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Chapter Text

Where there is much light, the shade is deepest.
J.W. von Goethe

"Will the defendant please rise!"

As Draco Malfoy stands, Harry leans forward in his seat not to miss a word. His fingers are crossed and he's holding his breath.

Please, please. Don't be too harsh.

Malfoy stares straight ahead, careful not to look at anything or anyone.

The Chief Warlock eyes him sternly. "Mr Malfoy. Considering your youth and the pressure you were under, and of course the fact that Harry Potter has testified in your defence, the Wizengamot has decided to be lenient. You are hereby sentenced to three months house arrest followed by six months community service, the nature of which will be decided at a later date."

The gavel falls, Malfoy winces and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his gaze slides sideways and touches Harry's. He doesn't say anything or even nod. And then he is whisked away.

***

In the hallway outside the courtroom, Harry turns around at a high-pitched squeak and finds Andromeda Tonks with little Teddy Lupin. She looks pale but relieved.

"Thank you, Harry," she says, hitching Teddy up on her hip. "Thank you for doing what you did in there, both for Draco and for Cissa. I know Cissa has done unforgivable things, but at the end of the day, she's still my sister."

"Narcissa Malfoy saved my life. Without her, the war could have ended very differently." Harry holds out his hands for Teddy. "Let me take him for a bit?"

When Andromeda hands over Teddy, whose hair immediately turns bright pink with delight, Harry grins and feels the tension melt away. He spins around with Teddy in his arms, making the child laugh, and only sighs a little when Teddy promptly yanks off Harry's glasses and throws them to the floor, chirping with pleasure when they break.

"Here, I've got them," says Hermione right by Harry's elbow. "Oculus reparo!" She smiles as she puts them back on his nose. "I wonder how many times I've performed that spell for you."

"Teddy, be nice to your godfather." Andromeda takes the child off Harry. "What are you going to do now, Harry? Now that you're free."

Harry has asked himself that question innumerous times, without coming up with a good answer. He's never really had time to think about what he'd like to do in a world free of Voldemort, never really had time to find out what he truly enjoys doing - except for Quidditch, of course. But unlike Ginny, he doesn't want to play Quidditch professionally.

He bites his lip at the thought of Ginny. They have decided to take a break from each other while she pursues her Quidditch career, and he both misses her and not. The "not" part makes him feel guilty.

"I don't know," he says truthfully. "I have no idea. I don't even know where to start."

"Give it time," says Andromeda. "You have that now. Plenty of time."

***

As so often, it's Hermione who comes up with a solution - at least a temporary one.

"Well, Harry," she says later that evening in the gloomy kitchen at Grimmauld Place, "what are you going to do?"

"I have no idea." Harry looks down at his fish and chips (which is Ron's newfound Muggle favourite). "I haven't had time to think about what I'd do when all this was over. Now it is, and - I have no idea what to do next. This house needs to be done up properly before I can actually live there for real, but even then…" He stops and rubs his eyes. "There are things I know I don't want to do though."

"Such as?"

"Being an Auror. I know people sort of expect me to, or at least that I get a job at the Ministry, but I'm not cut out for office work and I've had enough of chasing down bad guys for a lifetime."

"No one would begrudge you a little peace and quiet, Harry, I'm sure," Hermione says.

Ron rolls his eyes, reaching out to steal some of her chips. "Except the press."

Hermione makes a face. "Hmm, yes. There are ways of escaping them, though."

"Like what?"

"Like going to the Muggle world." She looks at Harry as if summing him up, seeing the same things, he assumes, that he sees when he looks at her - someone pale, gaunt and utterly exhausted.

They all need a good rest.

"My parents have a house in the south of France," she continues, "and it's… well, I guess it's mine now, sort of." She swallows. "I'm not sure if my parents know, or remember, they have it. Anyway, you'd be welcome to go there."

"A house in France?"

"There isn't much to do or anything," Hermione adds hastily, "but it does have a garden and a pool, and you'll have it all to yourself. Stay as long as you like. I mean, if you want. It's on the Floo network, so I'll just give you the password."

The south of France. A holiday abroad. Harry had dreamed about this as a child - an unattainable dream back then.

"What about you?" he asks. "What'll you do?"

"Well, at first Ron and I thought we'd go there too, but I won't be able to relax or rest until I've seen my parents." Hermione is blinking away tears now. "So Ron is coming with me to Australia. I've contacted a specialist in memory restoration of Obliviated patients, and..."

"Oh, Hermione." Harry pulls her into a hug. "If there's anything I can do, let me know? And I mean anything."

She pulls back and gives him a shaky smile. "Thanks, Harry. I know. Right now, you can go to France and check up on the house, and please go and see our neighbour, too - Mr Monet. He looks after the place for us when we're not there and he's a darling."

"Monet?" Ron asks, still chewing. "Like the bloke with the lily ponds?"

"Exactly like the bloke with the lily ponds, but he says he's no relation."

***

The Grangers' house is small, neat and rustic, the outside walls whitewashed and covered with cascades of climbing roses. The garden at the back has an emerald green lawn, a herb patch with fragrant tufts of lavender, and a small swimming pool.

Harry drops off his luggage in one of the bedrooms, kicks off his shoes and walks barefoot to the garden. The paving around the pool is hot underneath the soles of his feet and he sits down at the edge of the lawn, blinking at the bright sunshine and the vivid colours. So this will be his home for the next few weeks. It feels like a dream after the past rainy weeks in London with an endless string of interviews, trials and witness statements. Now, London is a world away. Or that's how it feels.

Harry lies down on his back in the grass, watching a butterfly make its graceful, erratic way towards the herb patch. The stress is seeping out of him already. He can definitely see why people would want to go abroad for their holiday. A complete change of scene will make it easier to relax.

To forget.

***

For the first few days, Harry doesn't do much at all. He's so tired he can barely get out of bed in the morning, even if he's slept ten hours and light is flooding in. Tired doesn't cover it. Exhaustion barely does. It's like being at the bottom of a deep crevice, too tired to try and climb out.

Oh, poor you, he chastises himself. Poor Harry Potter, resting up in France in a lovely house with a pool. Such terrible hardship!

But his exhaustion and dark mood don't have much to do with the present at all. It's all those years leading up to now that finally caught up with him.

A week goes by, two, and it does get better. Harry's energy gradually returns. He swims in the pool, sleeps in a lounge chair in the sun, and walks into the village for a coffee. When he finds a bike in the garden shed he rides it along dusty roads past orange groves and lavender fields. He eats the most wonderful grapes and peaches and tomatoes he's ever tasted.

And one very warm day, he decides to go and see the neighbour.

Chapter Text

Later, Harry will think there should be a sign of some kind, the "ding" of a bell or a prickling of the skin, when you meet someone who will change your life. But when he opens the gate and enters Mr Monet's garden, he has no inkling at all.

Mr Monet is sitting underneath a tree in his yard with a straw hat on his head and a paintbrush in his hand, and an easel in front of him. When Harry clears his throat, the old man peers around the easel and gives Harry a quizzical smile.

"Hello?" says Harry hesitantly, unsure whether Mr Monet speaks English. "I'm Harry Potter, I'm staying next door at the Grangers' house...?"

"Ah, yes, Hermione's friend! She called me and said you'd be coming." To Harry's relief, Mr Monet's English is excellent. "Let him rest, she said, he's had a rough time. How are you feeling, Mr Potter?"

"Oh, call me Harry, please. Much better now, thanks. It's lovely here."

"Sit, sit!" The old man pats the space next to him on the wooden bench. "I'll fetch us some lemonade."

While he's gone, Harry looks around at the yard with its pretty pattern of cobblestones, surrounded by flowers - roses, lilies, lavender. The sound of water leads his eye to a tiny fountain where a stone frog spouts a thin, glittering water jet into the air. The sun is hot but the shade underneath the lime tree is pleasant.

Harry leans forward to look at Mr Monet's canvas, where layers of paint overlap and blend into each other. It's not figurative, but the colour patterns suggest light and shade on a summer's day.

