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"Bloody hell!" Draco swore, leaping to his feet. His heart felt like it might leap out of his chest as well. "Are you sure?"
Harry smiled weakly. "I'm sure, Draco. It's time."

"Bloody hell!" Harry swore, collapsing onto the sofa. "She can't be serious." But if there was one thing he knew about Professor McGonagall, it was that she didn't muck about; much as he might wish otherwise, there was no doubt her letter meant what it said.

Dear Mr Potter -

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Mr Draco Malfoy is in need of temporary lodging. After serious consideration, I believe that the safest place for him to be is with you. This may cause some inconvenience, but I know you will manage; also, I believe it is high time the two of you learned to get along, especially in these times.

Expect his arrival on Sunday evening around 8pm.

Kindest regards,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry leaned back and closed his eyes. What had he done in a previous life to deserve this? Surely there was someone - anyone - more appropriate to house Malfoy than he was. What was wrong with his Slytherin cronies? They couldn't all have gone to Azkaban for siding with Voldemort, could they? Where were his parents? No long-lost aunts? He couldn't believe that Professor McGonagall had marked him for this dubious honor, but he also knew there was no arguing with her once she had decided something. He morosely re-read the letter again. How long was "temporary," anyway? He supposed he could put up with Malfoy for a few days, but if Professor McGonagall meant for him to stay for a few weeks or - oh, God, even months - then he could easily envision bloodshed.

With a dispirited sigh Harry skimmed through the rest of his mail, then headed to the kitchen to figure out what he wanted for tea. It was times like this he wished he didn't live alone, where every single chore and responsibility fell to him; Kreacher had died that first winter after Voldemort's death, so he, Ron and Hermione had taken various tasks in turn. Now, however, there was no one with whom to share those jobs; he especially missed having food ready and waiting when he got home in the evening, even more so as it was Friday and he was knackered after the long week.

It had been just a few months since Ron and Hermione had gently approached him over lunch at the kitchen table one Saturday, asking if he would mind if they found a flat of their own. Harry couldn't say he'd been that surprised, really; in fact, it had already crossed his mind that perhaps he should get out of their way and let their relationship progress without his constant presence. The three of them had been friends for so long, it had been natural for them to find a place together after they finished their much-delayed seventh year at Hogwarts, and for the next year things had worked out quite well. Still - anyone could see where Ron and Hermione's relationship would eventually be headed, and the sooner they got their own place, the better.

In the end, Harry had found a one-bedroom flat in Bloomsbury; it had easy access to the Auror Academy, which was located under the British Museum. He'd debated staying at the two-bedroom flat he'd shared with Ron and Hermione, and just using the second room for guests, but in the end realized that he wasn't likely to be hosting many overnight visitors anyway - his friends had all (eventually) passed their Apparating tests and could easily Apparate back to their own homes at the end of an evening. It wasn't as if he couldn't afford the larger place, but he wasn't comfortable spending his gold so rapidly if it wasn't necessary.

There was no question about staying at Grimmauld Place; Harry could not bear to stay in the dark house where Sirius had been trapped as both a youth and adult, not now that he had other options. Besides, with Kreacher gone, even that measure of welcome and comfort had gone, too. After determining that Andromeda did not want it, Harry had quickly sold the ancient house, and was perfectly content to find his own lodgings. Besides, it was easier to keep track of his godson when there were fewer rooms and stairs to spell shut or to childproof. Harry shuddered to think of Teddy playing anywhere near the permanently stuck portrait of Mrs Black; god only knew what she'd think of a half-werewolf child whose maternal grandmother had been blasted off the family tree, to boot.

The only remaining consideration over whether to stay in the two-bedroom flat or not had been Dudley; once the war had ended and the danger to the Dursleys had passed, Harry had extended a tentative olive branch to his cousin. He'd remembered Dudley's unexpected kindness to him when they'd last parted, and thought that, perhaps, they might be able to at least exchange holiday cards or something. While he wouldn't say that he and Dudders would ever be close, he'd been pleased to have at least one blood relative who didn't hate his guts, and Dudley did come to the city for business now and then. It didn't seem worthwhile, however, to pay for a second bedroom just in case his cousin slept over once or twice a year; he finally decided he could transfigure his sofa into a bed, if need be. He'd just do it while Dudley was in the loo, and let him think he was a regular pull-out sofa, lest he panic at the mere sight of magic.

So Ron and Hermione had found themselves a flat, and Harry had moved into his own. At first it seemed strange, living by himself, and more than a little lonely. After awhile, however, he'd discovered he rather liked having a haven of his own - he could decorate however he liked, be as neat or untidy as he liked, bring home dates without worrying about if someone else would hear his fun - or worry about hearing someone else's fun - and didn't have to share the telly. Despite everything that he'd been through before even coming of age, it was this - solo living - which really made him feel like a proper grownup.

Except now he was going to have a flatmate again. And not just any flatmate - Draco Malfoy. Harry kept trying to picture how the hell this was going to work out, and ended up going to bed with a headache for his efforts.

By the time Sunday evening rolled around, Harry found himself wishing fervently he could simply ignore Professor McGonagall's letter and pretend not to be home. Or, better yet, actually not be home. But he knew word would get back to her and, despite the passage of time, he still fully admitted to not wanting - ever - to be on the wrong side of McGonagall's wrath. Knowing her, she'd transfigure him into a new cage for her owl, and conveniently forget to change him back. Or clean the cage.

So he'd made sure he'd given a reasonable effort into making Malfoy comfortable, despite his resentment. He'd shuffled things around to make room in the fridge and cupboard space for whatever food he might need, bought sheets and pillows to fit the to-be-transfigured sofa, and set out a cup by the bathroom sink for Malfoy's toothbrush. He'd also put a more-than-usual effort into tidying his flat; the last thing he needed was to hear Malfoy sneering about his bachelor skills - or worse, making snide remarks about how Harry hadn't bought a new house-elf.

A rapping sound on his door signaled the moment of truth: time to say goodbye to his peace and quiet. With a sigh, Harry heaved himself out of his plush armchair and trudged to the entryway.

Sure enough, there stood Draco Malfoy on the mat, his eagle owl's cage by his feet, and no other visible luggage.

Harry sighed again. "Well, you might as well come in."

Malfoy nodded sharply, then picked up the cage and stepped over the threshold.

"You're in here." Harry gestured at the lounge. "Sorry, I don't have a spare bedroom, but I can transfigure the sofa for you. If you want," he added, half hoping that Malfoy wouldn't want - or, at the very least, would do it himself - and spare Harry from having to hospitably do it for him.

But Malfoy simply nodded again. "Thanks," he said, setting down the cage with surprising gentleness next to the battered cage which had formerly belonged to Hedwig. "Mind if I open this?"

Harry shrugged. "If you want." He watched Malfoy kneel down and flip the cage's latch, then rise quickly to flip the window's latch and thrust the pane up.

"Wait! I thought you just meant the cage - you didn't say anything about opening the window!"

Malfoy looked at him coolly. "And how did your owl go outside? Did he Disapparate?"

"She."

"Whatever. Answer the question."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine. No, she didn't. But it's still cold out at night and Pax knows how to knock to come in. You could have at least asked."

"I did."

"No, you - Oh, forget it. Look, I'm going to bed. Bathroom's down there-" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "-kitchen's in there. Have a good night."

He stomped off to his bedroom, shut the door, and threw himself onto his bed. Stupid git. Been in the flat for two minutes and already taking things over. And now here he was, in bed at 8:03pm for no reason other than there was a stupid git in his lounge, hogging pretty much the entire rest of the flat and probably watching something stupid on television, to boot. Not to mention letting cold air in. The fact that utilities were included in the flat rental was beside the point.

As he pulled on his pyjamas, it dawned on Harry that he had never gotten around to transfiguring the sofa into a bed. Too bad, Malfoy - I guess you'll have to do it yourself, he thought, climbing under the covers and reaching for a novel. It's all your fault for being such a prat.

The next morning he emerged to find Malfoy had beaten him to the bathroom. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Frowning, Harry went into the kitchen, where he used his wand to heat water for tea - definitely faster than using the gas cooker - and to poke sleepily into the fridge and cabinets, trying to decide what he wanted for breakfast.

He'd finally settled on eggs and bacon as just the thing to get him fueled for the week ahead when he heard the bathroom door open and footsteps approach.

"'Morning, Potter."

Harry set the ingredients on the counter, not bothering to look up. "Yeah, 'Morning." He pulled out a cast iron skillet, thumped it onto the cooker with a bit more force than necessary, and flicked his wand to heat it.

"I don't suppose there's any coffee?"

"Sorry, nope. I don't drink it." Harry briefly took his eyes from the bacon to glance in Malfoy's direction. His hair was damp but neatly combed, and khaki trousers peeked from under his robes. "Going somewhere?"

"Yes, to work. Perhaps you've heard of it?" Malfoy began opening cabinets.

Harry sighed. "Look, I'll save you the time. I have tea, lots of it, in that drawer, but the pot's got jasmine tea so unless you want to make your own, that's what's available right now. I have cereal, oatmeal, eggs and bacon, obviously -" he gestured at the stove, "-and bread for toast. Or you could have leftover curry, I suppose. Unless you brought food along with your previously invisible possessions?"

Malfoy shut the cupboard he'd been searching and gave Harry a look. "For someone who 'saved the wizarding world' you can be awfully dense, Potter. Didn't Granger ever show you how to shrink your things for easier travel? Or was that too advanced for you?"

"No, it's not too advanced for me," Harry mimicked, his irritation easily dominating any uncertainty he might otherwise have felt. It wasn't like he had ever tried that shrinking spell on his own, after all, but who cared? Malfoy was just being a prat, as usual, lording everything over him. How the hell had Professor McGonagall ever thought they could get along? In exasperation he threw down the spatula. "Fine. Since you're so talented, you can find your own damn breakfast," and he stalked off to get showered and dressed.

Professor McGonagall -

I'm sorry, but I just don't see how this is going to work out. Malfoy hasn't been with me one full day yet and already I want to throttle him. You could at least explain why he has to be with me?

Hope all is well at Hogwarts,

Harry Potter

Dear Mr Potter-

As you are aware, the Malfoy family has been under scrutiny for their role during You Know Who's reign. You, yourself, testified that they had made some positive choices during the battle at Hogwarts, and this was taken into serious consideration when determining their fate. At the present time they have been allowed their freedom, but Aurors are still examining their home, and much of their assets remain frozen. Due to a rather negative popular opinion about them, particularly toward the father and son, they are at risk for their lives - or at least their well-being - so we have decided to find them safe room and board in different locations. Given the high level of privacy and security which have been arranged at your flat through Ms Granger's skills, we felt Mr Draco Malfoy would be safer there than at other locations. And, as I have said before, it is high time you gentlemen learned to get along. I have no more patience for house enmity, not when we see what division nearly cost us.

Once, you were the one who depended on living in a place with little affection, just to keep you safe. Now you have the chance to do better than your predecessors. I trust you will make the right decisions.

