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Draco was supposed to be teaching Potter Occlumency. By now, there should have been some progress—it wasn’t as though they had much else to do. And in some ways, Potter was motivated. Whenever Draco started to probe too far, honing in on a memory Potter absolutely did not want him to see, he was thrown out so violently that once or twice he stumbled backwards, gripping their kitchen table to remain upright. Most of their arguments revolved around Occlumency. Draco reminded him, again and again, that it wasn’t enough to just shut his attacker out completely. Occlumency was a subtle art and it required that memories be carefully curated, redirected, manipulated, and overwritten. To his own ears, he sounded very much like Severus. And, of course, all of this was lost on Potter.

That afternoon, they decided to practice outdoors in the small garden. Draco had barely settled into the rickety patio chair when he felt the first rivulets of sweat trickle down his brow. Although it was overcast, the summer heat was oppressive, and the thick air threatened thunderstorms. The weather had been temperamental all month.

“It’s hot out,” Potter moaned, slumping back in his chair. “Let’s go inside.”

Draco rolled his eyes and, with a sharp flick of his wand, cast a Cooling Charm. “No. We’ve been inside all day.”

“Why do we always come out here after lunch? It’s the hottest part of the day.”

“Because you refuse to practice until I’ve spent the morning nagging you.”

They had repeated this exchange countless times. By now, their terse responses were practically scripted. But there were only a handful of safe topics they could take up, and so the same conversations were chewed over ad nauseam. It was like living in an uncanny reality where every day was the same, with just enough variation to keep Draco on edge.

“Alright. Let’s start.”

Potter gave an impatient sigh as he turned to meet Draco’s eyes. They sat like that for one moment, Draco gathering up his strength, and then he whipped his wand in Potter’s direction: “Legilimens!”

He was rather pleased when Potter put up a decent resistance…it took him several tries to break through…once he was in, he started parsing through the memories Potter had staged at the forefront…most of these, Draco had come to realize, featured his humiliation in some way: Draco being turned into a ferret…Draco being slapped by Granger…Potter beating Draco at Quidditch…He ran through these easily, and before long more painful memories began to emerge…he only just glimpsed a flash of Potter being shoved into a cupboard when, as expected, Potter shoved him viciously out of his mind.

Breathless, they both scowled at each other. Draco recovered first. “Not good enough. Not nearly good enough. You won’t be able to push the Dark Lord—”

“Voldemort.”

“—out of your mind that easily. Where are your defences? You said you would work on them.”

“I have been,” Potter said crossly.

“This isn’t a joke,” Draco hissed. “Dumbledore gave us one job. One bloody job. How is it going to look when you can’t even keep me out for more than a few minutes?”

Potter rolled his eyes. Furious, Draco pushed away from the table and walked to the edge of the garden. Unfortunately, he couldn’t go far—the boundaries of their wards extended around the perimeter of the lawn, and so he couldn’t step past the garden’s stone paving. Around them were nearly identical Airey houses, set closely together and fitted with worn shiplap panels. While the wards rendered them undetectable to their Muggle neighbours, they could still see out of the invisible bubble ensconcing them, and Draco spent most of his evenings watching the Muggles as they went about their daily lives. Standing at the edge of the garden now, Draco forced himself to take a deep breath as he watched a middle-aged man across the street push something Potter had called a lawnmower. It was rather interesting, how Muggles managed to get on without magic.

“Where do you think we are?” Potter asked him.

Draco shrugged. “Dunno.”

“I think we’re in Yorkshire.”

“Maybe.” They had been through this same discussion a hundred times already.

“What’s for dinner?”

“I’ll have to check. I don’t know if the cottage pie is still good.”

The strained silence between them was filled with the roaring sound of the lawnmower. A few cars went by. Draco was especially fascinated by cars—in the evenings, they would sometimes eat their dinner outside, and as the Muggles drove home from work Draco asked Potter about each car’s model and make. He had gotten quite good at identifying the most common ones. Of course, he had already known about cars before coming here, but never before had he been exposed to so many.

He turned to face Potter. “Let’s go again.”

They continued to practice until the first few raindrops splattered down. Draco held open the patio door for Potter, who was about to duck inside when he gasped: “My plants!” His bloody plants—about a week into their confinement, Potter had suddenly decided he wanted to grow beans, tomatoes, and hot peppers in the enormous planters they found in the shed. Lupin, as always, indulged him and included several packets of seeds in one of their deliveries.

“I thought plants liked the rain,” Draco grumbled.

“They’re already stunted!”

He watched, bemused, as Potter raced towards his planters in a panic and started to drag them beneath the overhang.

“For God’s sake.” Draco conjured a blue tarp and stretched it above the planters. “Have you forgotten how to use your wand?”

Potter stood up and stared at his plants for a moment.

“They’re fine,” Draco called. “Would you get inside? If you die of hypothermia the Order will kill me.”

Potter finally relented, pushing past Draco into the dark confines of the house. Draco cast a quick Drying Charm on himself and headed to the kitchen. It was shabby and cramped. The paint was peeling off from the cupboards, and the stove had two hobs that didn’t work at all. They kept the kettle on one of these broken hobs. Draco tapped it smartly, setting it to boil, as he reached into the cupboard for two mugs. He found the process of preparing tea soothing. Above him, he heard the shower running. He wondered vaguely why Potter hadn’t just used a Drying Charm. Then again, he often preferred to do things the Muggle way—boiling the kettle on the stove, washing their dishes by hand, and tending to his plants without magic. It exasperated Draco to no end. They had been reassured countless times by members of the Order that Potter could use magic here, that the Trace couldn’t locate him, but that didn’t seem to matter.

He added a dash of milk for Potter while leaving his cup plain. Carrying the steaming mugs into the living room, Draco sidestepped Potter’s shoes—he had the unforgivable habit of kicking them off and then leaving them strewn around the house. More than once, Draco had tripped over Potter’s bloody trainers and nearly broken his neck. He gave a long, exhausted sigh as he sunk into the couch. Potter would be down soon, asking about dinner again. In truth, he had no appetite. Living in this house was starting to wear on him. Exploring the odd Muggle appliances and tools could only entertain him for so long, and he had nearly finished his summer homework. While McGonagall had offered to bring him books from the library, it was no use. With his anxiety in full swing, he couldn’t concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time.

Finally, Potter came crashing down the stairs, toweling his wet hair as he burst into the living room. He was so impossibly loud.

"Move your shoes,” Draco muttered.

