Chapter Text
“Was it really so terrible?” asks Hermione.
“Yes,” murmurs Harry, not bothering to lift his head from his hands.
He has a vague awareness of Ron picking the food from his plate. That’s fine.
“Come on mate, it can’t have been as bad as that time when-“
“Whatever you’re going to say.” Harry doesn’t even look at them. “Please do not.”
Hermione turns to Ron. “Remember that one who wore the t-shirt with Harry’s face on it?”
“And that guy who didn’t speak throughout the whole meal…”
“The one who brought his parents…”
“-licked his face instead of-“
“-insisted Harry speak parseltongue during-“
“THE ONE WITH THE SONG!”
“Oh my god I forgot about the song!”
Utter betrayal. That’s what this is. Harry lifts his head and scowls at his so-called friends.
“How did it go again?” Ron asks.
“Oh, um…” Hermione starts clicking her fingers, face screwed up trying to remember, “…something, something man with a scar...”
“Yes!” Ron exclaims, and then with a hand over his heart, his face brooding, starts to sing, “I’ve lost my heart to the man with a scar, I’ll always find you wherever you aaaare...”
Harry groans and sinks his face back into his hands. The song. He glares at his friends through splayed fingers and sighs. Ron is singing fragmented parts of the song and making up parts he can’t remember as he serenades Hermione, who is red-faced and trying to catch a breath between fits of giggles. It hadn’t been that bad, Harry thought, although he should have known something was up when the guy had turned up to the restaurant carrying a lute.
A fucking lute.
“Yes, alright, thank you, that’s quite enough.” Harry says eventually, lifting his head and trying his very best to look cross.
“S-sorry Harry…” Hermione says, wiping the tears from her face as Ron eventually stops singing.
She doesn’t look sorry though, Harry notes, neither of them bloody do. And then he feels his mouth tugging mutinously into an embarrassed grin which sets all three of them off again. His laugh only starts to falter when a familiar shock of white-blond hair enters his peripheral vision and moves swiftly behind his friends. Practically glides. Like a bloody swan.
It’s not like it was unusual to see Draco Malfoy in the canteen, or anywhere in the ministry really - he worked there, just like Harry. In the beginning, they had even engaged in some pretty scintillating smalltalk like did you see Shacklebolt’s memo? Puddlemere are having a good season and it’s supposed to rain today. It was Malfoy’s contract work with the DMLE Auror Training Programme that changed things between them. The trainees and new recruits absolutely adored him and his ‘cool-as-fuck’ inventions. They always seemed to try a bit harder whenever Malfoy was present for one of Harry’s training sessions and it was difficult not to get caught up in that. Harry supposed he should’ve been a bit annoyed or jealous about this, but he decided he just couldn’t be bothered when everyone was working so hard, and especially when Malfoy bumped their shoulders together with a soft smile. Sometimes he leant into Harry for a few seconds longer than was strictly necessary to look at his clipboard or murmur his thoughts about one of the trainees in Harry’s ear. Once he’d even corrected Harry’s duelling stance, practically manhandling him into a ‘position much more suiting to a Wizarding gentleman’, and Harry couldn’t help but feel pleased by the pinkish hue to Malfoy’s skin immediately afterwards.
So if Harry found himself looking forward to those training sessions that Malfoy came along to, or found excuses to visit Malfoy in his laboratory, or just so happened to have lunch at the same time as Malfoy, then that was Harry’s business.
Looking over at him now, Harry wonders if Malfoy has much dating trouble, if he’s ever been sung to.
“We just need to find you someone who doesn’t think you’re the best thing since sliced bread,” says Hermione, snapping Harry’s attention back to the table.
“What do you mean?” Asks Harry, as Ron mutters ‘sliced bread?’
“I mean, if you keep going on dates with people who are in awe of you, they’re bound to be bloody weird.”
“So what should he do then? Go out with someone who doesn’t like him?” Asks Ron.
Hermione nods sharply. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“But everyone likes Harry.”
Not everyone, Harry thinks, trying desperately not to look at Malfoy, not like that.
“I mean,” she says again, “someone who isn’t all swoony and…and…’oh be still my beating heart, the Chosen One is taking me for the Potter Special: a pint of wanky, pretentious local ale’. I’m surprised you even say yes to these people Harry, it’s like you’re deliberately going out of your way to have horrible dates.” Hermione chews her sandwich thoughtfully as she looks at him. “But that just seems a bit silly.”
Mhm, mhm, yes, very silly.
Harry just nods.
