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Chapter Text

Dark wizards, dead parents, war, torture, death. Harry had suffered it all, but it was the silence he feared would finally send him round the twist.

It took all of Harry’s self-restraint to keep from tearing the wards of Grimmauld Place to the ground, clawing them away like peeling wallpaper to let in the hum of the city. What Harry wouldn’t give for some white noise—voices, footsteps, a barking dog, a wailing ambulance. Hell, Harry would take a screaming baby over this shite. Alas, the only sounds that permeated the old house were those of the dust accumulating, the mice gnawing at the foundations, and the mould blooming in the dark, damp corners.

He couldn't bloody stand it.

Harry tried turning the volume on the wireless loud enough that it echoed across the house. That worked for all of ten minutes until Harry's preferred station started reporting the day's Quidditch schedule. Most notably, the anticipated Holyhead Harpies match, in which Seeker Ginevra Weasley was expected to take that signature fire to the pitch against Kenmare, tonight, at five o'cl—

A blast of magic slammed into the poor wireless, hurling it across the room, where it crashed into the far wall and broke into a million pieces. Harry winced, once again drowning in silence. He didn't mean to do that and now he'd have to buy a new one.

Eventually.

Perhaps after the Quidditch play-offs were finished.

Harry tried a Muggle telly next. Loads of wizards had them these days and Harry had wanted one since he left school because it meant he could watch five uninterrupted hours of Red Dwarf without needing to break into Hermione's flat to do so. Unfortunately, the ancient magic in Grimmauld Place fried the machine as soon as he got the cable hooked up, and the telly joined the hissing, sparking heap with the wireless.

Harry flung open the windows, hoping for noise pollution, but all he got were bugs and a wet carpet after an unexpected rainstorm. Incessant hoovering didn't work, nor did releasing the Doxies infesting the attic, though the floor was now spotless and Harry had a fascinating network of Doxy tunnels in the walls. He even went so far as to belt an off-key version of the Hogwarts' school song as he paced from the kitchen to the sitting room and back to the kitchen again, fully aware that he was starting to look a bit mad.

As a last resort, Harry picked up a portable CD player from a Muggle thrift shop, along with a few CDs. That worked best thus far, and the house only interfered minimally (something about batteries instead of wall plugs, he reckoned). But even with T. Rex's Electric Warrior on repeat, he still felt like he was going to crawl out of his skin.

Harry tucked the CD player, on its third replay of Life's a Gas, into his hoodie pocket and floated to the fridge. He opened it and peered inside for what had to be the fifth time in an hour, found nothing appealing, and closed it with a sigh.

He had to get out of here.

He needed to go someplace with people and sounds; anything to distract him from this house, this silence, and how, for the first time in many years, Harry found himself completely alone.

He abandoned the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time towards his bedroom. He shucked his hoodie as he went, congratulating himself for getting it off in one movement without dislodging his headphones or causing the CD player to skip. 

Harry tucked his nose into the neck of his t-shirt, sniffing, then shrugged. It no longer smelled like fresh laundry, but it was stain-free and didn't stink of sweat or sleep or smoke, which meant he could get another night out of it. However, a glance in the mirror confirmed he was pushing it with the hair. It was greasier than usual and in need of a trim. Shit, Harry needed a trim six months ago, but he'd been busy. Now it was everywhere, twisting in all directions, hanging well past his jaw. He pushed it out of his eyes and adjusted his glasses on his face.

Whatever.

Harry wasn't going out to be seen, or even to talk to people. All he wanted was to get lost in a crowd and be 'just some bloke' instead of Harry Potter: Chosen One for a few hours. And if he went somewhere he could forget about the clawing ache in his chest and drone out the deafening silence with a Firewhisky buzz, then all the better.

Harry grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair. It was perhaps not the most inconspicuous, but it was comfortable and one of the few items in his closet that didn't make him feel like he was wearing a straitjacket. So, he'd be 'just some bloke' in Harry Potter's infamous leather jacket.

Harry considered the shoe selection on the floor of his closet. He only owned two pairs: Auror-issue boots and worn high-top trainers. The thought of donning any part of his uniform made Harry's stomach twist, so he opted for the trainers. They were the more runnable of the two, and Harry liked to know he could move fast if necessary, a lingering instinct he doubted he would ever shake.

Declaring himself presentable, Harry headed back downstairs.

