Chapter Text
When Harry was eleven years old, he bought his first wand from Ollivanders. Holding the holly stick in his hand, he felt his magic rise to the tips of his fingers, warm and tingling. He drew the wand through the air, and his mouth dropped open as the room was lit in a kaleidoscope of colours. Red and gold sparks rained down on his shoulders, on his face—warm on his skin like the long forgotten caress of his mother’s palm on his baby cheek. Feeling the magic travel through the wand and burst from the tips of his fingers had felt comforting, like coming home. But it had been tainted when Mr Ollivander told him that his wand shared a core with Voldemort’s, as if he’d been holding the wand that killed his parents. Though he tried to push the thought aside, it niggled at the back of his mind. His magic was scarred.
* * *
Grimmauld Place
I stamp my initials in wax to seal the scroll, and tie a Hufflepuff-yellow ribbon around it. I call Brian to the desk, and run my fingers through his brown and white speckled feathers. I adopted the grumpy little boreal owl about a month ago, after Padma’s grandmother died and she had to place a menagerie of magical pets in good homes. I’d never been able to deal with getting another owl after Hedwig, but when I saw his funny face—and its two looks, surprised or annoyed—I wanted him. I fasten the ribbon around my letter to Teddy to Brian’s leg, and hold out a package tied with string for him to grab. It’s the latest in a Muggle romance series about witches, of all things, that Teddy’s obsessed with. Much to Hermione’s chagrin, Teddy takes after me in his taste in literature.
As Brian’s fat little body takes off into the night, I pull open the desk drawer that holds my correspondence with Teddy. I run my fingers over the flattened scrolls, shifting through the papers until I find Draco’s letter at the bottom. I recognise it by touch, well-worn as it is. In the first weeks after he left the country, I read his letter several times a day. Sometimes, I’d read it with my eyes closed by tracing my fingers over the grooves his quill cut into the parchment. I carried the letter on me at all times. To the bookshop, to pub nights with Ron, to the clubs. I treasured it.
But after he was gone a month without word, the nightmares started. Some nights, I dream that Draco never comes home, that I never hear from him again. In most of my dreams, however, he comes home, but then leaves again. And again and again. I told myself that they were just dreams, but the feeling crept into my waking hours until it became painful to read his words. Until I almost believed that the letter and the time that I spent with Draco was the dream. I’m still waiting for him. I still have hope. But I had to put his letter away. I shut the desk door, and leave the attic.
In the sitting room, I stretch out on the couch, plop my bare feet on the coffee table. I’ve been to the Dragon’s Arms tonight, with Hermione and Padma. They’re still there. Hermione was quite drunk, but Padma will get her home to her place. I’m taking a gulp of tea from Draco’s green mug when the bell rings. Frowning, I glance at the hulking grandfather clock in the corner; it’s gone twelve. There are very few people who could be at my door.
I pad over to the entrance hall, still sipping my tea, and swing open the door. Draco is standing on the porch, looking fit in a thick black wool cloak, snowflakes catching on his lashes. He has a bag slung over his shoulder, and I don’t know whether he’s just returned from Paris or if he’s stopped at his flat and is hoping to spend the night. He’s holding a gigantic bouquet of snapdragons, long stalks with orange, red, yellow, and pink petals.
“You’re back,” I say. I don’t know how I feel about it. I thought that I’d understood why Draco felt he had to leave, but seeing him, a flare of anger rises up.
“Can I come in?” His eyes drop to the mug in my hands. I shrug, as if his presence is neither here nor there. As if I’m not drinking from a mug that I pilfered from his flat. I’m annoyed at myself and annoyed at him. I’ve imagined seeing him again so many times, but it didn’t feel like this. Like we’re back on the balcony, playing games. Or perhaps I’m out there alone. I turn on my heel, let him follow me if he likes. I drop onto the couch again, put my feet on the table as if I’m feeling relaxed when, in fact, the opposite is true. I hear the heavy door shut, and glance up to see Draco shrugging off his cloak. He’s wearing all black, and his jumper is tight across his broad shoulders and thick arms. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing denims and a skimpy, sleeveless mesh shirt, coal lining my eyes. I probably look like a total slag. “Harry…”
He sits down on the couch, to my right, and places the snapdragons on the coffee table next to my feet. No one has ever given me flowers before.
