Archive of Our Own

Harry never knows what the fuck Malfoy is thinking. He’s over at the bar drinking something out of a sweaty glass, the booth where Harry always sits with the Gryffindors directly in his sightline. Pansy Parkinson is at Malfoy’s left elbow, Gregory Goyle on his right– like the Great Hall, only instead of Slytherin ties, they all have on their Ministry robes. Pinstriped for admin work, Merlin help whatever bureaucrat has Greg Goyle as their secretary.

Harry fans himself with a coaster. It’s too hot for full robes after work. He’s already stripped out of his trainee Auror kit, down to a t-shirt.

Across from Harry, Ron is telling Seamus some gross story about harvesting bubotuber pus for George. Harry has lost the thread long before the punchline comes. At the bar, Draco drains his drink and slides off his stool, cool features impassive. No one waves him over as he makes his way towards the men’s. In Malfoy’s absence, Parkinson and Goyle make no effort to close the gap between them. Goyle finishes his pint and signals for another one.

Ron is eventually, blessedly interrupted by Hermione’s late arrival. She sweeps into the pub with a push of fragrant summer air and a tired smile.

“All right, Hermione?” Harry asks, standing to let her into the booth.

“Not bad, thanks and you?” Hermione responds, taking her seat.

Harry shrugs one shoulder in response. She flicks a glance over to the bar and nods at Parkinson, who scowls back. Harry must scoff without realizing it, causing Hermione to sigh and say, “I told you already, I’m done fighting. And this is the only decent pub near the Ministry, so short of starting some kind of absurd turf war…” Hermione trails off with a shrug, wrinkling her nose at the idea.

The door to the men’s toilets hasn’t moved since Malfoy stepped in. Harry doesn’t sit back down. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks to the loo. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s thinking either.

Malfoy stands by the sink, holding onto the porcelain basin, his shoulders curved forward, tucked in on himself. He lifts his head when the door clicks shut, making eye contact with Harry in the mirror. His face colors, pink splotches blooming high on his cheekbones.

“Need something, Potter?” Malfoy’s tone is mild, but that doesn’t stop things from feeling a little dangerous, alone with Malfoy in such a small room, for the first time in years.

Harry steps forward, his chin level with Malfoy’s shoulder blades. He wonders idly if Malfoy would hex him for old time’s sake, something to interrupt the sticky monotony of working long hours at the height of summer. The feeling of danger dips low in his stomach and he reaches out, his broad palm cool against the warm blush on the back of Malfoy’s neck.

Harry waits, but the hex never comes. In the mirror, Malfoy’s eyes dip shut, and he lets out a soft sound that goes right through Harry, heat rising in his body, pushing out against his chest.

Malfoy turns slowly, careful not to dislodge Harry’s hand. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, then speaks, his voice low. “Don’t start something you won’t finish.”

There’s only a foot between them. Closing the gap takes nothing. The warm, dry push of Malfoy’ lips against Harry’s is chaste. Harry wants more. He licks into Malfoy’s mouth, chasing the flavor of something familiar on his tongue. Malfoy’s hands find Harry’s waist and Harry kisses his cheek, then the hinge of his jaw.

“Gin and tonic,” Harry mutters against Malfoy’s skin. “You were drinking a gin and tonic.”

Malfoy grips tighter at Harry’s waist. “So what?”

Harry kisses him again and bites hard at his lower lip, slipping his tongue inside again when Malfoy yelps a little in surprise. Definitely gin and tonic.

“It’s a Muggle drink,” Harry says, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I ordered it at a wizarding pub, didn’t I?” He tilts his head with a questioning look, sliding his right hand around to the front of Harry’s jeans where Harry’s been hard since he first touched Malfoy. Malfoy squeezes and then takes his hand away when Harry bites off a groan, pushing his hips forward. “I should have known you would be like this.”

“Like what?” Harry asks, breathless now, grinding up against Malfoy as best he can, everything trapped and sensitive against the rough cotton of his boxers, the zipper of his jeans.

Malfoy ignores the question. He narrows his eyes and asks, “Are you going to come in your pants like a horny sixth year?”

But he’s betrayed by his own erection, hard and insistent against Harry’s stomach, even through the layers of their clothing. It only takes a few moments of fumbling before Harry has a hand wrapped around Malfoy’s cock, thumb stroking the soft underside, then gathering the wetness at the tip. His mouth waters. He considers, wildly, whether he wants to get on his knees in a public loo.

Before Harry can decide, Malfoy crashes their mouths together, more teeth than lips, and says, “Move, you idiot,” so he finds a rhythm, working Malfoy’s cock over and over until he’s shuddering and spilling onto Harry’s hand.

In the aftermath, Malfoy breathes heavily, his face slack in the dim light of the loo. Harry presses at his own erection, now painfully hard, with the heel of his palm. He thinks Malfoy is about to reach forward when the door starts to creep open, busy sounds from the pub filtering in. Malfoy jumps away and Harry shoves his hands into the sink, turning the tap on high.

Malfoy squeezes out the door as an unfamiliar wizard comes in. Harry keeps his head down and hopes to Merlin he won’t be recognized. He holds his breath and counts backward from ten twice, until his heart rate becomes manageable enough to return to his friends.

***

Back in the booth, Ron has ordered Harry another pint, pushing it towards him when he sits down.

“That took a long time,” Ron says speculatively. He screws up his face, a little drunk maybe. Harry’s nerves come roaring back.

“Don’t make a mess in the bathroom here, it’s my favorite pub. We don’t want to be thrown out because Harry Potter doesn’t like to shit at home.”

Harry laughs, startled and relieved. Hermione whacks Ron on the arm, and says, “Ronald! Don’t be disgusting!”

Ron shrugs, smiling in a pleased way. He leans forward and mock-whispers, “Maybe you should make a mess and blame it on, you know…” He jerks his head in the direction of the Slytherins at the bar. “Get them banned.”

Malfoy has taken back his stool in between Parkinson and Goyle. Heat floods Harry’s face and neck. He resists the urge to catch Malfoy’s eye and pulls his attention back to the booth, where Hermione is changing the subject, asking about ordering in for dinner later. Harry waves a hand to say, ‘whatever you want is fine with me,’ and leans back into the tacky seat cushion. His face feels different somehow. He touches his nose, his lips, his chin. The others don’t seem to notice. Around Harry, the pub hums with the noise of the other patrons talking, glasses clinking, the waitress taking orders. At the bar, Malfoy is gone, an empty glass and a few sickles in his place.

***

Harry doesn’t see Malfoy for a bit. They weren’t exactly in the habit of running into each other very frequently before the whole unexpected handjob in a public bathroom anyway. That doesn’t stop Harry from thinking he’s seeing Malfoy everywhere. He endures days of heart-pounding glimpses of pinstriped robes in the Ministry cafeteria or in the lift, followed by a mixture of relief and disappointment when it turns out to be Zacharias Smith or Terry Boot or that wizard from the front desk in accounts receivable whose name Harry doesn’t even know.

If Harry stops to think about it, he might have a small existential crisis about having sex with a Death Eater or even just someone he’s always hated. Malfoy is probably still a terrible person — Harry wouldn’t be surprised — but that’s just the thing, Harry doesn’t really know him anymore. And there’s all this vestigial feeling that’s been redirected into something simpler. Something that is keeping Harry up at night, wanking himself until he’s tender and raw and wondering if he should have gotten on his knees after all.

When Malfoy finally reappears, he does so in a way that’s truly unavoidable, back at the pub, sitting in Harry’s favorite booth chatting to Hermione of all people.

Malfoy scrambles to get out of the booth when Harry arrives.

“Hi, Harry!” Hermione says, smiling broadly. “I ran into Draco on my way out of the office today. He’s working on the Goblin treaty initiative.”

Malfoy flushes. “My boss is interested, anyway.”