"I really like your painting," he tells Mr Monet who returns with the lemonade. "I don't know anything about art, less than nothing really, but I can't stop looking at this one."

"How very kind of you!" Mr Monet beams at him. "I'm not quite done yet, as you can probably tell. I need a little more light and radiance here, on this side, and perhaps a bit of red over here. Do you like art in general?"

A few visits to the National Gallery as a kid is Harry's only encounter with art, not counting the moving portraits in the Wizarding world. "I think so. I don't have much experience with it."

"Then it's about time. Perhaps you'd like to try your hand at creating something yourself?"

To his own surprise, Harry says yes.

And that's how it begins.

***

Harry would never have guessed he'd have any kind of talent for art, that he'd be any good at drawing or painting. Perhaps he will never be really good, but he does love it. Mr Monet seems to enjoy having a student as avid as Harry. He teaches him how to prepare a canvas and mix paints, and use brushes and palette knives. Even the names of the colours sound magical, a different kind of magic that sparks Harry's imagination. Cadmium yellow. Titanium white. Prussian blue.

In no time at all, Harry is hooked. It turns into an obsession. He paints through the day and dreams of it at night, of colour shifting and blending as he sweeps the knife across the paint, of layers and textures and depth. A glittering sea, the froth of waves dying on the sand, thunder clouds building in the sky. Quivering reflections. Sunshine filtered throuh leaves.

The moment Harry wakes up in morning, he wants to paint.

"You should go to Nice, Aix-en-Provence, Cagnes-sur-Mer… See the greats," Mr Monet tells him, enthused and amused by Harry's fervour. "Chagall, Matisse, Picasso, Cézanne, Renoir! If you don't mind going in my rusty old Renault, we could take a tour? A roadtrip! What do you say?"

***

Despite Mr Monet being a nightmare of a driver, the roadtrip is like a dream. They drive with the windows down and the wind in their hair, smelling dust and grass and the tang of the sea. Harry soaks up everything, like he's been starved for colour and light. He had no idea life could be like this, so filled with sunshine and joy, and the freedom to pursue his own interests. They eat fabulous food, sample the local wines, wander through olive groves and along elegant, palm-lined promenades by the glittering sea, but most of all, they look at art, talk art, live art.

"You have talent, Harry," Mr Monet says over dinner one night. "Technique you can learn. But you, my boy, have an eye for colour and composition, and even though you're a beginner, you know how to convey emotion. Atmosphere. That's much harder to learn. So keep working, Harry. Keep working."

Harry does.

***

Before he knows it, autumn arrives with cool air and misty mornings, and the leaves begin to turn. Harry rides the bike past brown and yellow fields and rows of blazing red vines, before going back to the house to light a fire for his afternoon painting session. He drinks coffee and thinks of colours, hues, moods.

There's something he wants to do, something he's been dreading, and one afternoon he decides it's time.

With dry eyes and a dull ache in his heart, Harry begins to make charcoal drawings of faces. Its's the faces of all those he misses: Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore. Sirius. Fred Weasley. Even Snape. He isn't skilled enough yet to do them justice, but sketching them, working on them, is therapeutic.

Once he's done, there's a row of them on the wall. A portrait gallery of the dead. And Harry's tears begin to flow at last.

It feels like this particular chapter of his life is coming to an end. Perhaps he's made use of the Grangers' house long enough. Perhaps it's time to go home. Or at least think about going home.

One afternoon, Harry is painting in the living-room as autumn rain drums against the window panes. A fire is crackling in the grate and the wind howls in the chimney. When McGonagall's face unexpectedly appears among the flames, flickering and sputtering, and asks him to come back to Hogwarts to help rebuild it, he surprises himself once again by saying yes.

Chapter Text

Hogwarts.

When Harry stands in the relentlessly whipping wind looking out over the stunning views of lakes and mountains, his time in France feels like a distant dream or something he only imagined, something that never really happened. Hogwarts is filled with memories and he only seems to recall the bad ones. They come washing in over him now in a huge, dark wave.

He thinks of the box of charcoal and the tubes of acrylic paint waiting in his trunk. They'll save his life, or at least his sanity.

"Thank you for coming back to help, Potter," McGonagall says. "Come, I have something to show you."

She takes him to the Gryffindor Tower - to an entirely new floor added at the very top, just under the roof.

"This is the Potter Room," she says. She seems delighted to tell him this. "It's entirely yours and it will always be ready for you. You can come here whenever you want, stay as long or short as you like, and socialise or not, whichever you prefer. Think of it as your own sanctuary."

It looks a bit like the boys' dorm, with more luxury. There's a four-poster bed, a wood-burning stove, two armchairs and a table. The door he'd thought was a closet turns out to be a bathroom, fitted out like a smaller Prefect's Bathroom with a large tub and plenty of taps.

"Thank you," he says, a little dazed and more than a little moved. "I'm touched, I really am."

"You died for us, Harry," says McGonagall in clipped tones. "The least we can do is give you a place to stay, should you need it. Or want it."

Harry looks down, watching the toe of his boot make a fan shape back and forth on the wood floor. "A lot of people died for us," he murmurs. "And they don't have the luxury of coming back to their own plush room at Hogwarts."

He doesn't mean to sound ungrateful, and McGonagall doesn't take it as ingratitude. She places a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder.

"They will have a memorial," she says softly, "and we will honour them and remember them every day. - Oh, I forgot to say that you can Apparate to and from this room if you like. We removed the restrictions for you. Are you ready to start working? Yes? Good. Come with me."

Harry's smile is one of nostalgia as he follows McGonagall's billowing robes along the halls. It feels like the old days, in a good way. Not all memories are dark.

The repairs have been going on for some months already and parts of the castle have been restored to their former shape, all traces of war and tragedy removed. McGonagall takes Harry to a corridor he remembers well, but where there used to be a sandstone wall, there's a vast field of blackened ruins. He draws a breath.

"Yes," McGonagall says. "The Room of Requirement. In need of repair, like everything else."

Harry looks out over the devastation, remembering the roar of Fiendfyre and Malfoy's pale, soot-stained face, his arms hard around Harry's waist as they escaped the inferno on their broom... He swallows. "Must be complex work. Will I get help? I'm not sure I know all the right spells for this kind of thing."

"You'll certainly have help. The actual physical construction work, bricks and mortar and so on, will be done by specialists, but you're needed for the planning and the spellwork. You can consult with anyone you like. I'm at your disposal, of course, as is Professor Flitwick. And ... oh, here's your working partner now."

The working partner, who has just rounded the corner, stops dead at the sight of them. His blond hair gleams in the pale light from the windows. It's Draco Malfoy.

***

Trying to regain his equilibrium, Draco takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Potter. Of course it had to be him. Always, always Potter.

Potter must be thinking along the same lines. He almost sighs. "Malfoy."

It had to be him, and it had to be the Room of Requirement, which holds some of the worst memories of Draco's life. He glances at Potter, whose worst memories must be far worse than that.

"View it as an exercise in self-control," says McGonagall dryly. "And teamwork. You are to restore the Room of Requirement from the bottom up, and careful planning is an absolute necessity. Once your plan is ready it will need to be approved by the new Board of Governors and myself. After that, the physical construction work will be done, followed by the spellwork. Potter, you will have to do all the hands-on spellwork since Malfoy isn't allowed a wand yet. I think that's all. Good luck, and do try not to kill each other."

She walks away briskly, and Draco wants to laugh. An exercise in self-control! Yes, indeed, if not really in the way she means. All those fantasies he's had about Potter over the last three months...

Potter actually does laugh. "So this is part of your community service, Malfoy? Seems that working with me is considered a punishment. Flattering."

A smile pulls at the corners of Draco's mouth. "And working with me is - what, a wonderful reward for killing the Dark Lord?"

They hold each other's gaze, both still smiling, and a thrill runs through Draco. If he loved the intensity of Potter's eyes back in the old days, this is an entirely new twist on that theme.