Of course, Potter ignored him, gingerly picking up his cup of tea before settling into his favourite armchair. He had his copy of Advanced Transfiguration with him. Draco scoffed—it was taking him ages to get through it.

“You’re welcome.”

Potter raised his mug in Draco’s direction without looking his way. He watched as Potter draped the towel over his shoulders and propped open his book. Feeling as though he had been dismissed, Draco looked around the room aimlessly. They were trapped. McGonagall had reassured them that come September they should be able to leave, but nothing was guaranteed. On those few occasions when Draco allowed himself to reflect on their current predicament, he felt a nasty twinge of guilt. It was his fault they were stuck together, after all. That was another point of contention between them—while Draco insisted that he was to blame, Potter vehemently disagreed, arguing instead that the list of culprits included Dumbledore, Snape, Draco’s parents, the Dark Lord, and, predictably, Potter himself. Draco quickly learned that Potter was an expert at self-flagellation.

Feeling restless, Draco fidgeted on the couch. Finally, he took out his wand and started to levitate Potter’s shoes off the ground. He was still working on his nonverbal magic. As of last week, his skill had suddenly improved, and he was capable of simple conjurations and basic spells. Charms that required prolonged concentration, however, gave him trouble. He wanted to reach the point where he could keep an object hovering in the air while his mind was focused elsewhere. He tried now: as Potter’s shoes hung a few metres off the floor, he turned to look out the window, wondering if it would rain all night. After a few seconds, he heard a soft thump as the trainers fell. Forcing himself not to get frustrated, he tried again; the key was to leave some small part of his consciousness still focused on the levitation spell while the bulk of his mind strayed elsewhere.

“You’re getting better.” Draco jumped—though Potter spoke quietly, the sudden sound of his voice shook Draco’s concentration. And, of course, the shoes dropped out of the air.

“Yeah.” Annoyed, he leaned back, rubbing his hands across his face. They hadn’t really done much of anything with their day, but he was exhausted all the same. The sleepless nights were taking their toll.

“Try again,” Potter suggested.

“In a minute.” His magic felt tenuous here—fragile, shaky, as though at any moment it might taper off. Every last part of him was just so tired.

“Dinner?”

Exasperated, Draco rose stiffly from the sofa and headed into the kitchen. What he wouldn’t have given for access to the Hogwarts grounds or the Manor’s gardens. After weeks in this house, nothing appealed to him more than the thought of being able to walk or run for hours and hours without interruption. Their daily trips out to the garden did very little to diffuse his growing agitation. They were like two caged animals. It wasn’t healthy, he told himself regularly, to keep two seventeen-year-old boys in such a small space and with so few outlets. No one could blame them for…He pushed back the thought and put all his focus into preparing dinner. At least they were well-fed—members of the Order brought them ample supplies from the Hogwarts kitchens. Potter still had a voracious appetite, but Draco hardly ate. He was usually too anxious. Still, he cooked dinner most nights. It gave him something to do.

A sudden burst of thunder shook the small house. Draco gasped; he nearly dropped a plate as he clutched the countertop for support.

“Alright?” Potter called.

He didn’t answer. It was as though he had lost his voice. He hated thunderstorms. Steadying himself, Draco pulled back the yellowed blinds and looked out the window. The rain was coming down so quickly that he couldn’t even see their patio furniture. Hopefully, Potter’s plants wouldn’t be destroyed. He would never hear the end of it. The next boom of thunder was more of an angry, longwinded rumble. Draco stood in the kitchen, reheating the remains of their cottage pie, as the storm raged on around them.

***

Potter had pushed him down onto the mattress so sharply that white spots burst behind his eyes. They grappled for a moment—Potter seeking dominance, Draco pretending to resist him—until finally Potter pinned his hands down so tightly that his wrists burned. He wanted to tell Potter to slow down, to relax, to be gentler with him, but he was cut off by the insistent voice in the back of his mind urging him to take it. As always, he wondered idly where all of this fury and nervous energy went during the day. When the sun was out, Potter was positively placid; those few times when he allowed himself to be provoked, he cut Draco so sharply that his anger boiled over before it could really do damage. Once the sun set, he was a different person entirely. Draco liked the thought that only he got to see Potter like this: the physicality of their nights was theirs alone to explore.

Potter bit down on his neck before lapping at the skin. Draco squirmed, knowing he meant to leave a mark. Whenever they had a day like today—long, tedious, and dreary—Potter was rougher with him at night. It was the only way they could get out their pent-up energy. As Potter sucked viciously on the spot just below Draco’s jaw, he knew he was going to wake up with bruises. The thought sent a shiver through him. Potter’s hands were everywhere—squeezing his hips, running down his arms, holding his wrists back down when he dared move.

“Fuck,” Draco gasped sharply as teeth sank into his shoulder. Potter was laughing.

“Too much clothes.” Brusquely, Potter sat in Draco’s lap and started to peel off their shirts. It was unbearably hot in the room. Draco reached over to the bedside table for his wand, but Potter stopped him.

“Cooling Charm,” he growled. But it was no use; Potter pulled his hand back and kissed his palm. It was so dark that Draco almost couldn’t see him. Usually, the bedroom was lit by the streetlamp across the road, but tonight it was raining so hard that he could barely see Potter’s face. Neither of them suggested casting Lumos.

Potter had dragged off his pyjama bottoms and was now pulling down Draco’s. They caught around his ankles for a second, and Potter laughed before casting them aside. He was in an oddly good mood tonight. That usually meant Draco was going to suffer in the best way possible.

“Come up on me.” Before Draco could comply, Potter was already lifting him onto his lap. This was how he usually liked to kiss him. Draco couldn’t help but sigh into the other boy’s mouth as they held each other tightly. When he kissed Potter, his stomach did all kinds of funny things. When he kissed Potter, he felt as though his chest would burst open. When he kissed Potter, it was so easy to forget. He could have happily stayed like that forever, twisting their tongues together and groaning into each other's mouths until the sun rose. But, as always, Potter grew impatient. His hands came to rest on the small of Draco’s back and he pulled him somehow closer. They were both hard—Draco, at least, had felt his cock stir the moment he heard Potter open his bedroom door.

They pulled away for a moment, panting. Potter reached out and found the side of his face. Slowly, he traced the tips of his fingers along Draco’s cheek, his jaw, and then up again to drift through his hair. Draco’s heart was pounding. He wondered what Potter was thinking. These were the times when he most wished he could penetrate his mind. Potter tightened his grip in Draco’s hair and pulled him in for another deep kiss. When he released him, Draco felt quite dizzy.

