” Hermione says with a little sniff. “Ron always says it’s savage and slightly unhinged.”

“Well, I don’t anymore,” Ron says, expression rueful. “From now on, you carry whatever you like.” To Harry and Draco, he says, “Here’s the weird thing. I mean, the whole thing’s the weird thing—how anybody could ever—but, look. I got this Floo call, and I think it was from Hermione’s attacker. I mean, there’s not really any way to tell if someone’s been glamoured during a fire call, but the timeline makes sense. She said that my wife had been attacked and I needed toe through immediately, and that I didn’t need to worry, she’d call Mr. Potter for me. I went through, and Hermione was…she was out in the street and I… I didn’t really think about it again, until Hermione and I were talking a little bit ago. I guess —and yes, love, I know this is a bit sexist—but I guess I just sort of assumed her attacker was a man, and that the woman in the fire was—whatever.” He gives Harry an ufortable look. “A fan, or something. Someone who knew who we were and wanted to help. It didn’t even twig for me that it was weird that she hadn’t reached you, because I couldn’t reach you either. But then Hermione and I were talking, and…”

“Well, it just seemed a bit strange that Draco and I would both be attacked in one night,” Hermione says carefully.

There’s a sharp intake of breath to Harry’s right; when he turns his head, Draco is looking at him. No, Harry thinks; Draco is watching him, eyes intent.

“Mate,” Ron says. “Don’t get all—how you get.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Harry says, looking between the three of them. “What are you saying, that Hermione was—”

It slams into him like a freight train: Hermione was attacked because of Harry. Hermione was attacked to keep Harry from answering the call from Grimmauld Place; there probably even had been a Floo call, like the woman said. It’s not as though his place is very heavily warded—he relies on his Muggle neighborhood for anonymity and has own trainedbat skills in case of actual break-in, but. He’d Apparated straight out of bed. If there’d been a head in the fire in the living room, he wouldn’t have seen it. God, he’d probably just missed it, left Hermione nearly dying to—well, to go keep Draco from being murdered, but—

“Oh, now you’ve gone and done it,” Draco says, sounding furious, far away. He stalks across the room to stand in front of Harry, snaps his fingers in Harry’s face. “Potter! I swear to god, if youe over all Kreacher about this I am going to snap. I really am! I am underslept and badly in need of a long shower and I have done and said roughly seventeen embarrassing things in front of, apparently, every Weasley in the Western Hemisphere tonight. We are not doing this, too; I refuse! It’s not happening. It’s not your fault! No one is throwing you into the well!”

“I—wait, what?” Harry says, briefly distracted by Draco’s madness, before guilt engulfs him again. “God, I can't believe this. I should have—”

“Oh, what,” Draco says, eyes going suddenly cold. “Leave me to die, would you, to run off and—”

“Of course not, you stupid git,” Harry interrupts, horrified. Draco narrows his eyes at him, suspicious, but does at least stop saying that horrible sentence out loud. “I didn’t mean that at all. I just—I could have gotten some help, I could have done something—”

“Yes, well, your various regrets are noted and deeply helpful to the continuing discussion,” Draco says, bitingly sarcastic, and rolls his eyes. “Can we maybe, I don’t know, get on with it? You beating yourself up isn’t exactly a valuable or productive contribution, you know.”

“I,” Harry says, “you—oh, fine.” He crosses his arms over his chest, more to protect himself from Draco’s furious glare than anything else. “Jesus, Malfoy! I said fine.”

Draco gives him one more long, suspicious look, but then he snaps, “Good,” and looks away.

“Wow,” Hermione says, blinking at the both of them. Harry suddenly feels a little exposed; next to him, Draco is shifting ufortably.

“I know,” Ron says. “Wild, isn’t it?”

“Do they always do this?” Draco demands of Harry, sounding outraged. “Just have their—their own little conversation? Over there? In the corner?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, and shrugs. “You get used to it.”

Draco opens his mouth, and then, for some reason, pinks very slightly and shuts it again. After a second, he actually turns his back on Harry, because he’s a mystifying little freak who will never make sense and Harry really doesn’t know why he tries.

“Yeah, well,” Ron says, with an ufortable shrug. “Obviously we’ll be all over this at work, but we thought it’d be best to warn you both now. I’ll be telling everyone else to keep an eye out, too. Somebody’s really determined to get at something in that house, and, Harry, they know you’re their biggest obstacle. Whoever they are, you’re both in their crosshairs now.”

Harry’s eyes meet Draco’s. Draco raises both of his eyebrows, a question, and Harry shrugs one shoulder in answer. He doesn’t really care if someone’s gunning for him, though the idea of anyone else getting caught in the crossfire like Hermione sets his teeth on edge, makes him want to rage and shout. He’s staying until it’s done. They’ll figure something out.

Draco’s mouth twitches a little, but his voice is controlled when he says. “Well. That’s just wonderful, Weasley. Thanks for the heads up.”

They stay for a bit after that, and then Hermione asks for Rose, which opens the visitor floodgate. When everyone else is distracted by the inflow of many Weasleys into a tiny space, Harry notices Draco swaying alarmingly, bracing himself against a wall. He makes their excuses and takes them both back to Grimmauld Place, ignoring Draco’s protests that he can Apparate, really, and Harry doesn’t need to be such a great bloody ninny about it. He still crashes into bed like his strings have been cut when Harry steers him into a bedroom almost at random—he obviously can’t sleep in his own, not in its current state—and falls asleep almost instantly, his breathing going even, slow.

Harry stands there, in the doorway, staring at him, asleep across the covers in his black trousers and too-large sweater, the healing cut on his face still perfectly visible. His hair is falling in soft pieces across his eyes even as Harry watches, long fingers curling in sleep against the sheets, and the odd, swelling balloon of sensation Harry’s been pushing down all night finally bursts, all at once. It’s nothing like jumping off a cliff. It’s like jumping into cold water,ing up nearly frozen and halfway drowned, and gasping in huge lungfuls of air that hurt going down.

Harry doesn’t just care about Draco; doesn’t just want Draco to be safe; doesn’t just think Draco is interesting and funny and odd. Harry relies on Draco. Harry worries about Draco. Harry understands, truly and for the first time, the way Ron looks at Hermione, because it’s the way he looks at Draco. Harry trusts Draco with his worst secrets. Harry trusts Draco with his life.

Harry is in love with Draco. He’s just been doing his damndest not to notice.

“Oh, fuck,” Harry says, into the quiet of the room. Draco rolls over in his sleep, but doesn’t reply.

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