Chapter 1: You Put Your Arms Around Me (And I’m Home)
Chapter Text
All things considered, Harry’s not that surprised when the dragon just ups and grabs him by the waist—carefully, so its talons will not harm him, Harry distantly notices—then takes off with him nested between its claws.
He’s not, really. Surprised, that is. How once again, he finds his life in (supposedly) perilous danger. It’s not like he’s been actively avoiding it over the years, so it’s not that shocking, and not entirely unwelcome.
Harry looks down, finds several sets of wide, dumbstruck eyes belonging to his companions below, who are staring back at him (or rather, at the creature holding him), almost frozen in time in their shock, before they stir into action. He can hear the faint sound of their yelling—get him back! Probably from Robards and a Harry…! Oh, no! that he assumes is from a very distressed Hermione—under the strong whipping of wind stirred by the white, scaled wings.
The stage where he had been previously giving some speech or other about whatever grandiose, philanthropic cause is only empty for a second, before a storm of Aurors—his colleagues, Harry corrects in his mind, though he doesn’t really feel it—climb the wooden structure, arms raised, as if it’ll get them high enough to reach him. Three feet is not that tall as they soon realise, and whatever magic they cast his way is much too far to actually reach him and his dragon companion, and the ones that do, end up absorbed by some kind of barrier. So, all Harry can really do is watch as they turn from people, to ants, to little dots in the distance as he’s carried away.
And somehow, he’s not even all that worried.
It’s not like he can be fatally wounded. Not permanently, at least, what with his (private) status as Master of Death and only friend of the bored entity itself. Of course, he can always get hurt and feel pain, but not even that is enough to rouse the need to escape in him. Because nothing is permanent—not happiness, not peace, not suffering or pain—only him, apparently. Unless he says so. Unless he’s tired enough of it to…
Well, Harry is tired. Somewhat. He’s been The Boy Who Lived for quite a few years now—or what Harry privately likes to call himself; The Boy Whose Life Is Continuously Messed Up By External Forces or The Boy Who Can’t Take a Break or The Boy Who Gets to Keep Living Indefinitely or The Boy Who Is So Done or even The Boy Who Is, Apparently, Never Taking Time Off—and it never really gets better. Easier, yes; boring even, but never better.
He thought it would, right after the war, when his lungs were still filled with dust from the ruins of what was left of Hogwarts and his hands charred from all the magic they had to wield. For a while there, he had hoped that it would get better, that this chance in life he never thought he’d ever get would finally make things worth it. Would make his life worthwhile.
Harry’s not that stupid, despite what some might say (usually quite loudly and on the front page of The Prophet). He knows grief and sadness when he sees it, has lived through them enough times in his life. And that is the least he was expecting, buried under hope. But after the dust settled and his hands were washed clean, all that was left was numbness, bleak and cruel. He attributes that to the piece of Voldemort, the one that used to live in his head, that was killed alongside him. Maybe it was that piece that made Harry eager, anxious, restless. Angry. Because after it was gone, there was not much fire left in him.
The struggle after the war was real; the endless hours attending funerals, talking to people, listening to their cries, to their gratitude, and even their rage sometimes. But it came and went, washed over him like a current, edges blurred by the dullness of his soul.
But it’s good, though, isn’t it? It just turns out Harry’s better at coping than everyone else had expected, that he’s quite well adjusted now… considering everything he’s been through, that is. If some people, at times, expect him to get angry when, instead, sighs or for him to cry when, instead, he shrugs, it’s not his problem. He’s finally found his pace and is content enough with it as it is.
Of course, the grief and helplessness are still there, only they are now merely niggling in the back of his mind, easily overlooked. The longing and misery as well. The constant nightmares try to pull him down every other night, but they don’t really bother him anymore. It’s not like he really needs sleep, anyway. Not all that much, when he’s become the Master of Death, escaping forever from its clutches; or at least, until he gets tired enough and says otherwise. That he feels a bit less than human each time he renounces mundane needs for too long—like sleeping or eating when a day is not that good and appetite seems to elude him—is not something he ever mentions, or thinks too hard about for that matter.
Nor any other of the blows his status as Master of Death threw at him. Harry doesn’t age like his friends, but he’s glad he looks old enough to be a grown-up, though not that mature, still holding some tenderness from youth. His skin sometimes gets ice cold under the warm sun, but it’s nothing a thicker jumper can’t resolve—and it’s not like the cold really bothers him all that much. And he doesn’t strictly need a wand anymore which usually brings undesired attention to himself and a flurry of Ohs and Ahs whenever he wields his magic wandlessly. And his magic sometimes feels like too much and not enough at the same time, or it just doesn’t feel like his own. Or his skin feels as if it’s stretched taut over his bones like he doesn’t belong in it. But Harry’s doing what he’s meant to do—he finished Hogwarts, became an Auror like his dad and Sirius. He helps people. So, he doesn’t think about any of that, and thus it doesn’t bother him, which in turn makes him feel a lot more at ease nowadays, chill even. He really does.
And looking back on it, that it is a dragon is not entirely jarring either, it actually soothes an ache in his heart he didn’t know was there.
It had started back when he first began Auror training, fresh out of a war and Hogwarts. The void in the place where he usually felt the urge to move, to do something, was too strange to fit with the rest of his pieces. There was a latent need to scratch at it. So he started testing the boundaries of the Master of Death. How far could he go?
Very far, Harry soon realised to Death’s endless displeasure. This brought a lot of concern from others, of course, but everything is fine really. After all, he’s always been great at surviving. That he sometimes feels a familiar tingle of magic and catches the glimpse of white, pearlescent scales on the edge of his vision whenever he gets too close to (actual) death is of no concern to him. He knows well by now that death can caress his skin, soothe his aches, but never hug him for long. Death never sticks (unless it’s for the afternoon tea whenever it can catch a breath from… collecting souls or whatever it does on a daily basis).
The familiar tingle of magic and the glimpse of white scales, however, do. It’s always there, on the limits of his consciousness, calling for him, and Harry feels as if he’s forgetting some memory which he never got to live. So, when he was about to finish his speech that morning, when a rogue dark spell was aimed at him and that dragon showed up, white scales blanketed by the sun, Harry almost grinned. Because seeing the creature felt more like finally than it did danger.
And it is beautiful.
Not too big, Harry realises once he’s daintily put on the floor of what is, maybe, the entrance of a cave. It might be a young dragon from its size; huge for Harry, whose body is small, betraying the malnourishment of a life of half-meals and war and forever stuck in his seventeens, but it doesn’t seem to be significantly taller than the average man. Now that it’s dropped him and is directly in his line of sight, staring almost abashedly at Harry, it’s easy to see how it looks. Silver, almost white, scales shine under the sun, the light refracting from them, creating spots of colour on the edge of his vision. It’s almost iridescent in its magnificence, Harry thinks, and wonders if it’d be possible to replicate the effect in a piece of clothing with magic.
He’s not sure how long they’ve flown for, so weirdly comfortable was he in the creature’s claws, making it impossible to say for sure where they are. But from the absence of buildings or any other human-like construction, it’s far. They’re surrounded by mountains, greenery and woods; air cleaner than Harry’s ever breathed before. And honestly, at the moment, the only thing he can take it to mean is that it’s far enough to not be tracked, resulting in some peace and quiet, finally. Should he feel guiltier about the thought even crossing his mind, though…?
Dispersing the idea, Harry shakes his head and looks back at the dragon. It stares back and though it has virtually no distinguishable expression, he can almost feel shame radiating from it. Well, Harry is quite tired and there’s no malicious intent he can detect from his strange companion—a skill he’s picked up in his years as an Auror—so it shouldn’t matter too much if he stays for a bit. Right?
Decided, Harry turns his full attention to the dragon, a small smile playing on the corner of his lips as he tries to ponder on what his next steps should be. Just because it doesn’t seem to want to harm him, doesn’t mean it wants nothing from him. Harry’s beyond hoping that someone will ever want him for him alone, and no ulterior motive. Figuring out how to communicate with it would probably be for the best.
With that thought simmering in his mind, Harry opens his mouth and hisses some of the few things he still remembers from his time as a Parselmouth. Admittedly, it’s not much, and he’s not sure he’d be able to understand had the dragon replied, but he figures it’d be a problem for later.
Or not a problem at all, from the way the creature stares at him and huffs a breath that seems too close to a snort for comfort.
“Okay, I should’ve figured you’d not speak the language of the snakes, my bad,” he says, raising his hands placatingly. The dragon snorts again and shakes its head and Harry has the distinct feeling he’s being made fun of. He’s not too happy about it, but it doesn’t deter him. “You can understand me just fine, right?” The dragon nods its head once, and Harry grins. “Brilliant! Is that where you live?” He points at the cave behind the dragon, where it stays almost protectively, barring the entrance that is only large enough to barely fit it in. “Are you not inviting me in after bringing me all this way, then?”
The dragon takes a minute pause, before getting out of the way and pushing Harry inside with the blunt side of its claws—quite eagerly Harry would say, but he doesn’t. He only smiles to himself as he finally enters.
With gentle nudging from the creature, Harry walks inside for enough time and tunnels for anyone to get lost, before coming face to face with a vast chamber; ground made of flat stone and ceiling so high he couldn’t hope to reach in his tallest days. Charlie Weasley, Dragon Wrangler extraordinaire, had mentioned once that dragons like to keep to their nests, keeping the most shiny and precious things to them always close. But this is nothing like Harry’d have expected.
Actually, the chamber they just entered is nothing like anything he’s ever seen. It’s not only tall, but wide enough to maybe fill a few of his tiny flats, with passageways and tunnels popping out in each rocky wall, leading to Merlin knows where. It’s not dark, as one would’ve expected from a cave, not only because of the numerous torches in the walls and candles here and there emitting a soft, purplish light Harry is sure is magical, but also the monstrous chandelier hanging from whatever invisible cable on the ceiling, illuminating the whole space with a nice, yellowish glow, which is… odd. For a dragon’s nest, that is.
Not the oddest thing here, though, it soon becomes clear as Harry casts his eyes around in rapid succession, taking in what seems to be very… human appliances for a beast’s home. One corner holds a four-poster bed, covered with likely the fluffiest pillows he’s ever seen and a thick quilt; another holds a surprisingly large and pristine couch—you know, for a dragon, and claws—on top of a dark green rug, and in front of it rests a hearth, fire blazing and shadows dancing. Closer to the bed, on a far corner, he spots a hanger with a few clothes suspended and below, a dark wooden trunk that he assumes must guard some bedspreads and towels or shoes. There’s a table, with a small table lamp, some papers and books scattered on top of it, surrounded by several bookcases filled to the brim with tomes of so many sizes and colours, Hermione’d go mad over them; a counter in another wall, with kitchen paraphernalia, pots, pans and cutlery hanging above it but no stove in sight. Harry sees some cups and plates and near them, a closed tea box that he recognises is from his favourite brand.
Well, if nothing else, the place looks almost welcoming.
“Get a lot of visitors, do you?” he asks, only half joking.
The dragon shakes his head, but from the way it huffs a gust of wind over his nape he understands that no, it doesn’t. It might only be Harry. And he’s okay with that, and also trying not to think too hard about the fact that he understands the creature better than he should considering no words being exchanged with his own. He files that thought for later, before motioning in the general direction of the… living chamber. “You know, this is actually quite cosy. Can’t believe a dragon would live here.”
The dragon in question perks up at that. It’s proud, Harry notes. Maybe it’d be willing to let him stay, unless it had only brought Harry this far to show off.
”You wouldn’t mind… if I stay for a while, right?” He terribly needs a holiday, and this just happens to be the perfect spot—secluded, filled with everything he will ever need and what he hopes is good company. He gets another nudge in his back as an answer, and releases a relieved sigh. “That’s great. I’m not sure I’d know how to get home from here.”
Living with a dragon, it turns out, is amazing.
Or maybe, just living with this dragon specifically is, he’s not sure the experience would be the same were it any other creature. This one—Harry’s taken to call it his dragon or just Dragon in the safety of his own mind—happens to want to pamper Harry in all the ways he’d never been before. Harry never wants for anything, needs he didn’t even know he had are met before they can even come to the forefront of his mind. He’s never hungry or thirsty, courtesy of a house-elf by the name Lilee, that Harry learns he can call whenever he needs something, and he does so (only a little emotional by how close to Lily the name sounds) occasionally. Lilee brings him his tea exactly how he likes it and treacle tart without Harry having to ask. When he questions her about it, she preens at him, “Master Dr—Dragon is informed Lilee everything Master Harry likes!” barely containing a proud grin, twisting long ears in her fingers as if they’re ponytails.
“You are the one who has been stalking… I mean, rescuing me now and then, aren’t you?” Harry wonders aloud, when the elf is gone. “Is that how you’ve learned so much about me?”
Dragon doesn’t answer, but he didn’t need it to.
Surprisingly, this attention doesn’t bother him, not like his name on the headlines are wont to. And it seems his dragon takes Harry’s sly grin as a good sign because it nods its head in confirmation, bumping its snout against his belly. Once again Harry is struck by how aptly he can understand the creature, and doesn’t stay quiet about it. Somehow, the answer he feels from his companion is that it’s not any kind of telepathy or mental power, it’s just because it’s him, it’s Harry, that he can understand the beast.
He doesn’t dwell much on it (or its implications), rather happy that Dragon knows so much about him, he doesn’t have to tell it himself. It knows what he likes, what he doesn’t, what he needs; when Harry needs an ear to his energetic and endless chatter or when he just needs some quiet. It, along with Lilee, keep Harry well fed with three meals a day, giving him seconds even when he insists he’s full—he never sees the dragon eating but assumes it does at some point, since it never complains about hunger—and well-dressed.
Well, more like dolled up.
Harry finds out the hanger with clothes on the corner is supposed to be his, and as the days progress it only gets more packed with increasingly complex patterns, laces, and new outfits for him to wear. He comes to understand his dragon likes to see him dress up, even if it’s just for them to cosy up on the couch while Harry reads something aloud for them—he’s also found out the best spot for short naps in the whole cave is by his dragon’s side, oddly warm and comfortable for a creature made of hard planes. Despite it all, his companion is weirdly chaste for a dragon when it comes to Harry’s body, always turning its head the other side whenever Harry is getting dressed in whatever new clothes it’s got him, or undressed to clean himself with a quick refreshening charm. He never thought dragons would have a sense of prudishness so close to a human’s. Or maybe, again, it’s just because it’s his dragon.