He hesitated over the skateboard propped next to the door. The streets were dry and a ride would help to clear the cobwebs from his mind, but he decided against it a moment later. He knew himself well enough to know he would be tempted to ride it home, and skateboarding pissed was an assured disaster.

Harry ducked out the door.

As soon as he stepped beyond the darkened threshold of 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry breathed easier. He jogged down the stairs and the wards slid shut behind him, the house folding itself away to tuck neatly between 11 and 13 as if it were never there.

Three steps, a blink, and Harry was gone, dropped miles from Islington into a shadowy corridor at the end of Knockturn Alley.

The pub there, The Briar and Toad, was always busy, which was precisely what Harry needed. Crowds made it easier to hide, so long as Harry kept his head down and the speaking to a minimum.

It was simpler to navigate magical spaces with a Glamour, but Harry was shite with those fiddly sorts of spells. Too often he let his eye colour flicker or his jaw melt back to its usual stubborn angle. Glamours were Hermione's area. She used them regularly to maintain her privacy and would extend them to Harry when they were together, but Harry had no intention of telling Hermione he was going out tonight. Something told him she wouldn't approve of him quashing his anguish by getting absolutely ratarsed. Hermione had enough to worry about without adding Harry to the list.

It wasn’t a big deal. He'd have a few drinks and be back to haunting Grimmauld Place like a ghost in no time. So long as he was a slightly drunker, more numb ghost, there would be no harm done.

It would be fine.

Probably.

Unfortunately for Harry, his fame didn't fade in the years following the war. If anything, it multiplied disproportionately. There were days he could hardly walk down Diagon Alley without being accosted by photographers, reporters, and eager fans. The whole bloody thing was exhausting—embarrassing, really. He tried to hold his smile until his cheeks ached, but he hated it when they pawed at him, tugging his clothes to get his attention. He hated it even more when they wept, when they waved pictures of their lost loved ones in his face, when they clutched at his sleeves and dropped to their knees and thanked him for saving them from the Dark Lord while all Harry could do was mutter that it was actually more of a group effort.

Things were weird, and because of that, Harry didn't go out much. Tonight felt different, though. Tonight, Harry was on his own and he hoped that without his usual, equally recognisable companions, he could go unnoticed.

Saturday night saw The Briar and Toad packed to the gills, people spilling out of the entrance into the street despite the early autumn chill. Harry shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and kept his eyes on his feet.

So far, so good.

He made it through the front door and halfway to the bar before he was spotted.

"Harry Potter!" someone shouted.

Harry winced. Ah well. It was a good run while it lasted.

Harry turned and suffered a spasm of panic when he didn't immediately recognise the man striding towards him. He was maybe a few years older than Harry, good-looking and well-dressed, with short dark hair slicked back stylishly. Also, he was huge. Fucking enormous.

Harry floundered, trying to remember where they met, but he was shite with names. That was Ginny's forte, and she definitely wasn't going to show up and bail him out.

"Harry Potter, my old comrade!"

Harry frowned. The vague accent, the dark, wild eyes, and heavy brow. With a start, it all slid into place.

"Holy shit. Viktor Krum?"

Bloody hell. He grew up.

The last time Harry saw Krum in person had to be the Triwizard Tournament. He knew Krum moved to England permanently after the war to play Quidditch for Puddlemere, and then the London Lions. He saw pictures of him all over the papers, his Quidditch kit straining over his massive shoulders, smirking at cameras, taunting his opponents with a fearsome glare. Ron followed Krum's career closely (which Ginny ribbed him mercilessly over), whistling in admiration when he appeared in the tabloids next to this model or that pop star. The bloke made the headlines frequently, though not nearly as often as Harry.

"You are taller," Krum said, shaking Harry by his shoulders, then releasing him so abruptly he staggered.

"Yeah, thanks. So are you. And like…" Harry spread his arms the width of Krum's significant breadth. "Bigger."

Krum bellowed out a laugh and Harry shrunk into the collar of his jacket. Even if Viktor Krum weren't a famous Quidditch star and big as a house, he was fucking loud, and therefore not part of Harry's plan to lie low.

"It's been too long. Come, you will sit with us. Me and some friends. You know them. Tell me what you drink and I will get it for you." Krum said, hand to his chest.

"Yeah, been an age," Harry replied. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with a valid reason why he couldn't sit or stay, but drew a blank.

Fuck it. Maybe some company would do him good.

"I'll take a Firewhisky," Harry said. "Thanks."

