Chapter Text
The tiny home is finished in late Autumn. By the time they put the last touches to it—painting and decorating, placing the furniture, moving in their belongings (including a significantly Shrunken version of Draco’s expansive wardrobe)—snow is threatening to fall over the valley, the crisp smell of it thick in the air, the bared tree branches stark and black against a sky covered in a blanket of grey cloud.
They’re living in it already by then, of course, but it feels good to put the last fork in the kitchen drawer, the last book on the mounted shelves in the living room, to hang the string lights above the bed in the large sleeping nook that’s been built into an impressive maisonette overhead.
The shower, of course, has to be protected by magic in these months in order to be able to use it, but Harry doesn’t mind. It’s worth it, to be able to see Ron and Draco crowd underneath the vines and the spray of water, to join them there where soaped-up hands wander and where lazy, morning kisses are shared. Sometimes, one of them will take a bath instead, and on one memorable early October evening, the three of them try to take one at once, water sluicing all over the place, Draco swearing loudly, Ron laughing louder, Harry giving in and extending the tub with magic.
The Manor hasn’t been touched in months. Not since they found Draco there, at the foot of the stairs. Some of the retrieved household objects live with them now: the plants placed neatly in the living room and kitchen, the pots and pans set up on the hob.
The broken chair had ended up in a bonfire up on the hill.
Draco has a garden out front; a neat thing, with a trellis along the side of the house for vines and other crawling plants. Each window has a box plant, filled abundantly with herbs and flowers, blues and purples and pinks and yellows. There’s a vegetable patch, all of it charmed to survive winter. And it does, and it looks odd, here in this Muggle clearing, blooming wildly and blossoming with life in the dead of December, but it works.
It works for them.
They don’t say goodbye to each other anymore. At least, not the kind of goodbye that leaves things unanswered. When Draco leaves for work in the mornings, he’ll kiss both Ron and Harry in turn, and he’ll bring them home cake not just on the first Monday of every month, but every Monday. They eat it after dinner, on their laps in the living room, or outside at their picnic bench, and after, they’ll turn the wood burner on and get under blankets on the couch, Harry with his head in Ron’s lap, or Draco with his head in Harry’s.
They kiss each other. A lot.
They have sex. A lot.
Harry doesn’t think it’s ever been this good—and it’s not just the physicality of it, of getting to have Ron, of getting to have Draco, of feeling them on top of him, underneath him, beside him.
It’s the overspilling warmth, and rightness, and love, that flows so easily between them.
And they are; in love, that is. They tell each other softly, occasionally; they show each other fiercely, often.
They fall asleep together almost every night; tangled and warm, in a safe space that feels like their own, free from fleetingness, from goodbyes, from anything or anyone else trying to push between their roots.
Home, and whole, at last.