This fic was written for the HD Career Fest on Livejournal and is only the second fic I've ever written (the other being a Twilight fan fic) and constructive criticism is very much welcomed.

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Thank you to the army of betas who worked to get this ready for the fest: SecretlySeverus, Cleodoxa, EvilPumkin, AryaEragonPrincessShadeslaye r, AsilleNellum, and Batgirl8968, and to Rebeccaann08 for submitting such a great prompt.

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Disclaimer – This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

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This was what Draco had been dreading the most, facing Potter. The awkwardness between them when they'd been left alone together earlier had been bad enough; it would only be that much worse now that Harry knew what exactly was involved in this transfusion procedure.

Harry had made his feelings perfectly clear on Guernsey. He'd been so thoroughly repulsed at the realisation of whom it had been that he had gotten so close to—whom he had been about to be intimate with—that he had done the one thing that Draco was sure Potter had never done before; he'd run.

Draco wasn't proud of it, but that was his exact intention as well—at the first possible moment, he intended to run. He knew Harry had been trying to attract his attention, but listening to Potter's heart-felt gratitude for helping his godson was more than Draco could bear—not knowing what other heart-felt words sounded like as they fell from those lips.

And just how quickly they'd evaporated.

His Aunt Andromeda, whom he'd never met in person before today, approached him hesitantly with the Weasley matriarch at her right. Potter was beside her as well, to her left. Had it been only Potter, Draco would've turned on his heels and Apparated away.

Certainly Potter would've understood the gesture—after all, that had been exactly what he had done such a short while ago himself.

Such a short while ago . . . . Draco thought to himself. What had happened between them on Guernsey felt so long ago, it could've been a different lifetime. Those few weeks with Evan had been the happiest of his life.

"Draco, I . . . ." his aunt started to say before her breath caught in her throat. She clutched his hands in hers. "I can never thank you enough. I had no idea . . . . I didn't know . . . how much . . . or that . . . . Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

"Draco is happy he could help." Luna stood beside him, wrapped her arm around his, and laid her hand against forearm. He was more grateful for her presence beside him than he could say. He may only have one friend in the world, but that one was the best friend he could have hoped for.

Even if sending him to that bloody island had been all her idea.

"Er, yes. Yes, I . . . ." Draco's voice faded away as he made the mistake of letting his eyes slide from his aunt's to Potter's. The green shimmered as a small tear gathered in the corner of his eye.

"Isn't that right, Draco?" Luna prodded.

Draco shook himself free from his stupor and called upon every ounce of composure he possessed. "Yes, of course." He continued, not making the mistake of letting his eyes return to Harry's again, "Potter, you should take my aunt back to her grandson."

"I loved your mother very much," Andromeda Tonks stated hurriedly, as if she'd known he'd been about to vanish.

Draco had been about to Apparate away, but his aunt's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I did. I don't know if you could ever believe that, but I did," she stated.

Had Luna not still had her arm around his, Draco thought he might have ended up on the floor as his mother's face swam before his eyes.

Upon learning of the death of her brother-in-law during the war and the deaths of her niece and her niece's husband at the Battle of Hogwarts, his mother had reached out to her sister, to offer her condolences and attempt to begin a reconciliation. But the attempt had not been welcomed.

Draco had been disappointed for his mother; it had been plain how much she'd wanted to make amends with her sister.

"Please don't blame 'Dromeda, darling," his mother had said, the letter she'd written to her sister laying in the shreds it had been returned in on the table beside them. "My family—you and your father—survived, while her husband, daughter, and son-in-law did not. Perhaps, in time . . . ." His mother had not finished her sentence. She had never had the chance to try again.

Clearing his throat to rid himself of the lump that had formed, Draco said, "She kept your photograph hidden away. A small one, of the two of you together as children, taking tea in the nursery. I doubt my father ever knew she had it. I found it amongst her things after . . . ." He didn't know why he was telling his aunt this. His mother had been murdered not long after the failed attempt at reconciliation, and they'd not heard a word from his mother's sister at that time or since. But Draco felt his mother would have wanted him to continue the effort she had begun thirteen years ago.

Or, perhaps, it was something within himself, something that had been ignored and forgotten but that longed for a connection to his last remaining family.

Or, perhaps, it was simply time. Perhaps old wrongs, old hurts and grudges had been allowed to go on for too long. Perhaps it was time to release themselves from the mistakes of the past.

"I could copy it for you, if you would like," he offered.

Andromeda Tonks' red, swollen eyes smiled through their worry for her grandson. "I would. I would like that very much. Thank you."

His aunt studied his face. Draco very much wanted to leave, to escape the green eyes watching him from behind his aunt, but he felt rooted to the spot by his aunt's gaze. At least, he hoped it was his aunt's scrutiny that held him there and not Potter's.

"You're very like her," Andromeda said. "You have her eyes."

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as his aunt continued, "Oh, not the colour. I didn't mean that. The colour is all Lucius, but you have Cissy's deep-set eyes. The shape, the expressiveness in them, the line of your brow . . . ."

When Andromeda fell silent, Molly Weasley tactfully suggested they return to Teddy and suggested that perhaps Draco would like to see his cousin before leaving the hospital.

"Er, I . . . I think perhaps I should return to the manor." Draco hoped the words did not sound rude; he did not mean them to be so. But he could feel Potter's eyes watching him, and if he didn't get out of there soon, Draco was afraid he'd do something foolish—like look into those eyes. Looking into those eyes would be as fatal as looking into a basilisk's.

His aunt retook his hand and squeezed it. "We will see you tomorrow, then."

Harry said, "Andromeda, you go ahead down with Molly, and I'll meet you there. I'd like to talk to Draco for a moment."

But Draco had already pulled his wand from his robe pocket, and turning on the spot, the last words he heard before Disapparating away were Harry calling out to him, "Draco! Wait!"