Regards,

Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

By the time Harry received Professor McGonagall's reply, it was Thursday evening and the week was nearly over. Good thing, that - he was exhausted. For all that he had busted his arse during that final year at Hogwarts so he could get into Auror training, he sometimes regretted it. The training was harder and more demanding than anything he had done at Hogwarts, especially as he no longer had Hermione to help him get through the material. She had helped where she could when they had all lived together, despite her own hectic job as a junior liaison in the newly-created Program for the Advancement of Non-human Thinking and Intellectual EntitieS (P.A.N.T.I.E.S). But now that they lived separately, it was much more difficult to get the assistance he had counted on for so long, and Harry was discovering how much harder he had to work without it.

Although he'd sworn not to question Professor McGonagall, in the end he decided that risking her wrath might actually be preferable to seeing Malfoy's pale features every blasted moment they were at home. Unfortunately, her reply did not help his mood any. Not only was he tired, he was sick and tired of his unwanted flatmate, particularly one who seemed to raise his ire by simply existing. He gave Pax a piece of leftover chicken, then watched her spread her tawny wings to head back out for an evening's hunt. She wasn't Hedwig, but she still made a good companion. Better than Malfoy, anyway.

Harry knew he was being irrational. But his feeling sorry for Draco - for all the Malfoys, really - at being bullied and threatened by Voldemort seemed to have vanished. It was one thing to vouch for Draco in front of the Wizengamot, when only Malfoy's future reputation was on the line; it was somehow quite another to be forced to share nearly every waking moment with him. All right, nearly every waking moment when he, Harry, was not at Auror training. He knew Malfoy had some sort of job - he'd said as much on that first morning - and Harry admitted to being somewhat curious as to what profession Malfoy had chosen now that "Death Eater" was off the list. To ask, however, would have meant expressing friendly interest, and Harry just couldn't stand the thought. He could still feel guilty about the time he'd nearly - accidentally - ended Malfoy's life and then gone on to save Malfoy's life - twice - but it was another thing entirely to live with the man.

Maybe it was because feeling charitable about Draco was still too strange and uncomfortable a feeling; the look of fear on his face at Malfoy Manor, the panicked grip around his waist as they fled the Fiendfyre, the surprisingly comfortable feel of the hawthorn wand in his hand. Seeing those grey eyes every day kept bringing back those memories, and Harry did not want to remember. It was easier to go on hating him.

Harry ripped up Professor McGonagall's letter and, whipping out his wand, incinerated it.

"So, how's it going, mate?"

Harry put his head in his hands. "Don't ask."

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

"I don't suppose you could arrange a convenient 'accident' for the little ferret - put a slippery spell on the stairs or something?"

Harry lifted his head and raised an eyebrow at his best friend. "I don't have any stairs, remember? Garden flat."

"Oh, right." Ron took another gulp of his ale. "I'll ask George - surely he's got something in his arsenal."

Harry shook his head. "I can't do anything that overt - McGonagall would know. But thanks. Right now, I just need someone to complain to."

Ron patted him on the back. "It's the least I can do after we put you in this spot by moving out."

"Yeah, and you can tell Hermione it's her fault for making my new flat so well-protected." Harry snorted. "No, as much as I hate to admit it, it's nobody's fault that Malfoy and I are total opposites. I can't even really blame Professor McGonagall, much as I'd like to - he is safe from the mob at my flat. It's just that I'm not so sure he's safe from me. She just seemed to have it in her head that Malfoy and I could magically overcome nearly a decade of hatred in a few short weeks."

"I don't blame you one bit, Harry. Honestly, I think I would have, at the very least, put a Puking Pastille into his tea by now."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but who'd have to clean up after him?"

Ron shrugged. "Good point. It's not like you need more work to do."

Privately, Harry had to admit Malfoy wasn't actually making much extra work for him, nor had he done anything else particularly annoying that Harry had not probably goaded him into in the first place. Going without his own personal house-elf the past few years seemed to have encouraged Malfoy to do a half-decent job of picking up after himself; Harry had been somewhat surprised that first morning when he'd gone into the lounge and seen the sheets and blankets folded back up and set to the side, a trend that had continued ever since. Malfoy also took his own dishes to the sink, and bought and cooked his own food. Or, at least, he ordered in his own food, when his culinary desires expanded past coffee, toast, eggs and pasta.

But this did not mollify Harry in the least; Malfoy's presence was still a constant thorn in Harry's side. He might not be flashing Potter stinks! badges anymore, but no matter where he looked he saw Malfoy's stuff - his now un-shrunk bag of clothes and the extra owl cage in the lounge (not to mention the extra owl), his toiletries in the bathroom, his book on the table.... The sight of Malfoy's wand reminded him of the dark period in which he'd won it and the awkward note he'd written when he'd mailed it back; Harry grudgingly remembered that the wand had actually worked quite well for him when he'd needed it to. It had even killed Voldemort - how wrong was that?

But in the back of his mind, a small voice pointed out that if he were truly honest with himself, nearly a decade of hatred had also accompanied nearly a decade of ... well ... not to put too fine a point on it ... obsession. How often had he been instantly aware of that silver-blond head in any crowd at Hogwarts? How many times had he watched Malfoy, followed Malfoy, tracked him on the Map, and pondered what he was doing? Sure, it was because he had often - correctly - suspected that Malfoy was up to something, but he had somehow never managed to stop being constantly aware of him. Even during the trials, when he had been vouching for the Malfoys' change of political attitude, he had been hyper-attuned to every move the former Slytherin made as he sat with his parents.

This, however, was not something he could - or would - ever confess to Ron. Instead, he merely knocked back the last of his ale and, looking at his watch, said, "I'd better get back, before His Lordship commandeers the telly again."

Ron, who had discovered the delights of television and their ever-changing programmes, nodded. "Make him watch one of those nature programmes - that'll put him to sleep straight off and then you can watch whatever you like," he added, slyly.

Harry chuckled as he rose and tugged his cloak on. "I'll see what I can do. And thanks for listening to me."

Ron, too, stood, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Anytime, mate. Anytime."

When Harry walked in the door a few minutes later, Malfoy was, in fact, curled on the sofa reading a book, as Harry had known he'd be. To Harry's surprise, he'd shown remarkably little interest in the television, even after seeing Harry enjoying it on multiple occasions. Harry found this simultaneously both a relief and yet another irritation. While he liked having full reign over the remote, he somehow felt judged, as if Malfoy were silently denouncing him for not choosing the more intellectual pursuit of reading.

Harry tossed his cloak onto the back of a kitchen chair and settled himself in his plush armchair, remote in hand. However, after restlessly clicking through the options - not even the football game interested him tonight - he shut it off and sat, staring blankly ahead for a few moments. Finally, he swung his head around to the silver-bright one on his left.

"So, what're you reading, anyway?"

Malfoy held his book up. Magical Drafts and Potions

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that the Potions book we had for the first five years? Why are you still reading it?"

"It's Professor Snape's." He flipped the open book around so Harry could see the now-familiar handwriting covering each page. "He told me about it, after you'd hit me with that spell back in sixth year."

Harry's cheeks grew warm. He still felt horrible about that incident, even three years later. "That was his Advanced Potion-Making book, though, and I swear I didn't know it was his or what that spell would do. Honest."

Malfoy swung his legs around, sitting up. "Yeah, I know," he said, casually dismissing Harry's apology as if his near-death experience had been but a trifling irritation. "Anyway, Professor Snape told me he'd done the same sort of notations on his earlier Potions book, so when I was back at Hogwarts, I dug through all the old books in the cupboard until I found it."

"And you just took it?"

A shrug. "It's not like Professor Snape needed it anymore. Besides, his methods clearly worked much better than the author's, since even you were getting top marks for once-"

Harry sat up. "Hey!"

"Relax, Potter." Malfoy waved Harry back down with his hand. "I'm not trying to get your knickers in a twist - it's just a statement of fact. I think we can both agree you were not the top Potions student prior to your finding Professor Snape's old book?"

"I suppose," Harry admitted, grudgingly.

"Anyway," Malfoy went on, "as I was saying before, since Professor Snape's methods are clearly superior, I figured it would be useful if I could read through his earlier comments, and get a sense of how he developed his methods."

"I guess that makes sense," said Harry. "Mind if I take a look?"

To his surprise, rather than holding the book out, Malfoy simply moved over on the sofa to make room. Harry hesitated a moment, then took his place beside him. "Huh," he said, as Malfoy offered the open book. "Wish I'd known about this a long time ago." He turned a page. "Like this, for instance," pointing to Snape's alternate directions for the Draught of Peace. "My life would have been a lot easier if I could have made this properly, and kept, say, a six-year supply on hand."

Malfoy's left hand reached up to reclaim his side of the book. "I'm interested in the antidote section, myself," he said, pointing.

"Oh?" Harry flicked his eyes in Malfoy's direction, then immediately re-focused on the book. Those silver-grey eyes had been looking at him. What was worse, he'd felt a zing all the way down to his groin when their eyes had met. Clearly, it had been too long since his last boyfriend.

The ensuing silence felt electrically charged, although Harry had no idea why; then Malfoy cleared his throat. "Yes. I'm an apprentice at St. Mungo's, studying medical potion-making," he said.

"I didn't know that." Harry looked at Malfoy in surprise.

"You never asked."

Harry bristled, on the verge of retorting, It's not like you asked what I do, either, but abruptly swallowed his remarks. The conversation was actually kind of interesting, and it was the first peace he'd felt since Malfoy had moved in. He wasn't ready to spoil it just yet. Instead, he took a breath and asked, "So, have your antidotes improved from Snape's tips?"

"As a matter of fact, they have," Malfoy replied after a moment's hesitation, as if he was surprised by Harry's interest in his work. To tell the truth, Harry was still feeling rather surprised, himself. "I wish I understood why he didn't teach everyone his personal discoveries."

"Maybe no one was ever willing to give him a chance to authenticate his methods." Once upon a time, Harry would have rather poked out his eyeballs with his wand than give Severus Snape the benefit of the doubt, but he knew better now. It was, in fact, entirely possible that no one had been willing to listen to the skinny, greasy and wholly unpopular boy - and even less so once he began to show interest in Voldemort's doings.

"Maybe." Harry was startled by the quiet word; lost in thought, he'd almost forgotten Malfoy was there, next to him. Now, however, he found himself suddenly too aware of his presence, so close. There was no sound but the two of them sitting, breathing, the book temporarily forgotten in their hands; Harry's skin prickled with the sense of warmth so close to him.

"I-" He stopped, unsure what he really wanted to say. He turned to look at Malfoy again, meeting that silver gaze. "I guess I haven't been willing to give you much of a chance either, have I?"

"No," Malfoy said quietly. "But I understand why. I wasn't too keen on coming here either, you know."

"So, why did you?" Harry was genuinely curious. It wasn't like Professor McGonagall had the power to order him anymore.