“Are those for me?”
“Hermione, actually.” My head snaps toward him. “Bad joke,” he says. “Yes, they’re for you.” His eyes drop to my arm, and I can practically feel his gaze running over the roses tattooed on my skin. “I know you like flowers.”
Unconsciously, my hand rubs over my chest through my shirt, to the petals that bloom there. I got my first tattoo, a black outline of a rose on my right inner forearm about two years after the war. I wanted to cover the scar left by Wormtail’s silver dagger. At first, my plan had been a tribute to my parents. But as I thought about all the dead and the gone I had to remember, I was horrified at the idea of my skin becoming a graveyard. I just wanted to make my body into something beautiful.
I badly want to pick up the bouquet, but something prevents me. I flash to the dreams where he’s back, and then gone. Gone, gone, gone. I think about the rose on my shoulder, the rose that he brought into bloom. How in the months that he’s been gone, the tattoo has been a comfort but also felt like a scar. “What do you want, Draco?”
“I want to say I’m sorry for leaving.” He’s sitting on the edge of the couch, hands resting on his knees, palms up as if he’s waiting to be slapped. Or for me to take his hand. “And to ask if it’s too late.”
I don’t know, I don’t know. I stand up, grabbing the bouquet. “I’m going to put these in water. Stay here.”
I snatch a crystal vase from a bookshelf, an artefact left behind by a former Black family resident, and stalk down to the basement. I stand at the kitchen sink, feel my heart racing in my chest. He doesn’t want me. He’ll leave again. This is my only change to have him, to be with him at least once. I have to be with him once. Just once.
When I return, he hasn’t moved and looks as uncomfortable as when I left.
“Let’s go to my room,” I say.
“What?”
“I want to fuck. Is that a problem?”
“Harry, I don’t think—”
“Is it a problem?”
“I don’t know.”
I shrug, and head for the stairs, still pretending that his presence doesn’t affect me. That’s utter shite, of course. My hand on the railing is trembling. He follows me to my room on the second floor. I light the candles with a flick of my wrist, and let him look around for a moment. I picked the smallest bedroom, and I’ve made it quite cosy. It’s decorated in warm yellows, and there’s a shelf lining a wall with my favourite books, mostly Wizard romances. My newest acquisition is a series of stories about a male Veela and his wizard boyfriend, which might have something to do with the pale hair of the Veela race and a certain man who is currently in my bedroom. I come up behind him as he’s examining my books, and tug on the hem of his jumper. He turns around, his hands on my wrists.
“Harry, wait—”
“I really, really don’t want to,” I say. “Please?” I hold my breath until he nods, and then pull his sweater over his head. His hands drop to his sides. My fingers are still shaking as I slip the top most button on his collared shirt. I yank the tails of the shirt from his trousers, finish with the buttons, and push it off his shoulders. My eyes first fall on the straight scars under his pectoral muscles from his surgery, but then I see the long silver line that stretches from his collarbone to his belly. My scar. I touch my finger to the tip. “I didn’t know…”
“Harry—”
I cut him off as I lean over and kiss the scar where it begins, dropping to my knees as I follow its curve down his chest. My hands grip into his sides as I press my face into the place where it cuts through the trail of light hair on his belly. I look up into his eyes as I place kisses all over his skin. I can’t quite read the look on his face, but his intense, enigmatic gaze is familiar to me. His hand drops to the rose on my shoulder. His fingers trace the petals, and my skin alights with sensation. My hands move to his belt buckle.
“Is this all right?” I say.
“Yes.”
I pull apart the buttons closing his trousers, and tug them down to his knees. I glance up at Draco as I slide his briefs down his thighs. His moon-coloured skin is pinking up, and he’s breathing heavily. The light blond hairs on his belly also cover his legs and his cock, which I take between two fingers. It’s about two inches long; he’s already hard. I run my finger up and down his cock. His hands move to my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.
