Summer was fading, the green of the leaves changing to a striking orange. Draco let his hands trail along the wood of the park bench, stretching his arms out along the back of it as he sat and waited for Potter to show. There was a family of ducks waddling across the grass in front of him, intent on their foraging. Every now and then one of the ducklings would escape and go tearing toward the water, wings outstretched for balance as it stumbled and tripped its way along the lawn.

He'd only been back in England for three days, and in that time he'd already been accosted by Pansy and Blaise on no less than four occasions. Pansy had been easily mollified with the boxes of jewelry, but Blaise had been harder to deter. He'd popped around every morning since Draco had arrived, bringing with him a box of pastries and strong coffee which he traded for Draco's vulnerability. At least insomuch as Draco was prepared to give it.

Over their breakfasts, he managed to find a way to thank Blaise for everything he'd done—not just for himself, but for Potter too. He still didn't know how to truly show his gratitude, but his words were enough for now—particularly as it was the first time he'd ever seen Blaise's dark skin flushed with pleased embarrassment.

He'd written exactly one letter to Potter and received one in response. He'd asked Potter to meet him at the lake on Saturday, and Potter had said yes.

Draco's legs jiggled with nerves, and his grip on the park bench was getting tighter and tighter with each passing minute. Potter was late. His mind began to whir with old insecurities, old fears, but he was stronger now, better equipped to handle them. Not that he had ever been weak—that was one of the first things Eleanor had made him understand. He hoped Potter understood it about himself too.

The sound of a foot scuffing across the path came from behind the bench and startled him. When he turned to see piercing green eyes staring back at him, for a single moment, he froze in fear. But then everything else faded away and he remembered he could do this. It was only Potter.

He stood and closed the distance between them, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. He noticed Potter did the same.

"How are you?" Potter asked, a hint of breathlessness in his voice.

"Well," Draco said. "You?"

Potter laughed. "All right, considering."

Wordlessly they fell into step beside each other, joining the rest of the people who were going for walks or runs around the lake. The little ducklings waddled along the path in front of them, and the two of them slowed down until their pace was more of an amble, allowing the ducks to race around their feet. Even in the chill of autumn, the sun was warm against their necks. It made Draco realise that he couldn't recall a time from their recent relationship when he could actually remember the world around them. He'd been so utterly absorbed in the slow, downward pull of it all that he'd let himself get lost along the way.

"We were a bit stupid, weren't we?" he said suddenly.

He felt Potter relax beside him, like he'd been waiting for a different sort of acknowledgement altogether.

"Me more than you," he admitted.

"I don't know about that. I had reservations from the start and I still went ahead with it." He gave a wry smile. "Can't blame you for being an idiot; we've known that for years."

"Oi." Potter nudged him lightly, an affectionate smile on his face.

They fell into a comfortable silence, shoulders brushing against each other occasionally but for the most part they were separate, enjoying the company but lost in their own worlds.

"I didn't realise it was so bad," Potter said abruptly.

Draco looked up at him. "That's usually how it goes," he admitted. "The fall is so gradual it's impossible to notice until after."

"No." Potter shook his head. "I mean the stuff from the war, yeah sure, that built up like you say. But the rest of it... I didn't know what was underneath because I've never lived without it. I thought that was just me. Does that make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense."

Potter let out a breath of relief. "I haven't told Ron and Hermione yet. I mean, they know I'm seeing someone, but they don't know the extent of it. I'd be happy for them to know, but I wish I didn't have to tell them. I wish they could just pluck it from my brain and just know instead of me having to explain it."

Draco frowned. "Why don't you just do that then?"

Potter blinked. "Huh?"

"Use a Pensieve."

The incredulity on Potter's face made Draco laugh.

"I'm sorry, how long have you been a wizard again?"

"I forgot," Potter said sheepishly. "But..." He frowned. "Now that I'm imagining that, imagining them seeing." His face grew tight and walled-off. "Maybe I don't want them to know quite as much as I thought."

Draco nodded, thinking of dark corridors and lonely nightmares. "It's like that."

"It is." Potter paused. "Do you remember when I said dying was my biggest accomplishment?"

Draco froze. "Yes?"