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That night, Draco's combined worry about the upcoming transfusion and his regret for the loss of what he'd hoped he'd found on Guernsey had his stomach twisting in knots and his mind unable to shut down, and he got no sleep. In the early morning hours, after staring at the canopy over his bed for he didn't know how long, he gave up and threw his bed covers off. He crossed his room and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the south lawn and the manor's flower gardens. The gardens were exquisite, as always. The manor's elves did a superb job of maintaining the grounds, but Draco admitted to himself that he wished more than anything that he was back in the gardens at Mille Fleurs. Seeing Potter had been a painful reminder of how close he'd come to having everything he'd long ago given up hope of ever having. Those weeks that were so special to him were probably looked on now as a huge mistake by Potter, if they were looked on at all.

The sky above him was moonless and dark. He could smell the fragrance of the night-blooming jasmine wafting up from the garden below. Draco braced his hands on the centuries-old stone railing and bowed his head. He refused to think about the plain black t-shirt neatly folded in the drawer of his bedside table. Packing his things as quickly as she had, Tibby had mistakenly swept Potter's shirt off the floor with Draco's own, and he had found it the next morning amongst his belongings.

Maybe . . . if he had told Harry the truth himself rather than having it come out the way it did, and at the moment it did, maybe things would have been different. Maybe he would have still been at Mille Fleurs.

Or, maybe he would have been in St. Peter Port.

Draco remembered sitting and writing at the little table by the window in The Holly and Feather. Harry had been so happy, so proud to see him writing.

Well, he'd been happy and proud to see Luke writing.

He'd kept up a steady stream of that vanilla hazelnut coffee with the whipped Guernsey cream and cocoa powder that Draco had loved so much. And every time there was a lull in customers, Harry had come and sat with him. He'd not spoken while Draco had been writing—sometimes he'd silently read the newspaper, sometimes a book, sometimes he'd worked on a crossword—but the companionship of having someone just sit beside him while he wrote had been wonderful.

The forty-some pages he'd written in the Holly and Feather were in his desk, and with a sense of purpose, Draco re-entered his bedroom and passed through it to his study. Sitting at his desk, he pulled out the pages and leafed through them one by one, muttering to himself as he read a line here, a few more lines there. Page after page, it was all wrong. The story as he'd begun it was all wrong. That was not the way the way it was supposed to go at all. Reaching for his quill and ink pot and, like a sculptor cutting away at a hunk of clay to reveal the statue hidden within, Draco began heavily crossing out everything that didn't belong and left pages and pages littering the floor of his study the way the sculptor would have mounds of clay.

The next morning, Draco awoke, achy and with his joints stiff, to find his house elf, Tibby, looking up at him regretfully with her enormous, watery blue eyes. He rubbed a crick in his neck and stretched as the little elf apologised for waking him and announced that his breakfast was ready in the small dining room.

Draco had fallen asleep at his desk with papers strewn all around him. It took a whole five seconds for him to remember why he was at his desk and not in his bed, but when he remembered the changes he'd made to his new story idea, a grin spread across his cheeks. He had woken up hunched over his desk after being kept up at night by a new idea several times before, but as he had once told Evan, more often than not what had seemed like a brilliant idea at three in the morning, looked like rubbish by nine.

Not this time, though. This new story was good. It was real good. Some of his best work, Draco proudly thought.

Maybe something good would come from his trip to that blasted island after all.

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At St. Mungo's the that afternoon, nearly an hour into the transfusion, Luna inspected the thin Muggle tube running from Draco's arm to Teddy's. Draco hadn't expected to be able to see his blood leave his body and flow towards his cousin's. He'd not thought much on that aspect of the transfusion; it had been the idea of the transfusion itself that had him worried. But now that it was in progress, it rather fascinated him. Healer Edeson and his team were very skilled; the needle had been inserted into his vein in only a few seconds. Now, part of him would live in another. For someone who, like Draco, had had no familial connection for so long, the reality of having a bond with the boy lying in the bed across from him beyond that of normal cousins was powerful.

"You would think they would design it so that the blood wouldn't be visible," Luna observed.

The thin tube was suspended in the air and protected by a strong shield charm. In addition to the shield charm, there were also layers of spells and charms designed to do everything from maintaining the proper temperature of the blood to scanning it for illicit potions, Muggle drugs, alcohol and various diseases. Healer Edeson assured him the spells were all standard. In the Muggle world, he'd explained, donated blood would go through a series of tests to ensure its safety; in their world, the spells performed that role.

The edge of Draco's scar disappeared under the Spellotape covering the needle. He had not realised the healer would want to use his left arm—which arm would be used hadn't been discussed it during their meeting yesterday—but Healer Edeson had explained that it would be preferable to use his non-wand arm. Tactfully, he had left the decision to Draco. There had been only a moment's hesitation. Their entire world knew that scar was there; trying to hide it was pointless.

Potter was sat beside his godson's bed only a few feet away, and Draco knew he'd been sneaking glances at him, but between Andromeda, the Weasley woman, and the army of healers and mediwizards and witches continually streaming in and out of the room, he'd not had the opportunity of approaching him. That Potter would not approach him in front of anyone served, in Draco's mind, as confirmation that he considered what had happened between them as best forgotten, and it hurt. Draco reassured himself that he did not want to speak to Potter anyway, and he certainly did not want to hear him confirm Draco's belief that he considered what had happened between them to have been a horrible mistake. Hearing him begin to say that he regretted it yesterday when they'd been alone together had been all the confirmation Draco needed.

"Mr. Malfoy, how are you feeling so far? How is your arm? Is there any pain?" Healer Edeson asked after returning to the room with a goblet in his hand, a parchment and a quill hovering beside him.

