Chapter Text
Tuesday - 5th of June 2007
Now
Harry stared up at Ron and Hermione’s front door for a long time, gathering himself. He felt as if he were stood on the precipice, preparing to leap off a cliff and hoping that there would be someone there to catch him. Finally, he took a deep breath in and knocked on the door. He heard feet approaching from the hallway beyond.
“Coming!” came Ron’s muffled voice.
Harry took a sharp breath in when the door opened, half expecting Ron to see his story written all over his face, but Ron only grinned at the sight of him.
“Harry! Mate! Come in, come in - how was your weekend?” Ron didn’t wait for an answer, turning and leading them through the cottage’s hallway towards the kitchen dining room at the back of the house. “I can tell you that mine didn’t get much better,” he said with a chuckle. “The kids didn’t stop vomiting until about midday on Saturday. It was awful!” He flicked on the kettle and fished mugs out of the cupboard while Harry silently took a seat, his hands forming anxious fists on his lap. “Luckily neither Hermione nor I got it. Not that you’d ever know the kids had been sick at all with the way they were bouncing about this morning. You having sugar today, mate?”
Harry stumbled over his answer. “Yeah, two.”
Ron let out a low whistle. “A two sugar day? Must have had a rough weekend,” Harry chuckled nervously to himself but Ron continued talking without waiting for any input, bustling about the kitchen. “I’ll make us some toast - I have’t actually eaten yet. Anyway - so the kids were totally fine by Sunday morning but me and Mione’ were wrecked, and she’s got some big presentation today. So I took Hugo with me to mum’s yesterday while Rose was at nursery, and left Hermione to take care of herself and prepare without distractions. And then mum, angel that she is, said she’d take Hugo again for me today so I could sort out the house and catch up with all the house stuff and maybe fit in a nap of my own. So! I’ve got the house to myself - and admittedly a shit tonne of clothes washing and what not, but I don’t mind all that. You know,” he continued as the toast popped up out of the toaster, “I can’t believe I was dubious about this whole splitting parental leave thing. I love it! Loads of the blokes at work complain that their kids all prefer their wives and yeah Rosie’s a mummy’s girl, but she comes to me just as much.” He sighed happily. “Jam?”
“Please,” Harry tried to keep the nerves out of his voice.
“Anyway - so Hugo is at mum’s, Rose is at nursery and Mione’s gonna’ pick her up on the way home, so once I’ve done all the housework (which should take me maybe three or four hours if I do it properly) I can have a massive nap! I definitely need it.” Ron sighed, finally turning from the counter, a rack of toast in one hand and two mugs of tea held precariously in the other. “Anyway – how's your weekend been mate? How was the show?” He sat down opposite Harry, a warm, expectant expression on his face.
“I have no idea,” Harry answered honestly. “It was all in French.”
Ron winced. “Oh - right. I didn’t know that. Was the music good at least?”
Harry nodded and hummed, but said nothing more.
When the silence between them had drawn out to the edge of being uncomfortable, Ron's brows furrowed into a faintly concerned frown. “Are you alright mate?”
Harry nodded, sipping at his hot sweet tea. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” he swallowed nervously. “About this weekend, I ah… I may have done something.”
Ron’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” he said slowly.
Harry took a deep breath in. “Well….” And the story came spilling out.
Friday - 1st of June 2007
Then
When he’d knocked on Ron and Hermione’s front door that evening, he hadn’t expected this.
“Harry?” Ron was bleary eyed as he peered out through the door, with enormous dark shadows under his eyes and what Harry was certain was vomit on his collar. “What are you doing here?” Harry was also fairly certain that Ron was still dressed in his pyjamas and, judging by the way the cotton hung limply from his lanky frame, he had been for a while. Ron rubbed a tired hand across his face. “Look mate. I’m so sorry. But this just isn’t a good time. Rose and Hugo have both been up since three this morning being sick. I… to be honest I’m a little bit traumatised by the amount of vomit I’ve seen over the last thirteen hours.” His expression turned haunted and he was only jolted out of it by an escalating cacophony of despairing screams from within the house behind him. “I’ll floo you when we’re up for visitors. I’d hate for you to get anything.” He offered Harry a tired smile and made to close the door.
