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The first time Harry sees Malfoy after the war is at the war trials. Malfoy is painfully thin and slight, boney and looking too stretched out and squished in. When Malfoy goes to shake Harry’s hand at the end of his trial, Harry suddenly realises that he’s taller than Malfoy, and that Malfoy’s hands are frail and his bones feel brittle, to the point that Harry’s afraid he’ll snap them. Malfoy looks so young, and feels so old, and it disintegrates the last of Harry’s regrets about testifying for him. Narcissa Malfoy ushers Draco Malfoy away, while Lucius Malfoy has a very short sentence in Azkaban, and after Harry wishes them well, he expects never to see them again.
Harry sees Malfoy again just a few months later for their eighth year at Hogwarts (well, technically Harry’s seventh year, with the camping and all). At first, Harry sticks to his friends, and Malfoy sticks to his. But Harry can’t help but notice Malfoy’s trips to the Hospital Wing. When Harry tells Hermione and Ron about it, Ron complains about his obsession (“It’s not!” Harry protests), and Hermione mutters something about bullying and hexing.
Harry makes the executive decision to approach Malfoy himself after spotting Malfoy in the Library without his friends. Harry approaches from behind, and for a moment, Malfoy’s back stumps him: the shape looks different. A little broader, perhaps. It tickles something in Harry: Malfoy must be eating right again, Harry tells himself.
Well, huh. Harry’s attempt to ask Malfoy point-blank about the hospital wing visit absolutely fails. (“What, are you keeping count, Potter?”) (“You kept count of my visits!”)
But Harry doesn’t give up, he just changes tact. He hangs around Malfoy (it’s not stalking, they have a lot of similar classes, Ron!), and when he catches Malfoy looking out of the window wistfully, Harry’s quick to ask him out for a Seeker’s Game, one-on-one, best out of three, and, “Are you scared, Malfoy?”
It works like a charm, and Harry ignores Ron’s calculating looks between him and Malfoy. Best-out-of-three quickly becomes best-out-of-five, out-of-nine. They play twice every weekend, and on one of those days, Malfoy kits himself in a new set of quidditch leathers. (“Jealous, Potter?”) (“You wish!”) (Malfoy drags Harry out to buy some new quidditch leathers anyway, and Harry would never admit it out loud to Malfoy, but the new ones fit a lot better.)
The day Malfoy’s voice cracks, Harry laughs himself silly. “A late bloomer!” he says, over and over again. Malfoy glares at him. Huffs at him. Doesn’t work on Harry at all. It takes Harry a while to stop laughing. Then he catches sight of the decorations around the castle, and manages to spit out a, “Oh, you hit puberty just in time for Valentine’s Day!” before he’s clutching at his stomach and laughing all over again.
Malfoy jabs him back. “And I suppose you’ve scheduled a different admirer for each 10 minute block of the day.” Harry scowls as Malfoy starts smirking.
In the end, neither of them have dates for Valentine’s Day. However, Malfoy takes great pleasure in melting all of Harry’s (safe) heart-shaped chocolates in order to make an extremely decadent chocolate cake. Ron ends up stealing half the cake, the tosser, and for that hour becomes Malfoy’s greatest admirer. Despite Harry’s inexplicable disgruntlement at his own best friend monopolising Malfoy, the two of them get along much better afterwards. In fact, everyone at Hogwarts is getting along much better.
But Malfoy’s still visiting the Hospital Wing, and when he’s not, he’s taking a tiny vial of potion in the mornings.
“You’re not dying, are you?” Harry asks one day, trying to joke. But fearful realisation makes his voice croak.
Malfoy just gives him a withering look that eases the pain in Harry’s heart. “If anything, I’m living more as myself than ever.” Then—“What’s with that soppy look on your face, Potter? Did you resort to Hufflepuff without my knowledge?”
They shove each other. They wrestle, then tussle, until both of them flop apart in exhaustion. Harry gives Malfoy a wide, silly grin. “Git,” he says fondly.
“Prat,” Malfoy says back, smiling.
The rest of the school year passes in a back-aching blur of studying and exams, and suddenly it’s graduation and it’s the last day of school, ever.
But Harry doesn’t have to return to the Dursleys. He is going to see his friends every day. And Malfoy’s one of those friends.
Unexpectedly, Grimmauld Place becomes a Project. Ron and Hermione stay there for a while before their trip to Australia, and Hermione fixes up the library and Ron spruces up the kitchen. Neville comes by to clear the garden, and Luna replaces all the old curtains and paints blue skies and clouds on the ceiling of one of the bedrooms. Bill and Fleur remove the old decor and certain paintings, and George and Lee Jordan put up new photos of Harry and all his friends.