Malfoy shrugged. "Safety. I value my neck, and knew the overly-righteous mob wouldn't dare attack the home of their Great Hero." Harry could practically hear the capitals in his tone. "So I took McGonagall's advice," Malfoy concluded.

"I was furious at Professor McGonagall when she told me," Harry admitted. "Even after she explained why you needed to be here. But...." He bit his lip. "I should have remembered from Professor Snape that people are not always as they seem, and that people can change. So ... I'm sorry, Malfoy."

"Thanks," Malfoy replied softly. "Although I should probably be the one apologizing to you for taking over your flat."

Harry gave a quiet chuckle. "And I should remember that I still have a whole lot more space than I used to have as a kid."

"Oh?"

"Until I was eleven, I lived in a cupboard under the stairs. My Hogwarts letter even came addressed to me there."

"Was the house that tiny?" Harry could see that Malfoy, having grown up in a large manor house, was having trouble imagining such a thing.

"No, my aunt and uncle were just that horrid."

"Oh." Malfoy seemed unsure how to respond.

Harry waved it off. "I'm over it now. Mostly. But I suppose that's why I was a little over-possessive of my place."

Malfoy nodded, a stray lock of hair falling into his face. "Makes sense." He yawned, then glanced at his watch. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but you're sitting on my bed."

Harry had a sudden urge to push Malfoy's hair into place, and then an even greater urge to sit on his hands so he wouldn't. Then he realized that Malfoy was looking at him rather pointedly. "Oh, right, sorry." Harry stood up, but then turned around and bent to offer Malfoy his hand. "I once refused to shake your hand, and I'd like to make amends now. Truce?"

Malfoy extended his own hand. "Truce," he said with a smile. His fingers were warm as they clasped Harry's; Harry experienced another zing when Malfoy's fingertips slid against Harry's palm as they parted, as if reluctant to let go.

Finally leaving his flatmate to his bedtime ministrations, Harry went to his bedroom and shut the door, but he didn't fall into bed. Instead, he leaned against the door and held up the hand that had clasped Malfoy's. His fingers were tingling and his breathing was disturbingly unsteady. There was no mistaking the signs of arousal in other body parts, either. For Malfoy? What the hell was wrong with him?

It wasn't the fact that Malfoy was male that was giving Harry a headache; shortly after Voldemort's demise he'd realized that, much as he cared for Ginny, he didn't care for her enough. All those long days and nights when Ron had left them, who had occupied his thoughts the most? Ron. Not Ginny. It was then that he'd finally acknowledged his heretofore-smothered attraction to Ron - and to men in general. It wasn't fair to Ginny to keep up the charade, even though he knew breaking up - again - would hurt her terribly. She deserved better. And after some difficult nights and emotional wrestling, Harry had decided he would rather be friends with Ron than to pine after him, firmly tamping down on his crush. Ron was clearly straight as a board, and there was absolutely no way in hell he would ever even think of competing with Hermione even if he wasn't; he still remembered those angry canaries she had conjured back in sixth year.

Determinedly, Harry had set out to find himself a more suitable partner, and had had a few dates here and there. Ron had wrinkled his nose when Harry had finally decided to come out to his best friends, but Hermione had just whacked him upside the head and told him to get over himself, and firmly assured Harry that as long as he was happy, that was all that mattered. Eventually Ron got used to the idea on paper, even if he wasn't too comfortable yet with public displays of affection, and even admitted that it was a valid reason for his earlier breakup with Ginny; Harry had the feeling Ron had, until then, never quite forgiven him for that.

There were a few seriously uncomfortable days after the Prophet had spotted him out with former Hufflepuff Chaser Liam Summerby, during which Harry's apparent change in sexuality had turned the gossip column into front-page news, but eventually the furor died back down. The worst he'd had to endure had been the brief spate of Howlers sent in from indignant elders and devastated teenage witches, alike. There had also been a sudden uptick in adoring letters from unknown wizards, clearly keen on snagging the Man Who Killed You-Know-Who for themselves; Ron had nearly pissed himself laughing at the ridiculousness of the fawning notes. Harry, for one, had been glad when the novelty of his romantic preferences went back to being yesterday's news; people were still irritatingly interested in his private life, but no longer making a big deal over the fact that his companions were men.

It had been awhile since he'd been out with anyone, however; his hectic schedule for Auror training left him little time for pub-crawling or any other form of socializing, and thus little time to meet anyone new. He hadn't counted on finding Malfoy, of all people, catching his attention, but, to his annoyance, the attraction did not go away. Following that evening's conversation, he had tried hard to be nicer to his flatmate and, he had to admit, their burgeoning friendship was a pleasant change from their years of antagonisation. They did not always agree - Harry would have been shocked if they did - but they had both changed over the years, and had more to talk about than Harry might previously have thought.

However, spending more time with Malfoy -now that Harry was no longer hiding in his bedroom or in front of the television every night - was also proving to be incredibly frustrating. They ate breakfast and tea together most days, played wizard chess, discussed their respective training programs as much as they were permitted, deciphered Professor Snape's textbook notes and cheered for opposing Quidditch teams on Wizard's Wireless. Harry found himself taking things in hand, so to speak, more often than he ever had as a hormonal teenager at Hogwarts, in a vain attempt to cope with his feelings. It wasn't just that Malfoy had become a striking man - not exactly handsome, yet striking nonetheless, with his white-blond hair, grey irises, angular features and lithe Seeker's build - it was that he was also both intelligent and interesting, now that he was no longer dispensing nasty epithets with every sentence, nor lauding his father with every breath.

He had even surprised Harry with dinner one evening. It was spaghetti - not terribly surprising, given how easy pasta was to cook - but the heavenly aroma told Harry it was far more than that as he hung up his cloak and came into the kitchen.

"Wow, that smells good," he said.

"Thanks," Draco replied, pushing his hair out of his face with his forearm. "I just hope it tastes all right, too."

Harry peered into the bubbling pot. "What is it?"

"Bolognese sauce. Never tried making it before, myself, but my great-grandmother was Italian and I remember my grandmother making it sometimes."

"Well, colour me impressed," Harry said. "I didn't know you knew how to cook."

"I don't." Draco made a face. "We had house-elves, remember? But I thought - if you've been able to figure it out, then maybe I could, too."

"Don't give too much credit to my culinary skills," Harry said, tasting a strand of spaghetti to see if it was done. "I only learned to cook out of necessity. My aunt and uncle didn't need a house-elf to do most of the cooking and cleaning - they had me for that." He levitated the pot to the colander in the sink, tipping it to drain the pasta.

"Did your cousin have to help out, too?"

Harry snorted as he dumped the now-drained spaghetti into a large serving bowl. "Their little angel? Hardly. The most work Dudley did was to wipe his three chins after eating."

Draco tasted the sauce and, declaring it finished, ladled some over the pasta. "I knew you lived with your Muggle aunt and uncle," he said as they carried the food and drinks to the table. "But not that they treated you like dirt. I'd have thought they'd be happy to have someone famous in their family." He handed Harry his customary wineglass, their fingers brushing as the vessel changed hands. Harry wished Draco would stop doing that - it wasn't helping him keep a lid on his feelings in the slightest, and it seemed to be happening more and more of late. Probably the result of all the time they spent together, handing chess pieces and drinks and books back and forth, but still - Draco seemed unable to pass things between them without inadvertently touching him somehow.

He took a sip of his drink to steady his nerves. "Not my aunt and uncle," he said a moment later. "They were sort of like the Muggle equivalent of those who insist on pureblood lineage, like--" Harry stopped.

"Like my family," Draco finished for him, a note of bitterness in his voice. "I won't say that there isn't still something to be said for being pureblood," he added, "but I've definitely learned that being a fanatical zealot makes people do horrible things." He shuddered.

Harry guessed Draco was probably remembering how afraid he'd been of Voldemort's power and threats and decided now wasn't the time to point out that Muggle-born Hermione could magically kick Draco's arse. "Yeah, well, anyway, my aunt and uncle couldn't even stand the mention of magic, he said, sticking to the original topic. "Which meant they couldn't stand me. I actually had no idea magic even existed until Hagrid brought me my letter - they thought that if I didn't know about being a wizard, then I couldn't become one." Harry stopped talking long enough to take a bite of Draco's creation. "Hey, this is good!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, good," Draco said, looking obviously relieved. "I'd never tried anything this complicated before."

"You're obviously good at Potions, and cooking is sort of like that - you have a list of ingredients and you just follow the directions until you get to the end."

"Hmm, good point," Draco said, taking a bite, himself. "Maybe I'll have to start being more adventurous in the kitchen."

"If this is any indication, then definitely," Harry said. "You can cook for me anytime."

Draco flushed at the praise, his normally pale features stained pink. "Thanks," he murmured. "I might just do that." His face turned pinker as he looked at Harry.

Harry caught his breath at the intensity he saw in those grey eyes, looking almost silver in the glint from the sunset outside. "I-" He couldn't remember what he'd been going to say. Wrenching his gaze away, he focused instead on his food until he felt more in control of himself again. When he next looked up, Draco seemed to have conquered his blush; he was sipping his nettle wine and looking his usual pale self.

"Well, anyway," Harry said, trying to pick up the thread of their conversation, "that's why I first learned to cook. I was making my cousin's morning bacon by the time I was eight or nine."

"Not at all the childhood I'd imagined," Draco admitted. "You obviously were Muggle-raised, the way you didn't seem to know much about our world in the beginning and, besides, I think everyone knew you were being raised by your Muggle relatives. But at the time, I'd imagined you'd been cosseted for, you know, what had happened when you were little, and that you'd learned to use your fame to get away with everything."

"Nope," Harry said, shaking his head. "I didn't get away with anything, ever - and that was just as an ordinary kid. Didn't know I was famous at all until Hagrid told me. It was definitely surreal, especially as I was apparently famous for something I had done by accident, and had no memory of."

Draco nodded. "I think that's why I resented you. I wanted my father's attention, but no matter what I did, it never seemed quite good enough. Whereas you got his attention - as well as everyone else's - for something you did as a mere baby."

Harry was startled. "I thought your father did anything and everything for you!"

"He'd buy me things," Draco said. "But more because he wanted to show off than because he felt I necessarily deserved it."

"Like the team brooms?"

"Like the team brooms," Draco said. "I know he loved - I mean, loves - me, but he definitely felt I should be the best at everything because I was pureblood."

"And what do you think?"

Draco bit his lip. "It's hard to let go of the ideas I was raised on. I don't really like knowing that so few wizards are pureblood nowadays - it just seems like something wizards should be, I guess. But ... I also know that if the Dark Lord had had his way, there'd be only a handful of us left."

"You do know that if Voldemort had had his way - and been honest - he'd have had to kill himself, too, right?"

"Would you believe I didn't know he was a mudblood until after he died?"

Harry scowled. "Don't say that word. And, yeah, I guess he wouldn't have wanted to spread that information around."

Draco made a face of his own. "I'm not going to apologize for using that term on the Dark Lord. If anyone had black, muddy blood, it was him."