“That’s fine,” Harry said very quickly, stopping him in his tracks, “but you asked me to babysit tonight, mate.”
Ron froze. Realisation dawned. “Oh fuck,” he croaked. “Is that tonight?”
More screams came from behind him, increasingly angry now.
“Yeah, mate.”
“Ron? Ron - who’s that at the door? Tell them to fuck off! Hugo’s just vomited his entire feed on me and I need a second pair of hands!” The unseen voice increased gradually in volume. “The way they’ve been going, Rose will be sick as well any minute now. You’d think they were coordinating it!” The door was abruptly opened further and an unimpressed and positively harried Hermione appeared at the door. The shoulder of her of t-shirt was soaked through (in what Harry presumed was Hugo’s last feed), her jogging bottoms were similarly stained, and at some point, she had lost a sock. In her arms, Hugo wailed furiously, his tiny fists windmilling in the air and occasionally catching on her frizzy hair, but she took no notice of him. Her furious expression softened at once. “Oh- oh Harry I’m sorry for shouting but this really isn’t a good time-.”
“I can see that - should you really swear in front of him?”
Her expression turned withering. “He’s a baby - he doesn’t speak English yet, Harry. And Rose is in her bedroom.”
Harry nodded cautiously. “Right. Anyway. I can see this is a bad time but you guys actually asked me to be here.” He held his hands out imploringly in front of him. “So….”
Hermione gasped. “Oh! Oh, no!” She looked suddenly as if she might cry. “The show’s tonight!”
Harry could understand her look of despair. They had booked the tickets for that night’s opera over twelve months earlier, when Hugo had been nothing more than a growing bean in Hermione’s stomach. They’d been on the fence about booking it in the first place, knowing that Hugo would be only six months old, but the pair of them deserved an evening to themselves. Harry had offered to babysit immediately, securing the date to his fridge and even adding it to his Auror schedule so that he wouldn’t forget. The Auror schedule had become defunct less than a month later when he’d resigned, but the post-it-note on the fridge had steered him true and so there he was. They had even settled on the details the weekend before.
“I know love,” Ron said with a heavy sigh. “I forgot too.”
“Oh- oh but we can’t leave them like this!” Hermione positively wailed. “There’s no way we can go! This is a two-man job!” As if to illustrate her point, Hugo gave an ear-splitting cry.
“Is your mother available?” Harry offered. “I can cope with a bit of vomit and I’m sure she can too.”
Hermione shook her head though. “It’s not a matter of availability - all Rose wants is mummy and daddy and I could never enjoy the show knowing that they were at home being this poorly. Oh, I’m so sorry we didn’t stop you from coming over Harry,” she said suddenly. “You’ve wasted a journey.”
Harry shrugged. “It’s fine - do you guys want a hand?” He gestured to the hallway behind them. “Give you guys the opportunity to tap out?”
Ron shook his head vehemently. “No thanks mate - no offence but we kind of need you on standby incase we both end up catching whatever this is. The worst of it’s over but they were both being sick every thirty minutes for six hours. If we’re the same, there’s no way we can safely look after them.”
“Oh, this is just such terrible timing,” Hermione said with a sniff. “I was so looking forward to this show. Oh… oh I know. Stay here Harry. Don’t go anywhere!” Hermione passed a still crying Hugo over to Ron.
Ron accepted him without even looking in his wife’s direction and began a well-practiced bounce and sway. In his arms, Hugo began to gradually calm. “Honestly mate,” Ron said, his voice hoarse, “it’s been awful. I ended up asleep on the bathroom floor with Rose at six in the morning.”
Harry winced but Hermione returned before he could respond. “Here,” she said tearfully. In her hands were a pair of tickets that she thrust towards Harry. “You take them. Someone might as well get to enjoy the show.” She sniffed wetly and attempted a smile. The trembling of her lips gave her away.
Harry took them reluctantly. “Hermione… I’m not sure-.”
“Please take them,” she said imploringly. “I couldn’t bear for them to go to waste. And you’ll have to tell me all about it - yes? I want to feel like I was there!” She tried for levity but didn’t quite manage it.
Harry nodded slowly, eyeing the tickets with trepidation. He’d never had much inclination to see an opera before. “I… yeah. Okay Mione’ - I’ll go.”