Potter looks the same as always, and still profoundly changed - well rested, Draco realises, and relaxed, now that the tremendous weight of being the Chosen One has been lifted. He looks calm and amused, ready to take on the world again, in quite a different way. His tan must mean he's spent some time abroad, and Draco has to admit his Muggle clothes show him up to his advantage. Snugly fitting jeans, a dark jumper with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows… He looks ready to get things done.

Draco swallows. Working with Potter will be punishment indeed.

"Alright then," Potter says. "Let's get started and see if we can find a way to work together. I don't think we've tried that since we were in detention in the Forest when we were eleven - and even then we didn't try very hard."

Quietly, Draco points out: "Well. There was that time at the Manor, when I tried to save your arse. And later, right here, when you did save mine."

A good thing he saved Potter's arse, too, because it's looking fine in those jeans. Perhaps this won't be so bad after all.

Potter is silent for a heartbeat, two. "There's that," he says, and turns to look at what's left of the Room of Requirement. The stench of Fiendfyre is overwhelming. "I don't even know where to start, apart from a thorough cleaning. Vanish all the burnt stuff?"

Down to business, then.

"Yes, clean everything up first so we can actually breathe around here without gagging," Draco says. "And then start thinking about weaving the net of spells. There must be layers and layers of magic. Wards, concealment charmes, expansion and compression charms... And the sensor ones, of course. Wish sensors, requirement sensors. What do you think?"

Potter pinches his lip, looking at the blackened ruins with a furrow between his eyebrows, and nods. "Sounds good to me. We'll figure it out along the way. I'm not terrific with sensor charms, to be honest, but I'm sure Professor Flitwick can help. - Let's start with the Scourgify, then!"

***

Soul-searching is a gruelling thing, and not something Draco has engaged in much before. But if nothing else, house-arrest is inducive to thinking.

Growing up, Draco was always so absolutely sure he was right, that his parents were right; that their lifestyle and their beliefs were the only way to go. But in the year leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, he had reason to re-examine a great many things, not least his own allegiance. Watching his parents, or at least his mother, waver in their convictions shook him to the core.

Maybe there were no absolutes.

With the war, Draco saw people around him change and turn into frightening, exaggerated - or disappointing - versions of themselves. He watched his mother grow silent and frightened and his father descend into despair. Crabbe and Goyle turned into the full-fledged thugs and killers he'd always known them capable of becoming. Until now, that had only seemed an advantage, something that could serve Draco well. Now he knew they'd turn against him in an instant, if they saw fit.

Worst of all, he watched the Dark Lord change from supremely powerful to a panicked, illogical creature striking out at anything and anyone he deemed a threat.

Then there was Potter, and Draco had finally been able to see what so many others had recognised years ago, but Draco's own pettiness, envy and jealousy had prevented him from seeing: there was strength there, and courage. And although Draco found it hard to admit, there was also nobility. Not only of blood, although Potter certainly did have the lineage, descended from the powerful Peverells as he was, but a wonderful balance; a core of loyalty, compassion and love. Things that Draco had always scorned, because his family had scorned them.

But that wasn't entirely true. He did know that his parents loved him. And they had demonstrated it at the Battle of Hogwarts.

What shook Draco the most was finding himself drawn to Potter's world, where jokes and successes weren't necessarily at the expense of others. He wanted to be part of that world, to experience it for himself.

Now that he wandered the halls of Malfoy Manor, having nothing to do but think, he always seemed to remember Potter laughing.

Occasionally, in his nightmares, he saw Potter as he had looked on that terrible day when Hagrid had carried his lifeless body into Hogwarts. And as he had looked standing before the Dark Lord - thin, ashen, marked by exhaustion and grief. A child challenging a mighty dragon.

But Draco also remembered how Potter's eyes had flashed with confidence and determination. Once again he had defied the killing curse and returned from the dead. There had been nothing left to fear.

But most of all, Draco remembered Potter laughing.

Thinking back on his own life, Draco didn't remember much laughter in it at all. Everything he'd done, everything he'd ever believed or been made to believe, had been based on negativity. Loathing. Contempt. The oppression of others.

And thinking back on his relation with Potter, Draco saw one thing with painful clarity: from their very first day at Hogwarts, Potter had been the focus of Draco's life.

Continuing his soul-searching with brutal honesty, Draco concluded that most of the things he'd done to Potter through the years had been driven by envy. Envy of Potter's standing in the wizarding society. Of his propensity for ending up in the centre of action. And yes, of his easy friendship with others.

When Draco had laughed with Crabbe and Goyle, they had nearly always laughed at other people, making jokes at their expense. Things like self-deprecation, or laughing at themselves, had been completely unknown to Draco and his friends.

Death Eaters really didn't have much of a sense of humour.

After weeks of wandering around the house and finding all his old beliefs crumbling, Draco desperately needed something to do. Malfoy Manor was surrounded by a large park with a formal French Baroque garden, an English woodland garden and walled kitchen gardens. There must be things to do there. Draco found the Head Gardener and asked to be taught both physical, magicless work like digging, and spellwork to grow the most beautiful flowers and make fabulous hedge sculptures. Confused and slightly terrified, the Head Gardener took on his new and unexpected apprentice. Draco listened carefully and worked hard, making a point of saying thank you and expressing his appreciation of the Head Gardener's skills. He wanted to remove himself as far as possible from his old persona.

Once the gardener realised Draco was in earnest, he warmed to his new role as teacher.

Draco's mother didn't approve. "Draco, dear, why do you insist on doing squib work?" But Draco enjoyed clipping hedges, pruning trees, chopping wood and pushing wheelbarrows filled with mulch. It was penance, perhaps, but it was also satisfying work. It had the extra bonus of making him exhausted and helping him sleep at night.

In the middle of it all, Draco found himself thinking about Potter in new and dangerous ways. Continuing his relentless self-examination, he realised this wasn't new, but something he'd never quite admitted to himself.

Now, it seemed impossible to push Potter out of his head. Asleep or awake, he dreamed of Potter's face, his hands, his eyes. He dreamed of pushing Potter's wild hair off his forehead and leaning in to kiss the lightning-bolt scar. He dreamed of Potter slowly unbuttoning his shirt for Draco's benefit, holding Draco's gaze with that intensity that made the hairs stand up on Draco's arms and tiny sparks of pleasure run down his spine.

And once Draco's thoughts had gone there, there was no stopping them.

What was Potter like in bed? Endearing, smiling, a little awkward? Or darkly intense with those deft, precise Seeker's hands knowing exactly what they were doing? What did he like? Would he top or bottom, or enjoy both? Was he a cuddler?

Draco realised with a pang that he wished Potter was all those things, and that he, Draco, wanted to be at the receiving end of them. Really wanted to.

***

All this goes through Draco's mind as he watches Potter begin to clean up the blackened remnants of the Room of Requirement. Flick of the wrist, complete focus, as if Draco isn't even there. Which means Draco can look to his heart's content.

He looks at the dark hairs on Potter's tanned forearms, at the way Potter's hair grows in a funny whirl at the back of his neck, how the jeans hug his hips…'Perhaps this won't be so bad after all'? What was I thinking? This is going to be absolutely excruciating.

***

Despite being tired, Harry decides to have dinner in the Great Hall that evening. He washes his face and hands in his very own bathroom, changes his jumper for a dark shirt and tries to make his hair less messy, but it's a losing battle as always.

He gives McGonagall a nod, shakes Professor Flitwick's hand, and sits down by himself. A number of serving plates and dishes immediately appear on the table around him, and with a smile he notices that all his old favourites are there. Chicken and ham pie. Treacle tart.

When he looks up from his plate, Draco Malfoy is standing at the far end of the table, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. As he spots Harry and comes over, heads are leaning together all over the Hall and whispers and murmurs ripple through the air.

"Can I sit here?" Malfoy asks.

"Sure, sit," Harry says. Seeing the haunted look in Malfoy's eyes, he adds: "And just ignore all those whisperers and mutterers. They'll get used to you."

