He's released from Madam Pomfrey's care a week later. Apparently, the "secure, undisclosed location," is once again number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Only, this time, a magic blocker is clamped around his wrist, and the wards are so strong that even entertaining the idea of escape seems futile.

Scorpius is the first to greet him. Though he's always been more tactile than Draco was with his own father, the hug takes him by surprise.

"Dad! Merlin, you have no idea how worried everyone was."

Part of Draco still hadn't believed Scorpius was all right, until this moment. "I think I can imagine."

"They're all in the sitting room. Come on."

Scorpius leads him to the others, and Draco drops onto the largest sofa with a groan.

Then, he sees Harry, and he remembers what he heard in Lightninglen.

"For fuck's sake, Potter. What kind of deal did you make with the Wallygagglers?"

Harry looks down at his hands. "I said I'd help get their brother back."

"But—" All at once, he remembers the Time-Turner Luna showed them that first day at the moor. "There were two of you." He looks accusingly at Harry. "Do you know how dangerous it is to interfere with—"

"We saved him."

"What?"

"Luna, Rolf, and I. We saved him."

"Fuck," Draco says slowly. "I mean..."

They know what he means.

"You'll come to terms with it all," Granger promises. We've had a week to adjust while together, and you've been busy recovering."

"But what now?" Draco asks. "You saved him, but the problem isn't gone. We're locked up so tightly the Aurors outside think they're on holiday, I hear the media's completely turned against us, and the woman who's going to be putting us on trial shortly is the one we helped get mauled by werewolves."

"You forgot about your fetching new scar," Blaise says cheerily.

Draco sighs. "Then let me. The last thing I need is to be mistaken for a bad Harry Potter impersonator."

There are so many emotions warring within him that he can scarcely breathe.

It's not until later that evening that he finds a moment to pull Luna into his room so they can talk privately.

"I have a question," he says.

"Ooh, goodie."

"What do you see when you look at Astoria that other people don't?"

She considers this. "Well, she's very beautiful."

"I don't mean that. Everyone sees that. Is there anything you see around her head?"

"Oh ... well, it depends on the day, doesn't it? Sometimes she's wearing sun cream, and I don't have to tell you how much that changes things."

"Right," he lies, "not at all. But the last time you saw her, for instance, did you notice any of your Boasting Diskies around her?"

She blinks her wide eyes at him. "You're much more observant than people think, Draco."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"She's had an infestation for as long as I've known her. I offered to talk to her about how we could clear them away, but she wasn't interested."

"What about Scorpius?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you see Boasting Diskies feeding around him too?"

"No. He's perfectly fine."

It's as if Draco's breathing properly for the first time in years. "Oh."

Then, another thought occurs to him, and hope overwhelms him. "Do Boasting Diskies ever completely consume Curse Magic?"

Luna frowns. "Well, I've never seen it happen. It would take a lot of time, and probably a lot of Diskies. You want to try to help Astoria with her Curse?"

"For a start. But I'm thinking there's something else they could be used for, if we get enough of them."

Luna catches on, and her eyes bulge. "Oh, Merlin. I've got to talk to Rolf and Parvati. They'll know if breeding Boasting Diskies is possible."

He pulls her into a hug before she can run off.

"Oh," says Luna happily. "This is nice."

Draco holds her at arm's length. "Go talk to them. We can reconvene in the morning."

When she's gone, Draco strips off his shirt. He grabs the jar of ointment Madam Pomfrey gave him to help aid in scar healing and begins to unwind his bandages. Then he hears a knock on the door.

"Luna?"

"Er ... no," comes Harry's voice from the other side.

Draco sighs. He considers putting his shirt back on, but the reality is that he doesn't want more blood-stained clothes. So he opens the door.

Harry pushes into the room with frantic energy snapping at his heels. He takes one look at Draco, looks away, and goes into the en suite bathroom to splash water on his face.

"You all right in there?" Draco calls. He pulls away the last of his bandages and piles them on the desk. Then he picks up the ointment again and unscrews the lid.

"We need to talk over the plan for the trial," Harry says.

"Can't that wait? We've got time."

Harry exits the bathroom again, and he's silent.

"Potter?"

"I want to be prepared, is all. We have to be ready. This is where it all comes to a head."

Draco knows. The strange part is that Harry is acting like this is new information. Which means he's hiding something. There's another reason he's here.

But what is it?

"Okay. Talk me through it." Draco begins working the ointment into his skin. His chest is the worst of it, and the most painful, so he does his shoulder first.

Harry doesn't talk. When Draco looks up, he's staring.

Draco doesn't remember exactly what he said to Harry when he was bleeding out, but it revealed more than he was ready to show. He's sure Harry's thinking about it now.

Draco crosses his arms in front of his chest, a shield. He feels too exposed.

"You're alive," Harry says.

"You got your glasses back," he returns.

Harry laughs. "That I did."

He steps closer. Draco does not move.

"Madam Pomfrey said you'd still be treating your wounds for a while."