“Okay?” she said hopefully, brightening slightly. “Thanks Harry - have a good evening.” She disappeared again, brushing away the tears that had rolled down her cheeks.
Harry hesitated. “Is she okay?”
“She’s just tired,” Ron said with a shrug. “She always gets weepy when she’s tired. And she did really want to see that show.”
Harry glanced down at the tickets in his hand. ‘The Royal Opera House’ was written across the top of the ticket in shiny gold font and ‘Carmen’ was printed beneath it. “But I don’t even like opera,” he said weakly.
Ron shrugged. “Neither do I mate - the things we do for Hermione, ey?” Harry sighed and nodded. As if he could refuse the tickets when she had left crying. “Look, I need to go and get this one changed.” In his arms, Hugo fussed and grumbled but had stopped screaming at least. “Enjoy the show - yeah? I’ll see you next week.” And he disappeared as well, leaving Harry alone on the stoop of his and Hermione’s cottage.
For a moment, Harry simply looked at their brass knocker.
Well… that had been unexpected.
He considered the tickets again. He’d never been to an opera in his life! What was he meant to wear? Certainly not the jogging bottoms and cotton t-shirt he’d turned up at their door in! He’d come prepared for an evening of sharing spaghetti bolognaise with Rose and attempting to feed Hugo the blended cottage pie that Harry had made specially. He’d have to get changed - didn’t people wear tuxedos to the opera? But maybe not. He knew that Ron didn’t own a tux. Maybe just a suit jacket?
He checked his watch - five. He had half an hour until the show started. Fuck! It wasn’t like Hermione to leave things this last minute. Had she really only been planning to leave the house with half an hour to spare? And five thirty seemed early for a show too. Never mind, too late now to dwell on what motherhood had done to Hermione’s opinions on punctuality. He needed to go home and change. And probably shower too.
He apparated home with a sigh, appearing in the hallway of Grimmuald place and tearing up the stairs without a second thought. He showered and changed as quickly as he could, only lingering to consider the mobile phone that Hermione had made him buy - should he take it with him? No. What was the point? He never used it anyway. He turned it off and dropped it in the drawer of his bedside table.
Twenty-five minutes later found him stood in front of the floor length mirror that had replaced the portrait of Mrs Black. He scrutinised his appearance anxiously. Black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and his best bottle green suit jacket (Hermione said it brought out his eyes). That was smart enough, right? He tried desperately to flatten his still drying hair, grateful that he had shaved earlier that morning.
He hesitated, looking at his glasses. They were the familiar round shape that he had always worn but the frames were a delicate tortoise shell rather than the thin metal wires he'd been used to. When he’d left the Aurors the year before, Hermione had seemed to decide he needed sprucing up. Apparently, a new wardrobe was the way forward and that included new glasses. She hadn’t said anything but Harry knew that she was worried he was depressed. He didn’t think he was depressed. Just… stuck. Anyway, the new glasses had come with something else new to Harry. Lenses. Should he wear them tonight? He’d promised he would try and they were convenient, but fuck it he liked his glasses! At this point they were a part of him.
He checked his watch and it answered the question for him. There were only a few minutes left until the show started. There was certainly not enough time to be faffing around with lenses when he always ended dropping them in the sink and losing them for ten minutes anyway.
This would have to do.
He disapparated again and popped back into existence in an alley near the Royal Opera House. His belly grumbled loudly. He winced and pressed a palm to his stomach, missing the homemade spaghetti bolognaise he should have been sitting down to share with Rose right about now.
He marched through the crowd of London, his gaze fixed on his destination. It was only when he noticed the queue out of the main entrance where people were having their bags checked that Harry realised he had made a mistake. He double checked his ticket. The show didn’t start at half-five - the doors opened. The show didn’t start till half-seven.
Harry sighed, resigned as he joined the queue to allow an usher to check his ticket. He’d have had time to eat if he’d simply taken the time to actually read the ticket and he contemplated leaving the queue, but he was at its front before he’d made up his mind.
“Would you like us to hold your second ticket at the box office, sir?” asked he usher, a spindly young man who stooped at the waist with his hands held behind his back as if he were four times his age. “So that your guest may collect it when they arrive?”
