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It takes Harry a while to get truly fed up with the courting proposals.
They start on his seventeenth birthday, but as during the war most people have better things to do, the floodgates only fully open after Voldemort’s demise. Harry intends to go about his brand new, free from Dark Lords life and instead opens the window to a dozen owls patiently waiting for him. The steady stream of courting proposals doesn’t stop as he enters and finishes auror training, becomes a junior auror, gets partnered with Draco, gains a promotion, and sets out on the fast track to Head Auror Robards’ job. By his late twenties, Harry has received hundreds of courting proposals.
It doesn’t phase him anymore.
Not even when Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy drop by Harry and Draco’s office.
“Your lunch, sweetheart,” Narcissa says, never mind that Draco ate lunch two hours ago and has often called it embarrassing for his parents to ever be in the vicinity of the aurors’ floor of the ministry.
Lucius makes a beeline for Harry’s desk. In his hand is a scroll wrapped in the traditional white bow. “For you. We hope you will consider it. You’ve grown into a fine young man and your embrace of Draco as your partner on the force has said well of you.”
“We look forward to receiving your response,” Narcissa says, smiling at Harry.
Harry takes the scroll from Lucius, feeling gobsmacked. He hopes his mouth isn’t hanging open.
From behind Narcissa, Draco is mouthing, “I’ll kill you,” and making cutting gestures toward his throat.
“Thanks,” Harry says, and blinks at Lucius’ smile.
It’s a politician’s smile, but, well. Harry has never minded those when they come from people as pretty as Draco’s parents. He watches them leave. All that blonde hair is… not unappealing. He’s been partners with Draco at work for years now, and it’s something to see his parents outside of a ministry function, in all their gorgeous scheming. For all that he was a Slytherin in Hogwarts, Draco has largely let those schemes fall to the side in favor of work. Lucius and Narcissa, meanwhile, have only picked up steam after living through the war and managing to avoid most retribution for their parts in the war. Harry’s to blame for some of that.
“Don’t you dare,” Draco tells him as soon as the door shuts behind his parents.
Harry shrugs. “I haven’t said no. You can start calling me Dad now to get used to the idea.”
Draco looks as though Harry has spilled pumpkin juice all over his reports, all aghast and pouty. “I’ll murder you and write up the incident report myself. No one would blame me.”
“Your parents can plan my funeral. I bet they would make great mourning spouses. Your mum looks great in a veil.”
Harry dodges the curse that follows, then sends back a spell of his own: one from the holiday spellbook Luna wrote, sending flowers into the air. Courting colors, of course.
Later, Harry takes the courting proposal home with him, if only to properly decline. Much as he thinks the Malfoys are pretty, Harry doesn’t want to be one himself. He gets four more courting proposals that evening by owl, which go into a stack that has long since fallen in a pile on the floor and grown to the height of his desk. Harry occasionally wonders if he should be using his proposal letters as census data; it seems as though every single adult and interested couple has approached him throughout the past decade.
One hour later, he sends off the refusal to the Malfoys and looks down at the pile.
Something has to be done, Harry thinks.
“If you respond to them properly, they won’t be able to contact you again,” Hermione has told him time and again.
But were Harry to respond properly, in the format society demands, he would spend all his free time answering the damn things, citing specific points about each courter as reason to decline, or even having to meet with the person to decline. It’s tedious. Easier to throw the proposals in a corner and forget about them.
Still, were Harry to declare himself taken, surely no one would expect him to entertain others’ courtship proposals? All he has to do is proclaim himself so madly in love that no one will think they can match or gain Harry’s interest.
With that thought in mind, Harry apparates to the main office of the Daily Prophet.
“I’m Harry Potter and I have something to say,” Harry tells the receptionist, who sets him up with a senior reporter within minutes.
“Yes, Mr. Potter?”
“I’d like to apologize to anyone whose courtship proposal I haven’t replied to. It’s only that there’s only one person who I can imagine agreeing to, and I haven’t received his proposal. I’d like to ask for anyone else to refrain, please, since my heart is taken.”
“And who is this lucky person, Mr. Potter?”
“Er,” Harry says.
*
“Percival Graves? Really?” Draco asks when Harry arrives the next morning. He holds up the newspaper to show Harry a copy of the article. As the wizarding world is doubtlessly addled, news of Harry’s new revelation takes up the full front page. “At least now you can’t marry my parents.” Through a cough, he adds, “Homewrecker.”
“Both your parents proposed,” Harry reminds him. “If anything, I would be joining rather than—”
“Don’t even go there!” Draco says, almost in a screech. “I hope that with enough time, I’ll be able to scrub this experience from my brain. Perhaps I will Obliviate myself. Have you ever even met Graves?”