“Lay down.” Again, Draco meant to comply, but he had barely started to shift over when Potter pushed him down and climbed on top of him. As they kissed, it suddenly occurred to Draco how strange their life was—how strange that outside this house, a war was raging, and yet here in this room they had the time to kiss each other leisurely, to bask in each other’s warmth, to twist and turn together in the sheets night after night.

Draco opened his eyes. In the dark, they could just make each other out. “How do you want it?” he breathed.

Potter laughed. “Always so eager.”

He didn’t argue, because it was true.

“On my stomach. Come up around here. There you go.” Draco allowed himself to be positioned near the edge of the bed. On his knees, he watched as Potter sank easily onto his stomach. Draco reached for his wand, nearly knocking it off the bedside table as he fumbled.

“No, use this.” Draco bit back his irritation as Potter leaned forward, opening the drawer and rooting around until he pulled out a bottle of lubricant.

“It would be so much easier if I just—”

“No.”

There was no point in arguing, and anyway, Potter was settling back into position, reminding Draco that he had more pressing matters to attend to. He took the proffered bottle, unscrewed the cap, and coated his fingers generously.

“Relax…relax, there you go…” Potter already knew, of course, but he repeated the platitudes anyway as he slowly eased two fingers in. He had learned early on never to start with only one finger—Potter’s patience would nearly snap at that point. They hadn’t done this in a few days, and Potter was quite tight around him as Draco gently coaxed him open. When he suddenly keened, arching his back, Draco abruptly added a third finger. He felt Potter melt beneath him.

“Yes. Yes. Oh, fuck, yes.” Encouraged, Draco continued to loosen him, using his other hand to trace gentle patterns along his back. Potter wasn’t quite ready, but he was already hissing at him, “Malfoy, go on. Fuck me already.”

Each time, he wanted to prolong his suffering, wanted to snap back with a withering retort and make him wait for it, but his resolve always faltered. He spread the remaining lubricant onto his cock, taking his time in a small act of resistance against Potter’s insurmountable impatience. He stroked himself slowly, stopping only when Potter groaned. As he pushed forward, Potter made that strangled sound he had come to know so well. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t make him wait. The tight heat was too alluring. By the time Draco had sunk into him completely, Potter was already pushing back, urging him forward.

“Yes. Draco. Yes.”

Something in him shattered every time Potter started using his first name. The sound nearly pushed him over the edge, and so he slowed down, enjoying the heady sensation of Potter tightening around him. Potter curved his back, his face driven into the pillow as he scrambled for purchase on the headboard. Although he was the one in control, Draco knew that he had hardly any power here. As Potter demanded, in a rasping voice, that he fuck him harder, he immediately obeyed, smirking as the other boy gasped and buried his face into the sheets.

Draco was close. It seemed that when it came to Potter, he had no stamina at all.

“You’re close. You’re close,” Potter was mumbling. “Want you to come in me.”

“Yeah?” He reached forward and grabbed Potter’s cock. It was so slick that he took a moment to adjust his grip. “God, look at you. Bent over for me.” He swallowed hard. “You take it so good for me. Every time, you always take it so good.”

Potter moaned loudly, pushing back against him.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me. Let me hear you.”

In a desperate voice, he whined, “Make me come. Want to come. Want to feel you in me. Please, Draco, please.”

He never managed to hold on after that. Draco paused, his orgasm swelling up within him, and then finally it bubbled over. His fist flew over Potter’s cock, and it took only a moment longer before he was groaning through his own release. Draco dug his fingers into Potter’s hip so hard that the other boy squirmed, but he couldn’t help it—he needed some way of bracing himself. For a blinding instant, he thought to himself vaguely ‘I love you,’ but he recoiled and focused instead on bringing Potter through his orgasm.

Exhausted, he flopped down onto the bed, pushing his hair out of his face. They were both drenched with sweat. Potter lay next to him, face turned away. As they took a moment to catch their breath, Draco froze when Potter suddenly reached out to clasp his forearm, right above his Mark.

“Hot,” Potter finally mumbled. It took Draco a moment to realize that he was talking about the temperature in the room. Although he was loath to move, he eventually reached over, took his wand, and cast a Cooling Charm. The burst of fresh, cold air was blissful.

“You…” Potter looked over at him. In the dark, Draco couldn’t make out his expression. He waited. “That…was good.”

A strange, hollow feeling overtook him. He felt numb as he pulled the thin sheet over himself and waited for Potter to leave. Because he always did eventually leave.

***

“Letters!” Lupin called to them from the kitchen. They were in the garden again, practicing Occlumency. At once, Potter leapt up and hurried back inside. Draco was slower, reminding himself to be polite and to maintain his composure as he dragged himself indoors. Lupin was sitting at their dining table, and once again, irrational anger swept over him. Potter was always so excited when they had visitors. He asked them for news of the outside world and listened for hours as they told him about his friends and the Order. Draco, meanwhile, resented their intrusions. Although he hated to admit it, the house had started to feel like his and Potter’s private space. And news from the outside reminded him that someday they would have to return to that world—separately, no doubt.

“Tea, Lupin?” Potter asked, already fiddling with the stove. Draco pulled out a chair and threw himself into it, refusing to meet Lupin’s eyes.

“And how are you two getting on?” he asked, glancing between them. “No fighting, I hope?”

“Not more than usual,” Potter said happily. “Go on, tell us everything. What’s the Order been up to?”

Draco sat back and listened as Lupin droned on. It seemed that the Dark Lord was gathering all kinds of followers—the Dementors, giants, and werewolves were particularly concerning to the Order. Draco stared into his teacup as Potter listened with rapt attention. Finally, as Lupin took a moment to inhale, Potter asked, “Are those our letters?”

“Yes, they are. Your friends’ birthday wishes, I’m sure.” Draco looked up with a start; he had forgotten today was Potter’s birthday. Why hadn’t he mentioned it? “And I have some presents for you, too.” As Lupin reached down to pull several wrapped boxes from his extended bag, Draco sorted through the pile of letters. There was only one addressed to him—from his mother, no doubt.

Potter looked down at the envelope in his hands, frowning. “And what about Malfoy’s parents? Any news from them?”

Lupin winced. “Still nothing. We have no idea where they’ve fled to.” Draco held his breath, expecting Lupin to interrogate him again, but the moment passed.

