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Awareness came slowly, painfully. Harry lay very still, breathing carefully as he withstood the pounding of his head and the churning of his stomach. He tried to open his mouth and winced as everything seemed to stick together painfully. Opening his eyes proved to be a mistake, and he slammed them shut again.
It took time, and long pauses while he breathed carefully to attempt to avoid losing the contents of his stomach, but eventually he managed to sit up. He became aware, slowly, of a rising sense of shame, and tried valiantly to avoid it.
The sound of a door opening gathered his attention, and Ron’s distinctive hair peeked around, followed by the rest of him. Harry tensed, but Ron raised his hands placatingly, and reached into the pocket of his trousers, removing a vial which he uncorked. “I come bearing hangover potion,” he said easily, slumping onto the bed beside Harry.
Stemming the nausea that the jostling provoked, Harry opened his mouth and swallowed the potion with a grimace. “Thanks,” he croaked. The potion had done little to address the dryness of his mouth, and when Ron conjured a glass and filled it with an aguamenti, Harry clutched it as though it was a life preserver.
“Happy New Year,” Ron remarked. Harry huffed. He didn’t want to think about the previous night, didn’t want to know what had happened after he’d started drinking in earnest. More than anything, he didn’t want to think about what had happened earlier.
“Did you put me to bed?” He asked finally.
“Me and ‘Mione,” Ron confirmed.
“Cheers.” It wasn’t as though Harry hadn’t helped a similarly incoherent Ron to bed before. The night of his stag party, Ron had barely been able to walk, and Harry and Seamus had wound up carrying him up the stairs. Still, that night had been a triumph for Ron, a celebration of the future he was embarking towards. Last night had been the opposite.
“Is Hermione going to lecture me?” Harry asked.
Ron winced. “Probably not,” he said gently. “You know how she is. She’ll wait until you’re stronger before she kicks the legs out from under you.”
“I heard that,” a voice from the hallway said crossly, and Ron aimed a panicked look at Harry, who, despite his gloom, couldn’t help but grin. Hermione entered and flopped onto the end of the bed. Harry moved backwards to make room for her, and noticed that he was only wearing pants. Hastily, he pulled the duvet up to cover himself. “How are you feeling, Harry?”
He shrugged. “About what you’d expect.”
“Did the potion help?” She scrutinized him carefully.
He nodded. “Physically, I’m fine.”
“Emotionally?” She persisted.
“Can we not, ‘Mione? I reckon you know exactly how I’m feeling.”
“Well, yes, probably. The crying and punching things rather communicated your reactions before you passed out,” she conceded.
“Oh God!” Harry exclaimed. “I cried?”
“Everyone there was your friend,” Ron said, surprisingly diplomatically. “’s not like anything’s going to end up in the Prophet.”
“Oh, Merlin, you’re kidding,” he groaned. “How bad was I?”
“A bit bad,” Hermione said. “But you stopped crying when it made you throw up.”
“Well, you stopped until we carried you upstairs and started tidying you up,” Ron added. “Then you cried again for a while.”
“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, putting his head in his hands.
He was trying to determine how far away from England he’d have to move to escape the shame when Ron shoved at his shoulder gently. “Don’t be,” he said. “It was kind of sweet.”
“You’re mad,” Harry said. He’d mopped up his fair share of crying drunks, and it was never sweet. Disgusting, pathetic even, but the furthest thing from sweet he could think of.
“No, it was,” Hermione said. “You kept telling Ron and I that we were your best friends.”
“You are,” Harry said fervently.
“Then you tried to run away,” Ron said fondly. “You’re fast even when you’re sozzled, did you know?”
“Oh God,” Harry said again.
“It’s fine,” Ron assured him. “We caught you before you got outside.”
“Sounds like it was a night for running away,” Harry said darkly. He wouldn’t say more about it, but he had to acknowledge what had happened, just in case Ron or Hermione tried to bring it up.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said. She shuffled up the bed until she was laying next to him, her head in his duvet-covered lap. He petted her hair for a while, which never failed to make him feel a bit better. It wasn’t as effective as usual.
“You’re not going to be weird Uncle Harry,” Ron said, apropos of nothing. “In case you worry about it.”
Harry regarded him for a long moment. “What?” He asked finally.
“After we prevented you from running away in your pants, you cried a bit more, and made us promise that we’d still let you come over, even when our children were teenagers and complained about weird, lonely Uncle Harry coming over like a sad no-hoper, invading normal peoples’ perfectly respectable holiday gatherings.” Ron grinned at him. “It was impressively eloquent for drunk Harry. I was impressed.” He snuggled a bit closer, pausing to remove a hank of Hermione’s hair from under his leg when she protested. “But you won’t be that, you know?”