"Not all half-bloods or Muggle-born are like him, you know."

"I know," Draco sighed. "Like I said, it's hard to change overnight, but I saw what pureblood fanatics could do, and it wasn't good. I don't want to be like them," he said, a trace of defiance in his voice.

"I don't think you will be," said Harry softly. He was liking this Draco more and more, beyond his physical attraction. "You, at least, are stopping to think."

Their meal finished, the two men took the dishes back into the kitchen and then headed for the sofa, drinks in hand. Draco's thighs pressed against Harry's as they sat and he leapt sideways as if burned.

"Sorry - I guess we were both aiming for the same spot," he said. The flush in his cheeks was back.

Harry could tell he was going to need a long - or possibly an extremely short and urgent - wank when he finally got to his room tonight. "No worries," he said, trying to sound casual. "So, what do you want to do tonight?"

Draco had placed a book in his lap the moment he'd settled himself on the sofa, but seemed totally uninterested in reading it. "Um," he said, sounding distracted. "How about some chess?"

"Sure." Harry got up to retrieve the board, inwardly sighing at the thought of all the accidental touches which were certain to occur as they set up the pieces. Definitely going to need that wank later.

And so their days and evenings went, with food and chess, conversation and discovering more and more about each other's interests, opinions and pasts. After several months, Harry became so used to Draco's presence, he could hardly remember what it had been like to live alone.

And then, without warning, it all came to an end.

"Here," Malfoy said simply, handing Harry the piece of parchment his eagle-owl, Paracelus, had just delivered.

Mr D. Malfoy -

The special Auror team which had been evaluating your home and possessions has completed their work. As it appears your family has been fully cooperative in revealing previously unknown items hidden at the Manor, and no further offensive jinxes or hexes have been determined, you and your parents are now free to return home and your assets have been released for your use. The Auror team assigned to your case will be consulting with you as to the best safety precautions and spells to use for your continued protection, both at home and should you decide to venture out. However, I strongly advise you to take those precautions seriously. Your parents have been similarly notified.

I know this has been a trying time for everyone involved, and I thank you for your patience.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Harry looked up from the letter. "Well," he said, feeling awkward. "I guess congratulations are in order."

Malfoy gave a small nod. "Thanks." He paused a moment before adding, "It'll be good to see Mother and Father again."

"I imagine so." Harry was having trouble talking, for the knot suddenly constricting his throat. Malfoy had been with him for so many months, he'd almost forgotten it was supposed to be temporary.

"Well, you get your flat back, at least," Malfoy said, as Harry handed him back the letter. "I suppose I should get started packing and get out of your hair." He turned to go.

Harry didn't think, he just reacted, his hand shooting out of its own volition. "No, wait."

Malfoy paused, turning at the feel of Harry's hand on his wrist. "Yes?"

"I ... don't go," Harry said, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he stumbled to think of something plausible to say.

"There's no need to go all emotional on my account, Potter," Malfoy said. "You'll finally have your bachelor pad to yourself again, remember?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not that anymore, it's just...." He trailed off helplessly.

Malfoy took a step closer. "It's just what?" he asked, softly.

He ducked his head, feeling his face grow warm in embarrassment. "Nothing," he murmured, just wanting to get away from this situation he had unintentionally created.

Malfoy's fingers were suddenly gripping his shoulder, their warmth bleeding through Harry's thin t-shirt. "Potter, if you don't spit it out, I know some interesting potions I could try on you."

Harry raised his head, smiling weakly. "You've also taught me the antidotes, remember?" he said, feeling his breath catch at the way those silver-grey eyes were looking at him so intently, at the other man's nearness.

"Not all of them have antidotes. So, out with it."

He's leaving anyway, thought Harry, wildly, so what does it matter? And before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped forward and kissed Malfoy full on the mouth.

The moment their lips met, Malfoy let go of him in surprise but, to Harry's amazement, he did not push Harry away. In fact, after the initial shock, Malfoy seemed to be kissing him back - tentatively at first, then with significantly more warmth. His hands returned to Harry's shoulders and Harry, emboldened by this reaction, slid one hand through Malfoy's silky hair to cup the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Meanwhile, one of Malfoy's hands was sliding from Harry's shoulders to skitter up and down the length of his spine, inducing hot shivers. "Oh, God, Malfoy," Harry groaned as that hand pressed into the small of his back, crushing their hips together.

"Draco," the other man replied, the words a little muffled against Harry's lips.

Harry pulled back slightly. "What?"

Malfoy gazed at him steadily, his pupils huge in eyes that seemed a much darker grey than before. "You should call me Draco," he repeated softly.

"Oh," said Harry, who suddenly felt warmth of an entirely different nature expanding his chest. In ten years of their acquaintance, they had never been on a first-name basis, not even after living together for several months. Last names had been a way of keeping emotional distance, so Malfoy's - Draco's - offer meant he wasn't just snogging Harry in a moment of indiscretion. "How long ... have you felt this way?" Harry asked, finding speech difficult with all the emotions stampeding through his brain.

Draco shrugged in an attempt to appear casual, although Harry noted he, too, was panting slightly. "Awhile. I knew you were gay, of course, thanks to the media, but I didn't think you could ever forgive my past enough to want more."

"I did - and I do. I want more like you wouldn't believe," Harry whispered just before he pulled Draco in close and hungrily sought out his mouth again.

No more words were needed as they kissed and kissed and kissed some more, now tenderly, now urgently, until it was no longer enough. Draco began fumbling with the hem of Harry's shirt, yanking it out of his jeans and tugging impatiently upwards until Harry broke their kiss long enough for the shirt to be pulled over his head and unceremoniously tossed to the floor. Harry wasted no less time on the fastening of Draco's robes and the shirt buttons underneath, pushing the oxford cloth off Draco's smooth, pale shoulders and bending to tongue the lines of his collarbones. Draco groaned, a sound that went straight to Harry's groin and made him suck in a shuddering breath, and then another as Draco's hand slid between them to cup Harry directly through his layers of clothing.

"Harry," he murmured into his hair. "If you want me to stop, it has to be now."

Harry could hardly think, much less talk. The idea of calling a halt seemed laughable, given how inflamed his senses already were. "I don't want to stop," he said, his hips pushing into the hot pressure of Draco's hand. "I want you."

It didn't take long for the rest of their clothing to be shed, unbuttoning, unzipping, pushing, sliding, kicking off any garment which came between them, and then they were bare on the carpet, pressing the full length of their lithe and eager bodies together. They didn't talk, they just acted, and when Draco fumbled for his wand to perform a spell, Harry merely nodded in acknowledgement, spreading his knees so that Draco could nestle between them. His fingers were cool and slick inside Harry - first one, then two - and then they were gone, replaced by a hot velvet smoothness easing in as much as it dared. Harry forgot everything else, knowing only the feel of Draco's body as it moved over him, in him, over and over and over and over, their motions increasingly unsteady until Draco cried out and was still. But only for a moment. Even as he disengaged his body from Harry's, Draco's hand curled around him, moving swiftly over that agonizing hardness until Harry, too, came to an explosive release.

"Stay with me."

Draco's voice was laced with sleep. "Hmmmm?"

Harry stroked Draco's hand softly with his thumb. "Don't go back home - stay here, with me."

A pause. "I don't know, Harry."

"What are you worried about?"

"Nothing."

Harry propped himself up on one elbow to look at the blond man beneath him. After their first urgent encounter, they had moved to Harry's bed, where they'd come together a second time with more leisure before dozing off for a few hours.

"Well, it must be something, or you wouldn't hesitate," he said. He cocked his head, considering. "Is it homesickness?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"Well, I mean, I know you've been separated from your family and your house and you probably miss them." Harry was having trouble imagining missing Lucius Malfoy, personally, but he knew it was different for Draco. Of course, James hadn't messed up nearly as much as Lucius had, but still - a father was a father, he supposed. And it wasn't like his godfather had been a saint, either, yet he still missed Sirius terribly.

"It's not just that it's...." Draco's voice trailed off.

"It's what?" Harry demanded.

"It's ... what, we've slept together twice and now we're married?"

"No, you prat! I just ... I thought this meant something to you, and that ... well ... that you'd want to stay." Harry knew full well that sex didn't require a commitment, nor did he normally expect one - but his feelings for Draco were somehow different. He couldn't bear the thought that Draco might be treating this casually.

"It did mean something - and it does."

"So what's the problem? Is my flat too dull compared to your big fancy manor, now that you can have it back?"

"You know what? Screw this." Draco jumped out of bed and fumbled for his clothing.

"You're not leaving now, are you?"

Draco paused in the middle of doing up his fly, his eyes flinty in the dimly lit bedroom. "Why not? Professor McGonagall said I could. I don't have to wait for your permission." The words were flung harder than any Bludger.

"Fine!" Harry grabbed Draco's shirt and threw it at him. "Go, then, and see if I care! I'm sorry you ever came to stay with me."

"Likewise." In moments Draco had finished dressing and was out the bedroom door. Harry heard him snatching his things in the lounge, including Paracelus' cage; he willed himself not to jump out of bed and try to make peace with him. It would only look like he was begging, and he wasn't going to beg anything of Draco Malfoy. Harry had been right to trust his initial instincts - he was a conniving Slytherin and always would be, just taking advantage of Harry to get what he wanted. Well, fine. Let him go, and good riddance.

Harry heard the door slam shut and buried his head in his hands.

"More stew, dear?"

"Yes, thank you, Molly," Harry replied. Ron's parents had insisted he drop the formal titles after he and Ron had left Hogwarts, insisting he was now a proper adult and therefore equal, and since Harry was practically family anyway, "Mr and Mrs Weasley" sounded far too stuffy. It didn't keep Mrs Weasley - Molly - from still wanting to mother him at every opportunity, however.

"Are you getting enough rest, Harry?" Molly asked as he dug into his third helping. "You look so tired."

Harry shrugged, his mouth full of stew. Swallowing, he replied, "The Auror training program is tough - I've heard that exhaustion isn't that uncommon."

Molly frowned. "Still, it's not right that they work you so hard. Young people shouldn't be nodding off mid-afternoon."

Harry felt a surge of embarrassment. It was true that he had fallen asleep on their sofa earlier, and had had to be woken for dinner. He'd been napping every weekend for the last several weeks, it seemed, and barely managed to cobble together some food and eat it before conking out on weeknights. He was certainly hungry enough for proper meals - witness his enthusiasm for Molly's cooking - it was just that he no longer had the energy to make more than a sandwich or spell some leftovers warm. He had started to revert to ordering more takeaway, even though he hated going through his gold so quickly and had actually been grateful when Dudley had stayed the night recently during a business trip; his cousin had learned to cook for himself, and had readily whipped up bangers and mash for the both of them while Harry rested.

He said nothing of this to Molly, however. He simply made a wry face. "Sorry about that."

"No worries," said Ron cheerfully from Harry's other side. "Victoire wanted to scribble silly mustaches on you, but Hermione managed to dissuade her."