It's the strangest thing, sitting here with Malfoy almost as if they're friends. They've certainly talked more today than in all those Hogwarts years together, and in very different tones. As surprises go, Malfoy has been a very pleasant one so far.

He sits with his head bent and eats in silence. Perhaps he's had enough Potter for one day. Weirdly, Harry doesn't feel he's overdosed on Malfoy - yet.

The war has changed them all. Even Malfoy.

Chapter Text

"We need to go to the library," Malfoy says the next morning, "and look for information on how to construct complex webs of spells like this. There must be a ton of books about it." He nods at the Room of Requirement, which is nothing but an expanse of floor tiles now, swept clean of soot and debris. "Good work yesterday, by the way. I'm glad to be rid of the stench."

"Thanks," Harry says, surprised. "Let's go to the library, then."

The library is miraculously intact and Madam Pince is still here. It's completely empty except for the three of them, but the boys are still shushed emphatically when they talk too loudly.

Doing research with Malfoy is unexpectedly interesting. He's smart and comes up with a lot of good ideas, and towards the end of the day they're beginning to have an idea about what kind of spells they need, and what they'll have to research further.

"We've done a good day's work here, Malfoy," Harry says. "I never thought I'd say this, but we seem to make a good team."

"In your dreams, Potter," Malfoy says, but there's a smile in his eyes.

All in all, it's not bad being back at Hogwarts.

***

The problem is the nights. There isn't all that much to do, unless you want to go on working. After dinner in the Great Hall, Malfoy disappears to Merlin knows where - the dungeons, probably, if they still exist. And Harry retreats to his own room to find something to do until bedtime.

The first few nights he's far too tired to paint or draw or really do anything at all, but still not tired enough to sleep. But once the work has begun for real and he's settled into a kind of routine, he unpacks his artist's materials from his trunk.

This room is too white.

Armed with a battery of charcoal sticks, Harry sends himself soaring towards the vaulted ceiling and keeps himself afloat in the air with a levitation spell, so he can start decorating the whitewashed surface. Didn't Mr Monet say Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel lying on his back on scaffolding?

"And that's where any similarity with Michelangelo ends," Harry mutters.

Well, at least regarding artistic skills.

He starts in the centre, intending to work his way outwards from there in all directions until the entire ceiling has been decorated. A lavish bouquet of fantasy flowers takes up centre space, followed by leaves, tendrils, stars, mythical creatures, trees, clouds.

As more and more white space is covered, he starts to add some personal details - books, wands, faces of friends. Gillyweed, the Triwizard cup, a lightning bolt, his trademark glasses, a Snitch, a cat, a dragon, even a miniature dementor next to a bar of chocolate with its corner bitten off. All these details are minute and only identifiable close up.

He loses track of time as he works, and consequently a good bit of sleep, but it's hard to stop. It's cathartic, drawing his history like this.

The more recent history is more joyful to depict. Mr Monet with his straw hat and his easel. A reference to European cubists. The portico entrance of the National Gallery that might not be entirely correctly represented as he's drawing it from distant memory.

And Draco Malfoy's face, with that seriousness that sits so well with him.

Harry pauses. He likes Malfoy. He's even begun to notice Malfoy's looks, which are really not bad at all now he's lost his former, perpetual expression of contempt. He used to look like he'd bitten into something foul, but these days his face is in repose, his grey eyes calm and observant. Harry hates to admit it, but Malfoy is actually quite hot.

Enough of that, he tells himself.

But later, when he's in his four-poster bed watching chalky clouds drift past the moon outside his windows, his thoughts linger on Malfoy. He enjoys working with Malfoy, and every day brings some new, small surprise. Like when Malfoy tells him well done, or shows a streak of brilliance in weaving the net of spells. Or that sudden smile that makes his eyes shine.

No, Malfoy isn't bad-looking at all.

Harry turns on his side. When his thoughts begin to stray like this, it's definitely time to sleep.

***

For several days now, Potter has appeared at breakfast with stained fingers. It looks like soot. What does he do in his spare time, light fires? Potter the Pyromaniac, that'd be something for the press to write about.

It's embarrassing how Draco keeps noticing every little thing about Potter: the ways his eyes crinkle when he laughs, how a bone protrudes at his wrist, how his eyebrows are drawn together when he concentrates hard. His tanned hand holding a piece of parchment flat, fingers splayed.

This is supposed to be punishment, Draco thinks as he watches Potter lay the groundwork for the spells before the construction wizards are brought in. Most of the time it feels like anything but. In some ways it's torture, but on the other hand he gets to look at Potter all day, stand next to him so close their shoulders touch, chat with him over lunch and even on a few occasions laugh so hard they both wipe tears from their eyes.

So this is the kind of friendship Draco lost out on all these years. He used to think friendship wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Other people mostly provided a way to get what he wanted, and not sit alone at meals. This is something else entirely.

If he's honest with himself, and he mostly is these days, this isn't just about friendship. For Draco, it's beyond that. Far beyond. It doesn't seem to be for Potter, but Draco can live with that - for now. While he comes to terms with it. With how he feels.

***

Every morning Draco wakes up full of energy, ready to go to work. This is new - he's never felt like this before. He smiles at himself in the mirror and hums as he gets into the shower. His showers have never taken this long, either. He takes his time soaping himself, imagining it's Potter's hands sliding languidly over his skin, finally finding their way down between his legs... Most mornings, he needs a silencing spell to muffle his own moans as he comes, the back of his head falling back against the tiles, his mouth open.

With the tension temporarily out of his system, he goes to the Great Hall for breakfast. More often than not he ends up sitting with Potter, unable to stop looking at him. Sometimes it's all he can do not to lean across the table and... Stop. Just stop.

***

The walls have been constructed and the carefully planned; the intricate web of wards, charms and spells has been implemented. Watching Harry do the spellwork was one of the hottest things Draco has ever seen.

It's time to put their efforts to the test.

"Should we start with the wards?" Harry asks. A ray of pale November sun falls in through the window, slanting across his face and making his eyes glitter. Sometimes he takes Draco's breath away.

"Yeah, go for it. I'll cheer you on from the sidelines."

Draco still isn't allowed a wand. He stands aside and watches Harry work, suggesting every intrusive spell he can think of, and after that every demolition spell, but not even Harry's powerful Bombarda makes a dent in the spellwork. When it's over, Harry is panting and sweating, his hair is on end and he's tossed his jumper on the floor. Draco is rock hard.

"That was something," he manages.

"We've done good work," Harry says, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. There's a strange look on his face, and his eyes don't let go of Draco's.

There's that thrill again, the frisson of nerves and heat down Draco's back.

"What?"

"You've been watching me," Harry says in a low voice. "And I don't mean just now. You've been doing it all along, ever since we started working on the Room of Requirement."

Draco swallows. He had no idea Harry had noticed, and he has no idea what to say. Admit it? Deny it? Both options feel equally impossible.

Harry takes a step closer, still with that intense look in his eyes. "It was a bit unnerving at first, but now... now I'm thinking…"

"What?" says Draco again, hoarsely. His hands are in his pockets, nails pressed into his palms.

"This."

Harry is still panting a little from attacking the web of wards, and Draco's own breathing is quickening to match it.

"I'm thinking this," Harry whispers and takes Draco's face between his hands.

Draco's eyes fall shut of their own accord and he tilts his chin up just that tiny bit, an unmistakable invitation. And Harry accepts it. His lips meet Draco's, warm and soft and tasting of salt, and it's a kiss that Draco has wanted for longer than he would ever admit.

It doesn't disappoint. Harry's palms are warm against Draco's face, his tongue is eager, his fingers catch Draco's earlobes and stroke them until Draco's knees are buckling and he's clutching at Harry's waist to stay upright.

Harry pulls back, grinning, and Draco opens his eyes.

"It's been waiting to happen, hasn't it," Harry says, and Draco can only nod. His fingers are still bunched up in Harry's t-shirt and he doesn't want to let go. "I don't think we should do this here, though."

Draco reluctantly releases his grip. "Maybe not."

A faint smile is still playing around Harry's lips. "I have an idea. Let's try the wish sensors. The requirement sensors. Let's see what they give us."

"Oh," Draco says. He's not sure about this. What if -

Harry closes his eyes, and two seconds later the doors of the Room of Requirement appear, allowing them to enter…

... and they both begin to laugh.

"A broom closet? Seriously?" Harry's face is inches away from Draco's. "The Room of Requirement seems to think we need a place to snog. Has it got the right idea?"

Feeling brave as well as incredibly nervous, Draco lets his hand slide up the back of Harry's neck and into his hair. "Oh, yes. Our Room of Requirement knows its stuff."

They kiss again, with slightly more finesse this time, but not much, because Harry presses Draco up against the wall, wedging himself in between Draco's thighs and pushing his hips forward just enough for them both to feel how hard the other is. The back of Draco's head meets the wall with a thud.

"Oh, Merlin."

Harry's breath is hot against Draco's neck, Draco's fingers knotted in Harry's hair, as Harry fumbles the button of Draco's trousers open. "Yes?" he whispers.

"Oh, Merlin," Draco breathes again. "Yes."

It's quick and it's messy, and Draco shoves his knuckles into his mouth to stifle his cry as he comes. Harry follows, groaning against Draco's collarbone.

They lean against each other for a minute after, catching their breath. Now that the urgency is gone, insecurity returns, and already Draco is wondering what this is to Harry, if it means anything more than a one-time thing, a way to let off steam.

Harry lifts his head and smiles into Draco's eyes. "Enjoyable test of the sensor charms. We might need to do some more testing tomorrow?"

Draco relaxes.

"Thorough testing is crucial," he agrees gravely.

***

Draco isn't sure what he'd expected. Perhaps he hadn't expected anything. His fantasies never allowed him more than separate scenes: a kiss, a snog, a handjob. He never dared think of the broader picture. The time in between.

The secret glances. Quick kisses on the sly. The suggestive smiles and the eyefucking.

It was bound to happen, it's happening now, and Draco is scared by the intensity of his emotion: he's falling in love, fast.

***

"Yep, this Room of Requirement knows its stuff."

The sensor charms are being very thoroughly tested. This time there's a bed, a generous four-poster with dark red sheets. Harry snorts. "That's really tacky! Definitely your requirement."

"Definitely not mine!" Draco protests. "I mean, not the sheets," he adds. "The bed, though…"

Harry pulls him down on it, his hands already sliding up underneath Draco's shirt, tugging at it. He's still smiling, but there's a hint of insecurity that he tries to cover up by kissing Draco's neck, drawing a wet pattern with his tongue on Draco's heated skin.

Draco shivers, head to toe, his fingers finding Harry's hard nipples under his t-shirt and playing with them until Harry groans.

"Do me a favour," Draco murmurs against Harry's cheekbone, "and remove our clothes with magic? It takes too long without."

Despite Draco's request, they're in no hurry. They take their time exploring each other. Harry's skin is so smooth underneath Draco's fingertips. Draco slides his mouth down Harry's chest, across his ribs; raising goosebumps in its wake; his hand resting on Harry's thigh. Harry pulls him back up, closes his fingers around Draco's cock in a loose fist and begins to work him slowly, gently, until stars burst behind Draco's eyelids and he's begging Harry to go faster, harder...

Afterwards they lie side by side on the tacky red bed, warm and sated. Draco looks up at the canopy of the bed, feeling the warmth of Harry's arm against his own and thinking of nothing except maybe that he's never been this happy. He wants to stay in this moment and not think of anything before or after this, not think of anything outside this bed.

***

They're standing side by side, looking at the anonymous sandstone wall hiding the Room of Requirement. Their work is done, the Relocation spells have been adjusted and the Expansion charms perfected. The Room is ready for its final inspection by McGonagall and the team of experts.

"Well, I guess this is it," Harry says.

Draco only nods. There's nothing to say. He's been dreading this day. So, what now? Where do they go from here? They've never talked about that, never talked about their relationship or a continuation of it - if indeed this is a relationship. Draco would like it to be.

He has no idea what Harry feels. This might only have been a temporary thing, a nice way of passing the time while they got their work done, and now it's all over.

Harry turns to Draco. "Are you free to move around the castle?"

"I have a Trace on me," Draco says, surprised. "I can't leave the Hogwarts grounds, and I have to be back in my room by nightfall, but apart from that..."

"So no one will see if you skive off work with me for an hour or two if we stay within the Hogwarts grounds?"

"No. At least I don't think so. And it's not really skiving off anything if it's done."

Harry grins. "Come with me."

***

For a moment, Draco's old envy surges. Of course Harry Potter, the Chosen One, has been given his own permanent room at Hogwarts while Draco has been sleeping in the damp, half destroyed dungeons… He quickly suppresses it. After all, it wasn't Draco who defeated the Dark Lord. It wasn't Draco who walked into the Forest to die.

It's a spacious room with high windows, their panes streaked with rain and sleet. There's a generous four-poster bed, and a wood-burning stove making the room warm and cosy. On the other side of the room from the bed is an easel, a table with knives and brushes and tubes of paint, and a few primed canvases leaning against the wall. Looking up, Draco finds the vaulted ceiling decorated with curlicues and whorls, leafy tendrils, dots and stars and miniature figures; a swirling, detailed pattern in black and white.

Harry follows his gaze. "I may have gone a little wild with the charcoal."

"Did you do that? It's beautiful."

"Thanks. It was mostly due to boredom." He pulls Draco close. "I know something else we can do to stave off boredom right now though…"

So that's what this is. A way to stave off boredom.

But it doesn't do to dwell on that. Draco pushes the thought firmly out of his mind.

"Let's make this a little nicer," Harry says. "This depressing weather makes me long for summer."

A few whispered spells later, the room is a meadow with soft grass and wildflowers. Poppies and cornflowers bow their heads under the weight of drowsy bees. A gentle breeze runs its fingers through the grass and the sun is warm on Draco's face.

They lie in the grass while rain whips the windows, their kisses languid at first but gradually more heated. Harry kisses his way down Draco's chest, lips lingering on the Sectumsempra scar.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't know what that spell did. You could have died."

Draco looks up at the ceiling, where Harry's swirling charcoal patterns have been temporarily replaced by blue sky. "But I didn't."

"No, and I'm glad of that." Harry moves down, kissing Draco's belly, nudging Draco's thighs apart so he can fit himself in between them.

Draco is breathing fast now, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look at Harry, see if he's really going to do what Draco thinks he means to do. So far, they've only used their hands, but the thought of Harry's mouth…

Harry looks up past Draco's cock and grins. "Nice view from here."

Draco falls back into the grass with something between a laugh and a groan. "God, Potter! Just... just get on with it!"

He pushes his fingers into Harry's hair, but gently, not wanting to scare him off. His eyes fall shut as he feels Harry's mouth on him, warm, wet. Maybe he should be embarrassed about his own moans, but he can't stop them, only give in to the sensation.

Later, when Draco has reciprocated and surprised himself by how much he actually enjoyed it, Harry threads daisies into Draco's hair, smiling. For just a few minutes, Draco lowers his guard and allows himself to feel how much in love he is, how much he wishes this could go on forever. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want Harry to leave. He hadn't known it was possible to feel like this.

Harry is leaning on his elbow looking down at Draco, still with that soft little smile on his face and with the breeze ruffling his hair. If Draco could keep one moment of his life forever, one single moment that will never fade, he'd like it to be this one.

***

This morning, a school owl dropped two letters into Harry's scrambled eggs. He hasn't had time to read them until now, after dinner in the Great Hall, after Draco left for the Slytherin dungeons.

The first one is from Ginny, and Harry starts with that one. The one he needs to brace himself for. The one he wants to get out of the way.

She's met someone, she says; a high-flying American Quidditch player. She's very sorry but it's over between Harry and her.

He lets the piece of parchment fall to the floor and looks up at the canopy of the bed, not sure how he feels. A little sad that it's all over. Relieved that it's all over, and relieved it was Ginny who arrived at that conclusion first.

The second letter is from Hermione in Australia.

"We're making unexpectedly good progress with my parents, and the Healer says it might be because I'm here to help with the memory restoration - as I was the one casting the Obliviate in the first place. He thinks this aspect of the treatment needs to be researched more in depth. Harry, I know what I want to do now. I want to do this. I want to help people with memory loss, from Obliviate or from magical maladies. I'm going to apply for medical training back home as soon as I can, but for now, Ron and I are staying in Australia. My parents can't be moved yet, and Ron is doing a course in Care of Magical Australian Creatures. He's absolutely loving it! Being the miserable letter writer that he is, he only asked me to say hello. So, hello from Ron. And hugs and kisses from both of us (okay, not so much with the kisses from either of us, Ron says)."

This letter leaves a soft smile on Harry's face. He's so very glad things are going well for Ron and Hermione.

The fact that Hermione's found her calling makes him a little envious, too. She's found something worthwhile, something that will really make a difference in people's lives. The only thing Harry wants to do is paint. And when he thinks about it - why shouldn't he? He has enough money, it's not as if he's desperate for a job, and if it doesn't work out he can always do something else. Perhaps someone would even pay good money for him to write his autobiography.

So if he wants to devote his time to painting - why not?

***

Sunlight is flooding the room when Harry packs his trunk the next morning, using one of Hermione's spells to get the last things to fit. It's a beautiful day and he spends a few minutes standing by the window to take in the views.

He has no regrets leaving Hogwarts behind - he can come back here any time he wishes. Leaving Malfoy is another matter. But they haven't talked about it, whatever this is between them, and it's not very likely Malfoy would want a long-term relationship or even a short-term one. A reconstruction fling, that's what this is for both of them.

Something deep within Harry, a tiny voice of protest, is quickly pushed down and silenced, and Harry heads down to the Great Hall for breakfast.

***

"So you're off, then?" Malfoy says on the other side of the table.

He is unusually quiet this morning and there's a different look about him, as if a shadow has fallen across his face.

"McGonagall has asked me to come to the Headmaster's office, but after that I'm off, yes." Harry chases the last of his scrambled eggs around his plate with his fork. "What about you?"

Malfoy's eyes are oddly expressionless. "I have a few months left of my community service. Not sure what it will be."

His robes are impeccable, his hair sleek and blond, his face shuttered. It's like sitting across the table from a stranger. Harry puts his fork down. He wants to reach out and… and… he's not sure what he wants to do; he just wants Malfoy to stop looking like that.

There's a thickness in his throat, a weird sensation in his chest and behind his eyes. Perhaps he's coming down with something.

"Well, good luck with… you know, anything you decide to do after that." Harry pushes his plate aside and stands up, holding out his hand. "It was great working with you." When Malfoy takes his hand and their eyes meet, Harry finds it in him to smile a little. "And… doing all those other things we did. Whoever gets to be with you in the end is a lucky person."

Malfoy, frozen halfway between sitting and standing, opens his mouth to say something but no words come. He lets go of Harry's hand and stands up properly, running a finger between his collar and his neck, and nods.

Harry nods back and walks away quickly, because it feels like he'll break if he stays.

***

Harry looks around the Headmaster's office, which looks pretty much the same as it did when Dumbledore was Headmaster of Hogwarts. It feels familiar and reassuring, but heartbreaking all the same.

McGonagall puts her teacup back on its saucer. "So, Potter, what are you going to do next? I assume you have plans?"

Harry Vanishes some stray pumpkin cookie crumbs from his shirt. "Yes, I have. I've been thinking about it a lot, and I finally know what I want to do."

He glances up at Dumbledore's portrait and finds it beaming down at him. "Find your own way, Harry," it says. "That's the most important thing."

Harry smiles back. "Some people will probably think it's a weird choice, but then I'm not going to tell a lot of people about it. I'm going back to the Muggle world, to Muggle London. I want to go to art school."

Chapter Text

Art school comes as something of a shock to Harry's system, but he loves being back in the Muggle world. He's sure his fellow students regard him as a bit odd, but he needs time to adjust to the Muggle way of living, being, studying. Thankfully he's not the only odd student by far.

There are some re-entry problems like remembering not to use magic for everyday things. In one of their first watercolour classes, Harry knocks over his water jar and instinctively saves it with magic before it hits the floor. Not a drop is spilled. Shocked by his own carelessness, he quickly looks around the room. Everyone is too absorbed by their own work to notice, except for one student - from across the room, he meets the wide eyes of a quiet girl whose name he hasn't learnt yet.

When they leave the room for a five-minute break, there's a whisper behind him: "I know what you did."

He turns around with a denial on his lips to find she's smiling.

"Hi," she says. "You're Harry, right? I'm Eir."

"Air?"

"E-I-R. Yeah, I know. My mum's idea. It's Old Norse - Eir was a Norse goddess of healing. And I do know what you did in there." She whispers conspiratorially, "My mum's a witch."

It's the beginning of a friendship that will last through the years at art school and beyond. Harry loves having someone who knows about the magic, someone who knows this side of him, too. He meets Eir's parents (and the mother's mouth forms an O when she realises who he is: "Eir! Why didn't you tell me your Harry is Harry Potter?"), and he takes her to France to meet Mr Monet. Mr Monet assumes they're a couple and they don't correct him, but their relationship isn't of that kind.

There are a couple of boyfriends, but nothing really serious. Sometimes Harry feels he's all surface and no depth; sometimes the depth is there but he's scared of diving. Sometimes he thinks he once held the key to his own happiness in his hands and let it slip away.

Down in the depths.

***

As fate would have it, Draco ends up working with Hermione Granger at St Mungo's. They've arrived here by different routes - she as a specialist in restoring the memories of Obliviated patients, he as a potions expert - but their fields often overlap. Unsurprisingly, she is brilliant at her work. A little more surprisingly, they work well together.

Hermione seems to have decided to let bygones be bygones. Perhaps she has talked to McGonagall, perhaps she has talked to Harry, or perhaps she has merely concluded that people can change. In any case, she is generous with her advice and support, and with consulting Draco about treatments. Their discussions about the latest research are always interesting.

They occasionally have coffee together, then begin to lunch together when their schedules allow, and one afternoon Hermione surprises Draco by asking him to come to the pub with her and Ron.

"I know Ron and you have never seen eye to eye, but I think it's time he starts to behave like an adult," she says dryly, and adds, "I already know you know how to behave like one."

Draco is actually touched. "I'd like that. Thanks for asking me. As for Weasley, er, Ron… well, if he hates me, he hates me. I'll just take a deep breath. No pub brawl, I promise."

"One more thing." Hermione eyes him a little anxiously. "Ron likes to go to this Muggle pub because he enjoys fish and chips. Would that bother you…?"

It's a test, Draco thinks, amused. She's pushing to see where my limit is. How much I can take.

"Not at all," he says out loud. "I've never been to a Muggle pub and I've never had fish and chips, although I've heard about it. I don't mind broadening my views a little."

Apparently he's passed the test, because Hermione looks pleased. "This Friday, then? At six? Have a drink before we eat?"

"Sounds great. See you then."

This is only the first of a number of pub visits, and later dinners at the Granger-Weasley house. Draco and Ron Weasley might never be close friends, perhaps, but Draco considers Hermione one, and Ron at least tolerates him.

One evening, Draco ventures to ask about the subject that occupies his mind more than anything.

They've been talking about the rebuilding of Hogwarts, and Draco has told them some amusing but innocent anecdotes about the restoration of the Room of Requirement (keeping the juicy ones to himself).

Heart pounding, he tries to sound casual. "Speaking of which, what's Harry doing these days? Have you heard from him?"

There's a moment of deafening silence before Hermione replies lightly, in a voice an octave above her normal pitch: "Oh, he's fine! - Ron, can you take these plates to the kitchen? I'll get the dessert!"

Draco sits back, disappointed and a little hurt, twirling his wine glass by the stem and wondering if Harry has instructed them not to tell Draco his whereabouts. Perhaps it just wasn't the right time to ask.

The second time, he tries asking Ron while Hermione is on the Muggle phone with her mother.

Again very casual, again a question on the tail of a conversation about Hogwarts: "So, have you heard from Harry lately? How is he?"

Ron blinks. "He's… well… he's, er, doing fine. - Have some more Firewhiskey, mate!"

Once upon a time, Ron Weasley calling him "mate" would have made Draco's stomach turn - not, of course, that he'd ever have called him that. Now it feels strangely reassuring. Draco allows Ron to refill his glass, bites his lip and decides not to pursue the subject.

He tries not to be hurt, but the evasive reply stings.

So long ago, and it still has the power to hurt. Let it go, he's told himself over and over. Just drop it. Forget Potter. There are other fish in the sea.

But the sea feels vast and empty, and his memories of Harry refuse to go away. They get in the way of his meeting someone else, or at least being serious about anyone else. No one will ever compare to Harry, and that's just the way it is.

Draco does wonder if it's only the glow of first love that makes Harry shine so brightly in his mind, and whether that glow would fade if they met again. Perhaps it's only a hankering back to better days, to that period of heightened emotion after the war, when there was plenty of hope and nothing but potential. But he can't accept that. It hadn't been a spur of the moment thing, those months at Hogwarts with Harry. Ever since their first year at school, Harry had been central to Draco's life. An obsession, even. And the truth is he's still central to Draco's life after all this time, and Draco has little hope of his obsession ever going away.

Chapter Text

SOME YEARS LATER

Mr Monet remains a constant in Harry's life, until late one evening when an owl hoots impatiently outside Harry's bedroom window at Grimmauld Place. The note is from Hermione, telling him Mr Monet is dead.

The funeral is a quiet affair with only a handful of people attending - Harry, Ron and Hermione, Hermione's parents, Mr Monet's daughter Delphine who lives in America.

"Harry," Delphine says afterwards, when they've gathered at Mr Monet's house for coffee and brandy, "my father wanted you to have his easel. I don't really know why because I'm sure you have your own, but he asked me to give it to you so here it is."

Harry takes the easel back to London and immediately puts his own aside. From now on, this is the one he'll use, and the first thing he wants to use it for is something he's been thinking about for a while, something he's been wanting to do ever since those months at Hogwarts restoring the Room of Requirement. Those months with Draco Malfoy. Back then, Harry hadn't been skilled enough to properly execute his ideas. Now, everything is different.

And while he works on his new project, he begins to realise something else: he'd like to return to the Wizarding world.

***

"I know you don't go to Muggle London often, Draco," Pansy says. She has that light in her eyes that only appears when she has an extra juicy piece of gossip to deliver.

"I go occasionally." Draco turns around from the stove where he is seasoning a cassoulet. Pansy has never understood why he is "so fond of doing elf work" - a sentiment she shares with Draco's mother - but the truth is he finds cooking calming and creative, just like gardening. He still spends a lot of his time in the garden at Malfoy Manor, and visitors often say it has never looked this beautiful. That's probably due to the fact, Draco thinks, that for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, it's shaped and tended with love. Neither his father nor his grandfather had any interest in gardens, but only wanted well-tended grounds for the sake of grandeur. "I do go to Muggle London now and then, Pansy. Why?"

"Well, there's something I think you need to see. An art exhibition. And just like your stew there, Draco, it's quite… spicy."

"An art exhibition." Draco tastes the cassoulet, adds another pinch of salt and stirs. "Why would I need to see an art exhibition? Want to, possibly, but..."

"Well, you'll want to as well." By now, she's unable to contain her giggles. "There's an entire room full of nudes or at least semi-nudes, quite tasteful really, and for anyone who knows you" - she puts emphasis on knows - "it's fairly obvious who the model is."

Draco reaches into a cabinet for earthenware bowls. "Well, who?"

"Oh, Draco, darling, don't be so dense. It's you, of course."

To Draco, there's no "of course" about it. He nearly drops the bowls. "Me? But… how can… how could…"

Pansy is laughing out loud. "I have no idea, but it's definitely you! You should go and see it. I mean, since you seem to know the artist really well."

Draco rubs his forehead. A sudden headache. "Who's the artist?"

Pansy shrugs. "No idea. Never heard of him. Bland name - Evans. I don't even remember the first name."

Draco's brain feels blank, as if someone has erased everything but the mere basics. "I don't know anyone with that name."

"And a Muggle to boot!" Pansy drains the last drops from her glass of champagne. "Well, I have to go. Good luck with your elf work," she waves a hand towards the cassoulet, "and you must tell me how the gallery visit went." She reaches up on her toes and kisses Draco on the cheek. "Good luck with that, too!"

***

James Evans, the poster says. James Evans, acrylic and oil.

It's still not a name Draco recognises.

The gallery is small, with two tiny rooms and a desk where a haughty-looking woman with nails like red hippogriff talons sits leafing through a book. The walls are hung with double rows of paintings to make them all fit.

Draco wanders slowly around the outer room. The paintings here are abstract, dramatic, with thick, slathered-on layers of paint. At first glance they seem to have been painted very quickly, but a closer look shows them to be meticulously made, with careful texturing and detail. The colours remind Draco of something - he searches his memory - France, perhaps? Yes, the south of France, where Draco and his mother have spent a few summers and autumns. Colours suggesting golden sunlight, lavender fields, sun glittering on the sea… It's expertly done.

The inner room, now… Draco stops on the threshold, drawing a breath. So these are Pansy's nudes. These paintings are definitely figurative - not portraits, because the face of the model isn't visible in any of them, or at least only partly, the chin, an ear, but it's clearly the same model in each and every one: a young man in various states of undress, a man with pale skin and silver-blond hair...

Draco looks around to check if there's anyone to witness his pink face and unsteady hands, but thankfully he is the only visitor, and the woman with the talons is reading her book.

Heart pounding, Draco walks around the room looking at himself, because it is undeniably him. Each painting shows only a detail here, a detail there, like cropped photographs. Part of the face or hair, part of an arm, a sliver of belly and hip bone, a thigh, a bended knee…tip of tongue between teeth, flushed skin, open mouth. Torso with a distinct, jagged, silvery scar down the chest...

It's surreal, looking at himself like this.

These paintings are entirely different from the coolly structured, abstract paintings of the other room. These are emotional, feverish, immediate, and filled with longing. Memories, dreams, or wishes.

Or possibly all of those.

Draco reaches out to touch the pale skin of the model, half expecting it to be warm.

Two other gallery visitors have entered the room, two young men holding hands as they look closely at painting after painting, commenting quietly on details or simply ooh-ing at something particularly impressive or hot.

They like the one where the pale body is stretched out on a bed, a wine-coloured sheet draped strategically across the hips. The one with a white-knuckled fist bunching up the sheets. The one where the model's head is thrown back, throat exposed, rosy pink with orgasmic flush…

Not many people have seen Draco like this. Not many people could have painted these.

And then there's the painting that Draco is standing in front of now, the one that made him stop abruptly, the one that finally leaves no doubt as to who James Evans is, if there had indeed ever been any doubt: the one with the daisies. Blond hair threaded with daisies. A sunny, sleepy meadow. And in the background, a grey window streaked with rain.

Up until now, Draco has looked at the paintings with burning hot face, shell-shocked at being exposed like this to strangers, at something so personal and intimate being put on display for anyone to see. But this painting…

He hadn't anticipated the emotional impact. If these paintings represent memories, wishes, dreams, then they're not only the artist's dreams but equally Draco's own. He stares at the daisies threaded in his hair, at the tanned hand whose fingers are lovingly pushed into the strands of it, and feels tears rise to his eyes.

No, there's no doubt about who James Evans is.