"She made me reframe it, in therapy." The words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them back and just couldn't keep them in anymore. "She got me to think about that night from my own perspective, rather than from everyone else's, and she's right. I don't think dying and defeating him was my biggest accomplishment. I mean, I'm glad I did that, of course. But... to me... I just. I'm glad I lived. I came back." He took a deep breath. "That feels big, to me. Bigger than the rest."

Draco stared at him. If someone had asked him to name all the feelings that were swirling around in his gut right that second, he wouldn't have been able to. He'd never felt this surge of pride for someone else before—pride and respect and so much warmth it was disgusting.

"It is big," he agreed, trying to convey some measure of his emotions into those three small words.

From the expression on Potter's face, he thought he might have succeeded.

After a moment of silence, Potter gave himself a little shake. "Did you listen to the match last week?"

Draco paused for a beat in surprise before falling into the topic with enthusiasm. By the time they'd finished talking, they'd made it around the lake three times. Draco checked his watch. It was lunch time, but he didn't want to push this. It was still so new.

"I'm going to have lunch now," he said carefully.

Potter nodded, eyes a little wider than usual. Draco waited.

"I'd love to join you... sometime," Potter said slowly. "But maybe not now? I'm feeling a little—" He broke off and shuddered. "This has been great. I really enjoyed myself, but I think I need a break now. I think I need to be alone."

Draco smiled at him. It felt like a weight disappearing from his face, like a mask being taken off. "I understand." He took a breath, tasting the crisp autumn air. "I'm glad you told me."

There was a pause right before the moment that Potter smiled back at him. It made the moment all the more real, all the more glorious. Draco sank into that moment.

"I'll owl you," Potter said, and then he was gone.

The next few weeks were like a dream, but it wasn't the murky, uncomfortable dream he'd lived for so long, the one where the only thing he could do was wait for it all to shatter apart.

This dream didn't burst. Draco still felt like he was floating, drifting through the air in some kind of perfect haze, but his world was no longer narrowed to one man and all the problems that lay there with him. It expanded from Potter outwards and drew the whole world in.

At night, they sent each other letters. It started when Draco woke up after a restless night on the couch to a ball of paper hitting him straight in the forehead. He woke with a start, barely having been asleep to begin with, and dived for his wand. By the time he realised it was just a piece of paper, he felt a bit ridiculous but thankful no one was around to see.

He unrolled the paper slowly, not entirely sure what to expect.

Malfoy. You awake? -Harry

He stared at the words for a stupidly long time before hurrying to find a quill.

Potter, why are you assaulting me with stationery?

The fire had lowered to a dull glow, more heat than light at this time of the night. It flickered across the living room, sending long shadows dancing around him. After a moment, Draco screwed up the paper, sprinkled it with Floo powder, and lobbed it into the fire while muttering Potter's address.

A few minutes later, there was a reply.

I can't sleep. Didn't want to wake you with an owl, but I wanted the company.

Draco settled back against the couch and scrawled on the back of it.

Do you want me to come over? Or Floo call?

The fire flared green as the parchment disappeared. After a moment, it flared again and a new ball of parchment shot out onto the heart. Draco kneeled forward to grab it.

Or we could continue like this?

Draco felt a flutter in his chest that he hadn't felt since he was a teenager, spending far too much time fantasizing about stupid boys paying him attention. It was like a secret note passed over in class, a present left under the Christmas tree by a secret admirer. He grabbed a cushion from the couch and perched on it so that he could be close to the fire. He scrawled another note and threw it into the fire.

Did I ever tell you about the time I set Blaise's couch on fire?

They passed notes back and forth for hours, and Draco couldn't recall a time when he'd smiled quite so much. Giddy like a teenager, he threw a final note into the fire, telling Potter for the eighth time that he really had to go to sleep.

He waited a few minutes and then decided Potter must have fallen asleep in front of the hearth. The image soothed him, warming him all the way to his toes despite the dying fire. He stood up, stretching his hands above his head and sighing at the delicious cracks his body made.

A large piece of parchment shot through the fire and hit him in the foot.