“Uh, no - don’t worry about it,” Harry muttered awkwardly, still acclimatising himself to the sharp left turn his evening had taken and the unexpected opulence of his surroundings. He let out a quiet breath of relief when he realised he was fine without a tie - he’d been half prepared to transfigure one of his socks if he’d needed to.
“Of course, sir,” the usher said, the perfect picture of professionalism. Harry stepped past him and then hesitated. Where should he go? “The champagne bar is to the left and up the stairs, sir,” he added helpfully.
Harry nodded gratefully. “Thanks.” He didn’t know about champagne but he’d kill for a sandwich right now.
Harry had been to London shows before and had therefore been to several theatre bars before. They naturally varied depending on the size of the venue but they could generally be relied upon to be overly busy with limited seating and extraordinarily long lines. Nothing he had experienced before could have prepared him for this bar however, and he felt increasingly out of place. He clenched his hands into fists to avoid pulling his sleeves over his fingers like a child. He hoped no one else would notice that he didn’t belong.
The bar was… magnificent. It was an enormous hall with windows instead of walls and ceilings. Staring up through the curved ceiling, he felt as if he were in a green house or a train station perhaps. It was certainly the closest any muggle structure he had seen before had come to replicating the awe-inspiring magnificence of Hogwarts’ great hall. Though the ceiling above him wasn’t simply replicating the sky above; it was the real deal.
The bar at the hall’s centre wasn’t busy (unsurprisingly - the doors had only just opened after all) and Harry didn’t have to wait long to be served. A young woman with a ginger ponytail smiled kindly at him and approached him at once.
“What can I get for you, sir?”
“Ugh,” He glanced at the enormous selection of alcohol on the bar wall behind her. His stomach rumbled again. “Do you serve food?”
Her expression turned immediately apologetic. “We do but unfortunately all tables must be booked ahead of time.” She gestured with an open palm to the tables in the hall behind him and the balcony walkway above them. “Do you have a reservation?” He shook his head and tried not to look too despondent. He imagined that if she’d booked a table, Hermione would have told him so. “I’m sorry sir - we do have some snacks?” She gestured to the selection of crisps and sweets which were displayed on an unnecessarily fancy stand. “But that’s the only food we serve from the bar.”
Harry opened his mouth to ask for several bags of ready-salted crisps when a voice, familiar but unexpected, took him by surprise.
“Potter? Is that you?”
Harry turned to look over his shoulder and froze. Approaching him, a polite frown on his brow, was Draco Malfoy. Harry hadn’t seen the man in years, not since the trials at the end of the war when he’d been a terrified teenager stood in the dock. He’d been tried as a minor and so had at least not been forced into irons or the dreadful Azkaban prison uniform. That had been nearing a decade ago now and to say that the man had changed was an understatement.
He’d always stood an inch or so taller than Harry and though the gap between them hadn’t widened, he suddenly seemed exceptionally tall and regal in his baby pink, velvet suit jacket, his smart black trousers and his crisp white shirt and matching white bow tie. His hair, though cut short at the sides and around the back, was longer and coifed back stylishly at the top.
Did he… did he find Malfoy attractive?
Oh. Oh, Merlin no.
Tuesday - 5th of June 2007
Now
“Oh, Merlin no,” Ron said, his mouth agape, shaking his head, a slice of toast hanging forgotten between his fingers. “You can’t have the hots for Draco Malfoy of all people, Harry.” His words dripped with disdain. “He’s a goddamn Death Eater for Merlin’s sake! And an arrogant piece of shit to boot!”
Harry rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Acquitted,” he reminded him. “He was a kid, Ron. And you know that - we both testified at his hearing,” Harry said with an accusatory finger pointed in his direction.
Ron grimaced. “Yeah but still - he’s a right prick. 'Mione has to work with him sometimes and she says he’s always aloof and arrogant. You can’t be attracted to that man. I simply won’t allow it! Merlin what were the chances that he’d be there, of all people!”
Harry sighed through his nose and said flatly, “Do you want me to carry on with the story?”
Ron grumbled but nodded, and gestured for him to continue.
Friday - 1st of June 2007
Then
Harry cleared his voice to cover his moment of shocked silence.
“Ah, Malfoy.” He held out a hand, hoping, when it was already too late to wipe them on his trousers, that his palms weren’t overly sweaty. “It’s good to see you. You’re looking well.” You are looking mighty fine.
