#no because i do think wizardry is stem bitches

[boggysbitch]

woman in a STEW (science, technology, engineering and wizardry)

[kogo-dogo]

i like your skyrim stuff and i wanna know more about the funky little dudes you posted in those “sentences” lol. instead of asking for more snips

You have made a mistake. Prepare for an essay.

But, joking aside, they’re Morrowind characters. I do like Skyrim, but Morrowind is my favorite game of all time and the entire reason I got into the TES fandom years ago. I don’t talk about it much on here because everyone is here for Half-Life and HRV, but... you know what? I’mma take this opportunity. To yell.

About The Guys(tm).

So, basically, in my Personal Canon, I don’t just have a Nerevarine (i.e. Protagonist) character. I have an entire crew of people who help him get through things because it just seems... more realistic for my Extremely Flawed and Terrible Nerevarine. Also, I just had a lot of characters conjured up as a teenager and it was fun to evolve it over time so they’re all friends.

They are, as follows:

- Jo’Karsa (a.k.a. “Karsaga”). Battlemage born under the Atronach. Afflicted with Wombburn. Also the Nerevarine. He’s an abnormally large Cathay-raht who has had an unusual upbringing. He was originally an orphan plucked off the streets in Corinthe and trafficked to Morrowind where he was sold as a slave. As fate would have it, a houseman under his owner took a shine to him and stole him away when they fled to Cyrodiil to avoid political assassination. Karsaga has been raised Telvanni in Imperial territory so, despite being a mighty brute of a Khajiit, he has an extreme affinity for magic and an equally extreme disconnect from his Khajiiti roots.

He speaks like a Dunmer, carries himself like a Dunmer, and has very Telvanni sensibilities. He also has an extensive criminal record from his time spent as a bandit outside of Cheydinhal, and that is eventually how he ends up on the prison boat that sends him to Morrowind. He has a bunch of aliases and an unhealthy penchant for drink and smoke. Not a fan of skooma, though. As gruff and sarcastic as he is, he has a very silver tongue and a way of winning people over and talking himself out of trouble.

Also, “youth born under a certain sign?” Nah, this bitch is 34. And smells like a wet dog.

- Dasrazel. Altmer Nightblade and Quarra vampire. He contracted his vampiric curse while trying to save his lover from the clutches of an undead menace during the Second Era, after a life working various quasilegal oddjobs that brought shame on his noble family. In life, he was a likeable but lowkey individual, and in undeath he’s still very lowkey... but perhaps not as likeable. He has to take a low dose of a calming potion to keep the inherent, violent bloodlust of his Quarra curse at bay, and it does a lot to deaden his emotions. Combine that with hundreds of years to learn how to not give a fuck, and you have a very blunt, stoic, matter-of-fact creature who only very occasionally makes quips and usually just wants to be left alone.

He is Karsaga’s closest ally, right hand man, and platonic soulmate. They met after Karsaga robbed him blind at a bar (thinking him to just be some weird, frail elf), and Dasrazel took pity on him after Karsaga ran him through with an iron saber and panicked when it... did nothing. Their bond is one of a mutual distaste for most people and Dasrazel’s desire to have companionship again.

They’re very much bros, even if Dasrazel spends most of his time not understanding why Karsaga is the way he is.

-  Neira Brenur. Dunmer Witchhunter and low-ranking member of House Redoran. She’s the daughter of a Camonna Tong member and an Ashlander woman, though her mother is dead and she spends a lot of time trying to distance herself from her racist father. She joined Redoran in hopes of atoning for the crime of just being born into a bad family, but has a really difficult time fitting in. She’s very meek and empathetic and does better in controlled duels than actual combat. The idea of actually hurting an opponent makes her sick to her stomach.

She kind of just happened to Karsaga one day, courtesy of him running afoul of her not-so-popular friend, Vandrith (we’ll get to that trainwreck later). She mainly acts as a translator for Vandrith and tries to play mediator when Karsaga starts getting too aggressive with others. She’s in good with some odd folks in Redoran and a very aggressive supporter of the Tribunal Temple, which makes it hard for her to wrap her mind around Karsaga’s existence as the Nerevarine.

Also, the fact she’s an absolute pushover means she just accepts the less-than-savory people Karsaga pals around with. She’s got a big heart and feels actual pity for his blasphemous, undead, and criminal friends. They’re good people on the inside (probably).

