he was about to fall over, he lowered his hands, and opened his eyes.
The screaming endured, but Hermione and Kit were gone, and Ginny was standing in front of him, with a fierce look on her freckled face.
“He’s injured again?” she asked, though it was more like a statement. Charlie nodded, focusing on her.
“Back to bed,” she ordered. “I’ll fend them off. Don’t open any letters. There’ll be curses, or bubotuber pus, or something equally dreadful, and there is nothing in them worth reading. Even in the good ones. I promise you,” she said firmly, and Charlie realized far too late that she knew this because she’d been through it before.
Charlie nodded.
“‘Mione and Kit are strengthening the wards to filter the mail,” she said, and her voice was steady and anchoring, and Charlie was so damn grateful for her.
“Thank you,” Charlie said, a bit raspy.
“Where’s Draco?” she asked. Charlie’s heart sank.
“Don’t know,” he answered.
Her mouth twisted in a frown. “It’d be a lot worse, if it was him, you know.”
“I know.”
“Go on.” She shooed Charlie toward Harry, who was standing in the doorway, looking desperate and shaky, his wand still held loosely at his side. Charlie remembered how much pain he’d be in right now, and moved toward him automatically, taking Harry’s beautiful, clammy face in his hands.
“Go back to bed, baby,” Charlie murmured, planting a soft kiss on his lips. “Put up some silencing charms. I’ll be right in.”
Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but one look over Charlie’s shoulder at Ginny made him give in. Charlie offered him a small smile, releasing him.
Harry went back to the bedroom, slowly and stiffly now that his adrenaline had worn off, and Ginny shoved her feet into Charlie’s boots—they looked huge on her—then marched out into the back garden, to battle Charlie’s mail.
And Charlie pulled out a few more eggs from the cooling cupboard, as well as bacon and potatoes, and started cooking.
He poured two mugs of coffee, fixed up Harry’s, then made more for his guests.
He noticed someone had fixed the broken window.
He sliced up a fresh orange and some strawberries, and toasted some homemade bread Molly had dropped off the other day.
He made Harry breakfast, because this was what he could do, what he knew how to do, and this was what Harry needed right now, before anything else. He made Harry breakfast, then levitated it all down the hall to the bedroom, while the dissonant shrieks of Harry’s “fans” decried Harry’s choice and Charlie’s audacity.
Harry ate every last bite, and took all of his potions without complaint.
***
Draco,
Harry slept all day long. The Healer’s notes said that it’ll take time for his body to fight off the remnants of dark magic. Harry doesn’t like the potions, especially the pain reliever. Do you remember what it was like, healing from this curse?
He keeps mentioning “Karma.”
He’s asking for you.
Yours,
Charlie
Charlie folded up the note, addressed it to Draco, and sent it off with an owl he’d commandeered.
A whole day had gone by without a word from Draco, and though Charlie naïvely hoped he was just stuck at work, he had a sinking feeling Draco wouldn’t be coming by, tonight.
It was worth a try, anyway.
But from what Charlie knew of Draco, if anything were going to make Draco flee, it was this: the inopportune three-way collision of Charlie’s love, Harry’s close call, and the heartbreak he’d never admit of watching Harry kiss Charlie in public.
Only because Harry could kiss Charlie in public.
Charlie had since learned that not only had Ginny once endured the consequences of publicly dating Harry, but Hermione had as well, in their fourth year, over a silly rumour. And both of them had shown up for Charlie immediately, without question, ready to protect him from the same fate.
Ron had arrived later in the day with a grim look on his face, his Auror uniform clean but half undone, as if he’d just gotten off work. Harry woke up long enough to chat with him a bit about the case, but neither of them mentioned Draco—verbally. Charlie suspected there was plenty left unsaid in the easy, close-knit way Harry and Ron talked; something in the lift of Ron’s eyebrow or the tilt of Harry’s frown, a language only best friends could understand.
Ron came over the next day, as well, bearing takeaway and a small, neat bag of clothes and toiletries for Harry.
“From Draco,” he mumbled as he handed the bag to Charlie, doling out the takeaway on the table. His ears were red, and emotionally, he felt uncomfortably tense, like he was being pulled in all directions, stretched too tight.
“He couldn’t deliver this himself?” Charlie said, without thinking.
Ron sighed, just as Harry walked into the kitchen, looking at Ron expectantly.
“Listen—” Ron’s face got even redder, closer in colour to his uniform, “—he’s… complicated, yeah? He’s a thinker. Sometimes he just needs time to think.”
Harry said nothing, too disappointed for words, and Charlie pressed his lips together to keep from spewing his frustration.
“I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t think,” Draco had said. As if he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, from doing far too much of it, as if the only way he could allow himself to be vulnerable was mindlessly.
But Charlie was familiar with thinking too much, even if he wasn’t as good at it as Draco. He knew how much it could hurt, and how much he could get wrong, and he could only hope that Draco’s thoughts weren’t doing irreparable damage.
“I need to go and talk to him,” Harry said that night, already under the covers, his head pillowed on Charlie’s chest. Charlie twisted Harry's curls around his fingers.
“Space, and a safe place to go, remember?” Charlie replied gently, trying his best to believe it. “He’ll come around. He can’t stay away from you. He never could.”
Harry sighed, his breath warm against Charlie’s skin. “I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“Neither do I,” Charlie said. But he didn’t know how to reach for Draco without pushing him even further away. He’d already pushed so much.
Charlie couldn’t avoid his responsibilities forever, and once Harry was able to forgo the green potion during the day, Charlie left him alone in the cottage while he went out and tended to the dragons with Kit.
A variety of Weasleys came through to keep Harry company: Charlie came home to Bill teaching Harry sophisticated protective charms, or Harry dozing on George’s shoulder while some soap opera played on Arthur’s portable telly thing, or Molly fussing over him and delivering hearty meals.
Nothing from Draco.
At least whatever Hermione and Kit had done to the wards made the mornings easier.
By the fourth day without Draco, Charlie was frustrated enough to floo himself over to their flat in the evening, but it, too, hadn’t seen much of Draco.
Charlie left another note for him on their breakfast counter—we miss you, Draco, we want to see you—and brought Harry’s notebook and bracelet materials back to the cottage.
On the fifth day, Harry poured himself into his charm work. Charlie left him sitting at the kitchen table at dawn, and when he came back in the afternoon, Harry was still there, hunched over an intricate, glowing knot.
Charlie bent down and kissed him on the cheek, bringing Harry out of his intense focus. Harry blinked bright green eyes up at him, then pressed his face into Charlie’s stomach. Charlie laughed, cupping the back of Harry’s head.
“Alright?”
“I missed that,” Harry mumbled against Charlie’s shirt, breathing deep. Charlie frowned.
“Missed what?”
“The way you smell,” Harry said, “after spending the day with dragons.”
Charlie laughed again. “Like a sweaty chimney, you mean?”
“Like you.” Harry pulled him closer, comforted but bereft. “Like coming home.”
Charlie hummed, not trusting himself to speak, his throat tight with this warm, unbelievable love filling his chest.
Ginny and Ron came through the floo, then, bearing pizza, and whatever Charlie could have said was lost to their enthusiastic greetings anyway.
That day’s Daily Prophet lay open on the countertop. Charlie hadn’t bothered to read them—Ginny had warned him against it—but they seemed to be growing more favourable by the day, though all they could do was speculate on Harry’s relationship and his current absence from the Aurors.
“You’d think they’d find something more interesting to talk about,” Ginny groused.
“They’re so insensitive,” Ron said, and Charlie raised an eyebrow, “everyone knows I’m your favourite Weasley.”
Harry snorted. “They keep forgetting about the real star, Auror Weasley.”
“That they do,” Ron sighed dramatically, his mouth full of pizza. “Still, gotta say, mate. I’m glad they caught my smitten brother—” Charlie smacked him lightly on the shoulder, “—and not—you know. It’d be an absolute shitshow. It was bad enough when word got out that you were partners—”
“Would it really, though?” Charlie interrupted, surprising himself. “Would it really be that bad, if the whole of Wizarding Britain knew that we love Draco?”
His face flamed at the admission, that swooping feeling in his stomach. He wondered if he would ever get used to saying it out loud. Loving someone out loud.
The table was quiet for a moment, as Ron and Ginny looked at Harry expectantly. Harry looked down at his plate.
“I convinced Draco to move in with me,” Harry said softly, “after one too many wix tried to hurt him, to get to him at the Tonks Cottage, once the press got wind that he’d joined the Aurors and partnered with me. He only agreed to it because his presence at the Cottage was putting Teddy and Andromeda in danger.”
Charlie swallowed. “They’ve had well over a year to get used to the idea, though, and he seems respected enough by his peers...” He looked at Ron for backup.
Ron lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “I mean, no one wants to partner with him except Harry,” he said, “but that’s because he’s still a bit of a dick, and obsessive about his paperwork.” Harry huffed a wry laugh. “But they’ve seen what he can do. They respect him.”
“But there’s also the wee problem of the Auror Code of Conduct,” Ginny said dryly, rolling her eyes as she took another bite of pizza. Harry nodded, looking despondently down at the table.
Charlie’s heart rate picked up, the twisty feeling of his own anxiety and nervousness, of be quiet, you don’t belong here, this isn’t your place, but he shoved it aside, made himself talk:
“What would happen?” he asked. “If Kingsley found out you were romantically involved with your Auror partner?”
Ron grimaced. “Just a sacking, I think. A ban on future employment in the DMLE.” Harry nodded his agreement, his hands clasped and fidgeting in his lap.
Charlie crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, leaning on the table. Restless. He wanted to get up and go for a walk, the familiar urge to escape this discomfort, but this was much more important.
“And, er—” Charlie cleared his throat, searching for the right words; Harry was looking at him with a concerned furrow in his brow. “And what if…”
Harry’s furrow deepened. Charlie heard Ginny draw in a sharp little breath, a burst of comprehension and anticipation.
Charlie shook some energy out of his hands, twisted the bracelets on his wrist, then splayed both hands flat on the table, and forced the words out of his mouth.
“Harry, why are you an Auror?” It came out a little more accusatory than he’d hoped, and Harry’s eyebrows shot up, as the table was thrown into silence.
A nervous, loving, hopeful, anticipatory silence, from Ginny and Ron; a stunned, guilty, defensive silence from Harry.
Charlie held his breath.
“It’s what I do,” Harry said flatly, after what felt like an age. Which Charlie should have expected—same question, same answer.
“Harry…” Charlie’s fingernail scratched against the wood grain of the table. “I know I don’t—I don’t know you as well as Ron does, or anything, I haven’t been around enough and I will never really compare to the people who lived and fought alongside you—”
“Charlie—”
“—but I love you, Harry,” Charlie said in a rush, his hands shaking on the table, “I love you, and I’ve been watching you, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why you chose this profession, because it’s—it’s killing you, and you hate it.”
Harry gaped, a defensive sadness flaring, so bloody guilty, “I don’t—!”
“He’s right,” Ron cut in. Harry turned his glare on him, instead, a brief respite for Charlie. “I know it’s what we always said we’d do, our dream careers as fourteen-year-olds, but we’ve been through some shit since then, and you hate this job, mate. It—it breaks you. It drains you.”
“And it keeps you from having a proper relationship with Draco,” Ginny added. “You could do literally anything, Harry. Why this?”
“Because I have to,” Harry said, seemingly without his permission. Charlie’s hands clenched into fists on the table.
“You have to—?”
“I have to!” Harry exclaimed, almost standing from his chair. “I have to—I have to fix…” he trailed off, and Charlie felt Ginny’s and Ron’s hearts sink alongside his own.
Harry felt a flash of panic, so Charlie reached over and took his hand from where it anxiously gripped the edge of the table. He held it in both of his own, rubbing his thumb over the scars on the back; I must not tell lies.
“Harry,” Charlie said gently. Delicately. “The War, the things that happened… you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his eyes grew shiny behind his glasses. He didn’t answer; his emotions were enough.
“Harry—” Charlie shook his head, desperately holding Harry’s gaze, “—it was War. It was the unconscionable actions of a raving madman and his power-hungry followers. People died, including you, and it is not your fault—”
“It was my responsibility,” Harry retorted. “I wasn’t fast enough.”
“You were a child.”
“I was never a child.”
“No, because the adults around you failed you, Harry,” Charlie urged, while Ron and Ginny looked on with wide eyes. “It was their responsibility to end the War, to keep you safe, but they didn’t—”
“Because the prophecy said—”
“Fuck the prophecy,” Charlie interrupted, a bit frantic. “Harry, could you look at an infant right now, and tell them they have to eventually kill someone, in order to save the world? A child, Harry. A child. Imagine a prophecy like that naming Teddy. What would you do?”
Charlie realized he was squeezing Harry’s hand, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t want to risk Harry running away from this. He needed him to understand. He needed Harry to know that someone was holding on to him.
Harry swallowed hard. “I’d tell the world to get fucked.”
“Exactly. Now imagine if you weren’t around to tell them to fuck off,” Charlie said. “Imagine Teddy going through everything you did.” Tears spilled over in Harry’s eyes, causing a lump to form in Charlie’s throat. “Imagine if, after all of that, he still believed it wasn’t enough.”
“That’s different,” Harry said weakly, while Charlie shook his head again.