Hermione leans forward. “Your ideas are good though — I’m glad we talked. I’m going to raise what you said with the undersecretary in Magical Creatures before the legislative session reconvenes.”

Malfoy smiles briefly — genuinely, Harry thinks — down at his hands. When he looks up, he says, “Well. I’ll be off. Pansy is on her way.”

“Is she coming here? You can just join us, I don’t know if anyone else is even coming,” Hermione says, then turns to Harry. “Did you talk to Ron when you left training today? Seamus isn’t coming because his nan is in town.”

Harry’s brain trips over the conversation. Malfoy is standing only a few feet away, and he looks good. Tall and neat, with his hair longer than it was at Hogwarts, tucked behind his ears. Harry hadn’t noticed Malfoy’s hair last time. He had been too preoccupied with noticing his cock.

“Harry?” Hermione says.

“Sorry. Hermione, you’re asking me if I know where Ron is so that we can plan on having a pint with Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson?”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. “Yes.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Malfoy says, taking a step back. “Pansy probably will want to–” He doesn’t finish his sentence, cut off with a flinch when Pansy appears behind him, the crack of apparation loud and obnoxious in the small pub.

“Will want to what?” Pansy asks, digging her nails into Draco’s arm.

“Sit at the bar?” Malfoy sounds less sure now.

“We always do,” Pansy says. She looks ready to head over there and glare at the Gryffindors like usual.

Hermione shifts her annoyance to Pansy. “Well this time, I’ve invited you and Draco to join us over here.”

This catches Pansy off guard. She’s silent for a moment, nostrils flaring. Malfoy stays quiet. Harry doesn’t know what he wants, except to maybe kiss Malfoy again. It’s all a bit confusing.

“All right, shove over Granger,” Pansy says finally, sitting down next to Hermione, her movements stiff and awkward. “Potter, go get me a vodka soda. And I’m sorry I tried to have you killed that time.”

Harry hears Malfoy go, “Merlin’s tits, Pansy!” under his breath at the same time Hermione says, “Get me one too, please!”

Harry looks hard at Pansy, her sharp elbows held close to her body, eyes fierce, daring him not to accept the absurd apology. He says nothing and escapes to the bar. Malfoy appears next to him while he waits on the drinks. His arm is close enough to Harry’s that Harry could swear he feels heat radiating off of it.

“I’m going to need a drink too,” Malfoy says somewhat defensively when Harry catches his eye.

“I dunno,” Harry says. “You seemed pretty cosy back there with Hermione already. Seems like you’re doing just fine.”

“Oh, don’t be jealous,” Malfoy says. “I’m not planning on fucking Hermione over the sink in the gents later.”

It’s cocky and rude and all of the blood in Harry’s head rushes south. He barely manages to respond, choking out an, “Oh?”

Malfoy’s neck is bright red, but he smirks and gives Harry an obvious once-over.

Harry lets his forearm slide over a few inches, until it brushes Malfoy’s elbow.

“What are you having?” Harry asks when the barman brings the drinks.

“You don’t need to buy me a drink, Potter. It’s not like that.”

“What’s it like?” Harry asks.

While Malfoy tries to answer, the bartender clears his throat impatiently.

“Two pints of lager please,” Harry says. Malfoy’s eyes flash, but if he doesn’t like lager or he really doesn’t want Harry buying him a drink, he doesn’t comment further. They carry everything back to the booth together.

Hermione hasn’t made much progress with Pansy in their absence. Harry and Malfoy sit next to each other. Everyone sips at their drinks. Hermione makes her deep concentration face. Pansy drums her fingers against the table. Harry loses five minutes, wondering if he can press his calf against Malfoy’s under the table without them noticing.

“We must have something we can talk about,” Hermione says. She places her palms flat on the sticky table. “We were in school together for six years, and it wasn’t even a large school.”

Harry brushes his leg experimentally against Malfoy’s. Malfoy steps hard on his toe in response.

“Fuck,” Harry says, too loud in the small booth.

Pansy’s gaze sharpens, then she smiles. “I’ve been learning Muggle swears at work. My boss is a Muggle-born, and she’s been teaching me. My favorite is probably cunt.”

Hermione has probably never looked so relieved to talk to someone about fanny. She nods up and down. “It’s a funny one because people here say it here all the time, but in America it’s one of the worst insults.”

“I don’t know why we don’t use it more in our world. I mean,” Pansy says and leans conspiratorially, “some of us have them too.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hermione murmurs. Malfoy rolls his eyes.

Pansy purses her lips. “Yes Draco, I know you’re not interested in my cunt, but maybe Hermione is!” She raises her eyebrows significantly.

Hermione’s eyes widen and she laughs, surprised and real. “Are you always like this?”

“Unapologetically horny?” Pansy asks. She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I sort of think we all are, I’m just not afraid to say it out loud.” She looks meaningfully at Malfoy, and then Harry. Harry snatches his leg back from where he had been slowly inching it towards Malfoy’s again.

“So you’re unapologetically horny, you love cunt, and you work in Ministry admin,” Hermione says, squaring her shoulders. “What else?”

“I really am sorry about trying to get you murdered,” Pansy says. She looks over at Hermione, then Harry in quick succession. “Either of you, both of you.” Harry’s head buzzes a little. He wants to know what Malfoy’s face is doing, not quite visible at the edge of Harry’s periphery.

“I didn’t know you wanted me dead as well,” Hermione says lightly.

Pansy breathes out hard through her nose. “I mean, that would have been the outcome, right? If we had given up Potter that night? You wouldn’t have survived either.”

It’s not exactly an accurate description of events. Harry gave himself up and he died anyway. Somehow that’s never the part that people remember. Harry chances a look at Malfoy and sees that his face is grey. For a terrible minute, something cold slides into the booth with them, reaching for everyone, but especially Harry. What was inflicted on them, what they inflicted on each other clings to the air, stifling.

Harry knows he should speak and accept or at least acknowledge Pansy’s apology, seek out a similar one out from Malfoy maybe, but he can’t. He tries unsuccessfully, opening and closing his mouth, and then Hermione comes into focus across the table, at a similar loss for words. The bell at the door to the pub rings gently, and Hermione’s left pinky trembles a little, around her glass.

“I’ve ruined the mood, haven’t I?” Pansy says. Her face is scrunched up tight.

“You have a talent for it, I think,” Malfoy says, peering into his glass. “That’s why no one invites you over.” He exhales loudly. Harry breathes out in time with him. The coldness recedes. He can feel Hermione collecting herself next to Pansy.

“Draco is terrible at parties,” Pansy says, ushering in a tentative sense of relief to have arrived at a new topic. “Always getting too drunk and taking off his clothes.”

“Really?” Harry says. He tries to picture Malfoy doing a striptease at a party. It’s not unappealing.

“Stop it, whatever you’re imagining,” Malfoy says, putting a hand over his eyes. “It was just one time and now I’ve learned my lesson. Always say no to the punch.”

“Whose party was this?” Harry asks. He’s never seen Malfoy at a party, and he gets invited to a lot of them.

“Blaises’s party, but the punch was all me,” Pansy says. “I’ll invite you next time. You too, Hermione. Draco, you’re still on probation from last time.”

“As if you’d even want to have a party without me,” Malfoy says with a dismissive wave. “Remember how boring book club was the last time I skipped?”

Harry catches Hermione’s eye across the table as Pansy launches in to bicker with Malfoy. She just shrugs and smiles, nodding when Pansy looks to her for support. Harry relaxes into the booth and lets the conversation flow around him, lobbing peanut shells now and again at Malfoy and grinning at his disapproving glances.

***

Harry doesn’t think anything will happen any more when he gets up to go to the toilets a while later. Hermione is heading out, and he just genuinely has to piss. He’s nearly finished when the door pushes open and Malfoy steps inside.