“A few times. He’s part of the American auror continent that attends the yearly law enforcement conference at the ICW. The first time we spoke, I told him about how I enjoyed his lecture on the protocols surrounding the capture of dangerous magical creatures accidentally or purposely released in urban areas.” Harry sighs happily. “I shook his hand.”
“You’re a fanboy,” Draco huffs. “Why didn’t I know this about you?”
“I kept it from you because I knew you would be insufferable.”
“Understandable. Carry on.”
“Then next year at the conference, he asked me to join him for a drink.”
Draco’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”
“It was all professional,” Harry says. “Robards was there. We talked about strategies to improve the solve rate of cases. He didn’t flirt with me once. Then last year, I managed to get a seat at his table during the conference closing dinner. We were the last two at our table to leave.”
“Also professional?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He sounds straight.”
Harry sighs again. “Yeah. All of this, it’s just to get other people off my back. I know Percival isn’t interested. Besides, I have your parents as a backup plan.”
“As do I, with murder,” Draco reminds him. “I would pull off the Azkaban jumpsuit look. Don’t underestimate me.”
*
“Why him?” Hermione asks, later, during one of their dinners.
Harry reaches for another helping as he says, “He’s the most attractive man on earth.”
“No, he’s not,” Ron replies. “That’s Chudley Cannons seeker Galvin Gudgeon.”
“Wrong,” Harry says, not even entertaining the idea.
Ron rolls his eyes. “Graves has that professional politician look. The hair and voice.” To Hermione, he explains, “We used his news clips and interviews back in training for how to speak to the press. He hasn’t had a PR mishap in over a decade. The guy is a machine.”
“A sexy machine,” Harry corrects.
Hermione laughs. “What are you going to do if he reaches out to you?”
“He won’t. I’m sure the director of the American DMLE doesn’t read the Daily Prophet. Everyone abroad knows our paper’s bonkers. I’m sure he only reads Gringotts Today if anything. The man doesn’t think of me as anything except a foreign celebrity and auror. I’m safe from courting proposals for a while; I haven’t received any in days.”
Ron shares a look with Hermione, then says, “But don’t you want to fall in love? This announcement, it will stop anyone interested in you from telling you how they feel, too. What if you’re wrecking your own chances by doing this?”
Harry shrugs, looking down at his hands. It’s a topic he and his friends have often revisited; the way that Harry’s friends have all seemed to pair up after Hogwarts, while Harry’s singlehood keeps extending year after year. “I’m not unhappy, is the thing. Would I like to be in love? Sure. But I’d rather be able to look out the window without the view being covered by an owl than have good dating prospects.”
“If you say so,” Ron says, shaking his head. “What’s Draco think of all this?”
“He’s disappointed that I refused to become his stepdad,” Harry replies, grinning.
*
A few days later, Robards calls him into his office. “Is this thing with Percival going to be an issue for you?”
“No, of course not,” Harry says. “It won’t have an impact on my work. In fact, I’ll be working harder to never, ever mention it again…”
It’s the first and hopefully the last time he’s talked about love with his boss, even in oblique terms. Robards, who doesn’t even let people know where he buys coffee, let alone whether he has a partner, has never been the type for casual conversation on the topic.
“Good,” Robards replies, firmly. “You’ll be joining the usual crowd for the ICW conference. Do not solicit the director of the DMLE for sexual or romantic connections.”
“Sir.”
“Unless he invites them, at which point I don’t want to know. You’ll be at his table again. I’ve also scheduled you two for a one on one, which I’m now regretting.”
“What for?”
Robards makes that face he makes when he’s been asked to be sincere. “Percival is one of the men I most admire in this profession and you are one of the best the department’s had in my time. You two could learn a lot from each other. Don’t let it get to your head.”
“Impossible— I’m already the Boy-Who-Lived,” Harry says. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Robards lets him get halfway to the door before he says. “At least you have good taste.”
“I sure do,” Harry agrees.
He packs lightly for the conference. It’s a week-long event and he’ll be expected to be in his auror robes, the good ones, not the daily wear. Despite himself, Harry packs his suitcase with the knowledge that Percival will see him in whatever he chooses. Harry has never put much stock in fashion, nor paid attention to the trends, but he suddenly wonders if he should invest in some tie clips. He’s heard those are getting popular again…
On the morning of the first day of the conference, Draco is Harry’s portkey buddy.
“I told Ron I would be your wingman,” Draco says, deigning to touch with one finger the metal plate that is their portkey. “What does that entail?”
“Not letting me make a fool of myself.” Harry pats down his hair. “How do I look?”
“Good enough. If he didn’t flee on sight last year, with that mess of a haircut you had, then you’re fine.”
“I’ll take it,” Harry says, just as the portkey whisks them both away.
The conference is held in Paris this year, in a hotel that straddles the muggle and magical worlds with stately opulence. Draco mentions offhandedly that he’s been there twice, while Harry avidly looks around. International guests spill out from the lobby and into the open doors leading into the French magical district.
Harry doesn’t see Percival until lunch, during which he catches Percival’s eye across the room.
Percival returns Harry’s nod and continues to speak with his companion, a woman Harry faintly recognizes as a Canadian auror. Too soon, Harry is pulled into a different conversation, and he loses track of Percival.
Relief is at the forefront of Harry’s mind. It seems that Percival hasn’t seen the article or has seen it and put it out of his mind. A part of Harry is disappointed, but he expected this outcome. It’s not a surprise to know that Percival Graves isn’t interested. Just a disappointment, and Harry has encountered many of those during his life. He will get through it.
As Harry circles around in Percival’s direction, he has decides to believe that it doesn’t matter at all that Percival doesn’t fancy him. Then once he reaches him, only a meter away, and encounters Percival’s handsome face again, Harry realizes deciding doesn’t make it fact.
“Mr. Graves,” Harry says in greeting. “Hello.”
“Mr. Potter,” Percival says in return. “Are you enjoying the conference?”
Now that you’re here, yes, Harry thinks, and says, “It’s my second time in Paris and on better terms this time. I like it.”
“The basilisk case?”
“That’s the one,” Harry says, shaking his head. “The things that dark wizards get up to. I don’t know how they find the time.”
“Perhaps they steal it from us,” Percival replies. There is a smile lingering at the edge of his lips. “Are you available for brunch tomorrow? It’s one of the few free moments in my schedule and I want to make time for you.”
I want to make time for you. Harry is a grown man, and therefore doesn’t swoon, but it’s a close one. “I’ll be there.”
He spends the rest of the day as if bespelled. Draco, as befitting a wingman whose interest lies in keeping Harry away from his parents, bears with Harry’s various comments about how cool Percival’s career is and how nice his hair looks.
The next day, Harry bears with the morning events, then arrives at a wizarding cafe near the hotel for brunch.
Percival doesn’t spend much time on small talk, evidently wanting to make the most of their one on one. “Tell me about the Parkinson matter. Robards mentioned it to me.”
“A mess all around,” Harry says, shaking his head before going into it in detail.
He doesn’t try to downplay his own shortcomings. One of the best in the department or not, he’s made his mistakes. Harry listens to Percival’s advice, noting the criticism and appreciating the praise, and eventually says, “Did Robards ask you to mentor me?”
“Not officially.” Percival pauses, taking a sip of his coffee, and says, “I will begin campaigning for Seraphina’s spot once her seven year term draws to a close. She’s looking forward to retirement; more time to enjoy with her husband and to heckle me about my choices. I haven’t made an official announcement yet.”
“I won’t tell.”
“I know you won’t. Robards is taking advantage of the time I have now, since I will have less of it in the future. Is mentorship something you are looking for?”
Harry steals Percival’s answer with a smile. “Not officially. I’ve had a lot of people willing to mentor me. It comes with the territory of my fame. But I like the occasional conversation before making my own decisions, be they good or poor. I value your perspective either way.”
“I have heard my perspective is not your only concern,” Percival replies. There is a twitch to his lips that has Harry realize immediately what he means. “As president, I would not have time to make a courting proposal, of course, as per your recent announcement.”
Harry chokes on air. “Percival. I—”
“So I would hope to get to know you beforehand. If all goes well, I should hope that the voters support my embrace of personal connections. Seraphina has noted it as something I’m lacking in.” Percival pauses for a moment, then adds, “And so have I. Not for professional reasons, nor for my ambitions, but for simply myself.”
“Then it could be anyone that would catch your eye?”
“Not anyone,” Percival promises, holding Harry’s gaze. “I am a creature of habit. I find it difficult to diverge from my usual habits. You make me want to. I understand that it will be difficult to do this with an ocean between us…”
“I’ll agree to the next case that takes me to New York. I heard Robards already has one—something about a British organized crime ring expanding into the States.”
Percival inclines his head. “I would like that, Harry.” He withdraws a scroll from the pocket of his robes. Harry’s heart skips a beat when he sees the white bow. “My courtship proposal, as requested from you to the world.” His expression gains a touch of amusement as he says, “Will you announce the start of our courtship in the same manner?”
Harry takes the scroll and unrolls it, signing without reading the proposal. He’ll take it. Every line, every moment. “If I have to. Everyone should know you’re taken, after all. I’m a lucky guy.”
“As am I,” Percival agrees.