Once the transfusion had gotten underway and was proceeding well, the army of healers and mediwitches and mediwizards had departed, giving them privacy. Different coloured orbs of light hovered in the air over both Teddy's and Draco's beds; these were the monitoring spells that told the healers everything from their temperature to their respiration and heart rate and, in Teddy's case, the level of antibodies in his system. Identical orbs were being monitored at the mediwizard station and in the healer's offices. The most important and most closely watched was the yellow one—it represented the presence of the antibodies in Teddy's blood stream. It had appeared as a dim glow shortly after the transfusion had begun and had steadily grown to a soft, buttery yellow. When it reached the colour of bright lemon yellow—hopefully within the next hour—the blue orb of the enchanted sleep spell would begin to fade, allowing Teddy to pass into normal sleep and wake up gradually and naturally.

Healer Edison removed the Spellotape from Draco's arm and inspected the needle, then replaced the tape and repeated the process on Teddy, the quill beside him making notes on their charts.

Draco shook his head, which was a mistake because it caused the room to spin. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose until the giddiness passed. "Only some slight tenderness. It mostly feels very odd."

The quill scribbled away taking notes as the healer checked the pitcher of water beside Draco's bed. "Feeling giddy?"

"Yes, very. But only just this moment. Not before."

"Try to lie still; it will help. Drinking plenty? That's very important to help your body replace the blood you are losing."

"Yes."

"Any nausea?"

"No."

"Good, very good. I have the first dose of your blood replenishing potion. I must warn you, it is quite vile."

"Aren't they all?"

Healer Edeson agreed, "Unfortunately, yes, for the most part they are, but it will help with the giddiness considerably. I want you to take one sip every twenty minutes for the remainder of the transfusion and once an hour for two hours afterward. The goblet is charmed to refill itself, and an alarm will sound when you are due for your next dose.

Draco obeyed, barely suppressing a wince. The potion truly was vile, as the healer had warned, and it left a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth. Grateful, Draco accepted a glass of water from Luna and drank it down.

As the healer had promised, the giddiness quickly faded away. Draco leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes as he let the plot of his new book float through his mind, mentally adding little details here and there.

"Are you feeling tired, Mr. Malfoy?" the healer asked.

Draco opened his eyes and said that no, he was not. "Do you think I might have some parchment and a quill?" he asked.

The healer was surprised, but he agreed. "Of course, but do not overexert yourself."

A self-inking quill and parchment were brought, and Draco wrote a few lines, only to cross them out and start again. He repeated this process three times before setting the quill down and rubbing his eyes.

"You've burnt whole chapters before when they weren't exactly what you wanted. Don't get frustrated." Luna had leaned closer to him and spoken so softly that there was little chance her words would be overheard; everyone in the room had their focus on something other than the two of them. In any event, the only person close enough to her to be likely to overhear was Potter, and he already knew.

Draco glanced at Potter, whose green eyes looked quickly away, only to return a moment later.

"Why don't I pop over to the manor and ask Tibby to fetch what you've got so far, hmm?" Luna asked.

"What? No! No, Luna!"

But Luna ignored him and continued on as if he'd not spoken, "Harry, would you mind sitting with Draco while I run out to fetch something for him?"

"Luna! Luna!" Draco hissed.

"I . . . ." Harry glanced at him then looked back to Luna; his face lit up as understanding dawned in his eyes. "Of course."

"Luna!" Had Draco not had a long, sharp, metal object stuck in his arm, he'd have run after her.

As Harry stood up, Andromeda and Mrs. Weasley also rose. "Harry, dear, Andromeda and I are going to step outside for some air," the Weasley woman said as Draco's aunt fussed with her grandson's bed sheets and touched his face gently.

"I'll be right back, Teddy Bear," she said. The boy lay eerily still in his enchanted sleep as the orbs of light which were the spells monitoring his vital signs floated overhead.

As his aunt passed Draco's bed, she stopped and placed her hand on his shoulder. Leaning down, she whispered softly, "He's a good man. Talk to him." Her voice sounded like his mother's.

Draco could feel his heart beat faster as he began to panic. He'd not known anyone but Potter, Luna and himself knew what had happened on Guernsey. Luna must've told his aunt and the Weasley woman and orchestrated this with them last night.

Harry sat down beside Draco's bed and poured him a glass of water.

"I don't want a glass of water."

"The healer said—"

"I bloody well know what the healer said, Potter. I don't want a glass of water." Draco was aware that he sounded like a petulant five-year-old, but he didn't care.

A mediwitch came in and checked Draco's arm. She didn't speak, and she had a pinched expression on her face which soured further when she saw the faded scar on his arm.

"Is there a problem, Madame . . ." Harry's voice was as hard as nails when he finished after reading the woman's name on her robes, "Parker?"

"None at all, Mr. Potter." The mediwitch continued her exam, the ever present quill taking notes as she worked.

"Are Draco's readings good?"

"The patient's vital signs are satisfactory, Mr. Potter," she said calmly but coldly.

The mediwitch's eyes never left her wand as she worked. She moved to Teddy's bed and performed the same spells. Once she'd finished her duties, she left the room without another word.

Draco could see Harry was close to losing his temper—he doubted anyone was more familiar with the signs of Potter about to lose his temper than he was.

Harry said, "I'll speak to Healer Hurst. Treating a patient like—"

"Don't."

"She has no right—"

"I said, don't."

"She was—"

"Let it go."

"But she was—"

"Potter, I write under a pseudonym for a reason. People don't like me, with very good reason I might add, and getting a mediwitch fired for not being nice to me is not going to change that. Let it go."

"It's not fair. What did she do during the war that she thinks she has a right to—"

"Don't tell me you still believe life's fair, Potter."

"Would you let me finish a sentence, please?"

"I'm not the one who asked you to sit with me. I'm perfectly content to be by myself. I assure you; I'm well used to it." Draco was aware of just how rude he sounded; he'd intended his words to make clear to Potter that one of them was free to get up and leave, and it wasn't him. But Potter looked like a small child who'd just lost his puppy, and Draco hated that that look made him wish he could take his words back. He'd meant them to be rude, dammit.