“Someone who doesn’t like Harry…” says Ron, oblivious to the exchange that has occurred, “Someone like…”
Harry watches his friend search the cafeteria, as if this imaginary not-a-Potter-fan will pop up out of the ground from Ron’s sheer force of will. This enables Harry to get another good look at Malfoy, sitting alone, eating a peach and turning the page of his book. How he’s able to eat it so perfectly Harry doesn’t know, and feels his brows knit together with irritation as he watches Malfoy take another delicate bite. Harry’s peach was too ripe, too sweet, the juice dripping messily down his chin before he gave up and handed it over to Ron.
“Someone like Malfoy, for instance,” Ron supplies.
“What?!” Harry scoffs, throwing an alarmed glance at the man in question before lowering his voice. “I can’t go out with Malfoy!”
Ron rolls his eyes. “No. Obviously not.”
The three of them glance quickly over at Malfoy who has apparently not heard them, thank Merlin. Although...he does appear to be holding himself a little more stiff and upright than usual, his spine ramrod straight. Hard to tell though, Malfoy has never exactly been the laid back type. Unbidden, an image of a messy-haired Malfoy, running a hand back through his hair flashes through his mind that Harry quickly blinks away.
“He’s not...terrible-looking now though,” Ron muses.
Hermione snorts.
“What?” Ron looks defensive before giving her a rather pointed look. “He isn’t. And we have to think about these things, ‘mione. We have to consider the attractiveness of men. For our friend, our best friend who fancies men. I assume Harry would like to be with someone…y’know, not unattractive.”
Hermione shakes her head at Ron and turns her attention back to Harry.
“I might actually have someone for you,” she says, “if you’re interested. He's ever so nice, a bit quiet but lovely when you get to know him, he’s cute, and he’s never seemed phased by the fact that you’re a bit famous.”
“Pfft, that’s what they want you to think,” replies Ron knowingly.
“Will’s not like that, if anything he seems empa-’
“Will? Not Boring Will from Magical Creatures?”
“He’s not boring, Ron, he’s just a bit qui-”
“He even made dragons seem boring ‘mione. Dragons. No, I cannot abide.” Ron waves a dismissive hand. “He doesn’t even like Quidditch. I’d rather Harry actually go out with Malfoy, even if he does support Puddlemere. ”
Hermione points a finger at Ron. “You’re really pushing this Malfoy thing. Are you sure you don’t want to go out with him?”
“At least it wouldn’t be boring.” Ron shrugged. “Sure, I’d always worry he’d be plotting my murder and where to hide my body, but he wouldn’t be so boring that I’d actively be wishing for it.”
Ignoring the discussion of poor Boring Will from Magical Creatures that erupts between his friends, Harry risks another furtive glance at Malfoy.
He has, secretly and for quite some time, thought of Malfoy as very ‘not unattractive’. He’s still slender but has filled out a bit since Hogwarts, particularly in the shoulders. And his hair isn’t slicked back severely anymore but cut into a more fashionable style with a slight quiff at the front. He’s still pale, but has enough colour in his face that makes his hair almost look white. Harry knows it’s got a little natural wave to it as well that he must spell into submission. He knows because one time he popped into Malfoy’s lab to find him all flustered and annoyed with what appeared to be an inanimate golden snitch. Pink-cheeked and hair ruffled, Malfoy hadn’t seen Harry standing by the door for a full glorious minute, Harry wondering what that lovely hair would feel like if he ran a hand through it, maybe tightening his fingers a little. Would Malfoy be into that?
And the other not-unattractive thing about Malfoy, which Harry has also shared with no-one, is that he hardly ever wears wizard robes anymore: whenever Harry sees him he’s always wearing these... shirts. They must be tailored or something because they seem to fit him really, really well. Harry should get shirts like that. He’d never keep them as pristine and pressed as Malfoy does though. But that’s just Malfoy: pristine and pressed and buttoned-up.
Practically begging to be undone, Harry thinks.
Thoughts of Malfoy’s not-unattractiveness need to stay buried in the recesses of Harry’s mind though, along with the shoulder-bumps and the soft smiles and the coffee visits and that one time he made Malfoy laugh so hard it had made Harry’s heart soar. That was the day Harry realised his feelings were more-than-friendly and more-than-purely-physical, that seeing Malfoy, being around him, had become the best part of Harry’s day. It frustrated him that he couldn’t even remember what had been so funny in the first place, because afterwards he found he wanted to make Malfoy laugh like that all the time. He remembered the way Malfoy’s head had landed on his shoulder as he shook with laughter. Harry had wanted to bury his face in the crook of Malfoy’s neck, just nuzzle against the bare skin there and breathe him in forever. Malfoy had squeezed Harry’s bicep as he’d straightened up, lifting his head, meeting his eyes as his fingers ran down the full length of Harry’s arm, lingering on the pulse point of his wrist
“You’re an idiot, Harry.” The affection and fondness laced through those words felt as if Malfoy had meant something else.