Malfoy’s lips quirked into a small smile, polite and amicable, and he took Harry’s hand in a brief but firm handshake. “As are you.” He gestured to the young woman who was waiting patiently still behind the bar. “Can I get you a drink? I certainly owe you one or two.” His tone was self-deprecating as he stepped up to the bar, but not distractingly so. It spoke of a man who wanted to recognise their contentious history whilst also not drawing them both back into it.
Harry chuckled dryly and tried to match his casual energy, though he knew there was no way he could be as suave about it as Malfoy had been. “Only if you can stretch to a packet of crisps as well - I’m starving!”
“Oh?” The sound was short, quizzical, and pleasant, and that one small querying noise was the antithesis of everything Harry had ever known Malfoy to be with not a sneer in sight.
“I’m not actually meant to be here,” Harry admitted, resisting the urge to pull at his collar to get himself some air. “I’m meant to be eating spaghetti bolognaise with a three-year-old right now but she’s sick, so I’m here instead.”
Malfoy hesitated for a split second but Harry only noticed because he had been so smooth up until that point. “Well, I actually have a table booked for dinner before the show. It’s only for one but I can’t imagine it will be an issue to add an extra chair.” He turned enquiring raised eyebrows in the direction of the bartender.
“Of course not, sir,” she said immediately, looking anxiously to her left where a queue was slowly beginning to form. “I’m sure the hostess will be glad to accommodate you.”
“There you go. You’re welcome to join me.”
“I… I wouldn’t want to impose,” Harry said carefully. His stomach rumbled loudly as if to prove a point.
Malfoy smirked glancing down to his middle. For a moment it was like being back at school. “Don’t be ridiculous Potter. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. Come on.” He beckoned once with a quick curl of his fingers, and then turned and headed in the direction of the hostess’s stand.
Harry followed after he had finally managed to unglue his feet. While he was silent, his mind was not.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck! This was not how he saw his evening going - not at all. Panic swirled in his gut. Without meaning to, he’d just committed himself to sharing a meal with Malfoy and potentially two hours of painful small talk before the show started. It had been years! He barely knew the man now. He might as well have been a stranger and Harry couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. A meal with a stranger or a meal with an enemy. At least he’d have known how to behave around ‘Malfoy the Enemy’. But ‘Malfoy the Stranger’? He had no idea.
Harry barely listened as Malfoy spoke with the hostess, indicating towards Harry politely. Harry followed mindlessly as they were led to Malfoy’s table (which was positioned along a glass wall and overlooked the street below). He leant back in his seat to allow their server to set his place to match Malfoy’s opposite.
“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink while you look at the menu?”
Malfoy turned to Harry, clearly expecting him to order first. “Uh, just a beer - whatever you have on draft, please.”
“We have Carlsberg, Peroni, Guinness and Corona on draft, sir.”
Oh Merlin, choices - he hated choices. “Peroni will be fine, thank you.”
“And for you sir?” The server turned to Malfoy.
“The same will be fine, thank you.” Harry held in his surprise. Malfoy didn’t strike him as the sort of man to drink beer. “I have to admit Potter that I wouldn’t have expected you to like the opera,” Malfoy said when they were alone, opening his menu and perusing it with interest.
Harry swallowed, trying not to stare at his long fingers or the small fraction of his pale inner wrist that had been exposed as he’d lifted his arms onto the table. Oh fuck, this was bad. Harry opened his own menu but could hardly make himself focus to read it.
“I don’t. Or rather, I don’t know if I do or not,” he clarified. He swallowed at the sight of the prices on the menu; he shouldn’t have been surprised he supposed. Oh well. It was only once and he could certainly afford it. “I’ve never been to the opera before. I’m really not meant to be here. I’m meant to be babysitting Rose and Hugo (Ron and Hermione’s children) but they’ve both got some kind of stomach bug. They forgot completely about this evening and didn’t tell me not to come over. And then Hermione wouldn’t let me leave without making me take their tickets.” Harry shrugged weakly. “I think this is more Hermione’s thing than Ron’s though, but he basically lets her have whatever she wants. And now she’s told me to tell her how it is and so here I am.” He hesitated as something occurred to him. “I don’t know if this is a stupid question, but is this even in English?”