"Anything for Harry Potter!" Krum said, pounding Harry's back. "Go. We have the table at the back. I will join you." He pushed him towards the rear of the room, then headed to the bar.

It was easy to figure out which table Krum meant because there was only one. And he was right. Harry did know its occupants. Sort of.

Sitting at the far end of the booth was a pretty witch with long dark hair Harry recognised from school. A Slytherin, maybe a few years behind Harry, though he couldn't recall her name for the life of him. Next to her sat a wiry man with a blue mohawk Harry was pretty sure was the guitarist for a band Ron liked.

And then, sitting in the chair opposite, was Draco Malfoy.

Harry didn't bother hiding his scowl.

"Oh, no fucking way. Potter?" Malfoy's lip curled into a sneer around Harry's name.

"Malfoy."

Alarm bells blared in Harry's mind, instinct telling him to run fast, to get the fuck out of there. But then the bloke with the blue hair stood, reaching out his hand.

"Alright, Harry?" he said. "Good to see you."

"Yeah, alright. Hi," Harry mumbled.

The girl waggled her fingers at him.

"Have a seat, Potter," Malfoy said, kicking out the chair next to him with the heel of his boot. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Don't stand there all night looking like a great lost Plimpy."

Harry did not want to sit next to Malfoy, but before he could withdraw, Krum returned. He shoved a drink at Harry and corralled him towards the seat, hand the size of a frying pan a heavy weight on Harry's shoulder. Harry dropped into the chair, resigned.

"I am happy you joined us, Harry. Are you meeting someone?" Krum asked, then threw back a shot of clear liquor and followed it with a long pull on his fresh pint.

"Ah, no. Just me. Needed to get out of the house for a bit."

"I will get you drunk, and you will stay here with us tonight," Krum said, leaving no room for negotiation.

Malfoy looked at Harry, one eyebrow arched, all but begging him to admit aloud that he was ready to cut tail and run based on Malfoy's presence alone. Harry, however, refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Sure. Thanks for having me."

Malfoy snickered into his glass, but the girl was already beaming at him, and Blue Hair nodded enthusiastically.

Harry wished he'd never left the house.

"Anyway, like I was saying," Blue Hair said, addressing the table. "There's no way you can consider The Manic Pixies a legitimate part of punk as a movement."

"Your mind is small and closed," Krum grumbled. "They made their music at the same time as your Muggle bands. There is no difference."

"The movement was Muggle, based on a socioeconomic disparity thanks to the fucking monarchy and its disregard for the Muggle working cl—"

Harry sighed, his mind already drifting.

He didn't have a bloody clue what they were talking about, nor did he care, so he sipped his whisky a bit too fast and attempted to smile and nod at the right moments.

Harry tried to avoid looking at Malfoy. He wanted to stare, boldfaced and unblinking because, while it hadn’t been that long since Harry last saw Malfoy, he was far from the bedraggled waif they let out of Azkaban two years after the war. No, this version of Malfoy looked as though he'd come straight from a photoshoot. He wore a handkerchief parading as a shirt, unbuttoned far too low and hanging off his slim shoulders. Silver necklaces glinted at his breastbone, rings on his knuckles, and he twirled a Muggle cigarette between long fingers like a nervous habit.

Malfoy, it seemed, had no compunctions about gawking, and stared straight at Harry, a smirk tugging at his lips. Harry couldn't decide whether he was about to be insulted or eaten, and when he dared to look back, Malfoy grinned at him like a shark, all teeth and not a lick of warmth. It did not bode well for the rest of his evening.

Harry was so busy avoiding eye contact with Malfoy that he hardly noticed when Blue Hair rounded on him.

"Harry, what do you think?"

Harry twitched. Shit. He hadn't been listening. "Beg your pardon?"

"Manic Pixies? Punk or not?"

"Is that… a band? Yeah, sorry. Not really familiar. Um." Harry shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Four sets of eyes blinked at him. Malfoy looked positively giddy watching Harry fumble, but Blue Hair nodded, dark brows drawn down over his pale eyes.

"Yeah, man. That's so true. Like, who are we to be judge, jury, and executioner, you know?"

"Oh, we're executing people now?" Malfoy said with a haughty huff, but Blue Hair was already reaching across the table to bump his fist against Harry's, which Harry returned, bewildered.

"Good on you, mate," Blue Hair said. "Stay out of pop culture. The ultimate rebellion."

"Bloody hell, he is pop culture," Malfoy muttered into his drink.