But then Malfoy was heading back to his lab as if nothing had happened, leaving Harry feeling oddly bereft with nothing but his stupid, sentimental little heart for company.
Harry allows himself to watch Malfoy for a little longer. He’s still working on that bloody peach. Harry’s eyes follow the stone fruit, held between thumb and forefinger, to a set of perfect white teeth biting into soft juicy flesh. It’s a bit annoying really.
How long does it take one man to eat a fucking peach?
As if hearing his thoughts, Malfoy looks up directly at him.
“I’ve got to go,” he says quickly, more to his now mostly empty plate – thanks to Ron – than his friends.
“Harry…?” Asks Hermione, her features pulling into one of concern, “About before, I hope we didn’t offend –“
“Nah!” he exclaims, a bit too loudly as he pushes his chair back, “I just remembered…I’ve got…paperwork and…things, important Auror things…deadline…”
He waves his hand vaguely in a gesture that might have been the swish-and-flick of wingardium leviosa and Hermione nods at him.
“Alright Harry. Let me know about Will, okay?” He knows she’s trying to sound casual, but there's an undercurrent of something else in the way she speaks to him. “When you’ve figured out what you want.”
***
The next day, there are more peaches in the canteen. Harry is in the lunch queue holding a tray that consists of a plate of greyish melange with orange bits that he suspects is supposed to be the ‘Shepherd’s Pie’ listed on the lunch board. He spots the wire basket of peaches near the till and scowls. He’s already noticed Malfoy several people behind him in the queue, empty tray in hand, eyeing up the melange on offer with a wrinkled nose. Without thinking about it, Harry gives his hand a quick flourish and wandlessly vanishes the peaches. He pays for his food, noting with smug satisfaction that nobody has noticed they’re gone and takes a seat by himself.
When it’s Malfoy’s turn to pay for his food, Harry’s ears prick up at the sound of his laugh. It’s unexpected, gravelly and flirtatious, and Harry peers over to see that a good-looking wizard has come out of the kitchen to speak to him. He’s practically preening as Malfoy leans forward just enough to draw Harry’s gaze to his arse.
“Fuck,” says Harry, thinking of course that would have to be perfect too.
He already had the shirts to contend with, and that...oddly adorable wave to Malfoy’s hair that he’s daydreamed about more than once. But now there was this: a perfect, high, unusually rounded fucking peachy arse clad in form-fitting charcoal trousers that certainly left nothing to the imagination (which needn’t have mattered, as Harry’s imagination did perfectly fine on it’s own thank you very much). Malfoy is gesturing to the empty fruit basket and murmuring something Harry couldn’t make out and then the other man winks at him before scurrying off, returning moments later with an armful of peaches and handing Malfoy the biggest, peachiest-looking peach in the fucking pile.
Harry doesn’t need to stay here for this. He’s mostly finished the Shepherds Pie which he suspects is the root cause of the uncomfortable gurgling occurring in his belly and he really ought to get stuck into writing up the case report for that...case. But he is entitled to an hour for lunch, and Hermione is always telling him to take proper breaks so he remains seated, watching Malfoy walk to a table of his own. All he’s got for lunch is that bloody peach. Malfoy meets his eye for a second and smirks before promptly ignoring him.
Harry watches him eat the entire thing before heading back to his office.
The peaches continue to show up in the canteen and Harry continues to vanish them. Still, Malfoy always finds a way of getting one. One time Harry even went into the kitchens to get rid of them at the source, under the pretence of wanting to thank the hardworking staff, and was promptly kicked out by the very same wizard who was fawning all over Malfoy a few days before.
He must have a secret stash , Harry thinks. A secret stash just for Malfoy, who he obviously fancies! Trying to seduce him with fruit...what an absolute wanker.
So, Harry comes up with a plan. It’s early when he walks into the canteen and buys all of the peaches. He tells the po-faced flirting-with-Malfoy-wizard they’re for the trainee Aurors who have a session with him today and could he please help Harry take them to the training rooms? The DMLE would be exceptionally grateful, he adds with his most charming, most winning smile. The wizard-who-needs-to-keep-his-hands-off-Malfoy flutters his eyelashes and looks down, blushes a little bit.