"Yes, more dittany and silver. To aid the scars in fading a bit and to relieve itching."

"Do you need any help?"

He meets Harry's eyes, then looks quickly back down again. There's not much he struggles to reach, but Harry's offering, so he nods.

Harry steps close to him, and he takes the ointment from Draco gently. He swipes his fingers in it and brings them to Draco's chest.

The cream is cold, but Harry's hand is warm as he massages it in.

Draco's eyes flutter shut.

Harry does not speak, and Draco is afraid that anything he could say to fill the silence would make it painfully obvious how he feels.

So he just stands there and lets Harry's fingers play across his skin. Draco doesn't stop him when Harry goes over the same spot a second time, even though it stings.

"Bandages?" Harry breathes.

"Hm?" His eyes open. Oh.

Draco doesn't look at Harry as he grabs fresh bandages and places them into his hands.

He holds his arms up obediently the way Harry directs him. The pain is worse now, and Draco has to guide Harry to make sure he doesn't wind the fabric too tight.

Harry ties a knot against Draco's skin, his fingers brushing lightly over his ribs. He runs a flat hand down the plane of Draco's stomach and then stops, keeping it there, just above his hip.

"Why aren't you looking at me?" Harry whispers.

He can't. Because if he looks, then Harry will see. He'll know — every torrid thought haunting Draco's mind, how it feels to see him so near a bed, how he imagines kneeling at his feet and kissing his way up bare thighs, every bit the worshipful fanatic.

Would Harry let him? Maybe he needs more control than that.

Draco looks up. Harry's green eye is glittering, his cheeks warmed with red. Draco can see him breathing, the soft fall of his chest.

"I'm looking at you," Draco tells him.

Now, all Harry has to do is tell him to look away.

Harry exhales softly, unreadable.

"Say something," Draco demands.

"Why don't you call me Harry yet?"

His stomach pulls tight. For Merlin's sake. "Why should I?"

"I think I'd like to hear it."

"I don't ... there's nothing to it. I've always called you Potter."

"Please?"

The light from the lamps is soft. It suits Harry, to be the brightest thing in the room.

"Harry." It comes out as the barest whisper, broken. Draco meets Harry's eyes and prays Harry can't see the images pouring out of his head, the ones that keep him up at night; his finger tracing across the dimples at the base of Harry's back, their hands twining together as he fucks into him, listening to his horrible singing in the kitchen during early mornings.

"Draco," Harry replies, in just as low of a whisper — because he's cruel, a sadist, he has to be.

"Don't say it like that."

"You want me," Harry says. He sounds surprised.

"I..." Draco doesn't know why he admits it. "Yes."

"Why?" The question comes from a place of such honest curiosity that Draco falls just a little bit harder.

He's gotten good at wanting, over the years. Wanting his father to be proud of him, wanting the war to be over, wanting to regain favour with the public, wanting his family to be safe. He's never been all that good at knowing what to do with something once he has it, never been able to love the things he gets the way they deserve.

How do you make someone see all that they are?

"I don't know."

He does, but he can't put it into words. Draco's been wishing all this time that he had some sort of defence against the aching, gnawing feeling in his heart that he'll fuck this up; that he isn't good enough for Harry — not the Saviour, not the Chosen One, and not the man right in front of him.

"I want you to kiss me," Harry says.

"I won't be able to think clearly for the rest of my life."

Harry steps closer, and Draco feels the soft breath of a laugh skate across his face. Their foreheads fall together, and the warm metal of Harry's prosthesis presses against Draco's brow. The tip of Harry's nose brushes against his own.

"I want you to kiss me," Harry says again.

And Dear Merlin, Draco must already be fucked in the head, because he does. He closes the distance and brings his hand up to the back of Harry's neck.

Harry shouldn't want him. But that doesn't matter, because Harry was right. Draco is selfish. He'll take anything Harry offers him, and he'll take it greedily, hungrily — like a man who believes he deserves it.

He parts Harry's lips with his tongue, and he pulls their hips together.

Harry sighs in the back of his throat, and Draco cannot help the way his chest seizes up, and he surges against him, kissing as though it might be possible to get past Harry's physical body and burrow somewhere inside his soul. Draco was wrong, it turns out. He's well versed in mistakes — he knows them like the grooves of his own wand, having made enough for a lifetime — and this can't possibly be one. Not when it feels like this.

"Draco," Harry breaks away. His voice is achingly breathless, and his eyes are still closed when Draco opens his. Harry's mouth hangs open, just barely.

Draco's chest feels tight. He threads his hands through Harry's hair, grounding them to the spot.

Harry groans, and then he's backing them up, stopping when his heels hit the bottom edge of the bedframe.

Draco pulls back. "I want — fuck, you have no idea how much I want this. But at the moment..." He gestures helplessly at his chest.

Harry kisses him again, then he sits on the bed and guides Draco down to sit lightly on his thighs.

It wouldn't be impossible to get off like this.

"Let's get some sleep," Harry says.

He doesn't have to say, 'You're staying here with me.' Draco knows.