At one point, when he questioned where he was supposed to fulfil his physiological needs, Dragon led him through a passage in a tunnel to a fully functional loo, sink and all. Harry didn’t even question its mechanics, just glad that it worked and this was not another mundane need he would have to forfeit for the time being.
Feeling lucky for everything he’s got and struck by a sudden case of wanderlust, Harry ventures around the tunnels trusting his dragon to find him if he gets lost. Somehow, he ends up in a much smaller chamber than the living quarters, where he finds an underground lake. The water is warm and impressively clear, and as soon as he sinks in, his entire body relaxes and he feels the dirt being washed away as if he’s been purified. His body feels warm like it hasn’t felt since he died in the forest.
“You could’ve brought me here earlier,” he says to no-one in particular, knowing his dragon will be close enough to hear by how its magic always tingles so close, so familiar. The dragon whiffs out loud, only showing itself and resting by the hot spring’s border when it’s sure Harry’s entirely underwater—not that Harry minds being watched, but after being fussed about because of the scars visible on his face and neck from years of testing the limits of immortality Auror work, he doesn’t wish for his dragon to see the constellation of other blights littered across the rest of his body. He’s sure he’s being made fun of again (something that is becoming kind of recurrent over the last few days), but he doesn’t mind it that much. He’s just glad he can bathe now, cleaning spells can only do so much.
The dragon raises a clawed hand, one talon pointing at a shelf on the far corner Harry hadn’t even noticed, filled with bottles and what appear to be cosmetics. One bottle floats towards him, before stopping just short of his stretched out hand, in one of the many effortless manifestations of Dragon’s magic Harry’s witnessed over his stay in the cave. He’s quietly impressed at how a creature that size can accomplish magic so delicate to never hurt him when it helps Harry close the infinite buttons in one of whatever new outfit he has to try or gently floats Harry’s tea mug always in his reach, never spilling a single drop.
Neither of them mention how Harry hasn’t felt the need to use magic since he arrived, which is not bad per se because sometimes his magic doesn’t feel right anymore, even though he has told no one that little piece of information. That, he stored in a little box at the edge of his consciousness with the rest of his small secrets, so he won’t have to look at them and people won’t see them whenever they look at Harry.
His dragon, though it never brings Harry’s small secrets up, seems to know of them, anyway.
Charlie did say that dragons have a tendency to keep their most treasured gems in their nest, and that honours Harry whenever the second-oldest Weasley’s voice in his head reminds him of it. He can’t help but feel… treasured. And the feeling comes with quite a bit of wariness. Hope is bitter, because from his experience, it’s always accompanied by some kind of loss.
Harry had never really hoped for more than he already has—amazing friends, a found family, a house to call his, an enviable career and more money than he can ever spend. No matter how lonely his heartbeats sound to him, when they hammer in his chest at night and there’s no one there to listen. No matter the longing assailing his chest whenever he sees the way Ron looks at Hermione when she isn’t noticing, the way he takes care of her in small ways. No matter that they’re creating a family, getting older, and the absence of new wrinkles in his eyes just reminds Harry that he’s staying behind.
He can’t allow himself to hope too much now, lest he’s left with nothing but his own pieces in the end, again. But hope is a funny thing. Once it settles within, it won’t release its grasp. And living with a dragon, Harry decides, might as well be what he’s silently hoped for all his life.
Resting his head against the stony edge of the lake, he looks at his companion and a smile tugs the corner of his lips. The creature, once it notices his gaze, huffs but doesn’t look away, instead resting its head in its front feet, eyes half closed in a way that tells Harry it’s relaxed. The soft scent of lavender wafts from the water now, the bottle the dragon had dumped in the springs now lying empty on the ground.
He thinks, not for the first time, he can get used to this.
Living with Dragon is amazing, Harry convinces himself, ignoring the familiar tug of warmth in his lower belly, sinking deeper inside the water.
It’s all brilliant, really.
Except when he’s reminded of just how inconvenient it is to be stuck in an eternally hormone-driven youthful body with barely any alone time to compensate for it.
He hears another huff from behind him, but ignores it in order to dive below the surface. The water is so clear he has no doubt anyone could see if he tried anything on his aching lower parts. So Harry tries his best to picture Snape in Neville’s grandmother’s clothes like back in third year and hopes it’s enough to cool down his stiffening erection, all the while asking heaven forgiveness for disturbing the professor’s eternal rest with his offending thoughts. If his dragon has noticed how often Harry’s struck by said hormones it goes unsaid, but he thinks it hasn’t if the way the beast sticks by his side at almost all times is any indication.
Because it really is amazing, and Harry thinks he can put up with his body’s randiness if he gets to stay.
It’s one of the quiet days, Harry resting against the cool scales on his dragon’s body, a yawn on his lips as he almost dozes off in one of his naps. That’s when he feels a large head bumping against his side, tugging him back from the claws of a light slumber.
“Hmm?” Harry turns, to see the dragon point a clawed hand towards the bed. The creature says nothing, but Harry still knows what it’s implying. Somehow, inside this cave and away from the times set by the sun and the moon, the days bleed together and yet they still pass. And Harry hasn’t once laid on the bed to sleep. He has taken naps here and there, yes, but it’s been a long time since he last had a night’s sleep, since he last felt completely human, and he hasn’t got close to the dragon’s bed once since getting here, for sure.
He sighs, closing the book that rests abandoned in his lap, and averts his eyes from the bed. “Is that your way of saying you’re tired of me napping next to you?”
Harry’s not so subtly changing the subject and he knows it. His dragon knows it too, if its long growling tirade is anything to go by. That he thinks Harry will understand him is enough reason to bring a snicker to his lips, and all in all, he does understand even if not with proper words.
“Yes, yes, I know. But I’m good here, not sleepy at all,” Harry says and hopes it’ll be the last of this.
It’s not.
His dragon won’t give it a rest, and spends the rest of—what Harry figures is—the night groaning his ear off about… something like getting a proper night’s sleep, that this is not healthy or whatever, he can only guess.
Harry has to relent, after one more endless diatribe about the same topic, a chess board he’s been playing with practically by himself since his opponent won’t shut up about sleeping schedules (from whatever he can gather of a dragon’s grumblings) completely abandoned.
“Fine. Will you shut it if I sleep tonight? Yes, I’ll lie down on the bed, mom. Oh my god, I think my ears are bleeding from all of your grouching,” Harry mumbles the last part to himself—though surely it’ll be heard—before trotting back to the corner of the room he’s avoided until now. The dragon fusses about him for a while, making him change into what is, admittedly, the most comfortable and softest pyjamas he’s ever tried. The annoyance has almost subsided completely by the time his dragon is gently tucking him in and dimming the lights with a flick of his claw.
The bed is as comfortable as it looks and maybe it’ll be enough for slumber to come alone to him tonight, no nightmares in tow. Harry sighs, contently, wondering why he hasn’t done it before and lets himself drift.
Harry dreams tonight. Not of nice things.
When he wakes, drenched in sweat and heart clogging his throat, he can still feel the telltale press of fingers against his skin, the pressure of the hands trying to get him down, trying to remind him he’s alive when they’re not. As if he needs this reminder specifically, when death’s never been further from him. Sometimes he only wishes—
No.
Harry shakes his head, sits down and waits for his gasps to dwindle. With a resigned sigh, he casts his eyes around. Some company could be pleasant right now. But he looks, and squints, and though the cave is still cast in the shadows from the half-light of magical flames, it’s clear there’s no one there but him.
“Dragon…?” Harry calls barely above a whisper, but the silence is his only answer, and it’s oppressive and suffocating and it wraps around his throat in a way that quiets his voice and Harry has to try twice before he finds it again. “Where are you?”
But there’s still no answer and no sign that he’s been heard. Despite the constant, warm pull Harry always feels towards his companion when it’s close by, it only feels cold now. Because Dragon isn’t here with him, even though it’s here somewhere.
And he thinks of getting up and looking for it—there’s few places a dragon could go in a limited cave system at night—but his body’s still shaking from his nightmares, and he’s sure that the arms that went to grab him in his sleep are now hiding in the shadows, very close to his bed, bony fingers stretching in his direction. And he’s cold, so cold now.
Harry closes his eyes, scoffs. “Fine,” he says to no-one in particular, before lying back down and turning his back to the darkness. It still feels too close, but he’s not looking. And as long as he isn’t looking, it can’t touch him.
He remains awake the rest of the night, only falling into a fitful nap a few hours later. When he wakes up again, his nerves are still wired, the bed cold from dried sweat and his mind in jumbles.
Dragon sits next to the couch, pose neutral, staring at him with curiosity. It thumps its tail once, noticing Harry’s finally up, but makes no move in his direction otherwise, opting to watch his actions closely as Harry drags himself out of bed.
Harry bites the questions on the tip of his tongue and says nothing, as he trudges through the chamber towards the bathroom-corner. Where were you? Why did you leave me alone? How could you—
But Harry has to remind himself that Dragon owes him nothing, despite the way it’s been treating him all these days. Maybe this time was just one too many times that Harry depended on it. Maybe he’s too broken to be comforted in his sleep, but not enough to be fed and clothed. Or, maybe, the dragon is just a fucking beast that confused Harry for its progeny and other than rigid motherly (or fatherly, considering Harry’s very sure it is a male of its specimen) obligations, it has no other concern whatsoever for him.
Wow.
That sure is a bitter thought.
Harry finishes his task, closing the toilet top with more force than necessary. It’s not like he needed or wanted comfort. He’s never needed it before and would not start now. He was just surprised that his companion had not been there when he woke up, after so many days of constant company, is all.
Thoroughly convinced it was just a small stain on the dragon’s otherwise unblemished performance and nothing to worry too much about, Harry goes back ready to put the event to the back of his mind and enjoy another day of mindless serenity.
Except—
Whatever it was, whatever had happened, it insists on coming back to the forefront of his mind at all hours of the day. He can’t help the twitch of his eyelid whenever he catches Dragon looking at him and his fingers close around an invisible rope that Harry is sure is the one holding his sanity. Just where had Dragon been? Not that it mattered. It didn’t—doesn’t.
But when he catches the dragon watching him appreciatively, nary a feeling he can parse from those silver eyes that were usually so open, and what seems like the hundredth ribbon that serves no apparent purpose aside from tying itself magically in his mania-inducing new outfit, Harry finally snaps.
“What the fuck do you need so many of these for?” Harry points at the ribbons and the apparent infinite row of buttons on his new blouse (just how long would it take to take it off?), ignoring the reproach he hears in Dragon’s annoyed growl for his swearing and lack of decorum. Oh, now the beast is okay with Harry parsing its feelings, when it’s been pretty much keeping a cool distance the entire day! The bitter realisation that the dragon can basically keep its thoughts and emotions from Harry if it wants, twists his gut unpleasantly. There had been a silent agreement between them until now, that even though they couldn’t communicate with proper words, they could at least understand each other. That was, until Harry woke up to find himself alone of course.
Not that it’s enough to dissuade him from whatever has been brewing inside his head. “Oh, I’m sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities,” Harry adds, tone affected and rolling his eyes. “Seriously, though. Can you just—stop? I’m not your fu—your doll.” If he beats himself up for avoiding the swearing that had come naturally before, it is no one business. It’s not because the dragon seems to not like it.
If dragons had expressions, Harry is sure this one would raise an eyebrow at him. Alas, it doesn't, but Harry still feels annoyed at the grumbling and growling that seem almost like a fully formed sentence from the creature—one he doesn’t particularly like. He almost wants it to go back to cool detachment so he won’t be able to understand it anymore.
”What? I am not in a bad mood,” Harry retorts to whatever he thinks he can parse behind the grumbling, which was sounding more and more annoying to him by the second. The dragon doesn’t seem convinced, and Harry has to slap a talon that had been aiming at his buttons again, certainly to restart the dull process of dolling him up. “I can assure you I’m perfectly fine. You haven’t seen me in a bad mood yet—Ha, this is rich coming from you.” He snorts, crosses his arms over his middle, preventing whatever magic or dragon from reaching his new outfit and shakes his head.
Dragon continues grumbling, though it sounds increasingly irritated now. Good, Harry thinks viciously, fingers itching for… Something. A fight, most likely. He watches, eyes narrowed, as Dragon turns around, giving up on his outfit, but Harry doesn’t release his arm hold yet. After some more grumbling and huffing, the creature turns back at him, and when it doesn’t immediately resume closing the buttons, Harry raises an eyebrow. Dragon, though, only grumbles some more, gesticulating with its claws at the bed, in a clear attempt to change the subject. It only fires Harry’s already blazing mood even more.
“I slept splendidly,” he barks at the beast’s grumbled inquiry, cursing himself for understanding it better than he should. “I told you. I am not. In. A. Bad. Mood.” Not because he hasn’t slept at least. Dragon looks at him dubiously, as if raising an eyebrow it doesn’t have. “Of course I slept great, in your magnificent bed and your monumental cave, your highness,” Harry says, arms finally dropping from their stronghold, opening as if showing his surroundings. Dragon can be a prick when it wants, though a small voice at the back of his mind questions Harry if it’s all real or if it’s all in his head and giving the creature such personality is merely Harry himself projecting. He ignores the voice all the same, griping under his breath, “Not that you would know. You weren’t even here.”
This seems to shock Dragon some, as it pulls back. It recovers quickly though, to Harry’s eternal irritation, and points at the couch as another claw Harry hadn’t noticed getting close pushes him towards it. What, it now wants Harry to rest as if he is the one on edge?!
“I don’t need rest,” Harry argues, fixing his feet on the ground to unsuccessfully stop himself from moving. Dragon is not deterred, nagging some more, though this time it lacks the warmth Harry’s become used to. The being just sounds bored. And it’s what does him in. Harry snaps, “Why are you so fucking insistent on me sleeping?! Is that so you can bolt as soon as I’m out? If you don’t want my company, just say so!”
Dragon backs away just so, almost like flinching, but Harry refuses to take it back, he refuses to feel bad about it. There’s something simmering under the layers of his magic, his body, something he hasn’t felt since before he died and he lost that angry piece of himself to the killing curse. A small fire burning inside him. He files the faint surprise at the back of his mind to analyse later.