Malfoy doesn’t fuck him over the sink like he said. There isn’t really time and it’s a wizarding pub, so locking the door wouldn’t be very effective. Harry can see the headline in his head, ‘Aloha-whore-a! Potter Takes It Up the Arse From A Death Eater – In Public.’ Harry settles for a handjob instead, only it isn’t really settling at all. Malfoy’s grip is tight and slick and then he does something sexy and a little terrifying with magic to lift Harry up against the wall so that their hips align, getting a hand around both of them together. The silky, hot press of Malfoy’s cockhead against his own is enough to send Harry over the edge.

After, Malfoy washes his hands at the tiny sink. Harry leans back against the stall door and watches, fishing out his wand to Scourgify his own hands.

Malfoy glances up in the mirror at the sound of the charm and grimaces, taking more soap from the dispenser, washing a second time. He always was sort of prim in school. It makes Harry want to reach out and mess him up a little, knowing he’s still like this.

“Filthy, Potter,” Malfoy says, shaking the water off his palms.

Harry shrugs. “I’m not sure you can call me filthy when you’re the one who insists on doing this in the toilets.” He pushes off the stall and walks towards the door back into the pub. Malfoy hangs back by the sink.

***

There aren’t any salacious headlines about Harry and Malfoy, but the evening Prophet does run pictures of them in the booth, Hermione laughing while Pansy looks triumphant and Malfoy takes a sip of his beer. Harry’s face isn’t visible because he’s turned to look at Malfoy.

Harry catches himself waiting. He feels like the women in the paperbacks Aunt Petunia used to read who were always sitting by the phone, listening and longing for a ring. Harry’s house doesn’t have a phone, but he wonders, ludicrously, if he ought to get one. At least, then he would know what he was waiting for.

At the weekend, Harry agrees to meet up with Ginny and Luna, out for the night in the closest approximation to a club Wizarding London has. The place is dark and loud and Harry thinks about leaving as soon as he’s arrived. He’s worn his favorite Glamour, the one that makes people come up to him and do a double-take, saying in a disappointed way, “Oh, but I thought you were… it’s just that you look so much like Harry Potter,” while Harry smiles apologetically and says, “Some days, I wish I were.”

Seamus and Dean are at the back, along with Luna and Ginny. It’s an odd foursome maybe, the social dynamics always shifting and changing in ways Harry can’t anticipate. Harry skirts the edge of the dance floor, avoiding the press of bodies, to go and join them.

Luna’s face lights up when Harry arrives at their table, a low round thing already littered with half drunk champagne flutes and empty shot glasses. She pats the seat next to her and leans over to shout in his ear, “Harry! You look like your own doppelgänger.”

Harry sits down and gives her a smile. “That’s the idea.”

She peers closer at him. “You’d better be careful though, wouldn’t want to anger your actual doppelgänger. That can be dangerous.”

Harry nods back, not bothering to try to understand.

Ginny hooks her chin on Luna’s shoulder and gives him a cool once-over. She has on a Muggle baseball cap that’s probably meant to be a bit of a disguise, only it doesn’t do much to hide red hair cascading over freckled shoulders.

“Glamour’s a bit of overkill, don’t you think?” Ginny asks. “Especially when people see you with us?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t come here to hang out with you.”

Ginny frowns momentarily, making Harry nervous. He’s never quite sure where he stands with her. But the moment passes, the song switches to a thumping Weird Sisters remix, and Ginny grabs Luna’s hand to drag her out to dance.

Seamus and Dean notice Harry finally, waving him over and handing him a shot of something clear. Harry knocks it back. Whatever’s in it, it’s terrible, sweet and burning, all the way down. He grimaces and claps Dean on the shoulder, saying, “Absolute rubbish, mate. I’m going to go find something better.”

Going to the bar serves two purposes: procuring a better drink, and scoping out the likelihood that someone might want to pull a guy who looks a lot like Harry Potter. He orders a firewhisky and surveys the crowd.

After a moment, Harry feels someone knock his shoulder and say, close to his ear, “You know, if you wanted to see me again, you could have just fire called.”

Harry starts to say, “Sorry, you must have me confu–” stopping short when he realizes that it’s Malfoy, standing beside him.

“Nice Glamour,” Malfoy says, reaching out to snag Harry’s drink.

“Hey!” Harry protests when Malfoy takes an obnoxiously large sip, hissing at the burn. “I was going to finish that.”

“You can get another one, and then we can get out of here,” Malfoy says, like it’s already decided, that they’ll leave together and do whatever it is they’re doing again. Harry isn’t so sure.

“I came here with people, you know,” Harry says, “I can’t just leave with you.”

“Hm, Ginevra?” Malfoy asks, nodding out towards the dance floor where Ginny is sandwiched between Luna and Dean, doing the bump. “I don’t think she’ll miss you.” Harry watches them and knows Malfoy is right.

He takes the glass back from Malfoy and drinks the last of it in one go. True to his word, Malfoy turns around and orders two more drinks.

He places one in Harry’s hand. “For the road.”

Before Harry can ask what that means, Malfoy grips his forearm tightly, squeezing him into a side-along that lands with a crack in an unfamiliar flat. The whiskey sloshes in transit, dripping down Harry’s hand, onto his wrist. He licks it up and looks around. It must be Malfoy’s flat, given the mismatch of flat pack furniture with pieces that look like they were nicked from Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy stands, straight-backed and silent, next to a plush-looking armchair, fiddling with the piping along the seatback. It’s not a bad living room, enough space for a sagging loveseat catty-corner to the armchair, settled neatly around a small hearth. The rug is definitely a Malfoy heirloom, thick and intricately patterned beneath Harry’s feet.

Harry leans down to unlace his boots, which are a bit muddy for such a nice carpet. He toes them off, trying not to spill any more of his drink.

“Ah, okay,” Malfoy says when he notices. “Good.” He flushes a little and then squints at Harry’s face. “It’s pretty weird, you know, trying to pull wearing a Glamour that looks like you. Like, if your point is finding someone who doesn’t want you for your celebrity or whatever… they’re still trying to get with a Potter lookalike.”

Harry stows his boots by the door, and then takes out his wand to remove the Glamour, a shivery, dissolving sensation, odd to do in front of someone else. He doesn’t feel like justifying anything to Malfoy.

“Who says I was at the club trying to pull?” Harry asks. He leans against the door.

Malfoy waves his glass with an eye roll, pursing his lips. “You were leaning against the bar, facing out towards everyone, crotch forward. It’s a dead giveaway, that lean.”

“Crotch forward?” Harry tries not to laugh.

“You’re doing it now,” Malfoy says, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. His tongue darts out to swipe at his lower lip, once, then again. Harry sets his whiskey down on the floor next to his boots.

“We’re going to have to return these glasses to the club at some point,” Harry says, taking a few steps forward.

“Are we?” Malfoy asks, not moving from his spot by the armchair.

“They don’t give them for keeps,” Harry says. He reaches out and prises Malfoy’s arms apart from where he’s crossed them in front of his stomach.

“No, I suppose they don’t,” Malfoy murmurs, tilting his face down. Harry leans up and gives him the kiss he’s looking for.

It’s better, doing this in Malfoy’s flat instead of a public loo. Harry lets Malfoy steer them into his bed, pushing the stack of books and dirty clothes off of the rumpled covers and onto the floor. There’s more space, more time, to see the shape of Malfoy’s body, to draw little noises out of him, to figure out what he likes. This is the easy part.

When they’ve finished, Malfoy lies splayed out, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling gently. Harry doesn’t think he’s asleep. He leans over and presses his thumb into a spot by Malfoy’s collarbone where a hickey is blooming, red and purple against pale skin. Malfoy swats at him.

“I’m going to go,” Harry says, leaning over Malfoy.

Malfoy opens his right eye.

Harry’s pulse quickens. “In the morning, I’ve got a uh–”

“No, it’s ok, you can just go,” Malfoy says.

Harry’s stomach turns over. “Ok, no you’re right. I’ll er, see you around, Malfoy.”