"Look, Draco . . . I, er, I wanted to talk to you . . . about . . . what, er, happened."

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. As he exhaled, he said, "Potter, there is nothing that needs to—"

"Yes, there is. Draco, I—"

"No, there's not. I don't—"

"I want to say that—"

"There is nothing you could say that—"

Angry, Harry stood up to leave. "Fine, then. I won't say anything."

"Good, I mmphhh . . . ." What Draco had been about to say was cut off. Rather than leaving as Draco had expected, Harry had stepped up to his bed and leaned over him, kissing him before Draco's mind had had a chance to register what he'd been about to do. In his surprise, Draco was frozen, unable to move. This kiss was nothing like the ones they'd shared on Guernsey; it was angry and possessive and demanding.

And brilliant.

Harry's hand had cupped the side of his face, holding him still, and now it slid back into Draco's hair, pulling out the leather thong he'd used to tie it back. Harry's blunt nails scratched his scalp painfully as he buried his fingers in the long blond strands.

As half of Draco's mind screamed at him to hex Potter's bollocks off, the other half screamed at him to pull Harry onto the bed next to him. Trapped between the two opposing options, Draco could only moan as Harry's tongue traced along his lower lip. Harry's tongue had tipped the scales, and all thoughts of stopping were shut down. Draco ran his hand up Harry's arm as he let his mouth fall open, inviting Harry's tongue inside once again.

The door was flung open and Healer Edeson rushed in. "Mr. Ma . . . ah . . . . Er . . . ." Several of his team, Madame Parker among them, followed on his heels.

Harry had jumped away from Draco, but not quickly enough, and the healer had caught an eyeful of them snogging.

The healer cleared his throat in embarrassment, but there was a gleam in his eyes that was not unkind. "Please, excuse me," he said. "The monitoring spells indicated that my patient's heart rate had suddenly escalated. I worried there might have been a complication."

The healers, mediwitches, and mediwizards were quickly ushered out of the room by the Head of the Department, who assured them it had been a false alarm and that all was well, his mouth stubbornly twitching at the corners. Over his shoulder he said, "Your healer's orders include no strenuous activity, Mr. Malfoy. Do remember that, won't you?"

The door fell shut behind him, leaving Harry and Draco alone once again.

Draco, angry with himself for believing Harry wanted him, snapped, "If you think for one second that I'm going to be some dirty little secret you keep—"

"What? No, Draco, I—"

"You couldn't get far enough away from me fast enough at the thought that someone might see you kissing me."

"Draco, I . . . . No, I, that wasn't it at all."

"At least you didn't Apparate away this time." All the hurt Draco had felt came out in his voice as spite.

Harry blanched. He pulled the chair up closer beside Draco's bed. "I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry. I . . . just, I panicked. And I'm sorry. I went back the next day hoping to talk to you, but you were already gone. I thought that was your way of saying to stay away from you. I thought, I thought . . . that if you'd wanted to see me, you'd have waited, or maybe you'd have come after me. But you left."

Draco's eyes fell shut. He felt like a deflated balloon as all the resentment he'd felt drained out of him. How differently something could look when you saw it through someone else's eyes. Harry hadn't been the only one to turn and Apparate away. Harry had hoped he'd come after him, but he hadn't. He'd turned and run in the opposite direction. It had been Harry who'd come back looking for him, but he'd already turned and run.

But it had also been Harry who couldn't jump far enough away from him at the thought of someone walking in on them snogging.

Harry grinned at the accusation. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. I was afraid you'd punch me. I wanted to get out of arm's length."

"It wasn't because you were ashamed of being seen with me?" Draco asked, keeping his eyes averted.

"Merlin, no! I'm not an exhibitionist, Draco. I never have been. I've never been comfortable kissing a partner in front of anyone. Too many reporters about with cameras, even after all this time, I reckon. And then all the Muggleborns with their blasted camera phones . . . . It's too ingrained in me to keep what's private, private. You're not the only one living under an assumed name, you know. I don't want to see myself and my boyfriend snogging on the front page of the Prophet."

A knock sounded on the door, and a moment later a different mediwitch entered the room. This one was much more pleasant than the last, Harry was glad to see.

She approached Draco's bed and introduced herself as a senior mediwitch in the haematology department. She removed the tape and checked the needle quickly and efficiently, never flinching at the sight of his scar. As she replaced the tape, she patted Draco's hand. "One sees quite a lot of simply dreadful scars in this occupation, Mr. Malfoy. I've seen far worse, I assure you. Please allow me to say what a brave thing I think you are doing. You are to be commended. Not everyone would have said yes as unhesitatingly as you. You are doing a very good thing." She smiled at them both before moving on to check Teddy, and then quietly left the room.

Draco felt an uncomfortable tightness in his throat, and Harry slipped his hand in his. "Some people have begun to let go of the war, Draco. Don't you think it's time you did as well?"

Draco couldn't answer.

Harry continued, "You had only just turned sixteen when you took the Mark. Sixteen. It's time to stop punishing yourself."

Draco turned to Harry; he tried to hide his fear behind an angry mask. "Would you feel that way had that poisoned mead killed Weasley? Or Katie Bell? What if she'd touched that necklace with her bare hand and not through a hole in her glove? I could've killed them."

Harry collected his thoughts before speaking. When he did speak, he looked directly into Draco's eyes, his gaze so intent Draco was unable to look away. "Draco, I saw you. I saw how terrified you were, and I know what Voldemort was holding over your head. No, I don't know how I would feel or what I would say had either of those things happened, but they didn't. Believe me, I've got loads of my own 'what ifs.' You can't let them rule your life. Honestly, were my parents still alive and held by Voldemort, I don't know what I would or wouldn't have done, but I do know you lowered your wand. Your life and your parents' lives were at stake, but when you had Professor Dumbledore at wand point, on the top of the astronomy tower, you lowered your wand."