Andromeda comes by with little baby Teddy, and they redo the main sitting room with comfy sofas and plush carpet for a baby to crawl on. When Malfoy comes, he makes a face at everything and gasps in shock when he sees Harry’s bedroom. “What an old mattress! And I do not believe those posters fit you. The Gryffindor paraphernalia, yes, but—”
Harry riles up, and wraps his arms around himself protectively. “This is Sirius’ old bedroom. I don’t want to change it.”
But then Malfoy’s face goes all soft and understanding and a lump grows in Harry’s chest. Harry tries to think about anything else, like why Malfoy’s hair is so blond even though now he’s an adult, or why Malfoy’s hands look so enticing. But then Malfoy has to say, “If you want to preserve Sirius Black’s room, then you shouldn’t be living in it. We can use your memories to return it back to what it was before you moved in. We can put down strong preservation charms.”
It sounds as though Harry’s been disrespecting Sirius’s memory. But he would never, and Malfoy just doesn’t understand.
“Right, to leave the room as he left it before he died, as though he’s just about to come back,” Harry chokes out bitterly. He shoves Malfoy out of the room, and closes the door firmly behind them both.
Malfoy ends up helping Harry replace wallpaper in the front door landing and promising to go on a day trip to find new rugs and carpet. But Harry can no longer bring himself to open his bedroom door, not even to retrieve his clothes—which are all still in his school trunk in the bedroom. Instead, he sleeps on the couch, which is where Ginny and Luna find him rather too early the next day. When they ask what’s wrong, he blurts out, “I hate Malfoy,” and looks away as Ginny and Luna exchange those silent looks that couples have. They make Harry breakfast and Luna hangs up colourful paintings.
Neville drops by again with new seedlings, and then rather unexpectedly, Blaise Zabini is at his doorstep too.
“Hmm,” Zabini says, “I’m surprised Draco hasn’t replaced your wardrobe yet.”
And while Harry splutters with indignation, Zabini breezes through and heads to the back garden. Harry dashes after him to save Neville, except Neville’s smiling at Zabini as both of them work on Harry’s garden. They turn to look at him. Harry says something about getting them both drinks before quickly escaping.
Lots of people give Harry advice when they find out that he’s not been to Sirius’s bedroom. About grieving. About moving on. About how Srius would have wanted you to live. But how could they know?
Andromeda gives him deep, sad eyes. “But Sirius is not his bedroom. Sirius was much more, and you can never replace him with inanimate objects.” They both look to baby Teddy, who would never know his parents, never know his grandfather.
When Malfoy shows up again, Harry tells him he wants to turn the room in his own bedroom, and Malfoy says he’d learnt a spell that captures three-dimensional images. There are wobbly smiles on both sides, and their friendship is mended just like that. Harry is finally enticed over the grounds of Malfoy Manor where he and Malfoy pick up their seeker matches again, and the summer flies by.
After the war, after the summer, Harry starts Auror training with Ron. Start being the key word, as he never finishes it: Ron goes off to the joke shop with George, and Harry ends up in a muggle baking masterclass. Malfoy, on the other hand, continues his mysterious training at the Ministry (he’s an Unspeakable, clearly), and can be frequently found in the Grimmauld Place library, the Malfoy Manor library, or flooing between the two. Sometimes, Harry will put his experimental baked goods on a plate near Malfoy, and watch from behind the stacks. Malfoy eats absently, and Harry giggles when Malfoy realises—like when he bites into a marmite-filled croissant.
Turns out that Harry can make fast friends with the other bakers and cooks at the muggle classes he attends. He ends up dating one of them—everyone else seems to think they have a magical connection (even though there’s no magic involved). And it goes well for a while—Harry loves how he can bake together with her, talk shop. And cuddling...Harry loves cuddling. But when it comes to sleeping—the euphemistic kind—Harry would rather not talk about it. He ends up disappointing her—he ends up disappointing himself. It doesn’t work out.
The end of the relationship leaves him more empty than he thought he could be. He wants a relationship. He wants romance. But he couldn’t feel that spark of special connection (her words, not Harry’s) with his baker-ex even though they had gotten along so well.
“What about you, Malfoy? Didn’t you use to date Parkinson?” Harry asks when Malfoy comes around with break-up gifts of new bakeware. Glumly, Harry puts them away.
“I was her beard, and she was mine,” Malfoy finally says, a little shiftily. Harry understands zero percent, and says as such.
“She’s gay!” Malfoy says with exasperation. “And I certainly did not want to date some pureblood witch my parents chose for me, and I doubt any other pureblood witch would want me either.” He tugs at his robes; the fabric falls smooth and flat over his chest, and Harry realises suddenly that Malfoy is taller than him.
“Ugh, why are you growing faster than me?” Harry grumbles, heartbreak completely forgotten.
