It could be that Harry had lost a bit of control, not that he'd ever really had control over any aspect of his life.
He and Draco hadn't kissed again the way they had in the Astronomy Tower, they hadn't even kissed like that when they had slept together. But the quick kisses, without tongues involved, happened every time they were completely alone.
He hadn't told Ron or Hermione, but from the looks on their faces, they seemed to know something was going on. They hadn't said anything to him, but it wasn't hard to notice the way they slipped away whenever Draco appeared, leaving the two of them alone, something Ron had refused to do at the start of the pregnancy.
Draco had started studying with him not only for the Muggle Culture classes, mandatory for all pure-bloods, Ron included, but also for Muggle Studies, which had been a condition of Draco's freedom. He began helping him with Potions, they stayed silent during Charms assignments, but sat side by side.
They almost never studied alone, Ron and Hermione usually sat with them, already settled when Draco showed up. If the Slytherin arrived before the couple, Harry would see them move to another table. Sometimes Theo and Neville joined them, there was only one time the entire Slytherin group appeared and sat at the table next to theirs.
He mentioned it to Mind Healer Elwood, and the question she asked in return kept echoing in his head, searching for an answer. How did he feel about it? How did he feel about Draco Malfoy?
It was complicated. He liked Draco, he could be as pleasant as he could be unpleasant. He knew how to be gentle, how to take care of him, how to make him feel comfortable, warm, how to make him laugh. And, bloody hell, he knew how to kiss, fuck, he kissed really fucking well.
But he had insulted Molly, he had tormented Neville for years, he had tormented Harry himself, though Harry had always fought back. He'd said awful things about the Weasleys, about his family, even about his mother. He had tried to kill Dumbledore, putting Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius curse, hurting Katie Bell with the cursed necklace, poisoning Ron with the mead Slughorn had meant for Dumbledore. He had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, which led to Bill being mauled by Greyback, and then Snape killing Dumbledore.
Fuck, he had done so many terrible things. Harry had forgiven all of it, but he couldn't stop feeling guilty for liking Draco. Liking him, falling for him, he knew what he was feeling, but he didn't want to feel it. He felt guilty for feeling it.
But every time he looked into those pale eyes, into the deep outline of almost navy that bled into waves of that uncertain shade between gray and blue, like a storm-heavy sky before the rain, he forgot the guilt.
Harry knew the Draco at eighteen wasn't the same Draco at sixteen. He knew that, he understood that, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling this way. Accepting him nearby, treating him well, enjoying his company, that was one thing. But falling in love with him? How could he do that? How would his parents have reacted?
Could that feeling come from the care Malfoy gave him? From the gentleness, the affection, the hugs, the kisses? He wasn't used to receiving those things, could it be that he was confusing the feelings about those gestures with feelings about Draco himself?
"Hey." He lifted his eyes from the open book he hadn't really been reading and saw Draco at his doorway "Can I come in?" he asked, and Harry nodded. "You weren't at dinner. Weasley told me to come get you, like I wasn't already going to do that," Draco rolled his eyes, and Harry smiled.
"I lost track of time, sorry," he sighed, marking the page before setting the book on his nightstand and sitting up on the bed.
"Are you alright?" Draco asked as he stepped closer. "You look a little worn out." His voice was calm, and he cupped Harry's face, brushing his thumbs gently over his cheeks.
"I haven't been sleeping very well," Harry shrugged, a yawn slipping out of his mouth as if to prove his point.
"Why didn't you tell me? I could keep you company at night," Draco said, and Harry gave a small smile, finding it sweet.
"Then we'd both be a mess," he countered.
"I wouldn't mind," Draco replied simply.
Harry stood, pulling Draco's face closer by the back of his neck. Their lips met immediately, hot and urgent, and Draco didn't hesitate to grip his waist firmly, pulling him in. The touch was strong, almost possessive, while Harry wrapped his arms around the blond's shoulders, searching for support, for escape, for something he couldn't even name.
It was Harry who moved first, asking for entrance with his tongue, and when Draco yielded, the soft shock of it drew out a strangled, involuntary sound from his throat. Their tongues met in a hesitant rhythm at first, exploring carefully, but soon the kiss grew more intense, Draco deepening it, guiding it, taking control without rushing, as though he wanted to savor every piece of him.