"I've used the Cruciatus Curse," Draco said, defiantly.

"So've I. Next."

"Potter, you don't get it! I'm Marked. This isn't ever going to go away," Draco said as he raised his scarred arm.

"No, it won't. Nor will this." Harry pushed his fringe off his forehead.

"It's not the same thing, and you know it. That makes you a hero. This," Draco raised his arm again, "makes me a coward."

"The bloody hell it does!" Harry shouted. "Cowards don't drag the unconscious body of their former friend up a pile of rubbish trying to escape Fiendfyre, Draco. They don't push that former friend onto a broom before climbing onto one themselves. And they certainly don't lie to a room full of Death Eaters when they know bloody well they'd got me captured and unarmed. That mediwitch was right just now, you know. This is a very good thing you're doing, but it's not the first good thing you've done."

Draco sat up to continue arguing, but he moved too quickly, causing the room to spin. He fell back against the pillows, his eyes squeezed shut and breathing deeply through his nose.

He felt Harry's fingers slide gently through his hair as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have argued with you. Can I get you anything?"

"Pumpkin juice. Better than water the healer said. Sugar."

Harry picked up the glass of juice from Draco's bedside table and placed the straw between his lips. "Take small sips," Harry advised.

"Thank you," Draco said after he'd had enough. "Brilliant things, straws."

"Better?"

"Yes."

A soft chirping sound came from the goblet of Draco's blood replenishing potion, and he groaned. "So soon?" Harry handed it to him along with a refilled glass of ice water. Alone with Harry, Draco made no attempt to hide his wince at the revolting taste of the potion. It was a bit late in the day to worry about keeping up appearances in front of Potter. He rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

"Two doses. That's another forty minutes, then," Harry mentioned, trying to steer the conversation towards something they might not argue over.

"How is the yellow orb?" Draco asked, his eyes closed once again.

"Seems a bit brighter, I reckon."

"Potter?"

"Yes?"

"Believe it or not, I was relieved Weasley and Bell were alright."

Harry retook his hand and stroked the back of his knuckles with his thumb. "I believe you."

"It's horrible. Knowing you nearly killed someone."

"Yeah. I know."

Draco opened his eyes and looked at Potter. "That was hardly the same thing. I was one syllable away from casting an Unforgivable. You did what you had to do to protect yourself."

"So did you. I wish you could see that. And what you were trying to protect yourself and your parents from was far worse. Cruciatus wouldn't have left me bleeding to death on the floor, Draco. Besides, I really don't think it would've worked for you. Oh, for a few seconds, yes, definitely. But not prolonged. I've no doubt you hated me and wanted to hurt me enough to cast it, but that's not enough." Harry's mind drifted back to the witches and wizards he'd seen successfully cast that curse and hold it. They'd not just wanted to cause their victim pain; they'd enjoyed doing it. "You're not like them," Harry said as he squeezed Draco's hand.

Draco shivered under the intensity of Harry's gaze.

Harry jumped up. "Are you cold? The healer said you might feel cold."

"I'm not cold," Draco said as Harry pulled a blanket from the foot of his bed and settled it over him.

A silence settled over them that was nearly as comfortable as the ones they'd shared together on Guernsey until Harry said, "We were good together."

Draco looked away and inhaled deeply.

"I thought we were, anyway," Harry said, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the ground, his voice fading as he spoke.

Draco remained silent, and Harry had given up any hope he'd had that Draco would have agreed when he finally said, "Yeah. Yeah, we were." A moment later he added in a very quiet voice, "Did you really go back looking for me?"

"Yeah, I did. The owner said you'd had to return home sooner than you'd planned. You'd received an urgent call, she said."

"That would be Luna. She covered for me."

"She's a good friend to have."

Draco hadn't looked at Harry once since the subject of the weeks they'd spent together came up, and he continued to keep his eyes averted as he said, "Yeah. She is. I've . . ." With his eyes trained on his blanket-covered feet, Draco continued in a whisper, "I've never understood why she bothered with me. She was locked up in our dungeons, for Merlin's sake. Then, after the war she comes to wish me a Happy Christmas. Even brought me a Christmas pudding."

"Made with dirigible plums, was it?" Harry joked.

"I half thought she'd poisoned it."

Draco opened his mouth to speak but closed it. He did this twice more before asking, "Why did you kiss me earlier?"

Harry swallowed and ran his hand over his face. He answered honestly, "Because I really, really wanted to." He cleared his throat and continued, "Draco, what you said, about being a dirty little secret, please don't think . . . ." Harry's voice trailed off. Draco was looking at him, really looking at him, and there was so much emotion visible in those storm cloud grey eyes, that Harry's words died in his throat.

Without saying another word, Harry rose from his chair and sat on the side of Draco's bed. He leaned over him slowly, wanting to give Draco the chance to say this wasn't what he wanted, but instead, Draco reached his good arm towards Harry and pulled him down. Their lips met slowly—this wasn't the angry, possessive kiss from earlier; this was the slow burning kiss of two people who'd thought they'd never kiss again. It was a question asked and answered without words.

It was, in a word, perfect.

When they parted for air, Draco said, breathing heavily, "We've got to be half mad to even attempt this. It'll not be easy."

"Why? Do you snore?" Harry laughed but then turned serious. "We can make this work."

"You sound so sure."

Harry kissed him again. "I am sure." His lips moving across Draco's jaw, he whispered, "I missed this so much. I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

The reunited couple kissed until they were was interrupted by a knock on the door, and Luna's voice floated into the room innocently. "May we come back in yet? Only, you're giving poor Healer Edeson nervous attacks. Apparently, Draco's heart rate is rather elevated again."

Sitting on the edge of Draco's bed and threading their fingers together, Harry called out, "Yes, Luna. You can come back in now."

