Work Text:
Harry Potter has a slight habit.
Well, alright, it's more of a sort of problem...like a law-defying, slight theft sort of problem. But don't worry, it's nothing bad. Nothing that the Aurors would jail him for - not that they would even if it was serious.
Harry's the Golden Boy - he has nothing to worry about. Most days, he tries not to show how much that annoys him. Anyway, back to Harry's problem.
It's the sort of problem that Hermione would gut him for if ever she found out. Good thing is, she never will. Not if Harry doesn't breathe a word to her about it.
Harry wakes up on the 5th of May and glances at his calendar. It's been a month and a week since he's visited Godric's Hollow, and Harry thinks it's time to go again.
So he gets up and immediately falls back down again onto his bed. He hates these days; the days where he just knows he'll spend half of it bawling into his jacket sleeve.
These days get on his nerves. He's Harry bloody Potter, he's supposed to be up and running 24 hours, 7 days a fucking week. Everyone needs him to, and Ron likes to remind Harry of that every time he comes over.
Just because Harry quit Auror training 3 weeks in after having a panic attack during their first exam. Honestly, you flake one time and suddenly your best friend thinks you're no longer qualified to be the hero of the goddamn Wizarding World.
Harry sighs deep into his inner elbow ,slithers onto the ground and crawls out of his room. He has a shower, scrapes his scruffy hair back into a low bun and throws on a band t-shirt and black jeans.
Kreacher comes into the kitchen and tries to make him breakfast. Harry says nothing, but he doesn't eat it, he just drinks his black coffee and throws on a jacket and a pair of vans. He leaves Grimmauld Place, burnt breakfast still on the table.
The walk to the Apparition point is bleak and gloomy. Harry doesn't really feel the rain that falls onto the bare parts of his skin. He's sort of too busy thinking about the parents he never had.
Harry gets to the Apparition point, flicks his wand and spins on his heel. He lands in the back alleyway he usually does, and almost trips and falls flat on his face after a rat flies in front of him. Harry slides a hand over his face and huffs.
Godric's Hollow is brighter than where Harry lives. Of course, it's still England, so the sky is clouded over and Harry doesn't see the sun through the fluff.
See, here is where Harry sort of starts to skirt the edge of the legal limit. Along a street in Godric's Hollow, there's this house. And the house is rather large and white, sort of obnoxious in the light of everyone else's house, but whatever.
That doesn't matter. What matters is the garden that surrounds the house. The bright, lovely, absolutely brilliantly smelling garden that Harry pilfers from every time he comes round.
It's not his fault, really. The garden sort of spills over the white picket fence around the property of the house, and sometimes the flowers are too pretty to pass up.
Sometimes they're nicer - and free-er - than the florist's, and they sort of beg Harry to steal them. He doesn't tell his parents what he does, but he knows they appreciate the cool flowers.
So. Yunno, the ends justify the means, and all that.
Harry glances around him - the streets are empty, apart from this odd little girl who's watching Harry avidly, but he just ignores her. It'd be just his luck if she was a witch and started screeching about Harry Potter stealing from someone's garden - Rita Skeeter would have a field day.
He can see the headlines now; GOLDEN BOY LOSES HIS SHINE, and BOY WHO STOLE OUR HEARTS, STEALS FROM INNOCENT NEIGHBOUR, or even just plain, HARRY POTTER IS A THIEF, SHOCK! HORROR!
Harry shudders and turns his back on the girl, and just focuses on taking the prettiest lilies.
After a few moments, Harry turns around to leave and bumps into a hard chest. He stumbles against the person and his hand reflexively curls around a hard bicep.
Fuck. Harry thinks. This is the guy that owns the garden. It has to be - who else would just be standing there, watching him? Other than the little girl, but she's tiny, and certainly not 6-foot-something and a wall of hard muscle.
Harry doesn't want to look up because if he does he'll be a bumbling idiot and stumble over his words and he'll try to apologize and explain and it just won't work.
It's not long Harry's known he's stupidly, absolutely, irrevocably gay. It was only when Ginny dumped him and told him he had things to work out that Harry started questioning his life.
Harry's been to too many gay clubs since, seeking friction and heat and redemption from the hard bodies of strangers. He doesn't think it's anything to worry about, but Hermione's sort of worried about him.
Anyway, Harry's gay, and he's just shit at talking to men in general, like flirting with them or anything. Sex, he can do just fine, in the dark of a hotel room, panting against another wanton body.
But actual human interaction? Nah, doesn't suit him.
"Potter, why the bloody fuck are you still holding onto me?"
Harry leaps back, his heart racing, and his face sort of burns. He doesn't look up because of that voice...it sort of sounds like...
"Honestly, Potter, from Chosen one to a common thief. Is there nothing you don't aspire to be?"
Harry's head betrays him; he looks up. And sure enough, yep, it's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, to be exact. The same Malfoy that Harry hasn't seen since the Trials, the same Malfoy that sort of disappeared and that Harry gave back his wand, only to have it shoved in his face.
But, this Malfoy is fucking beautiful. Harry would have had to be blind to not see that. This Malfoy has blonde hair pulled back into a low ponytail and soft grey eyes and wears a large cream jumper and ripped denim jeans.
"Malfoy. Er, I was just...taking samples of your flowers, yes. To...analyse."