“It’s not, Harry. You sacrificed more for the Wizarding World than anyone by the time you were eighteen. You gave them everything—” Charlie tilted his head to catch Harry’s eyes again, “—you owe them nothing.”
“I don’t know how to do anything else,” Harry said, a little despairing.
“You haven’t tried anything else,” Charlie corrected. “Harry, Ginny’s right. You could do anything, be anything you want. You could even do nothing,” he said, offering a wobbly smile. “You could lay about here like a kept man, if you wanted, and we would love you all the same. You—you’re enough, Harry. Exactly as you are, however you want to be. You don’t have to be an Auror, or a Saviour, anymore.” He quickly kissed Harry’s hand. “You can just be Harry.”
Harry’s lip quivered, trying to hold himself together. He was squeezing Charlie’s hand back.
“I can’t leave Draco,” he croaked.
“Mate,” Ron tutted. “You know I’d rather partner with him than bloody fucking Hendricks.” He rolled his eyes, injecting some levity. “And Harry—don’t you think Draco might, er—be a bit…” he waved his hands around, looking to Charlie and Ginny.
“Relieved?” Charlie supplied, and Ron nodded, and Harry felt insulted, so Charlie quickly added, “that he doesn’t have to keep seeing you in life-threatening situations, Harry. You’re his heart, you know—” Charlie blushed at his own words, “—he loves you more than anything. It hurts him, to see you hurt.”
“And,” Ginny chimed in, resting her elbows on the table, “you’ll get to kiss him whenever you want. In front of everybody. You won’t have to hide your love, Harry.”
Harry stared at each of them in turn.
“What if he doesn’t… I mean, I get put on medical leave and he doesn’t even want to see me,” Harry said miserably. “What if he doesn’t want to be… seen, with me? I—I wouldn’t blame him, look at what Charlie’s gone through. But if that’s—if he doesn’t want to be around me outside of work, anymore, or something, then I’m not going to…”
He trailed off, imploring and desperately sad, then added, “That sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”
They didn’t answer. Charlie sighed.
“You know that’s not true, Harry,” he said. “You know he’s not just avoiding you.”
Harry’s mouth twisted as he looked away.
“I don’t want to lose him,” Harry muttered. “I don’t want to let him down.”
“You won’t,” Ron said. “I know he’s being an arse, right now, but he’s just got to think it all through. Every single move, you know?”
Harry’s lips quirked. “You and your chess analogies, mate,” he said feebly.
“Yeah, I know,” Ron flapped his hand, “but you know I’m right.”
The energy of the room settled, just a little, and Charlie’s hands relaxed around Harry’s. It was clear Harry hadn’t yet made a decision, but he’d made the first step, of considering it. Which was enough, for now. Harry gave Charlie a tentative, weak smile, a we’re okay sort of thing, and Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.
Until a bright, blue glow flashed in the window of the sitting room, and Charlie stood so fast his chair scraped across the floor, as panicked as the others. He couldn’t think of any reason why someone would use a Portkey to get to them—
The front door banged open, and familiar, booted footsteps strode down the hall, stopping expectantly in the doorway to the kitchen. Charlie’s heart leapt, while trying to recover from his shock.
“Customary English welcome?” Andrei teased, raising an eyebrow at the wands automatically aimed at him. Charlie let out an incredulous laugh, as Ron, Ginny, and Harry all reluctantly lowered their wands.
“What are you doing here?” Charlie exclaimed, making his way over and grabbing his best friend for a hug. Andrei dropped his rucksack on the floor and returned the embrace, chuckling to himself. The smoke-and-leather smell of him was so familiar, unaccountably relieving.
“Had some time off,” Andrei said. “Thought I’d drop by for a few days and help out.”
Behind him, Charlie heard Harry groan in exasperation and annoyance, dropping his head on the table with an already exhausted thunk.
Chapter 19: Part Four: July, 2001
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
July, 2001
Harry grumbled and winced as he struggled to lift himself onto the kitchen counter. He took out his wand, as if he were actually going to try to levitate himself, so Charlie chuckled, squatted, and wrapped his arms around Harry’s thighs, lifting him easily onto the countertop, before any magical catastrophes could occur in his kitchen.
Harry gasped a little and clung to Charlie’s shoulders, locking his ankles behind Charlie’s back, trapping him between his legs.
“I do have to make you breakfast, you know,” Charlie teased, brushing their noses together. “You’ll have to let me go if you want coffee.”
Harry ignored this, pulling Charlie close and kissing him, a little desperate. Charlie sank into it indulgently, rubbing his hands over Harry’s bare, muscular thighs.
Charlie loved his kitchen—in the gauzy, lilac light of dawn, in the golden lamplight of night, bathed in the sunshine of a summer afternoon. He loved the way Harry looked sitting on his counter, the way the rising sun seemed to greet him before anything else. He loved the way his friends and family looked gathered in it during the day, and the way Draco glowed under its lamps at night.
“It’s the people that make a place a home.” He was beginning to understand what that meant.
It even felt like home with Andrei here, still fast asleep in the guest bedroom.
Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly, and Charlie laughed as he pulled away, leaving a single kiss on Harry’s nose. Harry frowned petulantly, and Charlie tried not to laugh again; he’d never seen Harry so cranky.
“You know,” Charlie said quietly, extricating himself from Harry’s legs, “you didn’t seem to mind him so much, before you met him.”
He didn’t need to clarify who—Harry had been annoyed and jealous and clingy since the moment Andrei arrived. It was stupidly endearing, but Charlie would much rather preserve his happiness. And, of course, he’d prefer that his best friend and his—boyfriend—get along.
Harry sighed and leaned back onto his hand.
“I don’t mind him,” Harry said, then even he had to laugh at the audacity of trying to lie to Charlie. “I just—can you blame me for being miffed about your ex showing up unannounced to hang out for a few days?”
Charlie lifted his head, his spatula pausing in the frying pan. “He’s not my ex.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Charlie frowned. “He’s not,” he insisted. “Did he tell you he was my ex, or something?”
“He called you ‘his Charlie,’” Harry said, and Charlie tried very hard not to laugh again.
“The same way my family calls you ‘their Harry,” he said, and Harry scoffed, but Charlie continued. “He’s like family to me, Harry. I imagine he might’ve been a bit protective, when you showed up at the sanctuary.”
“Possessive.”
“Protective,” Charlie corrected firmly, serving up the eggs onto slices of toast. He handed a plate to Harry, before starting on the coffee. “And whatever you said to him must have convinced him of your virtues, because once you left, he was urging me to go with you.”
The corner of Harry’s mouth turned down doubtfully.
“It’s true,” Charlie added. “He sat me down, went through all the paperwork with me. Even arranged the Portkey, which he just loves doing.” He settled himself between Harry’s legs again, waiting for the coffee to steep, nudging Harry’s plate. “He’s my biggest supporter. My best friend.”
Harry’s frown hadn’t lessened, but he did feel a tiny bit mollified.
“But you and him were…” Harry waved his free hand, colour rushing into his cheeks. “Y’know.”
“Intimate?” Charlie said, a teasing grin on his face. “Sexually? C’mon, say it—”
“Alright, you fucked him,” Harry said, a small smile and an eyeroll through his bitterness.
“Usually the other way around,” Charlie said, and Harry groaned in vexation, so Charlie gave in. “Alright, I’m sorry, yes. I lived with him for nearly ten years, and he’s one of the easiest people I’ve ever met—emotionally—and we had a fair bit of very platonic sex over the years, when we needed the intimacy. He was my safe place.”
Harry stared at him for a moment, before blinking his way out of it, looking down at his breakfast. He hurriedly brought it to his mouth and took a bite, chewing while he thought. Charlie poured the coffee, but didn’t move away from him; he drew his wand and summoned the mugs, the milk and sugar, while Harry squeezed Charlie’s waist between his knees.
“And now?” Harry asked hesitantly.
“And now,” Charlie said, sighing as he doctored Harry’s coffee and handed it to him, “I think—I think I am… making my own safe place.” He rubbed his mug-warmed hands over Harry’s thighs again, feeling the soft, dark hairs and warm skin under his fingers. “For all of us.”
Harry felt a rush of warmth and satisfaction and glee, so sweet Charlie could almost taste it, so bright in his chest that he couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s bitten lip.
“I love when you feel like that,” Charlie said, and Harry set down his plate and mug on either side of him in favour of kissing Charlie, just as desperately as before, but in a much lovelier way: a hunger for a feast laid before him, not the hunger for crumbs left behind.
***
“Your timing,” Charlie said, shaking his head, reluctantly fond. “I don’t know how you do it.”
Andrei shrugged, smug as anything. “It’s a gift.”
“Right.” Charlie took the clean plate from his hand, drying it with a dish towel before putting it away.
“You look happy,” Andrei said. Charlie grinned sheepishly.
“I’m getting there.” Charlie’s fingernail scraped at an invisible spot left over on the next plate. “Why are you really here, Andrei?”
Andrei chuckled, scrubbing the coffee mugs by hand. He cleaned all three mugs before responding.
“Alright,” he sighed, in his familiar, gravelly voice. “So maybe I subscribed to the Daily Prophet—”
Charlie threw down his dish towel. “I knew it—”
“—a few years ago—”
“Andrei, that useless fucking rag—”
“I had to stay in the know, if you wouldn’t—!”
Charlie just laughed. Andrei did too, stealing the dish towel to dry his own hands. They could never argue for long.
“It takes a few days for the owls to get to me, but I came as soon as I saw it,” Andrei said, his smile diminishing. “I’ve seen how the newspaper treats Harry Potter over the years.” He folded the towel awkwardly, laying it over the edge of the sink. “And I noticed there was no Draco in the photo.”
Charlie’s face fell. “Yeah.”
“That why he’s not here?”
“Partially,” Charlie answered. “Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“I’m sure.” Andrei rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.
Charlie felt Harry before he saw him. He’d never hear Harry coming; for some reason, Harry excelled at walking silently. But he felt warmth, wariness, determination, and turned around just in time to see Harry emerge from the hallway leading to the bedrooms, freshly showered and clothed in jeans and one of Charlie’s Puddlemere t-shirts.
Charlie smiled and reached out his hand, and Harry huffed as he approached, letting Charlie wrap an arm around his waist.
“Morning, Andrei,” he muttered.
“Harry. You look better,” Andrei said, with a bright, cheerful grin that made Harry blush a bit. Then Andrei straightened abruptly, “Oh!” and hurried back to the guestroom for something he’d clearly forgotten.
Harry furrowed his brows in confusion, looking at Charlie, who just shrugged.
Andrei re-emerged with a small, familiar-looking package, and Charlie felt heat creep into his cheeks.
“It’s a few weeks early, but,” Andrei handed it to Harry, who took it with even more bewilderment, “figured I’d bring it anyway. Save the owl a trip. Happy birthday, Harry.”
Harry’s confused frown deepened, but he opened the package instantly, revealing his favourite Romanian candies. He turned to Charlie in surprise, and Charlie rubbed his own warm face, chuckling in embarrassment.
“Where do you think I got them from?” Charlie said. “They’re from a shop in Andrei’s hometown. But you liked them when I brought them for the World Cup that year, so...” Charlie waved his hand awkwardly.
“So he makes me go back for more, every year,” Andrei finished for him, laughing at Charlie’s expense.
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie grumbled, but Harry was looking at Andrei with a different kind of thoughtfulness, and Charlie had to wonder if Andrei hadn’t planned that in the first place: embarrassing Charlie, just a little, to provide proof to Harry that Andrei had good and pure intentions.
It was worth it, Charlie thought, for the pleasantly surprised thank you that left Harry’s lips, that tentative smile as he opened up the box and popped one of the caramels in his mouth.
And then, because Andrei couldn’t let anything go that smoothly for long: “Have you quit the Aurors, yet, Harry?”
Harry glared between Andrei and Charlie, and Charlie raised his hands in appeasement. “I didn’t tell him a thing.”
“No, he didn’t tell me anything,” Andrei confirmed. “I just figured you would have, by now.”
“How'd you figure that?” Harry grumbled with a mouthful of caramel, standing a little straighter, no longer leaning into Charlie’s side.
Andrei grinned. “You don’t seem the type for government and authority.”
Harry huffed again. “You hardly know me.”
“No, just what I hear about you,” Andrei countered, turning his dangerous smirk on Charlie, “from a trusted source.”
Of all the people in the world, Charlie had to become best friends with this firestarter.
Harry leaned closer to Charlie again, perplexed. “He’s always like this?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm.”
Andrei laughed, that loud, carefree laugh, and it was infectious, as it always was, and not even Harry could keep from smiling, despite himself.
Harry felt a little differently, after that.
He watched Andrei closely, but it wasn’t with jealousy or bitterness. He was thoughtful, and curious, and surprisingly shy; a little intimidated, which was shocking, because Charlie hadn’t felt him properly intimidated since he was fourteen.
It wasn’t until Charlie was returning home from his morning chores that he overheard the culmination of Harry’s curiosity, with Andrei’s voice floating through the sitting room window into the front garden.
“Charlie’s lucky,” Andrei was saying. “He’s always known what he wants to do, and he was encouraged in it. You know?”
Harry grunted in response. Charlie leaned against the front door, next to some blooming azaleas, and listened.