They watched as Potter opened his gifts. He received an old watch from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, a Sneakoscope from Granger, and, from the Weasley twins, an enormous box of merchandise stamped with the name Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Draco picked through it and held up a jar for further inspection: U-No-Poo. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had just taken a sip of tea when Potter unwrapped a book from Weasley—Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. He spluttered and choked as Potter laughed. Lupin looked between them, confused. Potter hastily set the book aside and moved on to a package from Hagrid: a Mokeskin pouch.

“I didn’t have time to bring a cake,” Lupin was saying as Draco examined the pouch. “You’ll have to forgive me.”

“That’s alright. It’s just nice to see someone else.”

Draco scowled at him, but he didn’t notice.

By the time Lupin left, the sun was starting to set. Potter retreated to his bedroom to read his letters. Unsure of what to do with himself, Draco traipsed back out to the garden. They had been graced with a cool, breezy evening. Tired of the stiff patio chairs, he opted to sit cross-legged on the paving, watching as the cars went by. The smell of barbecue wafted towards him—Potter had already explained to him how Muggles set up contraptions that they used for grilling meat outdoors. It sounded rather barbaric to him, but he had to admit that the smells were tantalizing. He wondered if they might be able to acquire a barbecue, and if Potter knew how to use one. Another car whizzed by—a Ford, he knew. He could hear children laughing. It was odd, living in this Muggle neighbourhood. The Manor had no neighbours at all, and the gardens were perpetually still and silent. The Manor…he thought of his mother’s letter, left forgotten on the kitchen table. He was gripped by a sharp pang of guilt, but he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, he sat there, watching the cars go by.

***

That night, they didn’t even make it up to the bedroom. The sudden divergence from their usual routine had Draco reeling in a whirlwind of emotion. But he didn’t have time to reflect. The kitchen was much brighter than the bedroom—light from the streetlamps poured through the window, illuminating them in an orange glow. The silence in the kitchen was almost eerie as Potter backed Draco up against the counter. Draco jumped as the refrigerator roared to life—he still wasn’t familiar with the appliances’ strange noises. He expected Potter to laugh, but instead he gently cupped Draco’s face, as though concerned for him. Draco growled and pulled Potter towards him, kissing him brutally and twisting his fingers through his hair. He wouldn’t be able to survive it if they started slipping towards having empathy for one another.

“On your knees,” he said roughly, making his point. Potter smirked at him but did as he was told. Kneeling on the linoleum floor, he ripped open Draco’s trousers. Draco immediately decided that he didn’t like being in the kitchen where he could see everything so clearly. In the strange orange light, he couldn’t pretend to himself that it wasn’t Potter taking his cock in hand. Potter stroked him leisurely, his parted lips so close to Draco’s cock that he almost ached with need, but he managed to control himself. Potter leaned forward, eyes closed, and slowly took his cock into his mouth. He had come to be addicted to this wet heat—to the feeling of Potter’s hand gripping him, sliding up and down in time with his mouth as he groaned low in his throat.

“Potter,” he breathed, watching as the other boy pulled away and looked up at him. His expression was impossible to decipher. Draco’s heart lurched in fear when he realized that Potter wasn’t wearing his usual sly smile. Instead, his face was open and painfully earnest. Draco closed his eyes and tilted his head back onto the cupboard. He would go mad if he looked at Potter a moment longer. Perhaps sensing that he had won whatever game they were playing, Potter redoubled his efforts, twisting his hand along Draco’s shaft as he sucked the tip.

“Look at me.”

Draco turned his head to the side, absolutely refusing. If he looked, he would be undone. The edges of his sanity were already fraying as it was; he needed to keep some boundaries intact, damnit.

“I said look at me.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” he suggested weakly.

At once, Potter was on his feet. He gripped the back of Draco’s neck and brought their lips together. As Draco gradually allowed himself to ease into the kiss, Potter bit down sharply on his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. When the metallic taste of blood bloomed in his mouth, Draco gasped.

Potter pulled away, resting their foreheads together. They were both out of breath. “Look at me,” he said again. “Alright?”

He didn’t think he could answer. Fortunately, Potter didn’t wait for a response; still looking into Draco’s eyes, he brought his hand up to his mouth and licked his fingers and palm. He wouldn’t have been able to look away even if he tried. Potter smirked as he reached down and grasped his cock. No matter how many times they did this, Draco didn’t think he would ever get used to the feeling of Potter’s hand wrapped around him. It was so different from his—larger, rougher, calloused. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out besides a low, deep groan.

Potter was holding onto his shoulder with one hand, using the other to undo his own fly. His jeans and pants went tumbling down, and Draco inhaled sharply as he took both their cocks into his hand. “Better,” he muttered.

Potter rested his forehead against Draco’s again, his eyes fluttering shut. Draco was finding it difficult to concentrate on remaining upright when Potter was busy stroking them together like that.

“You’re brilliant,” he said shakily.

“I aim to please.”

Draco’s hands roamed along the counter, grappling for purchase—blindly, he reached up for a cupboard door. When Potter suddenly dragged his thumb over the tip of Draco’s cock, swiping through the pre-cum that had accumulated there, he gasped and gave a start. There was a crackling sound as he nearly pulled the cupboard door off its hinges. Potter laughed.

Draco knew before it happened that they were going to reach their peak together. Potter was close—he was making those sharp, keening noises. Draco watched him for as long as he could manage. “Oh—oh—Draco—fuck—Draco—I’m going to—”

He thought he would lose his mind as he felt Potter’s hot release coat his own cock. Even as he shuddered through his orgasm, one arm coming around Draco’s neck as a means of bracing himself, Potter continued to work on Draco until finally he felt his own orgasm bubbling up. As he tipped over and felt the first pulse of pleasure, Draco dragged Potter towards him and pressed their lips together in a searing kiss. A cry rose up in his throat, and he gave a sharp yell as he came all over Potter’s hand.

Draco was dizzy as he leaned back. He didn’t know what to say. Potter took a moment to coax every last drop out of him, and then he gave Draco one more kiss before stumbling over to the sink to wash his hands. Draco cleaned himself off with a flick of his wand and then pulled up his trousers.

“You…we don’t…” Draco struggled to put into words what he was feeling. Finally, he said quietly, "Happy birthday."

Potter was suddenly very occupied with scrubbing his hands. Recognizing his cue to leave, Draco scurried upstairs to his bedroom, crawling into bed and trying to ignore the voice in his head whispering ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ like a broken record.