"Only after convincing you to stop egging Victoire on!" came Hermione's indignant response.

Ron had the grace to look sheepish. "Well, it would have been funny. And at least ink can be spelled clean, unlike some of the things Fred and George came up with."

Harry listened to their familiar bickering with detached amusement, only rousing when Molly tried to pour him a drink. "No thanks," he said, putting a hand over his goblet. "I'll just have water."

Molly frowned. "But you've always loved pumpkin juice."

"I know but ... I don't know, I haven't been in the mood for it lately. It smells different to me these days, and I just can't stand the stuff right now."

Molly peered into the pitcher. "It's the same variety we've always had," she said, frowning slightly.

"Don't worry about it," Harry said; he tried to give her a reassuring smile, not easy with the juice so near him and turning his stomach. "It's probably just the reverse of how some kids won't eat their vegetables when they're little, but start liking it when they get older."

"You're probably right, dear." Thankfully, she set the juice down by Bill, and returned to her seat. Harry returned to his stew with enthusiasm, glad Molly was no longer interrogating him; his relief was short-lived when he noticed she was eyeing him in an oddly shrewd way over dessert, and he didn't think it was because she was suspicious of the pear crumble.

When the evening - replete with laughter and a game of three-on-three Quidditch in the brisk October air - was finally over, Harry found himself once again cornered by Molly, who clearly thought she was being covert by ostensibly helping Harry fasten his cloak.

"Harry, are you sure you're all right?" she asked, fussing with the silver fastenings and brushing away imaginary lint.

"Of course I am - never better," he replied stoutly, even though he was more than ready for bed again; in fact, he'd nearly backed out of the Quidditch game, only he'd not wanted to admit to Ron he was feeling so worn out. "I wish you'd stop worrying, Molly," he added, putting a reassuring hand on her wrist.

She bit her lip. "Have you at least got someone to help look after you when you're knackered?" she asked.

Harry gave a rueful smile. "Not at the moment. It's just me and Pax."

"No ... no new boyfriends?" she inquired. She, along with every other Prophet subscriber had, of course, learned of his preference for men. Her attitude was remarkably like Ron's - not entirely comfortable with the notion, but sure enough that it was not something he could change, and fond enough of Harry for it not to change her feelings for him as a person. Arthur, on the other hand, treated it as just one more fascinating thing to learn about. He'd actually seemed a little disappointed when Harry patiently explained he was not going to start dressing in drag. As for Harry, he was just thankful they forgave him for breaking things off with Ginny; he'd lost enough genuine- and pseudo-family members as it was.

"Not at the moment," Harry replied, swallowing back his bitterness.

"But you did have someone, didn't you?" she pressed. "I mean," she went on hastily, seeing his incredulous look, "I heard you were with that nice chap from Southampton."

Harry tried to control the pounding of his heart. For a moment it had looked as if Molly had somehow known about his little tryst with Draco, but how could she? Instead, he gave a little shrug. "We called it quits months ago." Was that disappointment or relief he saw on the plump witch's face? Harry frowned a little. "Molly, what's this all about?"

She sighed. "Harry, I may be sticking my nose where it doesn't belong, but ... would you humour your almost-mum and see a healer? Soon?"

"What, just because I'm single?" Harry gave a little laugh. "Much as I know you want to see all your children paired off, singleness is still not considered a terminal illness."

"No, not because of that. It's just that you seem so tired and--" Harry spotted Ron coming through the house, probably to see where his mother had disappeared to. "Well, I won't say any more about it," she finished hurriedly. "Just promise me you'll make an appointment soon, all right?"

It seemed to mean a lot to her, so he acquiesced. "All right." Harry gave her a final hug as Ron approached.

"Are you still here, mate?" he said, giving Harry a clap on the shoulder. "I thought you'd gone ages ago!"

"Your mum was just giving me a bit of advice," Harry replied, giving Ron a knowing look. They both knew there was no such thing as "a bit" when it came to Mrs Weasley's advice. "Thank you again for having me over, Molly," he finished, turning back to her. "I always enjoy it."

"Bring your godson next time, all right?" she called as he strode out to the edge of the property and prepared to Disapparate. "I do miss having a houseful of youngsters!"

Harry stared. "What?" He must've misunderstood the healer's diagnosis, given her Scottish brogue.

Healer McGregor repeated her pronouncement. "You're pregnant, Mr Potter."

That's what he'd heard the first time. "But what ... how... that's impossible!" he sputtered.

"For Muggles, yes. For wizards - although it's rare, it is most definitely not impossible, as you so succinctly have proven. As for 'how'-" she looked at him over the rims of her glasses, "-I do hope that you are familiar with the birds and the billywigs by now?"

"Yes, of course!" Harry replied, indignantly. "But I never heard of it happening to men!"

The healer flipped through the parchment on her chart. "You were raised by Muggles, as I recall." Harry restrained the urge to make a snide response; if there was any witch or wizard who didn't know his full life history, he'd eat his cloak, fastenings and all. "Therefore," she went on, raising her head, "I am assuming you were given the Muggle version of facts. Unless the subject came up at Hogwarts?"

Harry shook his head. If the subject had come up, he'd likely written it off as outrageous joking, the way so many sexual or romantic topics were addressed by teenage boys, and immediately forgotten about it.

"Very well, then, I shall explain." Whereupon she proceeded to do just that, while Harry tried desperately not to die of embarrassment right there in the examining room. Having one's sexual activities described - far too accurately - was mortifying. It was apparently necessary for two men to not only have sex in exactly the right way - Harry felt himself blushing again - but to be compatible in ways that wizarding science was still exploring.

"So ... it's not just the ... not just being intimate that does it?" he asked, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity while trying to come to grips with his new reality. "But that ... the other man and I have to be somehow mystically compatible, only you people haven't quite figured out what, exactly, that means yet?"

Healer McGregor nodded. "Yes, essentially. We do know that the fathers in such cases usually end up staying together long-term, if not permanently; there appears to be something other than the child or children which draws them together, regardless of magical education, pureblood heritage or lack thereof, race, or any of the many other factors which have already been studied."

"'Usually long-term,' you said. So - not always?"

She eyed him rather beadily. "'Usually long-term' as in - either long-term OR permanently. Permanently as in, 'til death did they part'."

Harry felt himself recoiling at the very notion. Given the way they'd split up with such bitterness, he couldn't imagine how he and Draco would end up together long-term, much less permanently. Not unless "until death" meant "until one father murdered the other out of severe dislike". But ... wait. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions. He'd been with 'that nice chap from Southampton', as Molly had put it, shortly before Draco had moved in. He couldn't imagine making a lifelong partnership with Phillip, either, but at least they had parted amicably. Maybe they could just be lifelong friends, and that would count? "How far along am I?" he asked.

Healer McGregor re-consulted her chart. "Not far at all, it seems. Six weeks at most." She set the chart back down. "It's a little harder to determine in men at first, as there's no last menstrual period to use as the starting point. However, once your little lad - or lass - is a bit larger, we'll be able to safely use certain charms to better determine when they'll be making their appearance."

Harry hardly heard her explanation. His entire world had shrunk down to the phrase, "Six weeks at most." Six weeks. He had no trouble at all counting back - that was, without a doubt, the night he and Draco had "done the dirty" as Ron so famously called it.

And that meant that Draco was, without a doubt, the other father.

Harry's first stop was back at the Weasleys' cottage; thankfully the healer had assured him he could safely continue to Apparate until the seventh month, at which point he would probably find it too uncomfortable to manage anyway. It was still mid-afternoon on a Tuesday and the house was quiet, save for the usual spate of chickens and gnomes roaming free in the garden. He knew Ginny - the last remaining child still technically at home - was, in fact, on the road as a second-string Chaser for the Montrose Magpies, as she had told him as much at dinner the other night; this meant he needn't worry whom else he might run into.

"How did you know?" he asked Molly the moment she opened the door; he was too distressed to bother with the usual niceties.

For a moment Molly stared at him in confusion; then she gave a little gasp, her expression softening. "Oh, Harry - it's true? You're ... you're with child?" This last bit was spoken in a whisper.

He nodded, struggling against the knot which had suddenly constricted his throat. "Molly, I don't know what to do," he choked out. "I didn't even know it was possible and now I..." He couldn't go on.

Tears were something Molly knew how to handle. She threw an arm around him and steered him firmly into the kitchen, where she sat him down, flicked a clean handkerchief out of nowhere with her wand, and immediately went about getting him some tea.

"Have you been feeling ill?" she asked as he slumped over the battered kitchen table. "I have some lovely ginger tea, or perhaps peppermint?"

Harry, who'd had his head buried in his arms, turned a little to look at her. "No, that's one thing I haven't experienced. Unless I get too close to pumpkin juice," he added wryly.

She nodded briskly. "Well, that's something." After a moment of poring over her tea cabinet, she said, "I think I'll go with peppermint anyway - herbal teas are better for the baby. Even Fleur agreed." There was a certain smugness in her voice. "There," she said a few minutes later, having levitated the steaming pot over to the table in front of him. "Now, dear - the first thing you should do is tell your ... boyfriend ... what happened so you don't have to cope with everything alone. There's always so much to do to get ready. Does he know yet? Your lad from Southampton?"

Harry shook his head again. "It's not him," he said, feeling as miserable as he could ever remember. Even facing the Triwizard Tournament as an undersized, underaged wizard had felt less daunting.

Molly gave a little sigh. "I did wonder about that, since the symptoms you displayed seemed more recent."

He nodded. "They said six weeks at most."

"You didn't ... it's not someone you just picked up in a pub, is it?"

Harry looked up in surprise. "Of course not!"

"Sorry, sorry," she said, gesturing with both hands. "I'm still getting used to the idea that you travel in different circles than the rest of my children and I'm afraid I sometimes have only my own mother's assumptions to rely on. What you're experiencing happened to my brother Gideon's best mate; I guess she never really warmed to him once she knew he was gay, and she discouraged my being too friendly as well." She curled her hands around her own cup of tea and took a breath. "Just know I'm trying. So ... are you still together with the young man?"

"No," he sighed. "And there's little chance of that ever changing, which means-" he gestured towards his still-flat belly, "-I'm going this alone." Harry knew - because Healer McGregor had told him so - that he could take certain potions to terminate the pregnancy, but Harry had recoiled at the very thought. As distressed as he felt, he could not bring himself to end the life within him; it would be too much like repeating Voldemort's crimes. It was not the baby's fault, after all, for existing. He would manage - somehow.

"Oh, my dear," Molly said, rising out of her chair to give him a fierce hug. "You'll never be alone as long as Arthur and I are still alive. And I'm sure Ron and Hermione will want to help you out, as they always have. Are you sure things can't be patched up for the sake of the child?"

"I'm sure."

"Is it someone we know?"

"I'd ... rather not say." That was putting it mildly.

"Hmmm." Molly pursed her lips. Finally she said, "Well, you should tell him anyway. It's the only proper thing to do." And when Harry would have objected, she held up her hand to forestall him. "Imagine how you'd feel to learn you had a blood relative that no one had told you about? Especially if it was a child?"

That shut him up quick. "All right," he said slowly. "But in the meantime, I'm going to ask that you not mention my ... situation ... to anyone. I'll do it, but when I'm ready."

She folded her warm hands around his. "If that's what you want, Harry. But don't hesitate to send me an owl if you need any advice." Her smile was kind. "I've been through this once or twice, myself, you know."

Draco -

Need to talk with you. No demands or expectations, I promise. Would you come over Saturday for dinner? Around 7pm?

--Harry

Yes.

- D

Harry was heartened. Okay, so the return message was rather terse, but at least he'd answered, and at least the answer had been 'yes'. He wasn't too keen on showing up uninvited to Malfoy Manor and trying to talk his way in past Draco's parents.

He'd had a challenging few days after his appointment at St Mungo's, finding himself wholly distracted at training to the point where he was being berated by his instructors. All his thoughts seemed to have turned inward, monitoring every shift and sensation his body made, still trying to fathom that there was a small life taking root inside him. He knew sooner or later he'd have to tell the Aurors, particularly as they were starting to take trainees out on missions, and they might not deem him suitable for such work. Telling Draco came first, however, so he simply hung on until the end of the week came.

Prompt as ever, Draco showed up at the appointed time, every white-blond hair neatly in place. Harry was not prepared for how much it would hurt to see him again, and silently berated himself for the feelings he still harbored.

"Come on in," he said, gesturing with his arm and trying to quiet his pounding heart.

"Thanks." Draco crossed into the entryway, removed his cloak and hung it on one of the nearby hooks in one fluid and well-practiced gesture. He looked around, jamming his hands into his pockets. "So. Place looks the same."

Harry nodded, unsure what to do with his own hands. "Yes, well, you know where everything is, so make yourself comfortable. Dinner's almost done." He disappeared into the kitchen, where at least he knew where to look and where to put his hands. Even after such a brief union, he itched to give Draco a more physical greeting, but knew it was impossible. Instead, he focused on reading the final instructions for the spell to make the proper finishing sauce for the chicken he'd roasted. When everything was ready, he plated the food and, putting a hand on his abdomen, whispered, "Okay. I can do this." He wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure the baby or himself.

"Need any help in here?"

Harry jumped; he hadn't heard Draco enter the kitchen. He snatched his hand away from his belly and whirled around. "Nope," he said, plastering a smile on his face. "I was just about to bring the food out."

"Well, here, at least let me take care of the food while you bring the drinks." Draco deftly levitated the two plates with his wand and directed them toward the table in the other room.

Moments later, Harry joined him, a goblet of the nettle wine he knew Draco liked in one hand, and water for himself in the other.

"Cheers," Draco said, taking his goblet and having a sip.

"You're welcome," Harry replied. They both picked up their forks, but Harry found he wasn't hungry. His insides were too knotted with what he had to say. How did one announce such a thing, anyway? He'd been pondering it for days and still didn't know what he was going to do.

He was still worrying when Draco took the matter out of his hands. "Potter," he said, putting down his fork and knife with a click, "you look like you swallowed a stewed slug. You said you 'needed' to talk, so out with it."

"I - you're right," Harry stammered, feeling an emotional kick at the fact that Draco had reverted to calling him by his last name. He set down his own fork - he'd only been pushing the food around, anyway - and took a deep breath. "I ... I want you to know that what I have to say is just because I think it's fair for you to know. I know you didn't want us to ... stay together, and that's okay. I just wanted you to know."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Know what?"

Harry looked down at his plate. "I'm ... pregnant," he murmured.

"You're what?"

Digging for courage, he lifted his head to look Draco straight in the eye. "I'm pregnant," he repeated.

Draco fell limply back in his chair. "Oh."

Harry held out his hand to forestall anything Draco might say. "You don't have to do anything if you don't want to. Really. I just thought you should know."

There was silence for what felt like an eternity as Harry watched Draco chew over his announcement. Finally he straightened up. "How long have you known?"

"Just a few days."

"And you're sure it's mine?"

Harry met Draco's grey eyes once more. "I'm sure," he said, willing Draco to believe him.

Draco waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not going to demand a paternity test or anything, Potter -you're too noble to lie about something like this anyway. I assume your certainty is based on the gestational age?"

Harry nodded. "Six weeks at most, they said, and I haven't been with anyone since you."

Draco blinked. "You haven't?"

I didn't want anyone else. "No."

"Oh," Draco said again, seemingly nonplussed by this revelation.

"I guess you knew it could happen?" Harry said, interrupting Draco's reverie. "You didn't seem nearly as shocked as I felt when they told me."

It was Draco's turn to shake his head. "I don't think it's happened to anyone in our family - or not that anyone was willing to talk about - but I'd heard it mentioned once or twice when I was a kid, and I've learned a lot more during my medical training. Potions to aid or terminate the pregnancy, that sort of thing; obviously, men's bodies are not really geared for babies, and complications can develop."

"Oh, great - just what I needed to hear."

"I take it you don't want to terminate?"

"Of course not!" Harry was indignant. "Do you?"

Draco thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I don't," he admitted.

Harry was relieved to hear that; he hadn't thought about what might happen if Draco had insisted on termination.

Draco gave him a reassuring smile. "If you do have any complications, I can make you feel better. Or at least I know people who can do that, if I haven't mastered the proper potions yet."

Harry stared. "So, you're saying ... you want to be involved?"

It was Draco's turn to look indignant. "Of course, I want to be involved, idiot! That's my child you've got in there!"

"Well, after the ... the way things ended, I kind of assumed you wouldn't want to be part of this."

"Well, I do." Draco crossed his arms.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, then shut it. After a moment, he tried again. "Thank you," he said quietly. "That means a lot." He picked up his fork and poked his now-cold food around some more. "So," he went on, staring studiously at his plate, "what happens now?"

"I don't know." Draco's response was so quiet, Harry almost missed the words.

He looked up in surprise. Draco's arms were still wrapped tightly across his chest, but now it looked more as if he were hugging himself for comfort rather than demonstrating defiance.

"You could ... come to my appointments when they do check-ups and things," Harry offered.

Draco nodded, his gaze fixed on the table. "Yeah. I'll do that."

"And be there when the baby is born." Harry didn't want to think about that too closely, yet. The idea of being sliced open, even under controlled magical circumstances, reminded him too much of the day he'd accidentally slashed open the man currently in front of him.

But Draco merely answered, "Of course." There was a pause, then he turned to face Harry. "Are you scared, Potter?" he asked, low.

Harry took a breath, then nodded. "Very," he whispered.

"Me, too." He stretched out a hand over the table, and Harry responded in kind, their fingers weaving together.

"I'm sorry I pushed for too much, too soon," he said.

Draco gave a little snort. "Oh, sure, like getting pregnant doesn't count as 'too much'."

"I didn't do that on purpose - I didn't even know it was possible!" Harry couldn't help but protest.

Draco squeezed his hand. "I know. And I'm sorry I flipped out on you that day. What I felt was just so... well, I guess I panicked." He suddenly sat straighter, his face taking on an expression of mock indignation. "In my defense, Slytherins aren't known for their bravery. We leave that crap to you Gryffindors."

Harry made a face. "I have to tell you, I'm feeling pretty well terrified at the moment. But ..." he hesitated, not wanting to frighten Draco off again.

"But?"

Harry decided to throw caution to the wind; after all, Draco had kind of asked for it. "Well, it's just that knowing you want to be part of things makes me feel braver. Not so alone." He shrugged, feeling a little sheepish at this admission.

Draco said nothing for a moment, then, quickly, he rose and, with the hand still clasping Harry's, pulled them both to their feet. In seconds he was kissing Harry as if the past month of silence had never happened. It took Harry a moment to react, and then he was melting into the kiss as if he had been waiting for it all his life. Maybe he had. All his bitterness fell away, the kiss an offer of redemption, an acceptance and forgiveness. Their lips parted, tongues reaching eagerly for each other, plundering as if trying to discover every hidden secret all at once. Jolts of desire shuddered through him, leaving him hungry for even greater pleasures. He could feel Draco's hard length pressed snugly against his own and was just reaching around to cup his arse and bring them even closer together when he felt Draco pulling back a little; a small moan of frustration escaped his lips.

"Harry," Draco whispered, struggling to steady his breathing.

"Mmm?"

"May I stay?"

Harry was sliding his hand around to tangle in Draco's silky hair, trying to pull him close again. "Absolutely."

Draco resisted Harry's efforts, though Harry could see his pulse continuing to pound at the base of his jaw. "I mean...." He swallowed. "May I stay?"

"Oh." Suddenly serious, Harry looked at Draco carefully. "You're not just saying that, are you? To be together for the sake of the child, or any rubbish like that?"

"I do want to be together for the baby." He took Harry's hand again. "But I wanted to be back with you even before I knew about that."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"I just ... didn't know how to go about it. I'm rubbish at groveling."

Harry leaned in to give Draco another kiss. "'s'all right," he murmured against Draco's mouth. "I'm not any good at it either."

"Harry-" Draco hesitated.

"Hmmm?"

"Did they tell you ... what goes along with male pregnancy?"

This time it was Harry's turn to pull back a little. "If you mean the long-term relationship thing, yeah, they did."

Draco bit his lower lip, already reddened and swollen from kissing. "You know what that means for us, then."

"It means we'll probably stay together until we get thoroughly hacked off and hex each other into oblivion."

Draco burst out laughing. "Given our history, you're probably right."

"That's what I thought at first, too," Harry said. "But now I think that ... whatever made this happen," he added, gesturing down to his stomach, "means that now that you're here again, we have a much greater chance than the average couple of making it. The healer never indicated that people stayed together unhappily. It sounded to me as though they liked the way things turned out."

The other man looked thoughtful. "Maybe so."

"I just didn't think it would ever happen with us."

"And now?"

Harry tugged Draco close again. "Now I want you to stay."

This time their kisses were more gentle, less urgent, as if they now realized they had all the time in the world to explore. Draco's warm fingers traced the contours of Harry's back, over and over, until they slid around to the front hem of Harry's jumper. "May I?" he whispered.

Harry simply nodded his permission, his eyes held to Draco's dark grey ones.

Gently, Draco pushed up the knitted material, exposing the smooth plane of Harry's abdomen with its thin line of dark hair disappearing into the shadows of his jeans. His palm lightly pressed against the promise of life as if making a solemn vow. Then he knelt down and softly placed a kiss just below Harry's navel.

Harry gasped at the intimate touch, the slight scratch of Draco's stubble against his sensitive skin. "I know it's so wrong," he muttered between clenched teeth, his hands curling to fists, "but that was hot as hell."

"No," said Draco, as he deftly undid the fly on Harry's jeans. "This is."

Telling everyone who deserved to know directly (and not through the Prophet) turned out to be one of the most difficult things Harry had ever done - and that was saying something. Socially, the stakes were much higher; not only did he need people to accept him for who he was, now they needed to accept someone else. And while Harry had appreciated it very much when Ron and Hermione - or anyone else close to him - had accepted his previous boyfriends, now it mattered a whole lot more. This felt almost like declaring an intent to marry, although he and Draco had never discussed the matter as such. Still, the fact remained that they knew the odds, knew what went along with Harry's pregnancy; despite their bitter past, they had somehow achieved a compatibility no one - least of all them - fully understood. Having crossed the threshold into "togetherness," together they would remain. Yet neither of them were under any illusions as to how Draco would likely be received by Harry's friends - or by much of society at large, for that matter. This had been the reason for his staying at Harry's in the first place, after all. As for Draco's friends and family, they were likely to be equally adverse to the idea that he was now dating Harry Potter. To say they were facing an uphill battle in finding acceptance together would be an understatement.

Then, too, was the news of the coming baby, which only added weight to the matter of acceptance, and couldn't be avoided more than another two months or so, at most. Harry felt he might as well get all the shocks over at once; if anyone knew of the connection between male pregnancy and relationships, it might make their relationship easier to accept. On the other hand, announcing pregnancy was, Harry now realized, a blatant and very public admission that one has been shagging. He might be an adult, and people might assume he was engaging in such activities anyway, but it was rather something else to come out and announce it for all the world to hear. And given that he was a man, he worried how the news would be received at all.

The first hurdle was the Malfoys. Draco chose to tell his parents privately, leaving Harry guiltily relieved to stay out of it. Draco returned to Harry's flat to say that his father frowned and his mother was quiet when he told them that he was going to be a father and that Harry Potter was the baby's carrier. Lucius had eventually walked out but Narcissa had offered her quiet support, and was sure that Lucius would come around eventually. Harry remembered how grateful Mrs Malfoy had been when he'd whispered that Draco was still alive during the Battle of Hogwarts, and that she, in turn, had saved his life; apparently she had not forgotten, either.

Next came Ron and Hermione. Ron's mouth fell open when Harry said he was pregnant but Hermione jumped up and squealed in excitement. She clearly knew everything there was to know about male pregnancy, because she didn't hesitate to use the word "husband" when asking who the other father was, and how far along was he and did they know the gender and.... Ron had to forcibly push down on her shoulders to get her to sit and relax so that Harry could answer her questions.

Harry chose to address the easier questions, first.

"Not too far gone, yet - less than two months. We won't know if it's a boy or a girl for a little while longer."

Hermione nodded. "That's right - I'd forgotten that the determination spells can't be done on the foetus until it's about four months old."

"Right. As for the father ... the other father, I mean...." Harry cleared his throat, stalling. "It's ... someone training to make healing potions," he began, trying to paint a more positive image. "And we've actually been living together for awhile already, and--"

Ron snorted. "How many blokes are you cramming into your little flat, anyway, Harry? With Draco Malfoy hiding out in your lounge, there couldn't possibly have been room for someone else to be living there, too."

Hermione nudged him. "Malfoy's not living there anymore, Ron, remember?"

"Oh, right. Sorry - guess you've had room in there after all." Ron winked at Harry.

"But-" Hermione looked at Harry, her brow furrowed in confusion. "He hasn't been gone that long, has he? I thought he was allowed to leave only about a month or two ago, which means...." She suddenly gave a little gasp and promptly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"What?" asked Ron, looking from her to Harry, bewildered.

Hermione lowered her hand slightly. "Harry, you didn't!" she whispered.

Harry gave a small nod, feeling somehow ashamed, and then ashamed that he felt ashamed.

"Harry did what?" demanded Ron. "What are you two going on about?"

"Ron," Harry said, steeling himself, "Draco Malfoy is the other father."

"WHAT?" This time it was Ron who leapt to his feet. "That dirty bastard. How could he-"

"Hold on," Harry said, putting out a hand. "I was there, too, remember? This was ... this was something we both chose to do. Together."

Ron just stared at him a moment, his face turning red. "Harry, don't you remember all the terrible things that little ferret did to us over the years? The things he said? The dirty tricks he played?" His nose wrinkled in disgust. "How could you even think of taking him up the--"

"Ron!" Hermione glared at her boyfriend.

Ron glared back. "Don't tell me you've suddenly become a fan of Malfoy as well!"

"Of course not," she huffed. "I was merely pointing out that you needn't be so crass." She turned to Harry. "But I do admit to being awfully curious to know how you went from hating his guts to forging the bond which is necessary for male pregnancy to occur."

"I'm not entirely clear, myself," Harry said, wishing he knew the right words to explain. "I haven't forgotten all the awful things, really. But ... that was then and this is now. I'm different - he's different. The war changed everyone."

Ron's large hands were balled into fists at his side. "It didn't change me that much. I still remember what a shithead he is."

"You didn't live with him for several months," Harry replied, quietly. "Ron, I know I complained about him a lot at first but, the truth is, he wasn't really any trouble, and the longer he stayed, the better we got to know each other and...." He spread his arms, helplessly. "One thing lead to another and ... well, you know," he finished, his own face feeling flushed.

His attempt at explanation was met by silence; Ron, stony-faced, Hermione apparently deep in thought.

"Are you happy, Harry?" Hermione finally asked.

Harry nodded. "Except for the big shock I got at finding out I was pregnant - yes. And now..." His left hand slid across to cover his belly protectively. "Now I'm happy about this, too. Scared, but happy."

"Can we meet him?"

"Hermione, we've met him plenty of times!" Ron protested. "Too many!"

She shook her head. "I want to meet this 'new' Malfoy, especially if he's going to be part of Harry's life from now on." She looked at Ron in mute supplication.

"It would probably happen sooner or later," Harry said. "I have a feeling I'd be rubbish at trying to keep you guys separated for the rest of our lives. So, yeah," he concluded. "Why don't you come over for lunch or something?"

Ron sighed. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "But only for you, Harry. And I'm warning you - father of your baby or not, I'm hexing him into next week if he says so much as ONE word against my family - or Hermione's."

"Fair enough," Harry agreed, saying a silent prayer that they would all get through the occasion unscathed.

Back at the flat - now their flat - Draco made similar conditions.

"All right, but if one of them ends up threatening me, I'm leaving."

"They're not going to threaten you. Just ... just don't call Hermione a "mudblood" or make snide remarks about Ron's family. You can manage that, can't you?"

Draco sighed. "I'll try, but it's not always that easy."

"You're different around me, now, aren't you?" Harry pointed out, reasonably. "You've obviously changed a lot of your ideals, so why is this different?"

"Like I said before, I've done a lot of thinking in the past couple of years, about what my parents' side stood for, and how that really seemed to work out for everyone. I've changed because I don't want to be ruled by fear anymore - but it doesn't mean I can instantly love everyone. I'm different with you because I know you now, not just as someone to be jealous of, or find on the opposite side of a war."

"You were jealous of me?"

"You got a lot of attention, in case that escaped your notice, and you always seemed to be getting away with stuff."

"You can have the attention. In fact, you will, as soon as the Prophet finds out you're with me and we're having a baby. It's not a picnic, trust me."

"I believe it now, but I didn't understand it when I was thirteen. I'm not sure my father ever understood it, even now - although I suppose he's wishing he had less negative publicity at the moment. Anyway, the point is - you stood up for me and my parents when hardly anyone else would, and that made me reconsider who you were as a person. Living here - well, it was a natural way to get to know you better, until I realized I was in love with you."

"You are?" It was the first time Draco had put it in words.

Draco fidgeted with the sleeve of his robes a little. "Yes, I am."

Harry reached out a hand to still the restless fingers. "I love you, too," he said. "And having you by my side has become the most important thing. But," he continued, "Ron and Hermione are still my friends, and it will kill me if I have to choose between you. So - try to get along? Once you all get to know each other, maybe you might become friends as we did."

Draco's mouth curled into his trademark smirk, although laughter in his eyes kept his expression from looking cruel. "We became a great deal more than friends," he said, looking significantly at Harry's midsection. "I don't think you want us to become that good of friends."

And Harry smiled, too.

Thankfully, everyone managed to behave themselves at that first lunch. Harry could tell Ron, Hermione and Draco were being deliberately polite, complete with forced smiles, but it heartened him that they were trying. Soon afterwards Ron and Hermione invited the two men to join them for tea, and before long, the get-togethers became more frequent and less stiff. Harry knew they would never be best friends, but that was all right. As long as nobody cursed each other or made him choose sides, he could live with it.

The Weasleys, too, made an effort, even after Harry confessed to Molly that he had, in fact, reunited with the baby's father and who it was. The stiffness lasted longer on their part, with good reason, but Molly's natural mothering instinct soon saw that Harry was happy and safe, and that Draco was to be despised no more than the supposedly-dangerous werewolf she had once befriended.

Harry had been extremely nervous to return to Malfoy Manor, given not only the present circumstances but the circumstances under which he'd been there the last time. Narcissa Malfoy, however, had greeted him kindly, and Lucius Malfoy had been clearly overjoyed to see his son, enough that he managed to be, if not exactly warm with Harry, then neither calculating and cold, either. It was a start.

The moment Harry's jeans abruptly ceased to close properly ("You've 'popped'," Draco said as he rested his hand on the small mound), he knew the time had come to tell the Aurors. His work robes would hide his condition a while longer, but not forever. He had also begun to experience some of the complications Draco had forewarned him about, including severe stomach pains when he ate and shortness of breath if he tried to do too much.

"Your body's not built to have something - or someone - else taking your nutrients and oxygen," Draco said, when the symptoms first appeared. He went out and bought a pile of potions ingredients - some of which Harry had never even heard of - and proceeded to mix up large vats of blue and white and orange-yellow swirled potions under the supervision of his instructors, bringing bottles of the stuff home for Harry to drink. The potions designed to ease his breathing tasted horrid - and Harry hadn't thought there was anything worse than Polyjuice potion - but they did the job. The potions to ease his stomach thankfully tasted much better, but often made him sleepy. Then again, everything seemed to make him sleepy these days, so perhaps the potion wasn't to blame.

However, what with the possibility of him writhing on the floor in pain, gasping for air or falling asleep - not to mention getting more cumbersome - Harry felt he had to be honest with the people who were trying to train him to be silent, agile and focused in his pursuit of dark wizards. The new head of the Academy, Jefferson Proudfoot, listened silently to Harry's confession, and then pointed to a framed photo on his desk.

"See that girl on the broomstick? That's my daughter, Helena. Beater for Ravenclaw - made the team in her second year," he said, pride evident in his voice.

Harry watched the brown-haired girl give a Bludger a soundless smack with her club, then fly out of the frame to the right. "She looks very capable, sir," he said, unsure why he was being called attention to her picture.

"Damn right, she is. But she's also mine."

Harry frowned. "Of course she is, sir - you said she's your daughter, right?"