Malfoy hummed the negative, his grey eyes still taking in the menu in front of him. “I’m afraid not. It’s in French.” Harry’s stomach sank; he wouldn’t even know what was happening. Maybe he would be able to just enjoy it for what it was? For the music and the experience. “There are, and have been, English productions, but this isn’t one of them. How do you feel about starters?”
Harry blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur. “Pardon?”
“Starters. I quite like the sound of the canapés but I certainly don’t need to eat six. Would you like to share?” Malfoy looked up from his menu and waited for Harry to answer.
“Oh, uh.” Harry looked down to the menu in his hands and though his eyes trailed along the words written on it, he didn’t actually take any of it in. “Yeah that would be fine.”
Malfoy nodded once and turned to the mains on the menu’s other side. “I do prefer the French version of Carmen though, I must admit,” he continued.
Harry tried desperately to read the menu but found he couldn’t quite get his eyes to move past the sea bass. “Yeah? How come?”
“Because I speak it,” Malfoy answered, dry but not mocking, and Harry’s stomach swooped. Of course he spoke French. Stupid sexy Malfoy. “Though it’s more than just that. Some of the original meaning is lost in any translation. In order to keep with the original rhythm and cadence, translations always have to play quite fast and loose with the language. And of course, some things like idioms simply don’t translate at all.” He folded his menu closed, clearly done with choosing, and Harry felt compelled to follow his lead. It looked like he was having the sea bass. “Not that I disapprove of translating operas. In fact, I think they’re incredibly important for helping people engage with the arts.”
They were interrupted by the server returning, a tray carrying two beers balanced on his palm. They were placed precisely in front of them. “Have you decided what you’d like to eat gentlemen?”
Malfoy ordered the canapés for them both and then his main (Harry didn’t hear what he said, his eyes too busy taking Malfoy in while he knew he wouldn’t be caught) and then he turned expectantly to Harry.
“The sea bass, please.”
The server gathered their menus and they were left alone again.
“You sound like you know a lot about opera,” Harry said, sweeping his thumb through the condensation on his glass.
Malfoy shrugged, lifting his own glass to his lips and sipping at its contents, the ends of his fingers gripping the glass carefully. The signet ring on his little finger glinted in the light. He lowered his glass and licked the foam from his top lip. Harry tried and failed not to stare.
“I enjoy music. I always have. Operas, musicals, concerts (classical or otherwise) - all of it. I’ve even enjoyed the occasional pantomime in my time,” Malfoy added with a quirk of his lips as he sat back in his seat. “As an adult though, of course. My parents would have never taken me to see one. I think my father might have shrivelled up and died at the thought of it.” He shook his head a little, his expression turning a strange blend of pained fondness. “I take it that you don’t enjoy things like that, though?”
Harry shrugged, taking a swig of his own drink as he thought of something to say. “I like music just fine, and I’ve been to a few shows in London, but not many. I guess I was just never exposed to these kinds of things as a child so it’s all a bit new to me. And my relatives would certainly never have taken me to a pantomime.”
“Not something they enjoyed?” They paused their conversation as their starter arrived and was laid between them. “I thought pantomimes were a quintessential British muggle past time? Are there any of these you’d prefer?” He added, gesturing to the selection between them.
Harry wrinkled his nose. “Not the salmon.” Malfoy nodded and took it without complaint. Harry mirrored him, picking his choice randomly now that the salmon was gone. “And I imagine my aunt and uncle’s reaction to a pantomime would be similar to your father’s though not perhaps for the same reason. My Uncle Vernon once went on a twenty-minute rant about how pantomime dames were ‘just a way for the liberal queers to try and indoctrinate the children’.”
Malfoy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “He sounds charming.”
“He was awful,” Harry agreed. “My aunt wasn’t much better. They took my cousin to other shows but they never took me. They always left me with our neighbour, Mrs Figg.”
“Why didn’t they take you?” Malfoy picked another canapé and Harry copied him, finally managing to disengage autopilot as he acclimatised to the strange turn his evening had taken.
Harry shrugged and tried to keep his tone light, but it was difficult with the subject matter. “Why do abusers do anything they do to their victims?” To his credit, Malfoy didn’t freeze for long. “I’m not sure there’s any way to rationalise bullying a child but I’m sure my relatives would have tried.”