Harry let himself be carried away. His fingers tangled in the blond strands at Draco's nape, tugging almost desperately, and in doing so, he realized how much he was giving in. The little control he thought he had slipped through his fingers like sand, and he let it go. He surrendered to the touch, to Draco's taste, to the grip on his waist, to the feeling of being claimed in a way he had never allowed anyone before.
Their bodies moved together, the kiss shifting, now soft, now ravenous, lips sliding, pressing, nibbling before meeting again. Heat spread, climbing from his chest to his stomach, rising in waves up his throat until he was breathless. Harry could hardly breathe, but he didn't want to stop. He didn't want to think, only feel.
And it was only when he let himself go completely that he noticed something strange, wetness slipping down from the corner of his eyes. It wasn't from the kiss, it was from him. He hadn't realized when it started, hadn't noticed the exact moment the pressure in his chest spilled over. He only knew it when Draco suddenly pulled back, lips parted, breathing heavy, blue eyes locked onto his. There was no irony there, no mask, only genuine concern.
Harry blinked, disoriented, until he realized he was crying. The tears burned hot as they ran down his face, and the contrast with the cold of the room only made him shiver harder.
"Harry, what's going on?" Draco asked, worried, cupping his face with both hands.
"I'm so confused…" he murmured, trying to wipe his own tears away in a rush. The movement was rough, but Draco lowered his hands and brushed them away himself with such gentleness it only made Harry sob harder. "Sorry."
"Harry, sweetheart, it's alright. Tell me what's going on," Draco said. His voice was low, as if afraid to speak too loudly, and that tenderness only made Harry cry even more.
Draco let go of his face to pull him into a hug, stroking his hair, and Harry allowed himself to relax in the taller boy's arms. He felt soft kisses being pressed into his hair and curled closer into the embrace, sniffling, trying to stop the tears.
"Did you know the first time anyone ever hugged me was Mrs. Weasley, after the Triwizard Tournament?" he confessed, and he felt Draco go still. "I mean, I'm sure my parents hugged me, and I'm sure Sirius hugged me before he was imprisoned, but the first hug I actually remember was Molly's, when I was fourteen." He sniffled.
"And your relatives?" Draco asked in barely more than a whisper.
"They didn't like me. They hated me for being a wizard. They treated me like… like a house-elf. I lived under the stairs, sometimes went days without food." He drew in a shaky breath, trembling. "That's why I can't eat enough for James. I don't feel hunger. I eat because I know I have to, but sometimes I can't even manage that."
"Harry…" Draco's voice was quiet, broken.
"I didn't get affection until I came to Hogwarts. I don't know what to do with it, I don't know how to handle it. Either I push it away… or I cling too tightly. I don't know the middle ground." His eyes were red as he sniffled again. "I'm scared that everything I went through will stop me from feeling like a normal person. I'm scared I'll hurt James because of it. And I'm scared of scaring you too. Sometimes I want to shove you away, sometimes all I want is for you to hold me, and sometimes I just want to scream until I lose my voice."
When Draco pulled back, Harry froze. The sudden emptiness made his stomach twist, his chest tighten. "Sorry," he whispered in panic, reaching out as if to pull him back.
"Harry, look at me." The firm voice forced him to lift his gaze to Draco's blue eyes. "Push me away when you need to. Hold me when you need to. Scream all you want. You're not going to scare me." There was unshakable weight in every word. "I've seen you destroy an entire room with accidental magic, I've seen you come back to life. I've taken a punch from you. I was torn apart by you in a bathroom. None of that drove me away." Draco sighed, but never broke their gaze. "And it's not going to be your trauma that drives me away. Understood?"
Harry nodded slowly, still breathing unevenly.
"You won't hurt James, sweetheart. You already love him so much, and you haven't even met him yet. You could take down all of Britain, but I know you'd never be able to hurt our little boy." Draco's voice was steady, and Harry gave a choked sob. "Want to lie down for a bit?" Harry nodded slowly.
Draco guided him to Harry's bed, slipped off his shoes, and tucked him beneath the blanket, opening his arms. Harry nestled into them, hiding his face against the Slytherin's chest, breathing in his scent, his cologne, feeling fingers carding through his hair and a kiss pressed to the top of his head.