Draco walks up to the window, looking out at the summer-hot London street through the blur of tears, trying to decide whether he is offended, flattered or merely confused. But maybe he's none of those. The lingering feeling, once he begins to sort through all his emotions, all the layers of them, is longing. Longing and love.

And it's a love requited, because behind all this, beneath the brushstrokes and the sweeping lines and the hues and layers of paint, there's love shining through. Harry could never have painted these out of anything but love. It shows Draco that those moments at Hogwarts many years ago, all these memories that haunt Draco's waking hours as well as his dreams, are still alive in Harry's mind, too.

Draco blinks the tears from his eyes, clears his throat and approaches the haughty lady at the desk, willing himself not to blush in front of her.

"I'd be interested in buying one or two of these paintings," he says. "I'd also be interested in commissioning further work from the artist."

She looks him up and down, as if trying to decide whether or not he can afford to pay. She shows no sign of recognising him from the paintings, but perhaps she's just a good actress. "Oh, yes?"

"Is there any chance you could…" How do Muggles contact one another? "...give me his number?" Draco crosses his fingers, hoping this is the correct thing to say.

She manages to give the impression of wrinkling her nose without actually doing it. "I don't think I can very well do that, but if you would give me yours and I'll pass it on? You'll also find us on Facebook and Twitter. You can leave a comment for the artist there."

Draco blinks. He doesn't understand a word of what she just said. He nods non-committally, wondering how he can possibly reply without making a fool of himself. Insult her, his father would have said. An elegantly served insult always works. Makes them feel they're in the wrong, not you. But insulting this lady probably isn't the right way to go, even if she is admittedly a little snooty.

Just as he opens his mouth to say he'll come back another day, her gaze moves to something behind him and her entire demeanour changes. Her face softens, she is all smiles, smoothing a strand of her hair seductively behind her ear. "Actually, here he is. You can talk to him in person."

Draco's pulse begins to hammer, thundering in his ears and slamming in his fingertips. He turns around and looks straight into Harry's eyes.

Even though he knew who the artist must be, he is unprepared for the impact of seeing Harry again. His palms are sweating, his mouth goes dry and his cheeks are burning.

The shock on Harry's face registers clearly, too, but he only says: "Oh."

"Mr Evans," the lady chirps, "this gentleman has expressed an interest in buying some of your paintings."

Quite the change in attitude.

Draco rallies his wits, surreptitiously wipes his palms on his jeans and extends a hand towards Harry.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Evans."

Harry blushes, then laughs. "Oh, come off it." Instead of taking Draco's proffered hand, he pulls him into a hug and slaps his back. Stepping back, he holds Draco by his upper arms, examining his face. "It's good to see you. Really good."

"And you." And damn if Draco doesn't sound a little breathless at the unexpected physical contact.

The lady is still smiling, although a little strained. "I see you two know each other."

"We go a long way back," says Harry. "Draco, we need to go for a coffee and catch up."

***

Once they're out in the street, Harry turns to Draco: "Come back to mine."

Draco sees no reason to protest. Just as he opens his mouth to reply, a deafening crack of thunder echoes between the walls and rain starts coming down in buckets. Laughing, Harry pulls Draco around the corner into a miserable alley with dustbins at the far end. "I'll side-along you! Hold on tight."

He Apparates them to the steps of a gloomy-looking building that looks vaguely familiar to Draco, opens the door and pulls Draco inside, into a narrow hallway, blessedly dry.

"Dramatic!" He's still laughing. "One would have thought you'd staged it."

Draco finds he's laughing, too, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes and wiping water from his face. "You look like a drowned rat!"

Of all the unromantic things to say.

"You're no oil painting yourself," Harry says. "Oh, wait, you are. Several, in fact."

"Oh, hilarious, Potter. Such wit."

Harry removes his glasses, his gaze finding Draco's, serious now. Intense. He catches Draco's wrists, sliding his hands up Draco's arms to his elbows, pushing him gently against the wall. The touch sends sparks up Draco's spine, heat to his groin.

"I've missed you," Harry murmurs, his lips two inches from Draco's. "I've missed you so much. You have no idea. I want to…" He stops himself, pulls back and grins a little. "Is this creepy? I don't want it to be. It's just… I've wanted to…"

"I know." Draco's own voice seems to come from afar. "I know. Me too. All these years... Creepy, maybe, but I'm glad we're here."

Harry laughs again, a different kind of laugh, husky, breathless. "Come upstairs. We can talk more… later. I want... this." He gestures between them, and the gesture encompasses all the years they've been apart, all the longing, all the memories, and the trembling anticipation of the present moment.

Draco only nods, pulling Harry close and feeling his skin hot through the sopping wet fabric of their shirts. "Talk later," he breathes. "That's best thing I've heard in a long time."

"Come, then."

***

It's new and familiar all at once. Eight years is a long time, but Draco has never never forgotten the feel of Harry's skin, or the way his body tenses when he pushes his hips up, or the sounds he makes when he comes.

They stay in Harry's bed all afternoon while thunder rumbles, lightning flashes and sheets of rain are flung against the windows.

Draco arches his back into the hard, warm curve of Harry's body as Harry moves in him, slowly, sweetly, with his lips touching the back of Draco's neck. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, mumbling something incoherent, and when Harry reaches around for Draco's cock it only takes seconds for him to come, crying out as he does. Harry pushes inside him hard, once, twice, and follows, groaning against Draco's shoulder.

They lie side by side in silence until their breathing returns to normal, Harry's paint-stained fingers tracing the outline of Draco's body.

"So, what now?" Draco asks, remembering thinking the same thing back at Hogwarts and never saying it out loud.

Harry raises himself on his elbow, looking down at Draco's face. "I don't know. What would you like to happen? I hoped you'd come to the gallery and see the paintings, but I didn't think beyond that." He sinks down on his back again. "Hell, yes, I did. I wanted you to come back so I could tell you how much I've missed you. And how sorry I am - how very, very sorry I am about leaving like that. I wanted you to come back so I could tell you…"

Draco turns his head and looks at Potter's profile, the soft mouth, the long eyelashes. "Tell me what?"

Harry turns his head, too, looking straight into Draco's eyes. "That I love you."

The simple honesty of it makes Draco draw a breath. Back then, he'd been angry and hurt. He'd felt used and discarded, and for a long time afterwards, it had been like grieving. He'd even promised himself not to fall in love ever again.

And true to his word, he hasn't.

"I'm sorry," Harry says again. "I think I really loved you back then, too, but I wasn't ready for it. I wasn't ready to commit. There was a lot of things I wasn't ready for. Looking back now, I know I was depressed, and it made me kind of detached. Numb, in a way. I didn't mean to be selfish, but I was. I just thought you'd be better off without me."

For a moment, Draco is unable to speak. Then he leans over and kisses Harry softly on the mouth. "For an intelligent person, you're really stupid sometimes. You could have just told me. You could have explained. I wish you had trusted me enough to do that."

"I know."

"I love you too, you know."

There's a moment of silence. "No, I didn't. I didn't know."

Draco reaches up to push Harry's hair from his forehead, smiling a little as he remembers dreaming about doing that during his house arrest. A humble dream, but one that's ultimately come true.

"Well, you know now. I love you. So where do we go from here?"

"Easy," Harry says and sits up, turning to look at Draco over his shoulder. "We live happily ever after."

Draco laughs, trailing his fingertip down Harry's spine. "I should have guessed you were a romantic, Potter."

Harry grins. "I'd never have guessed you were one."

"You can't tell a book from the cover. Did you use a paintbrush to scratch your back? Because otherwise I have no idea why you'd have paint-stains on your back. You slob."

"So much for being a romantic!"

"Happily ever after, huh?" Draco says. He's afraid to believe anything of the kind, but right now, it actually feels possible. "As simple as that, is it?"

"Yep," Harry says, lying down again with one arm across Draco's chest. "I mean, we have to start somewhere. And happily ever after seems like a good starting point to me."

Closing his eyes and smiling, Draco can only concur.