“Is this okay?” I say.
“Yes.”
“I want to suck you. Is that okay?”
“Yes, but…” He hesitates, and I realise that we should have talked about this, that I’m rushing things because this might be my only chance. I sit back on my heels. He makes a disgruntled noise. “I want you to suck me, but don’t put your fingers inside.”
“Okay,” I say, leaning forward and kissing the crease of his thigh. I kiss across his pelvis, bury my nose in the blond curls. I kiss the head of his cock. It looks like mine, but smaller, I think as I pull it into my mouth. I use my tongue on the underside of his cock, and he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat. My hands slide around his hips to his arse, pulling him toward me, trying to tell him it’s okay to move.
“I want…”
I release his cock. “What?”
“I want to fuck your face.”
I don’t answer, but quickly take his cock back into my mouth, dig my fingers into his arse. I flick my eyes to his, and his fingers tug at my hair. I like the feeling of being controlled, owned, and I hum in appreciation. He yanks harder, thrusting his hips forward, pressing my nose into his pubic hair. There’s that intense, almost angry look in his eyes as he stares at me, riding my mouth. I am hard, but I don’t touch myself. This is about him. I have to show him what he means to me. I increase the pressure of my tongue, circling around the base of his cock. I suck a little harder with my lips, and his head drops back against my bookshelf. I laugh a little at the sight of his blond hair against my Veela romance novels, as he lets out a breathy Gods and Harry, Harry, Harry. I can feel his orgasm coming, his bum tensing in my palms. His thrusts stutter, his hands in my hair jerk, and the muscles in his thighs are jumping.
“Oh, gods,” he says as he stills, holding my head to his cock. His fingers in my hair are suddenly gentle, running through the tangled strands. I pull off, rest my cheek against his thigh. I can feel the aftershocks of his orgasm against my skin. I listen to his ragged breath as his fingers cradle my head. After a few minutes, he tugs lightly on my shoulder. I stand up, and he takes my face in his hands, kissing me, first softly and then more roughly. “Get on the bed,” he says into my lips.
I scramble onto my high bed, on top of the duvet. He pushes his trousers and pants the rest of the way off. Seeing him naked for the first time, I feel my breath catch—he’s stunning. I want to touch every part of him. Please don’t let this be a one-off. He crawls onto the bed, runs his hands up my belly, under my flimsy shirt. He pushes the hem up, and I lift my arms over my head and raise my shoulders from the mattress as he removes my shirt. He drops it to the floor, and lowers his head to kiss the blooming rose on my shoulder.
“Mine,” he says.
I suck in a breath. Yes, yours. He kisses the bramble wrapping around and down my arm. By the time his lips press into the rainbow of colours on my belly, kiss up the lavender stems and cherry blossom branches, I am trembling. I am hard, leaking. He kisses my belly button. Rubs his face in the black hairs on my stomach, and then unzips my denims. He strips me of my trousers and pants in one go, and takes my foot in his hand, kissing my ankle. He moves up my calf, bending my leg backwards to touch his lips to the underside of my knee, my thigh, the bottom of my bum. I imagine a new tattoo, bright handfuls of snapdragons lining my skin in pink and yellow, red and orange, blooming stalks from my ankle to my bottom. He kisses the inside of my thigh, and my legs fall open.
“I want to—”
“Yes,” I say. “Anything.”
He moves up the bed, over me, grabbing one of the pillows by my head. He presses a kiss to my lips. “So beautiful…” My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. I kiss him harder. I love you. I release him, and he shifts down the bed again. “Lift up,” he says, running his hand over my bum. I raise my hips, and he places the pillow under me. He pushes at my legs, and my hands fly to the back of my knees, holding myself open for him. His breath catches, and he traces a long finger down my thigh, to the spot behind my balls, pressing. I mewl, biting my lip to stop the embarrassing noise. “I want to hear you.”
“Okay,” I say.