- Vandrith Valen. Dunmer Ordinator and conglomeration of a lot of factors coming together in the worst way possible. He is naturally “blessed by Azura” and has some degree of prophetic power, though he’s choked it down after a life of being raised Indoril. He also came to the unfortunate realization after being stationed on Vvardenfell, that he is also a descendant of House Dagoth and is haunted by the Poison Song, a “song” sent out by Dagoth Ur that warps the minds of those who are of his blood and turns them into Sleepers and Dreamers.

These two traits do not mesh well and make Vandrith more than a little unstable.

Vandrith is... prone to erratic behavior and violent outbursts and is largely under the care of his paternal uncle, Tuls Valen, the head priest of the Ald’ruhn Temple. Vandrith is also a clever and tricky bastard who has been trying to figure out how to discern Dagoth Ur’s plans from the Poison Song in order to prevent bad things from happening. Usually, he can keep things under control, but extremely bad visions, close proximity to items/places corrupted by House Dagoth, and stress can cause him to be difficult.

Beyond this, though, he’s not what you’d expect from an Ordinator. He’s very witty with a somewhat bawdy sense of humor, a very devil-may-care attitude, and he’s a huge fan of causing mischief. He forced his way into Karsaga’s social circle due to his absolute certainty that Karsaga could bring down Dagoth Ur, and Neira is his closest (and for a long time only) friend, who has figured out what all of his weird ramblings mean.

- Bashinga. Sorceress and Aundae vampire. She is an old acquaintance of Dasrazel’s who has ties to Telvanni, the Mage’s Guild, and several circles of warlocks and witches. She’s very much a self-serving sort, more interested in the acquisition of power than the wellbeing of Morrowind, but she is fiercely protective of the people she deems worthy (and she has a soft spot for Neira she can’t really explain).

Once upon a time, she was a dancer and performer with a traveling circus, and her fall into undeath and wizardry was a happy accident after being taken as cattle by rogue Aundae. She’s got a good set of vocal cords and can move with grace and ease, but she speaks very bitterly a lot of the time and is difficult to get along with.

She’s one of those people who Karsaga immediately took a shine to because they both like to sit around and bitch about people. Dasrazel and Bashinga mostly get along by the time-honored tradition of “two very gay individuals being catty at each other as a sign of affection, though outsiders would think they hate one another.”

- Jai Swift-Fly. Cathay assassin and member of the Morag Tong. She was born and raised in Elsweyr in a more tribal environment, and is an old friend of Vandrith’s (odd, considering they met because she took a grey writ to knock him off and, instead, he knocked her out). She mostly comes into the fold because Karsaga needed somebody to break into the Ministry of Truth to free Mehra Milo, and she came highly recommended (by Vandrith; Vandrith recommended her). 

She’s a married mother of two, is big and strong and very proud of being big and strong, and a crack shot with a bow. She’s also deaf as hell and communicates through a series of homebrew gestures. Her decision to stick around and help Karsaga after completing the job she was hired to do stems primarily from her extreme curiosity. She has no stake in the Nerevarine Prophecy or this group of losers, but by god does she want to see what it looks like when a god dies.

Fun fact: Jai is dead by the events of Skyrim, but two of her descendants remain. Shevah and J’Rakka. They’re a brother-and-sister duo. Shevah is as much of a curious, troublemaking adventurer as her so-many-greats grandmother. J’Rakka is a werewolf who mostly hunts bounties to make a living.

- Dravyn Telvayn (no picture of him, sorry D:). Dunmer assassin and member of the Morag Tong. Former highwayman and current Berne vampire. Husband of Jai and perpetually confused, mainly over the fact he has kids with Jai and... well, every book he’s read has indicated that that should be impossible for a variety of reasons. He lives in the sewers of the Arena canton in Vivec City and is allowed work in the Morag Tong due to his efficacy at eliminating very high risk targets, though he’s basically “on his own” if he ever gets caught. They’re sure as fuck not giving him writs of execution to present to guards when the Tong could end up fucked over if their relationship with a vampire gets out.

He’s mostly in the background and tags along due to his extreme dedication to Jai. He doesn’t get along with hardly anyone but her, though he is the one who coined the term “Council of Accidents” in relation to him, Dasrazel, and Bashinga. He feels a loose kinship with them in that they’re all members of different vampire clans, but all members whose sires want nothing to do with them, rendering them outcasts. Even after the events of Morrowind, he keeps in infrequent contact with the others. 

After Jai’s death, he acts as a weird “ancestral guardian” to his own descendants. As of the time of Skyrim, he spends most of his time trying to keep Shevah from getting killed. He is very tired. She is a lot.

