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“That’s not what I meant.”

Draco pulled the blanket back overtop both of them, vanishing himself and his scars from view. “I know.”

Chapter 33

Harry

He’s got a thing for making dramatic proclamations.

Harry’s really only aware of it because Hermione had pointed it out to him, once, back in their sixth year. She hadn’t meant it to be one of those times where she says something very introspective and real, but it had been, because suddenly Harry was finding himself looking back on all the big moments of his life and couldn’t help but agree that he had a flair for dramatics—his speeches to the DA and his one first declaration of love for Ginny, when he first told them about the prophecy and how he had told Dudley that he had almost died five times before he was even sixteen.

It’s not really something that he’d grown out of.

“I really hate this house.” Harry waves his spoon in the air to punctuate the importance of his words, splattering the newspaper Draco was reading with soup. “I think I’m going to move out.”

There wasn’t much that Harry could spout off that would make Draco turn away from the Quibbler before he was done searching for any mention of their names, but this was one of them. He looked less alarmed than Harry had thought he would. More exhausted than anything. “What?”

“I want to live somewhere else. Look at this place!” They hadn’t even taken down the severed house elf heads lining the walls, despite Hermione’s loud noises of disgust whenever she had to walk down the hallway to get to the bathroom. “Nobody can be happy when they live here.”

“We’re here.” Draco said, a little bit of alarm creeping into his voice. “We’re happy.”

“Yes, but—” It still catches him off guard, sometimes, that this thing between them was new and breakable but definitely there, that he was able to reach across the table and squeeze Draco’s hand without wondering how he would take it. “I meant long term. This isn’t a place to make a home, Draco.”

Draco nodded once, twice, then folded up the paper. “Alright.” He had a look on his face that Harry had come to associate with trying to get the proportions of a potion right. “Then let’s find you a home.”

Draco likes projects.

Harry had known that from the start, because back at Hogwarts there was never any shortage of them—Draco had always done the extra credit even when he didn’t need it, he had never gotten less than an A on any essay, not to mention all the badges and the rude songs that he had made up just to spite Harry over the years. It’s one thing to know that, though, and a completely different thing entirely to be a part of it.

They’ve got newspapers spread out across the living room floor, all of them opened to prospective houses. Draco’s got ink smeared across his nose and Harry had ditched his sweater two hours ago, because even though Draco was trying hard to find something that suited him, try as he might Harry just couldn’t picture himself in any of these houses.

“I’m sorry, Draco.” He had just read out a description of ten different places—a house buried deep in the country side, a stately manor hidden on the outskirts of London, a flat in the complex beside Hogsmeade, different homes from wizarding suburbs. “I just don’t know what I want.”

He kept trying to think of what he wanted a home to be like, but try as he might, all he was able to think was the Burrow. It was the closest thing to a home he had ever known, besides Hogwarts, but all sentiment aside, Harry had to admit that if he was going to pick his ideal house, it would not look like that.

“Alright.” Draco folded up the paper in the shape of an airplane and chucked it into the fire, as calm as he had been when they first started this, like Harry hadn’t shut down every single one of his attempts to be helpful. “Then what is it that you don’t want?”