Thank you for staying up with me, Draco. Sometimes I can't sleep. I'm sure you've guessed that, and that you know exactly what sort of things might keep me awake at night. Ron and Hermione always make it into a big deal, but this was perfect. Just knowing that you know—no, that you understand—makes it easier to accept the distraction for what it is. It doesn't feel false from you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. Sleep well.

Draco read and reread the message so many times, he was certain that Potter was asleep by the time he finally got a new piece of parchment ready.

I've never had someone else who understood it either. But our relationship means more to me than that... You're not just someone who gets my past in a way no one else does. I think you need to understand the past to understand the future, but being with you... For once, it's the future I'm interested in.

When he fell asleep that night, for the first time in a long time, he didn't dream.

*

Draco's mouth fell open as he stared up at the enormous house. He was positive it was held up with magic alone; there was simply no way a building could lean like that on its own. Flocks of tiny birds swooped around the uppermost tower, building nests in the alcoves from the bits and pieces they'd salvaged from the front yard. Even from this distance, Draco was sure he could see a nest made out of a Gryffindor scarf.

He closed his eyes and told himself firmly that he was making it up. Then, he took a deep breath and marched down the drive to the Burrow.

Weasley opened the door before he'd even had the chance to knock.

"Malfoy," he said with a grin. "I thought I saw you looking like a right pillock in the middle of my driveway. What are you doing here?"

Draco blustered indignantly. "I was not looking like a right pillock, I was— Did you know you have a flock of birds living in your roof?"

Weasley looked puzzled. "Well, yeah. Where else are they going to live?"

Draco gaped at him. "A tree? A forest? Not your house?"

Weasley snorted. "Our house is much warmer than a bloody forest. Come upstairs, I'll point out the ones Ginny's given names to. There's a really annoying one with the loudest squawk you've ever heard—she called that one Umbridge."

The door opened wider, revealing a ramshackle kitchen and dining room with dishes floating everywhere.

"Sorry, it's a bit of a mess," Weasley said brightly. "Mum and dad are out at the theatre, so we've all popped in to give the house a bit of a blitz for them."

Granger stuck her head around the corner and waved at him. "I thought I heard your voice, Draco! Did Harry tell you we were here?"

"No," Draco said, giving his head a little shake and stepping into the house. "I Floo-called your house and Ginevra answered, looking a bit frantic. She said I'd find you here."

Weasley smacked his forehead. "Right. I forgot I sent her there for the tea towels. I left them at the office. Shit." He hurried away towards the fire and stuck his head in, yelling for his sister.

"We bought them new dishcloths and tea towels," Granger explained, wiping her sudsy hands on her jeans and walking over to Draco. "But Ron couldn't remember where he'd left them."

Almost none of this made sense to Draco, on any level, but he soldiered on.

"I can come back another time?" he suggested, unable to keep from staring around at the chaos of the room.

The dishes, now that he was paying attention, floated in an orderly line, one by one, in front of the sink. This allowed the mops enough space to go wild—and that was the only word Draco could think to explain what they were doing. Each mop had about one third of its original strands to offer, and they made up for it by approaching the task with five times the necessary vigor.

Draco ducked just as a fifth mop came hurtling down from stairs, narrowly missing giving him a concussion. It launched itself at the brickwork around the range hood.

Granger winced. "It must have finished the landing," she said apologetically. "I think they're excited we're using them all. Molly has a favourite that she normally relies on." She nodded her head towards a sad looking mop that was trailing along behind the others.

"It doesn't seem happy to share," Draco said incredulously. "Are all their cleaning products like this? I've never seen it before in my life."

Granger laughed. "This family has a tendency to breathe life into things." Draco didn't miss the gentle reverence to her tone.

"I can see that."

"Anyway," she shook her head. "Is everything all right? Did you need our help?"

"Not exactly," Draco said, feeling a little foolish in light of what he was undoubtedly intruding on. "I guess I just wanted to apologise."

Granger blinked in surprise. "Apologise? Whatever for?"

"Don't question it, 'Mione!" Weasley insisted as he pulled his head back out of the fire. He had a large lump of soot on his nose. "I've been waiting for this moment all my life. Now, don't tell me, I choose to believe you're apologising for the slugs, the badges, and the Inquisitorial bullshit. In that order."