Because Harry is a potion's analyst, and so that's the easiest lie he has to use right now. Plus, he's sort of drunk on the sight of beautiful Malfoy.
Malfoy raises an eyebrow and rolls his eyes. "Potter, you work with high-level Amortentia and colon-burning potions, I highly doubt you need my lilies and hydrangeas."
Harry wants to argue, but all he can think about is how fucking amazing Malfoy looks when he's exasperated. And his voice. You know what? Harry thinks it's time to just quit real life and bury himself next to his parents.
Wow, that was deep. Anyway, Harry huffs out a tired sigh and blinks at Malfoy's new expression.
He sort of looks...determined. And Harry has no idea what that means. All he knows is that Malfoy has faint pink flushes on the porcelain skin of his cheeks, and he's sort of focusing on that.
"Take me to her," Malfoy says, with an air of finality.
Harry blinks again. "Sorry, what?"
"The girl must be pretty enough to warrant flower theft."
All Harry can think of is two things.
1. Merlin, this new Malfoy is a dramatic prat, but he's beautiful and his voice is like absolute sex.
2. Malfoy thinks Harry stole his bloody flowers for some girl and wants Harry to bring him to her.
Harry doesn't know what possesses him, but he just gives Malfoy a strained smile and nods. Oh God, was has he done?
"Right then," Malfoy cocks his head. "Take me to this special girl. She better have eyes the colour of the literal fucking ocean, or I swear to Merlin, I'll press charges. I know you've been doing this for over a year."
Harry wants to actually die. He averts his gaze and feels the burn in his cheeks spread down his neck. He lets out a strangled breath.
Fuck, his cover's been blown, and Harry can't feel more than embarrassed.
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I..."
Malfoy waves a pale hand, Harry can't help but track it with his eyes, before he turns around and starts walking.
Harry hurries to match Malfoy's long strides - God, his legs are endless - his mind racing, his hands clammy around the flowers.
How the fuck does he tell Malfoy they're less than a few hundred feet to the graveyard and that's actually where they're going? Harry wants to cry, and that's the truth of it.
They spend a few minutes in terse silence, and on the outside, Harry looks fucking calm and collected like nobody's business. His hair is a mess, but that's a give, and he's sweating through his band t-shirt. ACDC cannot help him now.
"So, what do you do for a living?" Harry asks Malfoy.
He doesn't know why he asks because he knows Malfoy's an author, but he thinks that he just wants to buy time. They're still walking, so he's sure his plan hasn't worked, but he doesn't care.
His head hurts at this point.
Malfoy gives him a long glance from the side of his eyes. "I'm an author, Potter, you know that. I write novels for a living, and Hermione is my publisher. Do keep up."
Harry didn't know that. Yes, he knew Hermione was a publisher, but he didn't know that she published Malfoy. Oh.
"Right, sorry. I'm a potion's analyst, as you know. Or, I mean, you don't have to know. It would be weird if you didn't, actually, as Rita Skeeter has a field day questioning my qualifications in the Prophet, but...yeah."
Harry almost Avada Kedavras himself into oblivion.
Malfoy looks away, and Harry sort of thinks he catches glimpses of a small smile. His heart sort of warms and he scolds himself. God, this is such a bad idea.
"Yes, as much as I hate to admit it, you are quite renowned for your discoveries. One would not have thought it with your N.E.W.T grades in Potions." Malfoy says, and the smile is gone from his face when he looks back at Harry.
Harry snorts anyway because the man has a point.
"Shut up, Malfoy. What happened to being a rich fucker running a law firm?"
Malfoy shrugs. "My Father wanted it - therefore I did not."
He leaves it at that, and Harry thinks the conversation has ended. But Malfoy just keeps sneaking stares at him, so Harry sort of just indulges in this odd game with the Slytherin.
Meaning he totally misses the time he steers them through the gates of the graveyard and suddenly they're standing in front of Harry's parent's grave.
Malfoy is oddly silent behind him, and Harry doesn't speak.
Fuck, he's fucked it all up, hasn't he? By being an odd fucking human who can't go without visiting his parents grave for a few damn months. If only he hadn't come out today. He should have let himself slice his wrists open in bed, at home.
Kreacher's burnt food and all.
Harry hates himself, but he still kneels in front of his mother's grave and places the flowers on the soft earth. He glances over his shoulder at Malfoy and lets slip a tiny, mangled smile.
"Here she is - the beautiful woman. I think she's perfect, personally, and deserves all the stolen flowers she gets."
Malfoy just looks at Harry with suspiciously shiny eyes and lets out a strangled laugh. The Slytherin shakes his head and kneels down beside Harry, placing a hand on the small of his back.
"Mrs. Potter, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I hope you enjoy my flowers that Po-Harry's been pilfering."
Harry glances at Malfoy and he can't stop his smile from widening. "Draco's flowers are the best, Mum, I know you would've loved to question him about his garden."
Draco huffs, and Harry realises the man is silently crying. Harry is shocked, sort of. It's supposed to be him crying, not Draco. Still, Harry wraps both arms around the man he has yet to really figure out and lets him weep.
Maybe getting out of bed today wasn't as much of a mistake he thought it to be.
Waking up and smelling the lilies has been worth it, he thinks. Perhaps the best part of his year.