Victory!
No more peaches, no more wizard tossing his affections about willy-nilly.
“I can help with that, Sebastian.”
Harry isn’t sure how long Malfoy has been standing next to him, but with a little huff he suspects it was right before the wizard from the kitchen - Sebastian, ugh, what a stupid fucking name - started blushing.
“Oh. You really don’t have to-“ Harry starts.
“Oh but I really must insist.” Malfoy cuts him off and his eyes are on Harry in an instant. “The peaches seem to have a way of just...disappearing lately, don’t they Sebastian?”
Harry doesn’t even care that Malfoy seems to have caught him out because today Malfoy’s shirt is the periwinkle blue, which happens to be Harry’s favourite. It’s open at the collar and it’s doing something to Malfoy’s skin - Malfoy’s neck - that is frankly pornographic. Harry licks his lips, finding it difficult to look away from the expanse of pale throat. His trousers are the same charcoal grey colour as the other day, still fitting Malfoy like a dream and Harry has to will himself not to hook his fingers in the belt loops and yank him forward.
“That’s okay, I can save you one, Draco.” Sebastian’s voice is dripping with a saccharine sweetness that irks Harry, and the over-familiarity of using Malfoy’s first name unsettles him further.
“Thank you, that is very kind.” Malfoy turns his attention to Sebastian and offers the man a broad smile. “But Auror Potter specifically requested all of the peaches, and who are we to deny him what he wants.”
Malfoy bumps their shoulders together, the way he always does in the training sessions, as Sebastian disappears with a frown to gather the peaches. Malfoy hasn’t bumped away, his arm is still pretty solidly pressed against Harry’s in a way that says...something. Maybe. Harry doesn’t know. Why hasn’t Malfoy pulled away? Should Harry? He feels like he ought to, if only for his sanity, if only to stop his heart fluttering in his chest like a trapped bird. Instead, Harry tilts the back of his hand to rest against Malfoy’s. The reaction is small: Malfoy stiffens, ever so slightly, and sucks in a breath before relaxing, his own hand pressing back against Harry’s.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
“You’re here early.”
“So are you.”
“I meant in the canteen.”
“Oh.”
“I’m in the training session today.”
“Right. Of course.”
“Did you forget?”
Yes. “Nope.”
“Have you been vanishing the peaches?”
Harry scoffs. “Have I what? Why would someone do that?” Why indeed? Harry doesn’t have a clue why he did it in the first place, why he’s carried on doing it. “They must just be...really popular.”
Something changes in Malfoy’s expression and Harry can see he’s trying very hard not to smile, trying not to laugh.
“You’re an idiot, Harry.”
Sebastian has returned levitating eleven - fucking eleven - boxes of peaches.
Harry lets out a very dramatic sigh. “So it would seem.”
Malfoy doesn’t help with the boxes at all. In fact, all he does is walk silently behind Harry all the way to the DMLE training rooms, with Sebastian trotting along happily at his side, chattering away and floating the eleven boxes of peaches that Harry is fairly certain he’s been overcharged for.
Harry huffs and starts setting down the hovering boxes. He does his best to ignore the way Sebastian is still gratuitously fussing over Malfoy, suggestively asking him if he wants a nicer peach, a juicier peach, a peach more akin to his liking.
“No, thank you.” Harry doesn’t ignore the way Malfoy’s tone has come out a little clipped. “What about you, Potter?”
“What about me?” Harry watches as Malfoy walks towards him, gestures to the nearest box and blinks innocently at him.
“Don’t you want one?”
“He doesn’t even like them,” mutters Sebastian.
A flash of annoyance crosses Malfoy’s face, as if to say are you still here?
“I’m sure that’s not true.” Malfoy offers up the peach in his hand, shifting slightly closer. “Don’t you want a bite of my lovely perfect peach, Potter?”
The triple P’s are punctuated in a way that Harry thinks is meant to piss him off and not send tiny quivers of pleasure directly to his cock.
What I want, Malfoy, is your lovely perfect arse.
Malfoy stills, his hand still held out between them, offering up the peach. His cheeks start to flush a lovely Gryffindor red and Harry realises what he’s done. He hasn’t thought those words, he’s said them, out loud. In a strange, predatory come-hither voice that he barely recognises as his own. To Malfoy. Who isn’t moving, or saying anything, or doing anything but staring at Harry.
Shit. Shit shit shit.