"I know James will love you. I can already see you helping him escape every boring social event," Draco murmured, and Harry let out a wet laugh through his tears. "And I never doubted you'd be an incredible father, Harry. I knew that even before I saw you with Teddy, and that only proved me right."
Harry curled closer into the blond, and Draco's arms tightened around him.
"I didn't have a father, I don't know how to be one," he muttered, pulling away to take off his glasses, and Draco took the object from his hands, setting it somewhere Harry didn't see.
"And I had one who, although he never raised a finger against me, who always loved me, only ever put me in miserable, dangerous situations," Draco said, pressing a faint kiss to his forehead. "We're going to love James and do our best for him, for his happiness and safety, that will make us good parents, Sweetheart," he reassured.
Harry let himself relax a little at those words, bringing one hand to his belly, and felt Draco's hand, until then resting on his back, slide along his body, across his waist, and finally settle beside his own, over the place where their little boy was growing, still safe, inside Harry.
"When I was little, there were few things that fascinated me as much as the white peacocks in our mansion," Draco spoke again, his voice even softer. "Whenever I woke up early, I'd run to the garden just to watch them walk with that absurd elegance, spreading their feathers as if they were parading for an imaginary audience. My mother used to say I had the patience of a true Malfoy, but I preferred to believe it was simply fascination," he said, and Harry began to pay close attention to the story.
"I remember one day in particular, when I tried to get close to one of them. It looked at me with that sovereign calm, and I stood frozen, almost holding my breath, admiring every detail of its feathers shining in the sun. For some reason, the peacock seemed to understand that I was just a curious boy, not a threat. It was a strangely comforting feeling, as if I had found a silent friend who didn't care about my name or my lineage," he continued, and Harry began to feel his eyes grow heavy.
"Sometimes, we'd spend entire afternoons in the garden. I'd sit on the grass, tossing small pieces of bread and watching them gently compete for the little feast I offered. They moved with such grace that it was impossible not to feel a certain pride in being there, as if they were part of a secret world that only I knew. I believe these little routines were my first lessons in patience and respect, even if I didn't understand it at the time." Harry knew Draco kept speaking, but he fell asleep before he could hear the end.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom looked normal. Professor Lupin was speaking to the class, explaining about Boggarts, and in the corner the wardrobe shook, creaking as if it wanted to burst open. The students laughed nervously every time someone turned a fear into something ridiculous, but Harry felt his stomach sink. He knew what he should see when his turn came. It was always a Dementor.
Only it wasn't.
When the wardrobe opened, the air seemed to freeze, but there was no black cloak, no rotting hands of a Dementor. It was Fenrir Greyback. Enormous, hunched, teeth bared, eyes gleaming as if he had already chosen his prey. Harry froze. It made no sense.
The monster lunged and, before Harry raised his wand, Ron was beside him, shouting something he never finished. Blood gushed violently, splattering across the wooden floor, running like a red flood until it soaked Harry's shoes. He blinked rapidly, trying to believe it was only the wardrobe's spell, but he couldn't.
It was supposed to be Bill, Bill who was attacked by Greyback, the Astronomy Tower attack, Greyback grinning with his filthy mouth, and Draco standing by, doing nothing, he was the one who let the monster into the castle. It was supposed to be Bill. But there it was, Ron. Harry's chest tightened so hard he could barely breathe.
He wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The blood kept spilling, thick, impossible to stop. Harry tried to pull Ron, but when he lifted his eyes, it wasn't the classroom anymore. He was on his knees in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. The smell of iron mixed with mold made everything heavier.
Draco was there. Lying on the floor, pale skin cut in deep, red and black lines. Sectumsempra. Harry knew the name of the spell, knew it had been him, but couldn't remember when. His hands flew on their own, trying to staunch the bleeding, but more blood just slipped through, hot, thick, coating his fingers, sticking beneath his nails.
"No, no, no," Harry's voice came out in hoarse whispers.
He pressed the fabric of his robe against the wounds, his palms trembling, but the harder he pressed, the more the blood gushed. It was too much, overflowing, seeping across the floor, soaking his clothes. Red puddles spread, dragging memories with them, Ron falling, Bill screaming, Greyback's tooth-filled grin.
Draco coughed, his eyes clouded, and Harry bent over him. "Stay with me, please, I can… I'll save you."