“I suppose if I buy the children expensive brooms, they’ll be more tolerant of my weird lonely self,” Harry mused.
“Why,” Hermione’s voice said, a bit muffled against the duvet, “are you bribing children that don’t even exist yet?”
Harry didn’t answer. Couldn’t. It was too much to allow the words to escape out in the open. Once spoken, he’d have to admit to himself how much he feared having no place. It’s what had prompted him to do something so bold the night before. It had been stupid, obviously, but Harry would do it again.
“Harry?” Hermione prompted. Harry didn’t reply. She hadn’t really asked him a question, after all.
The silence stretched, and finally Ron took pity on him. “Well, it’s obvious, innit? He got shot down, and now he’s contemplating his solitary existence.”
“Ron!” Hermione hissed.
“He’s not wrong,” Harry pointed out. “I’m not exactly a catch.”
“You are, though,” Ron objected.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t,” he said. “I’m not bad looking, I reckon, but with the press and the mad wizards trying to kill me every once in a while…not every bloke would think I was worth the effort.”
“The right one will,” Hermione insisted.
“Yeah, well,” Harry demurred. “If he comes along, that’s great, but I’d never be able to be with someone who got caught up in the whole…‘Harry Potter’ thing.”
“I get it now,” Ron says. “Couldn’t figure out why you were mad for Draco, but he’s never been overly impressed by you.”
Harry’s laugh was only a little bitter. “No, he never has. But it wasn’t just that, y’know?”
“You’ve always been fascinated by him.”
“Well,” Harry said, gently pushing Hermione off his lap. “That’s done with. And I think we’ve done enough mind healing for the first day of the new year.”
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but Ron, bless him, gave her a warning look. “Shower’s free,” he said. “Everyone’s gone home.”
Harry sent him a grateful look back, and escaped to the shower. As the water streamed through his hair, making the curls drip down over his eyes, Harry realized that, while there was a lot of the previous night that he couldn’t remember, a few moments had burned indelibly on his brain. So much for drinking to forget.
The party had been going well. Ron and Hermione had a comfortable cottage, and Hermione had a genius with expanding charms, so the sitting room fit them all comfortably, even with their expanded social group. When Draco had joined Hermione in the Department of Mysteries, they’d quickly become friends, and along with Draco came Pansy, Blaise, Theo and Millicent who joined in with the group that consisted of Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Dean and Seamus.
Since Harry and Draco had made awkward amends, well over a year ago, Harry had continued to watch Draco as closely as he had at Hogwarts, but for entirely different reasons. Some days, Harry felt sure that Draco watched him back. Other days, it felt like Draco looked at anything but Harry. Last night had been one of the former, and Harry was nearly certain that Draco’s gaze contained an intensity that meant something.
He’d been working up the courage to ask him out for months, always chickening out at the last moment. But last night, as he’d donned the new jumper that Ginny had given him for Christmas, he’d resolved to confess his feelings.
And he had. Stumbling and stuttering, explaining how he’d been so happy to become Draco’s friend, how Draco made him laugh, and challenged him, and how he couldn’t imagine a future without Draco in it. He’d thought he’d been discrete, had taken Draco into a quiet corner of the sitting room, but by the time his rambling explanation had trailed off, the room had become suspiciously quiet, and a quick glance around had made it obvious that everyone was watching…and listening to his every word.
And then, Draco, whose eyes had gotten more and more round, the more Harry had spoken, had opened his mouth to say something, only to clamp it shut again. He’d stared at Harry with an unreadable expression before turning on his heel and apparating away.
The memory helpfully replayed itself six or seven times while Harry got dressed, brushed his teeth and refused a cup of tea from Ron. “I reckon I’ll just go home.”
“Things to do?” Hermione asked sympathetically.
It was a testament to his lack of spirit that Harry replied, with uncharacteristic honesty, “Yeah, I’ve got to slump around the house in my pants feeling sorry for myself.”
“Mate,” Ron said, sounding sad. “Just stay here. Don’t go home alone.”
“No thanks,” Harry sighed. “Look, I’ll be fine, honest. I need a day to sulk, but then I’ll bounce back.” As he climbed down their back steps, headed for the sheltered corner he used for disapparation, Harry said, “I don’t regret saying something. I had to take my shot, yeah?”
The funny thing was, he meant it. Obviously, it would have been better if Draco had felt the same. But Harry was finished with playing it safe. He’d been careful, ever since the war ended. Having gotten a second chance, he wanted to make sure that he was making good use of his life, not leaping into situations without thinking. He’d lost the gift he’d once had for single-mindedly pursuing what he wanted.