Malfoy rolls onto his front and raises a hand in parting.

***

At first, Harry thinks that he’s in the wrong office. It wouldn’t be the first time. There’s someone in admin robes hunched over the far side of the desk, flipping through an oversized book, and Hermione isn’t anywhere to be seen. Harry begins to back away towards the door and then the man turns and Harry realizes it’s Malfoy, looking unfairly fresh and awake for 11:30 on a Monday morning.

Harry scrubs at the spot on his robes where he knows he’s got toothpaste from earlier. He’s still figuring out what he wants to say when Hermione comes in the door with a tray of sandwiches floating ahead of her. “Working lunch today, Harry, do you mind?” she asks.

“What kind of sandwich?” Harry asks, wanting instead to ask why Malfoy is in Hermione’s office for a working lunch.

“Cheese and tomato,” Hermione says, sending one of the sandwiches towards Harry’s head, and another into Malfoy’s outstretched hand. “Ron says he’ll be down in a few.”

“I can get out of here if I’m interrupting some kind of Golden Trio lunch bunch,” Malfoy says, managing to be flustered and snide at the same time.

“Golden Trio?” Harry says. “I always knew you looked up to us.”

Malfoy ignores him. “Granger, look it’s been nice discussing this with you but maybe we should catch up later.”

“Are you afraid of Ron?” Hermione asks curiously.

“No!” Malfoy says. “No. I’m not afraid of Ron Weasley, but I don’t think he’s particularly keen on me, and that doesn’t sound like a pleasant way to spend lunch.”

“I don’t think Harry likes you very much either, and you had drinks with him that time at the pub,” Hermione points out.

“Hmm yes, I suppose you’re right. Potter doesn’t like me at all, does he?” Malfoy says, pushing a piece of hair behind his ear. Harry thinks of how Malfoy pressed inside him that night after the club, slow and careful. His spine tingles.

That settles it, somehow. Hermione and Malfoy go back to work. Harry eats his lunch and listens to them debate the merits of the First Goblin War. Ron arrives and takes a seat next to Harry. He doesn’t look surprised by Malfoy’s presence in Hermione’s office, but he doesn’t exactly greet Malfoy either.

“It’s understandable in the context of the political moment,” Malfoy is saying, picking at the lettuce on his sandwich.

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t preventable, or wrong,” Hermione says.

“Sure, but it happened anyway. You’re going to have to look into the motivations on both sides, if you want to prevent it from happening again,” Malfoy says.

“Are we on the verge of another Goblin war?” Harry asks. He hasn’t heard anything from the Aurors, but he’s learning that that doesn’t mean much when it comes to non-human magical beings.

“There’s a lot of instability in our world right now,” Malfoy says, his voice tentative.

“Yeah, and who caused that?” Ron asks, sarcastic and aggressive, staring Malfoy down.

The tendons in Malfoy’s neck strain and his skin goes splotchier than normal, but he holds Ron’s gaze. “We did, Weasley, I know that. Death Eaters and blood supremacists, and Voldemort.” His voice is thin. Something unwinds in Harry, hearing Malfoy speak so plainly. Ron folds his arms across his chest.

Malfoy continues, “But the Goblins don’t necessarily see those lines among wizards and witches. And we don’t really split that way when it comes to beings like them.

“How do you figure that?” Ron asks.

“I mean, your family de-gnomes their garden, right?” Malfoy says, still cautious.

“Sure,” Ron says. “And we do it ourselves, no poncy staff to take care of it for us.”

“Right, so to the Goblin governing body, that would constitute an act of aggression towards a magical being. They wouldn’t distinguish whether it was done by Ronald Weasley or my mother’s poncy gardener,” Malfoy says. He leans back against Hermione’s desk, bracing himself with his hands. Crotch forward, Harry thinks, although there’s no chance Malfoy is trying to get with Ron right now. He feels a lick of arousal anyway, low in his belly. A reaction to something earnest in Malfoy’s stance, in his argument.

“So you’re saying there’s no difference between my family and yours?” Ron says.

The tendons in Malfoy’s neck stand out again. “No, I’m just saying that there’s nuance here and context to understand about this specific situation with the Goblins, if we’re going to move forward.”

Harry tries to think about whether he has ever considered nuance or context when it came to Malfoy. If Malfoy has ever done that for him. Did lying to try and save Harry from capture at the Manor count? Did pulling Malfoy from the flames in the Room of Requirement? Things were already different, by the time Harry stepped into the loo at the pub, and reached for Malfoy. He just hadn’t noticed them changing. He’s noticing now.

Hermione has been standing by, eating her lunch and letting Malfoy explain himself, but she must decide it’s time to rescue him and get back to work.

“Ron, this is what I’m working on as well, with Kingsley directly,” she says. “You know that. And you know that de-gnoming isn’t really the point.”

Ron scowls and shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue any longer. He leaves when his sandwich is done. Harry waits for Malfoy and Hermione to finish. He can’t help it.

In the lift, Harry buries his face into Malfoy’s hair and breathes in the clean, woody scent of his shampoo.

Malfoy laughs a little, gripping the back of Harry’s robes. “If I had known that watching me argue with Weasley got you hot, we could have started this a long time ago.”

“It’s not that,” Harry mumbles, because it isn’t. He bites at Malfoy’s ear. “You’re kind of smart, you know?”

Malfoy preens. “I’ve always said that.”

“Mmm, have you?” Harry pulls back to look Malfoy in the eye.

“Maybe not always,” Malfoy allows. The lift reaches level 2. He steps back before the doors open and Harry goes back to his desk, missing Malfoy’s hand at his back, empty for the heat of it.

***

At the Ministry, there is an exit that opens out onto street level, to Whitehall. As far as Harry can tell, almost no one uses it. He leaves that way most evenings in summer when the weather is dry and warm enough to walk to the pub or the long way home.

Sometimes, Ron joins him, to meet the others for a pint, or to pick up takeaway at the Indian restaurant near the apparition point. This evening, Harry is on his own. It’s only Wednesday, but the week already feels long. He’s hungry. He hasn’t seen Malfoy in ages.

“Are you going out this way?”

Harry’s head snaps up. As if summoned, Malfoy is just ahead of him, holding the door open. Harry jogs a little to catch up.

“Thanks,” Harry says. They fall into step, on the sidewalk.

“Heading home?” Malfoy asks.

“I think so, yeah.”

Malfoy nods. They walk a few more paces. At the corner, Harry will need to turn left if he’s going home. Something in the air smells good.

“I’m starving,” Harry says. His pathetic lunch of underheated leftovers was hours ago.

“I could eat.” Malfoy stops walking. “If we cross the bridge, we can go to The Dandelion.”

Harry hasn’t heard of The Dandelion. It turns out to be a Muggle café, full of university students with a black and white checkered floor and pictures of cows on the walls. The host greets Malfoy like a friend.

“I see you’ve found someone into the same weird fashion as you, Draco,” she says, taking in Harry’s red Auror’s robes and dragon hide boots. “A lid for every pot, I guess.”

They sit at a table tucked into the corner. Harry spends a long time pretending to look over the small dinner menu.

“Do you, er, come here often?” Harry asks, when he feels like he can’t re-read the descriptions of the entreés for the fifth time.

Malfoy is non-commital. “I like it here. It’s close to work and the food is good.” Harry wants to know when Draco Malfoy decided he liked Muggle food, but he doesn’t ask.

Malfoy is right. The food is good. Harry orders a cottage pie and magics all his peas to the side.

“You hate peas enough to break the statute?” Malfoy asks, when the peas have finished arranging themselves into a neat model of the pyramids.

Harry laughs a little and stows his wand. “No one is looking at us anyway. They’re all too busy revising.” It’s true. Most of the other patrons are reading and taking notes, exhibiting varying degrees of academic fatigue Harry only sort of recalls from Hogwarts.