***

It was another oppressively hot day. Draco sat at the patio table, flipping through his Potions textbook, while Potter tended to his plants. Draco was resolutely ignoring him. Why he insisted on using a watering can, lugging the rusted thing from the shed to the garden over and over, was a mystery to him. Now that the rain had mostly dried up, Potter’s plants seemed to be flourishing. Or at least, they weren’t as brown as they had been.

“See?” He glanced up as Potter held out what looked like a leaf. “It’s germinating.”

“Brilliant.” He turned a page in his book.

“The tomatoes, though…” Potter frowned. “I think they should have stayed inside longer.”

“Mmm.”

“It’s too bad we’re not South facing.”

Draco leaned back, snapping his book shut. “Are we practicing or not?”

Potter rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. Giving his plants one last look, he came over and threw himself into the chair opposite Draco. It creaked dangerously. “Right. Go ahead.”

Draco pulled out his wand, gathering his thoughts in preparation.

“Why do we always do this in the afternoon?” Potter whined. “It’s the hottest part of the day.”

“Because you refuse to practice until I’ve spent the morning nagging you.” Around and around in the same circle they went.

Relenting, Potter turned towards Draco. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and then: “Legilimens!”

Potter resisted at first, keeping him out completely. Impressed, Draco pushed and pushed; still, Potter refused him. When he finally managed to break through his defences, Draco was exhausted. Acting quickly, before Potter could throw him out, he started to flip through his memories…Potter rejecting Draco’s offer of friendship, Draco cowering as the Hipprogriff reared above him…annoyed, he renewed his efforts…a new memory flashed forward…Draco, leaning back onto the countertop, his face flushed…

Draco wrenched himself out of Potter’s mind and gripped the patio table tightly. He was trembling. Across from him, Potter smirked.

“W-what…what was…”

“I told you I’ve been practicing.”

“That isn’t how—” Draco stopped. ‘That isn’t how we’re supposed to do things.’ Their nights were not supposed to bleed into their days. Drawing those firm boundaries was the only way he would manage to get through this.

Pleased with himself, Potter stretched his arms above his head. “Pasta for dinner?”

Potter worked on his Potions homework while they ate. Draco thought his habit of reading during meals was impossibly rude, but he had given up on complaining. He didn’t have much of an appetite and so he sat back, sipping his tea, watching as Potter ran a finger under each line and mouthed the words to himself.

He looked up. “Staghorn. That’s for tumours, right?”

Draco nodded curtly.

Potter looked back down at his text, frowning. Growing restless, Draco levitated their dishes towards the sink. They floated down neatly until the very end, when he lost control and they dropped with a clatter. His magic was so rough around the edges here. He himself felt worn, as though being in this house was slowly unraveling him. The heat didn’t help, either. Draco leaned back in his chair, considering Potter, watching as he continued to work his way through his textbook. It wasn’t as though he had anywhere else to be.

***

They were back in Draco’s bedroom. He was grateful for the cover of darkness, because Potter was kissing him as though it was the only way he could breathe, as though if they parted for just one moment he would be swept away. Holding Draco’s face in his hands, Potter moaned into his mouth, and it was one of the lewdest things he had ever heard. He felt dizzy. With one last, firm kiss, Potter finally pulled away. In the dark, Draco could just make out his bright eyes.

“You…” Potter trailed off. Draco waited for him to elaborate, but instead, he suddenly reached out and pulled him into a tight embrace. They had never really hugged before. Draco had no idea what to do or say. With Potter’s arms wrapped around him, his face buried into the crook of his neck, Draco didn’t dare move. All at once, Potter was kissing him again. Draco couldn’t keep up. He didn’t even bother fighting for control.

It was maddening, being kissed by Potter like this. Draco wanted him. He wanted him so badly. And it didn’t make sense, because Potter was right here, in his arms, kissing him as though it gave him life, and yet still Draco yearned for him. It was an itch he suspected could never fully be scratched. He gripped Potter’s arms tightly, well aware that however close they got, it would never be enough. Even if his fingers managed to plunge through Potter’s skin, dipping into the warm rush of his blood, it would never be quite enough.

“Need you,” Potter was mumbling against his mouth.

“You have me.”

Potter shook his head. “Need you in me. Now.”

He was never capable of denying him. Sometimes, he dragged things out, knowing that as much as he protested Potter enjoyed being teased. But now, he had nowhere near enough self-control. Not when Potter was panting against his mouth like that, worked up even though both of them were fully clothed and had hardly touched one another.

As Draco pulled down his pants, Potter was reaching for the lubricant. He made to take it from him when Potter swatted him away, coating his own fingers instead. Draco didn’t understand. Did he mean to—? His thoughts came to a grinding halt when he saw the dark outlines of Potter’s hand reaching down to prepare himself. Draco’s mouth went dry. He held Potter’s knees to brace himself as he watched, transfixed. Before he had quite gotten his fill, Potter grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward. Lining himself up, Draco opened his mouth to ask Potter if he was sure, if he had prepared himself sufficiently, because he was always so impatient and never really let Draco do it properly, but before he could manage to get the words out Potter tugged his wrist more insistently. Deciding that he couldn’t wait any longer, Draco slowly eased himself in, tensing at Potter’s sharp hiss.

“Are you—should I—”

“Don’t you dare stop.”

Again, he had half a mind to tease him, to make him really beg for it, but he almost didn’t dare. The feeling of Potter's tight heat was overwhelming. He could see that Potter was covering his face with his hands, moaning into his palms. For a second, he wondered why Potter was hiding his face—was he embarrassed? Was he trying to quiet himself? Was he as overcome as Draco was?—and then all thoughts were driven from his mind as Potter suddenly propped himself up on his elbow and took his cock in hand. He stroked himself as Draco thrust into him, both of them working together to establish some kind of rhythm. Their synchronicity brought about a strange sense of intimacy, as though they knew each other so well that they were able to match each other effortlessly.

“God, look at you,” Draco gasped. “Does it feel good, Potter? Does it feel good when I fuck you like this? Look at me. Look at me when I talk to you.”

Their eyes met and Draco knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“Draco,” Potter was keening. “Draco, please, fuck me…so close, want to feel you come in me…”

To his surprise, Potter came first, spilling onto his fist with a cry. At the sight, Draco unwound completely. His orgasm hit him so hard that he struggled to breathe. He had a momentary reprieve from his anger, his fear, his melancholy, as the world narrowed down to just Potter and him. ‘I love you, I love you, I fucking adore you.’ He groaned through his orgasm, eyes squeezed shut, allowing himself for just a few seconds to feel everything he felt for Potter all at once.