The creature growls low in its throat and Harry almost doesn’t want to understand that it’s very close to calling him an ungrateful, spoiled little brat. As if it can!
The small fire inside Harry feeds on the dragon’s not-words, and he thinks the rage is not all that bad. It’s familiar, like a friend’s quick hug. He cannot remember, though, why he’s been glad for its absence until now, the way it burns too quickly and trails too fast. He embraces it for now, thinking it’s needed.
“Hey!” Harry yells, shutting the beast up. “Let’s not forget who brought me here! I didn’t ask for you to fucking kidnap me, feed me or clothe me—If you’re so disappointed in me just say the word and I’ll leave!” It wouldn’t be the first time, Harry doesn’t say. He doesn’t wait for a reply, instead forcing all the buttons closed at once with a snap of his fingers. He then turns around and leaves.
Harry doesn’t flee the cave, though, because the rage now is just embers and they don’t burn nearly as hot. He loses himself in the many tunnels, ignoring the grumbles left behind.
Chapter 2: Would You Be So Kind (As to Fall In Love With Me)
Chapter Text
Harry walks. And walks, and walks. He doesn’t quite know for how long, without sunlight to guide him, but it’s long enough that his feet hurt and for the embers of rage to snuff out completely.
Maybe—just maybe—he overreacted. Harry can admit it to himself in the silence of the tunnels, where the soft pull that’s brought him closer to the dragon all these days feels like a strong current, instead of the calm rain on a summer day, easily relegated to the backdrop of his mind. Now, it’s like a rope pulled tight and it uncomfortably reminds him of the presence he so wishes to ignore.
The distance reminds him of what he misses, of the ebbing fire of his anger and the impossibility of it all. Is it really the dragon’s fault that he’s a needy and unstable sonofabitch? It’s not like they ever discussed boundaries, rules or anything in their relationship—if he can call it that. The expectations he’s built around whatever they have are Harry’s, and only his own.
And he hates that his own brain is forcing him to be reasonable about it, when it’d be so easy to just let the cave crumble under the force of his untameable magic and the crippling might of emotions he hasn’t felt in what seems like… forever.
The war, in all its tragedy and sorrow, is far away in the midst of his soul, and whatever has come before what he is now feels too distant to be real. Like there was a Harry then, and a different Harry now. Where he was used to simmering rage, to bouts of uncontrolled emotions and inquietude, he is now facing the mellow pace of a serene stream or the numbness of the arctic’s frozen ocean. It’s not who he’s always been, yet it’s still undeniably him.
And feeling like he used to now, stirs something inside Harry that screams wrong wrong wrong. Wrong to pull away, wrong to fault his dragon, wrong to scream and rage and blow. But still he can sense the arms in the shadows, waiting for him to slip, waiting for a moment’s distraction to pull him down. It’d be so easy now that he’s truly, irrevocably alone. By choice.
What had really bothered him? It’s not the nightmare, for once, Harry can accept that. While those usually haunt his soul, he now can only feel a sliver of exasperation for what they’ve caused him. Of course, it had been distressing, but it’s not something new strictly speaking. He’s used to bad dreams, terrifying as they are.
It’s not about the dreams. It’s not about the pale, deathly fingers of the dead who try to live in his shadows; it’s not about the dead and their ashen eyes faulting him for living when they cannot. It’s not about the guilt that is all his own, buried underneath layers of a calmly constructed mask, no matter how much he’d like to convince himself of that.
Harry sighs, foot kicking some loose stone on the pathway. It’s not Dragon’s fault, is it? Stupid brain, he admonishes, turns around and before he can fully register the action, he’s trotting back.
When he finally takes the last turn in the tunnel that would lead him back to his dragon, a wave of fresh calm washes over him. He’s close to his companion, his friend, again. He can breathe through the lump in his throat and his magic doesn’t feel constricted inside his body anymore.
Hiding behind the huge stone covering the entrance to their living chamber, Harry peeks out and sees the exact moment Dragon lifts its head—previously drooping down on the stone floor—and eyes as silver as the moon bathed in a sea of darkness close in on him. Neither move for a bit, before they’re rushing towards each other and meeting in the middle.
Harry prides himself in that moment for not crying, it’s a close thing. His cheeks, though, are flushed with everything he can’t say and tries to show through the arms embracing his companion’s head. Dragon says nothing, not even his usual grumbling complaints, but Harry feels it in his soul how sorry it is that it was not here when Harry needed it, how guilty it feels, and warmth spreads in his chest. His smile is blinding, hidden behind sallow scales.
He pulls back a bit, hands still touching the hard planes of the beast, and lets his eyes get lost in pools of silver that mirror his own gaze. It’s more than just feeling safe with the dragon, Harry realises at the tugging in his heart and the pull in his magic. He is at home.
“Shh…” Harry says, voice so low he barely hears himself. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m so sorry, too. It’s just hard to trust people—or dragons, I guess—after… you know. ”
Dragon looks at him as if it’s raising an eyebrow it doesn’t possess; as if no, it doesn’t know.
And then, the words are escaping his lips unbridled. Harry tells him, in a quiet voice, about the Dursleys and the cupboard under the stairs. He tells him about the dismissal he’s become used to receiving from adults at every given turn and how his whole life was this large net of manipulation so that he’d, what, be a willing hero? More like a sacrificial lamb. Harry doesn’t regret his choices, what they’ve made of him, but it doesn’t mean the scars they left are not still sullying his heart.
Dragon listens in silence, the warmth of his body a comfort Harry’s easily growing used to. Somewhere along the way, they move to the couch, and something in the way the dragon grooms his hair with such gentleness makes his eyelids droop and his thoughts giddy, as he rests against hard scales.
After that, things change, yet they stay the same. Dragon establishes a new routine, and every night after dinner Harry is shooed to bed with a cup of warm tea and the certainty that if he has another nightmare, he won’t be alone.
He still has those every other night, but somehow through the fog of his slumber he feels a gentle caress against his forehead and the softest of voices singing him back to sleep and he knows all is fine. He never dreams again after falling back asleep on those nights.
It’s a lazy morning (or afternoon, or evening, you can’t really tell inside a cave) not long after the nightmare episode, that it hits Harry. The thought comes so fast and naturally he doesn’t even register it at first, as he stares at the newest addition to his wardrobe, a silver ring in the shape of a snake. It curls around his middle finger, and whenever Harry tries his hand at some rusty parseltongue, it moves, sending warmth down his hand, and hisses some unintelligible things back. Ron’s and Hermione’s faces seeing me now would be priceless, he thought, being pampered by a posh dragon.
And then the guilt comes crashing at him. It’s not as heavy as it usually comes, and it’s accompanied by a great dose of shame and wilfulness in equal measure. He’s been here for who knows how long while his friends are—Merlin, they’re still probably looking for him. Or his body, by now, given Hermione’s tendency to catastrophise (something she’d picked up somewhere during their year in hiding). The shame makes his cheeks blow hot, because how could he never even have thought about them during this whole time? But still the wilfulness wins and Harry doesn’t let the guilt take over, because well. He’s good. He’s better than good. He’s better than he’s ever felt, living here with Dragon, and he’s sure his friends will understand that. They always say they want what’s best for him.
Harry just needs a way of letting them know of it, of course. If only he could send them letters, but owls are scarce in cave galleries, he noticed. Unless—
A smile forming on his lips, Harry calls, “Lilee?”
The elf pops into existence, a grin she always fails to hide on her lips. “What can Lilee do for you, Master Harry, sir?”
”Would it be possible for you to, say, deliver some letters for me?” Harry asks, carefully slow. “You see, I’m a bit stuck here and I’m sure there are people worried about me right now.”
Lilee’s eyes grow as big as saucers as she nods eagerly, ears flapping with the movement. “Of course! Master Harry must forgive Lilee for not thinking about it first! Master Harry writes all letters he wants and Lilee will deliver them all. Lilee will even go with letters to the bad bad people inside the papers that like to speaks ill about Master Harry, sir and Lilee’s Master Dragon!“
A single eyebrow raised, Harry snorts. Another thing he's forgotten, apparently, was the Prophet. Of course they’d be spouting all sorts of nonsense about him. “Where is Dragon, by the way?” He wonders aloud, not needing to look around himself to know that Dragon is nowhere near, instead just tapping into whatever connection they share and coming back empty. Lilee mutters something about Master Dragon needing to eat, and then before the elf pops out again he adds, “Could you also bring some of those papers for me, as well?” It can serve as entertainment at least.
With a fresh pile of several editions of The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler and Witch Weekly on his table for later, Harry sets to writing his letters. One for Ron and Hermione, explaining the bulk of things and assuring them things are fine—I’m eating and sleeping, Dragon keeps me safe and out of trouble. I even have a library here if I feel like reading something, Hermione, you’d love it—and that it’s not that Dragon’s keeping him, it’s just that he doesn’t really want to leave. The one for Mrs Weasley is a bit more difficult and Harry has to censure a lot of what’s really happened, but he manages to assure her he’s eating very well and lacks nothing. After finishing a draft for Robards letting him know he can quit the searches and belatedly asking for a licence, Harry muses for a minute before penning a quick note for Luna as well.
Harry settles back on the couch with his pile of papers, after giving Lilee his letters and instructing her to wait for replies. It’s only then that Dragon makes an appearance again, and it immediately groans when it catches the sight of The Prophet between Harry’s fingers. Britain’s Incompetent DMLE: The Boy Who Lived Too Many Times to Count’s Dragonapping May Reveal What Citizens Hoped to Ignore, it screams in bold letters on the front page, right above the full-page photo of Dragon flying in a clear sky, Harry barely a mop of black hair visible nestled in its claws.
“Dragonapping,” he giggles, ignoring the eye-roll Dragon gives him. “Oh c’mon, it’s so ridiculous it’s funny. Dragonapping, pff.”
Dragon makes it clear it doesn’t think so, as it breathes a small stream of fire towards his pile of papers. Harry barely has enough time to summon them closer before the fire incinerates them. “Hey! I’m reading those.”
Mouth open wide, probably preparing for another tirade about this or that, Dragon snaps it closed again when it’s interrupted by a pop in the middle of the ‘living room’ that startles Harry from the incoming argument. He feels, rather than sees, Dragon’s intrigue at Lilee’s joyful, “Lilee is back with letters, Master Harry, sir!”
But before he can explain what it means, his eyes zero in on the blood red envelope in the elf’s hand and his heart skips a beat.
“Shit, that’s a—” Harry doesn’t get to finish, once the howler lifts itself from the elf’s tiny hands, red envelope shaping up lips in the air. There’s a minute pause, as if it’s catching its breath, then—
“HARRY JAMES POTTER,” Mrs Weasley’s voice booms.
Hunched shoulders, he braces for it. Here it comes.
The succeeding minutes become what Harry would later describe as some of the most embarrassing of his life. Between HAVE YOU NO CONSCIENCE? HOW CAN YOU DISAPPEAR LIKE THAT LEAVING ALL OF US WORRYING?! and I TAUGHT YOU BETTER THAN THAT! And YOU BETTER GET YOUR ARSE BACK SOON OR ELSE, he barely notices how still the dragon has become by his side.
The silence, once the screaming is over, is deafening. It takes a moment for the buzzing in his ears to vanish and for his shoulders to reluctantly relax. “Err…” Harry says, watching as a wide-eyed Lilee cries something unintelligible and pops out, the rest of the letters floating in the air for a second before they fall. Maybe it was all too much for a house-elf.
“There’s that.” Harry sighs, picking up the correspondence from the floor and turns to Dragon, only now noticing how pale it seems. For a white scale dragon that is. “You okay? Mrs Weasley can be a bit scary sometimes, but she’s very nice, don’t worry.” Harry pauses, before adding, “I mean, I’ve never seen her curse, but, well. I’m sure it’s fine.”
Dragon grumbles something that, for once, Harry doesn’t catch and moves to a corner of the room.
The next few hours are spent entertaining himself with his friends’ letters, much tamer than Mrs Weasley’s, mind you, while he crafts some responses. No, Ron, Dragon is not fattening me so it can eat me later. Yes, Hermione, I’ll make sure to ask Dragon if it can lend you some tomes. Yes, Ron, feel free to tell Charlie and I’ll see if Dragon will fancy a visit from a dragon-wrangler. Thanks for the… interesting gift, Luna, and sure, I’ll tell Dragon that you’re available on Tuesdays for, er, tea time. No, Robards, I don’t know when I’m coming back. Yes, I’m sure you don’t need to keep looking for me, I’m good! This is the best holiday ever. Sorry for not letting you know sooner, Mrs Weasley, but I’m really doing great here, there’s no need to worry. I’ll be back soon.
He catches a small smile as he hangs Luna’s dream catcher on the bed post—it’s purple and brown, the net in its centre something he’s sure comes from a nightmare, but it’s handmade and he loves it anyway—right after watching a hesitant Lilee disappear with a new batch of letters.
It’s a lot later now, but when Harry takes his spot on their couch for their daily… whatever it is—sometimes reading aloud for Dragon, others just gossiping or napping—Dragon doesn’t come to take its place by his side. He casts his eyes around, but there’s no sign of the beast anywhere. It’s happened before, though, it’s not like they’re constantly together, although it’s rare. Undeterred, Harry takes a few steps, letting that familiar pull of magic guide him through the tunnels in a path unknown to him.
Reaching its end, Harry’s faced with a smaller version of their living chambers. A reduced replica of their living quarter’s chandelier hangs from the ceiling in similar fashion, though it’s not lit right now. Only some candles here and there illuminate the chamber, and he has to narrow his eyes to make out the room in the shadows. Instead of a bed, couch and kitchen, there’s a grand piano on top of a huge round rug decorating the place. Like in their room, there’s a hearth taking a part of the wall, not a flame in sight though. And, on another corner, Harry is surprised to see an old gramophone, its golden hue shining in the dim light.
“So here’s where you hide.” He turns, but the dragon doesn’t move from its perch behind the white piano. It doesn’t even glance in his direction. Sighing, Harry makes his way to his creature friend and Dragon, whatever it’s trying to accomplish, averts its head the other way effectively turning his back on Harry.
A small twinge of fear tugs his heart at the rejection. He’s not sure what to make of it. “Hey, what did I do now? I thought we were fine.”