Luna smiled serenely at the sight of Harry's and Draco's joined hands. Andromeda went directly to her grandson's side, but once she'd checked on him, she told both Harry and Draco she was happy for them. Molly Weasley hesitated only a moment before embracing Harry. She nodded her head at Draco, which all things considered, both Harry and Draco thought was a pretty good start.

A few feet away, Teddy stirred. Raising a hand to rub at his eyes he looked around sleepily and asked, "Why do I have a tube Spellotaped to my arm?"

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Six months later,

Awaking in the middle of the night, Harry rolled over and reached out for the man lying beside him, but his hand found nothing but an empty space where his lover should be lying. He cracked one eye open. The other side of the bed was empty, and the sheets were cold. He raised his head off the pillow. The room was dark. One of the blankets was missing from their bed. Sitting up straight, he rubbed his eyes tiredly and looked at the clock beside their bed; the little glowing numbers showed him that it was nearly two thirty in the morning. From the French doors leading to the deck outside their bedroom, Harry could see a bright glow emanating from the tip of a wand. His lover sat at the small table just outside the doors, wrapped in the missing blanket. His lit wand lay beside a stack of papers, and Draco was busy writing.

Shaking his head, Harry grabbed his pillow and moved so that he was lying with his head at the foot of their bed. He was naked—as was his lover beneath that blanket, he knew—but he made no attempt to cover himself. Lying on his stomach, he watched as his boyfriend worked. Draco was so close to finishing his book now, he was nearly constantly bent over a stack of papers scratching out something and muttering to himself as he rewrote something he wasn't happy with. His fingers and often his jaw or forehead were smudged with ink.

The story itself was all written; what was left were the finishing touches, and then it would be ready to be sent to his editor, their friend, Luna. The writing, Draco had explained many times these past months, was the easy part. The hard part was the editing and rewriting, the deciding what stayed and what had to go that came next. Knowing when to stop was the hardest of all.

Draco's quill stilled, and he covered his eyes with his free hand. Harry could see his lips moving silently as he ran a scene through in his mind, and he smiled as he recalled watching Draco do that so often since that first time in the Holly and Feather all those months ago. The quill moved again. Harry could see that rather than writing, it was striking out what was on the page. Draco stopped and picked up a pile of pages, scanning them over one by one. He began to write again over what had just been stricken out. As Harry watched, he repeated that process several more times before dropping first his quill then his head to the table.

Reaching back to the nightstand beside the bed, Harry picked up his wand and waved it in the air. A plate of large, deep red strawberries dipped in dark chocolate appeared next to Draco and were split into quarters almost all the way to the stem by an unseen knife. A pastry bag filled with fresh whipped Guernsey cream hovered over the strawberries, piping the cream into the quartered berries.

Draco's face split into a smile, and he looked into the bedroom. He picked up his wand and extinguished the light. He cast a spell which sent the papers swirling up into the air as if a great gust of wind had come and swept them up, but rather than being blown away, they shuffled themselves together, sorting themselves in the proper order, and neatly arranged themselves into a pile. Draco ran the tip of his wand along the left hand side of the pile, binding them together. Holding the blanket around himself with one hand, he held his wand in the other hand and levitated both the newly bound manuscript for his book and the plate of berries.

Harry arched his eyebrow when Draco had no free hands to open the door. "You'll just have to drop the blanket," he called out.

Draco smirked in response and said, "Alohamora." He entered the bedroom and laughed, "Honestly, Potter. Are you a wizard or not?"

"Accio blanket."

"Hey!" Draco shouted as the blanket unwrapped itself from around him, leaving him naked, before flying across the bedroom and landing on the bed next to Harry.

"What?" Harry asked innocently.

Draco climbed into bed and slipped under the blankets. "Budge up. It's cold out there."

"It's mid-April, and it's the middle of the night. What did you expect?" Harry's voice rose an octave as Draco pressed his cold feet against his legs. "Get your feet off me! They're bloody freezing!"

Draco curled himself around Harry. "Oh, but you're so nice and warm."

"That's because I'm not the lunatic sitting outside in the middle of the night naked! Now, get your feet off of me!" Harry squirmed to get away from Draco, but Draco held him closer.

"It was worth it."

"What could be worth losing your toes?"

"It's hardly cold enough to worry about losing my toes to frostbite."

"Who said anything about frostbite?" Harry asked as he tried in vain to free himself.

"Oh, fine." Draco cast a warming charm. "Better?"

Harry settled against Draco and buried his face in his neck. "Much."

"Good. Thank you for these," Draco said as he picked up a strawberry off the plate hovering beside the bed and licked the cream off. He kept his eyes on Harry, knowing the effect his action would have on his lover. "Want some?" He offered Harry a bite of the fruit and watched as Harry's lips closed around the ripe berry. A trickle of juice ran down his finger, and Harry caught it with his tongue. He took Draco's hand in his and guided it to his mouth; he sucked the finger into his mouth and ran his tongue along it the same way he'd done to Draco's cock the night before, drawing a deep moan from his lover.

Harry pushed Draco onto his back and pinned him down, straddling his thighs. He kept one hand on Draco's chest and let the other slide down his stomach. He traced around Draco's navel with his fingertip. "That wasn't very nice of you, putting your cold feet against my leg. I think you should be punished for that."

Draco grinned and fed Harry another strawberry. "You know I love it when you punish me."

"Oh?" Rather than letting his hand continue lower, Harry slid his hands to Draco's sides and tickled him.

"HARRY!"

"That's it, scream my name," Harry taunted as he continued to tickle Draco mercilessly.

"STOP IT!"

"But you said you liked being punished."

Draco laughed as he thrashed wildly beneath him, trying to free himself. "NOT WHAT I MEANT AND YOU KNOW IT! NOW STOP IT!"

"Not what you meant? Hmmm, what did you mean?" Harry didn't let up. Draco's face was turning red from laughing and trying to fight his way free.