[brugioshi]

you asked for drarry prompts: moving in together but Harry has a panic attack because there's a storage cupboard under the stairs

That’s What Love Is, Idiot  AO3

Harry and Draco’s relationship transformed first with a bang, then gradually over time. Grievances all seemed petty to Harry after the battle. Still, old habits die hard— particularly as it pertains to emotions. During their eighth year, Harry forced himself to perform small favors for Draco— a compliment here, assistance carrying books there. Each time, Draco’s eyes betrayed overwhelming amounts of gratitude and bewilderment. This made it easier to see the pure-blood boy in a sympathetic light. Draco’s animosity towards Harry had long stemmed from a sense of comeuppance, rather than genuine dislike. It was easy to reciprocate his small kindnesses. Eventually they had a rapport of sorts. They weren’t close friends, but they were no longer enemies.

After their commencement ceremony, Draco found Harry alone in a corridor. He’d been reflecting on his time at Hogwarts— the only home he’d ever known— and picturing his future after leaving it. Draco hugged Harry, made the briefest flicker of eye contact, and left without a word. That was the last Harry saw of him for almost a year.

The next shift in their relationship was through Hermione. Unsatisfied to merely train as a Healer, she also attended Harvard School of Medicine.

“It’s imperative that Healers be holistic,” she often said, as if she wasn’t the first and only person to hold such a mantra. “Knowing how to treat muggle ailments will no doubt come in handy when I’m healing wizards again.” Harry couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Sometimes he suspected Hermione merely loved being in school. Still, she seemed wiser than she was as a girl— not just smarter, but intelligent in a way that transcended “books and cleverness.” Or, maybe she was motivated by the price of rent in Boston. It kept Ron’s desire for children under control.

Harry’s work as an Auror kept him in London most of the time, but he visited often. When he did, he found himself surrounded by old friends. Arthur Weasley insisted on visiting constantly, of course.

“And you say muggles run tests to see what’s wrong with them?” Arthur asked during one such visit. His eyes lit up whenever Hermione talked about muggle medicine.

“Certainly,” she replied.

“Like an examination of sorts? Do they use a scamtron?”

“No, no,” she said, careful not to laugh. “Usually a nurse will extract a bit of blood with a syringe, and send it to a lab to be examined.” Arthur learned in, absorbing every word. “The other kind of examined,” she added carefully.

“And are vampires a problem? Do they sneak in to the labs much?”

This time Hermione did laugh.

“Not that I know of. There aren’t many vampires in Cambridge.”

Ron stayed in their nearby flat, tending to the one child they did have. Molly flanked him whenever the family visited, cooing over little Minerva and critiquing Ron’s parenting.

“You need to read to her more, Ron, it’ll help her become verbal faster. Her name does mean ‘wisdom,’ you know, you don’t want her being a laughingstock…”

“My name means ‘wise counselor,’” Ron protested.

“That’s what mum said,” George piped up from the couch, “she’s at risk of being a laughingstock.”

Harry laughed good-naturedly, cuddled into an armchair between the two groups. He intermittently listened to this conversation, and the one between Hermione and Arthur. He loved these trips. He’d been worried about leaving Hogwarts, especially after his best friends moved to America. He thought he’d be alone. Instead he had something of a family. Not enough for Molly, of course, who often asked when he’d find a wife.

“Or a husband, dear, it’s all the same,” she’d say, hand patting his shoulder. “I just want you to have someone special around.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Harry assured her. Secretly, he was tempted to let her to find out by accident— harmless revenge for her prying. But even if he’d had the heart to do such a thing, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get married. The Dursleys were incapable of love; his parents for killed for it. What if he was bad at being a parent? What if something happened to him, and the child grew up alone? Would he ever find someone who wanted to spend their life with him— someone he felt secure with?

Some months into Hermione’s training, she noted that she’d connected with Draco. He was living in Salem, where he curated ingredients for the local wizard marketplace. His aptitude quickly led to an additional job: adjunct professor of potions at Ilvermorny. Seamus Finnigan was the Flying Instructor there. He quite delighted in the Irish heritage present in Massachusetts. The two had formed an unlikely friendship. More unlikely, however, was the working relationship that formed between Draco and Hermione.

She relayed all this to Harry via owl. Her revelation came as a shock to Harry. Several conflicting thoughts ran through his mind: Why would she ever work with Malfoy? Wait, I don’t hate him anymore. But it’s not like she ever spent time with him— I thought she still hated him. How is Ron taking this? How can she be so casual?  His fevered thoughts culminated in the memory of Draco hugging his after graduation. He scrawled off a note:

Hermione,

Do you mind if I apparate over this weekend? Would love to visit you and Ron.