Dragon’s only answer is a growl that turns into a pained yowl somehow and Harry’s certain there’s something terribly wrong. But he can’t figure out what it is if Dragon’s not willing to share, and how he can fix it. Kneeling on the ground, he scoots closer around the piano until his hand rests on the hard scales of the beast’s back, its wings tucked close around itself, more subdued than he’s ever seen it.
“Hey,” Harry calls again, gentler now. “Talk to me? What’s wrong?” He’s aware that he’s asking a creature with no form of speech to talk to him, but he can’t help it, especially knowing he’ll make sense of whatever Dragon decides to answer him with.
There’s a long pause where Harry thinks he’s going to go ignored, but then Dragon is whining and he’s never heard a dragon cry, but he’s sure he never wants to hear it again. The painful sound haunts the small chamber, while Harry tries to parse what he can from the creature’s confusing feelings. Until it strikes him and Harry’s on his knees again, hands on each side of Dragon’s head and forcing silver, mournful eyes to meet his.
”No!” Harry hisses before he can even figure out what he’s going to say to assure Dragon that—that he’s not leaving him. That he’s not going anywhere, not after he found a home in such an unexpected place. Not now that he’s got to know how it feels to be cherished. How can he make Dragon certain that he’s not going back, that it will not get rid of Harry so easily?
Instead of words, Harry hugs it, and hopes his feelings are as open to his companion as Dragon’s are to him. So long he spends in the pose, he doesn’t even notice when the words tumble out of his lips, assuaging insecurities reflected in his own self—I’m not leaving you, I promise. Please, believe me, I want to be here. I need you, please, please, please. It’s a long while before Harry’s heart beats a calm drum again, and Dragon’s soul seems to settle. A soft tongue on his face rouses him from his stewing, and Harry moves finally, the tension in his muscles the only sign of how long they’ve stayed in that position. They stare at each other, and a soft smile graces Harry’s lips when he finds only acceptance and care in silver eyes.
Harry doesn’t ask about visiting his friends or receiving them sometime, not now. The moment feels too fragile for that. He stands up, stretching sore muscles and looks around, taking in details that went ignored before. The rug, a bright purple, is woolly and comfortable on his feet; there are some other instruments leaning on the wall, variations of the same it seems, guitars of several lengths and colours; on another wall, there’s a small shelf filled with books Harry suspects are about music. And, of course, there’s the gramophone that had previously caught his attention. Harry approaches it carefully, but upon closer inspection it doesn’t really look like any he has seen in school trips to museums back in Muggle London. There’s no space for those disk things, but when he reaches a hand, he feels the magic reach out to him, touching his fingers. He touches it back.
A soft, serene melody echoes across the room, gentle magic whirling in the air. Clever, Harry grins before going back to the dragon still watching attentively and pulling it by its claws. “C’mon, let’s dance.”
Dragon does grumble a bit, but it offers no more resistance.
Dancing with a dragon is an awkward affair, increased by his inability to coordinate his own body. But neither seem to mind, and they move in circles around each other as the music steadily increases in pace, and they’re laughing and laughing.
Later, when it’s time for bed and Dragon has given him his nightly tea, Harry rests against the headboard but keeps his eyes open, watching, vigilant and worried for his companion. His dragon looks like it's back to its usual self, but Harry still feels a faint tugging in his heart, and the need to prove he’s not leaving, that he’s here to stay as long as Dragon will let him. Harry hopes it’s a long time.
In the end, though, heavy eyelids force his eyes closed and slumber captures him into another night of rest.
Harry jolts awake. There are no nightmares on the edge of his consciousness today, though there’s something still niggling him at the back of his mind that roused him from slumber. He quickly casts his eyes around, but when they fall on the sleeping form of Dragon close to the hearth, it dawns on him.
Harry’s on his feet in a second, already trotting towards his companion and joining him in its resting place. He had intended to stay awake and observe the dragon’s behaviour, worried as he was about the whole leaving-not-leaving thing, but it seems his body had other plans. Which is odd, considering he doesn’t even need sleep technically, and got used to commanding his drowsiness at will over the years. He should have managed to stay awake easily—
A soft, rumbling sound coming from the dragon’s throat distracts Harry from his musings. It yawns, giving Harry plenty of access to some pretty sharp teeth, and then looks at him.
Harry is not sure if Dragon’s still sleepy or if his drooping mood from the day before has passed, but he’s glad to be greeted with the usual lick on his face now. He’ll take whatever he’s given.
After that episode, the days return to normal, and they go back to their cycle of eating delicious things prepared by Lilee (mostly Harry eating as Dragon usually goes out to hunt or something like that, from what he’s figured), trying new outfits, reading out loud to dragon, the odd wank whenever he gets some rare time alone and (recently included) dancing to whatever song is playing on the wireless, now that Harry has found the gramophone hidden in the music room. He’s tried his hand at the piano and some of the instruments, but he’s failed miserably and has been, since then, banished from the music room. Not that it bothers him, having had Lilee bring the gramophone to their living chamber.
Dragon still grumbles whenever Harry receives a new letter, but it doesn’t seem so insecure about him leaving anymore and Harry now has something more to expect each day. He still doesn’t want to go back, and he lets Robards know whenever the man sends the odd letter, but it’s nice to be in contact with his friends and family again—not all of them, though, after Dragon forbids any letter from George from making it into their cave, after one incident with one of the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ product the man had sent to Harry as a practical joke (something about mirroring someone else’s voice, he didn’t really have the time to figure the instructions out before the creature was kicking up a fuss with groans in Harry’s voice).
At some point, Harry asks Dragon about receiving visitors, and though Dragon readily agrees to whatever Harry asks, he himself is not too sure about it yet. The idea of sharing his dragon with anyone else feels… upsetting. Though he’s convinced himself he’s not jealous. In the end, Harry only tells Ron that he’s still working on slowly convincing Dragon to accept visitors, what with being a wild beast and all, and his friend accepts it with grace.
There’s always, though, that niggling on the back of his mind, that hasn’t gone away since the day Harry first exchanged letters.
He still sleeps every night, on the dot, and it’s not that it’s a bad thing it’s just… not common. Not for him, not for someone that’s so constantly haunted by nightmares he’d rather live as an insomniac, for someone who will never feel the effects the absence of sleep causes on a person. Harry sleeps every night, sometimes he dreams, sometimes he doesn’t, but he always sleeps.
And then, before he knows it, his Auror instincts are kicking in and Harry’s trying to find patterns and fit pieces of a puzzle he isn’t even sure he wants to finish. It’s there, so easy to see that he curses himself stupid for not catching it before.
Every night Harry sleeps. Every night, no exception, shortly after drinking Dragon’s special tea, the one it always presses Harry to drink before tucking him in.
And don’t get him wrong, the tea is delicious; the blend of soft and sweet is the perfect end to the day. It’s just one of Dragon’s oddities, he’d gathered, and complied with no objection. Now, though, his eyes are open and it’s clear what the missing piece of the puzzle is.
One night, a couple of weeks after the letter's incident, Harry’s resolve steels. He’s going to test his theory—whatever it actually is, intent as he is in not thinking too hard about any doubts revolving around his dragon friend.
The day has been cosy and nice, Dragon is as calm not because he has got no new letters today as an indoor kitten, enough to be in a good mood. After a brilliant dinner and some dancing, Harry’s body is pleasantly aching, and he’s ready to go to bed.
Tonight, though, when Dragon approaches him with his tea and while Harry brings the mug to his mouth, he uses the magic he’s been avoiding all his time in the cave and vanishes the liquid before it can touch his lips, the dragon none the wiser. Like every other night, the creature tucks him in, heavy blankets cocooning his body. Harry closes his eyes, determined not to fall asleep tonight.
However, with the soft music echoing in the background like Dragon’s wont to leave playing, its warm magic surrounding Harry in a warm embrace and, despite whatever he’s convinced himself with, Harry’s soon feeling drowsy. Just resting his eyes for a moment won’t—
Harry often dreams of the Black Lake and the giant squid. The dreams usually begin with a warm, sunny day, before the sky turns to night, clouds covering the moon and stars, before the Black Lake acquires a tone so dark it looks like a void. The giant squid swims above the surface, but instead of tentacles, it has arms, and hands, and they’re suddenly close, so close, and they reach for him. Harry’s frozen on the spot, feet sinking in the mud, and each time a hand touches him, it leaves a trail of blood on his skin. No matter how much he inhales, the air doesn’t seem to reach his lungs and the blood burns, and burns, until the giant squid speaks, but it has many familiar voices and only one at the same time. And everything turns icy cold.
Harry gasps awake, the tendrils of his nightmare still clinging to him. It’s not cold, not anymore, but he still feels the burn from the blood. He needs to get it off. Fingers scratch his skin, his arms, navel, neck in an attempt to just—try to get clean.
Then, there’s a gentle hand closing around his, a soft shhh whispered in his ear, it’s okay, I got you; it was just a nightmare. Arms embrace his shaking body and Harry’s awareness fades even further. The arms are unyielding; they don’t let him get away, don’t let him move and it brings comfort in a way. The voice sings, and it’s so soft Harry thinks he’s dreaming again, but it’s also so, so familiar and—
Oh, of course… Harry thinks distantly. He’s got a huge problem, but then the thought scatters away, enveloped by the nice melody and he’s soon gripped back by his slumber, a chorus of il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai bringing him down.
Chapter 3: I Dreamed I Held You In My Arms
Chapter Text
Harry jumps before his eyes are even open, the events from last night quickly pouring into his conscious mind. Breathing deep, he looks down at the tent in his pants and—Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He still hears the soft chant chorus of il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai in his mind, convincing him that it was no dream. It’s too real to have been a dream. It was clearer than any other night before, Harry’s sure now, because he hadn’t taken the tea. And even though he fell naturally asleep, he still maintained a great part of his faculties, enough to recognise the man holding him after his nightmare, the hands tenderly brushing his hair back and the voice singing him to sleep. Harry had met him before. So, so many times.
Because it was Draco Malfoy. It has always been Draco—are you kidding me?—Malfoy, hasn’t it?
A deep gurgle jolts him from his thoughts, and Harry’s quick on his feet, hands dangling in front of him trying to hide the—fuck his pubescent body—morning wood. Something that’s never bothered him before, now brings a deep shade of red to his cheeks, but dear Merlin, he’s fucking hard for Draco Malfoy. He darts to the loo, not even checking if Dragon—Draco?—is awake.
Fuck. This is too much.
One problem at a time, though, right? Everything is good, it’s all fine, he’s sure of it. It’s not like this changes anything. Does it? Well… it’s still Dragon, his dragon, after all. The one who rescued him from a life of boredom and longing; the one who offered him a home, a routine, company; the one who asked nothing in return. So what if Dragon is Draco Malfoy?
His cock jumps to attention at the thought. “Will you quiet down?” Harry mutters, turning on a tunnel. It doesn’t, though. By the time he reaches the loo, visions of pale hands, a broad chest against his back and velvety, blond hair are lurking in his head and his body’s decided that those are, apparently, the most erotic things on earth, his erection straining in his pants.
Seriously?
For Draco Malfoy?!
But…
When you take away all the layers of arrogance, the bullying, and egocentrism from the man, he isn’t all that bad, is he? Harry is not blind. Though he hasn’t seen Malfoy in years, not since he testified in his favour at the war trials, there was always something about the Slytherin that never failed to capture his attention, and if he wanked to pale fingers and blonde hair once or twice over the years no one’s the wiser.
Yes, it’s okay. It’s not all that bad. It’s not like this has to mean anything, though his cock begs to differ. Harry’s been enjoying Dragon’s—Draco’s!—company. The creature is witty and possesses a peculiar sense of humour. Now that he knows, it even explains a lot about the dragon’s opinionated personality. Which… Harry doesn’t think it bothers him all that much.
As much as he tries, he can’t find it in himself to muster the hate for the boy he used to resent during school. And, odd as the thought is, Harry doesn’t think Malfoy hates him as well. Or he wouldn’t have brought Harry here, fed and dressed him, cared for him (unless Ron’s been right all along and Malfoy’s been fattening him so he can eat Harry later). They dance and have fun and yet somehow, Harry’s always understood Dragon perfectly, even without words. And not once has he felt even a shred of threat or any negative feelings towards himself.
It’s odd to think about it, but not the oddest thing here by far. Fuck. Drag—Draco tucks him in bed every night!
The concept is so foreign that laughter bubbles inside him, soon having Harry giggling uncontrollably, body leaning against the sink. He’s been living with a dragon Draco Malfoy—there’s no doubt in him that the creature and the man are the same, kind of like how he always understands it—for weeks now, and they haven’t killed each other. Granted, they might have had an argument or two, but haven’t they always made up in the end?
“This is all kinds of messed up,” Harry manages, laughter dying in his throat and the heat in his groin finally subsiding. Still leaning against the sink, his eyes catch on the little snake ring Dragon had gifted him some time prior. As if it has noticed it's being watched, it slithers across his finger and back, before resting in a half circle around the digit. A small smile adorns his lips as he follows the movement.
Draco had given it to him, because he knew Harry would love it.
Draco, who somehow knows all of Harry’s preferences, knows what he needs even before Harry himself, knows how to distract him from his darkest thoughts and how to protect him from his nightmares. How could this Draco hate him? Harry could hate him no more than Draco could hate him, he was sure.
Harry’s quiet the rest of the day, consumed by thoughts about a certain school rival, trying to think back to the slightest mention of Malfoy he’s heard in the years since the war, but… the truth is, Harry didn’t pay attention and Malfoy had just slipped his mind.
He tries to remember what Malfoy had been up to over all this time, if he had seen him at all. To be fair, he hadn’t even thought about Malfoy in the long years since the end of the war, so consumed with his own life to be worried about a former school bully-nemesis. Apart from some gossip about the Malfoy heir going missing some time back at the Auror office, he comes up blank. And even then, Harry hadn’t given it much attention. The case never ended up in his hands so it hadn’t really concerned him. He does regret not having looked it up now. He has no idea what that had been about, but if the Slytherin had really been missing, then Harry guesses he’s just found him.
Dragon (maybe he ought to really get used to calling him Draco now?) notices his sombre disposition and though he doesn’t comment on it, he tries everything he can to lift Harry’s mood—from dancing, to getting him to try some new clothes (Harry snorts when he thinks about the posh boy from his childhood dolling him up every day) and even gets Lilee to cook him a banquet for lunch. Not that he’s complaining, his dragon’s consternation is… oddly comforting. It warms something in his chest that has been cold since he died in the forest and then, Harry realises, he doesn’t mind that it’s Draco. That it’s been Draco all along. If the former school bully—he should really stop thinking about the man that way now—could put their differences aside and take care of Harry in a way no one’s ever done before, Harry can do the same in return.