But Snape didn't come. Snape didn't walk through the door, didn't shove Harry aside, didn't cast a single spell. There was only the sound of Draco's failing breath, blood spilling endlessly.
"Please," Harry sobbed, his fingers slipping on the bloodied skin. "It was just a spell, I didn't mean to, I… I didn't know."
Draco's face blurred. Sometimes it was Ron's. Sometimes both at once. But the blood was always his, and it was always Harry's fault.
The drain spat up dark bubbles, hollow eyes staring back at him. Harry tried to cast a spell, any spell, but his wand seemed too far away, his hands too filthy, his body too heavy.
"Wake up, Draco, please," he begged, shaking him. "Talk to me."
But Draco didn't speak. His body slipped against Harry's arms, heavy, lifeless. The blood didn't stop. Blue eyes lost their light. And Harry realized he was holding him dead. Dead because of him. Dead by his hands.
The scream finally tore free, ripping through his throat as the world collapsed around him.
Harry woke with a jolt, heart racing, chest aching as if he really had held Draco dying in his arms. The metallic taste still lingered in his mouth, and his hands shook, clammy, as though the blood still stained them.
"Harry, breathe, Harry. Everyone's okay, everyone's safe," he heard Hermione's voice, felt her hands on his face. "Everyone's alive, everyone's safe. We're not at war anymore." She spoke calmly, and then Harry began to orient himself as someone handed him his glasses.
He was in his bed in the eighth-year dormitory at Hogwarts. Hermione was right in front of him, unharmed, Ron stood behind her, without a drop of blood on him, no cuts, no new scars. James was safe, growing inside his belly.
Draco.
Draco had been by his side when he fell asleep, holding him. Where was he?
"He went to his room to get ready for bed, he'll be back soon," Ron said, moving closer, sitting at Harry's side. "He's fine, I'm fine, Hermione's fine, James is fine, we're all fine." He spoke gently, handing Harry a glass of water, and that's when Harry realized how dry his throat was.
"Did I scream?" he asked, his throat raw as he spoke, and he downed all the water at once, watching Ron nod. The image of him covered in blood flashed through Harry's mind, and he flinched.
He pulled Ron into a hug, breathing in his scent, trying to convince himself that Greyback hadn't gotten near him, hadn't torn him apart with those massive claws and teeth.
"I'm fine, mate, I'm fine," Ron repeated, and it must have been obvious that the nightmare had been about him.
Ron only pulled away once Harry's breathing had steadied, and the redhead gave him a small smile, it was comforting, if Harry was honest. And then Draco walked into the room, and all Harry could see was him covered in blood, skin so pale it was nearly translucent, blue eyes going dull. All he could see was Draco dead.
A sob slipped past his lips, his body froze, he wanted to scream at him to get out, but he also wanted Draco to hold him and prove he was fine, alive, that the cuts that had made him bleed had already closed, leaving scars on his skin forever.
"Harry, what is it?" Draco's deep voice reached him, full of concern, but Harry only shook his head.
"Nightmare," he heard Hermione's voice, and then her fingers combed gently through his hair.
Everyone was alive and well, it had only been a nightmare. No visions of Voldemort, just a nightmare. He curled into himself on the bed, hugging his knees, hiding his face.
"I didn't hear how the story ended," he said softly, eyes still closed.
"When I think of those peacocks now, I smile to myself. They were silent and majestic, but also strangely confident, as if they were teaching me, without words, that the world could be appreciated slowly, even though I generally preferred to command it. Maybe that's why I hold those memories so dearly, because, back then, among the white feathers and serene gazes, I could simply be a boy, without pressures, without expectations, just enchanted by the beauty around me." Harry felt the Slytherin's hand on his back.
"Harry, we brought you a sandwich from the kitchen," Hermione's voice said, and he lifted his head, glancing at his bedside table, where a meat sandwich sat on a plate. "It would be good if you ate," she added softly.
Harry loosened his grip on his knees, reaching for the plate and setting it on his lap, staring at the sandwich, too hesitant to bring it to his mouth. Then he saw Draco's hand tear off a small piece, offering it to him. Harry took it, met the blond's gaze, and slowly brought the bite to his mouth, chewing carefully.
"Is Greyback in Azkaban?" he asked quietly, tearing another piece off on his own and slipping it into his mouth.