"Right," Harry said, ignoring Malfoy. "Uh, thanks."

Blue Hair and Krum returned to their arguing and Harry slumped in his chair.

Malfoy tipped into Harry's space, close enough that Harry could smell his cologne and the cigarette smoke clinging to him.

"Merlin, Potter. Try not to look so completely out of your depth. It's embarrassing to watch."

Harry shrugged him off. He threw back the last of his drink, shaking the ice at the bottom of the glass. "I am completely out of my depth," he said. "And I don't see you piping up with any clever contributions."

Malfoy's bright burst of laughter startled Harry enough that he jumped. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard him make such a sound.

"Harry, what are you drinking? I'll get you another," Blue Hair said, but Harry shook his head.

"I'm good for now, thanks… uh… mate," Harry replied, waving him off. He needed to come up with a reason to leave. Preferably soon.

"Jack," Malfoy said, his voice low in Harry's ear.

Harry turned, drawing back to put some space between them. "What?"

"His name is Jack Vile. Not his real name, of course, but it's the only one he will respond to. He's the guitarist for the Boxley Burners. That’s a band, if you weren’t aware."

A light blinked on in Harry's mind. He had met Jack before, at some concert fundraiser Ron and George dragged him to last year. His hair was different, but it was definitely him. The bloke nearly burned down the stage with some unsanctioned pyrotechnics and then stole a Muggle car and drove it into a lamppost. He was perpetual fodder for the celebrity rags, always involved in some disaster or another.

"Oh, right. Course. I knew that."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. It was an oddly familiar gesture, though it was one Harry hadn't seen directed at him since they were children.

"Liar. You didn't have a bloody clue. I could see you floundering a mile away. The girl, that's Astoria. She was two years behind us in school. Her sister Daphne was our year.

"And of course you remember Viktor, who outshone you to a humiliating degree in the Triwizard Tournament back in fourth-year."

"Right," Harry grumbled. "And these are friends of yours?"

Malfoy hummed. "We hang out, but friends is a bit of a stretch." Then he paused, studying Harry with sharp grey eyes. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here."

"Why? This is a pub, and I wanted a drink."

"You could have gone anywhere."

"This was the first place I thought of."

"Bollocks."

Harry stared sourly into his glass. He needed some place crowded and this really was all that came to mind. He'd been here once with Luna because she heard The Briar Toad was warded against the paparazzi, causing reporting devices, Quick Quotes quills, and cameras to catch fire and burn until they were nothing but ash and wisps of smoke. That made it a popular place to gather before the nightlife picked up: clubs, posh parties, late-night cocktail bars. All the places Harry never went.

"How do you know I don't come here all the time?" Harry tried.

Malfoy shot him an unimpressed look. "Because I do come here all the time. I'm sure I'd remember seeing Harry Potter lurking in dark corners."

"This whole pub is a dark corner."

Malfoy rested his chin on his fist. "You're a gloomy fellow, aren't you, Potter?"

Harry huffed. "No, normally I'm a ray of sunshine. You just bring out the worst in me."

"Then I'm honoured to still garner such a strong reaction. It has been quite a long time."

Malfoy continued to study Harry while Harry sipped the watery remains of his drink to keep his hands busy.

"Where's your other half, then? Red hair, freckles. Nice tits, but a bit of a mean streak."

Harry scowled at the crude mention of Ginny. "She has a match."

"And you're here? But I thought you went to all of her matches. At least that's what the Prophet said. Harry Potter, front row at every game."

Harry shrugged one shoulder. "I had things to do here."

"Mm. Finally grew tired of you, did she?"

Harry glared sharply at Malfoy. He knew Malfoy was baiting him, led by nothing more than his innate arsehole instinct, but it didn't stop the pain that pierced Harry's chest like a perfectly aimed polearm pinning him to the ground. He resisted the urge to rub at the phantom ache for fear that Malfoy would see right through it.

No one but their closest friends and family knew about Harry and Ginny's split. It hadn't hit the papers yet, and though it was only a matter of time before everyone was talking about it, there was no way Malfoy could know the truth of his words.

But bloody fuck, it hurt.

Hermione promised Harry that it would get easier, that eventually it would stop feeling as though his insides were being scooped out with a rusty spoon every time Harry thought about Ginny. Harry was inclined to believe her; she suffered her own emotional death by Weasley, after all. But he wasn't there yet. He wasn't even remotely close. It had only been a few days.