And yeah, he wanted Draco, but Draco didn’t want him back. That didn’t mean that there wasn’t someone out there who’d make Harry happy, who’d want him too. Maybe this was the year that Harry would find someone who lit him up. Someone other than Draco.
As he apparated onto the front step, his feet made contact with something solid, which emitted a startled, “Merlin!”
Harry instinctively leapt backward, wand drawn, only for his arm to droop foolishly as he blinked in surprise. “Draco. What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
For a moment, Harry considered saying no. He didn’t think he had the strength yet, to placate Draco with assurances that they’d certainly still be friends, and that Harry was fine, honestly. Something about Draco’s miserable posture had him say instead, “Yeah, course you can.”
Draco followed Harry into the house, and Harry bustled about the kitchen, producing tea to warm Draco up. He kept himself from fussing about how long Draco had been sitting on his stoop, but only just.
Once they were seated, awkwardly, in the sitting room, Harry regarded Draco silently above the rim of his tea cup. He wouldn’t be the first to speak.
Only Draco didn’t seem inclined to either. Harry felt like he’d go insane with the tension, but finally Draco blurted out, “I’m sorry.”
Harry sighed inwardly. “It’s fine, Draco. You aren’t obligated to return my feelings. I’m just sorry that I embarrassed you in front of our friends.”
“No!” Draco raked his hands through his hair, and Harry watched, confused. Why was Draco being so awkward? They could get past this, Harry knew they could, but Draco seemed to be insisting on making things so unbelievably embarrassing that Harry would never be able to look at him again.
“Just,” Harry said, raking his own hands through his own hair, “don’t, Draco. Please?” The last word wavered and shook, and Harry thought that they might be too far gone already, that having that one word out in space like it was sounded the death knell of any sort of cordiality in the future.
“This is going rubbish,” Draco muttered, and Harry agreed. “I’m sorry,” Draco repeated, making Harry cringe so hard that it must have looked like a dementor had embraced him. He looked at his own hands, intently, hoping that if he didn’t meet Draco’s eyes that this would soon be over. He just wanted a day, a goddamned day to recover. Why couldn’t Draco even give him that? “I was scared.”
That didn’t make any sense, but Harry would flay himself raw before he asked a clarifying question.
“That’s why I left,” Draco continued. Harry noticed that there was a raw spot on his thumb, right where the nail was a bit ragged against his cuticle. He really needed to stop biting his nails.
“Your feelings,” Draco whispered. Harry tensed. He didn’t think that Draco would trash his house if left unattended, so maybe he could just leave, just run out the door in his sock feet and run until he didn’t hear the way that Draco felt about Harry’s inconvenient feelings.
“They were so big, Harry.” It would be okay, Harry thought, to ask Draco not to use his name, not ever again. Because they’d gotten to a point where they were Harry and Draco, not Malfoy and Potter, and now his name from Draco’s lips sounded profane, tainted.
“And I knew that if I allowed myself to think about them, that I’d have to admit to my own.” Somehow Harry had lost the point of what Draco was saying, but it didn’t matter. He just needed to get through this, and then Draco would leave, and maybe Harry would move to Canada. The Canadians were nice, he’d heard. And probably none of them knew Draco.
“And that’s ridiculous, Harry,” Draco said, a hint of the usual pomposity that normally filled Draco’s voice with rich tones. It was something Harry had fallen in love with, the way that Draco got so indignant about things, how he’d be inexplicably furious about the way that a dog had looked at him, or a bird had chirped, or a door had closed too loudly. As though Draco deserved better than the tedious inconveniences of a world that failed to acknowledge him as a being who deserved better than tea that had gone cold. Because Harry knew that, underneath all of that posturing, Draco was humble, and soft-hearted, and took everything as an indictment of his past mistakes.
Because Harry had no strength to beg Draco to stop using that loveable voice to say words in his vicinity, Draco continued, “because there’s no universe in which I’d ever deserve your love.”
That got through the fog that had threatened to take over Harry’s mind. That was just stupid, and, whether he planned to run away to Canada or not, it couldn’t stand as it was, unacknowledged. “I’m nothing special,” Harry mumbled.
“Nothing spe-…Harry, for god’s sake, pay attention. Of fucking course you’re something special. You’re everything, damnit!”
It was interesting, Harry thought, that Draco was using such Muggle swearwords. Draco never swore, and rarely used Muggle slang. He didn’t know what it meant, and he didn’t know what it meant that Draco was tugging at his hair again, or that there was a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip, or that his eyes looked wild. “Are you confounded?” He asked politely.
Draco shrieked, which was also unusual, although less so than the Muggle words, and leapt to his feet, stomping across the room to stare at a wall before marching back. “You aren’t even getting this!”