Intercontinental owl post was a bitch to deal with. It was nearly Saturday by the time he received her affirmative reply.

***

Harry was bursting with questions when he arrived, but he waited until he could get Hermione alone.

“Are you all right there, Harry?” Ron asked. He scooped up Minerva, who snuggled into her father’s neck. “Let me make you dinner. You look restless— have you been getting enough air?”

Harry stood to hug Ron. His paternal instincts were adorable— moving, even. He was like a scrawny, tall Molly already. After the embrace, Harry looked through tears of joy at his friend. Ron looked back, entirely befuddled.

“Okay,” said Ron. “You’re kind of acting like Hermione when she was pregnant. If you’re feeling like her, too, I’d better get started on dinner.”

Hermione looked up from her anatomy textbook, one eyebrow raised, smirking at her husband.

“It’s a bit early for dinner. Go walk Minnie around the park, if you don’t mind; I’ll make Harry some tea.”

Satisfied, he strapped Minerva into her stroller and pulled out his wand.

“Solis praesidio.” He looked over at Harry, smiling proudly. “It’s like sunblock, but it lasts all day. Amazing, right?” He face glowed with far more passion than he’d ever shown for a subject at school. After several tangents on the art raising children— “lately Ethel O’Marra’s books are in style, but I just think Emily Yuri has the better perspective, couldn’t live without the spells of the month in Magical Dads either”—  Ron departed.

“He’s really found his calling, has’t he?” Harry asked.

Hermione set down steaming mugs of black tea between them.

“I always knew he’d be an amazing dad. One of the things I love about him.”

“Granted, I didn’t have a vested interest in it, but that never occurred to me.”

Hermione gave a warm, wise smile.

“Not to brag—” She smiled at the irony. She didn’t mind bragging; it was underrated. “Or yes, to brag: I have a knack for reading people.”

Finally; an in for Harry. For some reason, her vague aside about Draco had been on in his mind all week.

“Speaking of that—”

“Draco. Yes.”

“I wasn’t going to—“

“Oh? What were you going to say?”

Harry sat dumb, brainstorming excuses.

“So,” Hermione continued, “Draco. As I said, he’s a buyer for some of the shops around here. Of course, he’s a veritable expert on potions— a natural consultant on the subject.”

“Malfoy as a freelancer… it doesn’t seem to fit him, somehow.” Because Malfoys don’t work, he thought. “And he’s a professor, too?”

“Adjunct. He’s planning on resettling in London at some point.”

“Why be here at all, then?” I’d also pictured him living in Malfoy Manor. Wait, why do I have so many opinions on Malfoy?

“I think he just wants to get away from his family. His past, to an extent. His title, certainly. America’s not as interested in lineage. You don’t find muggles saying they’re one-thousandth in line for the throne, and you don’t find wizards marching about with impunity.”

“A curator for wizard shops— I suppose he travels a lot.”

��Some. Often he’ll find something important in the muggle shops around here.”

“How?”

“Well, Salem has a bit of a history, you know, if you bothered to listen to Binns—”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, a lot of muggles were killed for being witches. They blamed everything on witchcraft. Mainly, it was women who were a bit different that paid the price. Hundreds of years later, people interested in wizardry gravitate here. It seems dark, I suppose. Maybe it’s defiance of evil.” Harry could relate to that, at least. “So, one can find useful ingredients in their stores, if one really knows what they’re used for. Generally, it’s muggles who own and frequent the shops, tourists and the like, muggle witches. Real wizards go to Sarah Wildes Square.”

“Muggle witches?”

“It’s an oxymoron, I know, but it fits. People without wizarding blood who perform spells. I don’t know much about them.”

“I just can’t picture Draco Malfoy in a muggle establishment.” The part of Harry who still resented him suppressed a grin at the image of Malfoy tucked between tourists, looking deeply awkward.

“Oh, he’s completely changed. Dated a muggle witch who owned one of the shops, even. Didn’t work out. He dates a lot.”

Harry had no idea why the top of his ears turned hot.

“Well, I can picture him being a bit of a playboy.”

“Don’t be rude. He just didn’t feel comfortable with a muggle. Had to reverse any enchantments in his flat when she visited.”

“Or he’s just biding his time, holding out for a pure-blood,” he jeered. “Be a bit hard to find anyone with as long a pedigree as the Malfoys.”

“You’re awfully full of criticism today. You seemed to really take to him in eighth year. Anyway, he had a bit of a thing going with a professor. He came from a long line of medicine men, and they didn’t work out either.”