So, he meets Dragon-Draco with a new smile, a secret one, all for him, as most worries wash over his body and then ebb away. They go back to their routine as if nothing’s ever been wrong. They dance, they try new outfits; they read together, somehow they end up convincing Lilee that they can use her kitchen (Harry does more of the talking than Draco, naturally) and then bite their tongues when their experimentation fails miserably and Harry even goes back to drinking the tea Draco still gives him every night before tucking him in, knowing deep in his bones that it couldn’t be anything bad. Knowing Draco doesn’t mean him any harm.
And if he’s being completely honest, Harry can’t remember sleeping so well since… since so long ago, he doesn’t really mind that his goodnight tea is dosed with whatever sedative Draco’s found—which tells much more about his state of mind than Draco’s care. He’s fine with this, with the life Draco’s offered him, and he’s willing to wait as long as it takes for the man to tell him who he is himself.
And all is well and great, except for a minor problem now constantly haunting him. Harry’s long become used to his teenage body’s raging hormones (though not exactly accepting of them), but somehow the faceless man of his usual wanking material’s fantasies turns into a slightly older, more mature version of a certain Draco Malfoy. Though the more he pictures Draco whenever his fist closes against his throbbing hardness (not as often as he’d like with the dragon’s insistent presence, really, doesn’t Draco have anything better to do than babysit him?), the more Draco becomes an anchored fixture in his mind. Until it’s all Harry thinks about, and there’s no hope of avoiding this with silver eyes constantly in his line of sight.
Harry tries to feel guiltier about it, but he can’t really conjure up the feeling. Hell, Draco is caring for him as if Harry’s the most precious person in his life, that’s gotta mean something. Right?
The idea is not nearly as daunting as it should be, the now persistent idea that maybe Draco Malfoy has feelings for him stays (though he’s still not sure of what kind). It’s humbling, in a way, and thrilling to have such devotion targeted solely at himself and Harry catches his traitorous heart speeding up whenever their gazes linger on each other for a second too long, or when the ripple of warm, familiar magic trickles over him. Or even when he glimpses the silver ring snaking across his fingers.
Harry feels like a blushing virgin now though that’s not that far from the truth, and he only cares enough to know if whatever feelings are brewing inside his soul are requited. Merlin, he hopes it’s so.
But it’s not like Harry’s ever been prone to wait patiently. Although he doesn’t want to pressure Draco to reveal his identity before he’s truly comfortable with it, there are certain ways in which he can test his theories.
So, Harry starts provoking. What reaction he’s expecting he doesn’t know, but when he purposefully can’t hold back a slightly louder moan in one of his wanking sessions and goes back to their living chambers to find the dragon can’t look him in the eye… well, that’s just exhilarating.
Against his better judgement (but when has Harry ever truly followed it), he finds a thrill in goading a dragon double his size. Despite Draco’s complaints and primness, Harry doesn’t hide his body anymore and takes to walking around wearing only pants—it’s not like the cold really bothers him—and if he catches the dragon’s eyes lingering a moment too long when he passes him by, neither of them mention it. He doesn’t hide when he’s horny anymore, his shame long since buried by now, and is delighted to hear some shuffling and deep growling from whatever chamber is closest whenever a moan gets a bit louder. Harry becomes more tactile, always finding ways to touch his dragon when before he was still held back by shackles of a past with no contact, no comfort or touch from his family. It becomes easier each day, when he reaches out to pat the dragon’s head or hug his neck for longer than is strictly acceptable.
During the quietest nights, Harry opens up a bit more, sharing bits from his childhood, how lacking it’s been, how he’s never known the touch of a guardian or a comforting embrace. Draco listens attentively, without interrupting, though Harry can sense the anger radiating from the dragon, one he can understand without words and Harry basks in having someone being angry on his behalf, but even more in being seen as he is. Draco sees him, Draco knows him better than anyone else, and Draco knows when Harry finishes his tale that the best he can do is envelop him in flat scales and a warm body and hold him close. Harry sighs contently and his body rests easier without some of his traumas weighing on his shoulders.
One night, Harry wakes from a particularly nasty dream, so sweaty and frantic that not even the sedative he’s been dosed with holds him. He doesn’t need to look to know Dragon’s close, and soon the creature is nestling on the bed around his shivering body and Draco holds Harry against his larger frame.
Harry’s still shivering, still feeling the nightmarish, shadowy hands reaching for him, when the words spill from his mouth. He tells the truth about the war, the year on the hunt for the horcruxes, away from everyone, isolated but still hurting; how he felt like he had to die to save everyone. And, after a deep breath, Harry explains how he came back from a very real death, how he came back different, how he’s now the Master of Death. He complains about never getting old; about his life before coming here, how he never slept anymore, how he forfeited some basic human needs, how he barely used magic anymore because it didn’t quite settle inside him again after he came back, how he feels less human each day.
He doesn’t quite know what prompted him to tell Draco things he’s held so close to his heart, not even he himself dares think of them often. Some secrets that Harry has never really shared with anyone, not even Ron and Hermione, who are the closest people to him.
Draco goes perfectly still by his side, and though Harry can feel the discontent and anguish from the dragon, he can’t quite place the feelings at this time. He attributes it to Draco still reeling from everything he’s said and rests against the comfortable body by his side, knowing that even if everything he’s said has shaken Draco to his core, he won’t leave Harry alone.
After that, it feels silly to provoke him anymore, for something deeper has settled between them, something larger and untamed, but equally wanted. They grow closer, not in words, but in actions. Always looking for one another, always physically close, always touching. It’s easier now to parse Draco’s emotions, his unsaid words. Harry figures a lot of things become easier once you open yourself so fully to someone.
Draco’s always here for him, and it shows. When Harry has a nightmare, or he’s in one of his moods. When Harry mourns the day of his parents’ deaths, unwilling to celebrate Halloween, the dragon sits close around him and his rumbles sound almost like purring and it’s enough to calm him down. Draco offers him the support Harry never thought he needed, that he’d have; and in turn Harry’s always there by his side, trying to care for the beast in any way he can, to show his feelings the way Draco always shows his own.
With that thought in mind, Harry starts one day on the tale of a boy he used to know. Used to hate. Or maybe thinks he did.
“I don’t think I ever hated him, not truly, to be honest,” he says to the quiet cave, watching in amusement as the dragon goes extremely still. “His name was kind of like ‘dragon’. He was very arrogant, but he was also smart and creative, though he used his brains for some pretty uncanny ideas sometimes,” Harry snorts, thinking back to the Potter Stinks badges with odd fondness. “We were always competing. I had to often bring him down a peg (or two), lest we wouldn’t all fit in school along with his ego. You remind me of him a lot, you know?”
Dragon doesn’t show any reaction, but Harry knows he’s listening.
So, he continues, “He hurt me some, I hurt him too, even though I didn’t mean to. I’d do anything to take it back, but maybe there’s still time to tell him how sorry I am. What do you think?”
The dragon emits a low rumble that comes from his throat, and Harry hums in response.
“Yeah… I’ll make sure to tell him the next time we see each other. Maybe this time I can even let him have the upper hand—surely he’d appreciate a win for a change.” Harry adds the last part with a quieter voice and sends a cheeky grin Draco’s way. Then he gets a snort in response, the wind from the dragon’s nostrils making his curls even messier.
It’s so easy to come to care for this Draco, he thinks, who listens when he talks, and dotes on him, and whose company he already adores and the feeling settles inside Harry as an old, worn blanket adjusting itself to his soul.
Days turn into weeks, and soon the months have Harry wondering if he even wants to go back home.
Home.
The word has gained a new meaning since meeting Dragon-Draco and he’s not sure if he’s ever truly had one until he came here. And it’s not about the place, Harry’s come to realise. He feels home, because Draco is by his side. Draco Malfoy. He giggles—the thought still rings so oddly in his head.
Still, the voice in the place where he should ache to go back to his old house doesn’t diminish certain longings. Being peacefully sequestered in a single place for long has never been one of his strongest suits and all in all, he’s lasted way longer than he’d hope for. But for one, Harry’s starting to feel stifled in here, and though reading, and trying new clothes and dancing with Draco still have their appeal, there’s something missing.
Actually, maybe missing is not the right word for it. He just longs for something more. With a dose of selfishness—a healthy one, the voice in his head that sounds strangely like Hermione tells him. After all, being cooped up in one place for too long can’t be good, but Harry insistently does not think about a year on the run, living in a tent with his two best friends.
This, here, is different. Here, he has everything he could hope for, but if he had more, it’d make it all even more amazing.
The new longing settles and doesn’t let go, and soon Harry’s mood drops, and he’s sighing in the corners loud enough to be heard. Draco, in turn, starts fussing around him, because (as Harry’s learned) he wishes to give Harry everything he wants, for some reason, and that probably means he will give in to whatever crazy requests Harry might have.
So, when Dragon snarls roughly, unsure of himself, Harry has to contain a grin before he turns back to the creature, face crestfallen and eyes cast at the floor. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it…” he mutters absently, a hand waving in the air, and goes back to the book open in his lap—the one he has been pretending to read for the last half hour and has just been turning the pages at appropriate intervals.
There’s a pause, then Dragon grumbles again. When Harry remains quiet for a moment too long, a warm tongue sweeps its way across his face. And this brings a grin to his lips, a genuine one.
“Okay, fine,” Harry says, smacking the tongue. “It’s just… I guess I’m feeling a bit like a shut in, you know? We are always inside, we never go out…”
Draco studies him, one eyebrow raised—or, Harry figures, what would be one eyebrow if he had one in this form.
He is quick to react, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s not that I don’t like it here! ‘Cause I do! I just…” he feels Draco’s mood quickly descending and idly wonders if being in a dragon form for so long impacts a person’s emotional reactions, makes them rawer somehow. Still, it’s not something he wants to see, so as soon as his next idea pops into his head, his face is brightening again. “I used to go flying a lot when I was at Hogwarts, had to beat this git of a rival!” Harry’s still smiling when he adds the last part in a lower tone, “Haven’t been flying in so long… You wouldn’t happen to have a broom lying around here, would you?”
Draco eyes him for a moment longer, suspicious (Harry notes), but then his maw is opening in a manner akin to a smile and his head’s bobbing up and down as if to say I’ve got something better! Harry’s been getting sharper at reading his dragon’s reactions and thoughts and the fact brings warmth to his chest. Draco once said Harry’s the only one able to, and it makes it all even greater.
The dragon opens his wings wider—or he tries to, but when they bump against the bedposts, then against the couch, the clothes hanger and the wall he quickly notices it’s not the best idea overall.
It doesn’t matter, Harry’s already got the gist of it and a grin splits his face ear to ear. He’s eagerly jumping on the balls of his feet while he runs towards the exit of their cave system, not even worrying if Draco meant now or later. They’re going now and he knows Draco won’t refuse. Proof of that is that the dragon follows him closely behind, a warm sweater hanging from his mouth he’s picked up on the way for Harry.
Once outside, Harry’s a bit surprised to see the clear sky. To be fair, he knew it was daytime since Draco makes sure he has a regular sleeping schedule, but knowing and actually seeing it are two different things. He missed the sky, the open, the fresh air, though the feeling only makes itself known now that he’s out here.
Harry breaks from his savouring, when a snout butts against his back. Draco huffs and hands him the sweater, even though he now knows the cold doesn’t really bother Harry anymore, what with being closer to death, both figuratively and literally, and all that. Harry dutifully wears it, relishing the warmth of Draco’s magic drifting from the piece, then turns to his dragon.
Draco bows and eyes him expectantly, wings tucked at his side as he waits for Harry to climb his back.
Harry does, not all that surprised by how comfortable sitting on a dragon is (maybe it’s only because it’s his dragon, his Draco, he won’t question it now), and casts a sticking charm to himself just to cover all his bases.
Even after he finished school and his schedule became packed with training then being an Auror, Quidditch has always been in his mind. For Harry, or at least for his younger self, there is nothing compared to the feelings that come with flying on a broom, breaking free from every shackle trying to hold him back. He soon finds out though, that flying on a dragon (on his dragon) is infinitely better. Harry assumes there’s a factor of trust involved, of letting go of control, of his fears and assumptions. He lets Draco take the reins and lead him, hoping for the best and knowing Draco will deliver.
Oh, and deliver he does.
It’s unlike anything Harry’s ever experienced, coming close maybe to flying on Buckbeak’s back but still not remotely as good. Harry attributes it to Draco’s magic wafting around him, warm and playful, almost one with the gusts of wind. Draco’s magic holds him close and envelops him in a warm embrace, as if welcoming him back. Flying like this soon turns into something as natural as coming home.
Harry opens his arms, an unburdened woo hoo leaving his lips muffled only by the winds chasing around them. He hears some howl-like grumbling below and yells again at the top of his lungs, knowing Draco shares the same contentment and belonging that are now breaking goosebumps on his spine.
He lets go. Hands trying to touch immaterial clouds, feet dangling from the dragon’s sides and a grin, large and wild, fixed on his lips. His heart beats so fast in his chest, Harry’s afraid for the organ that has grown used to the slow pace of a life alongside death. And, for the first time in a long while, he finally feels alive.
He breathes, and smells and grins and just lives, and then Harry’s laughing as his body falls back, still secured by the sticking charm—not that he’d be worried even otherwise. He knows Draco wouldn’t let him fall, and if he did, Draco would catch him.
He trusts Draco. And isn’t that shocking?
Harry trusts Draco with his life, with his soul, and the love brewing inside his sedentary heart. He trusts Draco completely.
Draco’s growling rouses him from his perch on his back, Harry catching a quick glimpse of an unfortunate bird flying directly into the dragon’s maw. The beast is swift in chewing and swallowing the animal, and Harry has the sudden urge to hug him, laughter bubbling back in his throat.
They fly for a long while. When Draco’s not gliding softly among the clouds, he’s showing him every wicked manoeuvre Harry’s sure he can’t perform on a broom, but he’s happy, regardless. Especially when he feels how joyful Draco is whenever he rips a bubble of giggles from Harry, with a sudden dive or a loop in the sky. Draco is a proud man, but that’s not any news, and Harry is all too happy to revel in the attention given to him.
