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The thing was, Harry really should have known better. Robards had a history of picking the worst possible times to discuss these charity things, slipping them in ever-so-casually between other topics and couched in so much euphemism that they teetered on the cusp of outright lying. The ‘themed photoshoot’ he’d mentioned on that dragon poacher stakeout, for example? Naked calendar. ‘Dinner and a show tomorrow?’ dropped in while they were queuing for the Floos (‘it’ll be warm, so don’t wear too many layers’, he’d added, ominously) – a sodding bachelor auction. And then there was the Friday morning that Harry had opened the door to the briefing room, only to be met by an uncomfortably appraising look and the bizarre question ‘you’re what, a 44-inch chest?’ One nervous nod, and before Harry could back out, he’d found himself strutting up and down on a makeshift runway in the Atrium, wearing an Occamy scale waistcoat and black trousers so painfully tight that they cut off the circulation to his balls.

Yes, Harry had been caught out like that so many times he’d lost count, all in the name of whatever strange philanthropic venture the Ministry had cooked up that month. So when Robards had leant over Harry’s desk to grab a case folder and cheerfully declared through a mouthful of biscuits that he was taking Harry off the Eeylops Owl-Napping case so he could play a charity Quidditch match on Saturday, alarm bells should have rung. Harry should have asked questions. But instead he’d agreed straight away, same as he always did. Just as Robards had known he would. After all, for all that he grumbled, Harry Potter really was a sucker for a good cause.

A charity Quidditch match though, thought Harry, what could possibly go wrong? It hardly even seemed like a challenge – it was Quidditch, after all, and with Ron to boot. They’d get the chance to humiliate those gloomy buggers in the Unspeakables’ Department and a couple of days off work besides. Compared with the previous year’s Aurors vs Hitwizards Dance-A-Thon, it sounded like a veritable walk in the park. In fact, Harry’s body positively thrummed with excitement, that old competitive streak rising inside him and heating his blood as he arrived at the field, freshly-polished broom in hand.

He spotted his colleagues immediately – they were gathered in a group next to a large wooded area, along with the press, some Ministry officials and a good number of spectators – and headed over towards them with a spring in his step and a glint in his eye. He was halfway across the dewy pitch when his footsteps began to slow, an unpleasant realisation dawning on him. Harry was an Auror, after all – a fairly good one, by most accounts – and right now, all his senses were screaming at him that there was something very off about this situation. Take Lofts, for example: Harry’s Auror partner of three years hardly looked up when Harry threw her a cheery wave. And Shah, normally the life and soul – he actually rolled his eyes at Harry’s friendly ‘Alright there?’ Even Ron – deep in conversation with a blonde journalist Harry recognised from Witch Weekly – merely sighed disconsolately when Harry winked at him over her shoulder.

No, he definitely wasn’t imagining it. Far from the taut anticipation that usually hung over the field at the start of a big match, the atmosphere was one of resigned misery, with the rest of the Aurors (in their nice bold crimson) and the Unspeakables (coal black, the overdramatic sods) mooching around, stretching half-heartedly or slumped over on the wet morning grass to lace up their boots.

Harry scanned the pitch, practised eyes quickly honing in on a familiar shock of white-blond hair. He moved quickly through the restless crowds, making his way over to where Malfoy was standing, back to Harry. He was leaning forwards to speak to one of the spectators – a young woman, who was twirling her hair around her finger and blushing coyly as Malfoy chattered away. As Harry came up behind him, he flicked his head to one side – shaking that damn fringe out of his eyes as usual, Harry knew.

“…I swear, this has gotta be the dumbest thing anyone’s ever convinced me to do,” Malfoy finished, his ridiculous accent getting more pronounced with every single over-emphasised word.

“Oh really, Malfoy?” said Harry loudly, thoroughly enjoying Malfoy’s guilty jump. “The dumbest thing? You sure about that, are you?”

“Calm the fuck down, Potter,” said Malfoy, spinning round with a smirk and an exaggerated wink. Behind his back his companion was glaring daggers at Harry. “Never heard of hyperbole, huh? Can’t a man exaggerate in peace around here?”

“Flirt in peace, you mean?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy said, wide-eyed and playing innocent.

“Right,” said Harry slowly, watching the young woman’s back as she stomped off in a huff. “Bit young for you though, isn’t she? Can’t be more than, what, eighteen? I mean, personally, I draw the line at dating people who don’t even remember the war, but―”

“You know,” drawled Malfoy, “I have to disagree. It’s the not remembering that makes them so appealing.” He tilted his chin up just slightly, all defiance, and Harry had just begun to worry that he’d caused offence, when he spotted the corner of Malfoy’s thin lip begin to wobble. Relieved, Harry found an answering smile spreading across his own face.

“Anyway, Malfoy, what was all that you were saying? The dumbest thing I’ve ever done…” he said, elongating his vowels in a crude parody of Malfoy’s voice, earning a playful swat across the shoulder. “It’s a Quidditch match, for Merlin’s sake. Or am I that intimidating?”

If anything, Malfoy’s smile widened. He ran his tongue across those pearly white teeth. Harry’s eyes followed the movement automatically. “It’s a twenty-four-hour Quidditch match, Potter. Trust me, winning is literally the last thing on my mind.”

“Twenty-four hours?” said Harry, baffled. “What are you on about? Robards never…”

Malfoy frowned at him, tilting his head as though Harry might be joking, and Harry’s voice fizzled out as the pieces slotted together in his mind. Robards’ far-too-casual manner. His teammates’ sullen expressions. The huge refreshments stand. The cushion that Dominguez was currently Spellotaping to his broom.

“Oh.”

Malfoy’s laugh was short and disbelieving. “Jesus, he didn’t tell you?”

“No, I…” said Harry, “I… maybe…”

But he hadn’t.

“Well buck up, Potter,” said Malfoy, patting him lightly on the back. “No backing out now. I just hope your numbing charms are up to par, ‘cause this is gonna be one hell of a game otherwise.”

“My numbing charms?” Harry spoke slowly, still disarmed by this new information. A twenty-four-hour Quidditch match? Where the hell did they come up with this shit?

Malfoy leant forward, curling a hand around Harry’s bicep, his voice low and confiding. “Yes, Potter, your numbing charms. I know they don’t pick you guys for your brains, but come on.”

“Oi,” Harry protested weakly.

Malfoy ignored him. “Look, you remember Wood, yes? Oliver Wood? Fantastic arse, irritatingly straight? Never stopped going on about Quidditch for a single goddamn second?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I remember Oliver.”

“He had a reputation for long training sessions, right?”

“Oh Merlin, yes.”

“And… how’d you find those?”

“Bloody awful. There was this one Saturday, right before we played you in third year, he had us flying for seven hours straight.” Harry chuckled. “God, I was so sore afterwards, I could barely…” Harry paused, a nasty realisation washing over him. “Oh. Oh shit.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows had risen so high that Harry could no longer see them underneath his fringe. “Yep, oh shit is just about right, Potter. Look, c’mere,” he said with a sigh, whipping out his wand and jabbing it – unnecessarily firmly, Harry felt – against Harry’s arse. He whispered something, and Harry jumped as a cool tingling spread disconcertingly – but not entirely unpleasantly – across his buttocks.

“You’re welcome, Potter.”

“Uh, thanks?” said Harry, poking curiously at his numb bottom. But Malfoy was already off, ash-blond hair sticking wildly out the neck of his black jersey as he tugged it over his head. Harry tried very hard not to watch Malfoy’s own irritatingly pert behind jiggle as he flounced away across the pitch.

***

When Malfoy had returned from New York, a year or so ago, to work at the Ministry – his office right next door to Harry’s own, no less – Harry had expected one of two things to happen. Perhaps Malfoy would be his old, annoying self – all bullying and bluster – and Harry would end up socking him one to shut him up. Or maybe he’d come back a changed man, contrite – or at the very least content to ignore Harry, hopefully with the good grace to avoid him in the corridors.

What Harry hadn’t anticipated was that Malfoy would breeze into his office on his very first day, almost a decade after they’d last seen each other, grin and nod at him with a friendly “Potter” (which he now apparently pronounced Padder) and then, with a look of almost maniacal glee in his eyes, head straight for the box of jam doughnuts which was sitting on the side of Harry’s desk. Harry had watched, horrified and fascinated, as Malfoy had proceeded to polish off the very last one, licking the jam and sugar off his fingers, letting out a loud “Mmm!” of satisfaction, and tipping an imaginary cap to Harry on his way out of the door. Harry had stared after him for a good five minutes, wondering if some crazed fan had managed to slip something into his tea again.

But it must have been real because it kept on happening – almost every day, in fact. As soon as Lofts popped out of their shared office for any reason, Malfoy would appear. He spoke a little too loudly, and smiled a lot, and skilfully managed to maintain a stream of inane chatter without pause whilst hunting high and low through the office for any goodies on offer. But the strangest thing of all – the thing that Harry could never in a million years have anticipated – was just how endearing he’d find this new Malfoy, with his bizarre American-hybrid accent, his terrible sweet tooth, and his soft, floppy hair. Harry had always pictured the Unspeakables as sort of human Nundus, stalking around the place silently until they were ready to move in for the kill. Malfoy, on the other hand, felt more like a de-clawed Kneazle. He flirted shamelessly with anyone who moved, referred openly to Kingsley as ‘Old Shackles’, and staged loud and dramatic retellings of his MACUSA exploits in the cafeteria, which always seemed to end with “…and you’re not gonna believe what happened next! He actually – oh, yeah, I, uh, I can’t tell you the rest, sorry!”