"Technically the slugs were your fault," Draco pointed out, lips twitching despite his attempt to remain serious.

"Don't burst my bubble, Malfoy." Weasley closed his eyes, a blissful expression overtaking his face.

Granger jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow. "Ron, stop it. Draco's serious. What are you apologising for? I'm positive it isn't necessary."

Draco lifted one shoulder as elegantly as he could manage when he was also fighting for space with three sponges.

"I doubted you," he said simply. "I judged you for how little you helped Potter. I was too harsh on you, and whether you were aware of it or not, it's not something I'm proud of. I want to make it clear that you did everything you could for him, and it's no one's fault that things became as severe as they did."

Granger and Weasley's eyes widened, and for several moments there was silence.

"Umm, thanks, Malfoy," Weasley said finally, shooting a glance at Granger before looking Draco in the eye. "You don't have to apologise, though. We get why you were ticked off about it."

"We didn't do enough," Granger said, a sad edge to her words. "I know what you're saying—that it's understandable and everything, but I still wish we'd done more."

"You didn't know," Draco said. "You couldn't know. It wasn't your area of expertise, and you'd known him for so long that there was no reason for you to think to look deeper. It's not your fault."

Granger rested her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "We know that, Draco. Both things are true, do you get what I'm saying? I'm not consumed by guilt—I accept the factors that led us here and forgive myself for what I couldn't do—but I also regret how things played out. I wish I'd done more."

Weasley caught sight of his reflection in a newly scrubbed pan and began rubbing furiously at the soot on his nose. "Exactly," he said, his voice slightly muffled as he pulled his sleeve across his face. "If you let guilt rule you, you'll never move forward. I learned that after Fred." He cleared the spot and turned back to face Draco.

A shiver of ice ran down Draco's back; he'd forgotten about Fred.

"And if you don't move forward, then what the hell was the point of the guilt?" Weasley continued, shrugging. "So it's important to learn from the mistakes you make. We fucked up. If I had my time again, I'd do things differently. And if something like this does happen again, we'll recognise the signs now."

"Right," Draco breathed, a little embarrassed to hear the awe in his voice.

"Can—" Granger began abruptly, her expression turning sheepish. "Can I hug you?"

Draco gaped at her. He started to nod, trying to think how to tactfully ask her if she was drunk, but before he'd thought of the words she'd pounced on him, enveloping him into a giant hug. After a second, he relaxed, bringing his arms around her waist and resting his forehead against the warm sweetness of her hair.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"You're good for him," she said, giving him a final squeeze before breaking away. "Thanks for seeing what we didn't."

Draco nodded, his throat swelling with an unnamed emotion. He took a breath, closing his eyes for a second to regain control.

"Can I help here, at all?"

Weasley's eyes widened. "I thought you'd never ask." He spun Draco around by the shoulders and shoved him towards the stairs. "Right, third door on your left—there's a supply closet. In that closet you're going to find a wooden chest. It will bite you, but you just have to be firm with it. Don't stand for any of its crap—"

*

Later that night, he met Potter by the corner of a small Wizarding district he'd never been to, on account of it being far from any area his parents had allowed him to go. He was pleasantly surprised to find the area bustling with activity, full of laughter.

Potter led him from stall to stall down the market strip, and together they composed a basket of fruit and flowers so large that by the end they needed magic to hold it up. Laughing, they'd cast a Lightening Charm and attached it to a bewildered owl, sending it to Blaise's house.

As they'd watched the owl disappear, Draco had thought to ask how the Security Program had gone.

"Not well," Potter admitted. "They keep blocking it at every turn. I'm starting to wonder if it was a bit naïve."

Draco bristled, but he forced himself to let it go. "There are always flaws if you know where to look," he admitted. "Did you want to readdress it? I can clear time in my schedule."

Potter shook his head. "Not yet." He looked a little sheepish. "I'm thinking about something else at the moment. Did you know that the Ministry hears word about a potential Muggle-born within two years of birth?"

Draco blinked at the subject change. "No. But I thought they only sent the letters right before Hogwarts?"

"They like to wait for confirmation," Potter said darkly. "But that doesn't help the Muggle family at all. Do you know what Muggles think of magic that can't be explained?"

