The notches in the door frame

by Bluemask

Summary:

Harry is not certain what a confrontation with Malfoy four years after the War will lead to, but he really didn’t expect that it would lead to this. Draco is just thrilled to have Potter’s full attention back, really. 

“We really should stop meeting like this.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Taking a piss during my lunch break, currently.”
“Not right– working in the Ministry, I mean. What’s your plan?”
“Oh, you want to know about my plan – my diabolical plan, if you will – why didn't you just say that?”

[Featuring: an apology gone wrong, supportive best friends, quidditch matches, a sexuality crisis and awkward newspaper headlines.]

 

I grew up here, ‘til it all went up in flames
Except the notches in the door frame 

— Garden Song, Phoebe Bridgers

 

The war leaves Harry exhausted. He doesn’t have the time to think about it, though, as the first light of dawn after the last battle coming through the Great Hall’s broken windows grazes the bodies of the wounded, scattered on the floor. Harry, Hermione and Ron just joined Professor McGonagall in helping Madam Pomfrey to mend their injuries, when Harry notices Shacklebolt's imponent figure hovering on the threshold of the Hall, and draws Ron's attention by touching his shoulder. The man gestures for both of them to follow him outside and the boys nod, then warn Hermione. She sighs with a tired and worried crease on her forehead that makes her appear older. “Be safe,” she murmurs, gently squeezing Harry’s arm, and he tries to give her a reassuring smile but she’s not looking at him, her gaze fixed on her fingers intertwined with Ron's. 

Outside, Harry and Ron and the other surviving members of the Order, led by Shacklebolt, start to collect the Death Eaters that have already surrendered, starting with Lucius; they knew he wouldn’t put up a fight. But once the small group reach the Manor’s white gate, Harry can't take another step further – Hermione's screams ringing in his ears, the same cold fear he felt that night throbbing in his temples.

Ron is the first to notice, but it's Shacklebolt the one who says: “You two can wait here,” nodding at them both. “We'll take care of the Malfoys.”

Harry nods back, but “Just Lucius,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Not... not his son.”

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow, but, luckily, doesn't ask anything. Harry wouldn't have an answer for him anyway. 

The only memory that stick out from the informal mass of events of the following days is from the last trial of the Malfoy family, which sees Lucius Malfoy officially locked up in Azkaban with a life sentence, and it's a memory of white fingers, bitten lips, a fierce mouth twisted in a sarcastic sneer, and a quiet voice, almost shy, when he said —

“Potter!”

The lack of the usual disdain in his tone is what blocks Harry in his footsteps outside the courtroom. Ginny, beside him, stops as well – she accompanied him to every single trial, despite Harry's protests, and held his hand whenever he needed it, and gave him his space when he asked for it – but Harry motions for her to go on without him before turning around.

The look in Draco Malfoy's eyes is a curious mix of defeated and fiery. “Listen, I…” Malfoy pauses and clears his throat, fidgeting under Harry’s hard gaze. “Thank you. For what you said. About…” Malfoy twists his hands nervously for a couple of heartbeats, and then drops them close to his hips, closed into fists. “I just wanted to say that – I’m really sorry. For everything. I know you probably don’t want to hear my apologies, and I don’t care if you accept them or not, but –”

“That’s really great,” Harry cuts him off, starting to feel impatience to leave Malfoy in the past with everything else that feels rotten. “‘Cause I don’t.”

Malfoy stands with his mouth open for a moment, interrupted mid-sentence, then closes it and looks at him, baffled. “What?”

“I don’t accept your apologies. Just because I testified in your favour, it doesn't mean that I forgave you for what you did, or that I ever will. I’m not gonna give you closure, Malfoy. You don’t deserve it.”

Malfoy dares to scoff, as an eyebrow rises on his forehead. “Seriously? You’re really letting me be the mature person between us?”

Now is Harry’s turn to scoff, looking at him up and down, glaring at his pristine suit – sanse the jacket he wore in the courtroom – with his grey tie impossible tight around his throat. “A mature person, you? Don’t make me laugh, you’re nothing but a coward. That’s what you’ve always been and what you’ll always be.”

Malfoy's second eyebrow follows the first, and he shoots him an unimpressed look. Harry grits his teeth, feeling the anger build up inside him until it replaces the omnipresent feeling of tiredness, so he gets close enough to repeatedly press a finger against his chest, causing him to recoil with each dab. “It’s just what you are, Malfoy, a coward, racist, elitist, spoiled brat, who chooses his side depending on which one has more opportunity to win.”

Something alive lights up for a few seconds in Malfoy's cold eyes, which don’t leave Harry's as he grits out: “I’m not like my father.”

Harry chuckles, humourless. “You’re worse than him,” he says, even if he really doesn’t think it, but the opportunity to see Malfoy’s soul shattering behind those eyes feels too good to pass on it. “At least he believed in something. Did you, or were you just scared?”

“I – you …” Malfoy backs away when Harry's hand tries to touch him again, with an angry sneer on his thin lips. “You don’t know anything about me or my family!” He hisses, his voice sounding raw and all wrong in the empty corridor.

“I know enough to not accept your fake apologies.”

Malfoy lets out a bitter laugh. His back now touches the aseptic wall behind him, but he doesn’t seem a bit fazed by that. With his arms crossed, he looks down at him from the top of the handful of inches he unfortunately has more than Harry. 

“Of course, the High and Almighty won’t taint himself with those low matters —“

“Shut up.”

“— our Great Saviour, our bloody Hero!, doesn’t have time to forget or, Merlin save us all, forgiv—”

“Shut up!” Harry clenches Malfoy's shirt collar in a fist, pushing him against the wall and making his head collide with it with a worriedly satisfied thump. He enjoys the blessed silence for a moment, fighting back the impulse to throw a punch to his lips, still stretched in a serafic grin. He looks away from his redder-than-usual mouth and the teeth marks left on it – Harry saw how he has been tormenting his lips the whole time during the trial – to look at his eyes. “I never wanted to be a hero,” he spits out, breathing in his face, and tries to ignore Malfoy's troubling breath on his own.

Malfoy narrows his gaze, setting his eyes in Harry's as if searching for something inside them. “And I never wanted to be this.”

“Oh, really?” Harry grabs Malfoy's left wrist to lift up his arm, despite his attempts to slip out of his grasp, moving the hand clutching Malfoy’s shirt over his shoulder to keep him as still as possible. “I think this proves otherwise, don’t you?”

Malfoy shakes his head, and his blond hair, weirdly soft-looking now that it isn’t trapped in gel, brushes against his sharp cheekbones. “Oh, Potter,” he sighs, ceasing to struggle against him. “You’re so delusional, thinking you know everything. Don’t you?” He talks back, mocking his tone, before glancing first at his raised arm and then at Harry. “You don’t even have the courage to touch it.”

Harry looks down, too. The mark is covered by Malfoy's shirt, but he still manages to make out its shape under the fabric. Without thinking too much about what he’s doing, Harry lets his thumb, from where it’s pressed against his wrist, slide on his shirt until it touches the snake's head from above it. Malfoy audibly gasps at his touch and Harry looks up at his face, surprised of hearing a sound that doesn't seem so much a pained moan as a –

“Harry, I think that’s enough.”

Harry blinks, as if awakened from a dream. Malfoy flinches, too, when he hears Ginny's voice, who apparently hadn't strayed as far as they thought. Harry glances behind him over a shoulder and nods when he meets Ginny's eyes, before returning to look at Malfoy. The proximity of their bodies suddenly disturbs him and he hurries to release him, trying to step back to put some space between them, but Malfoy doesn’t let him, grabbing him by an arm.

“So, tell me,” Malfoy says, in a lower voice than before, tilting his face towards Harry's, and for a moment all Harry can see is the grey in his eyes. “If I’m worse than my father, as you said, why did you make sure he ended up in Azkaban and I did not?”

Harry looks from his fingers – white, almost cadaverous, and stronger than he thought – on his own arm to his eyes. “You wouldn't have survived a day in there,” he says, freeing himself from his grip with a sharp movement. “And I'm starting to regret it, by the way.”

Malfoy sneers, again, keeping his gaze fixed on Harry's. “You fucking arse,” he hisses, eventually, with something strangely alluring in his eyes. “Off you go, Potty. Your girlfriend’s waiting.”

Harry just stares at him, without bothering to say something back. Malfoy adjusts his shirt collar before walking away.

 

 

The war leaves Draco exhausted. He doesn’t have the time to think about it, though, as the first light of dawn after the last battle coming through the Great Hall’s broken windows reaches him in the corner where he and his parents found refuge from the battle, hitting him directly in the face. Next to them rest motionless bodies – and Draco doesn't know how many of them are dead and how many only injured, and he doesn't know if he wants to – and he has to squint to be able to look at them despite the blinding light. Professor McGonagall, a few metres away from him, her long hair down and her eyes red from tears and tiredness, meets his uncertain gaze. Draco feels himself blushing for the surprise and shame, but the Professor just tilts her head with a small smile on her lips that makes Draco feel eleven again.

“Come on, mon soleil,” his mother suddenly murmurs, standing next to him, reaching out to help him get back on his feet. “It’s time to go home now.”

Draco sighs and takes her hand. He knows that father is following them (he hears his heavy footsteps, his laboured breathing), but he doesn't turn around. They step foot in the Manor just in time to see the Aurors arriving at their doors – they must be, even if they lack their uniforms. They take his father – “Just Lucius Malfoy,” is what someone says, as a man was about to grab Draco's shoulder too – “Not his son. That’s what he said.” – and Draco watches them go, with an arm around his hips as if to hold the pieces together, without stepping a foot outside the Manor’s doors, fearing that they might change their mind and take him too.

The only memory that stick out from the informal mass of events of the following days – his mother, a wax statue in the parlour of the Manor; the Aurors, going in and out of his house until there is nothing left inside to snatch away; his father, who doesn't even try to meet his gaze in the courtroom, after his life sentence in Azkaban is finalised – is from the last day of their trials. It’s a memory invaded by the green, the same kind that haunted all his school years, and it starts with a “Potter!” uttered in a voice so weak and insecure that his stomach turns as he’s about to vomit.

Draco thought for a long time about what he would tell him if he had the chance – I know I was a dick, I know you hate me, of course I regret it!, do you know how much He hurted me in my own house?, do you know how much I hate myself too? – but Potter – he stood before him, and then cornered him against a wall, and then came so near him that Draco’s head started to spin – but he didn’t accept Draco’s apologies. 

Obviously.

What a fool he’s been. The shame of having believed – hoped?, prayed? – of being able to be forgiven by him adds to the shame he has felt for himself for a long time, so, when he’s crying on Pansy’s shoulder that night and she thinks it’s because he’s just exhausted from the war, he lets her believe it. 

 

 

Harry spends all his summer at Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione join him to repair the damage left by the war, along with other people who wanted to help, but Harry is the only one who does not go back home after a day of work, besides Professor McGonagall. He already is in the only place that ever felt like a home to him, anyway. Professor McGonagall allows him to settle in the wing of the castle reserved to the teacher's private rooms and invites him to have tea together every evening; it's a bit weird at first, but Harry is thankful of not being left alone with his thoughts.

He stays in the castle even after the summer ends, accepting Professor McGonagall's proposal – now, actually, Headmistress – to spend a last year at Hogwarts in order to graduate. He moves back to the Gryffyndors’ dorms when other students populate the castle too (including Ron and Hermione, Neville, Dean and Seamus) and everything fits together in a strange sort of normality, where he can talk with his friends every day, attend his lessons and procrastinate his study until the last minute like a normal 18-year-old would do, without madmen and prophecies in sight.

The only discordant note that disturbs that apparent peace is the habit, he only now actively realises he has, of letting his gaze slip on the Slytherin table (a miserable group of students, now) at every meal, the instinct to seek a white-blond head in the first desks of the Potions classroom as soon as he steps inside the room, the surprise of meeting a pair of dark eyes instead of the familiar grey while jumping on his broom before a Quidditch match against the Slytherins.

He doesn’t return to Hogwarts. No Slytherin who has lived the war does. Harry is relieved by it, most of the time – even though some nights, when he can't fall asleep after a nightmare and the names of the people who died clutter his head, he gives in to the urge to take the Marauders' Map from his trunk, where he hid it under an old sweatshirt, to frantically search for Malfoy's name on it, as if he could find it floating among the others. He knows he won’t. He does it anyway.

It just became a habit, too. 

He’s relieved Malfoy isn’t back.

Just a stupid habit. Really.

 

 

Even the passing of time feels wrong after a war. Life apparently has the right to go on after destructions, deaths and fears – even if Draco doesn’t feel like he’s actually alive anymore. He spends the summer wandering in the Manor like a ghost, within its increasingly bare walls that are progressively falling apart, locked in them and in his mother's arms as she takes his face in her hands and looks him straight in the eye.

“You know what you have to do,” she whispers to him, every day, like a broken music box that always jams on the same note. “Until your father gets out of prison, you know you have the Malfoy’s name on your shoulders. You know what you have to do, mon soleil.”

Draco nods and dies a little every day, without contradicting her, but then the summer ends. And his life must go on, too. And he's tired of being a ghost, so: “Of course I know”, he confirms, the last day he will allow the Manor to make him one, taking his mother's hands in his own and returning her gaze.

He knows what he has to do: get into debt with the Ministry to preserve the Manor in their possession, persuade the Greengrass family to let him marry their youngest, as the agreement between their families prior to the war provided, fill the role of Lucius at the Ministry until he gets out of Azkaban (hence, forever, even if his mother refuses to believe that his sentence will end with a Kiss), produce a Malfoy heir, and so on. And he also knows what he will do.

“But I won’t, Mother,” he says, stressing every word, while his mother's eyes widen in disbelief. “Because I’m fucking tired to be yours and Father’s puppet. I don’t care about meeting you’re fucked-up expectations anymore. I won’t be like you, or him. I won’t be a coward. And if I have to lose my privileges or your affection for this, I will.”

Narcissa stares at him in silence for endless moments, then nods, regal and cold as she’s been for months, maybe years. She lets go of his hands and takes a step back. “Get away from my house.”

It fucking hurts, but it still feels better than dying inside every day. “Will do, Mother.”

He'll never go back to the Manor after that.

 

 

Harry would stay at Hogwarts even after the last year ends, but that would be too much – even if there are other people who decide to actually stay, like Neville, who from the new year will be Professor Sprout’s assistant in Herbology classes, or Luna, who has decided to give Hagrid a hand with the magical creatures that have take residence in the Forest during the war, but Harry knows he can’t. He knows he has a path to follow. 