"Yes, but I'm the one who carried her for nine months. I'm the one they cut open so she could come into this world."

Harry felt his eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Exactly," Proudfoot said in reply to Harry's unspoken reaction. "I know what it's like, Potter, to be the odd man out, in more ways than one." He leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk. "I can't guarantee that I'll be able to send you out on missions as you get closer to your time, but my director gave me a chance to prove myself, so I'm going to give one to you. You do the jobs assigned to you, Potter, do them damn well, and I'll make sure you have a job to come back to once your family leave time is up, just as if you hadn't been gone."

Harry swallowed; this was more than he'd hoped for, but he wasn't sure how well he'd be able to fulfill Proudfoot's expectations. "Thank you, sir. I ... I'll do my very best."

"Can't ask more than that, Potter," the director said, leaning back into his chair once more. "Wizards like us have to work a little harder to prove ourselves - I should know - but I also know the baby's health is paramount. You do your part, but let me know if complications become too severe, all right?" His weathered face broke into a smile. "And don't forget to bring in pictures once the baby's born."

Harry smiled back. "Yes, sir."

Looking back, Harry couldn't decide if the remaining five months had passed quickly or slowly. On the one hand, there always seemed to be so much to do and never enough time - or, on his part, energy - to get things done properly; on the other hand, he and Draco were getting increasingly antsy to meet the little person who was growing less little with every passing moment. The day they found out that the expected child was a boy, Harry had to restrain Draco from rushing straight out to buy his son's first broomstick.

"He won't be able to even sit up, much less sit on a broomstick, for months," Harry pointed out; he'd been slowly working his way through the stack of infant and parenting books Hermione had sent him.

"Maybe he'll be gifted," Draco replied. "Look who his fathers are."

Harry snorted. "I know for a fact that I wasn't riding a broom until I was about a year old, and I doubt you were, either."

Draco pouted, but eventually admitted that Harry was right.

Then there was the strain of searching for - and purchasing, and moving to - a small house in Hampstead; Harry's flat might have been cozy with two, but was clearly going to be impossible with three. As Draco wouldn't let him lift anything heavier than a wand, Harry got exceedingly good at performing levitation charms and shrinking charms, as well as the packing charm that had eluded Tonks.

Hermione eagerly offered to throw them a baby shower, but both men put their foot down. "Too girly," Draco said, and Harry, though he thanked Hermione profusely for her offer, privately agreed. He and Draco did allow both Narcissa and Molly to make individual suggestions as to what was considered most necessary or helpful, and although Narcissa's list included things like velveteen cot bedding and one's own house-elf, many other items overlapped with Molly's list. Harry felt like it was rather a lot of things for one small baby, but Pansy, who by this time was married and had a child of her own, assured Draco that such paraphernalia was, indeed, mandatory.

A miniature broom was not on the list, but in the end, Harry decided to surprise Draco with one anyway; Draco expressed his appreciation so thoroughly that dinner went quite forgotten that evening.

True to his word, Proudfoot made sure Harry's training continued as normal until he was laid flat by a fever in the seventh month.

"Your body thinks the baby is attacking it," Draco said gravely as he poured more Temperature Tonic into a goblet.

Harry rested a hand on his swollen belly, feeling the hammer of tiny fists or feet against his ribs. "It certainly feels like he's attacking me sometimes," he said with a wan smile as he accepted the goblet with his other hand.

"This is serious, Harry. Your body is trying to fight back. We don't want it to win."

Harry paused, looking over the rim of the goblet. "What happens if I win?"

Draco curled his fingers around Harry's and looked him in the eye. "We lose him."

Harry drank.

The potion controlled the fever, but his healer felt that excessive activity would throw the baby's precarious existence into further peril. Proudfoot immediately put Harry on desk duty - something he despised but stoically accepted for the health of his son. Harry was getting increasingly uncomfortable, as well, and sitting at a desk all day left him with too much time to focus on the ache in his back, his heartburn, and the pressure of the baby on all his internal organs. The rigorous Auror training kept him active enough that he was more distracted from these discomforts, even if he did have more trouble moving around these days.

Draco did his best to compensate Harry for his miseries, doing the lion's share of cooking and other chores, rubbing his back, providing the necessary potions - Harry was taking so many by now that he often refused less urgent concoctions for things like pain relief, complaining he felt like a cauldron with so many potions being poured into him - and simply holding him.

"Are you sure I don't look like a beached whale?" he asked, staring down at the enormous roundness that used to be a lithe Seeker's physique. "I can't even see my feet anymore."

"You look like someone who's going to have a baby," Draco replied. "And your feet look the same as they always have."

"Fabulous," Harry muttered.

"Why, do you want me to paint your toenails to make them prettier?"

Harry glared at Draco. "Don't even think about it." He sighed, reaching around to cup the underside of his extended belly. "Forget all the other complications - there's another reason men shouldn't get pregnant."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"He's got his head on my bladder, so I've got to run to the loo twenty times a day, and yet if he gets any bigger, I'm soon not going to be able to hold my own dick in order to pee."

Draco did his best to stifle his giggles, and failed entirely. "Well, I'm happy to help where I can," he said, between snorts, "but the only time I want to hold your dick is when we have sex. Sorry, Harry, you're on your own with this one. Perhaps you can use a levitating charm to help you aim?"

"Oh, right - and then have to clean the ceiling because I aimed too high?"

This was too much for Draco, who fell about laughing. Harry tried to look angry, but his partner's laughter was infectious, and he ended up flopping down on the sofa next to Draco, giggling.

Eventually their levity subsided; Draco wiped his eyes on his sleeve, then leaned his head on Harry's shoulder, a hand on his belly.

"It's hard to believe sometimes that there's a real human being in there - something we made," he said.

"You have the next one, then," Harry retorted, though he was smiling. "You'll find it plenty believable when he decides to practice kicking off from the ground - repeatedly - while you're trying to sleep."

"You just want to top next time."

"Maybe." Harry leaned contentedly against Draco's comforting presence and marveled yet again at how far they had come together. "So, are you ready?" he asked.

"Probably not - are you?"

Harry gave a wry chuckle. "According to Molly, no one is ever really ready. They just kind of bumble along the best they can. Story of my life," he added with another laugh.

"You don't seem to have done too badly, though, Mr Boy Who Lived."

"Yeah, well, I had a lot of help along the way." Harry turned his head to kiss the top of Draco's bright hair. "And now I have you."

On a pleasant summer evening in early June, Draco sat in their tiny garden, a glass of iced tea at his side and a book lying open but forgotten in his lap. His 21st birthday was the next day and he was looking forward to visiting his parents; he knew Harry had something special in mind as well, although he had not yet revealed what that was. Draco only hoped Harry would be up to ... well, anything. He had gone to bed early, claiming he felt unwell, and Draco had noted lines of tension in his face as he'd excused himself. Hopefully a night's rest - or as much rest as their active son allowed - would be enough to make Harry feel more like himself again the next day.

Although his 20th birthday had passed shortly after his arrival at Harry's flat, Harry, of course, had still been in full-on prat mode in those days, and so Draco had said nothing. He had brought in a small cake to St Mungo's to share with his fellow trainees, and had received letters of congratulations from his parents - also in hiding - but that was the extent of his "celebration". This year would be the first birthday with Harry truly at his side, but he already couldn't imagine it any other way.

"Draco?"

Draco whirled around in surprise to stare at Harry standing at the door. "I thought you'd gone to bed!"

"I just didn't ... want ... to worry you," Harry said through clenched teeth; sweat was starting to bead at his forehead. "I've been having ... pains all ... afternoon."

"Bloody hell!" Draco swore, leaping to his feet. His heart felt like it might leap out of his chest, as well. "Are you sure?"

Harry smiled weakly. "I'm sure, Draco. It's time."

Harry blinked his eyes, blearily trying to get them to focus without success.

"Here, let me." Someone slid his glasses onto his face, revealing a white hospital room.

Hospital.

Immediately his hand slid down to his belly, and then he remembered: the pain, the miserable trip to St Mungo's, Draco holding his hand while the healer murmured a spell over him and then ... nothing.

"The baby!" Harry tried to push himself more upright, but lingering pain in his abdomen made him fall back on his pillows.

"It's all right, Harry - I've got him." And then Harry saw - he saw the man he loved holding a tiny bundle with a shock of wild dark hair, just like his. "He's fine," Draco assured him. "Ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, one dick...."

Harry forgot his discomfort as he reached out his arms. "I want to hold him."

"You've been holding him for the past nine months already, you know," Draco laughed. "I've been enjoying finally having a turn." But he slid the bundle of blankets over to Harry's arms without further protest.

Harry stared, fascinated. It was the first time he could remember seeing someone who looked like him who was still alive; Aunt Petunia and her horsey features looked nothing at all like Lily. His fingers gently caressed the tiny nose and the silky black hair which had escaped the little knitted cap. Already Harry could see some of the lines of Draco's face in their son, blunted though they were by an infant's roundness and he wondered what color the baby's eyes would eventually be; for now, the newborn blue-gray only emphasized his connection to Draco, despite the inky lashes. "He looks like us," Harry whispered, looking up at Draco as the baby made little snuffling noises.

Draco, who had come to sit on the edge of Harry's bed, laughed. "Good to know the milkman wasn't involved," he said.

"Hardly." Harry made a face, then his expression turned sheepish. "I'm sorry I derailed your birthday plans."

"Are you kidding? This was the best birthday present ever, even if it does mean we'll have to share the cake." Draco smiled, adding, "Think he's ready for his broomstick yet?"

At Harry's glare he held up his hands in mock-defense. "Kidding! Just kidding!"

Their infant son began to cry. "Hey, your dad's joke wasn't that bad," said Harry, shifting the baby's position in hopes that would resettle him. The baby, however, continued to wail. "Draco, what do I do?" Harry was nearly wailing, too, in his panic.

"I think he's hungry," said Draco, reaching out for the bottle which had been sitting on a nearby table. "I fed him once already, while you were still out. It's not too difficult, except ... er ... I had to have a nurse show me how to burp him." He held out one sleeve. "Many thanks to Professor Flitwick for teaching me the Vanishing Charm, because our charming son promptly spit up all over me."

"I packed some flannel cloths in my bag," Harry said as he put the bottle to the baby's rosy lips and his crying ceased abruptly. "Molly said we'd need them."

"Wish I'd remembered that," Draco said ruefully as he fetched one and hung it over Harry's right shoulder.

"So," he continued in a more serious tone, settling in against Harry's pillow and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, "are we still agreed on the name?" They had picked out a name ages ago, but had decided to wait to meet their son before settling on it for sure.

Harry nodded as he watched his son suck contentedly at his bottle. "Yes, I think so."

Draco smiled. "I'll alert the presses."

Harry would have elbowed him, but his arm was currently occupied by several adorable kilos. "Prat."

"Git."

"Berk."

"Tosser."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Professor McGonagall folded up her newspaper, and smiled.

The end

A/N: Carwyn is Welsh for "blessed love".