Malfoy gives a laugh, and says mysteriously, “Late bloomer, by your own words.”
When Harry opens up his bakery, there’s a rather handsome shop-outfitter who helps him set up. He comes by on the regular after too, and Harry’s suddenly struck with, oh, I wouldn’t mind dating him. In true Gryffindor fashion, Harry asks him out immediately. He agrees, and Harry floats through the relationship honeymoon phase. He can even do okay in the bedroom department (the euphemistic one) and enjoys it enough.
Except, it’s not enough as the weeks go on. “You’re not attracted to me,” he says. Harry protests that he loves spending time with him.
“But not that kind of time.”
They break up, and Harry wonders if something broke in him when he died.
When Malfoy hears his theory, he gives Harry a considering look. His, “Are you sure?” is accompanied by pursed lips. He looks like he wants to say something more. Harry’s sure, though, and so Malfoy nods and dives into research about death.
When Luna learns about this, she tells him to attend this meetup in London for asexual people. Harry protests that he wants a relationship, but Luna just smiles and sends him along.
Not one to ignore Luna, Harry dutifully attends, prepared to say, oh, I’m bi, I’m just an ally, my friend sent me—Except.
Except, he learns there’s such a thing as romantic attraction as separate from sexual attraction, and all the vague grey in-between.
Except, Malfoy is there too. They gravitate to each other, the unspoken question of you’re here? hanging between them.
The organiser goes round and asks everyone for their pronouns and name and favourite cheese. There are a lot of she/hers and they/them, and only a smattering of he/him. Of the two of them, Malfoy says his first (he/him, and mentions some fancy cheese that Harry cannot pronounce), before glancing at Harry.
“He/him for me too,” Harry says easily. “And oh, my favourite cheese is cheesecake.” Malfoy rolls his eyes and Harry smirks back, barely registering what the rest of the group are doing.
Harry has no doubt that Luna has somehow orchestrated this...but as he spends the afternoon playing board games with Malfoy and the others, he can’t find himself to be too bothered. The others find it so amusing that they call each other Potter and Malfoy.
“It’s because Malfoy’s a posh prat,” Harry says fondly, and Malfoy agrees easily.
They leave together, and Harry introduces Malfoy to the messier points of muggle food culture. Well—messy for Harry, when Malfoy insists on using a knife and fork on his hamburger, even going as far as to transfigure the plastic available ones to metal. (But then again, that’s what Harry likes about Malfoy, right?)
Then, as usual, they head back to Grimmauld Place to relax in the sitting room. Malfoy summons a beast of a book about something complicated about earth magic and its connection to the apparition charm, and so Harry gets a book for himself too. Harry feels settled, though, and much too lazy to read. He finds himself studying Malfoy’s profile: more angular than pointy these days. Those eyes that could center Harry in the world, and those lips so often quirked up in smirk at Harry. Harry dozes off despite himself, and wakes up in bed the next day.
Something has shifted between them, as Malfoy returns to Grimmauld Place almost every evening. Harry grows increasingly enamoured by those late night days where they sit in front of the fireplace, sat opposite ends of the sofa, legs tangled under a blanket as Malfoy reads some large tome that shimmers when Harry tries to look at it (some secret Unspeakable thing that Malfoy always hedges about before diving into the way-too-jargony specifics, the wanker), while Harry reads 1890s cook books. Harry always quickly abandons his books, and teases Malfoy into chatting, and Malfoy always follows, no matter how disgruntled he may look. Harry doesn’t remember what they chat about, but he enjoys it immensely.
One such evening, he’s struck with the thought of, why did I ever want a romantic relationship when I have this?
On that evening, he looks at Malfoy, and his heart skips a beat.
Oh.
Malfoy looks at him. Raises an eyebrow, corner of lips quirking. Harry drops his book. Leans forward, says, “Malfoy.”
“Hmm, about to extol my virtues?” Malfoy drawls, head tilting, soft hair falling back. Harry finds himself grinning foolishly, and tugs the blanket hard and pulls it up to cover his own mouth. Malfoy grins and leans over, tugging the blanket back. They tussle, and roll around, and they both tumble off the sofa.
“You’re such a git, Potter.” But Malfoy’s eyes are bright, and Harry rolls over until he’s really close to him.
“Be my boyfriend,” Harry whispers.
Malfoy’s lips part. Harry licks his own lips.
“Draco, be my boyfriend.”
Draco huffs, shifting up into a sitting position leaning against the sofa. “You’re not even going to ask, Harry?” he drawls.
“You wouldn’t,” Harry says cheekily, sitting up too. He lays a hand on Draco’s thigh, leans in despite the awkward angle. Draco lifts a slow hand to caress Harry’s cheek, and that’s that, and they both live happily ever after.