Soon, the sky is fading to a pinkish hue, the sun hiding behind the hills. They drift for a while longer, watching as the sun sets and the moon ascends, before making their way back home.
Harry’s not even embarrassed by how shaky his legs are when his feet finally touch the ground, assuming it’s either from the exhilarating experience or from how long he’s been stuck in one position. Draco bumps his head against Harry’s hip, offering himself as support and Harry’s fast to hold himself against the creature’s neck.
“That was brilliant!” he says, the smile plastered on his face since they’ve started their flying is only proof of it. Draco does his dragon impression of a nod and a grin, knocking his snout against Harry’s cheek gently and Harry takes it as an agreement. “I know! I loved it, thank you! We have to do that again soon, okay?”
Draco grumbles something behind his breath that only makes his grin wider, and Harry presses his arms against him once before releasing, hands still touching cool scales, expression softer now, watching as Draco’s whole being relaxes against his touch.
Harry’s noticed Draco’s insecurities are a significant part of his personality, but it doesn’t bother him. He can assure Draco of his presence, of his care (and his love, when it comes to that) for however long it takes for Draco to finally believe that he’s not leaving. And watching him now, grinning back at him (as best as a dragon can) so openly and without burdens just makes that warmth spread faster in his chest, urging him closer.
Instead, Harry shakes his head, amused by his own thoughts, as Dragon grumbles something in the background of his mind. They slowly make their way back to their home, Draco complaining all the way back about this or that and it only brings a grin to his face, imagining a human Draco griping about his hair or his clothes. It probably sounds about the same.
Harry giggles, absent minded, only gathering some more growling behind him, before he finally turns. “You’re one hell of a dramatic dragon,” he snipes, but there’s no bite in his words. “C’mon then, open your mouth. I’ll check it for you.” Gesturing with his arms, he waits for the dragon to comply so he can see whatever has his companion hackles’ in a twist about teeth hurting and rotten bird or something.
Harry doesn’t hesitate to shove his head in the cavernous hole of a mouth, nary a sliver of fear in his being as he inspects the sharp fangs. Draco wouldn’t hurt him.
He takes only a minute before locating the offending bone digging into the dragon’s gum between two teeth. Finger’s closing around the small bone—Draco really should think about chewing more thoroughly—he’s almost pulling it free before the faint buzz of magic tugs at his sternum.
In only a second, Harry is turning back, a shield on the tip of his wand that is a second too late. Whatever’s been cast at them, though, is not strong enough to cause too much damage, barely scratching his neck before it fizzles in the air and he realises it was most likely not aimed at him, he was only in the way.
A what the fuck? on his lips and eyes scanning the place, and Harry rapidly catches the culprit; a man in what appears to be his thirties, huge bag hanging from his back, towering over his head, looking haggard and dirty, wand pointed at them in a shaking hand and mouth hanging open.
The man seems so shocked, he barely notices Harry’s, “That was rude,” before his eyes snap back to what is at Harry’s back. Then it all goes to hell.
Harry’s never seen his dragon angry, but the low growl that echoes through the chamber is a signal that he’s quickly descending into insanity. Harry barely hears whatever the man is stammering behind him, his eyes completely focused on Draco even as the dragon’s own seem unfocused and muzzy.
“Hey, hey, I’m okay, see?” It’s not like I can die, anyway, though that he doesn’t say out loud. He tries, soothingly, raising both hands but they don’t even reach his friend before Dragon is snapping at the stranger. “Hey! It was just a scratch,” Harry keeps trying, though Draco seems too far gone to listen, his eyes duller than he’s ever seen them, and focus solely on the unfamiliar wizard.
Harry pleads, face pinched and voice strained, knowing the only reason Draco hasn’t yet jumped and mauled the man is because he’s in the way and Draco would never hurt him. Still, he keeps trying to call him, his pleading falling onto deaf ears as a feral roar echoes through the cave in frightening ripples.
“Hey, mate, I’m fine. Look at me, please?” he asks, barely a whisper above the growling, and then, when Harry tries to rest a hand against familiar scales, the dragon snaps again, almost out of his reach. This has him inadvertently close his arms against Draco’s neck, heart beating fast in his chest and not in a good way. “Draco!” Harry cries, holding him close and hoping that his heartbeat is enough, that his voice and his presence are enough.
Dragon goes still, except for his tail still thumping against the ground, and were Harry to look, he’s sure he’d see wide eyes.
He forges on, hands trying to grab onto anything he can. “Draco, please. I’m fine, okay? It was nothing. Yeah, I know you’re scared, but I’m okay, really. Please, calm down. I’ll be fine.” Harry keeps whispering sweet nothings into his dragon ears until the snarls are silenced and the tail falls limp. He doesn’t let go, though, utterly aware that one wrong move might risk it all and praying to whatever deities out there that the wizard behind them doesn’t try anything again.
It feels like long hours, though likely only a few minutes, pass before Draco relaxes minutely against his body and Harry’s sure that’s all he’s gonna get for now. He releases some of his hold, looking back to silver eyes now focused back on him, and only then does he slowly let go completely.
It’s only when he finally turns back to the wizard that he sees the man must have fainted sometime during Draco’s outburst, which is honestly for the best. Harry heaves a sigh, feeling the dragon relax some more behind him and almost snorts at the whole situation, before he feels a wet tongue brush his neck, the fainting sting of the cutting hex suddenly vanishing, signaling that it’s healed.
“Let’s try not to have this man eaten by a dragon and get ourselves in trouble, okay?” he says reproachfully, before floating the stranger back to their couch, making sure that the man’s wand is safely tucked in Harry’s back pocket.
Draco’s response is a terse silence, but he follows Harry until he’s seated right in front of the couch, eyes never leaving the slumbering intruder.
It takes a few hours for the man to finally rouse. Harry’s sitting on his haunches, a dinner dish in front of him at the living room’s small table and an open book beside it. He knows the man is awake before he groans and moves, having felt his magic spiking. Not that Harry’s worried anyway, he’s got the stranger’s wand, intense Auror training, and a very protective, albeit subdued, dragon at his back.
It takes a few good tries and stammering, as the visitor stares at Harry placidly eating his dinner and the dragon glaring at him, before he manages a, “What’s happening?”
Harry places his fork beside his plate, eyeing the man. “You fainted and I’m having dinner. Would you care for some?”
The man’s dropped jaw is answer enough. Still, Harry watches him (internally amused) and waits for a reply. “But—but, but… It…” he points at the dragon, who only rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deign to give the newcomer an answer. “Yo—you are—“
“Yeah, yeah, I’m aware,” Harry interrupts before he’s forced into more drivel about the Boy Who Lived or shit like it. Despite his question going unanswered, he summons Lilee who pops in with another plate under a cloche and positions it on the table in front of the man. Once the elf’s gone, Harry continues, watching as the stranger is now patting himself looking for something, “I’ve got your wand, I’ll return it once you leave. I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t try to hex my dragon again,” he points a hand at Draco, who though snorting at the man, Harry can tell is secretly pleased at being called his dragon. The man just gapes.
“He’s harmless, honestly. Just a bit dramatic.” This gets Draco’s tail thumping, and maybe it’s Harry’s smirk that makes the man relax a tiny bit, falling into a nervous laugh.
The stranger ends up joining Harry for dinner, savouring Lilee’s delicate cuisine gratefully. Rolf—that’s his name—explains he’s a wandering researcher on the lookout for rare magical plants and he had just stumbled onto their cave, happy he had found a place to spend the night. When he saw Harry’s head inside the dragon’s mouth, he immediately thought the boy was being devoured and jumped to the rescue, though he’s not that good of a fighter, which in the end was for the best.
Harry can’t stop laughing for long minutes, thinking back to the bone hurting the dragon’s delicate gums and unable to think of Draco as nothing more than a big, sulky kitten.
He ends up explaining that no, he’s not kidnapped, and he’s here by his own free will, and that the dragon is his companion. Rolf seems doubtful, but after spending the night playing chess with Harry and Draco and watching them interact, he looks a tad more convinced the next morning.
Having spent so long with only a dragon for company, Harry hadn’t realised how much he missed talking to someone (who could actually talk back to him). He wishes Draco would hurry and reveal himself. He enjoys talking to the new man, asking him questions about his research and his findings, promising to write if he ever finds any of the plants he’s mentioned.
By the time Rolf leaves in the morning, after a full breakfast and with his wand back, he even manages not to tremble when Draco approaches him one last time, (almost) believing Harry that the creature is safe.
Harry wistfully watches the man disappear, back to his journey, before rushing back to the cave where he had left a very sullen dragon.
Draco’s in the same position from the day before, tucked in a corner in front of the couch, but doesn’t turn to Harry when he joins him, though Harry feels his confusion practically blaring out of him.
“You reckon we’ll be on The Prophet tomorrow?” he asks tentatively, taking a place on the couch.
Draco is quiet, as if he’s pondering, and when he grumbles back a reply, it’s not one for Harry’s question. The dragon wants to know for how long has Harry known it’s Draco.
Harry sighs, knowing this was coming and yet feeling unprepared. “You’ve been dosing me with a sleeping draught, haven’t you? You know that’s highly illegal right?” Draco whines and thumps his tail as if to say arrest me, which Harry finds amusing. And oddly endearing. “Well, I’m technically off duty anyway so I’ll let it slide this time.”
With another sigh, he explains about the night he only pretended to drink the nightly tea, and that he had been aware of Draco holding him after his nightmare and singing to him. In the end, Harry adds when Draco remains quiet for too long, tucked into himself, “I don’t mind that it’s you, you know… I actually—I like it quite a bit.” Harry snorts at his own maturing. “Don’t think it exempts you from explaining, though!” Then, he adds, much softer, “But… I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk to me.”
He gets no reply for long minutes, and Draco keeps his head tucked under his wings, so Harry gets up and goes about his usual routine. When enough hours pass and Draco is still quietly sulking in his corner, Harry goes to bed without his tea, waiting—hoping—that Draco will come back to him soon.
Chapter 4: I Never Had to Wonder if You Did (Love Me)
Chapter Text
Harry spends another night assailed by his nightmares, though this time there’s no warm embrace shielding him from the shadows, nor a soft voice singing him back to sleep. Harry wakes up with a killer headache and waning patience for dramatic Slytherins.
The light in their living chamber is dim. He feels enough time has passed for it to be already morning, albeit probably very early. Harry rolls onto his back, a groan on his lips and a protest about to be relayed before his magic zeroes in on the… nothing. There’s nothing else here except for himself, and some magical gadgets. No familiar warmth, no tingle of dragon magic.
Draco is not here.
He sits up at once, eyes perusing the room, questioning something he already knows the answer to. He’s alone.
Instead of the restlessness and despair that usually comes with the isolation—or, at least, the last time he’s woken up alone in their cave—now he’s just angry. His face creases in a grimace, lips curled and eyebrows wrinkled as he still looks around, as if he’s magically going to find something that isn’t there.
It’s as if a cord snaps inside him, and his patience is gone.
Draco is a coward.
Which shouldn’t be any news. However, in the last few weeks he’s become accustomed to regarding his dragon friend with something akin to admiration, thinking him brave.
As if.
Draco’s a fucking coward, he’s always been.
Harry has to force down the amusement threatening to burst inside him at the memory of the episode involving Care For Magical Creatures Class and Buckbeak, back in third year. Draco’s theatrics are incredibly endearing when they’re not aimed at Harry.
And because of that, right now, all he’s allowing himself to feel is pissed.
“Lilee,” Harry calls, stumbling out of the bed.
The elf appears with a pop, and by the hunched shoulders, the frown in her eyes, and the ears tucked in small hands, Harry’s sure she was in on it. As if he’d have doubted it. He can’t help but feel betrayed, and has to force himself to remember that Lilee is Draco’s house-elf, not his, no matter how much he calls this place his home.
“Lilee,” Harry repeats, gathering enough composure that his voice is almost soft, almost, though his grin is strained. Still, the elf flinches as if she’s been hit. She probably feels guilty about it. Good. “Where the hell is he?”
“M-master instructed Lilee to say he not be here anymore, and master leaves letter for Master Harry with Lilee.” Small, shaky hands reach out with an envelope tucked between her fingers, like she’s afraid to come closer. As if Harry would ever do anything to her, no matter how angry he is.
Harry eyes the letter for a second, nostrils flared, before taking it from her and dismissing the elf.
Just out of spite—because Draco had the gall to just leave with absolutely no warning whatsoever and send him a letter as if it’d ever be enough—Harry goes about his day for a while, ignoring the paper tucked in his pocket.
That is, until curiosity gets the best of him, and he allows himself to sit on the rug in front of the fireplace, back leaning against the couch, and finally open the letter.
Harry recognises Draco’s handwriting instantly, from way too many sneak peeks at pale hands holding a quill while in class—and if he wasn’t sure before that Dragon is Draco, this is the proof he needed, though it comes with its own amount of hurt.
Because his dragon, his companion, left.
Draco left him here alone.
Not sure if there’s anything in the letter that will ever give a satisfying explanation for leaving him here alone, Harry takes a deep breath and reads.
Dear Harry,
I have a feeling you’ll be incredibly cross at me for leaving you like this, but I sincerely hope the words in this letter will be sufficient to elucidate why I did it, and for you to forgive me one day. I wish I could have stayed, more than anything, but I am certain that is not what you’d have wanted after you finish reading everything I have to tell you; about what happened to me during the years after Hogwarts and how we got here. I only pray that you will not hate me for what I am about to relay, and that you can recall our time together in our cave only with fondness and that these memories not be tainted by betrayal and resentment.
For it all to make sense, I think it’s best to go back to the beginning. It all started shortly after the war, when I received my creature inheritance. Mind you, not my parents nor any of my grandparents had had the same… pleasure, so it came as quite the surprise when, one day, after a night of insufferable pain, I awoke to find I had dragon wings and scales. To say it was a shock is an understatement. You can imagine how my father took it, but thankfully I had mother fully on my side from the beginning.
With her help, I was able to research and understand my new nature and accept that it was who I am meant to be. With time and patience, I would learn how to better control my new shape and powers, and could eventually go back to living a plain, normal life—something I caught myself wishing for on more occasions than I’m proud of.