“In that case…” Malfoy slides a hand towards his own wand and sends a freezing charm at Harry’s beer, leaving it solid in the glass.

“Oi!” Harry’s fingers slip on the now-frigid pint. Malfoy only raises his eyebrows and takes a large bite of sausage. Harry waits for the waitress to come by and refresh their water glasses before taking aim at Malfoy’s knife, turning it into jell-o in his hand.

Malfoy drops the wobbly knife with an undignified yelp.

Harry smirks and says, “Turnabout.” And then, “I haven’t spent all of my holidays with the Weasley household for years and learned nothing.” He can feel Malfoy scheming across the table; a warm pleasure in the knowledge that Malfoy is solely focused on him, even if the result is just his napkin twisting into a crab and walking pointily off his lap.

When the waitress comes with the cheque, Harry takes it and pays with the Muggle bills he carries for emergencies. Malfoy has his wallet out too, his hand outstretched, but Harry is faster.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to put out, you know,” Malfoy says.

Harry’s stomach swoops down towards the floor. He hasn’t bought anyone dinner in a long time. Since Ginny probably. “I didn’t think you would,” Harrys says, too earnest by half, “I just…”

“Honestly, maybe you should. Look at this guy! Those green eyes. Those arms,” the waitress butts in, squeezing Harry’s bicep as he hands her the cash.

“I don’t know why I come in here so often.” Malfoy says. He flushes hard, a deep mottled pink that shouldn’t be cute, but Harry can’t help liking it anyway.

“The gourmet food? The unbeatable ambiance?” The waitress is deadpan. Then she smiles, a parting shot. “I know you’ll be back. And bring your guy again.”

Malfoy draws in a sharp breath. “Should we get going then? Work tomorrow.”

Harry trails him back out onto the street. The air has cooled off. The evening is golden, light glinting off of the rows of brick buildings that line the narrow lane.

“Why do you come here often?” Harry asks.

“I told you.” Malfoy kicks at a pebble. “Walking distance to my flat and the Ministry. And it’s a good place to catch up on work. They’ll let you order a coffee and stay for hours.”

“I didn’t realize your flat was over here.” Harry knows he sounds like he’s angling for an invitation.

“You’ve been to my flat.”

“You apparated us there! It could have been in New South Wales!”

“If you think I have enough power to apparate us to New South Wales…” Malfoy shakes his head at the pavement. Harry thinks he sees the corner of Malfoy’s mouth turn up.

“I’ll walk you home then,” Harry says.

Malfoy’s flat is on the third floor of a short building without a lift. Harry can’t tell if it’s a Muggle building or not, if he’s going to be invited in.

At the door Malfoy stops and says, “Goodnight, then.” The long hall is empty, save for the two of them. Harry shuffles forward and presses a light kiss to Malfoy’s cheek, lets the barest hint of stubble scrape along his lips. Then he steps back. Tries not to think too hard about it all.

“See ya, Malfoy.” Harry doesn’t wait around to see his reaction.

***

Harry thinks he’s going to see Malfoy more after that. And he does. They go to the cinema, to the pub. But they’re never alone.

Hermione doesn’t let the Slytherins sit at the bar anymore, the charmed booth expanding to accommodate them every time. Ron tolerates Malfoy at the pub well enough, and surprisingly it takes Seamus no time at all to come around, trying right away to get an introduction to the copy-witch Malfoy shares a closet-sized office with. Luna and Ginny just ignore him on nights they come, but Harry knows they’re glad to have Pansy around, taking her out dancing more often than him.

It’s not all bad. Harry can usually get Malfoy to take him home after pub nights, easy enough to catch him on his way to pay at the bar or jog after him to the apparition point. They fuck on the tatty loveseat, and on the floor by the hearth, knocking over a lamp that won’t be reparo-ed after, no matter how hard Harry tries.

Pansy comes with them to the cinema, and drags along Blaise Zabini, who Harry hasn’t seen or thought of in at least three years. Harry wants to be annoyed. He is annoyed. But the cinema was Pansy’s idea, which makes it difficult to complain about her presence, and Harry takes Malfoy back to his house after, which nearly makes up for it.

Having Malfoy over isn’t what Harry expects. He pauses in the foyer to say, “Of course you have a whole house, Potter. Why are you always trying to hang out at my flat?” which seems a bit rich coming from him.

And the thing is, Harry knows the house is an extravagance for someone his age, but it turns out compounding interest on Fleamont Potter’s vault since his death in 1978 allows a bit of extravagance. The estate agent had thought so anyway.

“Do you want a grand tour then, or just straight to the bedroom?” Harry asks drily, doing his best not to be shamed for having a big house by Draco Sodding Malfoy.

Malfoy has poked his head around the corner into the sitting room, and kitchen beyond. “What was that?”

Harry gives him the tour. They make it to the study. And then Malfoy looks too good, sitting on the heavy wooden desk, his legs parted, Muggle jeans rolled at the ankle.

“Why do you even need a study?” Malfoy trails a finger through the dust accumulated on the ridiculous leather blotter.

The only purpose for the study Harry can think of in the moment is that it’s the ideal place to blow Malfoy on a desk. He gets right to it, and Malfoy lets Harry finger him as well, which is new and thrilling and sort of scary, Harry’s hands shaking with how badly he wants to make it good.

He must do an okay job because Malfoy is boneless and easy afterward, in an uncomplicated way that Harry’s never seen before. They lay on the plush carpet for a bit, and then while Harry is dozing, Malfoy gets up and orders kebabs through the floo.

“To refuel,” Malfoy says simply, holding the steaming trays aloft. Harry doesn’t ask what they’re refueling for, just digs in gratefully. They continue the tour upstairs where Malfoy does a complicated kebab neutralizing charm that Harry knows is from the sex catalog at Wheezes and then he fucks Harry into the mattress.

Malfoy stays over, insisting it’s for the en suite off the main bedroom that takes up half the top floor. “It’s ridiculous, Potter, all these taps for one person. I’m going to test it out. I’m going to test it out tonight, and then re-test in the morning.”

This opens up a new world of morning sex to them, that is sleepy and warm and better than Harry could have imagined. Malfoy leaves after, to have lunch with Narcissa.

“She’s still my mum, you know,” Malfoy says, twisting his hands together. “I know she’s a bad person or whatever by your standards but–”

“You don’t have to defend wanting to have a relationship with your mum to me,” Harry responds, trying to ignore the queasiness rising in his stomach, spreading to his limbs. He’s still in bed, dried come itchy on his skin. “I mean, I’d give anything to have a relationship with mine.”

“Jesus, Potter.” Malfoy pushes out an annoyed breath. “You know it’s not the same.”

Harry is sort of charmed by the Muggle euphemism, the queasiness slipping away. He smiles up at Malfoy. “You don’t need to justify anything to me,” he repeats. “You can just go, remember?”

Malfoy frowns down at his shoes. “Right. Of course.”

“Come back and use the bath any time. My taps are your taps,” Harry says, with a magnanimous wave of his arm. He falls back against the pillows.

Malfoy runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the lavender scented shower he insisted on and cracks a smile, finally. “I’ll hold you to that.”

***

An unintended consequence of Ginny and Luna taking Pansy out is that, by the fourth time, she insists on bringing Malfoy. Harry trails along because that’s all he does these days — hang around wherever Malfoy is.

Malfoy can dance, like really dance, which Harry finds unfair, watching his body flow under the shifting lights. They keep their distance, always at least two arms lengths between them, and usually Pansy too at that. There are photographers there, Harry knows, because there always are, whenever the war kids might be out drinking and making sloppy mistakes.

Harry’s taking a water break by the door when Malfoy finds him and asks, “When are we getting out of here?”

Malfoy’s cheeks are glowing and pink; even his sweat looks good. Harry pushes sticky curls off of his own forehead. Pansy and Luna have already gone in search of something greasy to eat, but Ginny is still out there, making out with Dean, photographers be damned.