"You know what I meant! Stop it, Harry! What are you? Some kind of nut?"

"No, I don't know. Tell me."

"You bloody well do know!"

"Say it."

"No!"

"Say it!"

"Spank me! You're supposed to spank me!" Draco gasped out.

"Oh, well why didn't you say so?" Harry's hands stilled on Draco's hips, and before he could catch his breath, Harry rolled him over and brought his hand down across his arse hard. A loud Crack! rang across the room, followed by another. "Like that, do you?"

"Oh, fuck yes. Harder!"

Harry did as he was told. Who'd have guessed their kinks fit together as well as their bodies did?

Draco moved to his hands and knees, his arse raised for Harry's repeated blows. Harry dragged his blunt nails across the reddened cheeks before urging his lover to spread his legs for him and letting his touch turn gentle as his fingertips teased his lover's cock. "Mmm, so hard for me. What do you want, love?"

"You, inside me," Draco exhaled.

Harry moved behind him and cast a lubrication spell on his hand. He let his finger slide into his lover; he was still loose from their lovemaking the night before. "Not sore?"

Draco moaned and pushed back as Harry slid a second finger inside and scissored them. "Burns a bit, but it feels so good. Don't stop."

Harry pulled his fingers out and brought his hand down across Draco's arse. Crack!

He alternately fucked him with his fingers and spanked him, and when he was sure his lover was ready, Harry knelt behind him and buried his cock inside him with one thrust. This was Harry's favourite part—next to the moment when his orgasm exploded through him, of course—entering the man he loved for the first time, that feeling of being one with the man he loved. It made him think of the first time they'd made love after Draco had agreed to return to Guernsey with him. Harry leaned against Draco's back and pressed a kiss between his should blades. "I love you so much."

Draco twisted his head around to meet Harry's lips and whispered, "I love you, too," into their kiss. "Now, start moving."

"So bossy." Harry's arm wrapped around Draco's waist, and his hand closed around Draco's cock, pumping him in time to his thrusts. Both men moved together as one; the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, the pleasure building inside them until they came moments apart, both gasping and crying out the other's name.

They collapsed together onto their bed, lying side by side as they caught their breath. Harry pulled the blanket over them as their bodies cooled.

"Mmm," Draco hummed as he snuggled into Harry spooned behind him. "Promise me you'll fuck me like that every time I finish a book."

Excited, Harry pushed himself up onto his elbow. "You finished it? It's really done? Can I see it now? You said I could when you finished it."

"It's not finished properly. It still needs to—"

"Go to Luna and be torn to shreds. I know, you've said. Come on, please?"

Draco had adamantly refused to let Harry see so much as a single page of his book, insisting it wasn't ready to be seen by anyone yet. Harry didn't even know what the book was about, other than that the idea for it had begun at their first dinner together at The Old Quarter, when Draco had noticed a woman waiting for her dinner partner to arrive and started wondering about an imaginary person waiting for an unknown dinner partner.

"I'm not a book critic, Draco. I'm not going to criticise anything. Whatever you've written, you know I'll love it."

Draco sighed and ran his hand down Harry's chest. "That's exactly the problem, don't you see? You wouldn't be objective. I need someone who's going to be looking at it and looking for problems and mistakes, things that don't work or don't make sense. Things that aren't needed and need to be scrapped. Not someone who's going into it wanting to love every page of it."

Harry understood perfectly. "You mean, like when you said that new recipe for the chocolate zucchini cake I experimented with was good when it was—"

"Horrible. Yes, exactly."

"I can do that."

"Can you? You can't try to spare my feelings. If something is rubbish you need to tell me."

Harry held out his hand. "Give me the book, Ferret Face."

Smiling at the name that would once have sent him into an irate fit, Draco handed over his manuscript. This was the first time someone other than Luna was seeing one of his books in such a raw state. He was glad it was Harry who was seeing this particular book first.

After all, it was about the two of them.

"If something needs to go or be changed, you've got to tell me. Agreed?"

Reading the first page, Harry didn't immediately answer, but as he flipped the page he nodded his head to show his agreement.

Flipping back to the first page, he read out loud:

Going off to school was something that ten-year-old Dillon Mardling had looked forward to for as long as he could remember. Some of his earliest memories were of the tales his parents had told about their years at Cliffsham Academy and his family's long standing history of attending the prestigious school.

And now it was finally his turn.

His family's name was one of the most respected of all the school's notable alumni. Generous supporters of the school and its academic and sports pursuits, both the library and the new weight room bore his family's name.

His ancestors had, without exception, all been members of Grunnion House, and Dillon could already see the silver and red of the Grunnion House emblem displayed proudly on his lapel and the house tie around his neck as the seamstress measured him for his uniform. Now, it was finally his turn to carry on his family's great tradition. He would be the top student in his year. He would make the football team easily, one day becoming captain. He would be a prefect one day, Head Boy one day.

This was the proudest moment of the young boy's life up to this point, and he was sure it was to be followed by even greater moments to come.

Behind him, Dillon could hear the bell over the door chime as another customer entered the shop.

"Hello, my dear. Shopping for a uniform, are we?" the shopkeeper's assistant asked. Her voice sounded sceptical, and Dillon turned his head to see who had come in.

Standing in the doorway was a boy of around Dillon's own age, and like Dillon, he was alone. But that was where the similarities stopped. Dillon's family was a wealthy one, but that was clearly not the case for the other boy. His clothes had likely seen one or even two previous owners, Dillon suspected—older brothers in a family with more children than the parents could afford.

He wondered where the other boy's parents were, and the shopkeeper clearly wondered that as well. She had just voiced the question when an elderly woman bustled into the store and stood behind the boy, placing her hands protectively on his shoulders. The woman and the shopkeeper spoke in tones too quiet for Dillon to overhear, and a moment later, the boy was shown to a dais across from where Dillon stood.