So, when Ron asks him to sign up to the Auror Training together, he accepts. When Ginny asks him to go back to dating now that there are no more suicide missions on the horizon, he accepts. When Andromeda invites him to have tea with her once a week to get to know his godson, he accepts.

And he passively lets himself slip into the life that everyone expects of him, and forces himself not to think about Malfoy anymore, about his white fingers, his bitten lips, his fierce mouth twisted in a sarcastic sneer, his little gasp when he touched his arm – because certainly no one would expect that from him.

Until, one day, he does. 

 

*

 

For the first time since being hired by the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Draco decides to eat at the Ministry Canteen with his colleagues instead of sitting at his desk with his sad-lunch-sandwich, as Lee calls it.

“No more sad-lunch-sandwiches!” It’s what he’s saying, way too loud, as he presses a wooden tray against Draco's chest. “You definitely need to socialise more, Malfoy! And don’t do that ugly face of yours, you should thank me!”

Draco rolls his eyes, slowly and dramatically. “A, my face can’t be ugly: it’s physically impossible. B, you know I am not too comfortable when I’m surrounded by people who’d prefer to see me dead. C, –”

Lee shakes his head and hits Draco’s shoulder with one of his, risking to make him drop the plate he has just placed on his tray. “Nonsense! Everyone in our team likes you! Well, almost anyone, anyway. C’mon, everything is gonna be great!”

Draco sighs. “C,” he mutters, after Lee turns his back on him to join their other colleagues sitting at one of the tables. "Potter is here,” he ends, grabbing a green apple before following him, forcing himself not to look directly at the tables where he catches a glimpse of the Aurors’ deep red uniforms.

(He knows that since September Potter’s officially an Auror, even though he's been trying to curb his obsession with him, lately, by ignoring all the various articles in the papers. Not that it has been easy, but spending the recent Christmas holidays in the Alps with Pansy and Blaise, in a cabin that Blaise's mum inherited from one of her husbands, helped. He has managed to hold back the urge to search the papers ever since. Pansy and Blaise are having a bet about how much time he’ll need to give up. Pieces of shit, both of them.)

A few tables over, Harry looks at him and does a double take. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then he keeps his eyes fixed on him as he exclaims: “What the hell is he doing here?” catching Ron’s attention, who raises his head from his plate just the seconds necessary to understand who he is talking about, and then huffs something halfway between a groan and a laugh around a forkful of roasted potatoes.

“It’s been a few weeks since the Ferret started to work with the guys on Level Seven, as far as I know,” he replies, spitting pieces of potato into his plate. “Ginny didn’t tell– Oh, right. Sorry.”

Harry grimaces at Ron’s lack of manners and at the mention of his ex-girlfriend. “You know I haven't seen her since. Well.”

Ron mimics his expression and waves a hand, as to chase the matter away. “Christmas’ disaster, yeah, ‘course.”

Padma, Ron’s Auror partner, who’s sitting next to him and facing Harry, suddenly seems interested in the turn of the conversation. “What happened? Did you guys break up?” She asks Harry, widening her eyes at his contrite expression. “Shit, you did! Why didn't you tell me?”

“Didn’t you read the papers?” Ron intercepts her question with a frown. “I thought you girls liked gossip and all that stuff.”

Padma slowly raises an eyebrow, glaring at him. “I’ll never understand how Hermione can put up with you,” she comments with a frown of disdain. “No, I haven’t read the papers lately. What happened?”

Harry sighs. Well. He knows that he could have handled the break-up in a more… dignified way. Everybody knows that. He surely didn't expect that going for a drink in a Muggle London pub, a few days after Ginny left him (for purely unknown reasons, even if Harry gets that, after all; their relationship collapsed on itself, really), would make him run into Dean Thomas, and he surely hadn't foreseen that drinking with an old mate, bonding over their shared experience of being dumped by Ginny Weasley, would lead them to messily make out against the bathroom door of said pub, and he had not foreseen that someone would recognize him and take a picture of them that was printed in all the papers of the wizarding world by the next morning.

Not his finest moment for sure.

(To make matters worse, the titles were really bad, and Hermione and Ron loved them. The Boy Who Lived – To KISS OTHER BOYS !? was Hermione’s favourite. Turns Out Harry Potter Is Really Passionate About Snitches And Broomsticks After All was Ron’s. They hung them all on the kitchen’s pinboard of their flat. Harry hates his best friends sometimes.)

So, yeah, he didn’t expect such a shirtstorm, sue him. A week later he accepted Molly and Arthur's invitation for the traditional Christmas dinner at the Burrow – what was he supposed to do? He didn't want to be rude, and he didn't think that it would be that big of a deal. Ginny left him, after all, not the other way round. And, alright, he kissed a guy, so what? A kiss doesn’t make him gay! And he tried to say that to Ginny, but she doesn't seem to look at it in the same way. (Harry had never seen her as angry as when she yelled “I can’t possibly believe that every fucking person now knows you’re gay except YOU” , so, yeah. That was weird.)

“We broke up,” he, sadly, has to confirm. “And it was a bit… messy.”

Ron snorts around his forkful of chicken. “That’s an understatement.”

Padma nods. “Ginny’s single, then…” she muses, but Harry doesn't have the time to point out the obvious with her, as he has a conversation to put on its right track.

“Anyway,” he says, “why does he work at the Ministry? What is he doing?”

Padma and Ron shrug at the same time. Harry scoffs at their disinterest and looks back at Malfoy, observing the way the person sitting next to him is making him laugh. Seeing Draco Malfoy laugh sincerely for the first time in his life distracts him enough to take a few seconds to realise he actually knows the person sitting next to him.

“Is that Lee Jordan?!”

Padma isn’t listening to him anymore, as she has returned to doodle something in her notebook, and Ron casts a listless glance at the table.

“Seems like him,” he confirms, brushing a tuft of hair from his eyes with a thumb. “I guess they are colleagues, mate, it’s not weird if they eat toget–”

“He must be up to something,” Harry cuts him off, too busy observing the way Malfoy is gently biting into an apple to actually listen to him.

Ron sighs loudly. “Please, Harry, don’t go down that rabbit hole again, we’re too old for that shit.”

“We’re just twenty-two, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, but , if you’re implying something about Sixth Year, I –”

“‘Were right, for the record’, I know.”

“‘Cause it’s true. He’s getting up.”

“Don’t say that you’re gonna –”

“I’m gonna follow him.”

“Ugh. Can I at least have your potatoes if you’re not gonna eat them?”

Harry pushes his plate towards Ron before standing up and following Malfoy out of the canteen.

 

When the bathroom door opens, Draco is already standing in front of the urinals. Even though Potter can't see his face (because he knows it's him), he keeps a neutral expression despite the victory grin that tries to escape him. He's not sure what he did to get Potter’s full attention back on him, but having it makes him feel vaguely elated; and a fucking teenager again.

The bathroom door closes with a soft thud. 

“Malfoy.”

Draco’s heart is pounding in his throat. “Potter,” he sighs, letting his voice drip with sarcasm and not with satisfaction. “We really should stop meeting like this.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking a piss during my lunch break, currently.”

“Not right– working in the Ministry, I mean. What’s your plan?”

“Oh, you want to know about my plan – my diabolical plan, if you will – why didn't you just say that?”

Draco pauses. He can almost feel Potter’s annoyance vibrating in the air between them along with the tension. He licks his lips to taste it.

“Infiltrate the Ministry,” he continues, then, raising a hand to tick things off his fingers. “Faking to be an honest worker. Seduce Kingsley. Take control of the Ministry. As you see, I’m already on the second phase. Only two more to go.”

Potter remains silent. Draco is dying to see his green eyes again – he knows Potter’s looking at nothing but him, and a shiver runs down his back just at that thought – but he holds back the urge to turn around.

“Can you at least not watch me while I’m having my dick out? It’s starting to get creepy, Potty.”

Potter scoffs. “Don’t call me like that.”

“Why not? It’s endearing. Makes me remember the good old days.”

Draco can feel Potter’s annoyance intensify. He pulls up the zip of his trousers. When he walks away from the urinals to reach the sinks, he glances at their reflection in the mirror and there he is, in his red uniform, his ankle-length cloak, his boots that almost reach his knees, his neck tense as he keeps his face turned, not watching him. Like Draco asked. 

“What’s your problem, Malfoy?”

Potter returns his eyes on him, but Draco has already lowered his own to his hands as he rubs them together under the icy stream of water, trying to keep his mind clear.

“What’s my problem?” He retorts, calm and collected despite the contradictory emotions that Potter’s determined voice, his solid stance and the still-postponed desire to meet his furious gaze arouse in him. “Oh, that’s rich, Potty, coming from the one who followed me in the loo. Again. What’s your problem?”

Draco swallows his heart and lifts his head. The green of Potter's eyes, reflected in the mirror, is feverish even in the yellowish bathroom lights, and he easily reads within them that familiar anger that he once shared with joy – because it was easier to spit insults on him than listen to that part of himself envious of the affection that constantly surrounded Potter, eager to be a part of that, annihilated from the knowledge that it could never happen.

Those days seem so far away now.

Potter tightens his jaw, the fire roaring behind his eyes. “You’re my problem.”

“And yet,” Draco turns off the tap and drips his hands into the sink before drying them with a whispered spell. “I’m not doing anything at all. It became too easy, getting a rise out of you… It’s not even funny anymore.”

As Draco turns, Potter cancels the space between them and takes out his wand, pointing it at Draco’s chest. “I don’t have time for our old silly games, Malfoy.”

Draco widens his eyes for a moment in surprise, but he quickly slips back to his comforting blank mask. “That’s a pity,” he comments, letting his gaze slide from Harry's face to the tip of his wand, slowly, wetting his lips. “I have to take it back: it’s still a bit funny.”

Potter sticks his wand under Draco’s chin, pressing roughly its tip into his skin. “Malfoy!”

Draco raises an eyebrow, letting Harry's wand lift his chin up without resistance. “Easy there, Potter,” he murmurs, looking down at him, without even trying to reach for his wand; he knows that Potter is able to see it out of the corner of his eye, tucked in his belt, left uncovered by the open folds of his robes. “What are you going to do? Finish the job? Just kill me now or let me go back to my office, I have so much paperwork to take care of, you have no idea.”

Potter visibly flinches at his words – it’s so sweet, still knowing how to get under his skin – and in a second Draco no longer feels the wood of his wand biting his skin. 

“You know I didn't mean to. Kill you. You have to know that.”

His voice quivers with a strange urgency and something shifts in his eyes. Draco takes advantage of their proximity to be able to really observe him for the first time in four years. It’s difficult to see in him the scrawny teenager who remained etched in his memory – his body hidden by the school uniform, his scar hidden by his perpetually messy black curls – but his green eyes are always the same, and as always perfectly reflect his raw feelings.

Draco tilts his head to the side, remembering that he owes him an answer. "Do I?"

“Well. It wasn't my intention,” Potter says, lowering his wand all the way down as he inspects it with a frown; he seems surprised by his actions. “I guess I overreacted. Back then. Maybe I’m still overreacting. A bit.”

Draco allows a corner of his mouth to lift. “Oh, no, you’re so close to discover all about my diabolical plan, don’t give up already.” 

Potter’s lips twitch. For a glorious moment he almost looks like he's about to smile, but in the end he doesn't. “I thought you already told me your diabolical plan about seducing the Minister.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to throw you off.” Draco raises his eyebrows, taking a step towards Potter to make him take a step back; and that's what he does, predictably, leaving enough space between them for Draco to reach the bathroom door. “Perhaps I’m going to seduce someone else.”

He can hear Potter’s scoff, but he doesn’t know if it’s of an amused or annoyed type.

“Who’ll be your victim, then?”

“Victim? Please,” Draco curls his fingers around the doorknob and gives him a quick glance over his shoulder, taking one last chance to properly look at Potter. “Anyone should feel honoured to be seduced by myself,” he retorts, holding back the foolish impulse to wink at him. “And that’s for me to know and for you to investigate, Auror Potty. Tell me when you find out.”

Draco leaves the room before Potter has the time to say something back. He has always had a penchant for dramatic exits.

 

Harry remains alone in the bathroom for indefinite minutes, staring at his reflection in the mirrors without really seeing himself. He's not sure what he expected from a confrontation with Malfoy after these four years – probably some insults, some cutting words, some challenging glances. Some stupid hexes. But none of them came. Malfoy has been sarcastic, but not… Unpleasant?

Not like when they were in school, anyway.

Harry turns on a tap and splashes some cold water in his face. That familiar anger that had prevailed when he first saw Malfoy in the canteen is difficult to recall now.

He's not sure what he expected, but he does know one thing.

He, unfortunately, missed their old silly games.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself, rubbing his closed lids with freezing fingers to chase away the grey.

 

 

Draco re-plays in his mind – incessantly – the conversation with Potter throughout the week. When Friday night arrives, and with it the usual ritual night out with Pansy, Blaise and Daphne, he has made the decision that he needs to talk to someone about it. So, once he’s left alone with Pansy on one of the dark sofas of the Spotted Snakes (a bit on the nose, really), the pub Theo and Greg opened in Knocturn Alley a couple of years ago, while Blaise and Daphne begin the search of the – unfortunate – boys who will take them home that night, Draco sighs theatrically to get her attention.

Pansy chuckles in her fancy drink, of the same shade of purple of her long nails. “Let me guess, it’s about him.”

Draco has a vague deja-vu about Hogwarts, of lettinig himself drop onto the Slytherin commonroom sofa, his head on Pansy's lap, before starting his childish rants about how fucking dumb and annoying Harry Potter is, while Pansy pets his hair to calm him down. He feels like he’s fourteen again, but he talks about him anyway, telling her every detail about their meeting in the bathroom of the Ministry cafeteria while swallowing the colourful drinks that Pansy makes appear between his fingers without even questioning their contents.

The next morning, after being brutally awakened by an insistent and familiar tick, he frowns – and immediately regrets it due to the intense headache that overtakes him – when he finds Pansy's owl staring at him from behind the only window of his bedroom. He drags himself to the window to open it, throwing on an old plaid blanket to protect himself from the cold, and takes the envelope tied to his paw after letting the animal in. Inside the envelope he finds a clipping of a newspaper article, with a (strangely static) photograph where a messy black hair boy is kissing another guy. They both seem familiar. 

HARRY POTTER: THE GAY ONE?

Draco stares at the title, stares at the photo under the title, and at the title again.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself, feeling on the verge of having the first mental breakdown of the day, ignoring the note that slips out of the open envelope and twirls a couple of times in the air before reaching the floor, stained by little four words that reads go get him, viper!.

 

 

Harry feels weird throughout the next week, his stomach in an uproar as if he has eaten something bad that is desperately trying to see the sunlight again. The glimpses of Malfoy's blond head he gets every time he eats at the cafeteria doesn't seem to help his situation, but luckily the problem seems to resolve itself, given that in the following days he is so overwhelmed with work (between the stakeouts for a new case and the forms he has yet to finish filling out from a previous one) that he barely has the time to eat a sandwich in his office, where he’s usually joined by Hermione, who never liked eating in the cafeteria in the first place.

They talk about Harry’s ongoing cases, random muggle musics and Hermione’s climb towards the role of Prime Minister – albeit “I’m really not after the Minister’s position,” is what Hermione says, because “the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures suits me just fine, thank you”, but nobody really believes her.

“What happened to your last partner, by the way?” Hermione asks him today, pointing with her fork at the empty desk crammed in the opposite corner of the room.

Harry shrugs, absently looking at the salad caught in the teeth of her fork. “Oh, I hexed Todd. He got angry."

Hermione stares at him for a moment with her mouth open before returning the fork, and the salad still attached to it, in her plastic bowl. “You hexed your partner?!”

Harry shrugs again, leaning over his desk to retrieve a couple of green olives that Hermione discarded. “I told you what happened with the case that involved the last bloody Neo-Death-Eaters nonsense, right?” Harry replies, chewing on the olives, and waits for Hermione to nod before continuing. “He wanted to wait for the permission from the Ministry to intervene, but we were running out of time, so I did the most logical thing.”

“You hexed him.”

“I sure did. And then I intervened, and two children didn’t die that night. I personally think I did a pretty good job, overall.”

Hermione’s forehead creases in a worried frown – because they both know how much cases that involve kids affect him – but it disappears after a moment, and something dangerously close to amusement twinkle in her brown eyes. “I bet Robards didn't look at it in the same way.” 

Harry scoffs. “Well, Robards isn’t really a big fan of my ‘improper Auror techniques’, as he loves to call them,” he says, absently drawing quotation marks in the air with two fingers. “I honestly don’t know why he doesn’t put Ron and I together already, we’d be the best team!”

Hermione shrugs, looking down at her lunch. “Padma and him work well together, don’t they? That’s what everybody here says.”

Harry frowns, amused by her clipped tone. “You jealous, ‘Mione?” 

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Don’t be absurd,” she says, and then: “You seem pretty distracted lately,” and Harry allows her to change the subject. “Why don't you join Ron’s team for a Quidditch match this Friday? I'm sure it would do you good. You can't just work all day.”

“You’re the one who talks,” he mumbles, hoping that she would allow him to avoid that subject too, but Hermione has always been too stubborn for everyone’s good.

She gives him a soft smile and arches an eyebrow. “What about you play with Ron this week, and after the game I’ll pick you two up and then we’ll go to that Mexican muggle place you like so much?”

Harry lets out a long sigh. They both know that Hermione has already won. “Ugh, I don't know... I'm a bit rusty, haven't played in ages…”

“Come on, Harry, you don't have to win the Quidditch World Cup, you just have to have some fun and put your minds off work. Do it for me, please? For your favourite best friend?”

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “Mpff. Alright. Whatever.”

 

 

Lee told him that another person would join them for that Friday afternoon game, but Draco certainly didn't expect to find himself in front of Harry sodding Potter – shirtless, too! – once he walks into the locker room of the Ministry Quidditch Pitch.

Potter looks as surprised as he is, and he doesn't seem able to hide it like Draco is doing. Small victories.

“Oh,” he breathes, his lips parted and his green eyes wide open, and Draco won’t look at his lips or at his bare chest or at his lovely shoulders and he definitely won’t think about that bloody photograph that he can't get out of his head since the first time he saw it, now a month ago. He won’t.

“Hello,” Draco says, because he has some manners, before walking past him to reach the furthest point of the locker room from him, because he also has some mental health left to preserve, thank you very much.

The other people in the room – who have warmed up to him now, or at least no longer spit insults in his face – nod politely when they see him and he nods back, trying to put a nice smile on his face while he listens to Arthur, a chatty ex-Hufflepuff, who’s already talking about something as Draco starts changing for the game next to him, trying to convince himself that Potter's presence doesn't affect him in the least.

“Hi, Ferret!”

Draco rolls his eyes when he hears Weasley’s voice, but he nods at him too. “Hello, Weasel. Ready to have your ass kicked?”

“In your dreams, Malfoy.” Weasley laughs, clapping a hand on one of Potter’s shoulders (that look broad and so very strong but, no, Draco isn’t remotely thinking about them). “Now that Harry is our Seeker you have no hope in beating us!”

Draco briefly glances at Potter – and, fuck, Potter’s already looking at him – before turning back to Weasley. “We’ll see about that,” he replies offhandedly, just to say something, his throat uncomfortably dry.

When Arthur starts talking to him again, about a shared client he truly couldn't care less at the moment, he hopes he’s nodding at the right times while he watches Potter from the corner of his eyes, who’s muttering something to Weasley. 

Draco tries to prepare for the game slowly, to avoid having to walk past Potter again to get out of the locker room, but Potter seems to take it easy too, so he’s forced to do it anyway. He imposes himself not to flinch when Potter looks directly at him before he has time to reach the door.

“Uh, Malfoy?”

Draco stops with a raised eyebrow, urging him to continue talking. At least Potter is now wearing a long-sleeved shirt, an old Gryffindor Quidditch jersey.

Potter absentmindedly rubs his neck and struggles to hold Draco's gaze (again, small victories). “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Draco doesn't lower his eyebrow. “Clearly.”

“But I guess it’ll be fun,” Potter adds, in a sort of cheery tone for some mysterious reason. “Winning against you, that is. Will make me remember the good old days,” he says with a lopsided smile, and then walks past him, nearly brushing him with his shoulder, to exit the locker room.

Draco remains frozen in place for a few seconds, caught off guard because – Harry sodding Potter just… smiled. At him.

What the hell is he up to?

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me Malfoy would be there too?” Harry asks Ron after the game that they obviously won, as they hurry to the Apparition point that will take them to the Muggle London alley where Hermione is waiting.

Ron smiles looking sheepishly and guilty. “Didn't want you to change your mind. But it was fun, playing again – and beating him! Wasn’t it?”

Harry shrugs to not give him the satisfaction of being right, but they both know he is.

Ron slams his shoulder into Harry's and laughs. “Just ignore him, alright?”

Harry tries to, he really does. But it was useless to try to ignore him at Hogwarts, and it is still useless now. There's no point in pretending not to notice every little thing – like the way Malfoy changes way too quickly, before each game, carefully hanging his work uniform on a hook in the locker room before putting on a pair of stretch pants and a tight long-sleeved shirt, or the way Malfoy twists his hair in a small knot at the base of his neck when they’re already on the pitch, with slow and precise movements – as if he has all the time in the world, while Harry is already on his broom and ready to soar into the air – and a smile on his lips that’s almost challenging, as if he knows he has Harry's eyes glued on him.

(Harry is tempted to think he does it on purpose just to distract him, but to think it would mean admitting to being distracted by watching his white fingers dig into his slightly long blond hair and pick it up in a short ponytail that caresses his neck like a an albino snake, so he doesn't think about it.)

And there's no point in pretending not to notice that Malfoy doesn't shower like everyone else after the game. He doesn't even change, surprisingly, even when his hair slips from the tie and sticks to the sweaty skin on his neck; he just grabs his things with a tight smile, barely exchanging a few words with Lee and with another guy who plays on his team before disappearing.

But Harry pretends he can ignore him, even when his eyes linger on Malfoy a bit too much, and sometimes Malfoy returns his gaze, but they don't talk about it. They don't really talk at all, outside the Quidditch matches, the rare times that they cross each other in the corridors of the Ministry or are forced to use nearby hooks in the locker room. They seem to walk on tiptoes around the presence of the other, limiting themselves to nods of greeting and few words of circumstance; only on the pitch that old animosity seems to return, but it’s subdued, somehow.

On the pitch, Malfoy's lips curl into that confident familiar grin that makes something indefinite thrumming under Harry's skin, and he doesn't quite know what it is but he’s certain it isn't anger. He's not sure where it ended up, that blind rage that clouded his mind every time he caught a glimpse of Malfoy around, at Hogwarts, but he's pretty sure it's not that rage the feeling that slaps his face every time he observes the way Malfoy's hair stubbornly escape his tail to float to the sides of his face, the way Malfoy nervously bites his lips as he searches for the snitch with his eyes at the start of every game, the way his cheeks redden from exertion and his shirt clings to his chest for the sweat, and…

And they play, and they chase the snitch, and they dangerously shove each other on their brooms as they used to – but Harry no longer feels that reckless urge to show everyone that he deserves a place in their world, so he even catches himself laughing at Malfoy's attempts to slow him down, and making Malfoy laugh in return when he tries to slow him back (“I knew you had it in you, Potter!”) – and it turns out that the times Malfoy manages to close his fingers around the snitch's wings before him are not that hard to bear, not when Malfoy turns to look at him with a satisfied smile on his face and eyes sparkling with happiness. Not at all, actually.

Harry finds himself slipping way too easily into this new routine where he plays Quidditch once a week, and sees Malfoy once a week, so when one Friday afternoon the game is cancelled due to a stubborn spring storm that has been flooding London since the previous evening, Harry finds himself waiting for Ron to finish his shift to take the lift without him, stopping on the first floor instead of reaching the fireplaces in the Atrium. Once on Leven Seven, he leans his back against the wall near the lifts and doesn't have to wait long before seeing Malfoy walk out of an office.

 

Draco pretends not to feel the blood rushing in his ears as soon as he notices Potter's presence by the lifts, his arms folded across his broad chest and a small smile resting on his full lips.

“Hello,” Draco says, when he arrives in front of him, trying to use a disinterested tone of voice.

Potter’s smile grows, which doesn't help his inner turmoil at all. "Hi. Is all your Quidditch stuff in there?" He says, nodding at Draco's satchel.

Draco shrugs. “I didn't think a little rain would stop us.”

“Neither did I. We should play anyway.”

“Have you already warned the others?”

Potter looks away and clears his throat. “Actually, I was thinking that just the two of us should play.”

Draco blinks, feeling wrong-footed. “Oh?”

Potter must see something in his face that Draco let slip unconsciously, and he seems to be encouraged by it. “Just a match between seekers,” he says with an easy smile. “If you are not scared.”

“Of you, Potter? Never.”

Potter gives him a wide grin. “Prove it, then.”

Draco’s heart beats loudly in his throat and Potter presses a finger on the lift button.

Outside, the rain is thicker than Draco thought. And definitely colder.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his teeth chattering. “I left my wand in the locker room. I’d really need to re-do my warming charms right now.”

Potter chuckles while he passes him a broom, holding the snitch, which constantly tries to slip away from him, in his other hand.  "Wait, let me," he says, before making a quick movement with his free fingers.

Draco shivers when he feels his magic washing over him. Or maybe it’s just the cold.

“Here you go,” Potter awkwardly mutters, his cheeks rosy. “All done.”

“Show off.”

Potter rolls his eyes in amusement. “C’mon, let’s play. Who wins the most out of three?”

"Alright,” Draco concedes, and he doesn’t know what possesses him to add: “And whoever wins must offer the other a drink”.

Potter raises his eyebrows, but he's smiling when he says: “Alright”.

 

Harry only narrowly wins the first game, accidentally grazing Malfoy's fingers before being able to catch the snitch.

“You’re too slow for me, Malfoy!”

Malfoy scoffs, his face flushed and the hair that escaped the tie stuck to his face from rain and sweat. "Shut up. Let’s play again.”

Harry forces himself to take his eyes off a lock of hair pressed to his white neck and lets go of the snitch.

 

Draco wins the second game with a clear advantage over Potter, who seems to be having trouble finding the snitch without his glasses.

“Fuck off, Malfoy!” Potter yells, squinting his eyes. “You know I can’t see shit without them!”

Draco grins at him with the snitch in his hand and Potter's glasses stuck to the edge of his shirt. “Not my problem if you don't wear contact lenses, Scarhead!”

“Fuck! Off! Give me back my glasses! Malfoy! Don’t even think about flying awa–”

Draco bursts out laughing and regains altitude, letting Potter chase him a couple of times around the field before giving him his glasses back.

 

Unfortunately, Malfoy also wins the third game, this time without cheating. His eyes widen comically as soon as he manages to catch the snitch, squeezing it against his chest as if fearing he might lose it, and “I won!” he exclaims, looking at Harry with wide eyes and parted lips for a moment still, then he scowls his expression in his usual collected one, pressing his lips tightly together and keeping his chin up. “I mean, I won, of course. I knew it would happen.”

Harry can’t help but snort. He ignores the annoyance caused by the missing victory and shrugs, holding onto the broomstick muff with both hands. “Yeah, yeah, you won.”

A corner of Malfoy's mouth rises in a satisfied grin. "I did," he murmurs, looking down at the golden snitch.

The intensity of the rain has diminished, and now its drops are falling softly from the sky and gliding smoothly through Malfoy's hair, which seems to have completely lost the tie that held it together at some point. Harry can see the shadow of the Dark Mark under his white shirt, made transparent by the water. He looks away from it with a jolt and lifts his eyes up on Malfoy's face, absently following the path of some drops running down his nose until Malfoy returns his gaze and raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah, congratulations,” Harry mutters, trying not to give too much weight to the shiver that runs through him when he meets his grey eyes. Probably it’s just the cold. “I’ll go take a shower.”

Once in the locker room, Harry hurries to tear off his wet clothes, leaving them on the benches with his glasses and shoes, before heading to the showers, sighing happily as he slips under the hot spray. He presses his hands against his closed eyes, trying to push Malfoy's unusual smile out of his mind, and winces when he hears the shower next to his turning on.

“What?” The slightly blurred image of Malfoy replies, his body divided from his own only by a whitish frosted glass, which reaches the height of his collarbones and stops before his ankles. “I needed a shower too.”

“You never take a shower after we play.”

Malfoy scoffs. “Well, we never play in the fucking rain, don’t we?”

Point taken, but still. “And you have to use the stall next to mine while all the others are empty?”

“Don’t be a prude and pass me your body wash.”

“I’m not a —” Harry grumbles, but then pauses. “What? No.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s my body wash.”

“‘Cause it’s my body wash,” Malfoy repeats, exaggerating his nasal tone to mock him, while he throws his head back for a few seconds under the shower’s spray; he runs a hand over his face to chase the water out of his eyes before reaching out towards Harry, with the same hand, from above the frosted glass. “C’mon, Potty.”

Harry doesn’t know if he feels more irritated by his arrogance or intrigued by his slender neck and long fingers. “Can’t you use the soap provided by the Ministry? That’s already in your stall?”

Malfoy grimaces and looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Ew? Gross.”

“It has sanitary spells incorporated, you prat.”

“And I have some dignity left, you idiot,” Malfoy shoots back, unfazed, still with his hand open above the glass.

“You fucking – alright. Whatever,” Harry mutters, giving up, squeezing a dollop of body wash in his palm before throwing the bottle inside Malfoy’s stall.

Malfoy catches it without batting an eye and glares at him, before turning his gaze to the yellow bottle. “What the fuck is this?”

Harry thinks, just for a moment, that there’s something strangely attractive about hearing Mafloy’s snobbish voice cursing without shame, but then he forces himself to regain control of his tired mind. “I’m sorry?”

“Four in one?” Malfoy read the bottle’s label out loud. “Shampoo, conditioner, body wash and facial wash? Are you kidding me?” 

“Oh my God, Malfoy, shut up.”

“You have no decency.”

Harry groans loudly, letting his soapy fingers slide over his chest. “Yep, not listening to you.”

“How aren’t you feeling ashamed of yourself?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy, but I’m starting to feel quite irritated by you right now.”

Malfoy says something under his breath in response, but Harry ignores him, focusing on the nice sensation of the scalding hot water on his skin, which manages to wipe out a bit the tiredness of the week. When he turns to Malfoy to have his body wash back, he opens his mouth but freezes. Malfoy is washing his hair with his eyes closed, head tilted back and fingers running through his blonde locks, almost white under the neon light of the showers, and Harry loses himself in observing his relaxed face, his pointy elbows, his lean but vaguely muscled arms – and seeing the Dark Mark, this time without any barriers, captures him again, the ink aggressively black in contrast to his fair skin…

You don’t even have the courage to touch it.

“Stop looking at my mark, Potter.”

Harry winces and looks away, muttering a “sorry” that slips from his lips and bounces between the narrow walls of his stall. When he looks back at Malfoy's face, he notices his eyes are still closed and frowns.

“How did you even–”

“Know you were looking?” Malfoy interrupts him, with the ghost of a grin playing on his lips. “I just know. I always do. An old ability, I guess.”

Harry blushes at the implications in his words and he’s grateful when he swiftly changes the subject.

“Besides, I don’t look at yours all the time.”

Harry frowns again and Malfoy exhaustively taps his own forehead with a finger, his eyes still closed. “It was left by the same man, after all,” he adds, his voice lower.

Harry is about to say that it was a completely different situation and he received his own without his consent, but his mouth clinks shut when he remembers Malfoy’s words.

Because you know everything, don’t you?

“Give me my body wash back,” is what he says instead, and Malfoy does.

“Your 4-in-1, you mean.”

Harry smiles in spite of his annoyance and ignores the shiver that runs down his spine when Malfoy's fingers brush his’.

 

They finish their showers in silence. Potter comes out of his stall before Draco has done with the rinsing, luckily, so when Draco returns in the locker room, with a towel wrapped around his waist, Potter is in front of his locker already half dressed, with his back to him. Draco allows himself, for just a moment, to let his gaze slide down Potter’s bare back before reaching his locker and turning his own back to him.

"Where are we going, Malfoy?" Potter's voice asks, then, somewhere behind him.

Draco smiles a little, now that he can't be seen. He had forgotten about their agreement. “A muggle bar,” he improvises, his mind suddenly blank, trying to remember a decent enough place. “If that’s alright to you.”

“‘Course. Didn’t know you were the type to go to muggles bars.”

“Where would I find my muggles to torture, otherwise?” Draco replies, slowly dragging his words, and turns to meet Potter's gaze, enjoying his scolding glare and then his reddened cheeks when he notices Draco's almost complete nakedness. 

Potter's gaze lingers on him for a few seconds (not that Draco minds) before he turns back to face his locker as he pulls on a clean shirt. “That’s not funny.”

“Your prejudice towards me isn't either.”

Draco slips on his trousers while Potter dares to laugh. 

“I’m sorry if I didn’t take you for the muggle-friendly guy, Malfoy, giving your history.”

Draco rolls his eyes, carefully dabbing his hair with the towel before putting on the shirt he had taken off to play. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but people do change over the years.”

Potter doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Draco gives in to the temptation to glance at him, finding Potter watching him with an indecipherable look and a quiet smile. “People do, don’t they?”

His brow furrows as his gaze lowers on Draco's chest, left uncovered. Draco hurries to close the buttons that had remained open, but he knows it's too late.

“Your scars…” Potter starts to say, a guilty look in his unnerving innocent green eyes. “I–”

“I know,” Draco sharply cuts him off. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I want to say it.”

“Well, sometimes our apologies don’t exactly go in the way we planned them,” Draco blurts, with more bitterness than he intended, then winces at the vulnerability that he has shown.

Potter runs a hand through his hair, pulling away from his face some wet locks, with something akin understanding in his eyes. “Malfoy…”

Draco raises a hand to shut him up, and it strangely works. "Save it. Dry your hair and let's go out of here. I really need a drink now."

Potter sighs, then smiles a bit and shakes his head, dripping water all around himself like a wet dog; his smile grows at Draco's grimace. "If I use a spell they become a proper mess."

Draco arches an eyebrow, tucking his shirt into his trousers before putting his belt back on. "More than usual? Is it really humanly possible? "

Potter just shrugs, his eyes lingering on Draco’s finger as he tightens the belt around his waist.

“Hold still.”

Draco takes his wand from his bag and points it at Potter, who tensens for a moment but then seems to be trying to appear relaxed. Draco bites back an amused smile and mumbles a spell under his breath. Potter's hair is instantly dry, his curls bouncy and rumpled but still looking charming and heartbreaking-soft, as usual.

Potter observes his work in a mirror as Draco performs the same spell on his own hair. "Wow," he comments. “Way better than with my spell."

Draco joins him in front of the mirror and makes a face at his hair, more puffy than usual. “Could be better,” he replies, retrieving another black tie from his satchel to make a low bun, letting some strands to escape it to fall on his face.

He can see, out of the corner of his eye, Potter observing him. He seems about to say something, but in the end he remains silent while he settles the strap of his satchel over his shoulder.

 

Potter doesn't seem bothered to grip Draco's arm for the Side-Along Apparition, and Draco is surprised when his fingers linger on it once they reach the Muggle London's alley near the bar he chose, but he tries to not overthink it while he leads Potter into the place. Inside, he winks at Rose, the black-haired girl behind the counter, and absently scrapes two knuckles on the wood. “A gin tonic and a pint, please,” he orders for both of them, then glances at Potter and adds, without giving him time to complain: “You pay the drinks, I get the table”.

Potter nods, with a strange, sort of amused smile. 

Rose grins. “Quite the bossy date, isn’t he?” 

Draco winces and sees Potter's eyebrows rise, but he leaves him with Rose before he can hear his answer.

“He’s… truly something,” Harry murmurs awkwardly, looking away from Malfoy's back. “I don’t even know what I’m doing, honestly.”

The young woman glances from Harry to Malfoy with a sly smirk, before starting to prepare their drinks. “First time, honey?”

Harry shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she replies offhandedly. “It’ll be fun!”

 

Malfoy reads something in his face when Harry reaches the table where he has taken his seat with their drinks on a tray, as he squints while studying him. “You’re having some sort of crisis about this, aren’t you?”

Harry raises his eyebrows, caught a bit off guard. “Well – why aren't you having some sort of crisis about this?” 

Malfoy shrugs, picking up his glass and casually inspecting it before taking a sip. "Feels inevitable, in a way, don't you think?"

Harry looks away to not having to look at Malfoy's Adam's apple moving while he drinks. "Maybe," he admits, trying to put the crisis at bay, keeping himself busy by casting a few charms around them with a flick of his fingers.

“Just some privacy charms,” he explains in front of Malfoy's frown, who must sense the sudden magic. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Malfoy is still frowning for a moment, but then he shoots him a lazy grin. “Show off all you want, Potter.”

Harry huffs and starts to nibble on the shared chips that the bartender added to their order. “So, how’s your diabolical plan proceeding?”

Malfoy’s lips stretch in an amused smile. “I can’t complain.”

“Really?” Harry realises with horror that he’s mirroring his smile, so he takes a sip of beer to dampen it. “Who are you trying to seduce?”

Malfoy curls his fingers around the stem of his glass, draping a long leg over his knee. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Potter.”

“C’mon, humour me. Is it Lee?” He jokes, but Malfoy seems to take the question seriously.

“Don’t be daft, he’s straighter than Weasley.”

“What about that Keeper girl on your team? You two are always talking after a game.”

Malfoy tilts his head, looking at him like he’s marvelling at Harry’s idiocy. “Not really my type, no. She’s too gay for me, and I’m too gay for her. I was just thinking about trying to set her up with Pansy, Merlin only knows how much she would need that…”

“Oh.” Potter blinks. Draco can almost see the wheels in his brain moving until something clicks and Potter raises both eyebrows. “Oh. How’s, uh, your type, then?”

Brave, Draco thinks but doesn’t say. Kind. Clever. Painfully oblivious.

“Tall. Broody. Mysterious.”

Potter huffs a quiet laugh. “I see, the constipated kind.”

Draco hides his amusement behind his glass. “Quite. What’s yours? Ginger?”

Potter rolls his eyes. “I don’t really have a type.”

“How boring.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Malfoy’s smile is so different from that grimace he put on at Hogwarts that it makes Harry feel a little dizzy.

“And how’s the Auror life treating you, golden boy?” Malfoy asks him then, his voice low and oddly pleasing to hear.

“It’s fine,” Harry pauses, and then: “I keep changing partners.”

"Not as good as you?" Malfoy asks, but that soft, almost vulnerable smile from before is still on his lips, so Harry knows he's just being teased.

“I’m not an easy person to work with. A bit too…”

“Reckless?” Malfoy offers, before Harry can finish his sentence.

“... Yeah.”

“Impulsive?”

“Definitely.”

“Stubborn?”

“Most of the time.”

“So they ditch you.”

“Yep. And then go straight to Robards to complain.”

“That’s rude.”

“Indeed.” 

Malfoy is still smiling, and Harry he’s still feeling dizzy, so he clears his throat and tries to find something else to say. 

“And, um, how’s life on Level Seven?” 

Malfoy shrugs, taking a salted chip. “Dull. Slow. Too much paperworks. I was hoping it would be more practical in the Quidditch field, honestly.”

"Why didn't you try to become a Quidditch player yourself?"

Malfoy shakes his head, his smile turning in a grimace. “They would never hire me.”

“Why not? You’re a good player.”

“Am I?”

“I mean,” Harry shrugs. “I’ve seen better.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again.

“Jokes aside, you should try,” Harry adds. “You’re a great Seeker. Really. You’ve always been a worthy adversary. The year we returned to Hogwarts after the war, the new Slytherin Seeker was really bad. Couldn’t keep up with me in the slightest.”

Malfoy tilts his head to one side and his smile turns into a languid grin. “I knew you missed me that year.”

“Fuck off,” Harry huffs, trying to keep his voice light, but the words I kinda did claw at his throat and he swallows them down. “Why didn't you come back?”

Malfoy remains silent for a few seconds, looking down at his drink. “That new Seeker, I actually know that guy, Millicent’s little brother. Pretty but annoying. He had quite a crush on you in our Sixth Year… All quidditch players seem to have a soft spot for you, don't they?”

Harry takes a draught of his beer, feeling his throat dry. "What? Who are you talking about?"

Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. “Cho Chang? Ginevra?”

“Oh. Of course. Right.” Harry looks away, embarrassed to have thought – well, he doesn't quite know what he was thinking – and so he doesn't notice the amusement twinkling in Draco’s eyes. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“Nothing escapes you, Auror Potty.”

Harry crosses his arms and places them on the table between him and Malfoy, leaning towards him. "C'mon, don't make me use my interrogation tricks," he jokes, but immediately regrets it at Malfoy's beaming smile.

“Kinky,” Draco comments with a wink that he can't hold back this time, before taking a sip of his drink, watching in fascination as Potter fucking blushes. 

It should be illegal to be this attractive. 

“With everything that happened, it didn't seem appropriate,” he answers his question. “Pansy and I opted to take the last year of school in Ilvermorny. In the States they know about the war and of… Him, of course. And of you. But they don't know the details. It was much more bearable.”

Potter nods. "And why did you decide to come back to England?"

Draco bites his lower lip, unsure how much he wants to share about his life with Potter, but then sighs and gives in. “I just wanted to come back to my family. To aunt Andromeda and my cousin, not– not my mother. We are not on good terms.”

Potter nods again and clears his throat. “I heard about the Kiss. I’m sorry for your loss,” he says then, his eyes soft and terribly beautiful.

Draco drinks his gin to take some time. The sting from Potter's pity joins the sting from alcohol in his empty stomach, but he tries to ignore them both. His mind briefly returns to Lucius's death – his mother warned him of his passing in a letter, sent to Andromeda, the first year Draco started living with her after graduation. Andromeda hugged him and stroked his hair for minutes that felt like hours after telling him about it. “It’s okay if you feel like crying,” she whispered, holding him against her chest, rocking back and forth in the same way she does when she wants to calm Edward. “You’re safe here, my dear boy.”

Draco didn’t cry. He almost laughed, actually, but he swallowed the impulse just in time.

“I lost him so many years ago, before the war even started,” he murmurs thoughtfully, his lips against the cold rim of the glass. He doesn’t realise he said it out loud until he feels a weight on his arm.

Harry squeezes Malfoy's arm gently. Malfoy looks surprised at the gesture, but not as disgusted as he feared, so Harry allows himself not to take it off right away. He thinks about the words he said to him right after the trials that sent Lucius to Azkaban – You're worse than him – and his stomach drops from sudden guilt.

“I’m sorry for what I said,” he says quickly before Malfoy can stop him. “You’re nothing like him.”

Malfoy’s head whisps up and their eyes lock. Harry can see in his gaze that he understands exactly what he’s talking about.

“You don’t know me,” Malfoy grits out, and the memory of the words he yelled years ago – You don't know anything about me or my family – dances in Harry's mind. “Don’t act like you do.”

Harry can see, now, that he was right. Of course he was. So, “I would like to,” he admits, only Merlin knows why. “I would like to know you.” He pats Malfoy’s arm awkwardly, just once, before retreating it.

Malfoy is still looking at him in a weird way, so Harry is quick to change the subject. 

“Do you see Andromeda often?”

Malfoy watches him in silence for a few seconds, then: “I have lived with her since I returned to England,” he says. “She wrote me a letter after the war ended. I had never seen her, before. Her similarity with Aunt Bella is uncanny.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, I know… Well, she’s, um, a sweet woman.”