***

Bill Weasley brought a whirlwind of energy into the house that took them both by surprise. Draco knew Potter was bitter about not being able to attend his wedding with Delacour, and he had been bracing himself for a horrific mood swing, but instead Potter seemed happy to pepper him with questions. Weasley was in high spirits. He showed them the ring on his finger, and told them all about the wedding, the guests, the ceremony. Of course, they knew about the interruption, and the resulting chaos, but Potter seemed determined not to talk about that. Instead, he asked about the food and the gifts they received. Draco sat at the dining table, amused—he had never expected Potter to be so keenly interested in which marquee company the Weasleys had employed. He suspected, though, that his curiosity was motivated by the same desire Draco felt for some sort of normalcy. It was strange to think that outside of these walls, people were going about their lives, getting married and attending parties.

“What’s it like being married, then?” Potter asked. Weasley was flitting about the kitchen, insisting that he prepare dinner for them—he had brought everything necessary to make a full roast.

“Brilliant,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Of course, it’s a bit odd, isn’t it, being married at a time like this…you want to be happy, and start your life together, but then there’s so much work to do…so much happening…”

Cutting him off, Potter said, “And how is Fleur?”

“Oh, she’s great. We’ve moved into my aunt’s cottage. Shell Cottage…I can’t wait for you to visit. You’ll like it.”

“Tell me about it.”

And so he did, describing the view of the sea, the peaceful quiet, the sitting room that they were remodelling to their tastes. Draco sat back, eyes flitting between Weasley and Potter. He wasn’t really following their conversation. He was on edge today, irritable, although he couldn’t say why.

“Where do you keep your bowls?” Weasley asked. Potter pointed to the cupboard closest to the refrigerator. Weasley made to reach for the knob when he hesitated. “Oh, this door’s broken. Why haven’t you fixed it?”

Potter gave an innocent shrug, face blank. Weasley glanced over at Draco, who quickly looked away. That bloody cupboard. Potter had absolutely forbidden him from repairing it.

“You two haven’t been fighting, have you?”

“I don’t think so,” Potter said, glancing towards Draco. He was smirking. “We’ve been getting on. Don’t you think, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t like this at all. If he was going to survive this madness, he needed to make sure that their nighttime activities never seeped into the day. A sudden swell of fury rose up in him. That was their implicit deal. And they weren’t supposed to bring others into it. Feeling betrayed, he stormed from the kitchen and headed out to the garden. Trapped within the parameters of their confinement, he could do little more than throw himself into the patio chair. He knew that Potter and Weasley could see him from the kitchen, and that he probably looked ridiculous, but he was too angry to care. Soon, the smell of roasting chicken wafted outside, but he wasn’t tempted. He sat there, stewing, refusing to come back inside until Weasley had left.

***

He was supposed to be the one punishing Potter, but, of course, everything was backwards and upside-down with them. In Potter’s room, they had undressed themselves before even making it to the bed. Potter sucked on his neck, hard, gripping his hair so tightly that it ached. Just as Draco started to squirm, he pulled away and then lapped at the tender skin beneath his jaw. Draco was in his lap, where Potter usually liked him. He grasped Draco’s chin and brought their lips crashing together, kissing him with a surreal intensity. Draco felt himself going slack under Potter’s ministrations. It was so easy to give in, to let him take whatever he needed, even though he was still angry. Once Potter was done with him, he pushed him back onto the bed and climbed on top.

Draco knew what he wanted—for Potter to fuck him. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Instead, he dragged Potter down for another agonizing kiss. Rutting up against him, he cursed himself for being so needy, so desperate. He felt Potter smirking against his mouth.

“Like that, do you?” Potter sat back up and looked down at him. They had gone to bed earlier than usual, and the sun was not fully set; in the dying rays of light, he could see the way Potter appraised him. “You were very rude today, you know.”

“No.” They couldn’t have this conversation. Why didn’t he fucking understand? Why did he insist on wearing down all of the boundaries Draco had worked so hard to set up?

“You think Bill suspected something?” he went on. “You think he realized you’re fucking me every night?” Potter rolled his hips forward; Draco gasped. “You think he has any idea how many times I’ve had your cock in me? How much I’ve liked it?”

Draco looked away stubbornly, not trusting himself to speak.

Potter reached out and forced Draco to turn his head towards him. “You don’t like it, do you?” When Draco stayed quiet, he went on, “You don’t like it when we have people here.”

That was enough. Incensed, he sat up and shoved Potter off of him. But the other boy had apparently expected this, for he recovered quickly and grasped the back of Draco’s neck, pulling their faces so close together that their lips were nearly touching. “You want me to yourself.”

“I don’t give a damn about you, Potter.”

“Show me, then.” Potter lay back onto the bed.

“I hate you.” His voice wavered.

“So show me.”

And he did. He fucked Potter mercilessly, driving him close to his orgasm before pulling out completely. Potter writhed, grasping at the sheets, panting as Draco slowly eased himself back in and then resumed his punishing pace.

“Draco,” he was moaning. His voice had taken on a high, breathless pitch. “Right there. Right there. Don’t stop.”

Cruelly, Draco did stop. He pushed Potter’s hands away and took his cock into his mouth. Their roles were rarely reversed, and in his surprise Potter gave a strangled yell. It took no time at all for Potter to stiffen in his mouth, and Draco groaned with relief as he swallowed his release. When Potter reached for him, he turned away. Snatching up his clothes, he said nothing as he walked out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

***

Potter was tending to his tomatoes. They weren’t faring much better; Draco had the ominous feeling that they were about to die. Still, Potter remained optimistic, fretting over them in the damp summer heat. Since breakfast, they had already agreed three times that it would rain come evening. At this point, they were getting quite good at predicting the weather—they didn’t have much else to do. As Draco flipped through his novel, he tugged idly at his collar. Usually, he was meticulous in healing whatever marks Potter left on his flesh. But now he wore them stubbornly, daring Potter to say something. He didn’t. He had learned to watch his step when Draco was in a foul mood.

“Right. I’m ready.” Potter sat before him, hands splayed out on the table.

Draco refused to acknowledge him for several minutes. Finally, tucking a bookmark between the pages, he set his novel aside and looked up. Potter was staring at him with an inscrutable expression on his face. Saying nothing, Draco took out his wand. He gave Potter no warning. “Legilimens!”