Draco levelled him with a look. "Yes, Potter. I'm perhaps a little aware of the horror stories regarding Muggles, segregation, and magic."

Potter had the grace to look apologetic. "Right. Of course. Forgot how you were raised for a second there. Well, yeah, they tend to jump to demonic possession and other things. But there are only rare cases that a flagged Muggle-born turns out not to possess magic, and even then it's quite likely they have a small strain of it even if it isn't enough for Hogwarts."

"What are you suggesting?" Draco was curious despite himself.

Potter shrugged. "I'm just wondering if we can do something to help. Make sure fewer kids grow up with parents who are afraid of them, when there's absolutely no reason for them to be scared." He cleared his throat. "Make sure fewer kids grow up thinking they're freaks."

Warmth bloomed in Draco's chest, though it was tinged with sadness.

"I think it's a great idea."

Potter smiled at him, radiant like the sun. "You think so?"

"I do."

*

Weeks turned into months, and they slowly built up the friendship they'd never allowed themselves to have. At first, Draco had thought he didn't need to. He already knew he was in love with Potter—what else was he supposed to learn from this exercise? It was for Potter, really. For Potter to learn how to reach out to others, how to make meaningful connections. For Potter to learn if he could love Draco.

But slowly, he found himself changing too. He kept seeing Eleanor, kept making progress on himself. They began sharing those moments—he and Potter. Not much, only bits and pieces. The things that made their heart sing, the pieces of themselves that they had rediscovered and wanted to share.

It was through knowing and sharing himself that he finally found himself falling properly, completely, inevitably into love.

Still, he didn't know what Potter thought, didn't want to rush anything when it was still so new and meant so much.

So he didn't expect anything when Potter asked him to meet at the little coffee shop on the corner; after all, they went there several times a week. He didn't think anything of it when Potter was already there, waiting, a bag of pastries in his hand and two steaming ceramic mugs of coffee balanced on the edge of the counter. Potter knew his order; they'd been coming here for months.

It was why, when Potter leaned close enough that no one else could hear and whispered a question into his ear, it took him several seconds to realise what he'd said.

"Sorry?" he asked again, blinking in confusion.

"I said, can I kiss you?" Potter's eyes were warm, the little crow's feet in the corner crinkling with genuine affection.

There were no masks here.

Draco grinned. "Of course."

Potter leaned in. His lips were a bright spot of heat in the chilled spring air, bringing with them the taste of sugar and rich coffee. Draco sighed and pressed in close, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Potter's neck and hold him there. Their noses were cold, two circles of ice tucked against warm cheeks.

Draco drew back and grinned. "What was that about?"

Potter lifted his eyebrows and shrugged, unable to wipe the hint of a smile from his face. "Just felt like it."

"You're in a strange mood."

Potter laughed. "Maybe. I'm thinking of quitting my job."

Draco's eyes widened in shock. "Really?"

"Yeah. It's..." He trailed off. "It's not healthy for me."

"What about the Security Project?"

He was hesitant to ask. If anything was going to make Potter revert into a swirl of horrible emotions, it was the reminder of everything he had wanted to achieve.

It was a mark of just how far he'd come that instead of shutting down, Potter's face twisted into sadness.

"I don't know," he said, voice full of regret. "I'll have to turn it over to Robards and find some other way to make a difference. I can't stay there."

"You can't," Draco agreed, his mind already whirring with ways he could pick up the project and keep it running. "I'm glad you're leaving."

"Do you have any plans tonight?"

He looked up to see a faint flush of pink rising on Potter's cheeks. A slow sense of warmth began to spread through him, starting from his chest and blooming outward all the way to the tips of his fingers. He shook his head.

"I know a great little library not far from here," Potter said, pretending to be fascinated by something in the distance. "It has an excellent restaurant tucked at the back. I hear their soup is delicious."

Draco's smile burst across his face. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Potter grinned, finally turning to him and sliding his fingers into Draco's. "I thought it would make a nice first date."

"I think that sounds excellent."

Draco opened the bag of pastries, selected the largest and took a bite. He let the sweetness pool on his tongue, filling his mouth with the delicious mix of chocolate and pastry. It was rich and light and real.