Harry felt a peculiar sense of comfort at this. Hermione studied Harry carefully, taking a long sip of her tea.

“Getting here must have been awfully last-minute for you. Intercontinental owl and all. You know they have cormorants do part of the trip? Come again next weekend. You two should reconnect.”

“I don’t know about that,” Harry said, sitting up stiffly, “but I’ll visit you and Ron. Have you told him about working with Malfoy?”

“Harry! He’s my husband! Of course I told him.”

At this point, two redheads burst into the flat.

“She’s asleep,” Ron shared. He gingerly carried Minnie into the nursery. When he emerged, he sat with them, conjuring up his own mug of tea. “What is it you told me?”

“Working with Malfoy.”

“Right,” Ron said. “We bumped into him on Wildes. I wanted to snub him, personally, but I remembered how nice you were to him after the war. Hermione’s been sharing chemical compounds of muggle medicines with him. He whips up similar potions, tries to mimic their effects. Maybe Healers could use them.”

“I don’t really get what the point is,” Harry admitted. “Wizards can literally ’stopper death.’ What’s the point?”

“Well,” Hermione said, “have you ever heard of a wizard being treated for mental illness?”

***

Work was particularly exhausting that week. There was a rash of raids— all dumb kids who romanticized Voldemort’s reign. It disgusted Harry. He wished they knew what being a Death Eater really meant.

Between the adrenaline of the raids, the late hours completing paperwork, and his frustration at those who dabbled in the dark arts, Harry felt almost sick. Impatient for a change of scenery, he decided to leave London a bit earlier than expected. He doubted this would trouble his friends terribly— and anyway, he couldn’t exactly ask for their permission. After work wrapped up on Friday, he scrubbed the week off of him and apparated.

He was greeted by a crackling fire, the warmth of which was instantly soothing. There was a domestic peace in Ron and Hermione’s apartment— a sense of love he couldn’t replicate in his own solitary flat. He slowly took in his surroundings, all illuminated in shades of orange: Hermione, still in her scrubs, sat deep in thought over a table littered with diagrams. Toys were strewn about the floor between her and an old, worn leather chair. In it, a man with unmistakable platinum hair flipped through a portfolio.

“Draco.”

He turned upon hearing his name, and looked quite surprised by the source.

“Harry.”

“Well, sit down,” Hermione piped up. “We’re examining flaws in a new antidepressant. Draco feels they might be remedied by replacing certain elements with mandrake seeds. Perhaps it’ll interest you—”

But the reverie remained intact. Harry stood fixated, staring into the eyes of the equally motionless man before him. Draco’s face was hypnotic. His eyes were as expressive as always. His mood would forever be transparent to any who cared to look at them closely enough. His cheekbones stood high and pronounced. All of his features, in fact, seemed to derive their attractiveness from their very severity. As if to illustrate this, his pale skin stood contrasted against black robes. Even the way he sat was elegant— so much so that Harry suspected his posture was affected, but did not mind one bit.

A shrill beeping broke out. Hermione removed a pager from her scrubs pocket.

“I have to go,” she said. There must be an interesting case at the hospital. I’ll probably be back late.”

Harry followed her onto the stairwell.

“What am I supposed to do with Malfoy?” he hissed.

“Perhaps you should have anticipated an awkward arrival,” she replied, “as you’re here early.”

“I’m sorry, truthfully, but how could I have warned you?”

“I’m a student at a muggle university, Harry, I have the internet.”

“Are muggles still using that?!” said the 1980 baby incredulously. “And what was the business about cormorants, then…?”

Ron opened a door at the bottom of the steps, head down and garment bag in tow.

“I’ve just dropped Minnie at the neighbor’s. I have your dress here. Did he come? This wasn’t the easiest reservation to get—” Ron squinted up the dark stairwell. “Oh hey there, Harry.”

“You planned this,” Harry accused in a hushed tone. “But why? And also, how?”

“Divination’s not so useless after all,” Hermione said. “Lock the door on your way out.”

She ran down the steps. Harry wondered if she’d answered his last question, or both.

He took a deep breath and stepped back inside. Malfoy was packing his things, his robes swirling around him.

“Suppose we’re done for the night, then.” Draco looked awfully sheepish— a holdover from their last year at Hogwarts. “Are you staying here? Should we leave a note for Ron, saying where Hermione is?”

So he was oblivious, too— of course he was. Hug of gratitude or not, he didn’t likely wish to be trapped with his former enemy.

Well, thought Harry, that’s too bad for him. I will not spend tomorrow being lectured about divination from Hermione of all people.