—Except, it isn’t. (Well, they do live happily ever after, but they don’t know that yet.)
After their kissing, Harry rearranges Draco’s arms around him, and leans back against his chest. And stares into the fire.
Draco huffs, a warm breath in his hair. “What are you thinking about now, Potter?”
Harry protests being called Potter, but Draco continues to be serious. Sighing, Harry tilts his head upon Draco’s shoulder. “Do you want to have sex?”
Draco’s arms tighten. His voice is strained as he asks, “What, now?”
Harry recalls the term sex-averse. Admits that he doesn’t know if Draco is—Harry isn’t.
“I have something to tell you.” Draco looks away. His jaw is tight, and Harry wants to ease it so much.
“What, are we breaking up already?” Harry tries for a grin, but it doesn’t last long.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you...But it’s been a secret for so long.”
Harry holds his breath. Tries to look inviting and open. Meets Draco’s eyes.
“I’m...trans.”
Harry’s ashamed to admit it, but he stares. He stutters. Asks, “Are you a trans woman? Or nonbinary? Have I been misgendering you this entire time?! Wait, at the meetup, you said he-him. Does that mean??????!!!”
Draco’s shoulder’s drop, and he chuckles, and even if the laughs sound a bit high and breathless, Harry’s glad (if a bit confused). Draco takes Harry’s hands in his, and assures, “I’m a trans man.”
“I never knew,” Harry blurts out. Starts to make a story about not noticing things, before he stops, and shuts up.
Harry is so grateful when Draco opens up. About how he knew as a child, how his parents obscured the original birth records from his deadname to Draco instead. How Snape had given him blocker potions because his parents were afraid the transition potions would affect the Malfoy fertility and weren’t quite ready for anything yet. That seventh year where he had none and his body started undergoing puberty. The eighth year when Madame Pomfrey got him started on the transition potions properly.
And Harry gasps. “So that’s what you were doing!!!” He gives a silly grin. “I’m glad it was something good.” He snuggles up against Draco.
“So to answer your question, I’ve never had sex,” Draco says into Harry’s hair. “I was dysphoric when everyone else was starting,” (Harry gives him a hug) “and by the time it wasn’t a problem, I realised I didn't have the drive for it—realised that I didn’t care for it.”
“The ace meeting?” Harry says.
Draco nods, and continues, “...and I started liking someone.”
Harry pulls back from his snuggle to look Draco in the face. “You had a crush on someone? WHO??” He squeaks in surprise when Draco tackles him to the ground.
“You, Potter!” Draco grumbles, and that makes Harry grin so much his cheeks ache. Draco leans over and kisses him. Against his lips, he says, “I’ll try out sex with you, Potter.”
And they do, eventually. More than once, even.
(That said, it strikes Harry one day how not having sex often is an utter non-issue with Draco, how for them it’s not one of the key things that keep them together nor features high in their list of activities—it didn’t before, and it doesn’t after. It leaves them more time to argue about other things instead, like the best kind of coffee to go with a buttery croissant.)
But there’s no rush, no hurry. Harry has years to learn Draco, and vice versa. He learns more every day, knowledge refreshed anew and bright.
(Draco likes his shoulders and chest, despite the scars. After Harry sputters out fervent apologies about the Sectumsempra—and Draco returns them in kind about all the bullying and bigotry—Harry starts loving them too, and starts resting his head on Draco’s chest to listen to his heart whenever he can.)
They settle into a new routine that Harry adores. The first thing Harry sees in the morning is a sleepy Draco in the wand-light. Harry slips out of bed first, his clothes quickly chilling in the air. He leaves for his bakery first. Right at opening time, Draco would come by in his dark blue Unspeakable robes and boots, and Harry will tilt his head up to give Draco a kiss, before Draco steals some croissants—though he gives Harry a coffee in replacement.
His friends often drop by the bakery. One heart-stopping day, Narcissa Malfoy drops by the bakery. When Harry tells Ron and Hermione about it, Ron grins and says Harry’s baked goods are irresistible. Hermione mutters something about purebloods and marriage and courting.
Leftover goods go to charity at the end of the day, and Harry returns home first. Lately, Harry’s been teaching Draco to cook, and Harry has hopes yet that Draco can learn enough skills to help host a dinner party at their place; every other day, at least, they are eating at friends (Gryffindor or otherwise), or those friends are at Grimmauld Place where Harry does the cooking (and Draco buys pre-made stuff).
And finally, late nights are reserved for the two of them. Snuggling up by the fire with light reading (or heavy reading, in Draco’s case). And sometimes they’ll sleep, and sometimes they’ll sleep, but more often than not they’ll talk for far too long until one of them dozes off.
And Draco’s hands are firm, solid, and when Harry looks at him, he sees that fond look of love reflected.
The end.