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“There were photos,” Draco said, though Harry couldn’t help but notice the color that came to his cheeks as he spoke.
“Not as good,” Harry replied. “Besides, they don’t look like you do now.”
“Yeah? Is how I look now better or worse?” Draco sneered, although Harry could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
“Is that even a question? Have you seen you?”
“I don’t think I look all that different,” Draco shrugged.
Harry knew he had brought this conversation upon himself, but he felt he was getting too close to saying too much. He stood up, pacing between their two armchairs. When his back was to Draco he spoke.
“You look—I keep telling myself you must be a ghost. Or some extremely interactive Mirror of Erised-esque vision. I keep telling myself the next time I turn around, you’ll be gone. Or I’ll be having a moment of lucidity in whatever St. Mungo’s bed I’m currently strapped into,” Harry rambled, turning to find Draco had also stood from his seat.
“So I look like a ghost?” Draco said, approaching Harry slowly.
“No, that’s not what I meant. I mean, you’re pale, but—” Harry trailed off again as Draco took his arm by the wrist.
Draco took Harry’s hand and placed it on his chest.
“You’re hand doesn’t go through, does it?” Draco asked, his voice impossibly soft.
“No,” Harry whispered. Draco’s sweater was thinner than he expected, and he could feel the heat from his body bleeding through against his hand.
Draco placed his other hand over Harry’s, pressing it against his chest harder.
“And I’ve a heartbeat, don’t I?” Draco asked.
“Yes.”
“Do I feel like a ghost, Potter?”
Harry shook his head in the negative.
“And what about a vision?” Draco asked, studying Harry carefully. “Is this that you’d see in the Mirror?”
Draco’s tone was flippant, but Harry could see in his eyes that he wanted. He wanted the answer to be yes, he wanted to be the thing Harry longed for most in the world. And of course the answer was yes, but old habits die hard and he wasn’t giving Draco any easy victories, no matter how small.
“No,” he said, pausing, and Draco’s shoulders fell, only slightly, before he composed himself, a bit more guarded than before.
“Then I’m not a vision, obviously,” he said, his voice tight around his nonchalance.
“If this were the Mirror, you’d be shorter,” Harry said.
Draco snorted, the tension falling from him.
“What? If I were having to conjure you up from memory, do you really think I’d give you this many advantages? The height, the hair, the—” Harry trailed off, and in a mad moment of bravery, ran a finger along Draco’s cheekbone. Those hadn’t changed much in the time since he’d last seen him, but they were still beautiful, and unfairly so. “I think I’d imagine you more in my league.”
“As if I ever was,” Draco smiled, pressing his cheek into Harry’s hand.
Harry paused, seeing himself as if from the outside, one hand on Draco’s chest, the other on his cheek, and he was struck with the improbability of this very moment ever being real. And yet it was.
“What are we doing?” Harry whispered, his eyes darting from Draco’s eyes down to his lips.
“Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly where this was going the moment you brought up the bloody album.”
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted it to go there, still,” Harry replied.
“Harry, it’s all I’ve wanted since I was eleven years old,” Draco said, ducking his head and bringing his lips to meet Harry’s in one swift movement.
Harry’s breath caught as they kissed, relishing the moment that seemed to last forever and not long enough all at once.
“Eleven?” Harry asked when Draco pulled away. “You sure had a funny way of showing it.”
“You’re all I ever wanted, Harry. I was terrified of that want, I was terrified of you.”
“You were much scarier than I ever was,” Harry breathed.
“You were almost like…an entity. An idol. You were bigger than all of us. And somehow, I was the unlucky dunce that went and fell in love with you,” Draco replied.
“Unlucky?” Harry asked raising an eyebrow.
“Unlucky that it was you that I feel for when I am who I am. Who I was. Lucius Malfoy’s son in love with the Boy Who Lived? He would have torn me apart. More than he already did,” Draco explained.
“I guess that is pretty unlucky,” Harry agreed. He could feel his whole body tense at the mention of Draco’s father, but decided not to comment any further. Draco knew how he felt about his father. His own sentiments probably weren’t too far off from Harry’s.
“It had a way of working itself out, apparently,” Draco smiled at him, touching Harry’s hand that still rest on upon his cheek.
“Don’t get all mushy and start talking about fate and all that kind of stuff,” Harry laughed.
“Don’t tell me you, of all people, don’t believe in fate. You’re a living prophecy.”
“It could have been anyone. Voldemort decided it was me. Not fate,” Harry said.
Draco shook his head.
“Whatever, Potter. You’re the one that brought fate up. But maybe now I’ll say it was fate that brought us here, just to annoy you.”
“Wouldn’t that be just like you,” Harry answered.
“Wouldn’t it be?”
Epilogue
“Uncle Harry!”
Rose ran up the walk of Grimmauld Place, tripping over her toes when she got to the steps. Harry smiled as the toddler clambered up the stairs, picking her up and hugging her when she reached the door.
“How are you, Rosie?” he asked.