However, it never came to be.
My powers were unrestrained at best, and more often than not they controlled me rather than the opposite. Soon I found myself trapped in a dragon form from which I could not escape on most days, and with no answers to my endless questions, except for one: would my mate ever accept me?
You see, dragons mate for life, and when they find their mates in their lives, they know it’s who they’re meant to be with. Call it soulmates if you wish, as the title fits everything I felt then (and still feel): the call of a soul I could not touch, the despair and longing for someone I could never reach.
For long nights I wished ardently that I were dead, because it was not in me to ever wish for another mate and suffering his absence was a better prospect than having a different choice.
It was you. It’s always been you, Harry.
And maybe, somehow, I’ve always known. I’ve always felt that pull towards you, guiding me to you. I always needed your approval, always needed to be close—though I admittedly picked the most underhanded methods, for which I apologise.
And I also knew, intrinsically, that I could never have you.
Which probably meant I was stuck. I was so sure my inability to control my new powers came from the void the mateship left inside my dragon, and that I would never be complete because it would never be fulfilled.
So, I accepted it. I accepted my destiny and resigned myself to live how you found me years later. With mother’s help, we have built this fully equipped cave for my use, where I have been spending my solitary life, sometimes as a dragon, sometimes as a person, but never in full control of myself. Unless I am close to you, of course, because as you may have noticed, I could not stay away for too long. So I observed you from a distance, and tried to be invisible to your eyes, though now I see I failed.
However, watching you wasting your life away, risking yourself in such manners, was eating me up, wearing my barriers thin and soon my instincts spoke louder than reason and I brought you here.
How surprised and delighted I was that you decided to stay, my treasure wanted to be with me…
And then, something started changing inside me. I caught myself shaping back into a man at will, finding my magic soft to the touch and gentle only to you. I could only assume it was all because of your presence alone, because we were so very close to each other. Finally.
Until you told me about yourself, about what you’ve sacrificed for us in the war and what you have become. Then it all clicked.
It was not only your absence that brought me captive of my instincts, but your power.
Harry, my beautiful treasure, you’re the most amazing, selfless and powerful person I have ever met. You are more than the moon or the stars. You’re my world. And as your mate, I was built to share that with you, to bring balance to your soul and your powers. Such powers that have felt overwhelming and infinite, gently settled the longer we spent together. But, the longer you stayed, I knew the harder it’d be to let you go.
Dragons are possessive creatures, Harry, we have a strong need to dominate and to care to such an extent that it becomes suffocating. I am a monster, one that was not powerful enough to hold himself back, and for that I can only ask for your forgiveness for I know I will never be worthy of you.
I am sorry. I am so incredibly sorry for all the lying, and deceiving. I should have come clean sooner, but I knew as soon as I did, you would have left and I couldn’t bear to lose you again. Not now that I finally had you.
But now I see that I never have. And though my dragon rages war inside me with the thought of losing you, I am ready to let you go. You deserve more, my treasure, so much more than a beast controlled by its urges. And the only thing I wish of you is that you give life a chance again and not just survive.
I truly hope you understand why I had to leave. That I only wish the best for you, knowing it’s not me.
Feel free to stay as long as you want, this is your home as much as it is mine. Lilee was instructed to serve you as if you were her master, please make use of it. Do not attempt to find or contact me, however, trust that I am doing what is best for you as I desire only your happiness.
I love you, Harry. I think I have always loved you. And I hope you won’t hate me too much for lying to you.
Always yours,
Your dragon, Draco L. Malfoy
Harry takes a deep breath, putting the letter away, unable to look at it for a minute longer—not that his blurry eyes would have let him, what with the gathering tears.
It’s just. Fuck, Draco. There are just so many things wrong with this letter, and yet Harry’s mind is suddenly empty of all thoughts.
Before they come back, rushing a mile a second.
How could he?
How could he just leave? How could he think himself a monster after the gentleness with which he held Harry? How could he think he was not the best for Harry after taking care of him as if he’s the most precious treasure in the world?
How could Draco just tell Harry he loves him, and not allow Harry to say it back?!
Because… despite all Draco’s inane arguments for his cowardice, Harry still loves him.
And yet, once again, he’s being left behind. Not allowed to make his own decisions, forbidden to go after what he wants just because it may not be conventional. But since when has Harry ever had normal?
Harry is a war hero, the fucking Boy Who Lived. He’s the Master of Death and actively immortal. Harry’s not normal. And he doesn’t want a normal love.
He wants the wild, unpredictable dragon that makes his heart stutter and his stomach flutter. He wants the beast that held him close whenever he had a nightmare, or the monster that softly sang him to sleep. He wants the provocative, snarky Draco Malfoy and his stubborn and dramatic dragon side. He wants to submit and be taken care of, and he wants to care for Draco and to love him. Harry wants all of Draco, and he’s being denied the first thing, the most important one, that he’s wanted in so long.
Just because Draco thinks he’s not enough. Draco who gave his life up because of Harry, who has cared for him in invisibility. Draco who has loved him from the shadows.
Draco, who has been caring for a shell of a man, a broken soul, and asked nothing in return. How could he ever think he’s not enough?
Draco is more than Harry’s ever asked for. So much more.
His hands are shaking, his eyes filled with tears, when Harry croaks Lilee’s name again.
The elf, when she pops in, seems less guilty and more pitying, eyeing him with sympathetic eyes that have Harry averting his gaze. He doesn’t need sympathy; he needs Draco.
“Tell him to come back. Tell him I’m waiting for him, and I will not leave until he comes back.”
Lilee squeaks something about following orders before disappearing. She comes back shortly after telling him her Master Draco be refusing to come back. To which Harry only orders her to try again. And again. And again. Until the elf has exhausted herself for the day and Harry has to agree that he’ll have to let it go. For now.
He tries again the next day, only to have the same answer thrown back at his face, watching as Lilee’s mood descends along with his own. He asks for her to bring him to Draco, only to have the same response and no solution—Master Draco is not been wanting to come back nor Harry to go to him. Harry ponders if going on an eating strike could work, but it’s not like he’d die from it (something Draco’s aware of) and he’s become too used to Lilee’s brilliant three-times-a-day meals to let go of them now.
By the three-day mark, he’s sent about five letters and eight howlers (strongly warded so Draco will have no choice but to listen to him). Nevertheless, there’s no sign of Draco.
He’s reading the single letter Draco sent again, thinking about crafting a ninth howler when a passage on the paper strikes his mind as if he’s reading it for the first time. The most powerful person I have ever met, Draco had said, and Harry brushed it off unwilling to think of himself in such light. It’s not like he wanted to get all that power and nothing of what he did, he did alone. Harry’s always had help, it feels unfair to be the only one reaping the rewards for something he had help for.
But now, Draco’s phrase, Harry’s own reality, settles inside him. He is powerful. He is the Master of fucking Death, the entity, god, or whatever. Fuck, he’s even friends with Death on good days. Harry has more powers at his fingertips than the most powerful wizards and—
And he should use it.
A small smile tugs his lips up, hesitant hope soothing him inside as the idea forms in his head. If Draco refuses to come to him, and Lilee can’t take Harry to Draco… Well, he’ll have to go himself and retrieve his missing dragon.
Oh Draco, you beautiful, dramatic dragon, Harry thinks as he rushes to his table, fingers tucking a parchment from his pile as the missive takes form in his head. Once the letter is done, he asks Lilee to deliver it to Hermione with a copy for Luna, they’ll know what to do. Then, he finds himself in front of his clothes hanger, looking for the best, most absurd outfit Draco has made him try.
Opting for one of the most complex ones, Harry makes use of his rusty magic, wandlessly tying ribbons and tucking the buttons in the back. The little silver snake on his finger hisses something approving and nothing at all, and he grins as he watches his own reflection in the mirror. Apart from the pale greyish-blue shirt, he wears blue fake leather trousers that fit his form tightly and one earring Draco gifted him. It glints in the low light of the candles along with his glasses frames, and he considers dropping them. It’s not like he really needs it, strictly speaking, anymore, but Harry’s become accustomed to the light weight on his face and it somehow grounds him.
Once ready, Harry turns around and closes his eyes, shoulders set and determined.
Death has explained to him a while ago how to tap into his new powers, the ones that came with the entity’s title. At the time, Harry had mostly ignored them, too content with his own natural magic to need the extra boost—the fear of becoming more like Death and less like himself if he used said powers always at the back of his mind. Now he regrets having neglected such knowledge, and wonders how annoyed Death would be were it to be called by him.
Not that much, he figures. But the fact that the only thing moving him to—finally—tap into his ignored Master of Death’s powers is a man brings a shameful flush to his cheeks. Death might usually be very accommodating of their master, but he’s not about to take advantage of the being, especially regarding something so personal.
So, Harry tries hard, very hard, to remember everything he’s ever heard about this unknown energy surrounding him and how to use it. He’s sure he can figure it out by himself, he just needs to close his eyes a bit and concentrate.
Everything always goes back to concentrating, in the end, so it can’t be too far-fetched. Not that concentration has ever come easy to him.
Still, Harry does so, knowing the rewards he’s about to reap are immensely worth the effort.
Eyes closed, Harry thinks of Draco’s face, the pale hands… coming up empty. It’s been too long since he’s last seen the man in his actual human form and though he has an approximate image in his head, it’s not enough.
So he focuses instead on the feel of Draco’s magic across his skin, on the dragon’s warmth, on the soft il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai whispered in his ears after a nightmare, on the hold of strong arms around his shoulders. Harry focuses on the care he holds for Draco, on the love he’s learned to feel.
All that, he burrows into what Draco is, and for a second, he feels him. Then, the world compresses around Harry and magic tugs at his navel.
Harry lands with a crash, much like when he first began learning Apparition and not too different from his usual experiences with the floo, however softer. Shadows dance around him for a moment, before his body reabsorbs them and his vision clears.
As the world comes back into focus, Harry is distinctly aware of that warm, familiar tingle of magic again. He’s here—wherever here is. Harry turns around, taking in the elegant and unfamiliar room. And then, he’s face to face with him.
With Draco. Not in his dragon form, not as the boy he met in school. In front of Harry is the Draco who sang him to sleep, who held him at night, who loves him.
Draco, who’s staring at him with wide eyes, mouth agape and body incredibly motionless, a what almost out of his lips. Harry jumps him before the man has the chance to flee, having the distinct feeling that he was considering it.
Tackling him to the ground, Harry knows distantly that their… connection, or whatever he should call it, remains even in this form and through it he tries to shove all the care, and love, and even a bit of his frustration forth.
Draco might be larger, and stronger, but Harry is nothing if not a determined man and soon he’s holding the blond’s arms above his head, straddling his hips. Then, he stares, a giddy sort of satisfaction sparkling inside his chest.
This is Draco. Finally, he can see Draco, touch him, feel his skin, look at his grey eyes. Draco is here. Suddenly Harry is grinning despite himself, unable to hold it back.
Draco, panting and dishevelled, levels him a glare but seems to have no comment otherwise though there isn’t any need for it. Harry can feel everything from their bond—and how good it feels to call it a bond now that he knows about their souls craving each other—the confusion, self-hatred, guilt, but above all, love.
And, oh, man, he’s beautiful. Draco’s long, silver hair flutters around his head as if it’s moved by an nonexistent breeze, held loosely by a pale blue ribbon. He wears a simple light, button-up shirt that doesn’t really hide lean muscles beneath, and grey slacks. His eyes, stubborn and brilliant, are focused solely on Harry and even though they carry a promise of retaliation, Harry doesn’t mind it in the least because he is touching Draco, who is still unyieldingly silent, looking terribly uncomfortable and not really staring directly at his eyes, but at some place between Harry’s nose and lips.
“You,” Harry starts, breath coming out in puffs and Draco seems to freeze even more (if it’s at all possible) at his voice, but Harry can’t stop now and despite his grin there’s still anger and frustration brewing inside. “You are the most insufferable, pigheaded, stupid man I know. How dare you leave me alone like that?!” He watches as Draco flinches, but he doesn’t release his hold. Instead, much softer, Harry adds, “You’re also the man I love, the one I want to be with, the one that’s perfect for me. I’ve waited so long for something good out of this life and now you…” Harry stops himself, grimacing, but the words fail him. His grip goes loose, and he falls forward, head tilted against a sturdy chest.
Draco’s muscles twitch but they make no other move.
“Fuck, Draco…” Harry says, almost breathlessly, shoulders hunched and eyes firmly closed so unwanted tears won’t fall. It’s not the time to cry, it’s the chewing-Draco-out time.
Still, how can he really be mad with Draco for having feelings that Harry himself knows so well? He’s lived with doubt, insecurities and self-hatred for so long; he’s pushed people away, he’s isolated himself. Harry’s felt it all before, and until Draco showed up in his life, he still let them lead him forward. Hypocrite. How can he hold Draco up to it when he himself can barely control his own urges to flee? When he himself feels more like a monster than a man?
Maybe… Maybe he could show Draco what Draco has shown him; how to let go, to be cherished and loved. So he inclines his head a little, so that their lips are almost brushing against each other.
“Can’t you see how much I need you? How much I love you?” It comes out strained, pained.
They remain silent for a long while, and then suddenly there are strong arms closing around Harry.
“Oh, my treasure…” Draco says, then there’s colour burning behind Harry’s eyelids as the world rearranges itself around that precious voice.
Harry goes still, so still, hoping to hear it again, to catch it in all its intangibility in his hands and never let go. He feels like he could be a dragon in that moment, with how much he wishes he could hold Draco close, tuck him in his pocket and never let go. Instead, he lets himself be held.
“I… I didn’t realise,” Draco whispers.
“Because you’re stupid,” Harry mutters against soft fabric.
If Draco’s heard, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he blows a breath out and then his chest is trembling because of his laughter. “I should have figured you’d have found your way back to me. You’re so—“
Harry sits back up, hands supporting his weight against Draco’s chest and green eyes locked with grey. “You know that, right? That I love you, too.” Draco just stares at him, amused at the too at the end. “That I’m not going back to being lonely just because you—“ here, Harry strikes a covered chest with his fist, punctuating each of his next words with a punch, “are” hit “a fucking” hit “coward.”
Draco winces, but makes no move to get away from the aim of Harry’s lightweight punches, only raising one eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to confess your love or insult me?”