Malfoy chewed slowly, clearly mulling over his words before he swallowed and spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “I didn’t know your childhood was like that.”
“It’s fine - s’nothing you did.” Harry chose a final canapé. “Sorry to bring down the mood. Compared to the rest of the things that happened when we were kids, my relatives are barely worth mentioning and yet they’re probably the thing that seems to linger most. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” Malfoy said carefully.
Harry smiled softly. “No, not really.”
They drank, and they ate, and their starters were replaced with their mains. Malfoy had ordered the lamb apparently.
“I have to admit,” Harry started, scraping the skin off his sea bass and squeezing his wedge of lemon over it, “this is not how I saw my evening going.”
Malfoy chuckled, low and throaty. “Nor I, though I imagine that my evening has gone less awry than yours.”
“Why did you invite me to dinner?” Harry asked curiously, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Not that I’m complaining - this is delicious.”
“You looked so sad and pathetic with your grumbling stomach, begging for a packet of crisps; how could I not?” Malfoy drawled with a smirk. He turned more somber. “Though I suppose I was… curious. About you.” He paused and Harry could practically hear his internal debate over whether or not to say more. “I don’t know how we’ve managed to avoid one another but I haven’t seen you since the trials, and I was wondering if our old animosity still had life left in it.”
Harry grinned slowly. “Did you want to see if I’d tell you to fuck off?”
A surprised bark of laughter escaped Malfoy and he shook his head as he cut the last of his lamb from the bone. “Something like that. I see Weasley occasionally and he’s always curt but polite.”
“Weasley-Granger,” Harry corrected, eyeing his rosemary potatoes and doing the maths as to whether or not he’d be able to finish them all.
“Weasley-Granger,” Malfoy agreed with a nod. “I suppose I wondered what you were like now. And I really do owe you a drink,” he added seriously, “at the very least.”
Harry smiled tightly at him but redirected the conversation. He was not particular eager to rehash old war wounds when he’d just been admiring the cut of Malfoy’s jacket and the way it accentuated the broadness of his chest.
“How come you’re here on your own, by the way? Do you normally attend operas alone?”
“Ah,” Malfoy said around the broccoli in his mouth. Ge chewed and swallowed and said, “As it happens, I’m not actually meant to be here either. Astoria gave me her ticket - she loves attending events and shows on her own. She says it freeing.”
“Even muggle events?”
“Especially muggle events,” Malfoy stressed, setting his utensils down and picking up his pint. “She enjoys observing them - getting to understand them without risking embarrassing herself by saying the wrong thing. Neither of us are exactly close with anyone who’s familiar with muggles, so observation has been how we’ve gained most of our understanding of them. You should have seen us trying to use card to pay for the first time,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Astoria half shouted her PIN number across the restaurant and the poor server looked like he thought she’d escaped from an insane asylum!” He smiled fondly at the memory.
“Why the interest in muggles?”
“It seemed like a good way to unlearn all of the pureblood rubbish we were taught as kids,” Malfoy said frankly with a shrug, crossing his arms across his chest with his drink in hand. “It’s hard to hate people when you can’t dehumanise them. Plus it’s a whole side of the world that we were missing out on. Who wants to miss what’s right on their doorstep?”
“That’s true. I don’t really venture out into the muggle world a lot to be honest.”
“Why not?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer but hesitated. He swallowed. “I suppose I don’t really venture out into the world a lot in general,” he admitted. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed on him and Harry rushed to hurry along the conversation, reluctant to appear weak in front of this new suave, attractive version of Malfoy. “Anyway - how come she couldn’t make it tonight?”
“There was an emergency at work.”
“Oh? I hope she’s alright.”
Malfoy hummed dismissively. “Oh, she’s fine. Apparently there’s some scandal that’s needs stamping out between our head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation and his counterpart in the French Ministry.” He smirked. “Astoria works in PR. She’s very good at her job but I’m not sure even she’ll be able to save either minister’s marriage.” He gave a hearty chuckle and drained the rest of his drink.
Harry nodded slowly. “Just to clarify - we’re talking about Astoria as in your ex-wife Astoria?”