The owner of the shop herself left Dillon's side in the middle of taking his measurements to tend to the newcomer. "Now then, my dear. Don't you worry about a thing. We'll get you suited right up, we will. Finest looking uniforms in all of Cliffsham you'll have, or my name isn't Fiona Bungard." Placing her hands on her large hips the woman laughed, "And if my name isn't Fiona Bungard, I've got on someone else's bloomers!" Mrs. Bungard laughed heartily at her own joke.

Both boys looked away in embarrassment.

"Now then, my dear. If you'll just hold your arms up like so." She demonstrated, and the other boy obeyed. "Very good, now then . . . ."

For the next several minutes, instructions were given and followed. Mrs. Bungard completed the other boy's fitting personally, while her assistant tended to Dillon.

Never before had Dillon been relegated to an assistant while the owner of whatever shop he was in took care of someone else. He didn't know which he felt more, angered or interested. You would never guess it to look at the other boy—his ill-fitting clothes, his unbrushed, mousy brown hair—but for him to be seen to before Dillon, he was someone important.

'And he will be going to my school,' Dillon thought to himself. His own parents weren't there just then, and the boy's parents, whoever they were, had apparently relegated him to a servant to prepare him for school, and hadn't even bothered to see that he was dressed appropriately. As busy as Dillon's parents were, they'd made time to take him shopping for his first year of school themselves. Even his father had kept his schedule clear for the whole day, just to spend it with him.

But at this moment he was on his own, and this was his first chance to make a connection of his own. He'd learnt from the master, his father, on how to impress people and form connections that could prove useful one day, and this was his chance to prove himself as his Father's son. He would make his father proud of him. Turning to face the boy, Dillon addressed him, "Hello. Cliffsham too?"

"Yes," the boy answered, barely sparing him a glance as he spoke the single word.

Undaunted, Dillon tried again. "My parents are next door looking at new laptops, my old one won't do. It's nearly a year old. Then, I'm going to drag them for new football gear. My father says I'm sure to be picked for the team at Cliffsham." He paused, expecting the boy to comment. When he didn't, Dillon asked, "Do you play?"

"No," said the boy.

"What, not at all?"

"No," repeated the boy. He turned his head away and looked out the window.

Dillon was at a loss. He was doing what he'd seen his father do countless times, but rather than impressing the boy, the boy had turned away from him.

Unsure of himself for the first time in his life, Dillon pressed on. "My family have all gone to Cliffsham for generations. Grunnion House. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No."

Dillon was beside himself. His first chance to prove himself capable to his father, and he had been unable to get more than a single word—a single syllable—from the boy. He'd wanted to do this himself, without this parents standing beside him and without the benefit of his family name, to prove to his father and himself that he could. But he couldn't. The boy wouldn't even spare him a glance!

He tried again. "Did your parents go to Cliffsham?"

The boy remained silent for several seconds, leaving Dillon to fear he wasn't even going to be given the boy's customary one-word answer, but finally he said, "Yes."

"Oh, well what house were they in?"

"I don't know."

"How could you not know? Don't they talk about it? My parents—"

The boy cut him off, another thing that had never happened to Dillon before. "My parents are dead."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Dillon was, but in his surprise, he was afraid his voice had sounded uncaring, not sorry at all.

He had been just about to introduce himself and ask the boy his name, when the old woman who'd joined him in the shop came up to him and said that they were finished there. The boy stepped down from the dais, and Dillon called out after him, "I'll see you at Cliffsham, I suppose."

The boy exited the shop without another word, he didn't look back at Dillon or acknowledge him in any way.

Dillon's parents re-joined him a moment after the boy had left, but he was no longer in the mood for new laptops or football gear. Humiliated and smarting from such complete rejection, all he wanted to do was go home.

Going off to Cliffsham at the end of the next month no longer held quite so much appeal as it had only a very short while ago.

As Harry set the manuscript down, he looked at Draco. "Here, I thought you reminded me of Dudley. I never realised . . . . Merlin, I looked like a right prick, didn't I?" Draco opened his arms, and Harry crawled into them, apologising, "I'm sorry. Was I really that bad?"

"I couldn't figure out why I couldn't impress you. Showing off had always worked for my father. Probably because he never tried to impress you, I reckon."

Harry flipped through the manuscript. "It's about us. You wrote about us."

"Do you mind? It's very heavily fictionalised—well, all accept for those first couple pages, but the only two people who would recognise that are you and me."

Harry shook his head. "I don't mind." He kissed Draco. "And I don't care if anyone does see us in it."

Setting the manuscript down on the nightstand, Harry settled himself in bed and Draco curled up behind him. The two men drifted off to sleep, their limbs twisted together. Their bedroom window was left slightly open to allow the cool night air in, and the first page of the manuscript fluttered gently in the breeze. The moonlight streaming in the window illuminated the title written in Draco's flowing handwriting:

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Looks On Tempests

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By Simon Wrentmore

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Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

William Shakespeare

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I hope you liked it!

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With the exception of the Holly and Feather, all of the places I mentioned by name are real. Never having been to Guernsey, I tried to describe them as accurately as possible from what I found online. Luckily, there is a lot of information online. Even Harry's house is a real house near the Constitution Steps I found for sale online

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Harry's feeding the next generation chocolate cake for breakfast is from "Bill Cosby, Himself." I couldn't resist. My Harry is not a father, and rationalizing chocolate cake as an acceptable breakfast food is something I think I could see a "not-a-father Harry" doing. His own childhood was so bleak with the Dursley's, I can see him wanting to indulge the kids in his life. My mom has a sweatshirt that says "What Happens at Gramma's, Stays at Gramma's." I can see "not-a-father-Harry" having that philosophy with his godchildren and the other next generation kids. This time, though, he got caught. As for Bill Cosby, Himself—if you haven't seen it, you must. You will never in your life see anything funnier.