Harry ignores him, in favour of continuing the lecture growing in his head that would leave even Mrs Weasley’s behind. “You cannot really think I’d be better off alone, you’re not that dumb. And you’re not leaving me, not now, not ever! I’ll glue myself to your side, so much you’ll get sick of me. I’ll even blackmail you if I have to, if it gets you to stay! Dosing an Auror with sleeping draught, can you imagine the chaos?! It could land you a few years in Azkaban if you’re lucky, though I would rather have you closer to me.” Then, his expression takes on a pensive inflection. “Unless they consider house arrest, in which case it might work in my favour.” He could even be Draco’s conditional officer. Harry’s sure he could pull it off.
Draco is quick to interrupt his musings. Despite his amused grin, there’s a panicked light in his eyes. “You don’t.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to blackmail me to stay with you. And I would never, ever, get sick of you, my treasure. I am so sorry I… acted this way. I am such a coward, I fear your love as much as I crave it. I cannot stand the thought of you leaving me once you see the true beast.”
“Draco… why would I ever leave you? Yes, you behaved like a chicken and are stubborn as fuck, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You… I’ve never felt so loved, cared for and more special than how I feel when I’m with you. How could I not love you back? You are no more a monster than I am.”
“But—“
“I am serious, Draco. I would die without you.”
Draco stops, then after a pause he raises one pale eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you rise again very soon, though?”
Harry smacks Draco’s chest again, sensing amusement in their bond. “Shut up, can’t you let me have this moment?” Leaning back down, he grabs Draco’s face between his hands ignoring the murmured, and I am the dramatic one or something. He forges on, “Ever since we met again, Draco, it feels like everything settled into place. Like I was made to love you, and that you were born to love me.” He cocks his head down, lips almost touching Draco’s, lingering this time. “Let me show it to you, please,” Harry pleads and hopes Draco doesn’t have it in him to deny him this, them.
It’s Draco, though, who closes the distance between their lips.
It feels like electricity jolting through his body at their point of contact, and similarly, it shakes his world around. Draco’s mouth is sinful, warm and full of promises and Harry is happy to give in, to drown in those pink lips, to let that tongue map the caverns of his own mouth.
His breaths come out in little puffs when they finally break away, not for long though as the pull becomes ever so strong to drive them closer, to see, to touch, to feel. In an impressive feat of wandless magic, though so attuned are their souls at that moment that Harry isn’t even sure who’s responsible for it, their clothes are banished and he’s being carried by his thighs as Draco stands up and guides them to the bed, Harry wrapped around him like a bear.
Harry’s unceremoniously dropped onto a soft mattress, but he can barely register the smoothness of the material. His skin burns and longs for the contact and soon he’s crying and pulling for more.
Draco seems loath not to deliver, and he lays his body against Harry’s; legs tangled, chest to chest and arms closed around each other, trying to close the infinitesimal distance still separating them.
Magic power converges around the room in small waves, sparkling every so often, but neither seem to notice as they stare into each other’s eyes. The outside world ceases to exist beyond what they are to each other.
“How do you want to do it?” Draco asks, voice low as if afraid to disturb the bubble they’ve locked themselves in, still holding promises in his eyes that Harry’s all too willing to hold him accountable for.
Green eyes stare into pools of grey and Harry smiles in answer. “Any way, every way. I want all of you, whatever you’re willing to give me.”
Draco snorts, but his expression softens, and so Harry takes it as his win.
“Who would guess Harry Potter would be a sap,” Draco says, nuzzling Harry against the junction between his neck and shoulder, and Harry’s arms immediately wrap around him, pulling him even closer while rolling his eyes.
“Just give it to me, Draco,” Harry pleads, tone firm. Nails scratching against a pale back in warning. “Everything.”
Draco softly whispers the answer against Harry’s shoulder, “You need not ask, my treasure. There’s no part of me I wouldn’t willingly give you.”
And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to finally ask, to know that he’ll get what he’s been craving for so long. Draco’s finally his, there’s no need for games, for testing and hiding. He just needs to ask.
When Draco’s body starts rubbing against his own, it’s almost too much, so hung up he’s been until now. Harry hisses, making the blond man stop immediately, though one thigh surreptitiously slides between his legs.
“Sorry, it’s just… I’ve been—can you just,” Harry tries, finding his words failing him and feeling his cheek warm some degrees. “Fuck, I’ve been so horny for you. I don’t think I can hold on long. Can you just, you know, help me take the edge off or something?”
Draco leans back on his elbows, one eyebrow raised before he sniggers. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to come today.”
It’s something in the way Draco emphasises the word, Harry thinks, that makes him stutter. “Wha—“
“Shh…” Draco rumbles almost like a purr. “I’ll take care of you, darling, trust me.”
Maybe it’s the endearment that sounds so different from how Mrs Weasley usually uses it on him, maybe it’s just something in Draco’s tone of voice, because Harry does. He lets go and delivers himself to the wills of his mate.
Draco does to him what he wishes, pushing the boundaries of pain and pleasure and Harry loves it. Once the edge is off and he’s more relaxed and in control of himself, Draco takes his time adoring each stretch of Harry’s skin available, leaving a litany of little bites and marks around the faintly tanned skin. By the time it seems like he’s done, Harry’s painfully hard again and leaking from the tip. But then, Draco doesn’t seem that willing to help him again anytime soon.
Now, Draco takes his time. He slowly opens Harry with skilled fingers that feel like they were likely created just to find their way inside him. Once his entrance is wet and loose enough, Harry is a panting mess, hair forming a halo around his head.
Draco finally eases in, and then Harry feels his soul touched. The magic gently whirling around them crackles into life and the sound of their conjoined powers singing through the room drowns out Harry’s cries.
Draco doesn’t wait for him to adjust, he just mercilessly thrusts in, slamming into his most sensitive spot, Harry’s moan seeming to fuel his desire even more, until he suddenly stops.
Harry stills as well, looking studiously up at Draco, whose face is contorted in a grimace, sweat pooling on his brows. And then, it swells inside him.
It literally swells.
“Fuck! Draco, you’re… Ah—you’re getting bigger…!” Harry attempts, speech broken by puffed breaths. He closes his eyes, willing his body to relax against the sudden… heightening onslaught. It stretches and fills his insides, slightly roughened ridges touching everywhere it can reach, a constant pressure against him and Harry keels, head thrown back with a silent cry on his lips. He’s never felt anything quite like it. “Oh… Oh, Draco...” he whines, trying and failing to catch his breath.
Then, Harry opens one eye, and the sight that greets him makes him stare openly.
Draco’s brows are still creased in concentration, his lips still pursed. He, however, has changed. There’s a faint glow over Draco’s skin, and when Harry focuses his eyes, he finally takes notice of the smattering of small scales covering patches of skin, one of his cheeks, his arm. On his head, his ears have become elongated, more elegant, and between platinum-blonde locks of hair lay a pair of silver horns that shine iridescent in the light of their magic. And all around them lying protectively is a pair of magnificent wings cocooning them from the world. Draco’s fingers have turned into large talons, but Harry barely takes notice of them, as his breath catches once Draco opens his eyes. They look like a reflection of his dragon form and Harry can’t avert his own. The white of the eyes are completely black, while the irises have gained a pearlescent, hypnotising glow and slitted pupils look back at him.
Draco is beautiful.
Harry can’t help a trembling hand that reaches up, touching one scaled cheek. ”I love you…” he whispers, pulling the dragon’s face down so their lips are touching again.
Then, Draco starts thrusting again, and it doesn’t take long for both to reach their climax. When Harry finally comes, and he feels a damp moisture dripping between his thighs, Draco drops his body weight on top of Harry’s but he doesn’t retract from inside him. And that’s how he finds out they’re just starting.
Harry wakes again to insistent tapping on the windows, and from the increasing intensity, he gathers the owl has been waiting for quite a while. He mumbles something unintelligible, to which Draco stirs but makes no move to get up from his perch around Harry’s smaller frame.
“Owl, window,” Harry grumbles again, pinching the closest patch of skin at his reach. There isn’t the slightest possibility of him getting up anytime soon after the workout Draco’s put him through, so Draco better not be thinking of staying in bed much longer.
The realisation seems to cross Draco’s mind a moment later, because after a second’s hesitation, he’s groaning but standing up and prancing towards the window without even opening his eyes.
Harry sits back against the headboard, enjoying their magic still floating around and warming them, while watching Draco’s back as the man opens the window. Draco’s returned to his usual self now, scales absorbed back into skin and horns and wings retracted, and he can finally take the time to appreciate the view—not that he was blind before, only preoccupied. He catches a quick glance at Draco’s member and is relieved to notice it has also returned to its original size (Harry’s still uncertain it’s impossible to die of cock, despite what Draco said).
Suddenly, though, sunlight filters in and he has to close his eyes to ward off the light. Harry does not know how long it’s been, but from the looks of it, it’s morning which means at least a day in bed. Merlin, and he thought he was horny.
”I thought you said you had better control of your transformation by now?” Harry asks, poking one eye open as he hears the curtains closing again. He’s faintly surprised by the roughness of his voice, but with how much he’s cried the night—day? Hours?—before, it shouldn’t really be so shocking.
Draco raises one eyebrow at him, and Harry catches some amusement from their bond—that’s the proper name, he thinks, trying to remember something he read about magical creatures once—as the blond scoffs, “Have you seen yourself? How could I possibly hope to control myself?”
Harry ignores the jab—though at this point it might be a compliment, he is not sure—in favour of reaching with his arms, fingers making a grabbing motion to the parcels in Draco’s fingers that he was about to discard on the table.
Draco takes his place back at his side, dropping the parcel on Harry’s lap, but not before giving him a quick peck on the lips. Harry’s once again reminded that he can do this anytime he wants now, because Draco is his, and giddiness is back inside him.
”Hungry?” Draco asks, eyeing as Harry’s deft fingers work the envelope open.
Harry hums in response, finally pulling everything from inside. ”Where are we, anyway?”
He doesn’t look up at Draco’s answer but can almost feel one eyebrow raised at himself and the questions unasked.
”At the Manor. Mother is surely ecstatic about the current developments, she must have felt your arrival. How did you get here? I can attest to the power of the Malfoy wards, so…”
At this, Harry finally looks at him, but he can’t help the self-satisfied grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Draco’s only reply is a ruff of breath, as he turns around to summon a house-elf, most likely to ask for food—or so Harry’s hoping.
He busies himself by going through his parcel, and an even larger grin graces his face as he catches the small note in Hermione’s handwriting, I gather this will be enough. Also, I’m coming tomorrow to visit, don’t even think of saying no. P.S.: You better be thanking Luna ‘till the day you die (for real, I mean), she did most of the work in pulling this off. You’ll be the death of me, Harry Potter.
”What have you got there?” he hears Draco ask, as the dragon snuggles himself to Harry’s side again, probably done with the elf. He simply hands Draco the assortment of papers and magazines with headlines varying from The Perks of Having a Soulmate: Our Saviour’s Final Destination on The Prophet to Ten Tips on How to Care for Your Dragon Soulmate on the Quibbler, bless Luna. Harry watches amused as Draco’s face turns an ever paler shade as he takes in the news.
A few beats later, Draco’s eyebrows rise to an impossible angle, as his wide eyes look repeatedly from the papers back to Harry. This takes a few minutes, during which Harry compliments himself on holding his tongue, before something seems to set in his mate’s features. Something akin to wonder. And mirth, if their bond has anything to say about it.
“How very Slytherin of you,” Draco finally settles on saying, the mask of his face back into neutrality and a single eyebrow raised.
”Well, that’s what I get from refusing the Sorting Hat’s initial choice.”
Draco eyes him for a moment, then he snorts, head shaking with amusement. With a wave of his hand, he sends the papers flying to his table before settling himself against Harry’s side.
Time stills for a moment, as Draco hesitates, before finally saying, “Do you wish to go back to the Wizarding World?” he asks. Then, softly adds, “I would. For you.”
Harry hums again, shifting against the broader body for a comfortable position. He rests his head against Draco’s shoulders, legs intertwined with pale ones, and then looks up, green eyes warmly looking into pools of grey and reaching for that place in their bond that never fails to melt his soul.
Sighing softly, Harry closes his eyes and gives his answer, “Nah, where would I go? I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted right here.”
Chapter Text
Pages Navigation
nv-md (ANW815) on Chapter 1 Wed 11 Dec 2024 03:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 1 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Midlifecrisis on Chapter 1 Wed 11 Dec 2024 07:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
annanotherthing on Chapter 1 Thu 12 Dec 2024 01:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 1 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
babyvfan on Chapter 1 Fri 07 Feb 2025 11:34PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Mar 2025 03:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Xxxx (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 17 Feb 2025 01:47AM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 1 Fri 28 Mar 2025 06:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
🧚 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sun 27 Jul 2025 06:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 1 Mon 28 Jul 2025 12:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
nv-md (ANW815) on Chapter 2 Wed 11 Dec 2024 03:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
Midlifecrisis on Chapter 2 Wed 11 Dec 2024 08:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 2 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
annanotherthing on Chapter 2 Fri 13 Dec 2024 12:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
babyvfan on Chapter 2 Fri 07 Feb 2025 11:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
heath731 on Chapter 2 Sun 06 Apr 2025 07:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 2 Thu 17 Apr 2025 09:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
nv-md (ANW815) on Chapter 3 Wed 11 Dec 2024 03:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 3 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
Midlifecrisis on Chapter 3 Wed 11 Dec 2024 09:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
annanotherthing on Chapter 3 Fri 13 Dec 2024 10:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 3 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:24PM UTC
Comment Actions
GrimmHarry on Chapter 3 Thu 19 Dec 2024 07:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 3 Mon 06 Jan 2025 02:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
babyvfan on Chapter 3 Fri 07 Feb 2025 11:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
nv-md (ANW815) on Chapter 4 Wed 11 Dec 2024 03:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 4 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:30PM UTC
Comment Actions
Midlifecrisis on Chapter 4 Wed 11 Dec 2024 09:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 4 Fri 10 Jan 2025 01:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
annanotherthing on Chapter 4 Fri 13 Dec 2024 11:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
GrimmHarry on Chapter 4 Thu 19 Dec 2024 09:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
fantalf on Chapter 4 Mon 06 Jan 2025 02:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
GrimmHarry on Chapter 4 Thu 09 Jan 2025 12:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation