Work Text:
“This week’s total,” Luna reads from her clipboard. “Six marriage proposals, fourteen love potions or powders, one batch of Aphrodisia-laced Cauldron Cakes. One Portkey disguised as a circular. And one pair of magenta knickers.”
“Eugh.” The sorting of Harry’s fan mail has become a pre-dinner tradition of Whine And Dine night at Grimmauld. He’s grateful for the tidying, but Ron’s dramatic readings of the love letters smother his appetite. Harry Vanishes the lot, including the knickers, with a swipe of his wand.
Ginny shouts, “Hey! I bagsied those.”
“Don’t you get your own fan mail at the stadium?” demands Harry.
“Sure, but Ceridwen’s winning the monthly Panty Tally. I’ve only got nine to her twenty-six.”
“Maybe you need to work on your overhand,” Harry says, and ducks when Ginny lobs an orange at him.
Meanwhile, at the dining table, Ron is regaling Neville with stories about his and Hermione’s recent trip to Bulgaria. Ron became obsessed with the food, hence the golden-brown coil of pastry in the centre of the table. “There’s olive oil and mashed aubergine for dipping,” he says, and Neville makes an appreciative sound.
As Ron slices the banitsa, Hermione and Luna update the OPERATION: HARRY’S LOVE LIFE chart affixed to the wall. It started as a joke, but now everyone (save Harry) is extremely invested. Hermione adds the fan mail results to a bar graph, while Luna doodles Nargles around a giant empty checkbox.
“So how does this week compare?” asks Zacharias Smith, handing around the pinot noir. Neville passes him a plate of food, and Smith leans over to kiss him on the cheek. Harry still isn’t used to having him around, but he gives Smith credit for making an attempt with his new boyfriend’s inner circle.
Ron doles out a portion of veg for Hermione. “Bit slow, actually. It peaks around Valentine’s Day and Harry’s birthday. Not to mention all the jinxed mistletoe at the holidays.”
“We’ve tried setting Harry up with pretty much every single witch in Britain,” says Hermione, “but they have to meet his life partner criteria.” She gestures to section 2.1 of the chart:
1. doesn’t care that Harry’s famous
2. clever
3. single (duh)
4. passionate/talented/competent (good with their hands, iykyk)
5. good looking? objectively attractive sexy AF
Smith reads down the list with an amused grin. “And there’s not a single witch in Britain who can meet your almighty standards? Pity. How about men?”
“Ha ha,” says Harry, his heart jumping into his throat. He immediately envisions sharp grey eyes and a low, secret laugh.
Smith sets down his fork with a calculating look in his eye. “Huh. I knew you were a lot of things, Potter, but I didn’t think you were homophobic.”
Harry can barely hear over the sound of his racing pulse. “What?! I’m not!”
“So what’s holding you back?” Smith analyses the chart. “Looks like you’ve been at this for a year and a half. Surely you have nothing to lose by expanding your pool of potential soulmates. There’s a lot of single guys out there.”
“Babe,” murmurs Neville, laying a hand on Smith’s elbow. “Harry’s my friend, obviously he’s not--”
Harry stares, unseeing, at the table. A voiceless scream rings in his ears.
He’s not a homophobe! He loves Ginny and Luna to pieces. He couldn’t be happier for Neville, who got together with Smith after months of mutual pining. (At the New Year’s Eve party, in Harry’s own wine cellar, when the door locked itself and there was only one lumpy futon.) Even Harry has to admit: Neville’s a catch for… anyone who’s interested in men. Attracted to males of the human species. Bent.
So, yeah, Harry’s not a homophobe. Not like the right-wing mob who tried to sabotage the Pride Parade on Diagon last summer, or the Traditional Values lot who protested outside the Ministry when they legalised all-gender marriage.
Harry’s definitely not a homophobe. Especially given the way things are going with Malfoy.
So why can’t he say anything?
He tries to swallow, but it’s like rubbing two pieces of sandpaper together. “I’m not gay,” he croaks.
“You say that, but you never know until you try, eh?” Smith persists. “I know you Gryffindors. You’re doers, not thinkers. Just one date with a man. What do you have to lose?”
“Fine!” says Harry, much too loudly. He reaches for the water pitcher and refills his glass, spilling a bit over the side. “Sure. One date. Like you said, nothing to lose.”
It’s not like Harry has to marry the bloke. He’s not a homophobe, like the Dursleys. He’s nothing like them. One date. That’s all. He wipes his damp palms on his jeans.
“All right, Harry?” Hermione smiles at him encouragingly from her end of the table. The tension has mostly melted away, although Neville shoots Harry a curious look. Hermione clears her throat and addresses the rest of the group. “Brainstorm. What men do we know who fit these criteria?”
“Oliver Wood came out last year,” volunteers Luna.
“Yeah, but he’s in a monogamous relationship with that wix from Amsterdam.”
“Oh, they settled down? Good for them. Okay, who else?”
“Isn’t Michael Corner gay?”
“Veto,” says Ginny. “He has zero sense of humour and his oral sex skills are indifferent at best.”
Ron claps his hands over his scarlet ears. “TMI! TMI!”
Neville says, “Luna, isn’t your coworker’s cousin gay? The fit one with the lip ring.”
“Ooh, yes.”
“But we don’t know them,” says Smith. “It has to be someone we know, otherwise Harry will pretend to go on the date but skive off with a stupid excuse like, 'I have Canadian Spattergroit.'”
“Aww Nev, you told him the Canadian Spattergroit story?” Harry moans. Neville ducks his head.
“To be fair, she did turn out to be a gold digger.” Ron scratches his lip. “Surely there’s someone in our circle who’s not a Saviour-Chaser. Someone single, clever, talented, sexy, and extremely, unapologetically gay.”
Harry knows what’s about to happen before Ron’s even done speaking. And he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But he can’t, not without outing himself, and in more ways than one.
So tomorrow, he’ll do what he always does when he needs a distraction: he’ll corner Draco Malfoy at work, where Malfoy will suck his cock until Harry screams his name.
Draco flips down the lenses of his work goggles to squint at the battered broom on his workbench. Bloody Aurors. The weeks leading up to a mission, it’s: recalibrate the radius of my jinx-deflectors please, Malfoy and oh Malfoy, you’re so clever, can you make these night vision specs display shades of green instead of blue? And then when the dust settles, the Aurors trot up to Shacklebolt’s office for their Orders of Merlin while Draco’s left with a workbench full of shattered equipment.
He sighs, picks up a pair of platinum neutralising tongs, and focuses on the tangled spellwork laid into the broom handle.
A knock on his door frame. “Malfoy, visitors for you.” It’s his apprentice, Wendy Hobbs, whose enthusiasm for explosives got them kicked out of uni and into Draco’s department several years ago. Their bright pink eyebrows are still slightly singed from last week’s Erumpent extract experiment.
Draco doesn’t look up. “I don’t take visitors. You know this, Hobbs.”
“Yeah. It’s the Aurors, though.”
Draco drops the tongs with a clang. Potter, here? He glances at the clock, taken aback. It’s far too early for their usual activity, and Potter never visits Draco’s floor; he sends a sloppily written note. What’s he playing at?
He mutters thanks to Hobbs and strides out to the reception area, resting his goggles atop his forehead as he goes.
Beneath the trim, plain sign reading Heuristic Analysis, Research, and Development loiter two men in Auror scarlet. One with broad shoulders, unruly black hair, and scuffed uniform-noncompliant Muggle trainers. Shorter than one might expect, given that he used to devour his meals in the Great Hall with the ferocity of a starving hippogriff. Bearing his weight on one side. Maybe the bruises Draco left on his hip at their last meeting haven’t fully healed.
And the other man: ginger.
Draco plasters on a diplomatic smile. “Aurors Weasley and Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure? If you’re looking for a date to the European Magical Embassy Gala, I’m afraid I…” He spots the box in Weasley’s arms. “Is that the grappling hook from the Halladay vault mission?”
Weasley clears his throat. “Yeah. Or, rather, it was.”
Draco peers inside and whines. It was a beautiful prototype, with a modified Flipendo for a longer reach and stronger pull. Iron-plated claw, fireproof Uncuttable rope. The remains resemble nothing so much as a burnt coat hanger on a string.
“What happened?!”
“Halladay booby-trapped the vault. Stealth Incendio and anti-Apparition wards,” says Potter. Draco shoots him a glare. “Ron and I only just got out, thanks to your hook. But now we, um, need a new one.”
“I see. I’ll just grab another goblin-iron grappling hook, shall I? I’ll have a look round my infinite storeroom and entrust you heathens with another priceless, ingenious creation?”
“Er. Yes?”
Draco opens his mouth to tell Potter exactly where he can stick the iron hook, when an interdepartmental memo whizzes out of a pneumatic tube. Its pointed tip spears Weasley in the forehead. “Ow!” he cries, batting it. He drops the box, and Draco gasps, but Potter snatches it deftly in both hands. Seeker reflexes, killer muscle tone, et cetera.
As Draco breathes steadily through his nose, trying not to get a semi from Potter catching a fucking box, Weasley reads the missive and backs away. “Gotta go. You’ll ask Malfoy about the thing, yeah?”
“What, now?” Potter squeaks, ears going pink.
“Yup. See ya!” And before either of them can react, Weasley’s gone. Which leaves Draco and Potter alone. Potter’s that charming combination of frustrated and shy, like the first time they got off together. Draco hates to admit how easily this turns him on.
“Bit early, isn’t it?” he asks lightly, even as his gaze strays towards Potter’s mouth.
“I didn’t come here for that,” mutters Potter. He won’t make eye contact. “We really need a new hook.”
Draco can’t help teasing him. “And here I was, hoping you woke up from an erotic dream with my name on your lips. I haven’t even finished my morning cuppa.”
Potter stares resolutely into the box. Draco gives a beleaguered sigh. “Come along then.”
Hobbs lifts a bright pink eyebrow as Draco leads Potter into the workshop, but he tries to communicate not a word, Hobbs with his frown alone. Draco is usually rather strict about his no visitors rule. But it’s Potter, and Draco…
…Draco’s never been able to turn Potter away.
Plus, he can’t deny it’s a thrill to see Potter out in the open. Most times, when Potter’s memo has made its way to Draco’s office, and he’s made a flimsy excuse to visit the dusty stationery closet at the other end of Level Three, he’s half-blind with arousal and need.
He feels the heat of Potter at his back as they navigate narrow winding walkways between shelves. Potter, who’s never set a trainer-clad foot into Draco’s sanctum before, gawks openly at the towers of gadgets, tools, supplies, and experiments. Here is a prototype pair of completely silent wingtip shoes (size ten and a half, narrow). And here is an innocuous-looking packet of crisps containing enough Stun Powder to knock out a Quidditch team. Plus countless other unnamed inventions and items under repair.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” asks Potter as they pass the broom floating steadily at Draco’s workbench.
Draco casts an eye over the diagnostic field enclosing the broom, which shows each inlaid spell and damaged element in a different colour of thinly glowing light. “I’m decoupling the frayed Cushioning Charm from the lightning shield behind the seat. The new charm could be reinforced with a stability sensor, too. Then the vibration strut needs recalibrating and there’s something in the bristle weave that’s creating extra drag. I’ll have it sorted by lunchtime.”
Potter gazes at Draco, not the broom, looking a bit dazed. “I’m sure you will.” The tone of his voice puts a pleased spring in Draco’s step.
He takes his sweet time, leading Potter to the aisle marked Hooks, Pulleys, Tackle, Rope, Etc. He lovingly slides the rolling ladder along its well-oiled rails, climbs to the sixth shelf, and tosses a coil of braided rope down to Potter.
“That’s a Malaysian snake charmer’s lifeline,” he says. “It’s not as robust as the grappling hook, but it should do for a bit of casual underground vault exploration.”
“Thanks.” Potter slings the rope around one shoulder before holding up the grappling hook. With a brief pang, Draco flicks his wand and sends it to the bin marked Repairs.
Regretfully, that concludes the Ministry-official aspect of their interaction, so Draco looks over his shoulder (and arse) at Potter. “Was that everything?” he drawls.
“Actually, I...” Potter stares determinedly at the shelves.
Draco heaves a sigh. He’s sure Potter’s got something on his mind. “Out with it. I haven’t got all day.”
“Iwaswunifgwoutwme.”
Draco squints. “I beg your pardon.”
Potter says, eyes still averted, “I was wondering if you’d want to go out with me.”
Draco nearly falls off the ladder. His stomach tumbles over and over, like a boulder rolling downhill. After an eon, he stammers, “Why?”
“To, you know. Date. For the reasons people date. All kinds of people. Women and men, or men and, uh… men. Yeah.” Potter scuffs the toe of his trainer on the ground.
Draco hangs onto the ladder for dear life.
They agreed, when they began their arrangement. Behind closed doors, never in public, not a word to anyone. Potter came to him to satisfy a purely animalistic need.
Why Draco? Because he was in the right place (aforementioned stationery closet) at the right time (the day after Potter’s latest front-page disaster date). The witch had squealed to the Prophet that Potter couldn’t get it up, not even with her most feminine assets on display in a dress the size of a postage stamp. And it became clear that what Potter needed was for Draco to pin his hands above his head and wank them both off with one spit-slicked hand while licking the curve of Potter’s ear.
(“What do I do?” Potter had asked, mouth red and eyes wild.
“Sorry, Potter, I’ve misplaced my copy of Standard Book of Sex, Grade I. Do what feels good. Or let me. Would it help if you closed your eyes?” Draco grinned.
Potter gulped and did so, shaking in Draco’s grip. Draco has revisited the memory so often, he doesn’t bother stowing his Pensieve these days.)
…In short, the opposite of dating.
True, Draco has often daydreamed of having Potter in ways not involving subterfuge and cryptically worded memos. Impressing him with his most brilliant inventions, lovingly sliding tools into Potter’s leather thigh holster, scattering bins of wing nuts as they make love loudly and passionately on Draco’s workstation. After which Potter would declare his undying devotion and they’d fly away into the sunset on his appalling Muggle motorbike.
But that’s a fantasy, worn and soft at the edges like an old photograph. Draco can’t quite wrap his mind around the reality, which is Potter with one shoelace untied, still not making eye contact, asking Draco on a date for no bloody reason.
He narrows his eyes. “Is this a prank? A dare from your Auror pals? One of those Muggle hidden camera tell-o-vision shows?”
“No! It’s…” Potter laughs, but it’s stiff and unconvincing. “My friends think I should expand my options by going on one date with a man. And you’re a man, so…”
Ah.
The back of Draco’s neck bristles as understanding sinks in. It appears that there is, after all, a circumstance in which he will turn Potter down. He wonders how best to drop a dwarven anvil on Potter’s head while making it look like an accident.
“Potter. Even if I did want to date you, this is the most pathetic proposition in the history of ever. You have a cock and so do I, how about it?”
“What am I supposed to say, then?!” Potter scowls up at him, and damn if the set of his jaw and flash of green eyes doesn’t make Draco’s heart stutter.
“That’s right, you haven’t asked someone out since you were fourteen.” Draco parks his arse on a ladder rung. “Newsflash: for those of us who think with our brains instead of our dicks, we make a passing effort at courtship. Had it occurred to you to try coffee? Flowers? Paying me a compliment? Or did you really imagine you’d pop the question, and I’d trip over myself to hold hands with you on the beach?”
Potter’s as red as a phoenix on the brink of erupting into flame. He glances from one empty hand to the other, as if a bouquet of roses or a box of marzipan might miraculously present itself. Neither being the case, he looks up at Draco with a pained expression. “You, er… have nice hair?”
“Get out.”
“Wait, no, let me try again--”
Draco is too furious to form words. And fortunately, he recalls they’re on his turf. He snaps his goggles over his eyes.
On a nearby shelf, Draco zeroes in quickly on a white origami gauntlet. He jams his hand into the paper sheath and speaks the control activation spell.
High above, the wings of his gigantic invention whirr to life, whipping the air around them like a tornado. The smaller devices rattle madly on the shelves, and a stack of wooden crates goes flying.
“What the hell is that?!” Draco reads Potter’s lips, because it’s nearly impossible to hear over the roar of the Colossus Carrier-Crane (patent pending). With a wingspan of thirty feet and motion controls linked to the remote gauntlet, it’s a vast improvement from the silly figurines Draco used to fold in the back of the classroom. The aerodynamic charm work would make Flitwick proud.
Draco slings his free arm around the ladder to secure himself in place as he positions the crane overhead. Its enormous shadow looms over Potter, and each flap of its mighty wings sends a sharp flurry of air through the workshop. The hanging light fixtures swing wildly. Potter gawps upwards with the sort of reverence that every one of Draco’s inventions deserves.
Taking advantage of Potter’s distraction, Draco makes a fist and punches it towards the ground. The crane swoops downward with a deafening shriek. Flattening his back against the shelf, Draco pinches his fingers together and whips his hand towards the exit.
Potter barely has time to shout, “MALFOYYYY--!!” before paper claws latch around his waist, bearing him away like a helpless field mouse. The sound of his protests, and the deafening crinkle of paper wings, fade away into the distance. Draco’s panting for breath. The crane will deposit Potter back where he belongs in Auror headquarters, and he can damn well explain the whys and wherefores to Robards himself.
It’s after he’s caught his breath and hopped down from the ladder that Draco takes in his surroundings. Anything lighter than an iron cauldron has flown halfway across the warehouse. Gears and vials, bolts of Tibetan levitating cloud cloth, and shattered crates litter the aisles. What a disaster.
Not his finest moment. But then, he didn’t expect a botched romantic overture from his fuckbuddy Harry Potter to turn his life upside-down.
When Harry was nine years old, his hand-me-downs from Dudley got so worn down that even Petunia thought he looked like “something that had crawled out of a sewer, and I suppose we ought to do something about it.”
She took him to the Oxfam in Spellford, where it was least likely that she’d run into any of her lady friends from the parish council. Harry stood in the entryway, gaping at the endless racks of colourful cardigans, mismatched shoes, dishes, hats, trousers, and bags. A gaggle of teenage girls were trying on enormous flowery hats in front of the mirror, shrieking with laughter; and an old man thumbed through the vinyl records by the window.
Petunia snatched Harry by the arm as he headed for the children’s books. She hissed, “You’re here for clothes, understand? I’m going to the Sainsbury’s down the road. If you’re not ready when I get back, I’m leaving you behind.”
Harry nodded mutely. (Petunia had left him behind once, at the petrol station. He cried for twenty minutes until he suddenly found himself standing in the front garden of Number Four as the car pulled into the drive. It was hard to tell who was more shocked, him or his aunt. It was one of those Events That Were Not To Be Spoken About.)
At the front of the shop, Petunia opened her wallet. She winced, like spending money on Harry actually caused her physical pain. Harry held out his hand, but she scoffed and spoke to the man behind the counter instead.
“This is for him,” she said, jerking her head at Harry and handing the man a ten-pound note. “He’s to pick out clothes and only clothes. I shall want an itemised receipt along with my change.”
The man smiled. “Certainly, ma’am.” He had a high, pleasant voice and his pinstriped shirt was neatly pressed. His nametag read Stephen beside a pink triangle.
Petunia froze. In Harry’s head, echoes of Uncle Vernon’s running societal commentary swam to the surface. Bloody queers. Didn’t you notice the rainbow above the door? This neighbourhood’s full of them. It’s practically Old Compton Street.
But Uncle Vernon wasn’t really here, and Petunia wouldn't make a scene on her own. So she reluctantly left the shopkeeper in charge of her money and fled the shop, more thin-lipped ever.
“Charming woman,” Stephen muttered, with a conspiratorial wink at Harry. “Go ahead, pick out some fresh togs. My shop is your oyster.”
Harry disappeared into the aisles. He'd half wanted to ask the man for help, but Vernon would’ve had a fit. Don’t let him touch you, Dudley. You might catch something nasty.
But to Harry’s surprise, he discovered a rack of trousers and t-shirts that were exactly his size. There was even a faded shirt with a Star Wars design on the front, and it was too small for Dudley to nick for himself. Harry hoisted his haul up to the counter.
Which was when he remembered he only had ten pounds to spend. His heart fell. The Star Wars shirt alone cost £6.
“Oh. I’ve got to put some things back--” he began in a tiny voice.
But Stephen the shopkeeper had already whipped out a shopping bag and placed Harry’s new things inside, smiling. “Nonsense. One must feel fabulous in one’s clothes, and I daresay you could use a big helping of fabulous today. Am I wrong?”
Harry shook his head, stunned. Now that he had a moment to study the shopkeeper, he noticed the shiny metal rings on Stephen’s fingers, the rainbow handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. Harry was certain that Uncle Vernon wouldn’t let Stephen within a hundred yards of Privet Drive, which only made Harry like him more.
“I like your kerchief,” he blurted.
Stephen’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Very kind of you to say so.” And he popped Petunia’s ten-pound note in a jar marked Donations: Terrence Higgins Trust.
“But the receipt--!” Harry exclaimed.
And then the most extraordinary thing happened.
Stephen snapped his fingers and slid a thin wooden stick out of his shirtsleeve. Like a magician’s wand. As Harry watched, open-mouthed, Stephen flicked his wand at the cash register, which printed a little slip of paper: “Children’s clothing, total, £10.” He winked again at Harry and the wand vanished just as Petunia returned.
Petunia was clearly unsatisfied with the receipt, and suspicious of the quantity of clothing Harry had acquired on her tight budget. But her distaste for Stephen and his shiny jewellery won out, and she dragged Harry away without another word.
And when Harry arranged his clothes on the shelf of his cupboard later that night, there was a neatly folded rainbow handkerchief at the bottom of the bag.
“He said no, Hermione.”
“Mm,” she hums.
“I didn’t think… I had no idea… He said no.”
“So you’ve mentioned.” Hermione checks the cookbook before throwing a teaspoon of paprika into the pot. They’re making Bulgarian food again, although Harry’s too preoccupied to care.
From the sofa, Harry furrows his brow. He’s got his arse to the back cushions and his head dangling upside-down off the seat, because Luna says it’s the best way to rid yourself of Two-Dimensional Brainworms.
“What am I supposed to do now?” he asks Ron, who’s chopping peppers.
“Beats me, mate.”
“You’re not being very sympathetic.”
Ron barks with laughter. “Mate, you’re reacting like an Edwardian heroine with the vapours. So sorry you made it to twenty-three with no one ever turning you down.”
Harry thinks hard. “Cho did!” he points out.
“Yeah, but you never fell victim to Fleur’s Veela charm and asked her to the Yule Ball in front of the entire school.”
“‘Veela charm,’ huh?” Hermione pauses in her stirring.
Ron leans over to kiss the top of her head. “I was a pitiful prepubescent idiot.”
“Was?”
Ron slides an arm around her waist, and Hermione tips her head back for a proper kiss. Harry scrunches his mouth and studies the wallpaper.
Replaying the mortifying conversation in his head, he supposes it wasn’t totally unreasonable for Malfoy to refuse. (“Women and men, or men and, uh… men. Yeah.” Pretty awful, in retrospect.) The gigantic fuck-off crane that swept into Auror HQ, upending the reports on everybody’s desks, was a trifle overkill. But that’s Malfoy for you.
Ginny nearly pissed herself laughing when Ron relayed the tale. “It’s a little funny, Harry. Did you bring chocolate or flowers or anything?” And she only laughed harder at Harry’s glower. What’s the big deal about flowers? He can hardly imagine Malfoy appreciating a fistful of daffodils in his precious workshop.
It was a mistake, Harry realises now, not to lead with the blowjob. Malfoy always gets silly and smiley after he’s come, straightening Harry’s collar with something like fondness before giving his arse one last squeeze. He totally would’ve agreed if Harry had timed it right. Then his friends would be appeased, and Harry would… take Malfoy out on a date.
Two men. On a date. In public.
The very idea makes him nauseous. He pushes a pillow over his face to hide his blush.
“What do I do now?”
“Whatever you do, don’t get all fixated on Malfoy--again--because you’ve never been able to turn down a challenge,” Ron says, chuckling.
“Extremely inadvisable,” agrees Hermione. “Move on, Harry. Plenty of fish in the sea. What about Youssef from Magical Games and Sports? He’s very sweet. Didn’t he invite you to a Quidditch match?”
“Or that Healer with the nice eyes. Lyall, wasn’t it? He seemed fun,” says Ron.
“Mm,” Harry replies noncommittally. Their words slide over his brain without sinking in.
He’s not fixating on Malfoy. He doesn’t like to leave things unfinished, that’s all. Harry did a pretty crap job of asking him out. He can do better. Perhaps he should try again. Harry’s stomach does a little flip at the thought, but Harry squashes it down. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
Malfoy is just some bloke. Who’s been part of Harry’s life since they were eleven. Who fancies other blokes. And is everything else on Harry’s love life chart, annoyingly. Even the “sexy AF” part.
Surely anyone with eyes would appreciate Malfoy’s lean physique, the curl of his tongue around his posh vowels, the way he perches his work goggles atop his silky shoulder-length hair. If Harry were gay (which he’s not), those attributes would certainly be at the top of his list. And that’s without even getting to the intoxicating warm scent at the crook of Malfoy’s neck, or the way he shudders when Harry swipes his thumb across his nipple. It makes Harry want to drop to his knees and worship Malfoy's cock. And that makes Harry dizzy and ill. Why is fucking everything about Malfoy both arousing and confusing?
He resolves to pick up a box of sweets on the way home from Ron and Hermione’s. Wasn’t there a fancy brand of French truffles that Malfoy always got in the post at school? Silver box with a fat pink bow, if Harry’s memory serves him right.
And maybe some flowers, but nothing too poncy-- Harry shakes his head. Nothing too… girly. Because Malfoy is a poof-- a gay, er, person, who is male, and might want something sort of masculine. Are there masculine flowers? Hmm. Surely the florist will know.
The following morning, a delivery arrives from the Auror Department to Heuristic Analysis, Research, and Development. There is a lovely bouquet of white hydrangeas, and a box wrapped in silver paper with a note tucked under its fat pink bow.
hey malfoy, hope you’re doing well. wondering if you had time for a chat? -h.p.
AUROR DEPARTMENT WILL KINDLY REFRAIN FROM SENDING CONTAMINANTS TO LABORATORY. Additionally, Heuristic Analysis, Research, and Development (hereafter referred to as HAR&D) reminds Aurors that the Interdepartmental Memo System is for work-related purposes only.
ok fine. here’s some business for you. requisition form #14508-2, requesting 200 poison detection tablets for European Magical Embassy Gala. also i’m sorry your workshop got trashed. would you want to go for coffee sometime?
Both requests denied. HAR&D supplied Auror Department with 4,500 Toxicity Testers under previous requisition #13328-6.
wtf malfoy, that was two years ago, before those eco-activists tried to contaminate the entire potable water supply of shropshire
Denial stands. Auror Department should allocate valuable resources more wisely in future.
re: gala. auror dept kindly requests update to extendable ears, please incorporate automatic translation spell. requisition form #14512-3 attached.
Request denied. HAR&D requires justification for all equipment updates (see: Memorandum of Understanding dated April 19th, 1973).
malfoy, it’s an international wizarding gala and i don’t speak icelandic
Request received, status: tentative. HAR&D may not be able to retrofit all 313 Extendable Ears by deadline.
look: i’m sorry for being a dick about the date thing. i still have a massive papercut if that makes you feel better. and seamus says your crane is brill.
HAR&D reminds Auror Department again that the Interdepartmental Memo System is to be used for work-related purposes only. (To that end: The crane is, indeed, “brill.”) Violation of this policy contravenes the Ministry Ethics of Conduct, Chapter XVIII, Section 55: “Professionalism in the Workplace”.
what’s got you too busy to work on earpieces for international security????
Why does Auror Department continue to inquire after personal matters (see previous message re: Ministry Ethics of Conduct)? Regrettably, Department Head must cease correspondence due to robe fitting for European Magical Embassy Gala.
Mr. Twilfitt has barely begun showing Draco samples of this season’s mohair designs when the bell above the door rings brightly. Draco senses Potter before he sees him. He smells of the outdoors: a mouthwatering combination of sunshine, crisp autumn wind, and freshly tilled soil, like the moments before a Quidditch game. Draco inhales greedily, then schools his mouth into a frown so as not to betray the way his heart leaps.
“Good morning, Potter,” he says mildly. “I had no idea we patronised the same menswear establishment.”
Potter grinds his teeth, resting his elbows on the shop counter. “I don’t.”
“Oh dear. Appointment only, I’m afraid.”
Frail old Mr. Twilfitt interjects, “We can, of course, accommodate Mr. Potter for any of his sartorial needs!”
“I’m not here for a bloody tuxedo, Malfoy. I’m here to talk to you.”
“If it’s a business matter, I’m off the clock. And if it’s a personal matter, I’m quite busy. Fitting room five, was it?” he says to a perplexed Mr. Twilfitt, and heads for the back of the shop.
Potter, of course, follows.
(Following The Crane Incident, Draco had a teeny tiny emotional crisis and called an emergency meeting at his flat over cocktails and quiche. While Blaise and Pansy bickered over the last slice of spinach and chevre, Daphne said:
“Potter asked you on a date and you refused?!”
“Ngrrrh.”
“But I thought you wanted to go out with him.”
“I do!!!” Draco groaned, sinking deeper into the sofa. He had his arse to the back cushions and his head dangling upside-down off the seat, because he read in Witch Weekly that you don’t get frown lines that way.
“Then you’re an idiot,” Daphne told him.
From the other sofa, Greg piped up, “The problem is that Draco wants Potter like he always has, but he doesn’t want to be asked out after all this time if means nothing. To Potter, that is.”
Merlin bless Greg. He turned out to be rather astute without the threat of the Dark Lord looming over them all. Also, he’d been in therapy with a Mind Healer since his year in Azkaban, and surprised them all by taking the trainee course for the Janus Thickey Ward.)
Draco thinks he ought to check himself into Janus Thickey. There’s no other explanation for why he lets Potter trail him towards the dressing rooms like a storm cloud. Given the audacity with which he spoke to Draco yesterday, Draco should’ve had the crane transport Potter all the way to Istanbul.
The dressing rooms at Twilfitt and Tattings’ are a mix of Savile Row boutique and classic speakeasy. Up a winding stair, they’re on the fourth story with an exquisite view. Vaguely jazzy piano music filters through the curtains. Against one wall is a tiny bar cart with port, scotch, and a chilled bottle of everlasting prosecco. Against the other is a long garment rack. Hangers float into the room, bearing the two dozen outfits that Draco asked to see.
While the clothes dance in, jostling each other for the best spot, Draco strolls towards the window. He gazes down at the grand shopping plaza of Wizarding London, bright cafe umbrellas and soaring owls and tiny people milling about.
“There was a spot like this at the Manor,” he muses, not looking at Potter. “When I was too young to attend parties, I’d climb up to the loft and look down at everyone dancing. It’s like a little dollhouse, don’t you think?”
“I never had a dollhouse,” replies Potter, who’s come to stand beside him.
“No wonder it took you so long to discover you were bent,” Draco deadpans.
Potter screws up his face.
Draco grins and mounts the steps up to the fitting platform in the centre of the dressing room. His uniform robes swirl satisfyingly around his legs. “All right, Potter. You had something to say?”
Potter jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m sorry about the date thing. I was kind of an arse. You deserve better than that.”
“Agreed,” Draco says. His heart kicks when the side of Potter’s mouth quirks up. “Your friends are playing matchmaker, then? Did you come out to them?”
Potter winces. “Nothing to come out about. I'm not gay.”
“Mm-hm.” Draco knows Potter doesn’t like to discuss his sexuality (and complete denial thereof). He prefers to use his hands and tongue to communicate, which usually suits Draco just fine. But he can’t help prodding. “And yet they insist you find a man to date?”
Potter slumps down on a designer sofa. He rests the heel of his trainer on the low marble coffee table. “Apparently, because I haven’t settled down with a woman and two-and-a-half children, there remains a possibility that I’m a p-- that I’m gay.” A mottled flush rises from his collar. “So Smith--”
“Hang on, Zacharias Smith?”
“Yeah, he’s dating Neville, didn’t you know?”
“Hrmm.”
“Anyway, Smith said I should branch out.”
“I see.” As Potter continues to explain, Draco heads for the rack of outfits assembled for him by Mr. Twilfitt, though he scarcely sees them. It’s as he suspected, then--Potter didn’t choose Draco for any particular reason. He simply happened to be the first gay man Potter thought of. He wishes the realisation didn’t sting so badly. It's what he gets for being a wishful thinker with the worst intentions.
(“Anyone who wants to date you should worship the ground you walk on,” Pansy had insisted, jabbing her finger for emphasis but keeping her wine glass upright. “And since Potter's a moron with words, you’ll need to show him. He may be thick, but he’s got eyes, Draco. And you are a snack.”
“Grrrmph,” Draco said into the crook of his elbow.
“Say it!”
He sighed. “I am a snack.”)
Holding Pansy’s words at the front of his mind, Draco takes a breath and undoes the top button of his robes.
“...they suggested Oliver Wood, but he’s taken. And then Michael Corner’s name came up but Ginny said… uh… she said…”
Malfoy is faced away from Harry. But thanks to the half-circle of mirrors surrounding the platform, Harry sees his reflection in startling clarity. He watches Malfoy’s fingers take hold of one tiny silver button after another. Harry finds it difficult to breathe as he watches the delicate bob of Malfoy’s throat beneath his fingertips.
The long line of Malfoy’s neck is mesmerising. As are the motions of his nimble, long-fingered hands. Harry’s a tie-your-shoes-on-your-way-to-the-meeting sort of guy. Dressing in front of a mirror is so unnecessary. At least, that’s what he thought prior to this moment.
He asks, voice unsteady, “Malfoy, what are you doing?”
“Appointments at this fine establishment are lined up months in advance. I’m not squandering mine just because you’ve decided we need to have a heart-to-heart about your chronic bachelordom.”
What happened to the piano music? Harry wonders absently. The hiss of fabric, the brush of Malfoy’s fingers against the cloth, is deafening. Malfoy’s outer robe slides off his shoulders like a dark flower bud unfurling. He lifts his hand, and an empty hanger dances over from the clothing rack to take the garment away. Underneath, Malfoy’s smoke-grey trousers cling invitingly around his hips. Every detail, from the silver cufflinks at his wrists to the waistcoat buckle at the small of his back, is absolutely proper. It makes Harry want to rip him apart with his teeth. His cock gives a needful throb.
Malfoy deigns to meet Harry’s gaze in the mirror. “What more do you want from me, Potter? I did say no.”
Harry wets his lips. “Thought I’d ask again.”
“By hounding me with messages at work, stalking me to my tailor, and inviting yourself into my private dressing room. Not to be terribly heteronormative, but if you were treating a woman this way, HR would have your bollocks.”
“Good thing you’re not terribly heteronormative.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. Harry grins. He rests one ankle on the opposite heel, affecting a posture of cool composure to hide his growing erection. But as Malfoy shucks his silky royal blue waistcoat and his crisp white shirt, Harry finds it increasingly difficult to breathe steadily. Then Malfoy’s hands drop to his belt buckle and Harry wonders if coming here was a colossal miscalculation. He reaches for something to fill the silence.
“If you won’t date me, surely you could hook me up with someone.”
Malfoy sniffs. “Why? Because all gay men know each other? We all see the same hairdresser and manicurist, is that it? Or our bimonthly Queers Take Over The World luncheons? Or,” Malfoy lifts a brow at Harry while unbuckling his belt, “perhaps you’re thinking of the top-secret homosexual telepathic hotline.”
“You could magic up a homosexual hotline in your sleep,” Harry replies. His stomach does a giddy leap when Malfoy’s cheeks turn pink.
Then Malfoy hangs his trousers on one of the dancing wire hangers… and Harry completely loses track of what he was saying. A whisper-thin white vest is all that remains on Malfoy’s torso. Navy boxer briefs. And--Harry gulps--bloody sock suspenders. Thin black garters hug the swell of Malfoy’s calves, and silver clips hold his argyle socks in place. It’s dapper in the most insufferable way, like those borderline homoerotic shaving adverts from the 1920s. He’s poured himself out of his clothes, and Harry drinks his fill.
He’s never seen Malfoy like this before. It’s been dim corners and dark closets until now, and sometimes Harry keeps his eyes squeezed shut the whole time to avoid thinking too deeply about what he’s doing. But now, Malfoy is stripped of his armour, all long limbs and pale skin. Harry could kick himself for settling for anything less.
“Dress-up time.” Malfoy looks over his shoulder at Harry through half-lowered eyelids. The movement might be coy on anybody else. But on Malfoy, it’s wicked and sharp as broken glass.
He gestures imperiously with one hand. A bolt of shimmering green fabric unwinds itself from a hanger and comes to float in front of Malfoy, twisting and turning like it’s making up its mind. Then, suddenly, Malfoy’s clad in an emerald-coloured suit. Gold sparkles at his wrists and on his fingers, and a handful of whisper-thin gold chains dangle from his neck. And either there’s no shirt to match, or Malfoy didn’t order one. Harry doesn’t know or care which.
“When you followed me in here, Potter, was there a sign above the door?” he asks, without looking at Harry.
“...No?”
“Or taped to my back, perhaps?” Malfoy twists around to admire his backside, and Harry's eyes follow helplessly.
“Also no.”
“Hmm. Because you seem to think there’s a giant sign above my head that reads Draco Malfoy’s Homosexuality Bootcamp - Satisfaction Guaranteed or Your Money Back.”
“Malfoy. Don’t be a dick.”
“You love it.”
He waves again, and the green fabric flies away, to be replaced by one in plum-purple with tiny twinkling diamonds. The material shapes itself to Malfoy’s body as a sleeveless tunic. The long tail billows like a waterfall down the platform steps. He turns this way and that, admiring his reflection. Silver cuffs decorate his bony wrists, and the cut of the garment draws Harry's eye to his flawless shoulders. God. Harry adjusts himself none too subtly in his jeans. He’s fully hard now, and Malfoy must know it.
“Too daring for a gala?” he asks Harry offhandedly. “Not that it matters much; I’ll be monitoring the dancefloor from offsite. Still, no harm in looking one’s best.”
“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice is gravelly and unfamiliar to his ears. He can hardly remember what he came here to talk about. He knows he doesn’t want to talk anymore.
Malfoy shoots him an impish grin and snaps one last time. Harry leaps to his feet with a groan like he’s been stabbed.
Because this last ensemble is obscene. Actually, it’s not an ensemble at all. Just an accessory: a half-cape so black it seems to swallow the surrounding light. Harry has no idea how anyone but Malfoy could pull it off. It’s something a fourteenth-century vampire would wear to a fencing match. The cape billows off Malfoy’s left shoulder from a collared yoke in black leather, laced tight from Malfoy’s breastbone to the hollow of his throat.
And there’s nothing else.
“Oh dear,” says Malfoy lightly, glancing down at his lower half, naked save for his underwear and gartered socks. There’s a delicious swell at the front of his boxer briefs, which he cradles in one hand. He smirks at Harry. “It’s a shame you’re not gay, Potter, or I’d--”
He can’t say any more, because Harry bounds up the stairs in two steps, hauls him in by the back of the neck, and kisses him.
Malfoy opens his mouth with a soft sigh that burns into Harry’s core. He seizes Malfoy against him by the knotted lace at the capelet’s neckline, like he can braid their bodies together if he holds tightly enough. Malfoy captures Harry’s lower lip between his teeth and they moan in unison.
Harry will never get over the drunken ferocity that Malfoy’s touch draws from him. And he’s tried. He’s tried to recall his favourite parts of female partners: Ginny’s strong biceps, another woman’s athletic abdomen…
…but when he pushes his hips forward like a question, and Malfoy’s erection pulses back, it’s all the answer he needs.
Harry can’t think about what that means--he just can’t. So instead of thinking, he slides to his knees, mapping the path down Malfoy’s scar-crossed chest with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Malfoy's gasp of realisation is as gutting as a fish hook.
Harry can’t think about the sparse golden hair that begins at Malfoy’s solar plexus, growing thicker and curled as it nears the waistband of his pants. He can’t think about the unmistakably masculine scent of arousal, so raw and primal, Harry wants to nuzzle his face at the V of Malfoy’s lap like a desperate wolf. He can’t think about the little ah! Malfoy makes when Harry wrestles his pants down and his lovely pink cock bounces free in Harry’s face. He’s so goddamned beautiful.
Desire and dread battle within Harry, and desire wins out.
He closes his eyes, silences his mind, and opens his mouth.
Draco is dead. He’s died and ascended to a plane beyond mortal reckoning, or perhaps descended to a place where he’s to be tortured until time falls apart. Because Potter is kneeling before him, dark lashes folded down and pink tongue exposed, waiting, welcoming.
Circe have mercy.
“Look at you,” Draco murmurs. He cups Potter’s jaw in his hand, running his thumb pad along Potter’s lower lip. His finger comes away wet. The spots where Potter kissed his chest and stomach on the way down are oversensitive to the dressing room’s cooling charms.
“Let’s be real, Potter,” Draco says, more confidently than he feels. He continues to caress Potter’s face with idle strokes. “You’re not going on a date with a random bloke off the street. You don’t want chit-chat and hand-holding and gelato. You want this. I knew the moment you accosted me in the supply cabinet.”
Potter’s eyes peel open. Merlin, the stubborn spark in his eyes. It haunted Draco's dreams from across the Great Hall for six years. With Potter this close, it burns. “You started it, Malfoy. Telling me how I should take my prick for a routine inspection if it wasn’t functioning as expected.”
“And then you said, ‘Shut your cocksucking mouth’ and shoved me against a wall, and look where that got us. Really, Potter, it’s a wonder that the women of Britain aren’t queuing up to be romanced by your sparkling repartee.”
Potter responds by laving his tongue along the underside of Draco’s foreskin, which, fair play.
Draco threads his fingers into Potter’s wild hair, hanging on for dear life while Potter tastes greedily. A thought bolts savagely through his bloodstream--a whisper of memory from their first hasty conversation about what Potter would and wouldn’t do.
“You’ve never had a prick in your mouth before,” Draco murmurs, reeling on the edge of a monumental precipice. His brain has flown off to a distant part of the galaxy.
Potter shakes his head, opens wide, and sucks Draco in.
Oh fuuuuck. Draco bites his lip hard to keep himself from exploding. His knees shake. Potter’s hands slide up Draco’s legs, skimming the straps of his sock garters before coming to rest on the backs of his thighs. Draco sucks in a breath, fucking slowly into the hot wetness of his mouth. “How could you ever think you were straight, Potter? You suck cock like a slag in heat.”
Potter whimpers around his mouthful of Draco, his head shaking from side to side. He tightens his grip on Draco’s legs and explores Draco’s slit with the tip of his tongue. Draco gulps for air. He should say something hot and dirty like you belong to me, Potter or I’m going to ruin you for anybody else.
But how, Draco wonders. How is he supposed to ruin Potter, when all he wants is to tear down the heavens and lay them at Potter’s feet?
Draco spreads his thumbs along Potter’s sweat-soaked brow, parting his hair to see his face. And he sees with a start that tears are flowing from the corners of Potter’s eyes. They’re streaming down his cheeks, cutting wet lines down his lovely brown skin. Draco stills the thrust of his hips.
“Potter. Do you need a break? Do you need me to stop?” Draco asks gently, because he is many things, but he’s not a monster.
Potter shakes his head violently. He screws his eyes shut and digs his hands deeper into Draco’s flesh. Draco curses. Contradictory desires tangle in his mind, knots upon knots. He wants to lick every inch of Potter’s flesh until his tongue bleeds Gryffindor red. He wants to nestle Potter in a galaxy of peacock-feather pillows, safe and secret. He wants to find every person who’s ever hurt Potter and rip their heart from their ribs, furious and raw.
(Draco has hurt Potter in more ways than he cares to contemplate, most days. But Potter tore him open so it all evens out in the wash.)
Potter makes a needy, desperate sound, dragging Draco back into the moment. He’s trembling and painted in sweat. Potter continues to torture Draco by being amazing at anything he puts his mind to: he gives a hundred and ten percent effort, O for Outstanding, to the first blowjob of his life, and Draco can’t even be mad about it.
“You’re gonna make me come,” he says through a tight sob. When Potter’s response is to hollow his cheeks, Draco seizes fistfuls of hair and balances on the knife’s edge of pleasure for as long as he can. “I’m gonna come down your throat, darling, all over you, don’t stop please, you’re so good, you’re so good-- ah, Harry----!”
He falls apart with a cry, and Harry’s broad hands on the backs of his legs are the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
Harry tries his best to swallow, but it’s too much, and Draco’s come oozes from the corners of his mouth into an appalling puddle on the floor. He splutters, coughs, and wipes his wet sticky lips on the skin above Draco’s knee.
Draco drops back into his body one nerve at a time. He slides to the floor then, guided down by the circle of Harry’s arms. He drops his head onto Harry’s shoulder. “...Fucking hell.”
Harry nods, hands wandering over Draco’s sweat-drenched hair. He’s hard enough to cut glass. Draco watches, transfixed, as the swell in Harry’s jeans punches at the zipper from behind. He hums appreciatively and reaches for Harry’s waistband, more than ready to repay the favour, but Harry takes him by the wrist and holds him at bay.
“I can’t, Malfoy. I’m sorry.”
“Of course you can,” Draco tells him. Potter shakes his head, but Draco guides his face back with a gentle palm. “You can. You saved the bloody world, Harry, you can do whatever your heart desires. It’s not the end of the world to be gay.”
“I’m not gay,” Harry says reflexively, averting his eyes.
Draco’s laugh is disbelieving. “Then what just happened? Because that sure as fuck wasn’t platonic.”
Harry shakes his head like he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. “I’m not gay.”
"Why do you like to hurt so much?" Draco glides his hands to hold Harry’s shoulders and frowns when the other man stiffens in his grip. “Harry, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
“It’s not!” Harry covers his flushed face with trembling hands. “It’s not easy for me, like it is for you.”
Draco goes cold all over, like falling into a frozen river. “Easy,” he repeats, and his voice sounds strange and high to his ears. He shoves away from Harry and scrambles to his feet.
A snap of his fingers Vanishes the black capelet and restores his uniform robes, which wrap and zip themselves snugly back onto his body. Which is good, because Draco’s so angry he can’t see the buttonholes, let alone use them.
“Potter, do you know how my father took the news? Picture the dining room at the Manor--yes, where my aunt nearly skinned Granger alive. Picture my father at the head of the table, reading the Prophet’s exposé about my drunken fumble with an earl’s son at the Greengrasses’ New Year’s ball.” Draco’s nails dig into his palms, his voice shaking. Harry’s looking up at him from his position on the floor, mouth hanging open.
Harry swallows. “What did he do?”
“Petrified me so I couldn’t move. Silenced me so I couldn’t scream. And he cast Crucio until his voice gave out. Then he stopped for a little sip of wine and did it again.”
Harry sucks in a horrified breath, but Draco’s not done. He is a scrap of parchment on fire at the edges, the embers of his anger spreading faster than he can control.
“Lucius Malfoy: too cowardly to kill for the Dark Lord, but all too willing to cast an Unforgiveable on his nancy boy of a son. Doesn’t leave marks like a cane would, you see. Such shame, such a tragedy, that the Malfoy heir should like it up the arse, he’d rather have no son at all. Is that easy?!”
“I didn’t mean--”
“Obviously you wouldn’t know. You never even had a family,” Draco spits, his old schoolboy weapons sliding back into place like familiar gauntlets.
Harry flinches but shuffles forward on his knees, hands out, imploring. He begins, “You could show me--”
Draco screams, “I’m not your gay fairy godmother! I’m not your quarter-life crisis coach! Have an emotional crisis on your own time. I’m done.”
And it’s nothing to do with the greater part of valour when Draco flees. But he can’t look at Harry’s miserable, frowning, kissed-raw mouth a moment longer. When he Disapparates, he feels like he’s leaving half of his heart behind.
If time passes, Harry is unaware. He shows up to work most days, leads defence training for the Junior Aurors, and files his paperwork (but never for Heuristic Analysis, Research & Development). He eats, sometimes. Sometimes he sleeps, too.
After three weeks, when Harry grabs the wrong end of his own wand during a raid, Ron orders him to go home. Harry scans the Floos for a flash of white-blond hair, knowing he won’t see it. Looking anyway. Wanting the thing that hurts the most.
He collapses on his unmade bed and curls in on himself. If he told his Fifth Year self he was torn to shreds over Draco Malfoy… Well, he doesn’t know what younger Harry would do.
…Yeah he does, actually. Younger Harry would find Draco across the Great Hall without even thinking. He’d watch Draco lick frosting from the corner of his mouth, or tell a joke to make the younger Slytherins laugh, or give Harry the finger from behind his class schedule. And Harry’s heart would jump every time.
He knows now--or at least has a very good idea--why that was. But it can’t be true. It’s against everything Harry was raised to believe, even if he’d gladly piss on the graves of the people who taught him so.
Another week goes by. Draco’s birthday. Harry knows the date, has known since First Year, when it pained him to see Draco showered with presents at breakfast. Second Year and Third, too.
Then, Eighth Year. Draco was just as sharp but without the venom, wiry and restless and oddly funny. He had a faceful of birthday cake and frosting in his eyebrows courtesy of Theo Nott. Draco shoved him into the freezing Great Lake and tumbled in after with a dramatic scream. The thin white shirt clung to his shoulders, nipples stiff and peaked, long hair dripping. His laughter echoed across the water to where Harry sat beneath a tree, captivated, unable to look away. Draco sensed him watching and mouthed his usual fuck off, Potter--but with a sly grin instead of a sneer.
Harry knows now why Draco’s smile made him woozy and distracted, but there is a dark chasm in his chest that he’s afraid to fill. What if Ginny, Luna, Seamus and Dean, Neville, Zacharias bloody Smith--what if they’re wrong and the Dursleys were right, and Harry is exactly the monster they thought he’d be all along?
Who's Cedric, your boyfriend?
More than a decade and one Dark Lord later, and it’s still the Dursleys' voices in Harry's nightmares. The way they echoed through the tiny grille of his cupboard.
He covers his face and sobs.
Harry’s officially on wellness leave from the Aurors one midsummer day when his wards announce Ron and Hermione’s arrival. They find him in the garden where he’s sprawled on the overgrown grass, staring sightlessly up at the sky. At least he remembered to put on shorts today.
“Hello, Harry,” Hermione says, lying down too. Near enough to speak, but not quite touching. Ron does the same on Harry’s other side.
Harry tries to respond, even give a grunt of acknowledgement, but his voice won’t cooperate.
Ron says, “Mum made me swear I’d take you this vat of chicken soup, two dozen rolls, and a blackberry pie the size of Venus. Oh, and Ginny picked out some pornography.”
Something lands in the soft grass beside Harry and he cranes his neck to see. It’s a box set of Muggle books, one of which has a firefighter on the front and is titled Pounded In The Butt While Coming to Terms with My Sexuality.
This startles a snort from Harry, who jumps at the sound of his own voice. He can sense Ron and Hermione smiling too, and that alone is enough to make his eyes water with gratitude.
He never sat his friends down to tell them about the outcome of OPERATION: HARRY’S LOVE LIFE, but they’re smart enough to guess. Draco (Ron tells him) is routing all department communications via Hobbs and preparing for the European Magical Embassy Gala with alarming fervour.
“I’m glad you’re taking some time for yourself, Harry,” Hermione says.
“It’s stupid.” Harry swipes the back of his hand across his leaking eyes. “I didn’t break a leg or catch dragon pox. Who takes work leave to have a sexual orientation crisis?”
“You’re the Boy Who Lived, you can do what you want,” says Ron, and it sounds so much like what Draco told him that Harry’s heart shreds itself into even tinier pieces.
And, looking up at the blue summer sky, he tells Ron and Hermione about what the Dursleys raised him to think. Vernon muttering good riddance when a queer-friendly nightclub was torched. Petunia seeing her first gender-neutral bathroom; clutching her costume pearls. What is the world coming to? The summer they turned sixteen, Piers Polkiss beaten to a pulp hours after coming out on a local TV interview... and Dudley coming home with knuckles raw and scraped, laughing and proud, calling his former friend names that made Harry’s blood curdle.
Harry even tells Ron and Hermione about that thrift store, and the man behind the counter who was kind to Harry and secretly gave Petunia’s money to an LGBTQ charity. He expects Hermione to remark on the blatant use of magic in front of an (ostensibly) Muggle child, but she doesn’t. Silently, she takes one of Harry’s hands, and Ron takes the other, and Harry lets himself cry.
After he’s done using his disgusting t-shirt as a hankie, Hermione asks, “Harry, do you think people who grew up in wizarding families are inherently better than those from non-magical families?”
He sniffles. “Weird topic segue, but no.”
“You don’t think, for example, that Ron deserved to go to Hogwarts more than I did, because he came from magical parents?”
“Jesus, Hermione, of course not.”
“Then, what about growing up among a family who encouraged you to explore and accept your sexuality, versus a family who didn’t?” Hermione props herself up on an elbow to look at Harry, finally, and lets her words sink in. She’s got blades of dried grass poking out of her hair. “You don’t have a problem with Ginny, or Luna.”
Harry presses at the lump in his throat that just won’t go away. “No. I love them.”
“They’re gay and it’s okay. Right?”
“It’s great.”
“Then why can’t you be, too? Listen, Harry," she insists over his aggrieved groan. "Be yourself is so cliche, but it's true. It doesn't matter if it's good enough for everybody else.”
Ron takes over, his voice soothing and familiar. “You’re allowed to be a work in progress. You should be. If I was the same person I was when I was eleven… Yikes. There's no deadline for settlings on your labels or your identity. I’m learning every day. At least, I hope I am. Like, a year ago I thought I knew exactly what I wanted out of a relationship, and then we--” He breaks off suddenly, going pink.
“Did Hermione write that speech for you?” Harry asks. Ron socks him in the shoulder. “OW! …And don’t leave me in suspense! Then what?”
Ron and Hermione share a glance. Hermione’s lips quirk. “Remember last month when we visited a friend in Bulgaria?”
“We don’t have to tell him now!” Ron says quickly. “He’s barely come to terms with his own not-straight-ness. His brain might melt.”
“What do you mean, my own--” Harry sits up, turning side to side to glare at them both. Then Hermione’s words sink in. Bulgaria. “No fucking way.”
Hermione blushes prettily.
Ron bites his lip.
Harry lets out a full-bellied laugh of surprise, which also serves to cover up the swoop of arousal in his stomach. His head floods with sudden images of Viktor Krum’s unbelievably huge hands in Hermione’s hair, on Ron’s freckled legs. And other parts. It’s super weird because they’re like his siblings, but it’s also extremely hot.
“Jesus, you guys.” He covers his face, blushing at how much he’s blushing.
“I told you! Brain melt!”
Harry insists they share Molly’s soup and rolls, sitting cross-legged on the grass. They tell him some things about Bulgaria, and smile coyly about others. Harry lets himself laugh and be warmed by the sunshine. He even promises Hermione he’ll take a shower later.
It doesn’t solve Harry’s adolescent trauma in an instant, nor does it miraculously put into words everything he’s been avoiding thinking about. But it’s a start.
And by the time they’ve eaten the blackberry pie right out of the pan, staining their teeth and fingertips, Harry has an idea of what to do next.
groupchat: the gang minus harry
Ginny: 3 galleons says announcement on the wireless
Ron: Nah, he'll hang a massive banner over Diagon
Neville: you're all wrong. he's gonna do a cloud message in the sky
like morsmordre cept it's a rainbow
with a cartoon harry underneathGinny: lololololol
Luna: you're all wrong :)
Hermione: LUNA
LUNA DID HARRY TALK TO YOUGinny: deets!!!!!!!!!
Luna: :)
Ron: LUNAAAAA
Draco has his breakfast at home these days. It’s safer than chancing a run-in at the Ministry canteen or the Pret around the corner. He incinerated Potter's groveling memos directly following their meeting at Twilfitt's, and he hasn't received one in a few weeks. He wishes Potter and his faceless future spouse a soulless and sexually tedious future.
He buries himself in his work, juggling a backlog of repairs with new inventions, but it's not easy. The rainproof broom he developed after Potter came back from Dartmoor with a lingering cold... The antigravity belt he cut to perfectly fit Potter's hips for that cliffside mission in Wales... He's been out of parchment since last Tuesday, because he can't walk past the stationery closet--their stationery closet--without shaking.
Like he tells Pansy and Greg: he's fine.
Draco's reaching for the butter knife when an unfamiliar owl taps at his window. It’s an unremarkable brownish-grey and is, for some reason, wearing a necklace with a small butterbeer cork. Draco opens his window with a scowl. “What do you want?”
The owl holds out the newspaper in its claw. Draco catches sight of the logo and scoffs.
“I’m not a subscriber. Thanks, but no thanks.”
The owl hoots indignantly and flaps its wings, scattering feathers all over Draco’s dining table.
“Merlin, augh! Fine, give it here. Now begone.”
He grabs the paper and tosses the owl a corner of crust. As if his life isn’t miserable enough these days, someone’s sent him Lovegood’s farce of a newspaper. Perhaps he can use it as bog roll. He unfolds it with a flick of the wrist…
…
…
… Draco doesn’t get around to buttering his toast that morning, after all.
Coming out publicly is about as awful as he thought it would be. Which is to say: better than a lukewarm shower in the Horcrux Tent during Seventh Year, but not by much.
Luna runs the story in the Quibbler, but it’s a very short one, buried among cauldron coupons and an investigation on garden gnome bias. It sells out in seventeen minutes, and the other papers immediately snatch it up, but still, the Quibbler has their best-selling issue by a long margin. Luna sends Harry a dancing toadstool figurine as thanks.
The Prophet, Witch Weekly, and the Daily Wail are predictably alarmist. “BI BI, TRADITIONAL WIZARDING VALUES,” reads the headline. (Harry said he was gay, not bi, but apparently, the pun was impossible to resist.) According to the papers, Harry must pay for the horrid shock to every heterosexual person in Britain, while simultaneously setting a strong example for all the gay, bisexual, pansexual, and otherwise queer teens who idolise him. Kingsley issues a nice but bland statement about inclusivity and support.
Bill Weasley puts Harry in touch with his friend Viola, a Mind Healer. She started the club for LGBTQ students at Hogwarts back when she was a sixth-year boy. (“To this day, I can’t tell which was harder: my thesis defence, or sharing a dorm with Bill for seven years. He never wore a shirt to bed, Harry. Absolute torture!”) She laughs easily and makes Harry laugh too, even as they begin difficult conversations about shame, compulsory heterosexuality, acceptance, and self-esteem.
"You don't owe anybody anything," Viola tells him, which almost gets Harry weepy again. He knows the media's going to overreact no matter what he does. But he owes it to Draco. And... he's beginning to understand, he owes it to himself as well.
Sorting Harry’s post has become a full-time job. Hermione develops a clever charm to weed out the hate mail, Howlers, and envelopes stuffed with lust powder. Harry eats a lot of Molly’s soup and cuts his hair. He reads the outrageous porn from Ginny and some self-reflection books Luna got him at a bookstore called Gay’s The Word. He works on his motorbike.
He tries to keep his mind off the animalistic bliss of Draco’s prick filling his mouth, straining his cheeks and the back of his throat. The exquisite agony of long fingers in his hair. The taste of him, Jesus, even the memory made Harry drool. And the little sounds he made, the filthy things he said.
The way he almost came in his pants when Draco told him, you’re so good.
…Yeah, he’s really bad at not thinking about Draco.
So when Ron invites him to the European Magical Embassy Gala--not as an Auror, but as a guest of honour, to get his arse out of the house--Harry agrees.
Ron’s in his element as team lead, stationing Aurors strategically around the Grand Camelot Ballroom beneath The Savoy. Harry nurses a flute of incredibly smooth champagne and watches with a kind of out-of-body fascination. He hasn’t thought about work once since Ron put him on leave. He’s not sure this is a bad thing.
The place is packed with fabulously dressed dignitaries, and voices mingle in a hundred different languages. Harry tugs at his collar. Ginny and Luna took him shopping at a little boutique on Jovi Alley where he wouldn’t be hounded by the press. It’s far from his usual thing, but even Viola gave her approval (via Floo), so it can’t be that bad.
Self-consciously, he pats at his pocket square. It’s a neatly folded piece of silk in bright, unmistakable rainbow stripes. The gift from his childhood is long gone, thrown out by the Dursleys or left behind when Harry turned seventeen. But he spotted this one at the boutique and had to take a moment, hiding his face in Ginny’s hair, to recover his voice so he could buy the thing. It’s a very small symbol, but to Harry, it feels monumental.
While Harry’s distracted, Cowell from Magical Games & Sports spots him. Cowell and his husband drag Harry over to the extremely fit Maltese ambassador, who played Seeker for the national team before getting into politics. Who then hands Harry off to the ambassador to Luxembourg, a half-Veela with a wreath of twinkling stars atop his golden curls. Harry gets the sense that there’s a plot to stick him with every single not-straight man at the party.
This is how Harry finds himself stuck in conversation with the Icelandic ambassador, Tryggvi Tryggvason. He’s very tall, with wavy ice-blue hair that falls to the tops of his hips. His dark eyes flick down Harry’s body once, just this side of inappropriate, before he puts on a practised charming smile. “Halló.”
“Er, hi.”
“Ertu að njóta þín?”
“Uh…” Harry furrows his brow.
Tryggvi makes a noise of understanding and signals to one of the gala staff. In a flash, one of them presents Harry with an earpiece on a silver tray. Harry glances at the person, wondering why their bright pink eyebrows look familiar, while popping the earpiece in. Tryggvi repeats his question.
And a familiar posh voice speaks directly into Harry’s ear. “Are you enjoying the event?”
“What?!” Harry turns, stupidly, but of course Draco’s not there. He clamps a finger onto his earpiece. “How are you--”
Draco replies flatly, “As I told you, Auror Potter, we were unable to program the equipment with automatic translation charms. Therefore, I shall provide translation for you in real-time. And Representative Tryggvason just asked, Are you enjoying the event?”
Harry looks back at the Icelandic guy, bamboozled. Draco’s voice has his heart quaking, but meanwhile, handsome Tryggvi is watching him with a bemused, expectant expression. “Uh, yeah, of course.”
“Þú ert mjög--” Tryggvi begins, while Draco translates smoothly, nearly simultaneously, in that same awful flat voice. “You are very brave to appear in public after your announcement, Harry Potter. I understand it is a great undertaking in English culture.”
“I guess?”
“It is not this way in the wizarding community of Iceland. I myself am descended from the High Druid Guðbrandur and his husband Ögmund. Since ancient times, love between men has--”
“Yeah, that’s great.” Harry averts his gaze from Tryggvi as he continues to natter on. Draco’s silky voice in his ear has him all turned around. Harry doesn’t give a shit about this guy’s bloodline or queer Icelandic culture. He wants to be with Draco.
“Viltu komast héðan?” Tryggvi asks, with an unmistakable smirk, jerking his head at the doors leading to the shadow balcony.
Through the earpiece, Draco clears his throat. At last he translates through gritted teeth: “Do you want to get out of here?”
Harry holds up both hands and gives Tryggvi an apologetic face. “This is ridiculous. Sorry.” The other man calls after him, but Harry’s already turned away and made for the grand marble staircase. “Malf-- Draco. Where are you?”
“What are you doing?! Get back there, Potter.”
“I need to talk to you.” Draco said he’d monitor the event from offsite. His workshop, Harry wonders? How long will it take to get to the Ministry?
“Too fucking bad.” At last, Draco’s voice takes on that old irritated edge. Harry’s not ashamed to admit that the sound goes right to his cock. He shoulders past a waiter, upsetting his tray of appetisers, and Draco snaps, “Watch where you’re going, Potter, you troll--”
Harry freezes with his hand on the balustrade. The earpiece has gone silent, but Harry remembers a conversation from another time.
He looks up. The moon shines through the ballroom's enormous domed skylight. And all around its circumference wink tiny round windows: offices or meeting spaces, probably. The perfect place to observe at a party from high above... like a dollhouse.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he tells Draco. “I’m on my way.”
Draco curses and yanks out the earpiece. He stuffs antennae and receivers into his bag with shaking hands. It was a mistake to come here, but he couldn’t stay away. Not when Harry might attend… and then he did, so. Just goes to prove that Draco’s the idiot of the century.
Of course, the hotel is warded to the teeth, and with Anti-Apparition restrictions too. And he didn’t pack a Portkey. The Floo’s all the way by the main entrance. And he can’t get to the roof in time. Shit, shit.
But it’s too late. Heavy running footsteps sound outside the observatory room door, and without even an Alohomora, Potter bursts into the room.
Someone with a very good eye has dressed him in a high-collared black cloak with intricate silver piping and braided embellishments. It’s very Napoleonic cavalryman. But despite the buttons, tassels, and epaulettes, what draws Draco’s eye is the pocket square: the six bright stripes of the rainbow flag.
“So. Out and proud, hm?” Draco crosses his arms protectively over his chest like it might do anything to contain the stampede of his pulse. “I read the Quibbler article. Congrats, Potter. Welcome to the club.”
Potter crosses the room towards him but stops short. He takes in Draco’s outfit with a choked, involuntary sound. “You... you wore…”
“I got rather attached to it.” Draco fights down a full-body blush. Right. Perhaps wearing the sexy leather collar-capelet in hopes of manifesting Potter’s presence was not the most self-preserving move. But it went so well with his diaphanous white shirt and black leather leggings. “Anyway. Shouldn’t you be amongst the aristocracy, scouting out your future husband?”
“You’re aristocracy too, you lunatic.” Potter shakes his head, then starts fresh. “I took your advice about my emotional crisis. I’m on leave from work and it’s the first time I’ve let myself think about... myself. Things I never wanted to question because I was afraid. I’m so sorry I said you had an easy time coming out. Your dad’s the worst human.”
Draco nods, but doesn't speak, for fear of derailing him.
“And I apologise for how I treated you. I didn’t ask for your consent that first time, in the cabinet, or any time after.”
“Yet I kept responding to your thinly veiled booty calls.” Draco smacks his fist into his palm. “Oh! When you give Witch Weekly that ten-page interview, you can title it ‘Coming Out of the Stationery Closet.’ Get it?”
Potter bites down on a smile. “There’s no ten-page interview in my future. Sorry to disappoint. I still have a lot of reflection to do. And you didn’t let me finish. I’m also sorry for the way I asked you out… The way I made it sound like I was only asking out of convenience. The truth is, Draco…”
(Draco’s heart throws itself off a cliff at the sound of his name in Potter’s mouth.)
“I like you. A lot more than I could admit until recently. I know it’s not your job to help me navigate my sexuality because you happen to be gay. And we happen to be snogging.” He flashes Draco a cheeky grin.
Draco, who has listened to Harry’s speech with the patience of a gargoyle, feels himself melting from the inside out. His tortured schoolboy crush has burst into bloom, into something too terrifying to name. The hope that wells up within him--especially at Harry’s use of the present tense--is unbearable. “Harry…”
Harry closes the gap between them, holding out his hands. “But I want to keep figuring stuff out with you. You’re funny and smart, and you’re so fit I can’t handle it. And once I have my emotional crisis sorted, I’ll still want you as badly as I do now.”
There is no universe in which Draco does anything but place his palms against Harry’s own. “Thank you for telling me. I want you too, in case that wasn’t blindingly obvious.” He hiccups a watery laugh, which Harry answers with a lopsided smile. “I’m not here to be used.”
“I know that.” Harry wets his lips and adds, a half-octave lower than before: “Anyway, I liked when you used me.”
Sweet Morgana.
“Do you want to get out of here?” Draco rasps.
Harry draws him in by the waist, and Draco brings his hands up to rest on Potter’s chest. “Is that you asking for real this time, or a translation for Icelandic what’s-his-name? And don’t think I didn’t notice the earpiece, Draco. Very clever, having Hobbs deliver mine. I ran into a pair of Aurors on the way up here, and they told me their translation charms have worked perfectly since the first week of May.”
Draco rolls his eyes, allowing himself a fraction of a smile. “Details, details.”
Harry grips the back of Draco's neck. “You knew I’d be here, and you knew your voice would get me all hot and bothered.”
Draco leans forward, brushing his nose against Harry’s. “Did it work?”
Harry answers with a kiss. He's sunlight in a bottle, and his tongue is hot and sweet. Draco sighs, parting his lips, and tilts his head to get even closer. He would fly into the sun but for the unyielding press of Harry’s hands. Draco makes a sound of absolute bliss, which Harry swallows into his gorgeous mouth. This is the bliss that teenage Draco dreamt of: embracing his desire for Harry Potter, and giving himself to Harry in return.
When they’re able to draw apart, panting for breath, Harry laughs softly. “Fuck. How are we getting out of here? I can’t go back down there like this.” He looks down pointedly where their hips slot together.
Draco follows his gaze and reaches into the sliver of pocket at the front of his leather trousers. Inside is an origami gauntlet. He fits it onto his hand and shoots Harry a delighted grin.
“To the rooftop. Our crane chariot awaits.”
Later...
...much later...
...after the sofa in Harry’s sitting room, then against the bathroom door...
...after they finally make it to Harry’s enormous unmade bed, and Harry has astonished both of them by suggesting a particularly risqué manoeuvre...
...Draco wipes his finger across his upper lip and hums appreciatively. He turns his hand forward and back, then sucks the cum from his fingertip while Harry looks on in sweaty post-coital fondness.
“You’re insufferable, did you know that?” Draco asks.
“I’m insufferable?”
“Only you, Harry, would hear the line 'shoot a child in your mouth while I’m riding' in a Muggle rap song and get it right on the first try. You’ve been out of the closet for what, three whole weeks?”
“Yeah.” Harry squirms, getting comfy in the hot crook of Draco’s arm. “But I heard the song way before that, and I was still thinking of you.”
Draco purrs. He hooks his heel around the back of Harry’s knees. “So what's your plan for Monday morning?”
“I dunno.” Harry gnaws his lip. He hasn’t talked to his friends or boss about this yet. “Viola--my Mind Healer--she says that the Queer Club at Hogwarts wanted to have me visit for a chat.”
“Three weeks and you’re a keynote speaker already.”
“Shut up.” Harry pokes him in the ribs, laughing. “Viola says that after graduation, there’s not much structure in the magical community for queer kids to meet up, make friends, find support, stuff like that. I thought I could help organise something. Do you… do you think that’s a good idea?”
Draco tangles their fingers together and gives them an affectionate squeeze. “As I said before: you saved the bloody world, Harry. You can do whatever your heart desires.”
Harry still has trouble putting his heart’s desires into exact words, or acknowledging that he is allowed to want them. But he’s working on it. He'll let go of hate and fear. And he’ll walk the path to self-acceptance with his Mind Healer, his friends, and Draco Malfoy at his side.
In another part of Harry’s house is a chart reading OPERATION: HARRY’S LOVE LIFE. Luna’s hand-drawn Nargles wriggle to life around the border. The paper peels itself off the wall and folds itself in half diagonally. And then it forms a square, and folds again and again… And at last, a tiny paper crane settles at the centre of Harry’s dining table, tucks its head under its wing, and falls asleep.