“No, sorry,” Harry agreed. Harry knew that he was a bit thick, but he honestly didn’t think that this was his fault. Even Hermione wouldn’t know what was wrong, he was certain of it.
“You absolute tit, Harry Potter, you can’t do this!” Draco cried. Harry patiently waited for Draco to elaborate. Fortunately, he did. “You can’t just tell me that you’ve fallen for me and that we should date, as though that makes any sense in the world. You can’t taunt me with something I’ve wanted so desperately as though the world would let me have it.” His brain appeared to catch up with his mouth, and he abruptly clamped it shut, but Harry was busy considering what he’d said.
“Hold on,” Harry said, unnecessarily, because Draco was firmly saying nothing, and looked about a second away from fleeing again. Realizing this, Harry grabbed his arm. “Are you trying to tell me that you like me back?”
Draco made a sound like a Kneazle with a hairball, and Harry took that as agreement. “And you ran away last night because you don’t think you deserve a relationship with me?” As Draco stayed silent, Harry decided to add, “That’s mad, though.”
Draco tugged desperately at Harry’s grip on his arm, and Harry grabbed him with his other arm, just in case. “No, really, Draco, you’re so stupid for a smart bloke.” That prompted another outraged noise, and that was the moment that Harry allowed himself to have a thin sliver of hope.
“No, you are,” he continued, so overwhelmed with relief and disbelief and what might be something approaching joy. “Do you really think that any of that matters in the slightest? You call me a martyr, honestly, Draco, you can’t possibly be trying to be…I dunno, noble or something about something like this.”
“I’m not being noble!” Draco, it seemed, had been insulted to the point of speech, which, good, because maybe Harry could get him to talk sense. “Do you think for a moment that the press, or the Ministry, or, fuck, your friends would allow something as insane as this?”
“Why would I give a fuck?” Harry asked baldly. “I didn’t give a fuck when I refused to become an Auror, or a Ministry puppet or whatever they wanted, and I didn’t give a fuck when the Prophet outed me, and I certainly don’t give one about their opinion about who I love.”
The word landed harshly, unable to be unsaid, and Harry abruptly, wildly, was delighted that he’d said it. Even last night, he’d been careful about avoiding it, but he was fighting for something important, and he’d use every weapon he had. Draco made a disbelieving noise in the back of his throat, seemingly startled back into incoherence.
“I love you,” Harry said, feeling the same sense of delighted joy he’d had when he’d last done something madly irrevocable. That he couldn’t remember when he’d last done so, but recognized the feeling like a key fitting into a lock seemed telling, somehow. “Do you like me back? Do you think you could love me?”
Draco stared back at him with wide, terror-filled eyes. “Answer me, Draco,” Harry commanded.
“Yes, you fuckwit, of course I love you!” Draco eventually stammered, seemingly forced into honesty by the expression on Harry’s face. He absently wished he could remember what expression he’d donned, in order to use it again, but was operating on pure instinct now, and all advanced thought processes were devoted to his quarry.
“Good,” Harry said. “That’s good, then. So it’s settled.”
“It’s not that simple!” Draco roared, tugging at Harry’s grip again. Harry clung tighter.
“Of course it is. It might not be easy. Merlin knows your Mum might have a fit at you dating a no-hoper like me, but that’s just an obstacle.”
“An obstacle,” Draco repeated, mystified. “Harry-”
Thoroughly frustrated with the discussion, Harry’s hindbrain fell back on what it understood in the face of confusing circumstances: action. He removed his hands from Draco’s wrists, hoping he hadn’t left bruises, and placed them on either side of Draco’s face. “No more talking,” Harry muttered, and leaned forward to kiss him.
There was a second, a very uncomfortable second, during which Draco’s lips remained shocked and still, and Harry questioned whether he’d gotten things very, very wrong. Canada, he reminded himself. If this goes tits up, I’ll just go to Canada. Fortunately, Draco seemed to recover from the surprise, and began kissing Harry back.
It was lovely, as far as kisses go, not because of its smoothness, or because Harry was especially skilled at kissing. Harry supposed it was because it was Draco, with his just-a-little-too-thin lips, and the grey eyes that seemed to change shades based on Draco’s mood, and because Draco’s arms had lifted to encircle him. They kissed for quite a long time, really, before realizing that humans needed breath to live, and they pulled apart gasping.
Harry moved his hands to Draco’s middle, and pulled him even closer, the joy that was bubbling in his chest threatening to escape as wild laughter.
“My Mum loves you,” Draco muttered into his neck. “And you aren’t a no-hoper.”
“Good,” Harry said contentedly. “See? Already one fewer obstacle to overcome.”