“She really is.” Malfoy wets his lips and puts the glass on the table, fiddling with a paper napkin. “She's taking care of me as if she has known me my whole life. I truly don't deserve her affection.”

Harry looks down at Malfoy’s fingers, slowly tearing the napkin apart. “C’mon, you’re part of her family, of course you do,” Harry pauses and frowns, realising that... “So you've been staying with Andromeda for years? How come we never met? I go to her every Saturday to play with Teddy.”

“Oh, I know.” Malfoy takes another sip of his drink, and then looks at him through his – ridiculously long – pale lashes. “That's why I'm out with Pansy all day, on Saturdays.”

“Really?” Harry raises an eyebrow, delighted by the pink dust that suddenly colours his face. “Just to avoid me?”

Malfoy scoffs. “As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

Harry shrugs; he knows he’s right, but. Still. “Well, try not to avoid me anymore, will you?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a bit. “If you insist, Potter.”

Harry realises he is smiling too, even though he doesn't quite know when he started doing it; he can feel his insides getting warm, surely for the alcohol. “It probably would be fun, spending some time together with Teddy.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m dying to spend some quality time insulting each other in front of a fucking toddler.”

Harry chuckles. “We’re not that bad. We aren’t insulting each other now.”

“Just because it’s the end of a difficult week, don’t get used to it,” Malfoy waves him off, his tone annoyed but his cheeks still a bit pink from before, and Harry finds himself unable to stop smiling instead of being bothered by it.

“Really? How difficult?” Harry asks, curious, eating more chips. 

He listens with amusement Malfoy's recap of his week, his complaints about the incessant chatter of his deskmate and the weird clients that everyday go in and out of the Ludicrous Patents Office. He finds himself laughing at his imitations and he doesn’t even notice the time flying by, amid Malfoy's comments and the other appetisers they order after finishing the chips. He then shares his week in return, even going as far as telling him about how Ron showed up at his apartment on Wednesday night, right into his apartment without a warning, because he needed to vent about his latest fight with Hermione.

“They have a fight at least once a week,” Harry explains. “And I always find one of them at my doorstep afterwards! They don’t expect me to take a side on it, of course, they just want to be heard, but still.”

Malfoy nods, seeming relaxed in his chair, with a smirk hidden in a corner of his mouth that has been haunting Harry for a good half hour. “So they’re still together despite their fights.”

“Yeah, and I don’t know how – I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m so happy they’re still together and everything, and if they ever split up I'd stop believing in the existence of love, probably, but it's absurd how much time they spend bickering.”

“I don’t know, I think it must be nice,” Malfoy replies, lifting a shoulder. “Having someone to bicker with.”

Well. Harry can’t disagree with him. “I guess,” he concedes, and there’s something in Malfoy’s eyes that makes him feel too warm and eager to speak about something else. “But, trust me, it was definitely difficult, living together for three years.”

“You three lived together after Hogwarts? For years? Merlin, that’s so Gryffindor of you.”

Harry laughs at that, and then watches as a soft smile blossoms on Malfoy’s lips. “What?” He asks, feeling himself grow hotter under his intense gaze.

Draco shakes his head, embarassed of getting caught looking at him with fucking heart-eyes. “Nothing. By the way – I’m sorry about your outing by The Prophet’s reporters. They really suck.”

“Oh, no, I don’t care. It’s okay. They do suck, but it’s better that it happened to me than to someone who’s actually gay, anyway.”

Draco is already about to roll his eyes at his hero-logic of "better to me than to someone else", only to fully realise what he said and frowning, feeling at loss. “What?”

Potter’s forehead creases too. “What?”

“Someone who’s actually gay?”

“Yeah? I’m not. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m sorry, Potter, but you seemed pretty gay to me in the photo where, you know. You were devouring that guy’s mouth.”

“You saw the photo?”

“No,” Draco lies right away; he didn’t just see the photo, he also cropped it and he’s keeping it in the first drawer of his nightstand, but Potter doesn’t have to know that, of course. “Pansy told me about it.”

“Oh. Well. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t.”

“‘Course not, we were drunk and stupid, I didn’t know what I was doing. Honestly, I felt pretty sad and lonely that night, I would make out with anybody just to feel something.”

Draco nods along, wetting his lower lip just to see Potter’s gaze lowering immediately on his mouth. That fucking idiot. 

“Understandable.”

“Really?”

“Been there myself.”

Potter chuckles and Draco smiles in return.

“Are you still feeling pretty sad and lonely?”

Potter seems to think about it for a moment, then shrugs. “Not really, no.”

Draco’s smile gets sharper. “Are you feeling drunk?”

Potter frowns. “No? I just had a beer, you can't really believe my resistance to alcohol is that –”

Draco nods without giving him time to finish speaking. “Good to know,” he says, before getting up on his feet.

“What are you –” Potter tries to say, but stops talking when Draco walks around the table just to stop in front of him, leaning forward to take his chin between his long fingers, looking straight in his eyes.

Draco leans over, getting close enough to feel Potter's breath on his lips, and glances at his mouth, still open in mid-sentence, while Harry keeps his eyes on Malfoy's, feeling the world spin around him as Malfoy’s hair tickles his cheek. Harry is almost tempted to lift a hand and touch that white-blond strands, bringing them behind Malfoy's ear, cupping his cheek and – and —

“Owl me if you change your mind about your sexuality, then,” Malfoy murmurs, his voice so low and smooth and sexy it twists Harry’s stomach, before straightening his back.

Malfoy is still holding his face up towards him and Harry lets him, his neck straining slightly for the position, heart pounding and throat dry.

"Otherwise," Draco adds, letting his fingers slide down his throat for a moment, pressing his thumb against his Adam's apple and basking in the vulnerability of his green gaze, before letting his face go. “I’ll see you at the next game.”

Harry swallows thickly and nods, definitely confused, unable to talk. Malfoy lifts the corner of his mouth and walks away. He has always had a penchant for dramatic exists, after all.

 

 

The next day is a Saturday. Harry shows up at Andromeda's door with sweaty hands, but Malfoy, of course, is nowhere to be found. Harry ignores the disappointment his absence causes in favour of playing with Teddy, and gets distracted enough to keep the memory of the previous night away, but when he’s about to leave he can't help but ask Andromeda: "Why didn't you tell me Draco lives here?”

Andromeda raises an eyebrow, but doesn't stop smiling as she hands him his coat. “Because I know about your animosity, and he's been through a lot already.”

Harry scoffs while he puts it on. “We all did, didn’t we?”

Andromeda examines him in silence for a moment, tilting her head slightly to one side, and then takes a step closer to brush his curls away from his forehead. “Of course we did,” she says, softly. “Are you going to hurt him?”

“I – what?” Harry frowns, feeling wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”

Andromeda's face becomes thoughtful and her fingers cradle his cheek, watching him like she’s looking right through him, like she’s understanding something that still escapes him. “Oh, dear, maybe I asked the wrong question. You’re not going to hurt yourself, are you?”

Harry blinks. “I don’t… I hope I won’t?”

She nods. “You and me both, my dear boy,” Andromeda concludes with a smile and a gentle pat on his cheek.

 

It's a conversation that leaves him quite perplexed, so he does what he always does when he feels this way and sends an owl to Luna. He needs to talk to someone about what happened anyway. Or, well, didn’t happen. Almost happened?

Hermione and Ron were immediately off the picture, of course. Hermione would accuse him of being obsessed with Malfoy, again (everybody seems to forget that he was bloody right about him in Sixth Year, seriously, what the hell?), and Ron would think there is some weird Slytherin-ish evil plan going on. He could try talking with Neville, but he knows that people aren’t really his forte; and, besides, Luna is an exceptionally good listener and always gives him good advice. They’re overall the best choice.

 

This isn't the first time Harry has returned to Hogwarts after eighth grade – he always tries to fit Minerva's invitations for tea together into his busy schedule, and Neville’s knowledge in Herbology and Luna’s in Magical Creatures have been useful in more than one case, as well as giving him an excuse to visit his old friends during working hours – yet he still struggles to keep the feelings that the castle arouses within him at bay.

Luna is waiting for him in the Greenhouse Four, where they had written to him that he would find them, sitting on a wooden desk with their legs crossed, a notebook in their hands and a Nimbus-2000-shape quill behind an ear. A carnivorous plant is nibbling at the tips of their long hair, let loose; they don’t seem upset at all by it.

“Hello, love!” Luna lifts their eyes from the notebook’s pages and closes it to slip it into their satchel, jumping off the table – to the plant’s chagrin – with a nimble movement. “It’s so nice seeing you again!”

Harry smiles for that enthusiasm, gently placing a hand on their arm as they reach out to place a kiss on his cheek. “We saw each other during the Christmas break, Luna, it wasn’t so long ago.”

“Still! It's nice to see a friendly face of someone who’s over seventeen, and doesn't talk all the time about the effects of the Puffapod’s spores.”

Harry snorts at that. “Speaking of which, where’s Neville?”

“Oh, on the Lake’s south edge.” Luna fiddles with the bag as they answer him; the light filtered by the glass of the greenhouse directly hits the pins embedded on it, including the one where a little pink frog is waving a lesbian-pride flag. “He couldn't wait to harvest the first gillyweed of the season, he has been looking forward to it for days.”

Harry grimaces at the memory of that particular weed. “Is it okay if we take a walk?” He proposes, putting a finger into the neckline of his Auror uniform to remove it from his heated skin. “It’s too hot in here.”

 

“So, how are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks, what about you?”

Luna watches him with a sceptical look but a sweet smile on their lips, letting their fingertips slide over some bright purple petals of the Enchanter's Nightshade’s flowers as the two of them walk near them. “Really? Are you sure you’re fine?”

Harry frowns, turning his face to look at them. “Yeah?”

Luna looks at him suspiciously, rubbing two fingers together and staining their skin with shades of blue. “It's only been a few months since... you know. Would you tell me if you weren't okay?”

Harry’s frown deepens, glancing at Luna's fingers and then at their increasingly serious face. “I don’t think I’m following?”

Luna looks definitely worried. “Your break-up with Ginny, love. Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Oh! That, yeah,” Harry nods, trying to put aside the guilt that invades him when he realises that he hasn't thought about Ginny for a long time now. “Other than the initial surprise it wasn't… terrible,” he admits, shrugging, which only makes the sinking sense of guilt in the pit of his stomach worse. “Maybe I shouldn't be fine?”

“Oh, I mean, it’s better this way, isn’t it?” Luna replies, shaking their head. “But I would be devastated if someone like Ginny broke up with me. She’s so clever, and funny, and attractive, and —”

Harry smiles as he watches Luna's cheeks catch some colour and their pale eyes get lost in the flowers. "Do you like my ex, Luna?”

“What?” Luna blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear and looking back at Harry. “Do I like your ex? Your clever, funny, attractive, kind and overall brilliant ex? Don’t be absurd!”

Harry huffs a chuckle. “If you say so…”

“So, what did you want to talk about? You wrote that something weird happened.”

Harry grimaces, forced to think about the reason for his visit. “Well. I’m starting to think that I may be — that there’s a slight possibility that I might be — maybe — I could be — into men?”

Luna lets him speak without interrupting and then frowns deeply. “Oh, you poor thing, I’m so sorry.”

“For being confused about my sexuality?”

“For the possibility that you could be into men. The horror!”

“Luna!”

“What? I tried dating boys before coming to term to being a lesbian, I know what I’m talking about! The thing with Neville was lovely, but he truly is an exception. I’m just warning you, love.”

“Jeez, thanks?”

“A pleasure! So, how did it happen? Did he kiss you before or after punching your face?”

Harry stops in his tracks with wide eyes and the feeling of knowing the answer even before he asks: “What? Who are you talking about?”

Luna rolls their eyes. “Draco, obviously.”

“What!”

“Oh, c’mon, everybody knows you two had a sort of ‘secret’ relationship during your Sixth Year, that’s why you were following him around all the time.”

“That wasn’t why– I didn’t– we hadn’t a – what!?”

Luna taps Harry's shoulder with one of their own, nodding conspiratorially. “Oh, alright, it’s still a ‘secret’. I see.”

“There is no secret! We weren’t together!” 

“Of course you weren’t,” Luna assures him with a wink. “So, what’s the problem about kissing Draco?”

“Nobody talked about kissing him!”

“You don’t want to kiss him?”

“I –” Harry falters. “I. I don’t. I don’t? Maybe I do. Maybe a little.”

Luna nods, taking him by an arm to encourage him to resume their walk. “Brilliant! What’s the problem?”

Harry sighs, holding back the urge to yell “It's Malfoy!”, but his thoughts must be clearly written on his face as Luna starts patting his hand in a comforting way.

“Why doesn't it seem strange to you?”

“Harry, how can I put this… You’re a bit dense sometimes.”

“Wow, you’re full of nice words today.”

Luna laughs. “You should let go of the past, that's what I’m trying to say. If what stops you with Draco is the thought of what he was like when we were kids at school, you're just hurting yourself. We're not who we used to be, love.”

Harry listens to their words and nods, because of course they’re right – but… it’s not that simple, is it?

“Only if you don’t want it to be,” Luna replies, since apparently he said it aloud (or maybe they just saw it in his ‘aurea’ or some Luna-shit like that).

They have arrived, meanwhile, at a spot on the Hogwarts grounds near a Black Lake’s edge, which allows them to see the castle in all its grandeur. Harry tries to avoid looking at the trees surrounding Dumbledore's grave – he couldn’t make himself get close to it after the day of the funeral, fearing the sense of closure to which doing so would lead – to observe, instead, how the towers of the castle stand out against the blue sky of the last days of March, the view so impressive and familiar it squeezes his heart.

“Have you noticed how the castle is practically back to what it once was?” Luna asks him suddenly, giving voice to his thoughts.

Harry turns to glance at Luna, looking at the way the warm spring wind ruffles their long hair, carrying with it all the scents of the flowers that surround them.

“Draco has been back here periodically since the summer of the eighth year, to help with the rebuilding work," says Luna, meanwhile, absently playing with her Nimbus 2000 quill. “And after the work was done he came here every weekend for a project he and Minerva have conceived to help each year's Slytherins integrate better at Hogwarts. Relations between them and the other houses’ students were so fragile in the aftermath of the war, but they’re much better, and it’s mainly thanks to him. And Pansy! What a sweet girl.” 

Harry frowns as he tries to absorb that new information about Malfoy and to ignore the jarring association between Pansy Parkinson – Order of Salazar, First Class Bitch – and being a "sweet girl". The thing is that it’s hard to imagine the Malfoy he once thought to know as a volunteer among many during the reconstruction work, and then in the Headmaster's office discussing integration projects, and then in the Hogwarts’ corridors talking to the kids in need of a hand...

“I truly don’t know him, do I?”

Luna tilts their face towards him with a satisfied smile. “Luckily you have the opportunity to do it, now! It’s marvellous how fate works. Don’t you think, love?”

 

Pansy barely gives Draco a look when he walks into her flat through her fireplace, with a bit of green powder hung on his clothes and a (exaggerated) haunted look in his eyes, before looking back at the Emily Dickinson's poetry book she was reading. “Still no letter from him?” She guesses, slipping an old ticket for a Quidditch match between the book’s pages to mark her place.

Draco silently nods. He waits for Pansy to place the book on the coffee table in front of the sofa and to uncross her legs to lie down with his head on them like a sleepy cat, dropping a couple of plushy pillows to the floor to have more space.

Pansy waits for him to settle down until he’s comfortable before sighing. “I told you already that what you did was a bit… risky,” she says, running her fingers in Draco’s hair to sooth him. “I can’t believe you still have a crush for Stupid Potter after all these years, anyway,” she adds, her voice soft but endlessy amused.

She and Blaise started calling him “Stupid Potter” around fourth year to make fun of Draco and his daily complaints about “that stupid Potter, I swear!” and it eventually stuck around, unfortunately.

“I can’t believe it either,” Draco mumbles, pressing two fingers on his closed lids and sighing dramatically. “In my defence: he’s really handsome.”

He opens his eyes in time to see Pansy curl her red lips thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess I could see that. With the right light.”

“And he’s not, like, totally dumb,” Draco continues, easily ignoring her. “But he’s fucking clueless. And so deep in the closet he doesn’t even know he’s there. ‘Cause I’m fairly sure he’s attracted to me too — I saw the way he looked at me, I’m not fucking blind — but he won’t admit he’s gay!”

“Maybe he’s bisexual.”

“Yeah, he’s probably bi or whatever, but that’s not the point.”

“The point is that you’re desperate to shag him and he’s ignoring you?”

“The point is that he’s clearly into dudes and he didn’t owl me yet. And it’s Wednesday. If he doesn’t owl me by Friday it will be so fucking embarrassing, Pans!” He exclaims, and then, before Pansy has time to say anything: “What if he doesn’t owl me? What if I misunderstood everything? What if I made a fool of myself? What if he owl me and he wants to have sex just because he wants to try it with a guy? What if I’ll just be a mere experiment to him? What if —?”

“Slow down, sweetheart.” Pansy interrupts him by pressing a hand on his chest before going back to caressing his forehead and temples, drawing invisible circles on his skin. “You’re going to hyperventilate and it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. Let me get this straight–”

Draco laughs a little through his nose. Pansy rolls her eyes. 

“Oh, hush.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want to have sex with him, Draco?”

Draco scoffs, looking at her upside-down pointy chin. “You know me, of course I do.”

“But, do you just want to have sex or do you want to date him?”

“Date him? Date Potter? Date Stupid Potter? Are you really asking me if I want to go through all the awkward stages of the first dates? If I want to be nice to his dumb friends? If I want to make him laugh, hold his hand and say sweet things in his ear before falling asleep? Merlin.” Draco pauses, catches his breath, and then, with his cheeks on fire: “Yes. Of course!”

Pansy gives him a sharp grin. “I knew it.”

“Oh fuck off,” he grumbles, brushing her fingers away to sit on the sofa next to her.

“Honestly, you've wanted to be his silly boyfriend since we were thirteen.”

“I had not!”

“C’mon, every Slytherin in our year knew it. Potter didn’t look at me today! Not even once! I feel like dying! Oh –”

“I’ve never – !” Draco tries to interrupt her, but Pansy continues undaunted, bringing a hand on her heart in a dramatic way.

“Dear Merlin, why can’t he just fu–”

Draco retrieves a pillow to throw it at her, but Pansy grabs it before it can even go near her face, bursting into laughter.

“Fuck off!”

Pansy grins, hugging the pillow against her chest as she leans over to Draco, wriggling her eyebrows suggestively. “Blaise told me you spent every night of the fifth year saying his name while jerking off.”

“I!? What!? How could he— I used silencing charms!”

Pansy opens her mouth wide in surprise and covers it with the fingers of one hand. “Salazar, you really said his name while jerking off?!”

Shit. She tricked him. He hates it when she does that.

Draco never blushed this hard. “Fuck! Off!” 

Pansy laughs. “It is only Tuesday, he will surely write to you before Friday, my dearest. And even if he doesn't, on Friday you will see him and you’ll have a chance to talk some sense in him. Don't despair!”

 

 

*

 

 

Malfoy. Hello. You said to owl you if I ‘changed my mind’ about my sexuality. Well, it’s not about changing my mind, per se, 

 

Potter. It was presumptuous of me to think there was an ounce of proper common sense in you

 

the thing is that it’s not easy writing to you, after everything that 

 

what the loving fuck are you even waiting for, honestly,

 

but I can’t stop thinking about

 

do you even think about that evening?

 

why couldn’t you just kiss me!

 

if I had at least kiss you I could just stop picturing your

 

stupid lips and soft-looking hair and

 

I wonder what YOU could possibly be so scared of!

 

you said you'd never avoid me anymore, and yet

 

I know you saw me in the corridors today, why didn’t

 

you obnoxious prick, ignoring me like 

 

a fucking tosser, that’s what you are

 

I would have kissed you back, you know?

 

laughing with Weasley in your stupid Auror robes, it’s so

 

so bloody infuriating when you’re smiling like that, and the worst thing is that

 

now you’re probably talking shit about me with all of your friends while I’m

 

here, writing these stupid letters 

 

that I will never send

 

like the damn fool I am

 

 

*

 

 

Wednesdays and Thursdays come and go. Not that it's a problem for Draco. It’s fine if Potter doesn’t write. Really. He can ignore him too. Two can play this game, Potter. You’re not fucking special. 

Draco's resolve falters when, arriving at the Ministry on Friday morning, he sets foot in the lift and finds himself alone with the Damned Holy Saviour Himself, surrounded by bright purple memos. His typical luck, really.

Potter's eyes dart to Draco's at the same moment the lift’s doors close automatically behind him with a soft cling and Draco mentally curses the fateful day he let himself be persuaded by McGonagall to attend an interview to work in a Ministry Department.

Potter has the nerve to hint at a smile. “Hi.” 

Draco clears his throat and stubbornly meets Potter's gaze, without allowing his thoughts to show on his face. “Hello.”

“Did you have a good week?”

“Yes.”

“Glad to hear that.”

The jerky movements of the lift make Draco nervous and on the verge of leaping out of his skin at any moment – because it's definitely the lift’s fault, and not Potter's too green eyes that continue to remain fixed on him, of course.

The short distance between the Atrium and the Department of Magical Games and Sports on the first floor has never been so long, but finally, after another handful of seconds of awkward silence, the elevator doors reopen with another soft cling, while the lift's Voice slowly says: “Level Seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office”.  

Draco holds back a relieved sigh and he’s about to step out the doors, amidst the flurry of memos that are already zooming down the corridor, but Potter is quicker than him and in an instant he presses a finger on the sixth floor button, Level Two.

The doors close, the elevator starts to go up again, Draco slowly turns to look at Potter. Oh, if a look could murder, The Boy Who – Unfortunately – Lived would be out for good.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy?”

“That was my floor.”

“I'm more in a hurry than you,” Potter retorts with a raised eyebrow, nodding at the files he’s holding. “Auror stuff. See? Very urgent.”

Draco blinks. Slowly. “What would have changed if— you know what, it doesn't matter. Nevermind! You’re too dumb to answer me logically. Do the universe a favour and just shut up forever.”

Harry glances from Malfoy's cheeks, which have started to redden as his tone of voice rose, to his eyes, burning with something that Malfoy would like to make him thinks it’s anger, but Harry is pretty sure is something else, at this point. He then glances at his lips pressed together, at his long neck left uncovered by the first open button of his white shirt – his attention is caught by a small mole near his Adam's apple, and he wonders for a moment what it would feel like against the tip of his tongue...

“What!”

Harry looks up from his neck, blinking away his thoughts. “What? I’m not talking, like you wanted.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “But you were… Looking.”

“Yeah?” Harry shrugs, and prepares to see the world collapse in on itself before he says: “You’re really nice to look at.”

The lift continues to go up and up and from its grates he can still see glimpses of the Ministry floors, with silhouettes of its employees working on their daily chores. Maybe the world won’t end just because Harry said kind things to Malfoy, after all. Huh. Who would have thought.

Malfoy, on the other hand, seems on the verge of passing out. “What?”

Harry observes, fascinated, the way Malfoy's face keeps changing, as if unsure of which expression to settle on. “What?” He repeats, faking naivety.

Malfoy lets out a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers in an exasperated gesture, and he remains like that for a few moments; the scene starkly reminds Harry of Professor McGonagall and he involuntarily smiles.

“Circe,” he sighs eventually. “This conversation is ravaging every bit of my soul.”

Harry snorts. “You’re so dramatic,” he says, and then adds, because, well, in for a galleon and all that: “But still nice to look at.”

Malfoy positively gapes at him for that, and he's probably wondering if Harry is being serious or he’s just making fun of him, and Harry would like to reassure him about the first option, but his lips looks so pretty right now, and the only thought on Harry's mind is to grab him by the open flaps of his uniform and push him against the lift’s wall behind him and kiss him and –

“And you look like a maniac,” Malfoy says, rudely interrupting his daydreams. “Grinning like that while looking at me.”

“Uh?”

Malfoy shakes his head, pushing away quickly a loose strand of hair that brushed his cheek because of the movement. “I truly don’t understand how your mind works, Potter. If it even works at all, that is.”

Harry forces himself to look away from Malfoy's mouth but doesn’t stop grinning. “You should try reading my autobiography, then. Skeeter is very satisfied with her work.”

A tiny amused smile forms for a moment on Malfoy’s lips. 

"Or you could just..." Harry adds, only to be interrupted by the lift’s Voice as the doors open.

“Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services.”

Harry looks past the open doors for a moment and catches Ron’s eye, who instinctively smiles at him, with a piece of donut between his teeth, then frowns as he glances from him to Malfoy. Harry ignores him and presses a finger on the first floor button, Level Seven. The lift doors close, they begin to descend, Harry clears his throat. “Or you could just—”

“Potter,” this time it’s Malfoy who interrupts him, looking at him as if he were a serious case who escaped from St Mungo’s. “That was your floor.”

“But we didn’t finish our conversation.”

Malfoy gapes at him, again, then looks at the files and frowns. “There's nothing urgent in there, is it?"

Harry grins. “Oh, shit. Busted,” he says in a flat tone. “As I was saying—”

“Is this the best way for you to spend your Friday, wasting my time all day by kidnapping me in a Ministry elevator?”

“Or you could just go on a date with me!” Harry concludes his sentence, annoyed by the constant interruptions, only to blush under Malfoy's incredulous gaze. “Just to. Um. Understand how my mind works. If it even works. At all. That is.”

Draco looks at him for a few seconds with his mind completely blank. 

“Why didn't you owl me?” He strains to say, hearing the words scrape against his throat, when Potter's face takes on a disturbing scarlet tinge.

Potter shrugs and runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. “I just preferred to talk to you in person?”

“Oh. Very well.” Draco manages to say, forcing his voice from his throat, hoping it doesn’t sound as sharp as it seems to his ears. “You may go on a date with me.”

Potter widens his eyes and opens in a smile that’s honestly painful to look at. “Alright. Great!”

Draco rolls his eyes at the juvenile joy on his stupid face, ignoring how wildly his heart is currently beating in his chest. “When?”

“Uh, after the game? Tonight?”

“You’re that impatience?”

“Yeah,” Potter answers without missing a beat, disregarding the sarcasm in Draco's tone. “I’m hardly restraining myself right now.”

“To do what?”

Harry huffs a quiet laugh. “Snog you senseless in this stupid lift?”

Draco blushes hard at the mental image. “Snog me? How old are we, fourteen?” He retorts with a raised eyebrow, but keeping a neutral expression becomes more and more difficult. He looks at the lift doors as he realises with surprise, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment, that in the meantime they have opened up behind him. “Tonight it is, then.”

“Brilliant,” Potter grins, nodding with his head at the open doors. “I believe this is your floor again, Malfoy.”

Draco nods. His heart jumps in his throat at the thought of what he is about to do and he swallows it, coming closer to Potter for a moment and pressing a hand to his jaw while he leaves a light kiss on his right cheek. “See you later, Potter,” he whispers, meeting his eyes, so alive and green up close it fucking hurts, before exiting the lift with his head held high and a satisfied smirk on his lips.

Harry doesn't remember ever playing Quidditch so badly. He’s only narrowly able to dodge a Quaffle and to not get into another player's trajectory, and he can't even get close to the snitch, too busy following another blond glint with his eyes. Draco doesn't seem to be doing too well either, anyway.

“Nearly made you fall off your broom, that Quaffle!” Draco yells at him at some point during the game, stopping by his side in midair.

“Were you worried for me?” Harry grins. “That’s cute, Malfoy.”

Draco makes a show of rolling his eyes. “I'm just saying that Madam Pomfrey isn't here to grow your bones back, Potter.”

“But you're here! And I bet the nurse uniform looks great on you.”

Draco seems unsure whether to be horrified or intrigued by that thought. Harry is physically unable to stop grinning.

“I think you really need a mental check, Potter, you sound delirious.”

“So you are worried for me.”

“Stop flirting with the opponent team and catch the fucking snitch, Malfoy!” Lee shouts, flying past them, and Harry laughs while Draco blushes intensely.

Neither of them catch the snitch.

 

The initial plan of returning to the previous Friday's muggle bar is discarded when Harry realises that Draco still has no intention of taking a shower in the locker room with everyone else present.

“You can come to my flat, if you want,” Harry proposes, in a low voice and trying not to attract anybody's attention, after taking a quick shower while Draco helped in putting away the broomsticks and the other equipment. “You can take a shower while I think about our dinner?”

He feels suddenly shy and stupid, and with the fear that Draco has already changed his mind about having a date with him, but when Harry turns to look at him Draco is smiling softly.

“A bit domestic for a first date,” he murmurs, looking back at his shoes as he finishes lacing them, leaning against the bench near Harry's locker, even though Harry was pretty sure the laces were already tight enough.

Harry shrugs, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “Maybe I’m a bit domestic. Already chickening out, Malfoy?”

Draco glares at him, but his eyes linger a little too much on his bare chest to be taken seriously. “I like domestic,” he retorts, so quietly that Harry has to read the words directly on his lips to be able to catch them in the noise in the locker room. “And put a damn shirt on, Potter, it’s getting ridiculous how much time you spend flexing your muscles.”