This time, it was nearly impossible to break through his defences. Potter had locked his memories up tightly, the ironclad walls looming over Draco and refusing to grant him entry. This was the entire point of their exercises—for Potter to be able to keep out the Dark Lord, and any of his servants. Severus would be proud of Draco’s success. But he found himself furious when he realized just how well Potter was resisting him. Livid, he mentally bashed himself against Potter’s fortifications, refusing to back down even as his mind felt painfully bruised. Potter hesitated for a moment, and he rushed forward to take advantage, but before he could recover Potter had again managed to rebuff him.

Snarling, he ripped himself away. Their sudden separation caused Potter to gasp as though he had been drenched with cold water. They sat there scowling at each other.

“Wasn’t that…I did it, didn’t I?” Potter asked him.

“You…” Draco swallowed thickly. “You’re improving.”

Potter grinned. “It’s getting easier, now. It’s so much easier to block you out.”

Whether that was because of Potter’s skill or Draco’s weakness, he couldn’t say. “Well, it’s about time.”

Instantly, he regretted his words. One of their unspoken rules was that they did not discuss how quickly or slowly the summer was passing. Any mention of time was strictly forbidden. To acknowledge the passing of the days was to acknowledge that in two weeks they would be separated. Draco, it seemed, was to be whisked away somewhere else. As for Potter…he was left out of those conversations entirely. But it was clear to them that whatever this was, it ended with the summer. Potter blinked at him. Draco exhaled, hating himself, and picked up his novel again.

***

Potter was palming him through his pyjama pants. It seemed that he wasn’t finished punishing him. Draco felt absolutely pathetic as he strained towards Potter to catch his lips in another kiss. Potter was acquiescent enough, humming into his mouth as he gripped the outline of Draco’s cock. He could feel the wetness leaking through his cotton pants, and he knew that Potter felt it, as well. They lay side by side in Draco’s bed, Potter’s face hovering just above him, watching every one of his reactions. The need to rip off his pants, to feel something other than the muffled friction of Potter’s palm, was exasperating. He whimpered as Potter’s fingers trailed delicately along the length of his shaft. With the layers of clothing obstructing them, Draco desperately missed the feel of Potter’s rough, calloused hands.

He hovered just on the edge of that descent into tight, hot tension that signaled the point of no return. He wanted so badly to come, to feel Potter take him over that edge, but he seemed to be in no hurry. Potter was rubbing Draco at a torturously slow pace, occasionally dipping down to press soft kisses against his lips. It occurred to Draco that he could always just reach down and undress himself, but that didn’t really feel like an option. It was as though he was watching the scene unfold from somewhere above them, helpless to do much more than take it as Potter gave him both too much and not nearly enough at all.

Finally, finally, he began to feel the stirrings of his orgasm. “I’m going to—going to come. I’m going to come. Potter, please. I’m going to come.” Potter’s expression held none of its usual wickedness as he studied Draco’s face. It was agonizing, working his way to his release. When he finally did get there, he felt as though his orgasm was being ripped out of him. He whimpered while Potter held him tightly, whispering soft platitudes. Afterwards, he was limp. He had absolutely nothing left to give. Potter seemed to understand that. He held Draco against his chest, where he could hear the frantic beating of Potter’s heart. “Draco,” he murmured into his hair. “Draco, Draco, Draco.”

***

It wasn't until after breakfast that Draco realized in a panic that he had forgotten about a Herbology paper due for the start of term. All summer, he had harboured a cynical resentment towards his schoolwork, wondering why he really needed to write three feet on trans-species Transfiguration when the world was falling apart around them. But the realization that he had neglected one of his assignments brought up old, habitual fears that had haunted him since his first year. Even now, between his nightmares of Death Eaters and Muggle torture and the Dark Lord’s cold sneer, he occasionally dreamt that he had misplaced an important assignment or missed a N.E.W.T. exam. The drive for perfection followed him even to this miserable house. And so, he lugged his enormous Herbology textbook out of his trunk and spent the morning reading up on the uses of dittany.

Potter mostly ignored him. The tomato plant was dead. Now, only his beans and peppers remained, and he tended to them like a dutiful father. Not for the first time, Draco wanted to point out that they would be long gone before the bloody things gave any produce, but it wasn’t worth the argument. As he finished the first paragraph of his essay, he wondered vaguely what the Order would do with Potter’s plants once they left. Toss them, he supposed. The thought was rather depressing.

The day dragged on. Potter was quiet during lunch. It might have been because of his tomato plant, but Draco didn’t have time to ask. He bent over his paper, noticing only now that he had completely forgotten to answer the third question Sprout had set them. He was usually never this unorganized. Exasperated with himself, he realized that he would have to rewrite the entire foot of parchment—there was no way he could cram his answer into the short space between questions two and four. He noted, with a heavy sense of irony, that after lecturing Potter for weeks about doing his homework at the table, he was now doing just that.

“Have you finished this essay already?” he asked Potter irritably.

“Which?”

“On dittany.”

“Er…yeah.” A moment of silence, and then: “Why didn’t dittany heal your scars?”

Draco looked up at him, startled. “What?”

Potter nodded at his chest. “When I…in the bathroom. Snape said that if they used dittany, you might not have scarring. But you do.”

Draco shrugged.

“The cuts were too deep,” Potter said grimly. "They were too bad to heal, weren't they?"

“Must we replay this, Potter?” he snapped. He absolutely loathed Potter’s attempts at rehashing the events that had led them here.

But Potter ignored him, staring into his bowl of soup. “I’d never seen so much blood before. I had no idea what that spell did.”

“So you’ve said.”

“But at least…” He shifted nervously. “At least it got you to…to tell Snape. To ask for help.”

“Oh, yes, I’m so glad you ripped me up and sent me to the Hospital Wing,” he said dryly. “Thank God you almost killed me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here enjoying our fun summer together.”

Potter glared at him. “You’re a real git, you know that?”

Mercifully, Tonks and Lupin showed up just as they finished lunch. They came bearing firewhisky, groceries, and letters. As always, there was one letter for Draco, from his mother. He was collecting quite the unopened pile. Lupin, sensing Potter’s unhappiness, started passing out bottles of firewhisky at once.

“I’m fine,” Draco said to him, holding up his hand. “I’m having an early night.”