“I’m starving,” Harry said truthfully, “and I don’t know Wildes Square too well. I also get the feeling I’m not precisely welcome here until tomorrow. I’m not honestly sure what the night holds for me.”

“We never do,” Malfoy remarked, slinging a bag over his shoulder. Come with me. I have an extra room.”

***

He never went so long without seeing Malfoy again. At first, they would only meet during Harry’s occasional trips to Cambridge. There, he would watch Draco’s face in the firelight, stern with thought as he consulted with Hermione. They’d meet up for a meal or two, joke about their respective colleagues. One weekend when Minnie was teething, Harry showed up at Draco’s, practically begging for a reprieve from the crying. They holed up together, watching movies and talking about nothing. When night fell, it seemed stupid to move from Draco’s bed to the guest bedroom. So, he didn’t. They didn’t do anything, per se; just cuddled a bit as they fell asleep.

Draco began to visit London a night or two each week. He’d listen patiently as Harry ranted about work. Draco never broke eye contact. He looked at Harry with empathy when he complained of stress, agreement when he said it was all worth it, and pride when he brought dark wizards to justice. Harry didn’t want to get his hopes up, but sometimes Draco seemed to look at him with affection, attraction, even love. If nothing else, at least he had someone to fall asleep next to.

Then one snowy day, as they laughed madly at inside jokes outside Harry’s flat, Draco put his gloved hands over Harry’s cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss. When his head stopped reeling, he decided he never wanted to be without Draco. Draco, for his part, agreed.

A few weeks into their relationship, it became clear why Draco had trouble remaining close to people. Some nights he’d lie awake for hours, sweating through bedsheets, struggling to breathe. Sometimes he pushed Harry away, staying at his own place in America for days without visiting. Other times he flew into a panic when Harry left, as if he’d never see him again. Fortunately, Draco didn’t hesitate to talk when he was calm. The details spilled out of him. He’d been waiting ages, he said, for someone to listen without judgment or an ulterior motive.

He detailed everything: how he sometimes felt as though he were back in Malfoy Manor, with Voldemort lurking around. How his heart raced so badly he sometimes thought he might die. How a simple word or object could make him feel as though he were back in the War.

There were some things Draco couldn’t quite elucidate. Harry noticed them anyway. Draco seemed to bathe a lot— often several times a day. One night, Harry drifted off to sleep, lulled by the spray of the shower. When he awoke three hours later, it was still running.

“Draco? Are you okay?”

He opened the door to the bathroom, to find it was pitch black inside. Draco knelt on the shower floor, head against the wall, barely awake. Under the ice-cold spray, he scrubbed one forearm again and again. Harry grabbed the biggest, warmest towel he could find, walked Draco to bed, and held him under the covers until his shivers turned to sleep.

Draco healed over time. He kept busy with Hermione, who doubled as a counselor of sorts (“Utter conflict of interest, of course, we simply must train wizard therapists when we get the chance.”) While much of his improvement was due to meetings with Hermione, journaling, and other methods he’d undertaken on his own, he never hesitated to remind Harry that he was his saviour in more ways than one.

Five years later, things had fallen into place for the class of 1999. Hermione finished medical school, and completed a residency in psychiatry. She and Ron moved back to England, where Hermione’s theories attracted a great deal of interest.

“I worry that Minnie will never lose her American accent,” Ron griped, “but I love her anyway.”

Seamus continued teaching at Ilvermorny, eventually striking up a romance with Marcus Flint.

Luna ran an independent newspaper from her home in the countryside. Neville gained renown as an herbology scholar. They had children early and often, each equal parts whimsical and brave.

Draco had just finished his arrangements to open an apothecary on Diagon Alley, where Hermione’s findings were sure to make the business a success. Draco flipped through his business plan, lying in bed next to Harry.

“I guess you’ll be needing a place to stay,” Harry said, “now that you’re returning to London.”

“Sure, I’m just about to close on a house.” Draco shared this so casually it made Harry’s mouth drop.

“That’s nonsense! You should stay with me,” Harry said.

“Bit last-minute of you, but I can’t complain. If it hadn’t been for that trait of yours, plus the ingenuity of a certain mutual friend, I suppose we wouldn’t be together. But yes, of course you’ll be living with me.”

Harry grinned, and swept Malfoy onto him, papers flying everywhere.

“Excuse you,” said Malfoy playfully, “I was reading that.”

“Shut up. You bought us a house? That’s adorable.”

“It has a few extra rooms. You know, if you decide to have little mussy-haired Potters running around.”

