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Chapter 37

Harry

The cottage is what people might call a fixer-upper.

He knows this because it is exactly what Hermione had called it, smiling around at the little house with the look on her face that normally comes right before she hands he and Ron study schedules, trailing her hands through the dust on the counter tops. “It’s a bit of a fixer upper Harry,” She had said, Ron nodding along with her in approval, a habit both he and Harry had picked up from ministry dinners. “But with a little work, this sure is going to be something.”

A little work didn’t cover it. Harry had plans for this house, plans so big that they should be written out in capital letters, and it’s going to take a while to get them done, because he plans to do them the right way, the muggle way.

(Draco had rolled his eyes, but after Harry had pointed out that he does all his cleaning the muggle way, he had shut up.)

“I just think it’ll take you forever.” Draco had said, following him through the door while levitating all the tools that Harry would be using with one sweep of a wand. “Why even bother?”

“Because then it’ll be mine,” Harry says, because he had liked the idea of knowing the placement of every grain of sanded down wood and the work that went into every inch of the carpeting, but then he amended his answer, reaching out to hold Draco’s hand, who rolled his eyes. “Ours.”

“Alright.” Draco rolled his eyes, but Harry knew he won, because Draco always caves when Harry starts to talk like that. He tries not to abuse the power too much but he wanted —needed—this project, just to give him a little more time to figure things out. He always had thought best when he was doing mundane work like that. “Anything you want, Harry.”

Of course, the fact that it was Harry’s project made it Draco’s project, too, handing him tools as he hammered nail after nail into the steps and swiping paint along Harry’s cheek when he didn’t think he was being given enough attention, and also being all around bossy, which Harry was expecting. They spent a lot of afternoons here, Draco popping in around noon, insisting that he had just come to bring him lunch and then staying until dusk, where they could sit with their legs dangling off the too-tall porch and watching the sun set down over the fields.

This could be every day for the rest of my life, Harry would think, every single night, taking Draco’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles each time he thought it, like he was sealing the promise. It was the first time he was thinking of the future and not feeling afraid. I could feel this happy, every night, each night, as long as I live.

It was a nice thought, a good thought. And a strange one, considering that for the past seven years before hand, he had always been one step away from dying. And for the past three years, he thought that death and murder were the only paths his life could travel down, and somehow, no matter which one of them lived, he would end when the fight was done.

(That’s the thing, isn’t it, about neither can live while the other survives—it sort of goes the other way, too, like they only exist for each other, because of each other, because what is hero without a villain to fight against?)

(Harry knows the answer now: nothing. Just a person. The only problem is he didn’t know how to be that, not quite yet. He’s hoping this house will help him figure it out.)

Today was one of those days, where Draco brings lunch and critiques Harry’s work while he eats in a way that should be nagging but was mostly just fond, and then he just stuck around, maybe because today Harry was clearing out the shed that Draco was going to use for his potions and he wanted to make sure it was done right. And it was. Harry had made sure of that, scrubbing it from top to bottom before he did anything else, repainting the outside and putting shelves up on the inside, even climbing up on the roof to patch up the chimney. And when it was over, they weren’t quite ready to leave, yet, so Draco somehow managed to make a meal out of the remnants of their lunch and they headed out to the decaying greenhouse for a picnic.

“It’s sort of beautiful like this,” Draco said, waving his wand lazily to gesture at the greenhouse. Bubbles streamed out of the tip and Harry caught them on his hands, watching as they burst. “All broken down.”

Beautiful disasters. Draco likes those, Harry is learning. He just hopes that has nothing to do with how much Draco seems to love him.

“We could leave it like this, if you want.” Harry wouldn’t mind. He had always loved when things were a little more chaotic, probably because so much of his early life at the Dursley’s had been constrained and stifled. He likes to color outside the lines sometimes, just to remind himself he can. Plus, the only real problem was the holes in the roof, and they could get Hermione to lay down a spell that fixes that. “One less thing for me to do.”

“Seems a bit impractical though,” Draco mused, maybe to be difficult or maybe because he was actually considering it. “A broken down greenhouse.”