Potter looked up at him sharply, but nobody protested. Gathering his things, he made his way up to his bedroom. Sitting at his desk, rewriting the foot of parchment, he tried to ignore the drone of conversation from downstairs. With any luck, Lupin would be able to cure Potter of his moodiness. Draco’s nerves were already worn. If they fought, he feared that he would lose his temper completely. And if this was one of their last nights together…for a moment, the page before him went blurry. Mortified, Draco wiped his eyes.

***

They met in the hallway. Both of them were headed to the other’s bedroom. At the start of the summer, they used to wait for hours. Sometimes, the morning sun would already be rising before one of them worked up the courage to slip into the other’s bed. But now, they barely committed to their usual charade of retreating to their respective bedrooms. Potter gripped Draco’s wrist, and he expected to be dragged to his bedroom when instead Potter led him down the stairs. He drew him out to the garden, shutting the patio door quietly as Draco stepped onto the paving. They weren’t even wearing slippers.

It was a cool summer night. The moon hung lazily above them, illuminating Potter’s features as he walked towards Draco. In a rush, he thought to himself that Potter was beautiful. He regretted not having taken the time to really look at him over the past two months. Fear rose up in his chest like an icy torrent. This was all wrong. It was too intimate. They were meant to be gray shadows passing through the night, hardly capable of distinguishing their limbs as they twisted in bed together. Out here in the garden, Draco could see every emotion as it flitted across Potter’s face. And there were so many of them—how could one person feel so much at once? Potter took him into his arms, sliding his hands up his back.

“Draco, I…” Potter trailed off. He reached up and traced a finger along Draco’s lips, studying him. “I just want to…”

“Don’t.”

Potter looked up, startled. “No, listen. I…”

Draco shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t stand to hear this.

“Please,” Potter said, desperation rising in his voice. “Would you just listen to me?”

Draco took Potter’s hands in his and held them to his chest. “Please. Don’t. Let’s just leave it. Let’s just…leave it.”

“But why?”

“Because, if you…if you start…I’ll never be able to…” He shook himself. “Keep practicing your Occlumency. You need to keep practicing. Otherwise, all of this was for nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Draco was spectacularly sad. He didn’t know what else to say.

“I’ll write you. Every day, I’ll write you. And we’ll find each other…after.”

“Sure.”

Potter pulled back angrily. “You have to give me something. Give me something, for fuck’s sake. You can’t just—you—”

But he had nothing left to give. Slowly, over the course of the summer, Potter had drained away any fight he might have once possessed. And he was just so tired. Ignoring Potter’s anger, he kissed him.

“Your Occlumency.” Potter rolled his eyes, but Draco held his shoulders tightly. “No, listen. Your Occlumency. You have to keep going. It’s one of the only ways you can protect yourself from the Dark Lord."

“Alright, alright.”

“You…” He didn’t quite know how to put this. “You can’t just keep the Dark Lord out by throwing embarrassing memories at him. I know that’s how you shut me down…but it’s not going to work with him.”

Potter blinked at him in surprise. “That’s not why.”

“What?”

“That’s not why I keep those memories of you upfront.” Potter gave a shaky laugh. “I do it because I’ve spent the whole summer trying to tell myself I hate you.”

His heart stopped beating. "Right.”

“So I just…keep reminding myself of all the stupid things you’ve done. And it, uh…” He looked away, embarrassed. “It didn’t…”

He couldn’t do this anymore. “Right. Okay. Well…just keep practicing. It’s really…really important,” he finished lamely.

“Yeah.”

They stood there, neither of them prepared to leave, taking each other in as the crickets vibrated around them. Draco’s feet were sore on the cold stone, but he didn’t dare move. He needed to commit Potter’s face to memory. As Potter studied him, he felt horribly exposed, but he relented and allowed Potter to pull him apart with his eyes. It would be his final undoing.

***

When Draco arrived in the kitchen the next morning, he found Lupin and Potter at the dining table. He levitated his suitcase down the stairs, setting it neatly next to Potter’s bag.

“Morning,” Lupin said happily. “You’ve earned your freedom at last, Mr. Malfoy.”

He felt as though his heart was going to tumble down into his stomach. Draco glanced at Potter, who was staring down at the kitchen table. “Where am I going?”

“That, I cannot tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry. We’ve decided Hogwarts is just too risky. But don’t worry, it’s all been arranged. You’ll be staying with the Order. Helping us.”

“That’s too dangerous,” Potter said at once. “The Death Eaters will kill him if they get a hold of him. Voldemort—”

“Will not find him,” Lupin said, holding up a hand. “I can assure you, Harry, he’ll be perfectly safe.”

Draco didn’t care to argue. After an awkward silence, Lupin rose to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, let’s get going.”

“And where is Potter going, then?” Draco asked.

“That is between Harry and Professor Dumbledore,” Lupin said curtly.

“I’ll be with my friends,” Potter said, ignoring Lupin’s frown. “I’ll be fine. I know what I have to do.”

“Do you have your things?” Lupin asked, talking over him.

Draco nodded.

“Wait, actually,” Potter said, jumping up, “I’ve left something upstairs.” When Draco stared him at, saying nothing, Potter added, “Malfoy, you should check your room, too. In case you’ve…forgotten anything. Come on."

“I haven’t.” Potter’s mouth fell open, and the sight ripped a fresh hole through Draco’s heart. But he knew what Potter was playing at, and to give in this one last time would leave him permanently broken. To make his point, he left the kitchen and went to wait in the sitting room. He heard Lupin and Potter muttering to each other, and then he looked away as Potter stormed past him, taking the stairs two at a time. Unsurprisingly, Potter didn’t use magic to search his room. He banged drawers and slammed his door. His tantrum was childish, but Draco refused to hold it against him. It was better that Potter got out his anger now before going off to do…whatever he would be doing.

Draco couldn't meet Potter’s eyes as he came back down. Silently, they gathered their things. It was clear that Lupin could sense the tension between them. In an overly cheery voice, he said, “And you’ll be able to see Hedwig again, Harry! She’s at the Burrow waiting for you.”

Potter gave a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Deflating somewhat, Lupin took out his wand. “Whenever you’re ready, then. Just hold my arm.” Feeling as though he was about to collapse, Draco looked up at Potter, who was staring at him. His eyes were angry, hurt…but there was something else there. Something stubbornly hopeful. Overcome, Draco placed his hand on Lupin’s arm, and his stomach turned as they Apparated away. His last thought was of Potter's plants, withering out in the garden.