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Harry James Potter had come to hate weddings, which was a shame, because he still remembered the sheer joy he’d felt for both the happy couple and himself as he danced and ate amazing food at the first one he’d ever attended. Of course, that wedding had ended in disaster, but that didn’t dampen the fondness Harry felt when he looked back on the rest of the event.
He loved the Weasleys, he truly did, and he couldn’t put into words how grateful he was to have been accepted as part of their family, but there were so many of them they practically seemed to hold a wedding every month, and nowadays the overwhelming sense of acceptance and love he’d always been astounded by as a child was overshadowed by suffocating loneliness; watching everyone with their significant others only made the space beside him feel more empty, it only highlighted that no one loved Harry in the way everyone else was loved.
This invitation was just another in a seemingly never ending stream. He wished they would forget to invite him, it would make his life so much easier if they did. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy that they all seemed to have found someone to love who loved them back. They all deserved every ounce of happiness the world had to offer, and he was so pleased that every Weasley sibling seemed to have found someone who gave that to them. But that didn’t stop Harry from being jealous, or from dreading a day of celebrating other people’s happy ending when he knew he would never be the one getting showered in confetti and well-wishes.
The highlight of the last wedding had been getting to spend time with Teddy, but he knew Andromeda wasn’t invited to this one, so he wouldn’t even have his godson as an excuse to escape the conversations where no doubt yet more new engagement rings would be flashed and new relationships flaunted. Harry was so tired of hiding the pain and sadness, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength to smile though yet another beautiful, flowery, saccharine occasion. He needed an excuse, any excuse.
It was this desperation that lead Harry to make possibly one of the least wise decisions of his life so far - and he had quite the track record. It was a spur of the moment decision, and the pictures made it look so nice, that before Harry could properly think it through, he’d booked onto ‘Luna’s Loveboat: a singles cruise for Muggles and Magicals.’
“You’re being terribly selfish, Draco,” his father drawled, infuriating Draco with how entirely unconcerned and bored he sounded, as if it wasn’t his entire life they were discussing.
“But, Father, I’m gay , I can’t marry a witch!” Draco exclaimed, in a feeble attempt to regain some ground.
“I heard you the first time, but why should that prevent you from marrying Astoria?” Lucius asked, eyebrows raised.
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, desperate to say something, but no words came out. He needed to say something, anything , to explain to his father why he couldn’t marry a witch, beyond “I’m gay.” No reasoning came to mind, because being gay was his reason. There was nothing else he could say if his father hadn’t already understood.
Draco abruptly stood and strode towards the fire, ignoring his mother's plea of “Draco, darling,” and his father’s “honestly, stop being a child.”
Grabbing a generous handful of Floo Powder, he chucked it into the flames, then let himself be whirled away.
Half an hour later, Draco had filled Pansy in on how ‘well’ coming out to his parents had gone.
“I just, I really want to piss him off, you know?” Draco said bitterly. Pansy hummed in agreement. “He’s just so… eurgh!” He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.
“We could poison his tea?” Pansy suggested.
Draco levelled her with a stare. “Yes, because I have such a good track record with poisoning. And besides, I don’t actually want to kill him, I just wish I could… eurgh, I don’t know.”
Pansy nodded, taking another sip of her (poison-free) tea. “You want to make him see sense, and you want him to feel some of the frustration and anger you yourself are suffering.”
Draco gave her a long, hard look, trying to figure out how she’d managed to understand him better than he could himself. “Since when did you become so…” he flapped his hand around, “insightful?” he asked.
Pansy gave him another of her patient looks and explained, “since I actually attended the therapy it was suggested I have.”
Draco groaned. This again. He didn’t need therapy, he just needed his family to act like rational human beings for once in their lives.
“It’s my father who needs bloody therapy,” he grumbled.
“Hmm, I don’t doubt that. Sadly, I think he’s about as likely to agree to that as you are.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly, before continuing, “So we need another plan, something that will really bend your father’s broom twigs...”
Pansy had that glint in her eye, the one that had lead to the purple peacock incident of 1992, the one that always spelled trouble. Right now, trouble was what Draco wanted.
“I’m listening.”
A heavy feeling of dread and regret pooled in Harry’s gut as he looked around the cruise bedroom. It was clean, tidy and functional, but it was also plain, boring and completely lacking character. It made him miss the hodgepodge, homely decor at the Burrow.
Harry unceremoniously plopped down onto the bed. He didn’t want to unpack his things, he didn’t have the energy and that would feel like an admission that this was real, that this was the life of great Harry Potter - a lonely room in a big ship full of strangers, and no one at home who would really miss him.
The Dursleys had clearly been right; Harry didn’t deserve to be loved. Lying down on the big, empty bed, Harry tried to remind himself of how lucky he was to have love the Weasleys all showed him, the sense of family they gave him, and the love he shared with Teddy - that was far more than Harry could have ever asked for. Wanting another kind of love was unreasonable and would only lead to disappointment.
Of course, there were plenty of people who thought they loved Harry non-platonically. Hundreds of people had fallen in fantastical love with the idea of Harry Potter, the Saviour. The problem was, none of them actually knew Harry, and all of them were disappointed when they discovered that he was human like everyone else, that he still got angry and sometimes forgot to wash his socks. No one could ever love the reality of Harry, and that was the cold hard truth he had to face.
Deciding that he had spent enough time feeling sorry for himself, Harry heaved his body up and went to explore the delights of the cruise ship.
Whether it was undetectable extension charms or the actual size of the thing, Harry wasn’t sure, but this boat seemed ridiculously big. He’d already walked for twenty minutes in the same general direction, and he still hadn’t reached the front of it. Or maybe the back. He wasn’t even sure which way they were facing, the damn thing was that huge. Honestly though, how many casinos and swimming pools did one ship need?
Draco was going to kill Pansy. He was going to kill her the Muggle way, because simply shooting a spell at her seemed far too painless and kind. He stared down at the program of evening events in front of him with dread pooling heavily in his gut. Each and every activity seemed worse than the last, with an even more cringeworthy name. They’d been split based on sexual preference ‘to make it easier to find your fish in a big sea’, whatever that meant. Thank Merlin he wasn’t straight so he could avoid both “Let’s get WET!” (a pool party), and “The Circle of Life” (a celebration of mating rituals from around the world).
He was also incredibly relieved that he had been born male, as “Lesbeat-boxing” sounded awful. He couldn’t decide if the organisers were horrifically stereotyping and assuming all women who were into women must love improvised rap, or if they just really liked word play. Staring at the singular option that offered him the chance to meet other blokes, Draco suspected it might be the latter. He was genuinely not sure that a shag was worth attending something named “Gayz into my eyes.”
In the end, it was the realisation that he really didn’t have anything else to fill his time that made him decide to go to the stupid event. Plus, once he read past the awful name, he discovered that the event was a masquerade ball which he potentially had a slight chance of enjoying; he had always loved the balls his parents threw when he was a child.
Two hours later, Draco realised that it was nothing like the balls his parents had held. Those had been classy, poised and elegant. This was a dingy room with frenetically flashing lights and people milling around awkwardly as terrible noise blasted across the space. Draco had expected to glide across the dance floor to the sound of beautiful melodies, but instead a dull thudding vibrated through his entire body while an invisible woman screeched indecipherable words.
It appeared that Draco had not only misinterpreted the nature of the event, but also the dress code. No one else in the room was wearing formal dress robes with Venician masks, as Draco was, and had instead chosen clothes which were truly bizarre, or in some cases, get-ups that barely resembled clothes at all. There was a man in a white, oversized babygrow with something orange and pointy that almost looked like a carrot sticking out of the stomach above two black circles that may have been attempts at eyes. If the man was attempting to be suggestive with the orange protrusion, he was certainly not impressing Draco, who vowed to avoid Mr Orange-Appendage.
There was a man in a pirate hat in the corner, and a bloke near the bar was wearing a split coconut across his chest with a skirt made of what looked suspiciously like straw. Surely that was taking “a roll in the hay” a little too literally? Draco for one would not be going anywhere near anyone who looked like they slept in a pigsty.
Draco was about to turn and make a run for it, having definitively established that this entire cruise was a terrible idea and that Pansy should plan her funeral, when a fabric dragon with cut outs for eyes started bobbing towards him, apparently making a beeline for Draco. The dragon’s floppy horns wobbled in time to the thumping of the non-music as they bloke inside the costume danced over, and Draco couldn’t help but smile at the ridiculousness of it.
The dragon-man stopped right in front of Draco, and even through the two small holes in the costume, he could tell that he was smiling from the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. The eyes matched the dragon; they were a vibrant, sparkling green, they commanded attention and made sparks ignite deep within Draco. He recognised those eyes. He’d spent his entire time at school stealing glances at those eyes, he’d spent his entire adult life fantasising about those eyes, he’d never thought he’d see those eyes staring back at him filled with anything but hate.
The temptation to escape was near overwhelming now, but Draco found himself rooted to the spot, his brain whirring as he recovered from the shock and realised that he had a unique opportunity he couldn’t afford to miss. The man he’d secretly fancied since he’d first discovered sexual attraction was standing in front of him with no idea that he was Draco Malfoy, his former enemy and the last person on earth who Harry Potter would talk to if he knew.
Harry knew he was only asking for trouble by approaching Malfoy. He knew that at some point, he’d have to remove the ridiculous costume and the hostility between them would return, but right now, Harry had the chance to talk to the man he’d always wanted to question, while he had no idea who he was speaking to.
The music was beating in time with Harry’s heart as they stared at each other for one, two, three seconds, before Malfoy stuck out his hand and stiffly introduced himself as Joey Tribbiani. Harry had to swallow back a laugh at the name; clearly Malfoy had been watching Muggle television and assumed that the characters in Friends had normal Muggle names.
Making sure his amusement didn’t come across in his voice, Harry took the offered hand and shook it, feeling slightly awkward at the level of formality. There was a silence, which Harry suddenly realised he was supposed to fill with his own name. He panicked, having not got quite that far in his planning. After an excruciating moment, he managed to splutter out the first name that came to his mind: Michael January. (He was quite proud of himself for turning the ‘Jackson’ that had been on the tip of his tongue into another word, as taking Michael Jackson’s full name would have been painfully obvious when his song was playing.)
Malfoy nodded, and his hair reflected the disco lights, making him glow bright colours and look even more ethereal than normal. It was the hair that had first given him away; Harry’s eyes had caught on that silky, shiny blonde beacon through sheer force of habit, and as he always did when he caught sight of that shade, he’d done a double take, only this time when he looked closer it wasn’t a random stranger. The proud set of those lithe shoulders, the way his chin tilted slightly upwards, exposing a regal pale neck and just a sliver of chiselled jawline, there was no one else it could have been.
“So,” Harry ventured, “let me guess, are you supposed to be a character from a Shakespeare play?”
Malfoy stared at him, granite grey eyes wide behind his fancy mask, before they darted away and he muttered, “something like that.”
There was another awkward pause, but Malfoy broke it before Harry’s nerves had convinced him to make a run for it.
“Might I ask, why did you decide to come on this cruise?”
The question took Harry off guard, and he found himself answering cautiously, but he couldn’t see a reason not to tell the truth.
“My family… well, my found family, at least, they’re wonderful and everything, but… they’re all coupled up, you know? I just, I couldn’t face being the fifteenth wheel again , at yet another wedding, and this seemed like a good idea when I booked it…”
Malfoy, surprisingly, burst out laughing; the sound light and joyful and somehow beautiful.
“Seemed like a good idea. To that, I can relate. This cruise seemed like a good idea before I was standing in the middle of a booming mess of noise and flashes, talking to a fabric dragon.”
Harry let the slight insult wash over him; let himself see the funny side and laugh along with Malfoy. He let himself see the ridiculousness of their situation, and he let himself see the way things could have been, if they had been different people. Laughing with Malfoy felt strange, but Harry found he liked it, it felt like something he could easily become addicted to, if he were to let his guard down.
“This costume is fun, thank you very much! What’s your story then, how’d you end up on a singles cruise?”
The laughter stopped abruptly, like a tap suddenly turned off. Malfoy visibly swallowed before soberly answering.
“It was P — my best friend’s idea. Seemed like a good way to piss my father off, after the way he reacted to my gayness.”
Harry’s heart clenched. He may not have been able to tell his own parents about his sexuality, but he knew the fear he’d felt before telling the Weasleys, and he knew the overwhelming sense of relief he’d felt when he’d found an old letter where his dad had joked about Sirius and Remus ‘finally getting together,’ making Harry sure they would have easily accepted him fancying blokes as well as women.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said lamely.
Malfoy shrugged. “It’s hardly your fault that my father’s moral compass is so messed up it looks more like a devil’s sign.”
The air felt suddenly thick between them, the music’s heavy baseline fading into a barely noticeable beat that matched Harry’s heart. This was it; he was about to find out what Malfoy was truly up to, once and for all. He had to tread carefully; Malfoy still believed he was a random Muggle.
“A devil’s sign? That bad?”
The laugh Malfoy let out was entirely humourless.
“Yes. It’s a small miracle he’s not in Az — prison. And to tell you the truth, I very nearly ended up there myself.” Their eyes locked, and Harry didn’t even dare to breathe for fear of stopping Malfoy’s revelation. “I believed every word he said, and it almost led to me doing some awful things. I never could go through with them, though.”
Harry gave a slight nod, still not breaking the eye contact. “Did you want to?”
Malfoy’s sigh was audible, and he finally looked away. “I thought I did, at the time. Now… I think maybe I knew deep down that they were wrong.”
They stood there, the heavy weight of the past pressing down on them, until Harry decided that he’d tortured the poor bloke enough, for now. “Drink?”
Malfoy took it as the peace offering it was, and as they made their way to the bar, the conversation turned to Harry’s own coming out story, and how the Weasleys had instantly tried to set him up with every single person they knew, including their own son. It was strange, having a normal conversation with Malfoy. Harry found himself laughing more than he did with even Ron and Hermione; Malfoy was constantly dropping deadpan, witty one line responses, matching Harry with every snarky remark he made. It made everything feel more vivid, the interaction somehow made Harry feel alive.
Draco smoothed the front of his crisp white shirt down, then lifted his hand to adjust the bow tie around his neck, wondering why he was worrying so much about his appearance when his date would not be able to see him in the pitch black of the deliberately dark restaurant.
Date . Was it even a date? He had no idea, but if this was his one and only chance to have anything remotely resembling a date with Harry Potter, then Draco was going to let himself believe that’s what it was, if only for tonight.
The previous evening had been incredible. They’d talked for hours and covered a huge number of topics, from their favourite ice cream flavours to the best ways to spend a lazy Sunday. With anyone else, the conversation would have been mundane and ordinary, but to be talking like that with Harry Potter had been groundbreaking for Draco. As they giggled together and slurped their third drinks through straws carefully poked through small holes in their costumes, Draco’s suspicion that he might just love Harry had been cemented into an undeniable fact; he was totally gone for a man who would be physically gone the second he realised who Draco really was.
But Harry didn’t know yet. He’d agreed to see Joey Tribbiani again, and Draco desperately hoped he could keep up the façade for another night, that he wouldn’t say something that would give him away as a wizard, or worse, a Malfoy.
It was pathetic, really, how desperate Draco was to convince Harry that he had changed, that he was no longer the boy he used to hate, or maybe still hated.
Draco was clear in his mind that the changes he’d made, the things he’d done since the war had ended, were not because of Harry, or for him in any way. They were for Draco, they were for the people his family had hurt. The charity work he filled his days with had started as a way to assuage some of the guilt, but he continued to do it because it gave him an incredible sense of fulfilment. But, all of that considered, Draco still found himself hoping he could somehow tell Harry, that it might change his opinion of him and maybe…
Wishful thinking would get Draco nowhere, so he gave his reflection one last glance, and decisively stepped out of his cabin to meet his fate.
L’Appétit Aveugle was right in the middle of the ship, which made sense given that it was intentionally built so that no light would infiltrate into the blackout. Draco was met in the entrance alcove by a woman with big hair and an even bigger smile. She noted down his hatred of mushrooms and olives, then asked him to place his hand on her shoulder. She led him through a door, and waited until it had fully closed, encompassing them in a dense darkness that felt more oppressive than the Forbidden Forest.
Draco heard a second door open, and then they were moving through a room, dodging left and right around people who he could hear chatting and eating, even though he could see absolutely nothing. It was the most disorienting experience, and Draco almost felt dizzy by the time he was guided into a chair. It seemed Harry hadn’t yet arrived, so Draco was left alone with his anxiety.
It was very obvious when Harry arrived. Somehow, while Draco had been able to follow smiley-woman with minimum fuss, Harry was clattering through the restaurant, seemingly crashing into every table on the way, if the repeated “arghhh”s and apologies were anything to go by.
And then Harry was being directed into his seat, and though Draco could still see nothing through the heavy blanket of darkness, he could now feel Harry’s presence across from him. They were so close that he could feel the faint hum of Harry’s magic, and if he reached his foot just a little further forwards, he would be able to touch Harry’s leg with his own. Draco cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat, pulling his feet backwards so they didn’t start moving of their own accord.
“Oh,” Harry’s voice came across the darkness, “you’re here already?”
Draco nodded, then instantly remembered that Harry couldn’t see that.
Before he could correct himself with an audible reaction, Harry was mumbling, seemingly to himself, “or I guess that might have been someone else. Christ, this is weird.” How did Harry manage to be endearing and cute while being so utterly ridiculous? It simply wasn’t fair on Draco or his soon to be smashed heart.
“No, it is me.” Draco said softly.
“Hi,” Harry breathed, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“What? I said I’d come, why would I not?”
“Well…” Draco could hear Harry shifting in his seat, even over the hubbub of the restaurant, “...I thought maybe you were just humouring the crazy fool in a stupid costume last night.”
Draco wished Harry could see his face so he could reassure him properly with a smile, though he supposed they wouldn’t still be sat opposite each other if Harry knew who he was. No. This was Draco’s one chance to experience a date with Harry Potter, he was not going to allow a stupid thing like reality to ruin it for him.
“I don’t deny that the outfit was truly ridiculous, but truthfully, I found you cute. Scales and all.”
Harry let out a startled laugh. “You couldn’t even see my face!”
“I…” Draco cursed himself for not thinking of that. “Your eyes. I could see your eyes. And… you sound cute. Your words were cute.”
There was a pause. “Well… thanks, then. Your words were pretty cute too.”
Draco’s face warmed, and he worried it would become visible through the darkness, it was glowing so much. He was saved from having to reply by the arrival of their starters and accompanying drinks, and their conversation turned to reactions about the delicious gnocchi they had been served.
Harry had downed the entire glass of wine that had come with the first course as soon as it had been placed in his hand. What in Merlin’s name was happening? He was supposed to be finding out what Malfoy was up to, not flirting with him! Malfoy had called him cute ! How was he meant to react to that?!
Stifling a moan around the melt in the mouth texture of the food, Harry tried to regain his focus. He needed to continue to gain Malfoy’s trust so he wouldn’t notice the subtle interrogation.
“So,” his attempt at casual sounded forced even to his own ears, “what was it you said you do for a living?”
Harry held his breath and waited for an agonisingly long time, with nothing but the sound of cutlery scraping plates and the murmur of voices from other tables filling his ears, before finally Malfoy spoke.
“I am very fortunate, in that my parents made several investments when I was young, which support my day to day living.”
Fury ran through Harry’s veins. He only realised now how much he’d thought - had hoped - that Malfoy had changed. He wanted to upend the table, to shout, to scream and to protest the unfairness of the world, but he could do none of that, he could only sit there and let Malfoy elaborate on his entitled existence, presumably unaware of his privilege, the posh ponce.
When Harry said nothing, Malfoy continued, albeit with a slightly more cautious tone. “Please don’t think I take my financial security for granted. I know I’m lucky,” he added in a small voice that made Harry’s heart do something strange. “And I don’t laze around the house doing nothing when I could be working. I… I am productive with my time.”
Harry’s blood boiled again. Malfoy’s attempt to justify his lack of contribution to society was feeble, and he wasn’t sure he’d cope with some ridiculous excuse about how it took hours to look that perfect, or something equally infuriating.
“It’s… after… I volunteer. With children. And some adults, too. People. I volunteer with people.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, even though he knew they couldn’t be seen.
“You volunteer with people.” He couldn’t keep the scepticism from his voice.
“Yes!” Malfoy sounded flustered now. “I set up a centre for children and adults affected by… by war. And…” there was a pause, and Harry had to strain his ears to hear the final word, it was whispered so quietly, “terrorism.”
“Wait, what?” Harry’s brain was spinning with this new information. He desperately needed air, or water, or something. It felt as if the world had been tilted on its axis and everything that he had believed to be true proven false. Malfoy was doing charity work? Had in fact founded a charity to help victims of his own organisation? Or… maybe that was just it. Maybe it wasn’t for those he’d hurt. Maybe it was for people like him, the Death Eaters and their families who’d doubtless felt the negative repercussions of their actions when their side lost the war.
“Which people?”
“Wh-what?”
“Which people do you help?”
“I… all of them. There’s no… it’s for everyone. Anyone. No matter what side they were on.” Malfoy sounded like he was caught between defiance and begging, but something in his tone made Harry believe he was genuine.
“Oh. Well, that’s good, then.”
“Yes.” The word was clipped and short, but then Malfoy let out a strangled “eurgh” sound, and continued with the air of someone who was making one final attempt before they gave up. “Look, I told you yesterday that my family were unsavoury characters who I followed down a path which almost lead me to do horrific things. Now, I may have been merely a scared child, but I didn’t stop my family and their associates’ actions, so I cannot shirk all responsibility for what happened. That will always sit on my shoulders.” Malfoy paused, and Harry heard him swallow, followed by the soft sound of his wine glass being placed down on the table. The exasperation had slowly been replaced by sadness in his voice. “I cannot change the past, nor would it be wise to dwell on what I should have done, but I can make better choices in the present, and I can have a positive impact by helping those who suffered. So that’s what I do.”
Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure what he could say to that. It was fairly obvious at this point that they both knew the other was a wizard.
“Fine,” Malfoy snapped, “judge me on my past mistakes. That’s fine. I’m sure you think there’s nothing I can do to reconcile or make amends. And that’s fine. Excuse me.”
The sound of a chair scraping loudly against the floor tore Harry from his shocked reverie. “No!” he cried, so loudly that the entire restaurant around them fell silent.
“Please,” Harry begged, “sit back down, that’s not what I think at all.”
Malfoy snorted. “Of course not, I entirely believe you.” Harry couldn’t hear the sound of his footsteps walking away yet, though.
“Just give me thirty seconds. Please. Hear me out.” Somewhere in Harry’s brain it registered that he was pleading Draco Malfoy to stay , making him suspect this ship was some kind of parallel universe, because that wasn’t conceivable in the real world, but he was somehow beginning to wish it was.
“Fine,” Malfoy said simply, “thirty seconds.”
“Someone… someone I loved once told me that it’s our choices that show what we truly are, and… well. You’re trying to make good ones. That’s all any of us can do, isn’t it?”
Harry heard Malfoy sit back down, but he still didn’t speak.
“And besides,” Harry added in a last ditch attempt to get Malfoy back on his side; when that had become his objective, he wasn’t sure, but he was suddenly desperate to keep him there, desperate for them to go back to the easy chatting from the start of the meal, “I’m hardly a saint. There’s a lot I regret. I made a lot of mistakes, too. I won’t judge you for yours if you don’t judge me for mine?” The level of hope Harry channelled into the question was honestly pathetic. He had no idea why Malfoy’s opinion was so important, but it was.
“I… if you’re sure. I doubt your mistakes are… but yes. OK.”
Harry beamed, relief flooding him, and he relaxed into his seat again. He had absolutely no idea what was going on inside his own head and his emotions were all over the place, but Draco was staying and somehow that was all that mattered.
Draco felt like he’d just been through a four hour duel; he was mentally and even physically exhausted after Harry’s interrogation. The truce they’d agreed upon felt fragile and tentative. Draco was torn between feeling warm and pleased that Harry had offered an olive branch to him, and resentful that it would be snapped the instant Harry knew his true identity. Anonymity was a double-ended wand, and Draco was beginning to feel like he was drowning in the internal conflict it was stirring.
Harry had moved on and was commenting on the “potatoey pillows of yum” when Draco tuned back into the conversation he was supposed to be taking part in. That was one benefit of the dark at least - it was far less obvious when he got lost inside the tornado of his own thoughts. Harry’s appreciation of the quality of the food made Draco smile though, and he found himself paying more attention to the flavour and texture of his meal than he otherwise would have.
The topic of food lasted until they had finished the main course, and then the conversation lapsed again. They were still in a Muggle environment, so even though it was perfectly clear that they were both wizards based on the previous references to the war, Draco still felt he had to find Muggle topics to discuss.
He’d been trying to learn about their culture and had even bought himself a Teevee, but he wasn’t sure what was real or not on the screen, and unfortunately, other than the typical “hi, please can I have a hot chocolate with caramel syrup in it,” dialogue he had when out and about in the Muggle world, Draco didn’t really interact with many Muggles, and he assumed his love of ridiculously sweet hot beverages would not carry their conversation for the rest of the evening.
The only Muggle Draco had properly spoken to, beyond the niceties and nothingness of small talk, was Graham, the father of a little girl whose mother was one of the Muggleborns sadly killed in the war. His daughter, Elsie, was an incredibly cute young witch, who had Draco wrapped around her little finger from the first moment she’d stepped inside the centre.
In the absence of anything else to discuss, Draco began to explain about Elsie, and how her dad had understandably held several reservations about a community that he had never belonged to himself, and which had resulted in his wife’s untimely passing, but he’d set aside all of his doubts to give the centre a chance and to allow his daughter to experience what her mother had loved.
Harry was silent as Draco explained how in awe he was of this man’s dedication and pragmatic attitude, and only when the pudding arrived did he say anything. “Graham sounds great. Is he…”
Draco was entirely confused by Harry’s somewhat flat tone and question. “Is he what?”
“You know. You obviously— You and him…” Harry spluttered.
Draco stared into the darkness for a few long moments, shock and confusion making him doubt the only conclusion his mind could come up with. “You think we’re together? Why would I be on a singles cruise if I already had a partner?”
“Well I don’t know!” Harry exclaimed, before quietly grumbling, “You were talking like the sun shines out of his arse, it’s pretty bloody clear you like the bloke.”
Draco’s jaw dropped.
“Sweet Salazar, are you jealous? Harry Potter is jealous because he thinks I fancy another man?” Draco was reeling, the words falling out of his mouth freely as his thoughts spun wildly in a cascade of delight and delusion. “Is this a dream? This must be a dream. Or someone has slipped me some kind of potion—”
Harry’s voice cut through his rambling, sharp as a dagger. “You know it’s me.”
Everything came to an abrupt halt, as if someone had pressed pause on the universe and left everything suspended in mid-air, the breath halfway into Draco’s lungs trapped there and frozen. He’d said Harry’s name. A simple slip of the tongue, and his one chance to experience just a moment of what they could have had if Draco had been anyone else was ripped out of his fingertips. Draco had ruined it, just like he always seemed to do.
He tried to speak, but nothing would come out, no explanation was possible.
“How did you know it was me?” Harry sounded measured, his tone deliberate and unyielding.
“Your eyes,” Draco admitted quietly, “they’re as green as fresh pickled toad.”
There was a pause, and then Harry let out a bark of laughter. “That wasn’t Gin? Bloody hell. I owe her an apology…”
Draco felt about ready to apparate a few hundred metres to the left and let himself be plunged into the depths of the ocean. Harry had thought it was Ginny. He probably wished it had been Ginny, she was perfect for him, after all. They’d likely get back together in the end.
“So,” Harry continued, blissfully unaware of Draco’s plummeting heart, “why are you still talking to me?”
“What kind of question is that?” Draco snapped.
“A valid one! I don’t believe for one second it’s because you fancy me, so: why?” Harry’s voice was raised just enough to make Draco feel like he’d been pinned in place by the words alone.
Draco gulped in a mouthful of air, then exhaled and forced another breath into his lungs, and tried to let it out slowly. By the time he sucked in a third breath, he managed to make it a deep one, and he felt the effects of the oxygen to his brain almost immediately, steadying him and giving him more clarity. This wasn’t fair, and the game was up anyway. It was over, and it was time to be honest, to set the quidditch hoops to the same level.
Harry’s mood had taken a significant nosedive. He couldn’t believe Draco knew who he was, and had done from the start. Had he stumbled stupidly into a trap, was this all a plot to make him look the fool? He should just walk away now and end the humiliation, but somehow he felt that doing so would be admitting defeat and letting Draco win, and he could not allow Draco Malfoy to win.
“I have something I need to confess,” Draco started, his accent even more pronounced and clipped than usual, and oddly, the sound made something wiggle in Harry’s chest, “My identity is not what I’ve led you to believe it to be.”
Anger bloomed where strange fluttering had been only seconds before, and Harry braced himself to hear confirmation that all of Draco’s talk of reform and charity had been fabricated.
“I… my name is Draco Malfoy.”
Harry choked on the piece of chocolate brownie he’d just put in his mouth. He’d entirely forgotten that Draco had no idea he knew exactly who he was, and now that Draco had volunteered the information it would be rude to snort and say “I know, obviously.” Harry gulped down a bit of water, and was about to speak, when Draco beat him to it.
“You could at least try to hide your disgust. Or am I such a lowlife that I don’t have feelings, that I’m not worthy of courtesy from the Saviour? I see, well—”
“It wasn’t disgust!” Harry said weakly. “I was just… really surprised at the brand new information that I definitely did not already know.” Harry abruptly shut his mouth to end the babbling.
Draco sighed, and Harry could picture his weary, sceptical expression perfectly, despite not being able to physically see it through the darkness of the restaurant.
“What gave me away?” Draco asked, his voice resigned and tired.
Harry wasn’t sure how to answer that, wasn’t sure there was a way to describe how he’d known without giving away that he’d spent his entire school life looking out for gleaming bright hair, learning the way he walked, so that no matter what mask he wore, Harry would always know it was Draco just from his body language. And grey wasn’t a distinctive colour like green, so Harry couldn’t just say his eyes without letting Draco know that every time he saw a glint of that silvery steel shade, his mind supplied countless images of hard stares and heart-raising smirks.
“Hang on,” Harry said as a realisation hit, “if you recognised my eyes yesterday, how come you didn’t recognise them that day in the Manor?”
Draco was quiet, and Harry thought he heard the sound of a glass clinking against another, then a slight thud as it was set back down a moment later. “I did.”
“You did? Then why… oh.”
“Oh indeed. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve had quite enough of whatever game you’ve decided to play with me, Potter.” Draco’s tone was sharp, but Harry thought it seemed laced with sadness rather than the usual venom. Before Harry had fully processed the words, Draco was standing up and leaving, and this time he was too fast for Harry to stop him.
Harry shot out of his own chair, and attempted to dash after Draco, but he immediately crashed into another table and felt cold liquid weeping into his t-shirt. When he tripped over a chair leg the moment he turned, something within Harry snapped, and suddenly he had to get out of the darkness, right that second. He very nearly apparated, but remembered at the last second how dangerous it was to attempt to apparate to a moving object he barely knew, so instead his desperation lead him to point his wand at the centre of the table he’d just stood up from and set whatever the spell hit alight.
Flames burst out from a butter dish Harry hadn’t even known was there, but he paid that no mind; the fire had created enough light for him to see a path through the tables. He sprinted across the room, shot an extinguishing charm at the table when his hand was on the door, and took the stairs two at a time. Luna was going to be so disappointed in him for ruining a table and other people’s dining experience, but he was out of the darkness and was going to find Draco.
Harry barely noticed the flurry of activity in the restaurant entrance as he rushed out into the corridor, whipping his head around frantically trying to spot any sign of Draco, but there was no flash of blonde hair, no swirl of overly formal robes.
Harry’s shoulders slumped and he collapsed back against the wall, wishing he had just moved faster, or been more tactful and not made Draco want to run away from him. Aunt Petunia would have called him a bull in a china shop, said it was only to be expected of a boy with his parentage. That thought alone made rage boil in his veins; he wasn’t the kid who got everything wrong anymore, he’d grown up and he had earnt at least the right to a second chance when he was a bit of a dimwit. He groaned loudly, letting his body crumple into a heap with his head between his knees as he sat on the floor. If the hero-worshippers saw him now...
“He’s on the deck. I think he’s hoping the splipops will catch his tears.” Luna’s dreamy voice cut through Harry’s self-deprecation.
“What?”
“The splipops. They turn tears into—”
“You said he’s on deck?” Harry cut Luna’s imminent ramble off. “Who?”
Luna gave him an odd look, as if he were the one talking about imaginary creatures catching tears. “Draco, of course.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat, which rapidly constricted as the implication of Luna’s words set in: Draco was crying. Thoughts collided and crashed through Harry’s mind, but his body was moving of its own volition, moving him towards Draco like he’d been summoned with an Accio .
At the very front of the boat, there was a small viewing deck which looked out over the ocean as the ship crashed through the waves. Draco leant out over the railing, letting the wind wipe the tears clean off his face as they freely spilt from his eyes. His hair was whipping madly around his head and would probably look as much of a disaster as Harry’s usually did, but the thought alone made Draco’s heart clench and an audible sob erupt from deep within his chest, so he pushed it away and tried to focus on nothing but the calming sound of the water and the air rushing past his ears.
It was a long way down to the sea from up here. It made Draco consider his own mortality, made him wonder whether anyone would miss him if he were to take the leap and jump into the abyss. Pansy would howl and spit at his parents for a bit, but she had other friends and would no doubt get over it before too long. His father would mourn the idea of him, the concept of an heir, but Draco doubted he’d miss Draco himself. His mother might actually care, she may be fairly reserved in most of her actions, but Draco had never doubted that she loved him, truly loved him. And Draco couldn’t do that to her.
“NO!” The word was half-taken by the wind. When Draco ignored it, the cry was repeated, this time with Draco’s name, each word louder than the last. A second later, before he’d had a chance to even consider turning around, Draco felt a muscular body wrap around him and strong arms pull him away from the railing.
“Merlin’s fucking pants, Draco,” Harry yelped, “please don’t do that.” His voice broke, and his hands gently caressed up and down Draco’s arms, though he still held him tightly pressed against his chest.
“Please promise me you won’t? Look, I’m sorry for—”
“Promise I won’t what?” Draco interrupted, thoroughly confused.
“Promise you… you weren’t going to, you know, jump?” Harry asked, finally loosening his hold and stepping to the side so he could look at Draco’s face.
“No. No, I wasn’t.” Draco said quietly, and he watched as the relief visibly flooded across Harry’s face.
“You scared me half to death. I saw you there and Luna said you were crying and I just—”
“Malfoys don’t cry,” Draco said with a pout, moving out of Harry’s arms. He knew he was being petulant, but it was the only way he could cope with the abject humiliation of Harry bloody Potter knowing he had been crying, and crying over him no less.
Harry laughed. The absolute cockwomble actually laughed. “Of course they don’t. Potters do, by the way. All the time.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but frustratingly he couldn’t suppress his smile at the sound of Harry’s amusement, the way his face lit up with it, and the beautiful honesty shining in his eyes.
“I can see that,” Draco quipped, and he watched Harry’s smile grow wider beneath his tear-filled eyes.
“Look, can we please just start again? Can we pretend we never met in Madam Malkins’, that we never threw insults at each other in school, and that we were never made to choose sides in a war that wasn’t ours to fight?” Harry looked open and earnest, his green eyes wide, making him look younger than he really was.
“No,” Draco said, and he watched as Harry’s face shuttered, all his hope gone in a flash. Draco placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We can’t ignore the past or obliviate our memories away. We can’t be the people we let ourselves be when we didn’t have to meet the world’s expectations. We are who we are, there’s no escaping that.”
Harry wore a slight frown, but the honesty was coming off him in waves. “Seeing you over there, thinking you were… it made me realise some things. So,” he took a deep breath, then pulled his shoulders back as if gaining strength from the action, “this is me metaphorically dropping my wand and making myself vulnerable: I want to be with you.”
Draco sucked in a breath; he wasn’t expecting Harry to be so bold, though he was a Gryffindor so Draco should have known better. “You know this won’t be easy, that was the point I was trying to make when I said we couldn’t ignore our history.”
“I know. I still want to try though.”
Draco felt giddy, as if he’d just stepped off his broom after a particularly exhilarating flight, every nerve in his body was alight with anticipation. “Then let’s try. What could possibly go wrong?” Draco asked with a slight smile.
Harry visibly relaxed from the tense position he’d been holding, and a grin split across his face. “I stopped asking that when my best friend’s pet rat turned out to be a fugitive criminal, but I’m still standing.” And then he was reaching out those gorgeously muscled arms to embrace Draco, and it was as if everything was finally falling into place.
Harry leant forward to place a kiss on Draco’s temple, then he placed one on his cheek, and when he pulled away, Draco pulled him back so that their lips could finally meet in a proper kiss. Draco had imagined this moment so many times, and it was everything and nothing like he had imagined. Harry’s lips were colder than he’d expected, and slightly chapped, but his actions were so much softer and sweeter than Draco had thought they’d be. It made him go weak at the knees and want to chase those lips forever.
He was about to deepen the kiss when he noticed Harry slightly trembling beneath his fingers. “Harry? Are you ok? Why are you shaking?”
Harry grinned at the question, and if Draco hadn’t already been gone for the idiot, that blazing look alone would have been enough to make him fall.
“It’s a bit cold out here. But I don’t mind, kiss me again?”
Draco happily obliged, but he reached a hand down to his wand and wordlessly cast a warming charm over Harry before their lips met again, and this time Harry’s lips weren’t cold, in fact everything suddenly seemed very hot as Harry deepened the kiss and they melted into each other.
All too soon, Harry pulled away just enough to whisper “do you trust me” against Draco’s lips.
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, “not really, but I think I can learn to.”
“Wrong answer. Or maybe, baptism of fire?” Harry replied, manoeuvring them so quickly Draco only caught up when Harry was behind him with his hands over his eyes and gently nudging them both forwards.
“Harry Potter, what are you doing ? Is this all a plot to—aaaahhhhh!” Draco screamed as he felt his hips hit the railing. Suddenly Harry’s palms were sliding down Draco’s arms, catching his hands, and bringing them up to stretch out to the sides. Draco realised he could now open his eyes, and now when he looked out over the ocean, it felt like they were crashing forwards into the future, a future he wanted if Harry was going to be there, holding him safe and warm through the waves.
And then Harry started shrieking “Near, farrrr whereverrrrr you areeeeee…” in Draco’s ear, so he had to tackle him to the deck and snog him some more, just to shut his annoying face up.