Malfoy’s demeanour changed almost instantly. He stiffened, losing the previously relaxed line of his shoulders and becoming immediately irritated. He pursed his lips and his expression tensed. His voice maintained its previous light politeness though. “The one and only.” He cleared his throat and shuffled in his seat. “Well. It’s been lovely chatting Potter but I wanted to grab a programme before they sell out.” Harry blinked in surprise when he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, readjusting his jacket. “Enjoy the show. It was nice catching up.”
And he was gone, sauntering out of the hall, pausing only to speak to the nearest server to offer them his bank card.
Tuesday - 5th of June 2007
Now
“See,” Ron grumbled. “Still a prick.”
Harry rolled his eyes, finishing his slice of toast. “Really? That’s what you took from that interaction?”
“He stormed out on you!” Ron exclaimed. “After making up some bullshit excuse about a programme! Just for asking an innocent question! And yes, while it seems like he was otherwise not… awful,” he said reluctantly, “being ‘not awful’ is literally the least I expect from a person. I can’t believe you find that pointy faced ferret attractive.” He shuddered. “I mean - I know you have a thing for tall, broad men, but surely the fact that it’s Malfoy is enough to kibosh that in this instance?” he implored.
Harry sighed, a dreamy smile fighting its way onto his face. “You didn’t see the jacket he was wearing. Or his hair - Merlin his hair. It was all-.” He tried to somehow demonstrate its sweeping shape with his hands. “It’s obvious that he looks after himself is what I’m trying to say.”
Ron shook his head though. “You and men, I swear. You’re unbelievable! Anyway - at least you got rid of him.”
Harry hesitated. “Yeah, well…,” and he continued.
Friday - 1st of June 2007
Then
Harry felt… stupid. He glanced around, wandering if anyone had noticed that he’d just been summarily abandoned by his date. Well, no, not his date, but he imagined they looked like one. (He secretly hoped they looked like one at least, just because the idea that someone would think Malfoy might date someone who looked like Harry was an excellent boost to his ego.) He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Astoria was clearly a sore subject for one reason or another. They’d been having such a pleasant conversation up until that point as well.
He sighed. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. He drained what remained of his beer and flagged down the same server that Malfoy had.
“Excuse me? Could I pay the bill please?”
The server smiled pleasantly and waved him away. “Oh no.” She pointed to where Malfoy had just disappeared in his baby pink velvet jacket. “Your friend has just paid it. Can I get anything else for you, sir?”
“What? All of it?”
She nodded. “Yes, all of it. Can I help you with anything else?”
Harry stumbled over his words. “U-uh… I guess not, I suppose.”
Harry found himself even more confused by Malfoy’s exit. He left in a huff but paid the entire bill? What?
Stupid sexy Malfoy.
Harry checked his watch and finding that there were thirty minutes left until the show began, he headed towards the nearest exit and then the nearest toilets.
As he emerged into the auditorium through the door described on his ticket, Harry realised immediately that Ron and Hermione had splurged and bought themselves the most expensive tickets available. No wonder Hermione was so insistent that he took them.
He smiled apologetically at the people who had stood so that he could shuffle past them towards the two vacant seats in the middle of the row. No - not two. Three. At least he wasn’t the last in the row to sit down.
He chose the vacant centre seat and turned his attention towards the stage. He could see directly into the orchestra pit where the musicians were tuning their instruments and practicing scales. The effect was to add a pleasant melodic hum beneath the buzz of voices in the theatre.
Behind the pit, the stage was difficult to see with the poor lighting and what Harry thought might have been a curtain, but he could barely see it. It appeared mostly barren - just an empty swathe of floor. Would there not be a set of some kind? He really had no idea what to expect from an opera. Maybe everyone would just come out on stage and belt away at the audience?
He was peering forwards, leaning out of his seat, when he noticed that the row to his right had begun to clamber to their feet to allow through whoever would be sitting next to him. He glanced up, only to have to double take. He was being approached by a familiar platinum blonde in a familiar pink suit jacket.
Tuesday - 5th of June 2007
Now
“No,” Ron said in a groan, resting his forehead against his wooden kitchen table. “No no no no, please, Merlin no!”
“Yes,” Harry corrected him delicately.
Ron raised his arms to the ceiling in a plea. “What are the chances?! What did we do to deserve this?!”
Harry chuckled weakly and continued his story.