I let out a moan as he runs his finger over my hole, which clenches for him. “Gods, you’re…” He doesn’t finish whatever he was about to say, and, though I wish he would, I realise that I don’t need him to tell me how he feels, how he sees me. He leans forward, and though I know what he’s about to do, I cry out his name as he presses a kiss to my hole, his tongue slowly tracing the rim. I feel like I’m on fire. No one’s ever done this to me before. I pull my legs farther apart, pushing my arse up to get closer to him. He increases the pressure of his tongue, dipping into my hole. I drop my legs over his shoulders, fingers scrabbling at the duvet. He has one hand on my arse, the other gripping my thigh, as his tongue thrusts into me. I push back against him, my back arching off the bed.
“I’m going to come,” I say. “Draco, I’m going to come!” He pulls his tongue out of me, and I moan in protest. He crawls up my body, settling on top of me. I wrap my legs around his waist, clutch at his shoulders, his back, press kisses over his face. He lines his cock up with mine, grinding on top of me. My cock rubs up against his belly, and I rock up into his thrusts. I turn my head to the side, close my eyes, and his lips move to my throat, sucking. I feel my balls tighten, and I squeeze my legs tighter, roll my hips harder against him. “Draco, I’m ready.”
He ruts faster, kissing me, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I feel him stiffen, moan my name, as my orgasm burns through me. My legs drop to the bed, muscles clenching, and I pulse onto his stomach. My thighs are twitching as he slides off of me. Even in the afterglow, I feel a shock of fear go through me. I grasp for his hand, entwining our fingers.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. He pushes on my shoulder, and I release his hand as I roll onto my side. He fits his body to mine. I listen to our ragged breaths until they slow down, sync up, before I ask the question that’s been on my mind since I opened the door to him.
“Can you tell me about it? About Paris?”
There’s a pause as Draco draws in a breath. “It wasn’t a mistake to go, but it wasn’t… I thought there was something I needed from my mother, but I was wrong.”
“You were?”
“Yes.” He drapes a leg over my hip and I squeeze his thigh. “My mother… I know that she loves me. I never doubted that, not really. But I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to acknowledge what my father’s expectations did to me. What she let him do…”
“I’m sorry.” I pull his hand to my face, kiss his palm. “You were gone… a long time.”
He sighs. “I know.” He clutches me to him. “It wasn’t my mother who I needed something from. It was Paris. The place where people had seen me as a girl. It was still familiar to me, almost twenty years later. And to walk in the streets, to visit the cafes and the shops that my mother and I went to, to live there openly as a man… Maybe no one knew who I was, but it felt like Paris remembered me. Every step... It felt like coming out, Harry.”
“I’m really happy for you.”
“I’m sorry I left the way I did. And for being gone so long. I just wasn’t ready…”
I squeeze his hand. I don’t forgive him, because there’s nothing to forgive. I don’t know that the dreams of him leaving will stop, but I’m determined to trust him while I’m awake. There’s still a lot that Draco’s not saying, and I want to hear about every step he took, if he wants to tell me. But he’s said enough for now. I trust that we have time.
"You came back."
"I kept looking over my shoulder, looking for you. But you were never there."
“Maybe…”
“Yes?”
“Maybe someday you can show me Paris?”
“Yes. Definitely, yes.”
“Sleep now?” I say.
“Hang on. Where’s my wand?”
“Why?”
“I want a Cleaning Charm.”
“Oh,” I say. “I can do that.” I raise my palm, and fling a Tergeo over our bodies.
“You and your wandless magic,” he says. I smile, because he doesn’t know that my wandless magic is down to him. I returned his hawthorn wand to him after the trials, and started using my own again. But the holly never felt quite right again, never felt as warm and comforting as the magic I created with his wand. There were plenty of old spell books in Grimmauld’s library, and, while it took me a couple of years, I eventually learned to cast without a wand. At the time, I didn’t understand why no other wand but Draco’s felt right, but as his palm caresses my chest and he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss against my neck, I have an idea. The wand chooses the wizard, after all.
fin