“It’s not like that for everybody,” Andrei said absently. Charlie grinned; it was the same distracted tone he used when knitting. “It takes most of us a few tries to figure it out.”
“What did you try, then?” Harry asked.
“Wizarding Law.”
Harry snorted. Andrei echoed it.
“I know,” Andrei said. “My family has a small law firm. All of them are lawyers. I followed, because what else was I supposed to do? It was all I knew.”
“How the hell does that turn into dragon wrangling?”
“I had a—” Andrei paused; Charlie could practically feel him waving his head indecisively, “—a hobby—my parents called it a death wish, of course—of dragon tracking. There’d be a couple sightings a year, and I’d get on my broom and follow them, just to watch, to see where they’d go. One day I followed a Horntail, who was clearly injured… She went down and holed up on a mountainside, and I skipped work and went back to her every day for three weeks, researching, until she let me close enough to heal her.”
Harry remained silent, desperately curious. Andrei added, “She’s got a lot of pride, Rosa.”
“Rosa?”
Andrei hummed. “You’ve experienced her pride firsthand.”
Charlie entered the house, then, rounding the doorway into the sitting room, making himself known. Andrei was sprawled confidently on the sofa, knitting a simple jumper out of dark green yarn. He smiled brightly at Charlie’s appearance, knowing and fond, like he’d known Charlie was listening all along.
“And Charlie knows the rest of that story,” Andrei said. Charlie smiled, then went over to Harry’s armchair, leaned down, and kissed Harry on the mouth.
There was enough happiness in the room for it to feel like sinking into a warm bath. Charlie peppered Harry’s face with kisses until Harry laughed and swatted him away.
“The rest of that story,” Charlie said, “involves tossing his lawyer hat at his parents’ feet and running off into the Carpathian mountains with a little bit of savings to start an unplottable dragon sanctuary around one particular dragon. And eventually getting a government grant to continue it, since it kept dragons out of trouble. And hiring eighteen-year-olds fresh out of school to staff it.”
“Very knowledgeable and promising eighteen-year-olds,” Andrei added with a sage nod. Charlie rolled his eyes, still smiling.
Ron stopped by for lunch, a relief for Harry and an exciting new conversation partner for Andrei.
Charlie could tell that Harry wanted to ask about Draco, but he held back, sitting quietly with a sort of preemptive disappointment. If Ron wasn’t offering any insight, then there wasn’t anything to ask for.
Charlie made everyone huge sandwiches, to Ron’s endless delight. He made an extra one, wrapping it up as neatly as he could, and gave it to Ron before he headed out, with a muttered, “for Draco.” Ron nodded gravely, waving the sandwich at him before disappearing into the green flames of the floo.
Andrei went out to fly with Kit and Mathilde in the afternoon, and Charlie herded Harry back to the sofa, since he was looking a bit peaky, having gone so long without his pain potion. He refused another dose, though, and laid down on the sofa with his head on Charlie’s lap, his brow tensed ever-so-slightly in pain.
And it was peacefully, blessedly quiet.
Charlie felt his own heart rate slow, as his fingers returned home to Harry’s hair, combing through the tangled curls. Harry’s eyes closed, his hands clasped over his stomach.
Quiet. Charlie rested his free hand on top of Harry’s, feeling the rise and fall of his measured breathing. Harry was content, in a way—soothed by Charlie’s touch, his incredible love warming Charlie’s chest from the inside out.
But it was the contentment of a sailor sitting in a harbor, staring out at the open sea. Harry felt stuck, directionless; a contentment far too close to settling, or resignation, or even bitterness. Loss. As if he wanted more, had once had more, didn’t know if he would ever have it again.
Charlie wondered if this was what Draco had once sensed from Harry—if this was what had made Draco take an impromptu trip to Romania, in an attempt to bring Charlie home.
“I am what he wants, miraculously, and I am enough. But I am not all he wants.”
It would make sense; Charlie didn’t know how much longer he could wait for Draco, knowing what Harry felt like without him. Quiet. The quiet of an empty home. Of a broom in a shed that knew what it meant to fly, but wasn’t.
“Charlie.”
“Hm.”
“Why do you call him ‘sweetheart’?”
Charlie smiled sadly. Evidently, they were thinking about the same thing: Draco’s cold, quiet, conspicuous absence.
“Because he is,” Charlie answered. “Sweet. Soft. Bursting with love.” He laid his hand on Harry’s chest, giving it a gentle pat. “Deep, deep down.”
Harry laughed weakly, lacing his fingers with Charlie’s over his stomach. He hesitated for a moment; “And why do you…” biting his lip as he trailed off.
Charlie was grateful Harry’s eyes were still closed, keeping Charlie’s besotted grin hidden.
“Why do I call you ‘baby’?”
Harry nodded, his hair brushing against Charlie’s hand.
“Because you’re… precious,” Charlie said. “And beloved, and… adorable.”
Harry chuckled. “I sound tiny.”
“You’re allowed to be small, Harry,” Charlie replied, before he could think about it. Harry’s eyes opened, vivid and bright, and locked with Charlie’s blue, a rush of incredulous, hidden joy that punched the next words out of Charlie’s chest: “Baby. You don’t have to be so big, so unstoppable, all the time.”
Harry sighed, and turned his face into Charlie’s stomach, squeezing Charlie’s hand.
“I don’t know how else to be.”
“There’s no right way to be,” Charlie murmured. “You don’t have to know how. I don’t think…” He faltered, but barreled on, “I don’t think you’ve had a chance to breathe, yet, Harry. To just be. To try new things and get to know yourself.”
Harry closed his eyes against Charlie’s t-shirt, familiar grief and guilt and determination, then a deep, bitter mournfulness, sharp and heavy like a rusting sword in Charlie’s gut.
Then, bursting their quiet bubble, a small pop sounded in the garden. Harry’s eyes flew open at the polite rap of knuckles on the front door. Charlie frowned. No one he knew needed to knock.
Harry sat up abruptly, then grunted in pain. Charlie laid a hand on his back, wincing sympathetically as Harry held his own side.
“Wait here,” Charlie said, as he stood and made his way to the door, his hand on the hilt of his wand in his pocket.
He opened the door, carefully at first, then quickly, as it revealed Draco Malfoy on his doorstep, in uniform, looking like a bored sculpture and feeling like a thunderstorm.
“Draco,” fell out of Charlie’s mouth, awash with something like relief, tangled up in so many other feelings, not all of it his own. He heard movement behind him, saw Draco’s wary grey eyes flick up over his shoulder, there you are, just before Harry pushed furiously past Charlie, and actually shoved Draco, right in the chest, knocking him back a few steps.
“You arsehole.”
Charlie reached out to grab Harry’s shirt and missed, because Harry was advancing rapidly on Draco, who looked relatively unsurprised, who looked even a little indignant, who felt absolutely fucking terrified, or maybe that was Harry, Charlie couldn’t tell, they were both feeling too much and too close to each other—
Draco regained his balance. Harry shoved him again, and Draco stood firm, glowering imperiously down at him. Charlie followed helplessly, too shocked and overwhelmed to form words.
“You left,” Harry growled. “You told me you wouldn’t. You told me you’d be the one who would stay—”
“You’ve got one who will stay,” Draco said sharply, his lip curling, already back in Harry’s space, “somehow I doubt the Golden Boy was left unsatisfied in my absence—”
“I have been waiting here for you for six fucking days—”
“Please,” Draco scoffed, “as if you needed me—”
“I don’t need anything!” Harry exploded, and Charlie stopped walking, his fist over his mouth. “I want you. And I want him—”
“And of course, what the Saviour wants, the Saviour gets—”
“—and you promised me you would stay, you promised me you would talk to me—”
“Well that’s your own bloody fault, for trusting me, isn’t it?” Draco shouted. Devastated. Harry shoved him again, betrayed, hurt. Draco grabbed his wrists. “What did you think would happen, Harry? That I’d bring home your rightful boyfriend and you’d want us both forever? That I’d fall head over heels for a sodding Weasley, and he’d settle for a Death Eater tagalong and make us one big happy family—”
“I thought I had a boyfriend that gave a shit!” Harry wrenched his wrists out of Draco’s grip, jabbing a finger into Draco’s chest. “I thought we were in this together! I thought you wouldn’t dare break a promise to me, but yeah, of fucking course you did—”
“Harry,” Charlie said, not loud enough.
“—and I should have known, knowing you, is it that you only have my back when the Ministry is watching? Was this all part of your bloody atonement, getting me a publicly acceptable Weasley boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to deal with me outside of work anymore—”
“Harry,” Charlie snapped, louder than expected, but effective. “Stop it—both of you, you’re—” Charlie shook his head, baffled and overwhelmed and hurt, “—this isn’t what you mean.”
“Stay out of this, Charlie,” Harry said, at the same time as Draco’s sneering “You don’t know—”
“And I won’t know you, properly, both of you, until you start saying what you mean,” Charlie shouted over them. “Until you admit how fucking scared you both are right now—”
Draco scoffed again, rolling his eyes. Harry blinked, like he’d been in a daze, and looked at Draco.
Regretful and hurting, while Draco sank further into despair that only Charlie could see, his pale face flushed with anger and his uniform wrinkled and his eyes too bright. Draco opened his mouth, and Charlie absolutely did not want to hear whatever was going to come out of it. The familiar urge to run run run hit him like a freight train, filling him with even more adrenaline.
Two small chimes went off, and Draco froze.
Charlie’s hand moved immediately to his wand, pulling it out of his pocket, pointing its glowing blue tip up.
“Rogue dragon,” the alert charm said, in Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice, “hostile. Holyhead Stadium. Injuries reported. All Aurors report to the Stadium immediately and await orders.”
Somewhere deep in the remains of Charlie’s logical mind, a lone thought floated through:
Ginny.
Draco apparated without another word. Harry made a noise of frustration, then turned a wide-eyed, imploring look on Charlie.
“No, Harry,” Charlie said. “We’ll take care of it. Just stay here.” Harry opened his mouth to protest, pointing to the house—where Harry’d left his wand—but Charlie rushed in and kissed him once to prevent it. “I love you.”
And with that, Charlie leapt back and apparated before Harry could reach him.
***
Charlie’s first thought upon landing on the Quidditch pitch was, fuck.
Then, that dragon looks like a right piece of work.
Then, I’ve been a terrible brother.
Because the home stadium of the Holyhead Harpies was gargantuan—he’d never before seen it in person. It was vibrant and flooded with magical lights and absolutely teeming with people who were scattering in all directions, like an anthill that had been kicked, because there was a fifty-tonne Ukrainian Ironbelly that had landed in the middle of the bloody pitch, for some reason, and was now realizing its mistake and trying to fight its way out. Some of the stands had caught fire. People were screaming. Charlie couldn’t think through it all, but knew what he was supposed to do.
Charlie ran forward, pushing past Ministry personnel and referees and a few singed Quidditch players, trying to see over the frenetic, unmanageable crowd—the stands were emptying chaotically, but not nearly fast enough—a flash of red hair, and Ginny appeared at his side, her face tear-streaked and sooty but determined—
“Ginny,” he breathed in relief, inspecting her quickly, his eyes pausing on her calf, where the trousers had been singed away, the skin splotchy red and burned—
“I’m fine,” Ginny said stubbornly, shouting over the noise, “what do you need?”
“I need everyone out of here,” Charlie said, just as the gigantic dragon let out another terrified, furious shriek, and Ginny flinched under the burst of firelight—the scoreboard went up in flames, more screams—but nodded, mounting the broom in her hand.
“It’s mostly blind,” she called, before launching herself into the air and toward the stands.
Oh, bloody hell.
Charlie ran again. There were too many fucking people. Thankfully his destination was impossible to miss, and he focused on getting there as fast as possible.
Aurors had already set up wards to keep it in. Charlie saw crimson robes herding the crowd off the pitch, shielding the fires as much as they could—which wasn’t much, magical shields weren’t really designed for dragonfire onslaughts—putting out the ones they couldn’t prevent, and thank fuck, no one was getting near the creature, and no one was aiming any offensive spells at it. Yet.
Which was a feat, considering the sight of it. Charlie had never seen a more roughed-up looking beast. Its scaly hide was pale greyish and covered in slashing scars, and broken, rusted chains dangled noisily from the neck and ankles, and the eyes were milky white, almost ghostly—blind, Ginny had said. There had to be a reason she knew. But perhaps it was obvious, considering its desperation, the way it had landed in the patch of flashy lights on the earth, which might have been mistaken for water—
Terror. Charlie shook his head, trying to clear it. He couldn’t tell who or where it was from; everywhere. He didn’t have time or space for Occlumency. Kit appeared at his side, tapping his arm to announce themself before making their way around to the other side of the dragon. Andrei did the same, with a squeeze to Charlie’s shoulder, heading in the other direction. Charlie glanced over, blinking rapidly through the deluge of fear and determination, because warm, warm, Harry was there, too, wand at the ready and walking stiffly with his injury, but there, despite Charlie’s order.
Charlie couldn’t think. He looked up at the dragon, trying to focus. His breathing was rough and too quick and infected with the panic of hundreds. The dragon tore up the ground with its huge talons, its massive head whipping around, trying to pick a target from sound; stop, Charlie tried, you’re safe, his vision blurred and darkened at the edges as a crowd of shouting people pressed closer, wands raised—
Calm.
Charlie gasped for air like a drowning man. Breathe.
Charlie took another full, uninhibited breath, straightened his spine, and looked up—when had he hunched over?
The bright, white-blond hair was a beacon under the floodlights. Draco stood tall on the right side of the wide circle, strong and resplendent in his Auror crimson, his cool grey eyes tethered onto Charlie’s, an anchor in an unrelenting storm.
Everything and everyone else went away. Charlie stared and let it fill him like the tide, feeling the rise and fall of Draco’s breaths like his own, watching the subtle movement in his shoulders, the quiet of fullness and protection and a warm, tight embrace. Draco.
There you are, my heart.
A bright flash to his left, as some idiot attempted a rudimentary hex on the bloody dragon, and Charlie’s instincts kicked in just fast enough to shove the nearest two people back, then leap out of the way of the inevitable jet of dragonfire as the dragon detected a new target. He rolled to his feet, trying and failing to think, and when he opened his mouth, a booming voice came out, one he hardly recognized as his own:
“WANDS DOWN!”
Everything felt like it was happening from a distance. His own voice echoed back to him, mixing with the crackling flames, the retreating screams, the shouts from Aurors and personnel around him. But the wands around him lowered, reluctantly, aiming to the ground at the dragon’s feet. Not good enough, but these were practically civilians, facing what they believed was a hostile beast.
Charlie turned to Draco again, looking between him and the dragon, who was now anxiously pacing the circle, waiting for another target to reveal itself, huffing smoke through long, sharp teeth, snarling at the crowd around him, his heavy footfalls shaking the upturned earth.
Him, Charlie thought vaguely; the longest it had ever taken him to discern the gender of a dragon.
With a sinking feeling of failure and dread, Charlie came to the horrific realization that he was stuck.
He could not make it through this without the aid of Draco’s Occlumency, and he could not subdue this dragon without his ability, especially if the poor thing couldn’t even see him properly.
Charlie had never felt so simultaneously powerless and protected—so, so stuck.
He tried to catch Andrei’s eyes across the circle. Or Kit’s. Even Harry would be more useful than Charlie would, right now. But he didn’t want to shout again and draw the dragon’s attention; there were too many people around him, probably thinking they were being helpful in a hazardous situation, when they were only making it even more dangerous. Charlie’s eyes roved the circle, looking for some way to signal—
Which is when he noticed a wand, in the hand of a somewhat-familiar-looking Auror, pointed directly at Draco.
Draco, whose formidable, unbreakable focus was entirely on Charlie.
The dragon moved into Charlie’s view, but Charlie knew what would happen before it did: a small flash of red light, subtle enough that no one would be able to truly discern its origin, flashing dangerously bright as it inevitably deflected off of Draco’s charmed ring and hit the dragon in the shoulder.
Charlie felt the diversion of Draco’s focus in his mind, but Charlie was already moving towards him, and the dragon’s huge head was swinging around with a loud, threatening growl and clanging chains and then Charlie was running, sprinting, Draco—he heard Harry shout Draco’s name, he ducked under the swipe of a spiked tail, he glimpsed Harry in his peripheral, being intercepted by Andrei’s powerful arms and restrained bodily and Charlie found just enough air to shout, “Draco, move!”
But Draco twisted and dropped, bloody Auror move, just as Charlie collided with him, pushing the back of Draco’s head down, “Down, get down,” curling him up into a little ball, spreading himself over Draco’s curved back, and he thrust his wand back over his shoulder, gasping out a useless, “Protego!”
Light exploded behind him, a blazing hot, hurricane-force wind searing the ground around them with a deafening roar. The dragonfire melted his shield in less than two seconds, and Charlie managed to grit out, “Hang on,” before dropping his wand.
And, fuck, dragonfire never got any easier, no matter how many times he was hit, but it didn’t hurt like he expected it to, this time—of course it didn’t, he could feel the knots of Harry’s bracelet against his skin, underneath the tight grip of Draco’s hand on Charlie’s wrist. The fire burned away the clothes on his back, he felt it licking at his thighs and whipping around his hair, but his skin didn’t sear, he didn’t feel its pain. He only felt a hot, dangerous wind at his back, and Draco’s trembling, curled up body against his front, and then it was over, almost as soon as it began.
Charlie opened his eyes, catching his breath, hearing an odd, lilting melody behind him, and when he lifted his head to peer over his shoulder, it was to find Kit standing a short distance away, with a fucking harmonica in their mouth, eyes trained on the dragon as they played a gentle, swinging song only they knew. Charlie gaped in shock as the dragon’s head lowered curiously toward Kit, almost completely docile—Charlie could feel it, now, thanks to the abrupt termination of Draco’s Occlumency.
He dropped his head to the back of Draco’s neck, letting out a heavy breath of relief.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he mumbled, squeezing Draco’s shaking form a little longer. He could hear the music moving away, Kit luring the dragon away from them and probably into the air, because they were just that wonderful and quick-thinking and they deserved yet another raise. “You’re okay.”
Draco expanded minutely, lifting his head a little, his breathing quick and shallow, like a frightened little bird. He didn’t let go of Charlie’s wrist. Charlie heard massive wings expand, and felt the gust of wind as the dragon took off, following the sound of Kit’s harmonica.
Then rapid footsteps in the grass, and Harry fell to his knees in front of Draco, his face blanched and tear-streaked, “Draco, Draco,” grabbing Draco’s tentative reaching hand. Draco didn’t seem able to speak, with icy panic and shock still shooting through his limbs, making him shake violently. Harry’s hands roamed Draco’s face and body, then Charlie’s, checking for injuries, and Charlie kept up a quiet litany of “It’s okay, we’re okay,” slowly releasing Draco from the circle of his arms.
Draco wouldn’t let go of Charlie’s wrist, though. He wouldn’t look over his shoulder at Charlie’s face, either. He stared at Harry with a desperate, horrified expression, and stuttered out, “Charlie.”
“I’m right here,” Charlie said, into Draco’s ear, squeezing Draco’s arm. Draco forced in a deep breath, still shaky on the exhale, then shook his head rapidly, desperately, now squeezing Harry’s t-shirt in his fists. Harry frowned, trying to puzzle this reaction out.
But Charlie thought he understood this sickening fear, this untethered anguish. This helplessness.
Very gently, Charlie turned Draco’s face toward him with a finger under his chin. Draco’s eyes were wild and shining and so very scared, and they met Charlie’s like they refused to believe what they were seeing.
“I’m here,” Charlie said, because Draco had been so terrified of losing this that he’d prepared himself for it. His body jumped to the worst conclusions first, knowing how dangerous love had always been, how much of his heart and his livelihood was at stake. “We’re safe, Draco.” Charlie held up his wrist, displaying Harry’s bracelets. “Harry made sure of it.”
Draco drew in a sharp breath as it finally hit him that Charlie was here, alive and surrounding him and not at all destroyed by dragonfire and the shift in Draco’s priorities. A tiny noise escaped his mouth, and Charlie needed to lean in and kiss him, his hand sliding to the back of Draco’s neck.
“I’m sorry,” Draco whimpered between Charlie’s kisses, pulling Harry closer by the fists in his shirt. “I’m sorry.” Charlie kissed his nose, his cheek, and eventually remembered that they were unfortunately not alone, and his skin felt barer than it should be in public.
“It’s alright,” Charlie said, opening his eyes. “We’re alright, sweetheart.” Harry’s face was inches from them, his green eyes bright and warm with relief and adoration. Charlie reached out to cup his cheek, then slowly, carefully extricated himself from their embrace.
He stood to find Andrei a few steps away, in just his vest and jeans, smirking. Andrei held two brooms in one hand, ostensibly borrowed from the Quidditch players, and his own crumpled t-shirt in the other. He tossed the t-shirt at Charlie, who caught it gratefully, removing the remains of his own charred shirt. At least his jeans were mostly intact, held up by his dragon leather belt.
Clothed once again, Charlie looked back at Harry and Draco, who were talking quietly and seriously with their faces close, Draco’s hands still gripping Harry’s shirt, Draco’s face tense with guilt and lingering fear and unavoidable love. Charlie opened his mouth to say something, but ultimately decided against it.
“Haide,” Andrei said, bumping Charlie’s shoulder with one of the brooms. Charlie grabbed the broom, mounted it swiftly, and launched himself into the air after Andrei, racing toward the retreating dots of the dragon and Kit, to do what he did best.
Notes:
"Haide" - "Let's go"/"Come on"
Chapter 20: Part Four: July, 2001 (contd.)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“No barn,” Harry said. “He was underground for too long. Can we give him something else?”
Charlie thought for a moment. “That paddock I finished a few weeks ago, maybe. We can build something for rain cover.” He watched the Ironbelly devour a cow flank, with bloodied teeth and claws, and all the excitement of a child inhaling a birthday cake. “We’ll have to see if he likes it.”
Harry hummed his assent. The sun had just set, a fleeting stripe of dark pink on the horizon, the sky above them a hazy indigo, slowly revealing pinprick stars. The buzz of insects and the satisfied chewing noises of the dragon filled Charlie’s ears, and on impulse, Charlie turned to press a kiss to Harry’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of smoke on the wind in the fabric of Harry’s—Charlie’s—shirt.
“Thought of a name, yet?” Charlie asked.
Harry absently took Charlie’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Carl.”
Charlie lifted his head in mild surprise. “Carl?”
Harry turned his face to look at him, the corner of his lips pulled up in a lopsided smile that made Charlie’s heart soar.
“What?” Harry said. “It’s a good name.”
“I love it.” Charlie squeezed his hand and chuckled. There was a bit of soot on his face. “He recognizes you, y’know.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.” Charlie could feel the comforting thread of familiarity, now that they were away from all those people. Maybe it had even been there at the Stadium, when Charlie was caught up in everyone else’s terror and then Draco’s Occlumency. He would never know. But it was there now: this dragon knew Harry, remembered him as an assurance of freedom and safety.
When they had landed Carl on the Malfoy land, and Harry had eventually caught up with them, it was Harry who had stepped up next to Kit and explained the history of this particular dragon. And Carl had lowered his head toward him, sniffing him out, remembering his scent and his voice, and Harry had smiled at him, greeting him like an old friend.
And Charlie had seen something Harry could be very, very good at—something he could enjoy. He wondered if Harry could see it, too.
If Harry asked, Charlie would hire him in a heartbeat. But Charlie definitely wanted him to ask. He wanted to be sure it was something Harry wanted.
Feeling the approach of a familiar wariness, Charlie released Harry’s hand and turned around. Harry did, too, and Charlie felt his own chest tighten with their combined emotions, like a rope was wrapped around him and Harry both and pulled taut at Draco’s appearance.
Fuck, but Draco was beautiful.
He was walking next to Andrei, the same imposing height but a completely different body, otherwise—Charlie would know. Draco’s hands were in the pockets of his black trousers, a casual grace in the lope of his long legs. He’d abandoned his crimson jacket and opened the top few buttons of his crisp, white shirt. The cool breeze was displacing a single lock of his bright hair, blowing it onto his forehead.
He belongs here, Charlie thought suddenly, enamoured by the way the rowan trees framed him, the dim twilight illuminated him, the fireflies flickered around him like a tiny, quiet welcome parade.
Andrei held a small bundle under his arm, and what looked like Kit’s harmonica in his hand. He was smiling, but not in the usual teasing way—whatever he was muttering about with Draco was serious, and Draco was listening intently to his every word, his head bent slightly toward him. It made that lock of hair fall further toward his eyes.
Harry sighed. “I guess he’s alright.”
Charlie snorted. “Who?”
Harry side-eyed him. “Andrei.”
“Yeah? Even though he tackled you today?” Charlie tried and failed to keep the giggle out of his voice.
“He did not tackle me—”
“Alright, he scooped you up like a naughty puppy—”
Harry laughed and pushed him gently. “Git.” Charlie grabbed his hand again, and held on.
Andrei and Draco finally reached them, with Andrei smiling at their joined hands and Draco’s expression a bit more openly nervous than usual. Still terrified, on the inside. Still guilty.
“Where’s Kit?” Charlie asked.
“Returning your sister’s broom,” Andrei answered, waggling his eyebrows. Charlie clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes through his laughter. “I’ll stay with him tonight.” Andrei nodded toward the dragon, whose head had perked up curiously on their arrival, jangling the chains a little.
“You sure, Andrei?” Charlie said. “You didn’t come here to work, this is supposed to be time off—”
“This isn’t work,” Andrei cut him off with a grin, “and Kit will take over eventually.” He then departed, making his way carefully toward the dragon and dropping the bundle of his sleeping bag on the grassy earth. Charlie watched him, making sure Carl was okay with it. A little wary, but overall soothed that his ordeal of a day was over and he wasn’t hungry and no one had tried to chain him up. And Andrei was easy, emotionally, for new dragons; it had usually been either him or Charlie socializing the new ones.
He was right: it wasn’t really work.
“Ronald told me you’re planning on resigning.”
Charlie turned back around to find Draco’s eyes on Harry, his expression as tense as the statement dropped between them, as if it was all he could do to hold on to that Malfoy composure. Too tired to carry it effortlessly.
“I’m thinking about it,” Harry said slowly. “I want… more.” Draco’s eyes darted to the joined hands, his own still secure in his pockets. Longing, like his heart was suspended between them all, just out of reach.
Harry swallowed hard—determined, stubborn, desperately in love—and kept going.
“And I want to be more than just your partner,” he said. “Draco, I want to be able to love you, as—as loudly as we want.” He blinked in surprise at himself. He was squeezing Charlie’s hand hard enough to hurt. “If you want.”
Draco bit his lip. He wasn’t within touching distance, but Charlie could practically feel his trembling, wanted to hold him tight enough to quell the vibrations, wanted to remind him how to breathe by emulation. He wanted to tell Draco it was okay to want them like this, like Charlie could so clearly feel that he did. He wanted Draco’s magnificent selfishness to take it.
“Walk with me?” Draco said, feeling smaller with each word. Harry and Charlie nodded, and followed Draco into the trees.
The path Draco took was an old one, a desire path that no one had walked in years, almost completely hidden and reclaimed by the Earth. Charlie released Harry’s hand as the path narrowed, allowing them to walk single file. It didn’t seem like a long walk, but the light faded quickly, and Harry and Charlie both pulled out their wands for lumos charms. Draco did not, leading the way through the darkening forest on muscle memory.
They emerged into a clearing, one Charlie had been considering for a landing field. The grass wasn’t too tall, and it had sprouted plentiful little blue wildflowers since he’d last examined it. He’d been in the air, though, at the time.
Draco walked them to the middle of the clearing, drawing their attention to another detail Charlie hadn’t been able to see from his broom: a few gnarled, blackened roots of a long-gone tree, poking out of the rich, grassy earth. The wildflowers had given it a wide berth; Draco stopped walking at their edge, looking down.
Harry and Charlie stepped up on either side of him, and waited.
“This used to be a hawthorn tree,” Draco said. “When I was little, it was my favourite tree in the whole estate.”
Charlie held his breath, staring at Draco while Draco stared at the patch of earth, with its dark, gnarled roots, his brows knit in thought.
“It wasn’t very big, or anything. But it was the perfect size for a child to climb, it had these—holds…” Draco’s hands moved, as if to grab onto the memory of a tree, before shaking himself out of it. “In the summer, it was a perfect little hideaway, and it always bloomed these pretty white flowers when I came home from school. Like it was happy to see me.”
He looked so deep in his reverie, Charlie wanted to climb into his head and sit in the tree with him.
Draco blinked, and looked up, staring at the air in front of him instead. The fireflies had all gone for the night, and Draco’s pale, sharp face was illuminated by nothing but the stars and the glowing tips of Harry’s and Charlie’s downcast wands.
“At the end of my third year, I came home with lower marks than a muggleborn’s, for the third year in a row.” Draco stuffed his hands back into his pockets, a poor attempt at nonchalance. “I didn’t know what my father would do when he found out.”
Draco cleared his throat quickly, covering his mouth with his fist. It shook as he put it back in his pocket.
“He asked me to go for a walk with him. He lectured the whole way, about my duty to the Wizarding World as a pureblood, about how every time I allow a mu—muggleborn, to best me, another pillar of our society crumbles into their hands. He said we would lose everything, that they would ruin our lives, if we didn’t do everything in our power to maintain our superiority. And it would be my fault, as the only Malfoy to ever be bested by a muggleborn.”
Draco inhaled sharply. “He brought me to this tree,” he continued, his voice brittle, “and asked me if I understood. And I said ‘yes, sir,’ without thinking, because I was looking at the tree—it was blooming, with its pretty white flowers, and it wasn’t a particularly good smell, but it was familiar. It was home, and it made me smile, a little, which was the last time I ever dared to do so in front of my father.”
Charlie’s heart sank alongside Harry’s, realizing where this was going.
“Because he drew his wand out of his walking stick—” Draco pulled his hand out of his pocket, pointing with a shaky finger at the ground, “—aimed it at the base of the tree, and set it aflame.”
Charlie’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, a feral surge of combined rage he miraculously held in.
“And we stood there, in silence, and watched it go up in magical flames, until it was nothing but a pile of ash. And I thought—” Draco’s voice cracked, “—if I had not loved this tree so much, Father wouldn’t have been able to hurt me with it. And then I thought… he was right. It was my fault, for not working harder than Hermione Granger, and for allowing such a weakness to be so obvious, and—Father was trying to teach me a lesson, about the dangers of people like Hermione Granger, and the cost of not being good enough for the things I love.”
He took a couple breaths to collect himself, still staring down at the old, ruined roots.
And Charlie turned over every word in his mind like the priceless treasure it was.
“I want—you. Both. Terribly," Draco gritted, shifting restlessly on his feet. Charlie knew the feeling, the maddening twist of run run run with stay stay stay. "But I don’t think I’ll ever not—be afraid.” Draco finally looked up, first at Harry, then Charlie, and Charlie had to fight back the urge to touch him. “Do you understand?”
Charlie smiled, softly, because he did understand. This confused Draco, who had accepted Harry’s hand, who was clearly waiting for a response or rebuke.
Charlie stepped closer, holding Draco’s eye contact. He felt Harry’s gaze on him, too—felt it return to Draco, a hope so strong it was almost painful.
“Do you want us anyway?” Harry asked.
Draco swallowed, turning back to Harry. He nodded, then winced, and made himself say it:
“I—love you,” Draco said, “anyway. I’m afraid I can’t help it.” He glanced at Charlie, and Charlie knew it was directed at both of them. He could see it, in the way Draco had just laid himself bare, intentionally; giving Charlie a part of him to hold, on purpose. He could feel it in the heat in his chest, and the comforting anchor in his head. He could feel Draco’s love for him in the tightness of Draco’s grip on Harry’s hand, a touch Charlie wasn’t even currently a part of.
Charlie took another step forward, then pulled them both into a tight embrace, tucking his face into Draco’s neck, Draco’s arm wrapping around his back like it belonged there, like he’d hoped for this. He felt Harry’s arm on his shoulders, heard Harry plant a light kiss on Draco’s cheek.
“I love you, too,” Harry mumbled, and Charlie could hear his smile. He breathed in the sublime scent of lemony cologne and lingering dragon smoke, and kissed the corner of Draco’s jaw.
“I’m scared, too,” Charlie whispered, knowing that Draco would hear it for what it was: I’m loving you, anyway.
***
Even in Charlie’s luxurious shower, it was a tight fit for three, but none of them minded. Their closeness felt divine.
All the better for Charlie to wash Draco’s warm, muscular back, watching the tender grip of Harry’s hands on Draco’s shoulders, in his wet hair, while Draco gave in to Harry’s sweet, apologetic kisses.
While Draco’s tentative, remorseful fingers traced the slashing lines of Harry’s new scars.
Charlie shook his head fondly, too full of love to speak.
You are forgiven.
Impulsively, Charlie pressed a kiss to the knob of Draco’s spine, before all the suds had been washed away, then laughed softly and spluttered as the bitter soap found his tongue. He stuck it out under the stream of water to rinse it, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and when he was able to open them again, Harry and Draco were both watching him, with incredulously delighted grins on their faces.
“What?” Charlie pushed his wet hair off his forehead, unable to keep their infectious happiness out of his own expression.
“Utterly ridiculous,” Draco muttered through his smile, and Harry laughed, radiating fondness that warmed Charlie more efficiently than the hot water ever could. Charlie felt Draco’s hand on his hipbone, an innocent squeeze that pulled him closer, allowing Draco to kiss Charlie’s temple like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing, because Charlie could recognize this sensation, now—this fearful-craving-determined-do something—for the profound bravery it was, and was rendered speechless once again by the gesture.
Together, Draco and Charlie convinced Harry to take the last of his potions. They moved a giggling Harry to the bed, clad in only briefs, and climbed in on either side of him, propped up on their elbows to see him better, smirking at his antics. He kept trying to pull them in for more heated makeout sessions, and pouted when he was denied this, then crossed his arms and demanded to watch Charlie and Draco kiss if they weren’t going to kiss him. They obliged this briefly, too briefly to turn into anything, their lips coming together above Harry’s chest.
Harry pouted yet again when they pulled away, but quickly forgot about it, because he was trying to remember a song—“c’mon, you know it, how does it go, ‘I must have you every day, as regularly as coffee or tea…’”—and falling asleep halfway through one of the “silliest Sinatra renditions” Draco had ever heard.
Harry’s breaths slowed. Charlie’s cheeks hurt from smiling.
“I think,” Draco said quietly, and Charlie looked up, “that was his potion-addled, roundabout way of asking if you’ve had your evening cuppa, yet.”
Charlie snorted, trying not to laugh again. His abs were sore. “You think so?”
“I’m positive.” Draco smiled at him.
“Well, I haven’t,” Charlie mumbled, settling himself down against Harry’s side. “And I think I’ll be alright without it tonight.” He didn’t want to move. The tea would still be there tomorrow, and Draco would still be there to share it with him.
“If you’re sure,” Draco sighed happily, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. Charlie reached over, slowly, and started combing the damp blond hair out of his face. Draco watched him, his silver eyes bright in the dim, golden lamplight.
“You know,” Charlie said hesitantly, “I’m up for revenge, if you are.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Revenge?”
“Mm.” Charlie laid his hand on Draco’s cheek, his thumb swiping under Draco’s eye. “Your dad destroyed something you love, so…” his lips quirked, “why don’t we burn down what he loves most?”
Draco huffed an incredulous laugh. “I’ve already donated it to a Weasley.”
“A Weasley with access to a great deal of fire.”
Draco chuckled again, reaching his arm over Harry’s waist. “Revenge isn’t very honourable, I hear.”
“I know.” Charlie grinned. “But we are neither selfless, nor honourable.”
Draco bit his lip to hold in more laughter, clearly trying not to wake Harry. Charlie took Draco’s hand from Harry’s waist, lacing their fingers together over Harry’s chest. He’d never felt Draco so… safe, before. He’d never felt Draco’s trust, quite like this. So happily anchored.
“We’re not so helpless,” Charlie whispered, “you and me.”
Draco held his gaze, pulling their joined hands to his face and kissing Charlie’s knuckles.
“Perhaps not.”
***
Charlie roused briefly at the awkward shuffling of Harry’s body out from between them. Draco rolled into the warm space at the same time as Charlie, ending up tangled in a sleepy embrace, and Charlie couldn’t help but smile at Harry’s amused chuckle, hearing him head to the loo. Charlie draped his leg over Draco’s, closed his eyes against the rising sun, and dozed off once more, wrapped up in the decadence of Harry’s scent and Draco’s body heat.
When he woke again, it was to Harry’s hand stroking his thigh, and Draco’s lips on his forehead, and the abrupt realization that he had never been happier. It filled him up, warm and light and slow, with a sort of foreign familiarity—it was new, different, and he knew it was his own, though he could feel Harry’s and Draco’s, too, braided into him.
Then Draco’s hips moved, and Harry’s hand squeezed, and Charlie’s attention was immediately drawn to the hardness against his hip. He laughed softly.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Shut up,” Draco grumbled against Charlie’s forehead, but Charlie could feel the smile. “Can’t be helped, with this one’s hands all over—” his breath caught in his throat, at whatever said hands had discovered. Charlie hummed happily, burying his face in Draco’s neck, grinding his own semi lightly against Draco’s erection. Harry grabbed Charlie’s thigh, pulling them closer together.
“Harry?” Charlie kissed the warm skin of Draco’s neck, while Draco’s head tipped back for him. “Something you want, baby?”
Harry’s quiet laugh was a low rumble, pleased and sweet like treacle in the back of Charlie’s mouth; he felt the vibrations of it through Draco’s chest. Harry’s head popped up from behind Draco’s, his joy shining out of his face.
“Maybe.”
Harry curled himself around Draco’s body, kissing Draco’s cheek and holding him close, and Charlie pulled back just to watch the inevitable smiles, in tandem with their effervescent love in his chest. He laid a hand on Harry’s stubbled jaw, spilling over with adoration, ensnared by the green and grey eyes staring back at him.
My boys, floated through his mind like a feather on the wind, and Harry’s eyebrows shot up, and Draco’s lips parted as he blushed bright pink, but not as pink as Charlie upon realizing he’d said it aloud.
“Well, alright then,” Draco teased weakly. Harry snickered, utterly delighted, and started mouthing at Draco’s sharp jawbone, his long neck.
“We could be your boys,” Harry mumbled against Draco’s skin, watching Charlie, while Draco’s eyelids fluttered at the feeling.
Charlie grinned, leaning forward to brush his nose against Draco’s. “Do you want that?” Directed at Draco alone.
Draco hummed, a non-answer, kissing Charlie instead. Charlie allowed it for a moment, the bliss of Draco’s soft, affectionate kisses and hot desire sending a wave of goosebumps over his skin.
“Draco.” Harry spoke into Draco’s shoulder, his hand gliding down Draco’s side, around to his back. “Can I—”
“‘Course, darling,” Draco replied easily; Charlie kissed it right out of his mouth, as Harry stripped off Draco's briefs. He heard Harry fumble for the lube, and then Draco’s mouth was opening under Charlie’s, his breath hitching sweetly, and then it hit Charlie that he was finally, finally going to see Harry fuck Draco. Right here, in his bed, in their bed.
Draco’s free hand—the one that wasn’t trapped under Charlie’s head—wandered to Charlie’s chest, resting over his heart. Charlie brought it up to his own face and kissed Draco’s fingertips, slipping the middle and index finger into his mouth.
A tiny, wrecked sound escaped Draco’s throat; Charlie closed his eyes to savour it. Draco’s hips started rocking, forward against Charlie’s hip, back onto Harry’s finger, and though Charlie couldn’t see Harry’s hand, he tried to match the pace as he sucked indulgently on Draco’s fingers, keeping their bodies close.
When he opened his eyes, Draco’s were staring back at him, luminous with morning light and blown with arousal and wanting, so wonderfully obvious. Charlie slowly removed Draco’s fingers from his mouth, biting them playfully.
“My boys,” Charlie whispered, again, just to watch Draco’s eyes widen. “My sweetheart.” Draco licked his lips. “Do you want that? To be mine?”
“And mine,” Harry added with a grin, nibbling on Draco’s ear.
“And yours,” Charlie agreed happily.
Draco let out a heavy exhale as Harry added another finger. The pretty flush hadn’t left his cheeks, and it was melting down his neck, splotches of pink on his scarred chest as Charlie took him in hand.
Fear, trust, nervousness; “Yes,” Draco said, fighting himself for it. “Say it again,” the sharp accent at odds with the soft, breathy tone, with his leg tangling with Charlie’s, spreading himself wide.
“Sweetheart,” Charlie obliged, stroking him slowly. Harry lined himself up, and Draco looked back at him, the rush of their eyes meeting sending frissons of excitement and love through Charlie’s veins. “My beautiful boys.”
And then he got to watch Harry’s face transform with rapture, and see that little furrow of concentration form between Draco’s brows, and hear the shaky, breathless moan that left Harry’s mouth as he bottomed out, the sound muffled against Draco’s shoulder. Draco’s fingers reached back to Harry’s hair, holding him there, his other arm circling Charlie’s shoulders and gripping tight; Charlie tried to take it all in, awestruck by how well they fit together.
“Go on, darling,” Draco rasped, and Harry began to move, breathing hard against Draco’s shoulder, one arm wrapped tight around Draco’s chest. His shallow thrusts pushed Draco even closer to Charlie, until Charlie’s hand barely had the space to move.
“Oh—” Draco breathed as Harry adjusted his angle, his grip tightening on Charlie’s shoulder, “—there—”
Charlie grabbed Draco’s chin and kissed him hard, turning Draco’s voice into a sweet moan. Harry’s appreciation was tangible, in Charlie’s head and in the acceleration of his thrusts, in the heightened sounds of skin on skin. Charlie opened his mouth, taking Draco’s eager tongue, while Harry pushed and Draco pulled him closer, closer—
“Fuck,” Charlie said as Draco finally rolled on top of him, with Harry shifting and retaking his place behind Draco. “Do you want to—?”
“I want to fuck you,” Draco said, spreading himself open for Harry, a synchronized sigh of satisfaction as Harry entered him again. Charlie smirked up at him, stripping his own briefs.
“Open me up, then,” he replied, with only a slight challenge in his voice. Draco raised his hand, palm up, and Charlie knit his brows in confusion, until he heard Harry mutter something under his breath—while slowly fucking Draco—and Draco’s hand was suddenly coated with a wandless lubrication charm, making Charlie laugh.
“You bloody showoffs, the lube’s right there—” Charlie cut off with a sharp inhale as Draco’s finger slid into him. Draco’s smile turned almost wicked, his silver eyes shining with accomplishment, and Harry let out a soft moan behind him before pulling out again, gripping Draco’s hips.
“Fuck,” Harry gasped, catching his breath. Charlie and Draco watched him crawl around to Charlie’s side, his face flushed and his green eyes hungry. “Take your time, Draco,” he said, before claiming Charlie’s mouth in a kiss. Charlie melted into it, pulling his own knees up as Draco pushed deeper.
Charlie could feel Draco’s gaze almost as intensely as the fingers inside him. He loved being the object of Draco’s desire, the center of his extraordinary focus. He loved feeling Draco’s pride in his pleasure, when Draco found his prostate and pressed. He loved tasting Harry’s smile at the sound he made, and the warm tingling in his lips from Harry’s stubbly, devouring kisses. He never thought he’d get to feel such contentment, such euphoria, especially from having two men in his bed, lavishing him with pleasure and affection.
But these were no ordinary men, and he loved them, both of them, so much it could destroy him.
He knew it wouldn’t.
Draco took his time, like it was a luxury, opening Charlie up with his fingers. He watched the path of Harry’s lips down Charlie’s throat, he rubbed his free hand down the dip of Harry’s spine, back up to Harry’s hair, pulling just so they could hear the honeyed whine Harry made. He even dragged Harry’s head to Charlie’s chest, where Harry laved his tongue over Charlie’s nipple, an excellent distraction while Draco worked in a third finger.
By the time Draco deemed him ready, Charlie was gasping, his cock achingly hard and leaking against his stomach. Harry sat up to watch Charlie’s face as Draco pushed in, while Charlie watched Draco’s mouth, for that perfect little oh his lips made.
Draco settled his weight over Charlie, his strong arms on either side of Charlie’s head, and leaned down for a kiss. Charlie could barely kiss him properly, through the exhilarating feeling of fullness and closeness and combined devotion, but he kept his reverent hands on Draco’s face, murmuring into his mouth.
“Sweetheart.” Charlie ran his fingers through Draco’s sleep-mussed hair, kissing him sporadically. “You feel so good—so good for us.”
Charlie and Draco both gasped softly as Harry retook his place behind Draco, sliding back into him easily, pushing Draco impossibly deeper into Charlie.
“Oh, fuck,” Draco groaned, his shoulders shaking as he held himself up. A thin sheen of sweat was breaking out on his forehead; Charlie wiped away the strands of pale hair sticking to it. Harry’s arms circled Draco’s chest, one hand gliding down to witness the place Charlie and Draco were joined.
And then Draco began to move, lighting both Charlie and Harry up on the inside, and Charlie could only hold tight to Draco’s face and let the ecstasy of it all wash over him.
“Perfect, baby,” Charlie said, finding Harry’s hand on Draco’s chest, bringing it down to grip Draco’s hip, together. “Just like that.”
Draco found his rhythm, and an angle so perfect every breath became vocal, each thrust more unfettered and fierce. His eyes had closed at some point, his expression tense with pleasure, and Charlie had never seen him truly let himself go like this, before, around Harry. He found himself unable to look away.
Draco’s eyes opened and pierced Charlie’s own with a feverish intensity, wide with incredulity, like he couldn’t believe it either, like it felt too good to be true, and then Draco’s hand was moving over Charlie’s chest, resting just below the base of Charlie’s throat, a firm, possessive weight. Charlie smiled as his arousal surged, feeling Draco’s ever-lingering nerves, always questioning, his constant insecurity nearly drowned out by the strength of his passion and conviction.
“Yeah,” Charlie breathed as Draco’s hips sped up, “yours, sweetheart. We’re all yours.”
“Fuck,” Harry said, his hands tightening on Draco’s hips, “god, I’m going to come, Draco, please—”
Draco grabbed Harry’s hand, pulling it up his chest to his shoulder, until Harry was pressed against him completely, his face buried in Draco’s neck. His thrusts came hard and fast, and Charlie held still so he could feel them through Draco’s body; it felt like Harry was fucking him through Draco, and it also felt like heaven. Harry keened and bit down on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco’s head tipped back against his, closing his eyes to revel in sensation.
And then Draco was moving again, reaching back to hold Harry’s hips against him, keeping Harry inside him while he started to fuck Charlie in earnest. Charlie arched his back and swore as his orgasm rapidly approached, exacerbated by Draco’s possessive hands and Harry’s sweet, overstimulated whimpers, by Draco’s acute determination and Harry’s glazed, admiring gaze over Draco’s shoulder. Charlie didn’t know whose hand was on his cock, but he came so hard he nearly yelled, and then Draco was spilling inside him, and everything was warm, so warm, loved, home.
After a vague and indeterminate amount of time, Charlie blinked his way back to the present to find Harry and Draco laying on either side of him, their sweaty limbs twined with his, in the middle of a conversation Charlie hadn’t truly been aware of.
“Do you think he knows he does that?” Harry was saying.
“Somehow, I doubt it,” Draco muttered, tracing the burn scars on Charlie’s chest with a delicate touch.
“Who does what?” Charlie mumbled sleepily, squinting against the bright sunlight that was now streaming in through the window. Harry chuckled, tilting his head to kiss Charlie’s jaw, and Draco pressed his hand fully against Charlie’s sternum.
“You project when you come,” Draco answered bluntly. Charlie’s eyes flew open.
“Shit,” Charlie said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“We like it,” Harry interrupted. “It’s like a bonus, emotional orgasm.” He couldn’t hold in his giggles. “Emotional ejaculation.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped, a shocked, quiet laugh spilling from him thanks to Harry’s giddiness. He turned to Draco with a question in his eyes.
“It’s true,” Draco said quietly. His hair was a mess, and he looked so relaxed, and Charlie was so in love. Again. “It feels…” he trailed off, smiling involuntarily.
“It feels like you love us,” Harry finished for him, “more than anything.” Charlie turned to him instead, but the feeling didn’t fade. He was so, so in love. “It feels—huge, Charlie.”
“Yeah,” Charlie croaked, burying his fingers in Harry’s dark curls. “It does. I do.” He turned to Draco again. “And you’re both… alright with that?”
Draco’s smile moved to his eyes, locked with Charlie’s. It took him a moment to respond, in a softer voice than Charlie had ever heard from him: “Yes, Charlie.”
Charlie grinned, then all three of them jumped at the sound of a fist on the bedroom door, and a familiar, teasing voice behind it:
“If you’re done, boys,” Andrei yelled gleefully, “Ginny is here to fetch the new godfather.”
Charlie gaped like a fish, “What…?” then launched himself out of the bed as the words caught up to him, “Fuck! Now?!”
***
Bill looked exhausted, weary and disheveled, leaning against the wall in the sterile white corridor of St. Mungo’s, but Charlie smiled immediately, because he was overflowing with joy and love beneath that bone-tired exterior.
“Hey,” Charlie said, catching his breath, “sorry I’m—is she—?”
“She’s alright,” Bill said fondly, pulling Charlie in for a hug without hesitation. “They both are. I’m so glad you’re here, Charlie.”
“Oh,” Charlie said into Bill’s shoulder, unsure of what else to say, his anxiety diminishing slightly in the face of his brother’s love and acceptance.
“Would you like to meet her?” Bill asked, pulling away and putting a hand on the nearest doorknob.
Charlie blinked dumbly. “Right now?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got other plans,” Bill said, leading the way into the dimly lit room.
The first thing Charlie noticed after closing the door behind him was the bed, upon which lay a very fatigued Fleur, propped up on the pillows, with a tiny little blanketed bundle in her arms.
“Charlie,” Fleur greeted happily, her bell-like voice a bit raspy with exhaustion. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, and though she looked like she needed a few days’ sleep, she radiated joy and contentment. Charlie hadn’t yet recovered from his shock enough to speak.
Bill smiled at Fleur from Charlie’s side, mumbling something saccharine in French before walking to the bed, kissing his wife on the head, and carefully taking the bundle from Fleur’s arms. Charlie’s stomach flipped with what might have been fear—his own—tangling messily with excitement and admiration, as Bill herded Charlie to the chair next to the bed.
What if he fucked it up? What if he held her wrong and hurt her? What if he made her cry? What if they hated him for it?
Bill smiled softly at the bundle, oblivious to Charlie’s inner turmoil. He leaned down and delicately placed it in Charlie’s arms, arranging them both slightly—“Support her head—there you go, you’re a natural, Charlie.”
Charlie held his breath as the weight settled into his arms—surprisingly negligible, for the life-changing gravity of it—and peered into the face within the swaddle of blankets.
“Oh,” Charlie exhaled shakily.
Victoire was asleep, serene and content, and though this was his first time ever seeing her, Charlie recognized her.
Emotionally. He’d felt her before.
He recognized this wavelength, like his brain was looking back over the last few months and finding all the glimpses of tiny blue thread in the emotional tapestry of his family. Victoire.
“Hello,” Charlie whispered, rocking gently. It felt like the right thing to do. Victoire’s tiny face pinched, and she squirmed slightly before opening her eyes.
Charlie couldn’t help it; a little laugh spilled out of him, a joy he couldn’t keep in. She had Bill’s eyes, a bright blue, and wisps of golden hair on her head, and she looked at Charlie like she knew him from somewhere, and was very politely trying to remember his name before speaking. Which was ridiculous.
“I know you,” Charlie said, in a low, sing-song voice. He held out his finger for her reaching hand, and felt the weirdly strong grip of her tiny fingers on his heart. “You have the smallest ears I’ve ever seen.” Victoire let out a small noise, like she was practicing it. “We’ll have to wait a bit to pierce them, I’m afraid.”
Fleur groaned in vexation, and Bill laughed, and it was okay, they were okay—everything was okay, and Charlie was holding a human baby in his arms and he loved her already, and maybe he had no idea what he was doing, but he was going to give it his best shot.
He was going to be there, for every milestone and birthday and heartbreak and obstacle, and he’d get better at math if he needed to help her with homework, and he’d teach her how to catch her first snitch, and introduce her to her first dragons, and this child was going to be so, so loved.
Soon enough, the small hospital room was filled with Weasleys and Delacours and the occasional Healer or mediwitch, a constant, hushed chatter of both English and French, of happiness and nerves and exasperation and love. Charlie followed the baby from person to person, so Bill could relax and sit with his wife. Bill had Fleur’s hand in both of his, tracing the lines of her palm, like she was a miracle he was trying to commit to memory.
Ginny was showing off her freshly bandaged leg, recounting the details of the dragon-interrupted game to anyone who would listen. Next to Hermione, George was mocking Percy, who was attempting his best French with the Delacours, and Arthur was passing out biscuits Molly had made. Molly was blubbering in happiness, which is when Harry came in with Draco and Ron, a muttered conversation about the DMLE abruptly transformed into cooing upon the sight of the newborn child.
“She’s so small,” Harry said, staring down at Victoire in awe. Charlie was holding her, and she was making that face again, like she was trying to be decorous about not knowing them yet.
“I know,” Charlie said, his eyes catching on a new leather bracelet adorning Harry’s wrist as Harry let Victoire grip his finger. Harry noticed, and blushed, but then Victoire started to fuss, and Charlie panicked for a second, until he realized, “Oh. She’s hungry,” and laughed at himself for knowing this. Perhaps being a godfather would be easier than he thought.
Fleur held out her arms for her child, which Charlie carefully delivered. People started slowly clearing out of the room, until it was only the new parents, the godfather, and the godfather’s boyfriends waiting patiently by the door.
“I’ll bring dinner over, sometime next week?” Charlie offered tentatively, squeezing Fleur’s hand. They nodded at him, their affection and gratitude filling his chest with lightness.
“We’ll need it,” Fleur said. “Thank you, Charlie.”
Charlie nodded back and made his way quickly out of the room, with Harry and Draco in tow.
He felt drunk, almost, a thread frayed and worn thin from so much use throughout the day. But Harry and Draco flanked him, as if they understood this, and guided him toward the floos without question. Harry even took Charlie’s hand, his pride and love tangible in Charlie’s overworked mind. Draco kept his hands clasped behind him, aristocratic and intimidating, even in his normal clothes.
They weren’t stopped on their way to the floos, until they crossed the threshold into St. Mungo’s reception.
“Mr. Potter!” A flash went off, and another, and Harry squeezed Charlie’s hand hard as Charlie blinked the burned colours out of his vision. “Mr. Potter! What is your response to the accusations of infidelity—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry grumbled, close enough to Charlie to be heard over the noise. Charlie looked around, trying to keep up, and noticed Draco’s lip curled in what looked like distaste, but what Charlie knew as a snarl. He noticed Harry’s body moving in front of him, shielding both Charlie and Draco from the onslaught, and he noticed Harry’s hand on Draco’s wrist, keeping Draco’s wand sheathed. There was a small crowd gathering, but the light and noise was coming from a single reporter, an average wizard with short, sandy hair and greedy eyes.
Charlie felt Draco’s fingers brushing his own, and he grabbed onto them before he could think about it. Harry was now standing in front of both of them, hands up to appease the pushy reporter. He was saying something, but a warm weight was settling in Charlie’s mind, a swaddling so sweet Charlie wanted to close his eyes and float. He leaned into Draco’s side.
“I love them both,” Charlie heard Harry say. “And they love me, and you shouldn’t even be allowed to have cameras in here—who let him in—?”
“Mr. Potter, if relations between Aurors are prohibited, how will this affect your illustrious career—”
“Illustrious?” Harry scoffed. Draco started to reach for the back of Harry’s shirt. “You think what I’ve been doing my entire life is illustrious? Or do you just think that because the Ministry now pays me to do it?”
The scritching sound of a Quick-Quotes Quill on parchment. The loud reporter looked like he’d happened upon a mountain of gold.
“Harry,” Draco said quietly, a subtle pinch to the back of Harry’s t-shirt. Harry ignored him.
“Did you think it was glorious when I was fighting bad guys for free, as a child? Did you find that heroic, too?”
“But of course, Mr. Potter, your responsibility to the Wizarding World—”
“Let me go, Draco,” Charlie heard himself say, and then fury and greed and indignation and defensiveness came rushing back in, making Charlie wince, but he only had one goal in his mind. Draco tried to release his hand, too, but Charlie held on tighter, and cleared his throat to get the man’s attention.
The reporter’s eyes lit up with even more avidity, and his mouth opened to release what would have undoubtedly been a barrage of rude and incendiary questions that would have incited Harry into a very public explosion, but the words never left his thin lips.
Because Charlie had his eye contact, and Charlie was exhausted and enraged at the sheer audacity, the nerve of this greed-fueled reporter trying to ruin their lovely day—
You are ashamed.
The man made a choked off little sound, his eyes widening with confusion, then fear, then shame. Shame. Shame.
Harry’s hand landed on Charlie’s arm. Draco’s hand was trapped in Charlie’s grip. Charlie loved them, and he was tired, and now he was angry.
You are ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” the man mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Merlin’s beard, I’m so sorry. I was tipped by someone in the Auror Department that the three of you would be here, I hid the camera on the way in…” He shook his head futilely. “I’m sorry. What am I even…? It’s none of my business, I know, I’m just trying to make a living—”
“Have you considered,” Harry began, his familiar voice breaking Charlie’s concentration; Charlie blinked a few times, before looking over at Harry’s shocked and slightly amused expression, “that maybe we don’t have to go on doing things that make us unhappy, because it’s expected of us?”
The reporter rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, maybe. Look, I won’t—”
“Publish it,” Harry cut him off. “But tell the truth. I resigned from the Aurors this morning. I’m in a relationship with both of these men, and they’re with me.” He turned his head to look back at Draco. “If that’s alright. If not, I can Obliviate him right now.” His wand was in his hand before anyone had even noticed, and he twirled it idly around his finger in a mild threat. The man squeaked fearfully.
A corner of Draco’s lips turned up, pleased despite himself. Draco nodded once, still holding Charlie’s hand.
“Thank you,” the man said, letting out a heavy breath of relief. “I can give you the name of my informant in the DMLE—”
“We're familiar with Auror Hendricks,” Draco interrupted. “Send a pensieve memory to the Head Auror, would you?”
The reporter stammered out his assent, and finally moved out of their path. Charlie made a note to himself to send a memory of his own to the Head Auror, if it would help get that bastard sacked.
The remainder of their short journey to the floo was quiet, as they ignored the stares and whispers and turning heads, Charlie’s mind swimming with his boyfriends’ adoration and pride.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Draco muttered, finally, just loud enough for Charlie and Harry to hear. Harry snorted. Charlie squeezed Draco’s hand again.
“Can’t you?” Charlie replied, grinning up at him. Draco’s eyes shone with mischief and admiration, an answer in itself. Harry grabbed a fistful of complimentary floo powder, threw it into the flames, and pulled them inside with him.
"Well?" Harry said, an arm slung around each of their waists. “Where to?”
Charlie found Harry's hand on his hip, brushing a finger over the knots on the new, hopeful bracelet on Harry's wrist. They were cramped together in the tight space, with cool green flames licking at their legs, but Charlie turned his face up to Draco, waiting for an answer.
Draco leaned his head down, drawing them both closer, and pressed his lips to Charlie’s cheekbone.
“Take us home, love,” he said, a liberation Charlie felt in his bones.
Charlie called out the name of his cottage without hesitation, keeping them close as they were whisked through the winding, twisting Floo Network, and when they landed in Charlie’s sitting room, he felt it roll off of them both, warm and freeing and stronger than anything he’d ever been able to project:
We are home.
~
Notes:
Ahhh!! We did it! Epilogue coming Thursday!! Thank you so much for reading and for all of the love! <3 <3 <3
Chapter 21: Epilogue: Narcissa
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
December, 2001
At sundown exactly, Narcissa’s portkey dropped her smoothly on the long, gravel drive of her former home, which surprised her—she’d assumed that the wards would have been adjusted to prevent her such an easy entry.
She didn’t pause. She landed as if she’d been walking the entire time, as she was taught. Her thick winter robes billowed around her, the chilly December wind whipping her golden hair about her face. She strode forward with poise and purpose, as always, keeping her chin high and her shoulders back. Her fingertips brushed against the outside of her right thigh, checking one last time that her wand was in place in its holster, the only outward sign of the tumultuous anxiety within.
Her step faltered when she rounded a curve in the lane, bringing what used to be Malfoy Manor into view. A small gasp escaped her, noticeable only to herself; the front lawn was teeming with ginger-haired wix, all of them excited and wary and fond, and above their heads floated hundreds of tiny, colourful lumos lights, illuminating the cold, dark scene with an artificial, but heartfelt warmth.
She’d never seen anything like it. She couldn’t help but stare, for just a moment, taking it all in: the dark, empty fortress of the Manor, the happy, bundled people gathered in front of it, and all those lights, magic made visible, luminescent, like visual expressions of the laughter and exclamations coming from the rowdy group.
And then, inevitably, her presence was noticed. The wariness increased tenfold as eyes turned towards her, and she steeled herself, but there was a joy among them, too, recognition and trust—
Ah, Narcissa thought, suppressing the smile as Charlie Weasley sauntered over with a wide grin on his face. That’s why.
“Narcissa,” he greeted warmly, and before she could even register his proximity, she was being wrapped up in an honest-to-Merlin hug, which shocked a small, spluttering laugh out of her. She barely remembered to return it, politely, overwhelmed by the very distinct, flammable scent and the unexpected human contact. “I’m so glad you could come.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied automatically, patting him on the back.
The last time she’d interacted with Charlie—in person—had been at her Villa, on her own terms, her own territory. This territory was familiar, but it was so clearly Charlie’s now, and she hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d had to stand for herself on enemy grounds like this. No—not enemy, she reminded herself, just unfamiliar. Vulnerable. Not home. Not anymore.
Charlie released her, but held on to her shoulders, meeting her eyes. He smirked knowingly.
“Stop worrying,” he muttered under his breath, and Narcissa kicked herself internally for forgoing Occlumency tonight. She’d been too caught up in making herself presentable, non-threatening but respectable, worrying about this evening and what it meant for her and how she would be received by a pack of Weasleys armed with dragons and her only son.
Of course, this particular Weasley could see right through her, if she let him. Which she did. She’d told herself she needed her empathy tonight, to know if anyone was about to hex her, but already it was proving to be a vulnerability she wasn’t sure she could handle—
“Oh,” she exclaimed softly, as something fiercely protective filled her chest, something shimmery and soft and revelatory. Something that wasn’t her own, but connected to her in a subtle, convoluted way. Charlie’s cheeks flamed as he released her, but his smile remained.
“Goodness,” Narcissa murmured, digesting the secondhand emotion. “You really love him.”
Charlie let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. Narcissa didn’t even need this ability to read him; she’d forgotten how entertaining it could be. It sometimes felt like watching a theatre production, seeing people express their emotions so openly, like they were acting out the scripts of their hearts. She usually had to remind herself that most humans weren’t raised to be pillars of stone.
Charlie turned around at the first frisson of Harry Potter, who was approaching them at a slightly more reserved speed than Charlie. Narcissa didn’t have too much experience with Harry, but she’d recognize the feeling of him anywhere: such a distinct combination of earnestness and stubbornness, now laced with an irrepressible warmth and desire as he watched Charlie.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry greeted with a tentative smile, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He was curious, too, and nervous, which probably meant that Narcissa’s composure was intact, and to anyone but Charlie, she looked fearless and untouchable. As always.
So she allowed herself a small, reassuring smile as she returned, “Mr. Potter.”
Harry smiled widely. “Harry, please.”
“Very well, Harry.”
“Draco should be home any minute.”
Home.
Narcissa’s smile twitched faintly, the only indicator of her surprise. To all but Charlie Weasley, of course, who grinned so victoriously that Harry looked over at him in mild confusion, raising an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Charlie answered, glancing at Narcissa, full of accomplishment and pride. Harry shook his head fondly.
“Right, then. I’ll go check on Carl and Andrei.”
When Harry was finally out of hearing distance, Charlie turned his elated smile back to Narcissa.
“Yes,” he said. “Home.”
Narcissa shook her head slightly, bewildered. “Draco loathes this place.” Her eyes were drawn to the ominous building once again, all cold stone and suffocating vines and windows too thick and ornate to properly see through. It looked darker than ever, even with the magical lights, and she couldn’t tell if it was the winter evening or the remnants of her sister’s curses, her husband’s greed, her own failures. The Dark Lord was dead, but his cruel magic coated the walls in that Manor like a toxic mould. She and Draco had gotten out of it as soon as they could.
“No, he doesn’t,” Charlie corrected quietly, following her gaze. “He’s not too keen on that building, though. Neither am I.” He turned back to Narcissa. “Are you sure you’re alright with this?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered immediately.
“‘Cause if not, you know, I can call this off. I know it meant a lot to you—”
“It’s a building,” Narcissa cut him off. “It’s a building in which I raised my son, and survived…” She trailed off, deciding to end her sentence there. “Draco is the best thing to come out of that building in centuries. He’s much more important than the stone.”
Charlie nodded once, keeping that small, proud smile on his face.
“I know you both gave it to me, put it under my name and everything,” he said, “but this land, this place—it’s his, really. It’s ours. It’s—it’s his home.”
Draco chose that moment to appear by the Manor’s steps in a loud pop of apparition, holding the forearm of Ronald Weasley, both of them clad in their crimson Auror uniforms. They were in the middle of an animated conversation, all smiles and hand movements, and Narcissa’s heart soared, because she hadn’t seen him since June, and she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him with a real, honest friend.
She glanced around the group, who seemed to be waiting for Charlie to get out of the way so they could greet her, and realized that all of these people were happy to see Draco—all of them. They were happy to be there, not to see Malfoy Manor burn, but to be together, to be around Draco, and maybe even to see her.
Draco smiled when he saw her, and hurried over.
“Mother,” he greeted, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he embraced her, too. Narcissa tried not to act surprised, and hugged him back as tightly as she wanted. These displays of affection were rare, she knew, which was partially her own fault.
Andromeda arrived shortly after with an armful of boisterous, joyful Teddy. She exchanged a kiss on the cheek with Narcissa, and Teddy hugged her leg, chattering on about the dragons he wanted to see and what he got for Christmas this year. Both Charlie and Draco stayed close, while Narcissa made polite conversation with every Weasley and tried her best to remember their names. She was even allowed to hold a nearly six-month-old baby, giving the mother—Fleur, she recalled, thanks to the French conversation—a much needed break. Molly Weasley thanked her for teaching Charlie Occlumency, and Narcissa was so caught off guard by it that she could only thank Molly in return, for being so kind to Draco.
Charlie broke off from the group to greet his brother, Percy, as well as a Ministry witch with fluffy grey hair—Geraldine, he called her—and give her a leather bracelet, which she slipped on immediately.
Narcissa noticed, then, that every single attendant was wearing a similar bracelet. Charlie was wearing several, as were Ronald and Draco.
Which is when Harry appeared in front of her again, grinning sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, “forgot to give this to you earlier.” He held an open bracelet in his hands, expectantly. Narcissa delivered her bare wrist, concealing her shock, and Harry began to tie the bracelet closed.
“It’s beautiful, Harry,” she said, still a bit confused, but not enough to be impolite about a gift. “Thank you.”
“It’s charmed,” Harry said absently, double checking the knot. “Dragonfire won’t touch you, with this on.”
Narcissa stared at him, speechless. “You made this?” Harry nodded, a little embarrassed.
“Yeah. Yes.” He waved his hand awkwardly toward the Manor. “Safety first, and all.”
Narcissa couldn’t help but chuckle, which filled Harry with immense pride. She brought her wrist to her face, examining the delicate patterns in the leather strands. “Outstanding, Harry. Truly. Thank you.”
He shrugged it off, then caught sight of Draco walking toward them, and Narcissa nearly lost her breath at the rush of it, sparkling joy and fervent respect and unmitigated adoration, and sweet Circe, these men most definitely loved her son.
She’d known about it, of course—Harry and Charlie were hardly subtle in their feelings, whenever Narcissa had encountered them. She’d read about it in the Daily Prophet, she’d heard snippets about it from Draco. But she’d always been skeptical of romance, and she was suspicious and anxious for her son, who she knew loved profoundly, with everything he had. She’d been worried that Charlie or Harry or both wouldn’t know how to read Draco at his angriest and most terrified, to know him as deeply as possible and love him all the same.
But they did. She could feel it.
Draco was discussing something with Harry, all softened eyes and sly smiles, and Draco loved them both, too—acutely, and tremendously.
Harry walked away again, after grabbing Draco’s hand affectionately, and Draco turned to Narcissa, his pale cheeks flaming pink.
“Alright?”
“Oh, darling,” she said, a little wobbly, drawing him in for another embrace, just because she could. “They love you so much.”
Draco huffed an embarrassed laugh. “I’m well aware, Mother.”
“Good.”
A loud whistle pierced the air, making the rowdy group whoop and cheer, and Draco pulled away with an excited glint in his eyes. “Ready?”
“As ever.”
The only sign of the first dragon was the long, glowing throat, and then a screech, and a blinding jet of orange flame scorched the upper corner of the East Wing. Narcissa gasped as the Weasleys cheered again, and Draco put his arm around her shoulders.
“That dragon is called Mathilde,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “I’m sure you can guess why.”
She laughed wetly. She hadn’t noticed the tears creeping in, the lump forming in her throat. She leaned into Draco’s side as Mathilde circled around; a glimpse of yellow, a burst of fire, igniting fuses carefully woven into the stones. Fireworks exploded off the roof of the East Wing, spiraling into the air. The roof caved in quickly, crumbling into the nursery suite where Draco had taken his first steps.
“She’s almost impossible to see at night,” Draco mused. They only caught flashes of opalescent scales reflecting the flames, but Narcissa could tell she was quite large, and somewhat pleased with this little game. Another screech, and a whoosh of a massive wingspan, and the former library was ablaze, stone chunks crashing onto the floor where she’d convinced Lucius to dance with her, a handful of times, by telling him that Chopin was a wizard. A white lie.
Then a whip of red, and another dragon joined the first, delivering its own incendiary blow to the dead and rotting conservatory where Narcissa had taken tea, every day, for almost two decades. Alone, once Draco had left for Hogwarts. Lucius hated tea, and quality time.
“Eva,” Draco said, smiling. “Still a baby, technically. I don’t want to brag, but she’s quite taken with me.”
Narcissa laughed again, finally recognizing this emotional ordeal for what it was: release.
She should have known those emotions had to come out at some point. And now here they were—grief and sorrow, terror and guilt and joy, all tangled and messy, spilling out of her. With every Manor wall that crumbled, Narcissa released more of her anger, her despair, her betrayal and desperation. With every startlingly bright flare, she felt a little lighter. She felt giddy, and anguished, and hopeful, and perhaps it wasn’t entirely her own.
Molly was wiping a tear from her eye and giggling. George was looking somber as his impressive fireworks displays lit up the night sky, with Arthur standing protectively, lovingly next to him. Bill was laughing with his baby, Victoire, who looked entranced by the dancing flames, and Fleur couldn’t take her eyes off them. Percy stood with Geraldine, both of them unsure of how delighted they were allowed to be in this situation. Ginevra was watching the skies eagerly, and Hermione was under Ronald’s arm, leaning her head on his shoulder, watching the site of her torture turn to ash.
Two fliers on brooms preceded the third dragon, a massive, tough-looking Ironbelly that Narcissa recognized from the paper. One of the fliers—Kit, according to Draco—played a tune on a harmonica and dove toward the smouldering ruin, to be followed by another jet of magnificent, cleansing flame. They swooped up out of its way just in time, but they needn’t have worried, wearing one of Harry’s creations.
“Harry named this dragon Carl,” Draco said dryly. “If you can believe it.” Narcissa laughed again. “Does this beast look like a Carl to you?”
“He does,” Narcissa said, grinning. “It’s German. It means ‘free man.’”
Draco stared down at her in disbelief. “Do you think he knows that?”
“I can’t say,” she replied, raising her eyebrows. “But it would have been a bit on the nose to name him something elegant and unique, like Draco, wouldn’t it?”
Draco snorted, trying to hide his laughter with his fist. He kept his arm around Narcissa, so she could still feel it—physically and emotionally.
Harry appeared as a third flier high above the inferno, handling his broom with all the grace and agility of an excellent Seeker. He smiled gleefully, blowing another loud whistle with his fingers, and two more dragons sailed around the ruin, swinging their massive, horned tails at the remaining walls until they toppled beautifully. Draco didn’t have an explanation for these dragons; he was too distracted by Harry’s flying. As always.
Narcissa sighed as her shoulders relaxed, staring at what used to be her family home, now a pile of glowing, flickering embers and stones. She couldn't even see any furniture or—or things among the debris, which could only mean that Charlie had cleared the place out before today. Had maybe even saved some things, or repurposed them. Maybe it wasn’t all horrible—the portraits Draco had gossipped with for ages, the mirrors in the ballroom where she’d taught Draco to dance. The ostentatious gramophone she’d used to introduce him to Frank Sinatra. The bay window in the West Wing’s second parlour, that had the best golden hour warmth.
It wasn’t all horrible.
Charlie and his friend—Andrei, Narcissa assumed, by the rugged look of him—started walking around the perimeter of the pile, Vanishing flaming pieces of detritus. The dragons had landed off to the side, and were happily gorging themselves on a massive trough of firewhiskey, under the supervision of Kit and Ginevra.
Narcissa frowned as more rubble was cleared, gradually revealing what looked like a wide, flat bubble of intense protective charms, a low shield over the earth. She’d assumed it would have all fallen into the cellars, but it appeared the cellars had been filled in already, with fresh, rich soil. She squinted, trying to see it clearer.
“What is…?”
“I don’t know,” Draco replied, his pale brows knit in confusion. He released Narcissa as Harry approached them with a warm, secretive smile.
“Come here,” Harry said softly, taking Draco’s hand and pulling him toward the ruin. Narcissa followed, forcing her feet forward, one foot in front of the other, the heels of her boots crunching on gravel and ash. Charlie and Andrei continued working, Vanishing piece after smouldering piece, until there was nothing left but the odd, shielded swathe of earth and sizzling, smoking ground around it.
“Harry, what is this?” Draco asked.
“You’ll see.” Harry waved Charlie over excitedly, and Charlie jogged around to meet them. He took Draco’s free hand immediately, a nervous-eager grin on his freckled face, and swished his wand, canceling the charms.
“Oh,” Draco said.
Dozens of delicate seedlings sprouted from the carefully tended soil, deep brown stems and budding green leaves, reaching for the clouds, rooting themselves in what used to be a dungeon full of pain and fear, but what was now just… earth. Fresh, clean earth.
Draco knelt down in the dirt, feeling the smooth leaves of a seedling between his fingers. He looked up at Charlie, incredulous, then back down at the ground, at the tiny baby trees spanning the area of the former Manor, illuminated by the shifting light of the few remaining fires and fireworks and the plentiful floating lumos charms over their heads.
“These are… hawthorn trees?” he asked hesitantly. Narcissa’s breath caught in her throat—but of course, the men who loved Draco knew what hawthorn meant to him. What it meant to have them planted, here.
Charlie let out a heavy breath, still nervous. “Yeah.”
Draco stared at him for a second, his eyes darting between Charlie and Harry, his lips parted in astonishment.
Draco stood swiftly, grabbed Charlie’s face, and kissed him sweetly on the lips.
Narcissa covered her mouth with her hand, suppressing a small giggle of shock. Never in her life did she imagine Draco would be so confident about displaying affection for a lover in front of her. She smiled behind her hand, proud and endeared and moved by Charlie’s thoughtfulness and Harry’s devotion.
“You daft bastard,” Draco muttered, as if he wasn’t overflowing with love, pulling Harry in by the waist, embracing them both. “Thank you.”
Charlie and Harry held him tight, kissing his face.
They adored him, like Narcissa had desperately hoped they would.
She heard a cooing noise nearby, and turned to see Andromeda and Teddy crouched by a seedling, Teddy examining the new leaves with his small fingers. The Weasleys were wandering among the scattered baby trees, carefully, exploring the miniature forest in awe and wonder. Even the dragons were crawling curiously around its perimeter, sniffing out the new plants with caution. Mathilde looked even more magnificent up close, especially with the snaggletooth.
“What do you think?” Charlie asked, appearing at Narcissa’s side, his hand clasped with Draco’s once more. Harry stood on Draco’s other side, an arm around his waist.
“It’s wonderful, Charlie,” Narcissa answered, overwhelmed. “I knew you would do extraordinary things with this place.”
Charlie smiled, his cheeks still pink from Draco’s sudden affections. Draco and Harry stared at him in undisguised admiration, as if it was a treat to simply behold him. Narcissa looked around at the hopeful, growing forest once more, the safe haven Charlie had created from a land steeped in nightmares, the joyful, loving family and friends that surrounded them.
The Weasleys closed in, congratulating Charlie and Harry and George on a job well done. Geraldine was talking animatedly with Kit and Ginevra, being introduced to Carl the Ironbelly. Hermione and Ronald embraced Harry tightly, lingering, sharing in the emotional moment. Narcissa moved forward among the baby trees, taking it all in, and Andrei took her place at Charlie’s side, squeezing his shoulder.
“Well done, licurici,” he said fondly. Narcissa turned to witness him; his presence was easy, carefree and comforting. “What now?”
“Now?” Charlie took a deep, dramatic breath. “Only one thing left to do.”
Draco started laughing before Charlie even finished the sentence; bright, loud laughter that infected everyone around him, filling Charlie and Harry with joy and warmth, and Narcissa with a long-awaited relief.
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
~
Notes:
It is a miracle that I managed to finish this. Thank you so much for sticking with me, for all the wonderful comments and messages and reblogs and everything. I would not have been able to complete this last part without your excitement and support. 💕
A special thank you to my extraordinary friend and alpha reader, Ali, without whom this story would not be what it is! ❤️ And another to my lovely cheerreaders, Rooney and Bee, thank you for cheering me on and for being such great friends. 🥺💖
A spotify playlist exists for this fic, if you're into that. You can also find me on tumblr!
I love you all dearly. Seriously, the best kind of spilling over. Thank you. 💕💕💕
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