Ron found it irritating. Hermione found it fascinating. Harry, to his embarrassment, found it completely charming.

When he first realised he’d developed a bit of a crush on Malfoy, he hadn’t been alarmed. It wasn’t the first time he’d found a co-worker attractive; at least in Malfoy’s case half the Ministry seemed to agree with him. He still didn’t much fancy hearing Ron’s opinion on the matter though, so he kept the details of Malfoy’s little visits to himself – and for some weird reason, he got the impression that Malfoy did too.

Malfoy was leading some kind of new Unspeakables Field Division, and although no-one seemed to know exactly what this entailed, Ron had returned from a joint mission raving about ghosts and voices and mind-control tricks. This had, unfortunately, only served to heighten Harry’s obsession. He fell easily back into old habits, scanning every room he walked in for Malfoy’s sharp face, his dramatic gestures, his easy, bright smile. Harry began bringing in a variety of cakes and biscuits, eager to hear Malfoy’s verdict on each one. And before he’d even appreciated what was happening, it was already too late.

***

Despite his professed displeasure, Malfoy certainly seemed to be enjoying himself as they waited for the match to begin. Harry watched, amused, as he pushed his way right to the front of the crowd for the Prophet’s publicity photographs, smiling coquettishly through fine strands of hair.

“I reckon you’re in luck,” whispered Ron out of the corner of his mouth, his forced grin slipping into an unsettling scowl as he looked over at Malfoy. “With that ridiculous hairstyle, he probably wouldn’t see the Snitch if it hit him on the nose.”

“Right,” agreed Harry distractedly as Malfoy bent forwards to adjust his kneepads. He swayed from left to right, the fabric of his leggings pulling tight over his arse as he moved. Fortunately, the slow creep of Malfoy’s overenthusiastic numbing charm meant Harry hardly felt Ron’s sharp elbow to the ribs.

After several more long, excruciating minutes, the photographer gave them all a thumbs-up and was replaced by Kingsley, who surveyed them all sternly, bald head glistening under the hazy, buttermilk sun.

“Just remember,” he began, “this is for charity. It’s not an Arrows vs Wasps end-of-season bunfight, and you’re not back at Hogwarts.” He paused, staring pointedly at Malfoy. “You’re all here representing the Ministry, and I will not tolerate any repeats of the gnome-tossing debacle of ’07, are we clear?”

A grudging murmur of agreement rippled through the group. “Worst team-building day ever,” muttered Ron, sourly.

“Now, given the extended nature of this match, there are a couple of rule changes,” said Kingsley, raising a finger. “First, you’ll be allowed a comfort break every six hours. Second, if a player touches the ground at any other time – deliberately or otherwise – their team will be immediately disqualified. And Seekers?” Harry looked up. Two rows in front, so did Malfoy. “You’ll be re-releasing the Snitch after each catch, and there’s a ten-minute lockout between catches.”

“Yes, Minister,” said Malfoy smoothly. Harry nodded.

“Good. Now I hope you’re all well-rested, and ready for a nice, clean game of Quidditch.” He looked at his watch. “Please mount your brooms.”

As they assumed their starting positions, Kingsley waved his wand and four enormous black numbers, 24:00, appeared on the grass, and below it, 0 : 0 for the score. A middle-aged witch, with curly white hair – from the charity, Harry assumed – walked slowly to the centre of the pitch. She clearly said something, because the crowd cheered, but her words were carried away by the wind. As she raised her wand high above her head, an ear-splitting boom echoed through the air. Below them, the timer ticked over to 23:59, and they were off.

***

Well, Harry was off, anyway.

To begin with, he circled each quadrant, scanning for the Snitch in much the same way he did every Saturday for his amateur league team down in Brighton. He was energised and hyper-focussed, and it wasn’t hard to keep his mind on the match. Below him, the Chasers were calling to one another, sending the Quaffle whizzing up and down the pitch while the Bludgers whipped back and forth between them. Harry loved this part, loved the bird’s eye view of the game afforded to him as he soared high above them all. In the back of his mind, of course, he was aware that Malfoy wasn’t nearby – perhaps wasn’t shadowing his movements quite as Harry might have expected. But his competitive instincts, slightly dampened by the pre-match antics, had roared back to life the moment they’d kicked off, and with his pulse racing and his reflexes primed, it was almost impossible to worry about Malfoy’s position.

It didn’t take long for Harry to spy the Snitch, flaring gold in the sunlight just above a cluster of beech trees. Harry drifted steadily closer, body tense, keeping a wary eye out for the flash of silver-white which would surely follow as Malfoy cottoned on to his change in direction. But no – Malfoy didn’t move from his own position hovering above the Unspeakables’ hoops, apparently nattering away to their Keeper. Harry allowed his speed to increase as he neared the Snitch. He approached it from above, his preferred technique. The air was still today, so still that Harry could almost hear those tiny wings beating. A burst of adrenaline flooded his body, and with a huge grin he dropped easily into a rolling dive, the gasps of the spectators echoing in his ears as he pulled up with the little golden ball clutched tightly in his grasp. As the score down below changed to reflect his catch, he flew a celebratory lap, fist held high, right over the roaring crowd.

As the cheers faded, Harry opened his fist. The Snitch gave itself a little shake, its tiny wings uncrumpling, before it whizzed off into the air. As he watched it disappear across the pitch, Harry spotted Malfoy – to Harry’s surprise, still in the exact same spot as earlier. He caught Harry’s eye, shooting him a playful smile and a quick thumbs up.

An hour later, after Harry made his second catch, he flew low along the ground, feet grazing the close-cropped grass as he high-fived the screaming front row of spectators. The third time, the Snitch appeared a little too close to the opposing goalposts, and he almost knocked himself off the broom in his haste to beat Malfoy. When the Snitch was secure, he whooped and cheered, weaving in and out of the hoops while Ron watched in amusement. But by the fourth time – when he spotted his target from thirty yards away, and it was in his fist before Malfoy had even turned his head – Harry was becoming extremely suspicious. While he was tearing all over the pitch as usual, eyes peeled for the first hint of gold, Malfoy… well, he really, really wasn’t. In fact, his behaviour was more suited to a lazy Saturday morning fly than a competitive Quidditch match.

For example, right now he was – Harry adjusted his glasses and squinted through the fierce early afternoon sun – yes, there he was, leaning forwards on his broom, flying easy, listless circles around the perimeter. As he passed overhead for the third time, actually closing his eyes in bliss as he deliberately flew through a low patch of cloud, Harry’s irritation finally got the better of him.

“I know what you’re doing,” he shouted.

“You do, huh?” Malfoy called back – but he didn’t look over, or slow down in the slightest, and so, slightly helplessly, Harry pulled up alongside him. Malfoy glanced over then, taking in Harry’s face, which was definitely flushed and sweaty, before shaking his head in exasperation. “Potter, I already told you what I was doing. You’re the one racing all about the place like a blue-arsed fly.” He pronounced it ‘blue-assed’ and Harry tried not to grin. “It’s exhausting just watching you. We’ve been going for―” his eyes flicked downwards “―five hours now. D’you reckon you can keep this up for another nineteen?”

Harry had wondered, after all of Malfoy’s melodramatic warnings before the match, but any minor concerns he might have harboured had faded almost as soon as they’d taken to the skies. He was fit now, after all, much fitter than he had been back at Hogwarts. He ran each morning, spent most afternoons in the Ministry gym, was a formidable opponent on the sparring mats and still flew every week. He’d even attended training camp with the Falcons a few years back – yet another charity venture – and he was proud to say that he’d more than held his own amongst the professional athletes. If anyone could fly for an entire day and a night, it should be him, right?

But if truth be told, five hours in, his certainty was beginning to waver. He was getting a little tired. His arms, his back, his shoulders – they all felt slightly too heavy, as though readying themselves for the usual post-match ice bath. And his arse… well, it hardly bore thinking about. Malfoy’s numbing charm had worn off completely a couple of hours ago, and Harry could definitely do with a refresher. Not that he was about to ask for one, of course.

“I know you might find it hard to understand,” continued Malfoy, still sprawled languidly across the broom, “given your time-honoured – and frankly pathological – belief that I’m up to something, but I swear I’m not actually trying to trick you. All I want is to be able to walk properly by… hmm, sometime next week.”