“I can’t think of anything better. Since you’re such an avid planner, I suppose you’ve thought of names for them?”

Malfoy turned serious for a moment, stroking Harry’s hair.

“I think I’d like to honor my mentor,” he shared. “Name my son Severus.”

“I like that idea,” Harry said. “It’s a wonderful way to honor a mentor. Of course, that means we’ll be naming him Albus.”

“I’m sure we’ll come up with a compromise.” Draco leaned in to meet Harry’s lips, pressing his chest onto his. “Building a life together. It’s so beautiful— doing all the things my parents never did for me.”

Harry remembered the trepidations he’d felt years before. He tried to stuff his concerns down, enjoy this time of transition. However, it didn’t feel the same.

***

“You should see the house,” Draco said the next morning, “now that I know you’re definitely in.”“I’m really not particular,” Harry said. He had a strong premonition they’d have this very conversation several times, once they got around to planning a wedding. “It’s a house,” Draco said. “Kind of a momentous purchase. You should at least see it— make sure you like it.”“All right, but I’m sure it’s perfect. I’ll only go because I’m excited to move in.” Even if I’m also seriously overanalyzing the risks, he added silently.

The house was surprisingly cozy. Harry had thought Malfoy would gravitate towards a sprawling estate, all perfectly finished mahogany and velvet drapes. Sure, it was elegant, but it was also somewhere Harry could feel comfortable.

There was just one thing. In the front hall, below the staircase, there was a cupboard.

He’d been unable to take his eyes off it while Draco conversed with the real estate agent. It seemed to pose a threat of some kind— as if looking away would somehow be disastrous. He felt his robes were moving with the force of his heartbeat. He hoped no one noticed. Stepping out of the house, he was able to breathe easily again.

“Are you all right?” Draco asked. “You’re sure the house is okay?”

“Yes,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “It’s perfect.”

During one his Salem trips, Harry had gone to a muggle museum about the witch trials. One room was filled with statues, each of which lit up with accompanying audio. One of the few men executed was depicted. He had been crushed to death, rocks piled high atop of his chest. Beneath layers of boulders, the man let out a tortured groan: “More… weight…”

Harry felt he had a rock on his chest whenever Draco shared news about their soon-to-be home. He didn’t dare say anything about it. He was supposed to be the one who protected Draco— not the other way around. What if his newfound vulnerability ruined Harry for Draco? Or worse, what if Draco regressed as a result of Harry’s own traumatized state? He was angry at himself, at the Dursleys, at life— it wasn’t fair. What had he done to deserve these feelings? He should be able to live in a world with cupboards under stairs without falling apart.

Within months, the house was ready. This time, Harry wouldn’t look at the cupboard. It was, it occurred to him, not unlike Draco and his Dark Mark. Except these days, he didn’t ignore it as much. Sometimes Harry found Draco actually peering directly at it. The first time, he’d felt sure this was a problem.

“Hey,” Harry had said, stepping towards him and gingerly cupping his shoulder. “It’s okay.” To his surprise, Draco had looked back at him and smiled.

“I know,” he said. “Hermione taught me about this thing— immersion therapy. When you’re in a decent emotional state, you immerse yourself in the memories that bother you. It gets easier to deal with over time.”

Maybe that was all Harry needed. Unpacking that first day at home, he intermittently stared at it or avoided the sight. He didn’t feel as bad as he had prior. Maybe it was working.

But that night when Draco touched his neck, Harry pushed him away with more force than he’d meant to.

“Whoa, okay. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what’s up with me.”

“Just tired, maybe? You know, you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” Harry lied.

It went on like this for some time. The fact that things were slow at work somehow made Harry’s anxiety worse. The less actual problems he had, the more the past seemed to creep into his consciousness.

They held a housewarming party. Molly arrived early to help set up.

“It’s such a lovely home, dear, but it feels awfully empty without children…”

“Oh my god,” Ron whispered over his tea. “Ignore her. We have three now and she still asks when she’ll get another baby to coddle…”

Neville brought them a houseplant heavy with red and violet blooms.

“It’s pretty, of course, but it also has medicinal properties. Congratulations on your apothecary. Let me know if you need help with supply.”

“Thank you, Neville,” replied Draco, as if anyone could have predicted such a civil conversation between them in their younger years. “I definitely will.”

Neville beamed proudly. For all his maturity, he still seemed to marvel at acceptance. Luna, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about it.

“You worked at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, right?” she asked Hermione.

“Yes, I did my residency there.”

“I’ve been there. The campus is pretty, but it’s roving with vampires.”