Harry laughs. “We both know you love my muscles, Malfoy.”

Draco bites his lip and doesn't deny it. “Git,” he mutters, then picks up his wand and says something else under his breath. Harry's hair is immediately dry again. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

 

Harry's apartment is smaller than what Draco expected, but it looks nice and cosy and the sitting room’s walls are filled with photographs of smiling people, and the kitchen seems quite spacious.

“The bathroom is down the hall to the right,” Harry says, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, looking a bit uncomfortable as he stands by the apartment door. “There are clean towels in the drawer under the sink. Um, make yourself at home? I would cook something but I don't have much in the fridge – have you ever eaten Thai food?”

“I’m not a caveman, Potter.”

“Sorry I asked,” Harry mutters curtly.

Draco bites the inside of his cheek. “Didn't mean to be rude,” he mutters back, feeling a bit weird and uncomfortable too. “Sorry. Thai food sounds perfect.”

Harry smiles at him and walks over, curling his fingers around the strap of Draco's shoulder bag. “Go take a shower and get comfortable, I'll be quick”, he promises, pressing a barely there kiss on Draco's cheek that makes his mind hazy anyway.

 

When Harry returns home with a bag of Thai food, he finds Draco sitting crossed legs on his sofa with one of his t-shirts on, which fits slightly loose on him.

Draco smiles. “Sorry if I took the liberty,” he says, taking the hem of the t-shirt between two fingers. “It’s a bit hot in here for my long-sleeved shirt.”

Harry shakes his head, placing the bag on the floor. “It's okay,” he replies, dragging his eyes from Draco's uncovered shoulder – there’s another mole on his collarbone; Harry never felt so attracted to damned moles in his life – to his face. “I like seeing you in my clothes, actually.”

Draco rolls his eyes, and it never looked so fondly. “Of course you do, you bloody Gryffindor,” he says with a laugh in his voice, and Harry has to kiss him now, properly, so he puts one knee on the sofa and one hand on the backrest to get closer to him, locking him between his body and the couch. Draco's eyes widen when he realises what is about to happen and he looks tense for a moment, making Harry pause. “Is this okay?” Harry asks in a murmur, worried by his reaction, but Draco nods vigorously and puts the fingers of one hand on Harry's cheek, while the others curl at the soft fabric of his sweatshirt.

“Kiss me right now or I’ll hex your bollocks off, Potter.”

Harry smiles widely against Draco’s lips. "So charming, Malfoy."

 

They eat their – magically reheated; they lost track of time for a while – Thai food on the sofa, with one of Harry’s legs pressing against one of Draco's.

“Wanna see something on the telly while we eat?”

“On the what?”

Harry laughs and Draco smiles back without understanding why he's laughing, and whether he's laughing at him or not, but he doesn't really care that much, not if Harry keeps an arm around him while he has some Som Tam on his lower lip, seeming genuinely happy to be in his company.

They kiss several times that night. First on the couch, with the empty take-away boxes pushed down on the floor, Draco's leg on Harry's and Harry's hands on his cheeks, with the distant sound of the so-called “telly” in the background; then against a living room’s wall after Draco gets up to leave, with Harry's arms around his hips and Draco’s hands in his curls, making him sweetly gasps against his lips with each soft pull; then directly against the fireplace before Draco goes back to Andromeda's house, while Harry whispers in his ear, between kisses, that he can stay and sleep with him if he wants to, and they can go to Andromeda together the next morning, but Draco shakes his head and presses a last kiss on his pouting lips, because Edward never falls asleep without his usual bedtime story, Potter, how many times do I have to tell you?

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then," Harry says, slipping his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt to keep himself from touching him again, trying to sound like an adult and not like a grumpy child.

Draco gives him a lopsided smile, taking some powder from the box above the fireplace. “You should come for lunch, tomorrow,” he says. “Andromeda and Edward will be happy to have you there.”

“Will you?”

Draco shrugs as he steps inside the fireplace. “Why don’t you come and find out, Auror Potty?”

 

The first time Harry sees Pansy Parkinson after Hogwarts coincides with the first time he sees Ginny after their breakup, oddly enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me Gin would be here?” Harry whispers in Draco's ear right after they walk inside the posh French bistro in Covent Garden where Pansy and Draco used to meet every Saturday for brunch.

“I obviously didn't know, Potter,” Draco mutters, with a bright smile painted on his lips. “I’m not the enemy here, darling. They are the enemies.” And then, in a normal tone of voice: “Hello!” 

Pansy returns his smile with another as bright as false one, standing up to leave two kisses in the air near Draco's cheeks. “Dearest, you look incredible!” She exclaims, looking at him up and down, before glancing quickly at Harry and holding out a hand towards him. “Hello, Potter.”

“Hello.” Harry shakes her hand, finding out that she has a surprisingly strong grip for being such a petite woman. “It’s nice to see you again,” he forces himself to say with a neutral smile, before taking a seat at the table next to Draco. “Hi, Ginny.”

Ginny, sitting across from him, gives him a smile that at least seems sincere. "Hi Harry! I'm sorry about the ambush, Pansy wanted it to be a surprise.”

Pansy beams, resuming her place next to Ginny. “Oh, it was delightful! You should have seen your face, Potter.”

Draco clears his throat and gives Pansy a raised eyebrow look that Harry has learned to decode as was that strictly necessary?

Pansy smiles sharply and takes a sip of her mimosa.

“I didn’t know you two were friends,” Harry decides to say, picking up the cafe’s menu – written only in French, of course, what did he expect – just to have something to do, even though he knows that Draco will eventually choose for him to take him out of the embarrassment.

“Oh, well, it’s sort of a long story…” Ginny begins, while her cheeks take on the same color as her freckles.

She seems uncertain how to proceed, so: “We had sex for a few weeks,” Pansy bluntly states out. “Brilliant sex, really. But we wanted different things, so we remained friends.”

Ginny’s cheeks look definitely red now. “Not that long of a story, after all,” she mutters, draining out her drink.

Draco seems as shocked as Harry feels. “You didn’t tell me about that!”

Pansy idly rolls her eyes. “It’s not my fault if you were too obsessed with lovely Potter here to notice my sudden interest in Quidditch’s matches, dearest.” 

Draco looks at her with dagger eyes and Pansy smiles sweetly at him. 

“I’m happy you’re letting yourself explore your sexuality too,” Harry takes advantage of their silence to intervene, giving Ginny a gentle smile. “I’m honestly proud of you, Gin.”

Ginny’s face lights up in a relieved smile. Beside her, Pansy curls her dark-red lips in a grimace of disgust.

“Bloody Gryffindors. How do you manage to handle that?”

When Harry turns to look at Draco, he founds out that Draco is already watching him with something warm in his eyes. “I'm starting to find it quite endearing, sadly,” he admits, reaching for Harry's hand under the table to interlace their fingers.

 

 

The first time they have sex Draco finds himself inexplicably nervous, despite it is just sex, as he keeps repeating to himself, when Harry drags him to his bed, sitting on it with his legs open to allow Draco to slip in between.

It’s just sex – as Harry's fingers unbutton his shirt until it slips off his shoulders and falls to the floor at their feet, Harry’s hands on his belly and his lips on his chest; the scars are barely visible in the dim light of the room, but they both know they're under Harry's lips and tongue, and Draco keeps shuddering.

It’s just sex – as Harry's eyes rise to meet his own, smiling at him in his usual reassuring way, taking Draco's hand and placing a kiss on his open palm before bringing it to his curls to grip them, as he whispers “you looked so beautiful tonight” against the hot skin of his stomach, and “I can't wait to feel your cock inside my mouth” with his teeth dragging close to Draco’s navel.

It’s just sex – as Draco keeps his eyes wide open, as if it can help him better imprint in his mind the image of Harry sodding Potter unbuttoning his trousers and pulling his pants down just enough to wrap his lips around his cock, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, as if Draco hasn’t spent years wanking himself raw while fantasizing about it.

It’s just sex – as Draco moans loudly and Harry sucks him harder and Draco's fingers tighten around his curls, pulling roughly, while Harry's hands are squeezing his thighs and he’s saying “how prettily you’re moaning for me, my darling,” with his wet lips brushing his shaft, and then “I love the way you call for me,” and then “be good for me, now, and fuck my mouth”.

It’s just sex, but it’s really not, it’s so much more – as Draco comes down Harry's throat and Harry moans around him, as Draco drops between his spread legs, shaking for the intensity of his orgasm, as Harry gently strokes his hair before tightening his fingers around his locks to bring him back up until he’s sitting on Harry’s legs, and he says “let me fuck you, Draco, please,” kissing his neck, his cheek, his forehead, his voice sounding a bit broken and drunk – and it’s so much more than sex and Draco’s heart feels heavy and full and ready to burst.

 

The first time they have sex Draco comes three times in a night. Afterwards, he can feel himself smiling like an idiot, their come drying on his chest, Harry's finger playing with his own, as Harry's leg slips between his and Harry presses light kisses into his hair.

“Of course you’re so fucking cuddly after sex,” Draco murmurs, trying to keep his eyes open, but he feels too sated and tired to be able to.

He can feel Harry’s laugh on his right cheek. “I thought you found my Gryffyndor-ness endearing.”

Draco grins languidly. “Fuck off.”

 

Harry wakes up first the next morning, and doesn't have the strength to grab his phone from his bedside table to see what time it is; it seems to be pretty early anyway. The soft dawn lights that filter through the windows illuminate Draco's naked body, only partially covered by the bed’s sheet. Harry adjusts it around his hips, trying not to wake him up, letting his gaze slide on his chest without being able to restrain himself. The pattern of his white scars looks painfully wrong on his fair skin. Harry can still feel them under his tongue.

“I know you’re looking at me,” Draco mumbles against the pillow, with his eyes still closed and a lazy smile on his lips. “You creepy Gryffindor.” 

Harry smiles sheepishly. “Sorry,” he mutters, gently brushing a lock of Draco's hair from his face. “How did you sleep?”

Draco grunts something under his breath. “Mstill sleeping,” he mutters. “Shut up. ‘M dreaming.”

Harry laughs, feeling his heart swollen up with affection. “What are you dreaming about?”

“Mmh. Coffee and pancakes.”

“Are you trying to tell me you want breakfast in bed?”

Draco opens just an eye. He grins shamelessly. “Maybe.”

Harry lets one arm slip around his hips, stroking his back. “Did you take me for a house elf, sweetheart?”

Draco blushes for the pet name. “Well. You’d be the prettiest house elf.”

“Wow. You, calling me pretty. I really fucked your brains out, didn’t I?”

Draco laughs, pulling his left arm out from under the pillow to stretch. “Merlin, I hate you,” he murmurs, without stopping to smile.

Harry steals a quick kiss from his mouth. “That wasn’t what you said last night,” he jokes, but his grin fades when his attention gets caught by Draco's arm. 

Draco frowns as he sees his expression change, but it’s easy to understand why. “Oh. Yeah. Not a nice view to wake up to, is it?”

Harry props one elbow on the bed, bringing the fingers of one hand to his arm, letting them slide over the pale skin near the Dark Mark before closing them around his wrist. “That's why you never shower in the locker room, isn’t it?”

Draco shrugs with just a shoulder. “I don’t like when people look at it.”

“I’m looking at it.”

“You’re not people, Potter.”

Harry looks up to meet his eyes. “When are you going to call me by my name?”

“I call you by your name.”

“You know what I mean.”

Draco looks away. “I don’t know. Would be weird.”

Harry sighs but drops the subject, returning to observe the mark, thick and black, burned in Draco’s skin. “Does it hurt?”

“Not exactly. But I always feel it. As if… as if the snake’s alive, in a way. Under my skin.”

Harry badly suppresses a shiver of uneasiness. “When I touched it, after your father's trial…”

Draco looks at him with his cheeks suddenly ablaze. “Yeah?”

“You – um. Did it hurt?”

Draco bites his lower lip. Harry feels a strange mix of discomfort and arousal in his guts.

“Not exactly,” Draco says again.

“Did it feel… good?”

Draco keeps his eyes on him. Harry can see his Adam’s apple working. “Kind of,” he admits. “Maybe it was just because…”

Harry raises an eyebrow when he trails off. “Because?”

“Because it was you.”

“Oh.”

They both remain silent for a while. The sun continues to rise in the sky, disinterested in their words, showering them in the light of a new day. Draco's skin looks almost translucent.

Harry sits up on the bed, still holding Draco's wrist in his fingers. "Does it hurt if I...?" He raises Draco’s arm high enough to place a quick, tentative kiss on a patch of skin near the snake's head.

Draco looks at him with lips parted in surprise. “No,” he murmurs.

Harry places another kiss, this time directly on the snake. “Does it now?”

Draco’s voice trembles when he says another no. Harry places a kiss in the centre of the Dark Mark this time and he can feel Draco shivering. He doesn't stop him, so Harry drags the tip of his tongue from the skull to the snake's tongue – he doesn't know what he expected to feel, but he feels nothing. It's just… Draco's skin, soft and a little salty from sweat, with a faint scent of Harry's soap.

Draco's fingers press against the back of his neck and Harry looks up at him. Draco is watching him with glossy eyes. “Please, don’t stop.”

Harry doesn’t.

 

 

The first time Draco sees Granger and Weasley outside of work it's a warm early summer afternoon and Draco would like to be anywhere else than there.

“Don’t be dramatic, you talked with them at the Ministry plenty of time,” Harry mutters, rolling his eyes at his theatrics.

Draco rolls his eyes back. “It’s different!” He retorts, as they approach Luna's lovely garden, decorated with a myriad of colourful floating lanterns to celebrate the summer solstice. With each step they come nearer to all the people who would have a good reason to prefer Draco dead rather than alive gathered together. How wonderful. It will be a long afternoon. “I just have a few words with Granger when we pass each other in the Ministry’s corridors – and Weasley communicates in grunts, it doesn't really count as conversations.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head. “Please, Draco, be nice with my best friends. You know they’re like family to me.”

Draco sighs. They are now close enough to be perfectly visible by the garden’s guests. Seamus Finnigan is already glaring at him. Typical. Dean Thomas, standing next to his boyfriend, gives him an awkward tight smile.

“I fucking hate you, Potter.”

Harry chuckles, sliding the fingers of one hand on Draco's arm until he finds his fingers, intertwining them with his own. “Oh, you wish, Malfoy.”

 

Luna’s vibrant choice of music doesn’t exactly match his taste and there are ex-Gryffindors everywhere, but things get slightly better when Draco discovers that he was not the person Finnigan was glaring at, after all.

“I don't understand why Seamus is mad at me,” Harry complains in a low voice, after Hermione and Weasley came to meet them at the garden’s gate. “Dean kissed me back, I didn't force him or something! And that was months ago, and the two of them weren’t yet together – and now I'm with Draco!”