Harry frowned. Malfoy’s words made an awful lot of sense, he thought, as he continued his vain attempts to settle his aching backside into a semi-comfortable position – didn’t the Firebolt Supreme have a cushioning charm, for Merlin’s sake? – but well, how could he be certain? It was Malfoy, after all…

***

“Look, mate, I’m not being funny, but this isn’t a great time for a chat,” yelled Ron, eyes fixed firmly on the incoming Quaffle. He leapt to one side, arms outstretched, growling as he reached it just a second too late, the tips of his fingers grazing the leather as it flew straight through the centre hoop. “You’ve just got the one bastard to worry about, you know? There’s three of them on me all the time. They’re bloody mobbing me, and…” he raised his voice, making sure it carried to the Aurors gathered in the centre of the pitch, “…our lot couldn’t hit a Flobberworm in a bucket, so I’m basically on my own out here.”

“Oh yeah, no worries, it’s just a quick question really,” said Harry. Ron didn’t reply – he was busy sticking a middle finger up at Lofts, who made a wanking gesture back at him. Harry pressed on. “It’s – well, it’s Malfoy. He’s acting… odd. I think… well, I think he might be up to something.”

Ron groaned loudly. “Fucking hell Harry. Look, you’re probably right – it’s Malfoy. Merlin knows I’ve about had it up to here with this bizarre Yankee Doodle dickhead thing he’s got going on.”

“It’s not that… it’s just―”

“Harry. Mate. You’re going to have to deal with it yourself, alright? I’m not interested in that quasi-American floppy-haired prick right now. D’you want to know what my biggest problem is?”

To be honest, Harry didn’t really.

“It’s Hermione. She wants another baby.”

“Er,” said Harry, not sure where this was going. “Congratulations?”

“No,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “It’s Hermione. She’s got a whole schedule; it’s up on the kitchen wall, for Merlin’s sake. Colour-coded and everything. And d’you know what the last thing she said to me before all this was?”

Was Harry supposed to answer, he wondered? The question seemed rhetorical, but Ron had stopped talking.

“No…?”

“She said ‘don’t be late back, I’m ovulating tomorrow’. Tomorrow! Harry, my bits are dead already. She’s going to kill me. No, she’s going to shag me regardless, and my knob will probably fall off.”

Harry winced. He was beginning to think that perhaps he really shouldn’t have bothered Ron with the whole Malfoy thing.

“Fuck, I’m going to kill Robards,” continued Ron. “All these harebrained schemes. When I’m Head Auror, that’s all going to change, let me―”

He darted over to the far hoop with a grunt, just in time to watch as the Quaffle sailed past him once more.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up Maguire, you dead-eyed bastard,” he shouted breathlessly. “And you too, Dominguez. My wife’s your bloody boss, you pricks!”

“Ron,” said Harry under his breath, “that’s probably not going to…”

“What did you just call her?” Ron roared.

Harry sighed, looking up. Far above them, Malfoy was still wheeling about in a leisurely manner amongst sleepy patches of cloud, apparently unbothered by the antics below. Maybe he had been right after all. The three o’clock comfort break was coming up, and then – well, a decent rest was sounding better by the second.

A flash of light caught his eye, and he spotted the Snitch again, flitting here and there high up over the middle of the pitch. Malfoy was closer but, as usual, wasn’t even looking. Harry frowned. Making one more catch couldn’t hurt, could it? Just to make certain they had a really good points cushion. Then he’d take a breather, guilt free.

Harry angled the broom handle up, centering his target. “Merlin, it’s a good job you’re pretty,” Harry heard over the rush of wind as he zoomed past Malfoy.

***

“Well, this isn’t very comforting,” said Ron through a mouthful of sandwich. “I bloody hate corned beef.”

“Agreed,” said Harry, sipping his lukewarm squash. It was far too strong and near-impossible to force down. He aimed an Aguamenti at the paper cup, but only managed to replace the sickly stuff with insipid lemon-flavoured water.

“It’s a fucking joke, is what it is,” muttered one of the Unspeakables darkly, as she emerged from the trees, Scourgifying her hands. Kingsley and Robards were long gone now, and the only remaining Ministry official – a tiny old wizard who usually worked at the reception desk – had looked baffled when asked about toilet facilities. Harry hadn’t been able to resist glancing at Malfoy: surely the posh git would kick up a fuss? But Harry was wrong – Malfoy met the news with an indifferent shrug and made straight for the woods, tugging his gloves off as he went.

Someone had set up a selection of lawn chairs – uncomfortable looking fold-up things – although, unsurprisingly, no-one was sitting down. Most of the other players were gathered around the refreshment stand, inspecting the remaining fare – egg sandwiches, mostly, along with a few bowls of limp salad, a handful of Tunnock’s Teacakes and a plate of orange slices. Aurors and Unspeakables alike ate in silence, shifting their weight from leg to aching leg, expressions ranging from despondent to mutinous. The crowd had thinned out slightly, but there were still a good number of people milling about. These included Ginny and George, who were leaning over the flimsy barriers, yelling at Ron and doing crude impressions of his ducking and diving about, and, as usual, a few – these days, middle-aged – witches yelling Harry’s name and holding out stuff for him to sign. He normally didn’t mind too much, but today, he ignored them completely. He was knackered, and a bit fed up… and besides, all his attention was taken up by Malfoy, who was chatting animatedly to one of the spectators, waving a teacake in the air.

“Five minutes!” called the old wizard in a hoarse voice. Harry groaned, repeating his usual series of stretches and rubbing ineffectually at his screaming calf muscles, barely even noticing the cries of the witches getting louder as he bent forwards. But when he finally stood up again, he did notice Malfoy, looking directly at him, an orange slice held tightly between thumb and forefinger. A thin line of juice was running down his forearm, and as Harry watched, Malfoy raised his eyebrows, and without breaking eye contact, brought his arm to his mouth and in one slow, suggestive swipe, licked it clean.

***

The match restarted, and Malfoy quickly resumed his position lounging around high above the pitch. Ron was right: the comfort break had been anything but, and Harry’s body now felt like one enormous bruise – annoyingly, much worse than before he’d gotten off the broom. So it couldn’t hurt to allow himself a proper break, could it? And if Malfoy was having a rest too – why not have a rest together? Harry was very curious about Malfoy; he’d long since stopped pretending otherwise. And besides, on a more practical note, perhaps he could convince Malfoy to do another numbing charm. Ron had had a go in the break, but his poor attempt had left Harry’s arse feeling a little bit singed.

Malfoy watched Harry through heavy-lidded eyes as he approached, gingerly.

“So,” began Harry, with no real plan.

“So,” echoed Malfoy.

The throaty squawk of a crow resounded through the trees below. Malfoy cleared his throat, and Harry tried again.

“So, you’re an Unspeakable now.”

Malfoy blinked.

“Er, obviously you’re an Unspeakable. But – uh―” Harry looked at Malfoy, who’d stopped perfectly still, and mentally cursed himself for opening his mouth before he’d engaged his brain. Why did this have to happen around Malfoy every single time? “I mean, why did you come back here? You always make it sound like you were having so much fun in New York.”

Malfoy tilted his head thoughtfully, staring off into the distance. Several seconds passed, and Harry shifted his broom away slightly, suddenly concerned. “You don’t have to – I can just…”

“No, no, Potter,” Malfoy said quickly, with a tired smile. “Please.” He beckoned to Harry, who moved closer again, relieved. As Malfoy began speaking, Harry allowed his gaze to drift down, captivated by the flex of corded muscles in Malfoy’s lean arms.

“Coming back here… it was an exchange, at first. The Ministry requested my assistance with a case involving a few of my dad’s old friends. I was supposed to go back after six months but… well, let’s just say that by then I had a few good reasons to stay.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” said Malfoy, looking slightly shifty, Harry thought, “they asked me to help set up the new Field Division, for starters. Offered me a pay raise too. And, well,” he looked at Harry slyly, “I suppose you could say that at MACUSA, there wasn’t as much temptation in the next office over.”

Lost for words, Harry could only gape at Malfoy, who suddenly seemed extremely interested in the goings on below. He couldn’t possibly mean it, right? Harry had often wondered – after all, Malfoy did spend plenty of time hanging around Harry’s office, and he did seem to accidentally drop an awful lot of things right in front of Harry – but Harry always swiftly dismissed the notion as wishful thinking. Malfoy flirted with everyone, constantly and shamelessly. Whatever weird thing the two of them had going on, it definitely wasn’t like that… was it?

Malfoy shifted on his broom, clearing his throat. “Your cakes, Potter,” he said, with a forced-sounding chuckle. “Obviously I’m talking about your cakes.”

“Obviously,” repeated Harry, less than convinced. It wasn’t just that part either: Malfoy’s whole answer had seemed a little… off, somehow. Almost as though he was trotting out a jokey, sanitised version of events to avoid giving an honest answer. But before Harry could probe any further, they were both distracted by the sudden appearance of the Snitch, which was hovering mere feet away from them. Its golden body jiggled about impatiently, as if to remind them they were supposed to be competing, and Malfoy waved his hand in its direction.

“You want to…?”

“Nah,” said Harry, slowly. “Nah, if you’re up for it, that one’s all yours.”

Malfoy turned carefully towards the Snitch, which was, by now, hopping up and down, its tiny wings fluttering expectantly. “Go on then, I’ll have a turn,” he said with a grin, and with an alarming burst of speed shot off in the opposite direction. Harry leant forward to ease his still-throbbing bum off the seat while Malfoy chased the little ball about the pitch. Malfoy had been right, it did look exhausting, Harry found it an altogether very pleasant sight, relishing the opportunity to unashamedly admire the play of Malfoy’s muscles beneath the shifting black fabric as he darted this way and that. It took longer than expected, but eventually he returned, face flushed and glowing, a single golden wing fluttering helplessly from between his clenched fingers.