Malfoy follows Harry’s line of sight and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I figured you and Ginevra had broken things off when you cruised me at a pub, but…” he trails off and bobs his head up and down.

“I don’t know if I cruised you.” Harry takes a sip of water. “Yeah no, me and Ginny ended things a while ago.”

“Ginny and I,” Malfoy corrects reflexively, still squinting out towards the dance floor.

Harry shrugs. “Sure. Ginny and I.” He’s not sure he wants to get into it. “We weren’t ever really properly a couple, er, after.”

Malfoy nods, still in profile. Out on the dance floor, Ginny turns around so she can grind up against Dean, flipping off the photographers.

“And now she’s with Dean Thomas?”

“‘With’ might be too strong. I think she’s seeing Alicia Spinnet as well. Sometimes. And, actually, Luna said that Pansy asked her out, but with Luna, who knows,” Harry says.

Malfoy wrinkles his brow. “No, I think that’s probably true.” He takes his hands out of his pockets to fidget with his wand, twirling it around nimble fingers. Harry doesn’t want to talk about Ginny anymore.

He touches the small of Malfoy’s back. “Do you still want to go back to yours?”

It amazes Harry how easy this whole arrangement is, requiring almost no discussion at all. Malfoy gives a nearly imperceptible nod and his grip tightens around his wand. When the beat drops and the strobe lights come on, Malfoy whisks them away into his quiet bedroom, where the window is open to let in the cool night air.

***

Later, Malfoy catches him up past 3 am for a drink of water from the tap in the tiny galley kitchen. Harry hears Malfoy before he sees him, soft footfalls coming down the hall, and then the sound of a yawn in the doorway.

“You’re up,” Malfoy says. He doesn’t say, ‘Come back to bed.’

“Couldn’t sleep,” Harry says. “I was thirsty I guess.” He presses his palms flat on the countertop behind him, pushing himself up to sit on the tiled surface, letting his bare feet dangle above the floor.

Malfoy nods and says, “You don’t sleep well.” It’s not a question. He doesn’t sleep well either. Harry knows, from the few times they’ve spent the night, and then he’s also heard Malfoy discuss it with Hermione. Nothing too specific, just comparisons of insomnia draughts and rest-related tinctures, what they’ve all tried, who has a home-brew that works.

“Who does?” Harry asks. He shifts, and the tips of his toes graze the pebbled linoleum floor. “I like your kitchen.” The words come out sounding surprised, which Harry supposes he is; surprised by how utilitarian it is, everything with its use and in its place.

Malfoy absorbs this, taking in Harry’s surprise, his approving gaze at the heavy cast iron skillet, the industrial style wire shelving holding his self-heating kettle, which Malfoy must have had to put together himself.

“Whatever you think I am, I’m not,” Malfoy says quietly.

“What are you, then?” Harry asks, desperate suddenly to know the answer.

“I don’t know yet, I–” Malfoy steps forward, between Harry’s legs. His eyes meet Harry’s briefly, searching, but Harry doesn’t know for what or if he finds it. Then, Malfoy pushes his face into Harry’s neck and breathes in. Harry’s arms come up around Malfoy’s neck. He lets Malfoy show him instead.

***

The Auror trainee class has a summer graduation. There’s a party to celebrate, held out on the lawn at the old training facility. It’s a good afternoon, with speeches and well wishes. Ron slings an arm around Harry for the group photo that will be framed for posterity on Level 2.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Ron asks after the photo, only half intelligible through a mouthful of potato salad.

Harry frowns, looking around at their cohort, changed into newly minted Auror robes. “It’s a bit odd, yeah. I mean, we were members of the Order of the Phoenix. This feels so organized, comparatively.”

Ron nods. “Organized can be good though. I think we’ve earned organized.”

Harry appreciates the silver lining, but he can’t help saying, “And we’ll keep an eye out. Keep them accountable.”

Ron nods again. He doesn’t ask who Harry is referring to. Hermione says similar things sometimes, about how she’ll never give up her Ministry job, no matter how frustrating it can be, because she’ll always want to have eyes on the inside, access to those in power.

She’s there at the party, chatting to Hannah Abbott, and her girlfriend Morag. Harry had felt a bit funny, seeing Hermione at the ceremony in support of Ron, sitting with the Weasleys. Of course, they’re all proud of his accomplishments as well, but it’s not quite having a cheering section of his own.

Everyone stays into the evening, making the most of the waning summer light. There’s a keg from the Three Broomsticks and someone has brought a croquet set, charmed to make the game more difficult. Harry teams up with Angelina Johnson, who was in the Auror class ahead of him, and they smash the competition.

“Next time, a team can only have one five-time Hogwarts Quidditch champion,” Ron says glumly, after the game. He was on a team with Hermione, who is ruthless, but terrible at anything involving charmed balls. She’s still trying to coax their ball towards the center peg, while it rolls petulantly in the opposite direction from where she’s hitting it.

By the time the sun finally starts to set, Harry is tipsy and warm inside. When Ron and Hermione tell him they’re going back to the Burrow for the weekend, Apparating directly into Malfoy’s flat seems like a brilliant idea, the best Harry’s ever had.

Malfoy’s living room is dark and quiet when Harry lands next to the hearth with a loud crack. A large, indistinct shape on the sofa shifts, and Malfoy’s head emerges from under a blanket, wand drawn. Harry’s reflexes are dulled by the beer and good humor from the afternoon and he fumbles for his own wand, still strapped to his thigh. He doesn’t think Malfoy will hex him, but he’s been wrong about that before.

“Who’s there?” Malfoy calls out. His voice is stuffy and tired. He squints into the dim room with a muttered Lumos. “Potter?”

“You should probably have anti-apparation wards on your flat, Malfoy,” Harry says cheerfully.

“You’re the only lunatic who has ever just dropped into my living room unannounced.” Malfoy sniffs, stowing his wand again.

Harry considers what other lunatics Malfoy knows. “Not even your dad?”

Malfoy shudders and lays back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Definitely not my dad.” Harry tucks away the knowledge that Draco isn’t on good terms with Lucius, something to examine later. Malfoy sneezes, once, twice, three times, then says, “I’m really not feeling well, Potter. Tonight might not be the night for…” He extracts his hands from under the blanket to make a suggestive gesture.

It seems wrong to say ‘Okay’ and leave, so Harry says “Okay,” and goes to put the kettle on. In Malfoy’s kitchen, the shelves hum with magic, cold items kept fresh under stasis, pots and pans enchanted with cooking spells. Harry raids the cupboards and makes two mugs of tea, milky and sweet and strong. When he goes back out into the living room, Malfoy is asleep.

Harry sets the mugs down on a side table, careful to cushion them with a coaster charm Hermione insists on using in her flat. While Malfoy sleeps, he peruses the bookshelves that line the wall opposite the kitchen. There are things Harry recognizes, like Hogwarts textbooks and Quidditch Through The Ages, mixed in with books he’s never heard of. They must be Wizarding novels, he thinks, as he pulls one off the shelf at random. He’d never thought of Malfoy as a great reader, but then he wasn’t exactly a great reader himself.

Harry’s two chapters into a confusing mystery regarding Mer-people in Antarctica when Malfoy wakes.

“Potter?” Malfoy asks. His voice is thick with sleep. He blinks slowly and tugs the blanket tight around his chin.

“There’s tea,” Harry says, unsure now whether people drink tea when they’re sick.

“Thanks,” Malfoy says, snaking an arm out of his blanket cocoon. “What’s the book?”

Harry shows him the cover. “I haven’t gotten very far,” he says. “There’s a lot of complicated names and places.”

Malfoy snorts. “I read that when I was ten. It’s a book for kids.” He smirks down at his tea. “So I guess that’s about your reading level.”

Harry cringes inwardly. He’s sort of forgotten that his years of hating Malfoy hadn’t been purely ideological, that Malfoy was vicious on a personal level as well. He knows he’s scowling, eyes fixed on the wall.