Seamus and Marcus made an appearance as well.

“I would have liked for us to cause a scandal,” Seamus said. “House rivalry and all. Of course, you blokes had to go and ruin that for us,” he added with a wink.

When they’d gone, Harry turned to whisper to Draco.

“I honestly thought Marcus and Wood would be a thing.”

“They were,” Draco whispered back.

A couple walked into the kitchen, at first a blur of dark robes and platinum hair. This time, however, the sight was not a happy one for Harry.

Harry shot Draco a venomous look before greeting their guests.

“Lucius! Narcissa! It’s… a pleasure.”

Lucius looked less happy than Harry was.

“Well, congratulations on this… lovely home,” the elder man said, placing a glass-encased Hand of Glory on the center island.

Draco, having long ago learned of Harry’s Knockturn Alley misadventure, shot Harry a hopeful smile. It went unreturned.

“We’re just so proud of you boys,” Narcissa said, laying her own hand on Harry’s chest. Sense memory cheered him up somewhat.

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully.

The couple left mercifully early. Harry immediately pulled Draco into an empty room.

“Why were your parents here?”

“Are you serious? I’m a small business owner. You think I bought this thing on my own?”

Harry bristled at his own stupidity, but continued to direct his anger elsewhere.

“You couldn’t have told me?”

“It really never occurred to me that you wouldn’t assume for yourself. Besides, I don’t want to talk about them more than I have to.” He looked disappointedly at Harry and sighed. “Honestly, I get it, and I’ll tell you if I invite them to something in the future. But really, how could you think that was harder for you than it was for me?” He left the room. Harry stood in the dark for awhile, guilt and self-loathing now mingling with his anger and panic.

He bluffed his way through the rest of the evening, thanking guests for coming and putting on a brave face. When only he and Draco remained, they proceeded wordlessly towards the staircase to retire. Then, Harry turned to the cupboard— and proceeded to slump unto the floor.

Draco knelt beside him, calmly assessing the situation. Harry’s eyes were fixed on something far in the distance— something Draco couldn’t see.

“Can I touch you?” Draco had learned this habit from their first night at the house.

Harry tried to speak, but failed for lack of breath. Through no small effort, he managed to nod. Draco locked his arms beneath Harry’s, walked him up the stairs, and lay him down on their bed. After disappearing for a moment, he reemerged with a small vial of pink liquid. Upon being uncorked, a tuft of smoke curled up. It smelled of lilacs and chamomile.

“It’s kind of like Muggle Valium,” Draco said, “with a hint of a beta blocker. Basically, it will slow your heart down, and make your anxiety a bit more manageable.”

Harry took the vial and drank it. To a small degree, his panic subsided.

“It’s certainly fast,” he remarked.

“One of the many ways magic improves upon muggle medicine. What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The Dursleys.”

Draco nodded; he had a fair degree of understanding, but not enough to make the connection.

“Before I went to Hogwarts— before they felt they were being watched— they made me live in a cupboard under the stairs.” He rambled on for awhile, paused, and added: “I don’t want to be a bother to you.”

To his horror, Draco laughed.

“It isn’t funny.”

“The situation isn’t, I’m sorry, but that is.” Draco ran a hand through Harry’s still-damp hair. “Why would you be a bother to me? I want to help you.”

“But I’m supposed to help you.”

Draco laughed again, and gently pulled Harry’s head to face his.

“That’s what love is, idiot. Being strong when the other person is weak.”

Harry took Draco into his arms. He felt he would never fall asleep— his heart still raced, albeit less so than before— but when he did become calm, he was exhausted. When he awoke, bright afternoon sunlight streamed unto the empty bed.

He found Draco downstairs, wand in hand, looking satisfied with himself. In front of him, the staircase stood sans cupboard.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked. “Shouldn’t I learn to live with it?”

“There are some things we can’t avoid,” Draco said. “Scars, for example. We both know a little about that. Memories. Life in general. Cupboards under stairs? Personally, I find them tacky.”

Harry laughed harder than he had in months. He embraced Draco, who met him with a deep kiss.

“Draco— you’re amazing,” he said.

“I know. And if you try to be Strong Mr. Saint Potter again, I swear to god I may hex you.”

Harry nuzzled into Draco’s neck.

“I do believe you’ll make good on that threat. I wish I could be as vulnerable as you, and honestly, I’ll try to be more open about the things that scare me. But they’re just that: fears. Promise you won’t take them as me not wanting a future with you, okay?”

Draco nipped at Harry’s earlobe.

“How could I make such a foolish mistake? I’m amazing.”