“Not bad,” said Harry, still recumbent, chin resting on his broom-handle. “I’d give you a… six out of ten.”

Malfoy snorted in disbelief as he let the Snitch loose. He immediately renewed his own numbing charm, and Harry sighed loudly, his eyes pleading, but Malfoy shook his head. “For that six out of ten, Potter, your aching arse can suffer a little while longer. Anyway, next one’s yours. Let’s see if you can do better.”

Alternating catches proved a fine idea. It passed the time, certainly, and it helped to take Harry’s mind off the cramping pain spreading through his thighs as the two of them pushed to outdo one another with increasingly dramatic dives and turns, earning gasps and cheers from the sparse group of remaining spectators. Harry – by far the more experienced Quidditch player – had a veritable arsenal of moves at his disposal, but even he had to admit defeat when Malfoy rose to his feet, boots planted firmly on the broom handle as though they weren’t over a hundred feet in the air, and rode along like that for a good thirty seconds. As soon as he’d secured the Snitch, he turned back to Harry, a self-satisfied smirk on his stupidly attractive face.

“How the hell did you learn to do that?” Harry asked, making a valiant attempt to avert his eyes as Malfoy stretched languidly and leant forwards with a heavy sigh, slipping gracefully back down onto his broom, looking for all the world like the Kneazle who got the cream.

“Oahu, Hawaii.”

“What? Hawaii?”

“Surfing, Potter.”

Harry blinked. Surely not.

“You… surf?”

Yes, it sounded precisely as ludicrous out loud as it had in Harry’s head.

“I do a lot of things,” replied Malfoy. Harry tried to feel annoyed at his smug expression, he really did, but he found his mind unfortunately preoccupied by the mental picture of Malfoy riding the waves shirtless, sand clinging to his glistening skin...

“Spent three months undercover there. Some rich arsehole trying to raise an army of ancient spirits, yadda yadda. It was a long, boring job, and I had to pass the time somehow, didn’t I? Blend in with the locals or whatever. Anyway,” he raised his eyebrows, “stop trying to distract me. Your score, please.”

“My score,” said Harry, abstractedly, forcing a whole host of – frankly ridiculous – images out of his brain. “Well… as much as it pains me to say it―” as he watched, Malfoy’s grin widened once more “―it’s going to have to be a ten.”

After Malfoy had finished gloating, he relented, finally, prodding his wand into Harry’s bum with even greater relish. Harry couldn’t help the – possibly quite indecent – moan that escaped as a delicious numbness spread once more down his aching thighs.

By mutual agreement, they lazily competed for the Snitch a couple of times – winning one apiece – until Harry found his eyes beginning to ache as they strained against the dying light. He paused, and Malfoy drew alongside him, producing a teacake from goodness-knows-where. He balled up the shiny wrapper, tossing it in the air and Vanishing it with a flourish which had Harry rolling his eyes fondly, and they shared it in silence while around them the sky deepened to a soft velvet, slowly swallowing up the black shadow of the woods. As the last few rays of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, a whole host of glowing orbs appeared on the grass below, rising up and illuminating the pitch. The effect was charming, but fairly pointless: the light was barely sufficient for the Chasers’ half-hearted play, and certainly nowhere near enough for Harry and Malfoy to continue pursuing the Snitch – so, by shared consensus, they stopped.

***

The night was eerily quiet by the time they landed for the next comfort break, with no spectators left and only the grunts and groans of the players – mostly sprawled out face down on the grass – and the rustling of foliage, to be heard. The creaky old Ministry receptionist had transfigured his stool into a deckchair and his hat into a nightcap, and was ignoring everyone else completely, taking small sips of what appeared to be a tiny snifter of sherry.

As Harry rolled his shoulders and twisted from side to side, his back cracking alarmingly, a loud yell rent the air, echoing from the trees. A second later, Ron stumbled out of the woods, muttering and cursing.

“You alright there, mate?”

“Not really, Harry, no. Tripped on a fucking log, didn’t I? Sat down in a patch of bramble – scratches all over my arse cheeks. No, I don’t need you to heal them, for fuck’s sake. Sorry, mate, but I’m just… I’m done. That’s it, Harry, I swear. The final bloody straw. I’m putting in a complaint this time, I don’t care. Two days off is not going to cut it; I’ll be walking funny from all this for weeks.”

Harry hummed in sympathy, warming his hands on his little Styrofoam cup of Ovaltine as Ron’s rant continued. Behind him, Malfoy was leaning over again, this time touching first one foot and then the other. He really was surprisingly flexible.

“…and d’you know what, I really didn’t think they could top the whole tattoo thing,” said Ron, scratching absently at his hip, “but they’ve only gone and bloody done it.”

***

“If it helps, Potter, I like the tattoo,” said Malfoy, the very moment they’d resumed their previous position.

“What?”

“Well, okay, would I let someone brand my skin in the name of charity? Not a chance.”

“Er, but…” began Harry.

“…But,” Malfoy cut in, throwing Harry a sharp look, “at least yours is better than Weasley’s. The proportions are ridiculous. I mean if house-elves really did have dicks like that they’d never get anything done. Product of a sick mind, that one. Poor fucker.”

“George had to remortgage the shop to end up the highest bidder,” said Harry with a grin, “and he still reckons it was worth every Knut.”

Malfoy shuddered. “At least yours is… kind of tasteful, if a little on-the-nose. And it’s beautifully done too – the texture of the mane, the movement? Could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Uh, thank you?” said Harry, instinctively tugging at the hem of his jersey, hoping to hide the ink below. He could feel himself blushing and hoped against hope that the light was dim enough to hide it. “But, uh, how is it that you’re so… intimately… familiar with my tattoo?” Harry asked tentatively.

Once again, Malfoy didn’t miss a beat. “Your calendar, of course. Aurors in the Altogether. Great name, by the way.”

“You… you bought the calendar?”

“Duh! Well, to be honest, Pansy did. Got it shipped over to New York the Muggle way and everything. I thought it’d be a bit unfair, making some poor owl haul your naked arse across the entire Atlantic.”

“Er,” said Harry, cleverly.

“Oh yeah,” Malfoy continued, brightly, “trust me, I’m well acquainted with the tattoo. It was stalking around your navel all year―” he indicated the air in front of him “―just… right above my desk.”

“It was…” Harry paused. “Wait a minute, all year? But… I was only February.”

“Oh, believe me, I know. The heart-shaped box of chocolates over your dick made that quite clear.” He grinned. “Oh, Potter, don’t look so horrified. It was a talking point, alright? That? Yeah, Harry Potter, that’s him. Oh yes, course I know him. Old friend, et cetera, et cetera. Something along those lines, anyway. Dined out on it a few times, you’ll be pleased to know. Even got me laid once.” He raised an imaginary glass in Harry’s direction.

“But… old friend?” Harry managed to choke out. “And they seriously bought that?”

“Oh, absolutely. I mean, they knew about the Noseless Wonder, obviously, and they’d all heard of the Boy Who Just Wouldn’t Quit, but – well, the whole war thing just wasn’t a big deal there, y’know? I think there was some major Quodpot tournament going on in ‘98 or something. So for most people the details were pretty… hazy. Lucky for me, huh?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Malfoy finally had the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “Listen, just because I make light of it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. I travelled halfway around the world to get away from being Draco Malfoy. Can you blame me for trying to make the best of things?”

Harry sighed, irritation melting away as quickly as it had arrived. “I suppose not,” he conceded. “Is that why you left, then?”

“What do you think? My prospects here were virtually zero. No, scrap that, they were actually zero. I did fill out an application to the Ministry, y’know. I wasn’t choosy, either – said I’d take anything they had. Filing, shovelling Thestral shit in the Beast Division – hell, I’d have been Old Shackles’ personal shoeshiner if it’d paid. But no dice, Potter. It only took the owl, like, twenty minutes to return with my form – shredded, in an envelope. Same story with Gringotts, half the shops in Diagon, St Mungo’s…”

All at once, the telltale whoosh of a Bludger sounded from below, clipping the tail of Harry’s broom and forcing them both to throw themselves backwards. Adrenaline flooded Harry’s body as he clung to his spinning broom for dear life, trying to regain control over its movements. Suddenly, a firm hand settled on the handle, pulling him forwards and bringing him abruptly to a stop. Harry could feel the heat from Malfoy’s body, and, on wiping his glasses, found himself mere inches from a pair of concerned grey eyes. They were both still breathing fast; Malfoy’s soft pants ghosting over his cheek. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he feared Malfoy might hear it over the faint whistle of the wind, and all at once he found that he could stand the proximity no longer.

“Thank you,” he got out, winded, pulling back slightly and turning his head to watch the Bludger whirl off into the trees.

Malfoy swallowed, before waving his arm airily. “Don’t… don’t mention it. Anyway, uh, where was I?”

“MACUSA?” replied Harry, biting back a grin at Malfoy’s smooth shift back to his own story.

“Ah yes. Thank you. So I had all that crap at home, but with the Yanks it was almost too easy. One decent Occlumency demonstration and they snapped me right up. Sent me off for advanced training in Legilimency, false image projection and memory modification too, then set me up with a nice swanky office, a hefty salary, and a fresh start. All at the bargain price of leaving behind everything I loved.” He shrugged, too casual. “Easy decision, in the end.”

“Easy decision,” repeated Harry uncertainly.

“Oh, Potter, don’t feel sorry for me, it all worked out for the best. God, I loved New York,” he said with a wink, “and she loved me back. Plus, y’know, the country is fucking massive – and they’ve got some really weird shit going on, let me tell you – so you’re sent all over the place. I basically ended up visiting almost every state, on MACUSA’s dime. There’s none of that academic ivory tower ‘ooh, Department of Mysteries’ bullshit you get round here, and way less red tape. Most of us were out in the field, actually getting to use all that training, and that suited me fine. Can’t hack being stuck at a desk all day.”

Harry nodded, thinking of Malfoy at work – always nipping in and out of Harry’s office, spinning around on Lofts’ chair, rifling through paperwork with no regard for closed drawers – or locks, for that matter. He pictured the way Malfoy would hop onto a table in the canteen to act out some dramatic chase, or stride through the Atrium, gesturing emphatically as he talked.

“And now I’m back here, Senior Unspeakable, and no-one can do shit about it. See? Happy ending.”

A gentle evening breeze was blowing; it ruffled Malfoy’s floppy hair and, backlit by one of the strange floating Lumos balls, gave the impression of a feathery, silver halo. Ron would definitely have mocked Malfoy for it, but Harry found his lack of composure strangely comforting – the both of them were exhausted, a mess, and talking about real things, for once. He felt a surge of affection, of companionship, as though he and Malfoy were the only two people in the sky – in the world, perhaps. Like this, he could tell Malfoy anything, and so it made total sense that the next words which passed those parted lips were, “So while we’re sharing, Potter, will you humour me?”

“Sure.”

“It’s just―” Malfoy shifted slightly, leaning forward and looking at the ground below as he spoke, “―well, I can’t help but notice that while I’m kicking arse as Head of our Field Division, and your mate Weasley’s in line for Head Auror – not to mention Little Miss Smarty-Pants in her lovely new Deputy Minister’s robes, you’re – well, Potter, you’re… not. You’re still sent out on the beat, sharing an office, doing all the grunt work, right?”

“Right.”

“So,” said Malfoy, impatiently, “what’s with that?”

Harry laughed. “Maybe I’m just shit at my job.”

“Nah, that can’t be it. Even old Braithwaite’s made Senior Auror, and he’s been involved in so many fuck-ups that I’ve heard criminals actually cheer when he shows up at the scene. You can’t tell me you’ve never been offered a promotion. Surely Robards has got to be itching to clip on those brand spanking new epaulettes and get a nice big photo for the Prophet.”

Harry snorted.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Harry, slowly, with a wry smile. “In fact... well, to be honest, he asks me every month, Malfoy. Every fucking month, without fail. He wanted me to come straight in at Senior Auror, can you imagine? Right out of school – right out of the war.”  

“Jesus.”

“Right? But all that ordering people around stuff, it’s not really me, you know? I don’t care about targets and conviction rates and all that rubbish; I’m good with things as they are. And besides… I mean, I like my job, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not my whole life. I work the hours I want, chase a few bad guys here and there, train up the new recruits – and I still have time to get to the gym, play Quidditch, even help out up at Hogwarts now and then. And then there’s all the charity stuff, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” said Malfoy, emphatically. “I get it now, and I totally agree. It would be a terrible tragedy if your work got in the way of all the nude photoshoots.”

Harry laughed, despite himself. “Fuck off.”

Suddenly, the smile fell from Malfoy’s face, and his head whirled around to the side. He tugged his wand easily from its soft leather holster and sent a flash of scarlet screaming across the pitch.

“Wha―” Harry spun round just in time to see the charm make contact with Ron, reaching him bare milliseconds before his sleeping form slipped completely off the side of the broom. He woke with a gasp, hands reflexively clasping the handle for dear life.

“Sticking charm,” said Malfoy, with a relieved chuckle. Harry studied Malfoy’s face curiously, watching him send Ron a fairly awkward wave and a thumbs-up. He thought of the boy Malfoy used to be; of the man he’d become.

“Go on then,” said Malfoy, interrupting his thoughts and leaning in close – somehow, one or both of them seemed to have inched a little further forwards than before. “What was the worst one?”

“Sorry, the worst…?”

“You know. The worst thing you’ve ever had to do for charity. Current activities not included, of course.”

“Er… that would have to be the head shaving.”

“Ugh, how boring. I was hoping you’d say the bachelor auction.”

“Which one?” said Harry, with a playful grin, relieved to be back on the front foot once more. “Nah, they’re never too bad. I’m expensive, don’t you know – and besides, they vet the applicants quite thoroughly. It’s usually posh rich boys wining and dining me, and, well, who am I to complain about that? But the head shaving – look, let’s just say that some people get a bit shirty if they’ve shelled out a load of money and it all grows back the next day.”

“Right,” said Malfoy, looking thoughtful. “So, you didn’t meet the perfect guy then?”

“What?” said Harry, taken aback by the unexpected reply. “When I shaved my head?”

“No, idiot, at the bachelor auctions. Those―” he cleared his throat, “―posh rich boys. None of them do it for you?”

Harry looked at Malfoy, then, really looked at him; let his gaze travel down – over those heavy-lidded eyes, the elegant cheekbones, the lips pressed tightly together, the guarded tilt of Malfoy’s chin. His expression was one of carefully fashioned indifference, and it made Harry’s heart leap into his throat.

“Not really,” he said, affecting a casual tone. “I mean, only one or two even made it past dinner. Definitely nothing long term. Honestly, they were a pretty dull lot. I like a bit of excitement, you know? Someone with―” He paused to take a deep breath. In for a Knut, and all… “―well, someone with a story or two to tell.”

Was that going too far? Probably, thought Harry. But Malfoy didn’t look put off; he didn’t even roll his eyes, as Harry had expected. If anything, he swung his broom handle round to move a little closer. His leg was touching Harry’s now; Harry could sense the new pressure against the side of his kneepad, and he glanced down, gaze automatically drawn to the constant shifting movement of Malfoy’s thigh in its tight black leggings as it tensed against the rising wind.

“And have you found that… that someone yet?” Malfoy asked, voice quiet.

Malfoy’s sharp gaze was boring into Harry, the heat searing against his icy, wind-burned cheek. Harry flicked his eyes away, facing down the line of his broom as he replied. “Malfoy, are you flirting with me?”

“Always,” came Malfoy’s quick response, breathy but amused. Harry inhaled.

“Davies! Watch where you’re fucking―”

Harry’s broom jolted unpleasantly as something – someone – collided with the back of it, knocking him sideways once more. It took a good few seconds for him to right himself, distracted as he’d been. As he straightened up, a set of black robes whizzed overhead, laughing.

“Sorry ladies, didn’t mean to interrupt your little tea party.”

“Fuck off, Russell,” muttered Malfoy.

“You two look awfully cosy up here, hmm? Leaving the hard work to the big boys, eh?”

“Fuck off, Russell,” echoed Harry, weakly, glancing back at Malfoy, who was rolling his eyes after the now-retreating Chasers. He turned back towards Harry, but didn’t quite meet Harry’s gaze – clearly, Harry thought, stomach sinking just a little, the moment was gone.

***

The night wore on; the minutes ticking down far more slowly than they had any right to. The wizard from the Ministry was fast asleep and snoring softly, and so, little by little, play ground to a halt. The Chasers tossed the Quaffle reluctantly back and forth, arguing forcefully about whether anyone would find out if they had a quick kip on the grass. The Beaters shook their aching arms, but even the Bludgers seemed to have accepted the general air of apathy, their movements becoming sluggish and easy to avoid.

And further up – much further, and perfectly alone – two figures hovered close together under the vast, moonlit sky. There, by wordless agreement, surrounded by Malfoy’s Protego and Harry’s heating charms, they rested in comfortable silence. Harry let his head droop forwards against the broom handle, watching as a tiny dark shadow below – a pipistrel – swooped in neat, tight circles in and out of the trees. His exhaustion was bone-deep, their surroundings too dreamlike, and he allowed himself to grow dazed and stuporous as he drifted through this endless, shining, magical night with Malfoy beside him. Malfoy, who’d been sneaking into Harry’s office and sharing snacks with him for nearly a year now. Malfoy, who never seemed to answer Harry’s questions seriously, who had an endless supply of funny anecdotes, but who – until tonight – had clearly and deliberately held something of himself back. Malfoy, who Harry could never stop thinking about – hadn’t been able to since the very first day he’d walked through the door. Was Harry a fool, reading so much into all Malfoy’s behaviour today? Always, he’d joked earlier – always flirting, like it meant nothing – and yet…

There was a faint orange glow on the horizon past the end of the pitch – the light pollution over London creating a halo above the hazy outline of skyscrapers in the distance – but elsewhere, the sky was cloudless, and the constellations shimmered and winked above them. As Harry listened to Malfoy’s soft breathing next to him, all his aches and pains seemed to melt away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so content.

***

It didn’t take long for that feeling to fade. After the final comfort break, Harry and the others returned to their brooms, their moans and groans louder than ever before. Lofts was crying – loud, choking tears borne of both exhaustion and rage – as she wobbled back up into the sky. She wasn’t the only one, either – Ron’s face was suspiciously blotchy, and even Harry found himself suppressing a scream as the clock resumed its inexorable countdown: 05:59, 05:58, 05:57…

Only Malfoy still looked quite calm – and annoyingly comfortable – mounting his broom with barely a wince. Everything hurt. Harry’s shoulders throbbed, his neck ached, his arms trembled. His buttocks… well, he dreaded to think. They were probably black and blue at this point. It was torture, plain and simple – not merely the lack of sleep, but also the need to constantly shift left or right to stay upright, despite Harry’s best attempts at stabilising charms. He cursed Kingsley, and Robards, and most of all himself for lacking the sense to ask a few basic questions before agreeing blindly to this ridiculous plan.

“Potter. Come here, would you?”

It was the first words Malfoy had spoken out loud for hours, and his voice was low and endearingly croaky. Harry’s arms screamed in pain as he angled his broom over to where Malfoy sat, face shining in the light of the crescent moon.

“Lean forwards, Potter.”

Harry complied, and Malfoy withdrew his wand from its holster once more. But this time, rather than prodding it into Harry’s bum, he pressed the tip of it to Harry’s upper back, running it lightly over the wing of his shoulderblade and up higher, drawing gentle circles over the joint itself. He dragged it back across the base of Harry’s neck, making him shiver, and repeated his efforts on the other side.

Harry, meanwhile, was groaning in ecstasy with every careful movement of Malfoy’s wand, as Malfoy’s clever magic fizzed over him, leaving the muscles beneath tingling and so, so relaxed. The tension from a full day’s flying seemed to bleed away as Malfoy traced patterns across Harry’s chest, drawing the wood in precise lines down his stomach and then pressing deeply into the tight mass of his quads, leaving Harry boneless and writhing uncontrollably under his touch.

“Oh my god, Malfoy,” he heard himself whimper – whimper! “Oh Merlin, don’t stop. Oh god, that’s bloody incredible.” He tilted his neck from side to side, then clenched his knees to hold the broom while he rotated his clicking shoulders. “Ohhhhhh…”

“Yeah, well,” said Malfoy, tracing the knob of Harry’s right ankle, and – Harry thought through his blissed-up mind – trying to disguise a grin, “all that moaning and complaining you were doing was driving me crazy. Although I’m not actually sure that this is any better.”

“No, I mean it,” said Harry, still squirming in delight, “that’s really incredible. Seriously, I’ve never… how the hell d’you know how to do that?”

“Er… that would be the Abraxan rodeo. Wyoming, 2004.”

“The Abraxan rodeo? You rode Abraxans? You…” Harry could hardly finish his sentence. Was this some strange fatigue-induced hallucination? “…you were a cowboy?” Even more impossible visions of Malfoy – wearing nothing but a Stetson and boots this time – immediately began to crowd his thoughts.

Back in reality, Malfoy was looking at him like he was insane. “Calm down, Potter. A cowboy, really. Just another mission, I’m afraid. But I did manage eight seconds on a mare they called the Dueling Demon… so yeah, I got pretty handy at muscle soothing charms around the same time.”

“That’s amazing. You’re amazing,” said Harry, knowing how he must sound but not much caring.

Malfoy laughed, low and pleased. “Want to see something else I can do?

“God, yes.”

“Alright, but you can’t ask about this one. Wouldn’t tell you, even if I could.”

Malfoy angled his broom handle up, drifting back behind Harry. Harry twisted his neck to follow him, and Malfoy tutted, motioning Harry to turn round again. Harry did, confused, and startled when he felt sudden pressure on both shoulders.

“What…?”

“Shhhh…”

Harry surrendered, his eyes rolling upwards as Malfoy worked his upper back with incredible skill, pressing his thumbs in deep and eliciting even louder groans of pleasure. Malfoy’s slow, slightly shaky breaths disturbed the hairs on the back of his neck and to his utter embarrassment, Harry suddenly found himself getting… hard. He shifted on his broomstick subtly, leaning back in an attempt to avoid putting any pressure on the area. But if Malfoy noticed, he didn’t say – in fact, he didn’t say anything at all, merely persisting in his gentle stroking motions, skilled hands running gently over the hills and valleys of Harry’s spine, drifting down, further and further until they were kneading his lower back through his jersey – and Merlin, did that feel good. So good; so impossibly, ridiculously relaxing. Malfoy drifted closer, his broom knocking against Harry’s, until Harry could sense Malfoy’s body directly behind his own. He wanted so desperately to lean back, to feel Malfoy’s arms come around him, to bury his fingers in that silky hair, to meet those clever lips with his own… Harry couldn’t help himself – he closed his eyes and pictured it, as Malfoy’s fingertips moved around his sides, lingering over the bare skin where his top had ridden up, making Harry tingle with…

“Potter!”

Harry jerked upright, wobbling precariously. His eyes flew open. “Huh?”

“You fell asleep.”

“I… I… did I?”

“Yes, Potter. You fell asleep – forwards.”

“Oh.”

“Do I really need to explain why that’s not a good idea?”

“Do you…?” Harry spun around, indignant. “You’re the one who numbed my muscles with your cowboy superpowers and then practically massaged me into a coma. We’ve been flying for nearly nineteen hours now – I’d like to see you stay awake through that.”

“Fair enough,” said Malfoy, shrugging. “Shall we try and get some sleep then?”             

“Love to,” Harry replied. “Any idea how?”

As usual, Malfoy did. Numerous sticking and stabilising charms and a good solid Protego later, they managed to find a semi-comfortable position resting back-to-back, propping each other up. Malfoy tilted his head to rest it against Harry’s shoulder, and Harry did likewise, willing himself not to give in to his sleep-addled instincts and bury his nose in Malfoy’s neck. Harry wrapped his hands tightly around his broom on either side, concentrating on the comforting weight of Malfoy’s warm body against his own, and let his eyelids drift shut, hoping with all his worth that their sticking charms would hold.

***

***

It was a Bludger that woke him in the end, a strange whooping noise ending with a gentle knock against Harry’s shoulder. He cracked open one eye to see Malfoy’s waning Protego warping around the iron ball, and shrugged it away, watching through fogged-up lenses as momentum took over and it catapulted off into the distance with a sucking pop.

The heating charm must have worn off too, because Harry felt almost feverish with that early morning chill so familiar to him still from long nights spent on guard in lonely forests. Only this time he was far from alone – the shoulderblade poking sharply against his spine confirmed that, as did the pale strands of hair stuck to Harry’s cheek. The body pressed against his own gave a sudden shiver, the offending shoulder shifting as Malfoy stretched, extending his arms above his head with a slightly-too-loud yawn. Surprised, Harry wobbled a little, and Malfoy wobbled in turn, and all at once they were both wide awake.

“Morning, Potter,” said Malfoy, blearily, wheeling around slowly to face Harry. In the woods below, an obnoxiously noisy dawn chorus had begun, and behind them the sun was just peeking over the horizon, reflecting gold off the sleep-tousled mess of Malfoy’s hair. The scene evoked images of lazy mornings spent in bed – of waking up to Malfoy’s sheepish, fond expression, of cups of tea, and long kisses, and teasing out tangles with his fingertips. It was toe-curlingly suggestive, and Harry could only take a deep breath, and pray that Malfoy’s Legilimency skills weren’t all they were cracked up to be. In lieu of embarrassing himself further by saying something stupid, he wiped his arm across his glasses, smearing them horribly, and looked down at the surface of the pitch.

He was almost surprised to see the numbers still glinting off the dewy grass – the score surprisingly even at 2180 : 2050. As Harry yawned softly, the Unspeakables’ score flicked to 2060. He glanced over towards their end of the pitch, stifling a grin as he spotted Ron, curled up inside the centre hoop, fast asleep, with the sole Unspeakable Chaser still awake enough to bother lazily tossing the Quaffle past him time and again. Harry cast his eyes down once more, watching the timer tick steadily down and feeling strangely bereft. With only sixty-eight minutes to go, for all his complaints, and his bruised buttocks, and his utter exhaustion, Harry found he didn’t want the night to end. He didn’t want to lose this new, genuine connection he’d formed with Malfoy, didn’t want to go back to the days of small talk and… and wondering.

Harry looked back up at Malfoy. What could he say? He could ask how Malfoy had slept, of course, or maybe point out Ron – that should raise a laugh, for sure. Or perhaps he could try for romantic, make some trite comment about the sunrise?

What eventually came out, though, was none of those.

“Malfoy, I… I need to know. Why did you really come back?”

“What? Potter, you already…”

“No, I know what you said before, but―” Harry shrugged, attempting to hide his horror as even more words spilled forth unbidden from his treacherous mouth, “―look, it just seemed like there was something you weren’t saying, is all.”

“Merlin, Potter,” said Malfoy slowly, rubbing his eyes. “Let a guy wake up first, why don’t you?”

“Sorry. Sorry. I just – I wondered, is all. I thought now, after today, maybe…”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed, his warm smile losing a little of its lustre. “There’s not much to tell, really,” he said, carefully, but his heavy sigh belied him. “It’s… it’s not a big deal. I just… I hadn’t been home in years, y’know? I worked so, so hard to… to reinvent myself, to come up with this whole new persona, and I did change, and people liked me there, and I thought that was me sorted, right?”

“Right.”

“But then the bosses came up with this exchange idea, and they were dead set on it, couldn’t talk them out of it. So I got back here, expecting Howlers and protests and Crup shit on my desk. And then I found out they’ve put me in the next office to the great Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake! So there went my last chance to convince people I’ve changed. How could I expect them – you – to forget? I even forced myself to go to your office on my very first day so I could get the insulting or the punching or whatever over with, but―” he shrugged, “―you know, it just never happened. The way you looked at me… and you were so… well. Anyway, no-one cared. I guess the MACUSA thing trumped the Death Eater thing, and I got to see my parents again, finally. And now… now there’s you. And things.”

“Me?” croaked Harry, voice still sleep-sore but so full of want.

“And things.”

“Right.”

“I… I thought I was pretty obvious about it. I was embarrassed, actually…”

“No. No, Malfoy, I mean… you flirt with everyone. How was I… me? Are you…”

All at once, the air around them seemed to vibrate, and Malfoy closed his mouth again, looking down in confusion. As Harry copied him, an enormous crack reverberated through the park, cutting through the birdsong and the soft murmurs of the players below, and the distinct charred-earth smell of strong magic reached Harry’s nostrils, taking him – as always – straight back to the war. He looked down to where Kingsley, Robards and Hermione had appeared in the centre of the pitch, with more Ministry officials popping up around them by the second. Startled by the sudden noise, Ron shot about a foot into the air, clinging to the hoop for support like a koala to a tree. Shah fumbled the Quaffle, shrieking and diving desperately, managing to retrieve it mere inches from the ground. The old Ministry wizard overbalanced on his deckchair, tumbling onto the damp grass in a tangle of blankets and striped pyjamas.

Oblivious to the chaos their arrival had created, over a dozen Ministry officials had now gathered on the pitch, smartly dressed, and looking – as far as Harry could tell – irritatingly well-rested. Harry and Malfoy reluctantly separated, straightening and trying to appear business-like. More cracks heralded the return of reporters and photographers, and Malfoy smoothed his hair down, self-consciously. He caught sight of Harry watching and huffed a small, embarrassed laugh.

“Listen, I know I joke around and stuff, Harry, but, god, I thought you knew.”

“No, I…”

“For me,” interrupted Malfoy, voice quiet but steady, “it’s always been you.”

“Harry!”

It was Lofts, screaming from below them, and pointing frantically off to the side where – just a couple of metres away – the Snitch was hovering once more. Harry groaned in frustration and looked over at Malfoy, who raised one eyebrow, clearly amused. “The score’s close, you know.”

“I know, but…”

“Well I’m going for it,” Malfoy finished, his eyes flicking over to the tiny, fluttering ball. Harry didn’t need any more encouragement, turning on the spot even as he felt the swish of air behind him, and racing off towards the Snitch, Malfoy on his tail.

For some reason, it was an especially tricky chase. Harry was, of course, extremely well-practised at anticipating the Snitch’s trajectory, but this one seemed to take an unusual path, darting down in between the trees and emerging through a narrow gap – Harry and Malfoy in tow – only to fly straight at the Ministry officials. They all ducked, a few even diving to the ground, but the Snitch followed them, grazing the top of Kingsley’s shiny pate and flying directly through Hermione’s curls, before taking a sharp turn towards the refreshments stand. The two of them kept up the chase – Harry couldn’t be sure, but he thought he spotted Malfoy grabbing another teacake on the way past – before the little ball began speeding back across the pitch, deviating slightly to whack Russell sharply on the side of the head as it passed. Harry was confused, but nonetheless continued to follow it, winding in and out of the Unspeakables’ hoops and forcing their groggy Keeper to dive out of the way. Finally, the Snitch sped back up to the little spot where he and Malfoy had slept the night, and hovered there, as if in wait. Harry arrived first, breathless, and didn’t spare a glance behind him, completely focussed on his glittering prize as he reached out with one gloved hand and―

Nothing.

The Snitch had disappeared completely, leaving Harry staring at his empty palm in confusion. There was a loud snort from behind him, and he turned to find Malfoy, cheeks deliciously flushed, looking at him with barely-disguised glee.

“Sorry, Potter,” he said. “I couldn’t resist.” He winked, and the Snitch – a Snitch – appeared once more, directly in front of his face. He waved his hand through it once, twice, his digits melting straight through the golden ball without resistance.

Realisation dawned, and Harry started towards Malfoy. “You utter wanker!”

Malfoy held out his arms in surrender. “You’ve got me there.” Harry responded with a growl and a hefty but good-natured shove. Malfoy took it without complaint, flying off cheerfully to loop-the-loop above his head.

“Sorry!” he called again, not sounding sorry at all, as Harry fought to keep the smile from his face.

A sudden flash from below caught Harry’s eye. A group of Prophet reporters were watching the both of them intensely, heads cocked to the side none-too-subtly: clearly, they were using eavesdropping devices.

‘Nosy buggers’ echoed loudly through Harry’s mind. Malfoy winked, casting him a sly smile, and Harry started laughing.

***

The last hour was complete pandemonium. The Beaters were dodging the Bludgers wherever possible, rubbing their aching arms and groaning. Around them, the Chasers wobbled back and forth, grunting and groaning as though the Quaffles had turned to lead. In contrast, Ron’s nap seemed to have given him a second wind, and he managed to make a few excellent saves to the obvious delight of the – slightly confused – Prophet photographers. Harry and Malfoy circled the pitch half-heartedly, silent, each studiously avoiding the other’s gaze.

As the final few minutes ticked down, a small crowd began to gather again, cheering and shouting, and the mood amongst the players finally improved – their exhilaration tinged with an edge of exhausted hysteria. Harry himself was half-relieved and half-dismayed, wondering what would happen next as he inched his broomstick a little closer towards Malfoy’s.

Yet again, an incongruous gleam in the corner of Harry’s eye made him turn his head quickly to the right. It was indeed the Snitch, suspended several feet below them, directly over the canopy of trees. Malfoy had spotted it too, judging by his intake of breath.

“Not you this time?”

“No, Potter,” said Malfoy, his eyes fixed intently on the grass below them. Harry followed his gaze down to the score: Aurors 2420 : Unspeakables 2470.

“Shall we…?”

“I reckon we’d better,” said Harry. “Let’s make it a good one, yeah?”

Harry could hear the smile in Malfoy’s voice. “You’re on.”

As one they turned. Harry pointed the handle of his broom down and dropped into a dive, aching arms jerkily adjusting for the Snitch’s trajectory, the cold morning air sharp on his face as he gathered speed. He didn’t take his eyes off the tiny golden ball for a second, but he knew all the same: he was neck and neck with Malfoy; the other man’s body only inches away, his soft grunts of exertion ringing like thunder in Harry’s ears. The Snitch sped between the trees, forcing them both to duck and weave to avoid low-hanging branches, until, finally, mere feet from the muddy ground, Harry found himself within touching distance. Using every ounce of his remaining energy, he edged forward, his legs gripping the very front of his broom handle. He leaned, and leaned – and Malfoy leaned too, his arm pressed against Harry’s, and―

A loud whistle sounded.

Harry tumbled forwards, fingertips connecting with the Snitch, at the exact same time as Malfoy’s. The effort made him overbalance, and he took Malfoy with him, the two of them falling, gracelessly, into an enormous pile of old leaves.

Malfoy landed first, long limbs sprawled out clumsily amongst the mulch, and Harry followed, seconds later, directly on top of him. Harry shifted, trying and failing to get purchase on something – anything – solid. Malfoy was squirming about too. Harry looked down at him, expecting to be met by a look of discomfort, or revulsion or… well, anything but what he actually saw: a pair of grey eyes staring straight up at him, the pupils shot through with – Harry thought, he hoped – desire. Malfoy inhaled sharply, and Harry felt it, felt the movement of air against his own lips, separated by bare millimetres.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked downwards, and all further rational thought left Harry’s mind. He leaned in, nudging Malfoy’s dirt-smudged nose with his own and closing his eyes as their wind-chapped lips finally met. The kiss was gentle, hesitant at first, just a soft brush of their mouths together once, then again, and again; a culmination of the long night’s events – unreal, a little hazy, but somehow perfectly right. Then Malfoy’s hand came up to cup Harry’s jaw, and his lips parted, hot and needy, making Harry groan with want. He swiped his tongue over Malfoy’s lower lip, the earth shifting beneath his hands and knees as he tried to line their bodies up, to press even closer. There were little mulchy leaf fragments everywhere; the damp plastering Malfoy’s hair to his forehead and wicking up into Harry’s clothes wherever his limbs touched the ground. It should have been disgusting, Harry supposed, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Lost in the lazy slide of Malfoy’s tongue against his own, and entranced by the soothing stroke of Malfoy’s thumb behind his ear, he had absolutely no intention of stopping.

Malfoy must have felt the same because he wasn’t pulling away either; in fact, his other hand was working between them now, thumbing open the buttons at Harry’s collar, and then his own. Harry bent forwards, his stubble catching against Malfoy’s as he mouthed gently at the line of his jaw, licking a languorous path towards the hollow of his throat. Malfoy flung his head back, the leaves crunching beneath him, as Harry finally managed to work a leg in between Malfoy’s thighs. As Harry nipped at Malfoy’s collarbone, Malfoy mindlessly thrust his hips forward, and Harry was gratified to feel a hardness pressing against his―

They both froze, their breathing fast and loud in the silence as, slowly, Harry lifted his head. Malfoy was staring at him, completely alert, eyes bright like an animal caught in the headlights. The corner of his lip curled into a sly smile, and it was decided. They moved at the exact same second, hands darting down towards the little golden ball, which was trapped and struggling between their legs. Harry got there first, batting Malfoy’s hand away, his fingers grazing the fluttering wings, preparing to claim their prize. Malfoy huffed in frustration, but when Harry looked up his eyes were soft, crinkling at the edges, and he gave a small shrug. Suddenly, Harry’s decision was made.

“Here. You let me have that one earlier, after all.” He reached over and grasped Malfoy’s hand – his palm against Malfoy’s knuckles – and tugged it down between them and over the Snitch. Malfoy’s eyes widened in surprise as Harry pressed against his fingers, curling them around the tiny golden ball. Through Malfoy’s hand beneath his, he felt the moment that the catch registered, that familiar little sigh as the wings relaxed and the Snitch stopped struggling.

“That’s, uh, very chivalrous of you, Potter,” said Malfoy, with a grin. He brought the Snitch up between them, staring at it for a second, before wedging it into his pocket, sliding his filthy hand back into Harry’s hair and resuming where they’d left off.

“They were definitely over here, I saw them!” The voice echoing between the trees was indisputably Ron’s, and Harry groaned in frustration as they pulled apart. Harry rolled off the pile of leaves, scrabbling desperately to get to his feet. He pulled Malfoy up alongside him, the both of them frantically brushing down their uniforms and running shaking fingers through their hair. As the voices drew closer, Harry shifted to stand behind a small bush, noting with amusement the way Malfoy – cheeks still flushed scarlet – was attempting to position his broom in front of his own crotch.

“I―” Harry began, but before he could finish his thought, both teams came clattering through the bushes, forcing them to spring apart even further.

Ron was at the front of the group, moving awkwardly towards them, his gait wide and painful-looking. “Blimey, Harry, what the hell happened?”

Lost for words, Harry indicated the leaf pile beside them.

“Ugh. Bad luck,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Fitting end to a crappy day, I suppose. Although…”

He narrowed his eyes, voice trailing off, and Harry’s heart began to pound in his chest. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just… you’ve got fingerprints all over your face, mate.”

“Do I?” asked Harry, far too brightly.

“Yeah. And your hair’s all over the place, and your robes…” He eyed Malfoy suspiciously. “Were you fighting with the ferret?”

“What? No,” said Harry, quickly. “Course not. No idea. Anyway, Malfoy caught the Snitch.”

He indicated Malfoy, who nodded jerkily, pulling the little ball out of his pocket and holding it up between thumb and forefinger, much to the delight of his cheering teammates.

Ron groaned, shifting back and forth from leg to leg. “Mate! We had it in the bag! How did you…”

“Oh, give it a rest, Ron,” Harry snapped, thoroughly exhausted, and more than a little irritated at the unwelcome interruption. “You were asleep for half the match. You let in roughly a thousand goals. Does it even matter at this point?”

“Clearly does to him,” Ron muttered, and then, noticing Harry’s glare: “Look, it’s just that Kingsley’s brought this trophy, see, and…” He kept up the chatter as he turned, and began staggering awkwardly back out of the woods. Harry had no choice but to follow, throwing one last, helpless glance behind him at Malfoy as he picked his way through the undergrowth.

***

Kingsley had indeed brought a trophy, of sorts. It was about three inches tall and bore an uncanny resemblance to the glass owl paperweight which usually graced the Ministry reception desk directly opposite the Floos. Nevertheless, Malfoy put on his most charming smile for the cameras – and resolutely ignored its persistent hoots – as he lifted it high into the air. He made quite a sight – soaked through, and plastered from head to toe in mud – and as the journalists crowded around, his knackered teammates attempted to lift him over their heads. Ron kicked the ground sulkily.

“Yes, yes, congratulations Unspeakables,” said Kingsley over the hubbub. “And well done everybody for this fantastic show of sportsmanship. I’m delighted to announce that your efforts here today have raised over a thousand Galleons!” There was a smattering of polite applause, and a few camera lenses reluctantly turned away from the celebrating Unspeakables, as Kingsley continued. “Such a fantastic total, and I’m absolutely certain that Ms Granger-Weasley’s new Retired House Elf Clothing Bank will put it to excellent use.”

A tense silence fell over the group as he finished. The Aurors looked at one another. Malfoy slid to the floor, and the Unspeakables’ Keeper lowered their tiny trophy, lips pressed together tightly. Ron bit back a squeak of outrage as angry mutterings erupted from all the players, while Hermione beamed proudly, pretending not to notice. Kingsley, however, looked around nervously, bowed deeply and took his leave.

***

Things wound down rather quickly from there. Harry’s teammates called out sleepy farewells before Apparating home, and one by one, the Unspeakables began to do the same. Harry stood awkwardly off to the side, watching Malfoy chat away blithely to the Prophet reporter from yesterday. It seemed to go on for hours, and her smile was a little too bright for Harry’s liking, so before long, worn out, fed up and getting desperate, he marched over, grabbing Malfoy by the mud-smeared arm and steering him away from the protesting young woman once more.

“Ow!” He raised a hand in apology to the reporter, but his expression was amused as he turned back to Harry. “Potter, what d’you want?”

Harry leant in, feeling bold, letting his lips hover close to Malfoy’s ear. “Come home with me,” he whispered.

Malfoy straightened immediately with a chuckle. “Not a chance.”

“Oh, right,” Harry mumbled, confused and rather wounded. How on earth had he managed to misread this? Had the whole kiss – the whole night – been some bizarre sleep-deprived hallucination?

Malfoy laid a reassuring hand on Harry’s arm. “Look, Potter, as much as I’d love to, look at me. Look at you, for that matter. There’s no rush. I am gonna Apparate home, take a long and leisurely bath, apply industrial quantities of healing ointments to my poor, aching limbs, and then crawl into my lovely bed and sleep for at least ten hours.”

“Oh…”

“And you’ll be doing the same back at your place, if you’ve got any sense.”

“Okay...”

“And then – and only then, I might just let you take me out for dinner. Somewhere fancy. With decent portions, too – we deserve it, right? And after that – if all goes well,” he said, lips twitching slightly, “I will consider going home with you. Got it?”

“Okay,” said Harry, relief flooding through his veins. “Okay, yes. Definitely.”

“Good.”

“Great. I’ll – I’ll stop by around eight, maybe?”

“Sounds good. I wonder if this posh rich boy is interesting enough to make it past dinner, hmm?”

“You never know,” said Harry, with a grin. “I’ve heard he gives excellent massages, after all.”

“Oh Potter, that’s not even the half of it,” smirked Malfoy, quirking an eyebrow. “Learned plenty of other things on my travels that I can teach you too, if you’re interested.”

The earlier visual of Malfoy in cowboy boots popped instantly into Harry’s mind once more, and he gulped. “Sounds… sounds good.”

With a delighted laugh, Malfoy turned on his heel and strolled back over towards the Prophet reporter, torn Quidditch leggings clinging to his toned thighs. Harry’s heart was racing, adrenaline and excitement barely keeping his exhaustion at bay, and he was still smiling at Malfoy’s retreating form when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Harry,” whispered Ron urgently. His eyes held pure desperation as they flicked back and forth around the pitch. “You free now? Shall we go, uh, get a drink?”

“Er, no, you’re alright mate,” Harry replied, mind running over plans for later. “I think I’m just going to go home and sleep.”

“You sure I can’t tempt you? I’m buying, and…”

“Ronald?”

Ron yelped in alarm as Hermione appeared from nowhere behind them, her expression all business. “There you are! Sorry to interrupt, Harry, but Ron and I have somewhere to be. Right. Now.”

She marched off across the pitch, keeping a firm grip on Ron’s arm which forced him to stumble after her, one hand cupping his groin protectively. He cast Harry one last, anguished look over his shoulder as Hermione turned smartly on the spot and the pair of them disappeared into the ether.

Harry yawned, rubbing his eyes with shaky fingers as the long night finally began to catch up with him. With a sleepy but satisfied smile, he followed suit.