“Ah, come on,” Malfoy says, licking his lips. “Don’t be like that. Go on then, read us a story.”

Harry thinks about leaving, pictures getting up and putting his shoes back on, apparating to his own empty house. He leans back in the chair and opens the book again.

***

It slips Harry’s mind sometimes, that he hasn’t told Ron and Hermione about Malfoy. He doesn’t think they would mind, with how much time they all spend together now, the Slytherins and Harry’s friends, at work and then after work and on the weekends. And it’s not like Harry’s dying to tell Ron and Hermione about his sex life. They catch him by surprise anyway, when they bring George’s new distribution guy around for him to meet.

The guy has a square jaw and dimples, Harry notices, when he jumps up to be introduced to Harry, shake his hand firmly and say, “I’m Alistair, so nice to meet you Harry.”

Hermione beams and Ron raises his eyebrows in the most conspicuous way possible, before leaving the two of them alone in their usual booth at the pub. No one else shows up for a while and Harry wonders how far Hermione and Ron have gone to orchestrate everything.

Alistair is nice enough. There’s a hint of a tattoo sneaking out from under the cuff of his short-sleeve shirt, something that looks like the tentacle of an octopus curling and uncurling gently as his muscles flex. Harry is distracted by it, thinking that he hasn’t seen many magic tattoos, and then Malfoy’s silky forearm comes to mind, unmarred by the Dark Mark after all. Alistair scrunches his nose when he laughs, and Harry considers the bump in his own nose, the sickening crunch of Malfoy’s boot on his face, back when he was so sure that Malfoy had taken the Mark.

Alistair orders them another round and picks up the tab. He’s solicitous, making sure he’s got Harry’s drink order right. Harry can feel Hermione’s approval even though she’s long since left the pub. He knows that she and Ron must have picked Alistair out because they thought he’d be good for Harry, that he’d treat him well. There’s a sweet kind of ache in knowing how much they care, how much they want the best for him.

When he gets up to use the loo, Harry sees a flash of familiar long red hair, Ginny tugging Pansy along, away from the booth, Malfoy on Pansy’s heels.

He can’t hear them, but he can read Ginny’s lips well after years of practice mouthing things to each other in Molly Weasley’s kitchen.

“I completely forgot that Harry’s on a date tonight. We’re not supposed to mess it up for him,” Ginny is saying as she looks over Alistair. “George says Ali’s a really great guy.”

When Harry comes back from the toilet, Ginny and the others have gone. At the end of the night, Alistair kisses him warmly and promises to owl soon. Harry nods and wonders what Malfoy got up to with Pansy and Ginny in the end.

***

Harry gets lunch with Alistair in the Ministry cafeteria a few days later. He’s there to deal with some kind of shipping regulatory paperwork.

“The meatloaf here is legendary,” Alistair says, setting his tray down across from Harry’s.

“Legendary for being good?” Harry asks, skeptical. He’s never heard anything about it one way or another.

Alistair pokes at the brown square with his fork. “You know, I didn’t investigate that far. I just trusted that people probably liked it, if they talked about it so much.”

Harry smiles, reflexive in the face of such optimism. “If it’s terrible, we can share my curry.”

“Ach, it won’t be terrible.” Alistair takes a huge bite, grinning through it, as he chews and chews and chews. “Nothing a little sauce can’t fix.” He pulls a container out of his robes.

“You carry emergency sauce?” Harry is impressed and confused.

“You’ve never had a sauce related emergency?”

Harry shakes his head. “Can’t say that I have.” He rolls the word emergency over in his mind. Hears a different Alastor say Constant Vigilance.

“Nothing a little sauce can’t fix,” Alistair says again, dousing the meatloaf with a firm hand. “Want a bite?” He offers Harry his fork. Harry takes it. The meatloaf is terrible.

***

Blaise Zabini has a party to christen his new flat, and Pansy keeps her promise, inviting Harry and Hermione. Ron and Ginny come as well, bringing along Seamus and Dean and a curious Neville Longbottom, returned from an extended trip to South America to find his friend group completely remade.

Harry spends some time helping Neville and Blaise figure out where to put the giant schefflera Neville brought as a housewarming gift.

“Nev, you’re making the rest of us look bad!” Harry says. “We’ve all come empty handed.”

“Gran says never to show up to a party without something,” Neville says. “So that’s on you, I think.”

“Yeah, Potter, get it together,” Blaise says, using a levitation charm to move a lamp out of the way of the plant. He puts a hand on Neville’s arm. “Thanks, mate. Really. Some people wouldn’t know their arse from their elbow I guess, let alone proper etiquette.”

Harry thinks that sounds a bit harsh, especially coming from someone he barely knows. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then catches sight of Malfoy, leaning against the wall near the phonograph, linen shirt open at the collar. Harry’s hands itch with how much he wants to reach out and touch, push the shirt aside and mouth at Malfoy’s unblemished neck. It’s been too long.

He tries to stay casual about it, making his way over slowly and giving Malfoy a cool nod hello.

“All right?”

Malfoy shrugs.

“I thought if I came to this party, I was going to get a strip tease,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows.

Malfoy pushes off the wall. “Not tonight.” He makes his way towards the kitchen. Harry doesn’t follow. After that he feels taut, like a string waiting to be plucked. On edge like he hasn’t felt in ages.

“Do you think Malfoy is acting weird?” Harry asks Ron, cornering him by the makeshift bar.

Ron pours a shot of firewhiskey for himself, and then one for Harry.

“The time to ask that was months ago,” Ron says, tossing his shot back without so much as a wince. “Things have been wild for ages. I think this is our new normal.” He nods over to where Hermione is comparing notes on something with Greg Goyle. “I mean, seriously. Hermione and Goyle? Chatting it up like old school friends?”

“Yeah no, Hermione loves the Slytherins now, obviously,” Harry says with an impatient wave of his hand. “And you do too. I saw you laughing at Pansy’s dumb pygmy puff story earlier. I just think Malfoy’s acting up, even since this all started.”

Ron is quiet for a moment, considering. “I dunno, mate. You’re the expert on Malfoy, not me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ron pauses again, tilting his head, brow furrowed. “You always sort of… followed him around in school. And you’ve kind of started doing it again? You definitely spend more time with him than I do. You always have done.”

Harry scratches the back of his neck, not sure how to respond. He didn’t know Ron had noticed. “Well, now something’s changed.”

Ron takes the other shot he poured out of Harry’s grip and shoots it himself, smoke billowing out of his nostrils and ears. “He’s just over there, if you really want to go and figure it out.” He gestures towards the hall that leads to the bedroom with the empty glass.

Harry goes.

He tries for a smile at first. “Is this your way of telling me you want to do it in Blaise’s new bed? Saucy… not that I’m opposed.”

Malfoy’s lips are pressed tight into a line.

“You’ve barely said anything to me all night,” Harry says. He knows he’s whinging but he doesn’t care.

“We don’t normally talk at these kinds of things, do we?” Malfoy asks, his voice razor sharp.

Harry takes a step back.

“I think I’m done hanging out with you,” Malfoy says. He lets his head thunk against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

“What do you mean?” The bottom of Harry’s stomach drops out, falls to the floor.

Malfoy crosses his arms tightly against his chest. He looks back down at Harry. “Exactly what I said, Potter. This has been fun.” His lip curls into the ugly shadow of a sneer. “But I think I’m done.”

Harry’s face burns with rejection. A hollowness settles deep within him, gnawing from the inside out. A few seconds pass, and then a few more. Malfoy shakes his head. “Right. See you around Potter. Or not.” And then he leaves, not just the hall but out the door of Blaise’s flat, without saying goodbye.

***

As easy as it had been to start this thing with Malfoy, it should have been easier to slide back into nothingness between them. Malfoy was right — there wasn’t much of a difference in how they interacted among their friends. They had always talked, kissed, spent time together in private. Harry hadn’t meant to keep him a secret, it had just happened that way.

At first, Harry tries a little bit to treat Malfoy like he would anyone else, asking about his weekend plans and joking around. It’s like talking to a brick wall. He gives up quickly. After a week of the cold shoulder, Harry starts to second guess everything: his memory of how simple things were between them, the way he felt about Malfoy, the way it seemed Malfoy felt about him.

Alistair owls him on Saturday; Going out with my mates, want to come? Harry drags himself off of the sofa, glances at the disaster that is his hair in the mirror, and apparates.

The bar is smoky and dark. It takes Harry a moment to find Alistair, not quite able to picture his face at first.

“All right, Harry?” Alistair asks. His forehead is very shiny. Harry can’t remember if he liked him or not.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He prioritizes finding a drink, then a second, then a third. He wonders what Malfoy is like drunk. They never really got to that point, always slipping out of the pub early. On the fourth drink, a dirty blonde head swims into view. The guy has long, gangly legs and after drink number six, Harry manages to persuade him to take him home.

The side-along back to blonde guy’s place doesn’t agree with the six cheap whiskeys Harry’s consumed. He’s too dizzy to get within kissing or even groping distance of him. Things are wobbly and a little gross from there.

In the morning, Harry wakes up fully clothed in an unfamiliar bathroom, his face pressed to the cool tile floor. Alistair is there in the doorway, watching with a concerned look. “Are you going to be okay there, Harry?”

Harry’s mouth is like cotton. He nods. He probably will be, eventually. He doesn’t bother asking why Alistair is in blonde guy’s bathroom.

Alistair leans down to offer Harry a hand to sit up. Harry takes it and leans his back against the tub.

“My roommate said it seemed like you were erm, going through it,” Alistair says, wincing a little.

“Roommate?” Harry asks weakly.

Blonde guy pokes his head around Alistair in the doorway. “Hiya!”

Harry raises a hand in greeting, slow and without making eye contact. He’s such an idiot.

They find Harry a hangover potion and some toast. Alistair monitors Harry curiously at the small kitchen table and then says kindly, “Maybe you should let your friends know you’re not ready to be set up just yet.”

Harry wants to melt into the floor. He apparates home instead.

***

The summer plods on. Hermione finds out Greg’s uncle has a cottage in Devon and organizes a beach trip, with everyone invited. Harry helps arrange the portkeys and they all leave from the Ministry after work on a Friday in late August.

Harry goes with Greg to air out the cottage while everyone else heads straight for the beach, taking advantage of the last hours of daylight. When Harry makes it outside finally, most everyone is in the water, cocooned in warming charms that shimmer slightly in the evening breeze. Only Pansy sits on the sand, reading a tattered paperback, drinking a mojito she must have conjured herself.

When Harry sits next to her, she puts the book down.

“Why are you dicking him around?” Pansy says without preamble. She jabs an accusatory finger into Harry’s bicep.

“What do you mean?” Harry kicks at the sand. Out in the sea, Malfoy puts his head under, comes up glistening, eyes closed, face tilted towards the sun. Harry’s chest aches.

“He likes you. Merlin knows why, you’re such a dick to him.” Pansy shields her eyes from the sun. Harry thinks she is probably looking at Malfoy too.

“He’s never said —“ Harry knows this is a weak argument. He’s never said anything either. He lays his head on his knees and finds, horrifyingly, that he might want to cry.

Pansy shakes her head, down at the sand and picks up her book again. “You could at least try, you know. Stop being such an idiot and talk to him.” Then she finds her place and starts to read, the matter closed.

Harry lets himself be a coward for a few more hours, waiting to talk to Malfoy until everyone has gone into the cottage for dinner, and Malfoy is the only one left on the bluestone patio, smoking and finishing his drink.

The cottage is situated on a short cliff, with a wide, uninterrupted view of the bay. The air coming off the water is cool and salty. Harry breathes it in. He somehow misses Malfoy more when he’s sitting right there.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Harry says, sitting down next to Malfoy. As openers go, it’s pretty bad. Malfoy doesn’t respond. Harry itches at his ankle, brushing the sand away. His anxiety rises. “Why are you mad at me?” he blurts out, unplanned.

Malfoy makes a show of putting out his cigarette in a small sand pail. “Where’s that guy? Didn’t want to bring your new fling on a little getaway?”

Harry’s confused for a moment. “Who? Alistair? He was – that was –” He flails, thrown off. He hasn’t thought about Alistair in weeks.

“It was a date. It was more than one date, actually. Don’t play stupid. You literally ate off of his fork,” Malfoy’s voice is low and cold.

This annoys Harry. “Okay, fine. I went on two ‘dates’ with some guy. But I didn’t ask to be set up with him, and we’re not even, like, in contact or anything.” He faces up to Malfoy and tries to keep his voice level. “You never – we never established anything. We were hanging out. How was I supposed–”

“To know?” Malfoy finishes for him, his exasperation clear. “Everything we’ve been doing. That was boyfriend shit, Harry.”

Harry starts. “Since when do you call me Harry?”

“Since you led me on all summer, you prick.” Malfoy raises his voice and throws up his hands.

“I led you on?” Harry says blankly.

Malfoy pitches his voice in a breathy imitation of Harry. “Oh yeah, let me buy you dinner, let me fuck you, I’ll be so gentle, here, you can sleep at mine because I want to have tender morning sex.”

Harry’s mouth is hanging open. He feels a little sick. “I did want all those things. With you.”

“And you didn’t stop and think for a moment that might have meant that it would be, that it would–” Malfoy stops and cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“That me going on a date with someone else would hurt you?” Harry asks. Something inside of him cracks and shifts.

Malfoy scrubs at his eyes and says, “I can’t believe I’m talking about this,” his voice sort of raw.

Harry smiles in spite of everything. “Better to repress it?”

Malfoy huffs out a little laugh, more like surprise than finding anything about the situation funny. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because–” Harry stops to think, a bubble of hope expanding in his chest. He gazes at Malfoy’s familiar face; pointy, pink, and dear. He hasn’t gotten to just look in so long.

“What?” Malfoy asks quietly.

Harry takes a risk, reaches out and tugs at Malfoy’s collar, letting his thumb brush his neck. “Because it means you liked me. I’ve been thinking maybe you hated me, that maybe you still hated me the whole time.”

“No,” Malfoy says quickly. He doesn’t relax, but he lets Harry keep his hand on him. “No, I didn’t hate you. It’s so much more embarrassing than that.”

Harry takes a step closer and curls his hand around Malfoy’s neck, feeling the silky strands of his hair. “What’s more embarrassing? That you wanted us to be official? To be boyfriends or whatever?”

Malfoy closes his eyes and nods. His hands find Harry’s hips, holding him loosely.

“Okay,” Harry says, like it’s that easy. He thinks it might be; some combination of willful optimism and stupidity, probably.

“Okay?” Malfoy asks, unsure.

“Yeah.” Harry says. “Let’s be boyfriends.” He feels lighter than he has in days. “I’ll go inside and tell everyone, and then we can go on a date.” He laughs a giddy little laugh. “You know, that time we went to the café, I sort of thought we were on a date. But I wasn’t sure.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy says. He rests his cheek against the side of Harry’s head. “That seems to be a theme with us.”

“Don’t worry, this time I’ll bring flowers and chocolate and clear intentions,” Harry says. He can feel Malfoy smiling against him. Someone has their head hanging out the kitchen window of the cottage and is whooping. Pansy maybe, or Blaise. Harry gives two fingers in their general direction.

Malfoy laughs and grips Harry tighter. Harry leans into it, shameless. “I guess that takes care of telling everyone,” Malfoy says eventually.

Their friends spill back onto the patio, Pansy crowing, Ron spluttering, Hermione and Greg looking on serenely. Harry ignores them all and keeps holding on.