"Yes, he was found two weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts," Draco replied, and Harry took a deep breath. "Was it about him, the nightmare?" Draco asked.
"No… but he was there," Harry murmured.
He heard Draco shift and looked over, seeing him lean against the headboard, one arm opening in silent invitation. Harry sighed and leaned against him, resuming his slow bites of the sandwich.
"Fenrir Greyback, Antonin Dolohov, Alecto Carrow, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange are all in Azkaban, Harry," Hermione said gently.
"But Amycus Carrow and Corban Yaxley are still on the run," Smith added as he entered the room, and Harry looked over at the Hufflepuff.
"Amycus Carrow is still free?" he asked, letting the sandwich slip from his hand.
"He and Yaxley were part of the Neo-Death Eater group that showed up weeks ago in Hogsmeade," he said, and Harry felt his heart race. "One of them was caught, but not even under Veritaserum did he give up the location of the others," he explained.
His stomach turned. His chest tightened as if something had punched from the inside out.
Shit, shit, shit! Two Death Eaters, two men who bore the Dark Mark on their arms, were free, one of them Harry had thrown to the ground with a Cruciatus curse. Damn it, shit, DAMN IT! The memory came with a bitter taste, burning his throat.
James… James would be born in a few months. How could he guarantee James would be born into a safe world if he couldn't even stop those two himself? If he went after them, he'd be putting James in danger, but doing nothing was leaving James in a world where these men still breathed.
It was all over the newspapers. Everyone knew. They knew about the pregnancy. They knew the baby's name. Of course they'd use that. How wouldn't they?
"Harry, there's a group of Aurors in Hogsmeade, they're there all the time. They're not coming here," Dean's voice reached him. Had he already entered the room?
The air felt thin. His head wouldn't stop pulling up old memories, each one more suffocating than the last.
"As if the Aurors had stopped what happened in sixth year," he muttered, and sat as Draco tensed behind him. "As if the Ministry had helped during fifth year with Umbridge, or during fourth, with the Triwizard Tournament, or in third year, with the Dementors," he listed, feeling the familiar sensation of boiling, bubbling inside him. "As if I hadn't become the number-one fugitive by decree of the Ministry itself last year," he spat the words.
The air in the room seemed to boil with him. The windows were cracked, glass on the floor, the space turned upside down. Zabini held his wand raised, trying to contain the damage.
"Harry, look at me." Ron's voice cut through everything, firm, pulling his attention.
Suddenly, Draco was no longer behind him. He didn't know when that had changed. The noise in his head continued, but Ron held a small vial, the unmistakable smell of calming potion.
His hands shook as Harry took it. He swallowed the liquid, feeling his throat burn, trying to believe it would quiet the whirlwind inside him. Draco returned to the room at that moment, his face marked with concern, as if a piece of what had just happened had been lost.
"It's okay, Harry." Draco's voice came low, careful.
But it wasn't. Nothing was okay, damn it! His heart was pounding as if someone was still about to strike, as if the castle walls weren't enough to contain the danger.
"I think we should take him to Madam Pomfrey," Dean said, his voice muffled, distant, like it was coming from underwater.
He felt a touch on his arm, and his body reacted before his mind.
"Don't touch me!" he shouted, stepping back so fast he almost tripped. When had he even stood up? His gaze found Ron, who raised his hands slowly, showing he didn't want a fight. "Don't touch me…" Harry repeated, his voice lower, rasping, as if each word cut him from the inside.
"No one's going to touch you, Harry," Hermione said calmly, trying to sound firm.
His breath came short, too fast, as if the room were too small for the air he needed. Everything in him was ready to flee or fight, muscles tense, heart racing, vision blurred by memories that came and went without warning. Only when the potion began to take effect did he realize he was trembling all over, as if he could collapse at any moment.
His hands went to his belly, to James, as if he needed to make sure he was still there, that nothing had been taken from him. But his knees gave out without warning, his breath too shallow, unable to draw in enough air, as if his chest were caught in an invisible grip. Memory and present blurred, the fear of the attack still burning under his skin, and dizziness took over.
Before the floor could reach him, strong arms wrapped around him, and Harry could make out Draco's scent, warm and familiar, a steady anchor in the chaos. It was the last thing he registered before consciousness left him.