"Don't remind me," Weasley mutters, promptly punished by a hard nudge from Hermione.

"I'm right here, Weasel," Draco sighs, studying his glass with a dubious look – once he and Harry set foot in the garden, Luna instantly welcomed them with a broad smile and two tall and narrow crystal glasses filled with a mysterious golden liquid before disappearing as fast as they appeared out of nowhere.

“Unfortunately.”

“Oh, Ron!” Hermione exclaims with a second nudge, before smiling kindly at Draco. “I am so happy you decided to come, Draco. How’s – wait,” her forehead creases in a sudden frown and she looks at Harry. “Dean kissed you back? You’ve always said he kissed you first.”

Draco stops looking at his drink with scepticism to look at Harry too.

“Uh – well – I think I’m gonna catch up with Neville for a bit, actually,” he says, wriggling away from them and leaving Draco alone, the fucking tosser.

“The closet was really made of glass, wasn't it?” Hermione muses, while all three of them look at Harry walking towards Longbottom and Luna with fast steps.

Weasley shrugs. “I still don’t understand how his obsession for Malfoy over the years didn’t push him out of it sooner, anyway.”

Draco turns towards Weasley, suddenly interested in him. “Come again?”

 

“So, how is your plan about knowing Draco Malfoy going?” Luna asks him, once they’re alone after Hanna convinced Neville to go back to dancing.

“I can’t complain,” he answers, bringing his drink to his lips, while absently observing how Ron is saying something to Draco in a rather animated way, as Draco listens with his eyebrows raised and an amused smile. “He's funny and brilliant. And he's an asshole, sometimes, but I like that too.”

“Of course you do.” Luna laughs, making their glasses clink together gently to get his attention. “I’m really happy for you, love.”

Harry turns to look at them with a content smile, just to find out that Luna isn't looking at him anymore. Following their gaze, he sees Ginny in a corner of the garden, talking with Angelina and George.

“You should ask her for a dance,” Harry says, nodding at Ginny. “She always thought you were pretty interesting, you know?”

Luna’s eyes go wide. “She did?”

“Of course! C’mon, go ask her!”

Luna seems uncertain for a moment but actually goes to her, leaving their empty glass to Harry. Ginny looks initially surprised when Luna approaches her, but smiles and lets Luna drag her to the centre of the garden, where the others are dancing.

“Hello, Cupid.”

Harry grins when he hears Hermione’s voice. “They look good together, don’t they?” He says, without taking his eyes off Ginny for a few more moments; she is making Luna spin on theirself, their pink long dress with little red strawberries on twirling around. They’re both laughing and Harry’s smile softens.

Hermione mirrors his smile. “They sure do. I've been saying this to Ginny for years.”

Harry turns to meet her eyes. “Oh, so you were sabotaging my relationship during all this time?”

“Not as much as you did,” Hermione deadpans, shooting him an unimpressed stare, and Harry snorts. “We all know you and Ginny worked better as friends. Anyway, you should go rescue your boyfriend now – he and Ron started to bicker about the way Dumbledore used to assign house points at the end of the year, it’s gonna be a bath-blood at any moment.”

Harry chuckles. “Yeah, I guess I should,” he says, but stays next to Hermione for a while longer, nudging her gently with an elbow. “How are things between you and Ron, by the way?”

“Oh, so much better since he retired from the Aurors, the field jobs were truly getting into his head. Working with George at the shop makes him much happier! Sometimes we still fight, but it's nothing serious,” she says, a mischievous smile spreading on her lips. “Besides, there’s nothing like making love after a fight…”

“Hermione!”

She laughs at his affronted expression. “What?”

“I don’t want to know anything about that!”

“Oh, Harry, c’mon,” she chuckles before sipping her drink, its colour of molten gold shimmering under the sun. “It is really important to have an healthy sex life –”

Harry disgards the glasses he was holding on a nearby bench to cover his ears. “Shut up! ‘M not listening!”

 

“We both know Dumbledore was a biased old bat, Weasley.”

Weasley scoffs. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you Slytherins know all about bias…”

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “What are you implying, now?”

Weasley clears his throat, puts on a slightly disgusted expression and uses a monotone tone when he says, slowly: “I'm going to take 50 points from Gryffindor for answering a question correctly and give Slytherin 100 points for breathing. Also, I like to bully kids in my free time.”

Draco bites back an amused smile and forces himself to scowl at him. “Severus didn’t talk like that.”

“You understood it was him, though.”

“Whatever, Weasley,” Draco huffs, getting distracted by watching Harry talking and laughing with Hermione; a smile escapes him without him noticing.

“I don’t have a problem with you and Harry, you know.”

Draco turns to look at Weasley, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

Weasley shrugs. “Harry likes you. A lot. And I trust his judgement, he’s my best mate. But if you pull some Slytherin-shit from your ass, Malfoy…”

Draco tries to keep his expression in check and to not smile more. 

Harry likes you. A lot.

“Yeah, I consider myself warned, got it.”

He absently takes a sip of his drink. It’s not bad, after all. A bit sweet and vaguely bubbly, but weirdly refreshing.

Weasley nods, seeming quite satisfied with their talk. He turns around when the music changes and a fond smile takes shape on his lips. "Oh, Hermione loves this song!" he exclaims and in a moment he’s gone, without even saying goodbye. 

Draco gets distracted from Gryffyndors and their poor manners when he notices that Harry is walking back towards him, his hands pressed to his ears and a traumatised expression on his face.

“You okay there, golden boy?”

Harry steals Draco's glass to take a sip of the mysterious liquid. “Hermione tried talking about sex.”

Draco grimaces. “Oh, I hate when straights do that.”

Harry nods before smiling at him. “How’s your mingling with the Lions going?”

“Nobody hexed me,” Draco offers, shrugging. “Yet.”

Harry grins. “Great news, baby.”

“Oh, no, don’t call me that.” Draco gives him a sour look, taking back his glass. “I hate pet names.”

Harry cocks up an eyebrow; he doesn't seem to believe him. “Sure you do, sweetheart. Wanna dance?”

Draco’s frown deepens. “Potter, you can’t dance.”

“I can’t?”

“The Yule Ball didn’t teach you a lesson? It was painful to look at you dancing. If we can call dancing what you were doing.”

Harry’s grin grows, as he takes a step closer to him. “Why were you looking, then?”

That’s a good question. “Well,” Draco stalls, sipping his drink. “It was like a shipwreck. You just couldn’t look away.”

“I see. Don’t you wanna dance?” 

“Do you?”

Harry shrugs, letting his gaze slip on the people in the garden, who seem to have a lot of fun. “The other couples are dancing, I though–”

“Are we?” Draco cuts him off, amazed at himself for saying it aloud. “A couple, I mean.”

Harry pauses for a moment, his lips parted, then his brow furrows. “Of course we are,” he replies, with a wounded note in his voice. “We’ve been dating for three months, Draco. We do things together – I’ve spent time with your friends, you’re spending time with mine, of course we’re a couple. What do you think we are?”

Draco nervously tortures his bottom lip, feeling guilty for ruining Harry's mood but relieved that they’re finally going to talk about it. “Well, we haven't made our… relationship official, at work, and you never want to be seen with me in the wizarding world. I, of course, understand that you’re ashamed to–”

“Draco, no, what?” Harry cuts him off again, slipping his fingers through Draco’s to take them both away from the confusion of the party, heading for a quieter corner of the garden. “Is that what you’re thinking? That I’m ashamed of being seen with you?”

Draco shrugs, thankful that Harry hasn’t let go of his hand yet. “Why wouldn't you? I am ashamed of myself. Of what I did, of what I could have done. Of being alive, while...” Draco looks down at his arm, at the Dark Mark left uncovered by the short-sleeved shirt he has convinced himself to wear, and the horrible snake looks back at him. It almost seemed like it was starting to fade, lately, even though Draco didn't think it was possible, but he was probably just being delusional, the ink now looking so black it nearly blinds him. “It feels a shame to be alive, as the poets say. One envies the distinguished dust…”

Harry's fingers let go of Draco's, only to close tenderly around his left wrist. “Please, look at me.”

Draco swallows, and he doesn’t lift his eyes, but he lets Harry move his arm until it folds against his chest, bringing Draco's wrist up to his mouth.

“You’re so much more than your past, Draco,” Harry says against his skin, leaving a light kiss on the purple veins of his wrist, before stroking his arm with his free hand. Draco shivers when Harry’s fingers start brushing the mark. “And I, for one, am so grateful you’re alive. And I’m so proud of the man you are today. I couldn’t feel a feeling further from shame for you.”

Draco forces himself to meet his gaze, his heart beating faster with hope. “Then why…?”

Harry lifts a shoulder. “I was afraid of what people, the press in particular, could say about us. Well – about you. I was just… trying to protect you, I guess. I care so much about you, Draco,” Harry pauses, and seems to be trying to find the right words. “I was worried it might become too much for you. I don't want to lose you already.”

Draco blinks, trying to gather his thoughts and feelings, unsure whether to feel more relieved or offended. “What – I don’t need your protection, Harry. I’m a Malfoy. I’m a traitor, a coward, a paria, surely you got the memo. You have to – why are you smiling? Do you find it funny?”

Harry presses his lips together and shakes his head, returning to interlace their fingers with the hand that was stroking his arm, holding Draco's hand tight against his chest. “Oh God no, sorry, not at all, just pretend that nothing happened.”

Draco raises an eyebrow without saying anything, but holds Harry's fingers back.

“It’s just – it’s stupid,” Harry mutters, his cheeks turning pink. “It’s – you called me Harry. It’s just. Nice. Hearing my name from you.”

Draco takes a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, hard.

“I told you it was stupi–”

Draco lifts a hand to stop another rant. “Salazar. Okay. As I was saying – if you care about me, you have to understand that I don’t need protection, or, Merlin forbid, salvation, from you. Do you understand this?”

“Of course.” Harry nods with so much vigour that Draco has to refrain himself from smiling. “I am truly sorry.”

“Okay. Good. We can… go dancing now, if you want. I’ll try not to scowl when you’ll inevitably step on my feet.”

“Really?”

Draco rolls his eyes at his dumbstruck expression. “You heard what Lovegood said, we have to ‘soak in the sunlight, dance, breath, get naked’, etcetera. It’s the fucking solstice.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, though I think we’re good without the naked part. Are you sure you’re not mad?”

“Oh I must be, because I truly care too much about your stupid face, Harry.”

Harry beams more than the sun above them. “You called me Harry again.”

Draco sighs, but lets a smile slip on his lips. “I’m aware of that.”

“You really like me, then.”

“Seems like it.” 

“I like you too.”

“Oh, do shut up.”

 

 

Eventually, all the dancing leaves Harry a bit exhausted. He doesn’t have the mind to think about it, though, while the last light of the sun grazes Draco’s body, who’s idly lying down on the grass next to him.

“You don’t have time to take a nap now,” Harry says, biting back a laugh to Draco's curt expression, as he runs his fingers through his increasingly longer hair, lying with one elbow pressed against the ground. “We will have dinner soon. Luna’s really proud of the feast they prepared.”

Draco groans without opening his eyes. “I don’t have the strength to get up, I’m exhausted. Tell them I’m dead. They won’t miss me.”

“I will miss you.”

“Gross.”

Harry laughs freely, pinching his cheek in revenge, but that doesn't seem to help Draco open his eyes either. “You can say whatever you want, Draco, but now I know that you do like me.”

Draco scoffs. “Hardly breaking news, really.”

Harry smiles, letting his fingers caress Draco’s face, sliding down on his uncovered collarbones, following the path of the scars that can be seen on his chest. “For me it was.”

“Because you’re clueless, Harry.”

Harry hums, going down with his fingers until he reaches the first closed button of Draco's shirt, freeing it from its hole.

Draco huffs a quiet laugh, his eyes still closed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry retorts, glancing briefly behind him to make sure no one is watching; most of the people are too busy setting up the two picnic tables to pay attention to them, and other couples who have drifted away from the group, like them, are too busy in themselves. “I am clueless, remember?”

Draco snorts, but bites his lip as Harry's fingers continue to undo his shirt’s buttons, caressing his chest absently. The rays of the dying sunset seem to paint a golden landscape on Draco's fair skin, increasingly uncovered, and Harry holds back the urge to bend down to replace his fingers with his mouth.

“You’re a menace, Potter,” Draco whispers, gasping softly as Harry's thumb draws a circle around his nipple and then rubs against the tip, provoking shivers of arousal through him. “And a fucking exhibitionist, apparently.”

“You’re not stopping me, though.”

“Because you’re going to stop yourself.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” Draco confirms, but his voice quivers under Harry’s touch. “Because you will agree with me, Potter, that this is truly a bad idea.”

“Tell me to stop and I will.” Harry's fingers return to the centre of his chest, then go down to his navel until they reach the button of his trousers.

Draco opens his mouth but stays silent; Harry barely has to move his fingers to unbutton them.

“Tell me to stop,” Harry says again.

He can see Draco’s Adam apple working with some difficulty. When Harry unzips Draco's trousers and tucks his fingers under the elastic of his boxers, Draco shivers violently under him but doesn't open his eyes and doesn’t say anything.

“You’re hard already,” Harry hums, wrapping his warm fingers around his length, and Draco bits his bottom lip hard to stifle a moan.

“I'll blame you if your friends catch us.”

Harry grins. “Deal,” he murmurs, whispering a charm under his breath and stroking him with a quick rhythm, helped by the lube he just conjured up. 

Draco's back arches under him and Draco clings to his arm with one hand, sticking the fingers of the other into the ground beside his side.

“Fuck,” Draco breathes hard, fighting against the urge to meet Harry's movements with his hips to avoid attracting attention, not knowing how well the others can see them. “You should have been a Slytherin, you know?”

Harry leaves a biting kiss on his parted mouth, drinking the soft whispers that Draco can't hold back. "I almost was," he admits, pressing his thumb on the tip of Draco's cock, gathering the precome and jerking him off faster, leaving a trail of wet kisses from his mouth to his neck, sucking hard the skin under his ear. “But that’s a story for another time, I believe.”

Draco nods absently, closing his eyes tightly as his fingernails press on Harry's skin. “Fuck, Harry, I… I’m almost… Oh—”

“Hey, you two! Dinner’s ready!”

Draco jumps and opens his eyes wide as Harry tightens his fingers around his cock, squeezing it in an almost painful way that makes Draco trip over the edge with his lips parted in a thankfully silent moan, his cock throbbing in Harry’s softening grip.

Harry grins at him and places a last kiss on his left cheek, before looking up towards Ron's voice. “Coming, mate!”