"No. I was just busy," Harry lied through gritted teeth. "What do you care, anyway?"

"I don't. I'm simply intrigued as to why you turned up here, of all places, alone and unchaperoned."

"I don't need a bloody chaperone."

"Not what I heard. I heard you exploded the croquembouche at the Ministry holiday party because Granger wasn't keeping an eye on you."

"You believe everything you hear?" Harry asked, even though, yes. He did that. But only because Shacklebolt's idiotic aide wouldn't stop talking about the impracticality of Hermione's House-Elf Independence Act in front of essential Wizengamot members, and Harry saw red.

"No, but it sounds a bit like you, doesn't it?"

"Oh, absolutely," Harry replied flatly. "My long-standing quarrel with posh baked goods is legendary. Any other rumours you'd like me to confirm or deny from your collection of newspaper article clippings?"

"A collection! Could you imagine? Plastering my walls with exhibits of all your public embarrassments in print? Don't give me any ideas. And excellent deflection, by the way."

Harry cursed inwardly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about how you've abandoned your girlfriend during a play-off match. Is it because you're jealous that she'll get more attention than you?"

Harry snorted inelegantly. "Yeah, that's it. You got me."

"Alright then. What are you doing here?"

"Getting drunk with you, I suppose," Harry said with a heavy sigh.

Malfoy's smirk tilted to a wickedly crooked angle.

"Lucky you. I bet you have more fun with me tonight than you ever have with her."

Harry's head snapped up in surprise. "You want me to stay?"

"Are you joking?" Malfoy asked brightly. "There is nothing I want more."

Harry didn't trust that one bit, and not only because Malfoy was looking at him like a predator scenting blood. Malfoy had a motive. He always had a bloody motive.

Not that Harry pretended to know Malfoy anymore. Or ever, really.

They hadn't spoken since Malfoy was released from Azkaban after the trials. It took a staggering eighteen months before they put him in front of the Wizengamot, thanks to Ministry bureaucracy working at minimum efficiency as usual, but also because he was a Malfoy and Harry reckoned they wanted him to suffer.

Harry was at the Ministry the day of Malfoy’s trial, a fresh-faced Auror Trainee without a single scuff on his boots yet. Harry hardly recognised him—thin and bedraggled. He had showered, dressed, and tidied for trial, but it failed to hide his sunken cheeks or the hollowness of his eyes.

Harry tried not to let it remind him of Sirius.

As the rookie, Harry's handler assigned him as Malfoy's guard. All the senior Aurors likely had a good laugh about it, leaving Harry Potter to watch the Malfoy heir, well aware of their history. They likely expected a brawl.

"Potter," Malfoy had grumbled in greeting, hands clasped in his lap as he awaited the summons from inside the courtroom where his fate would be decided, be it freedom or extended imprisonment. He probably expected the worst; Harry certainly did. Malfoy's parents had already received their life sentences.

Harry replied with a tight nod, and that was it. A half-hour later, Malfoy went in front of the Wizengamot, was acquitted and released on parole due to his age.

In the following years, Harry forgot Malfoy existed. That was until he started showing up on the covers of gossip magazines, drunk and dressed like a bloody rock star. Malfoy was a honey pot for swarming paparazzi, maybe even more so than Jack or Krum. If Harry wanted to remain unnoticed, he shouldn't be within a mile of any of them.

But Harry couldn't go home.

He also couldn't stand to be around people who knew how utterly, devastatingly wrecked Harry was. He just wanted to get drunk and forget everything. And if Draco Malfoy was offering him a guided tour of the abyss, Harry was inclined to take it. Things couldn't possibly get any worse, right?

"That's an actual bet?" he asked.

"Sure," Malfoy replied with a toothy grin. "But you have to stay for the entire ride. I should be clear, this pub is merely the watering hole. A little lubrication before the night truly begins."

"Oh good," Harry grumbled. "At least there's lube."

Malfoy's glass hit the table with a thunk, and Harry grimaced. Harry darted a glance at him, only to find mirth dancing in his eyes. He looked a bit mad, to be honest.

"Alright," Harry said with a nod. "What do I get if I win?"

"How about the satisfaction of being right? Never happened to you before, so I imagine it would be quite novel."

"You know, normally, that wouldn't be enough. But with you?" Harry tilted his head, considering. "It's a bet."

"I look forward to gloating."

"And I look forward to drinking enough to forget this ever happened."

Malfoy grinned and tapped the rim of his glass against Harry's empty one. "Shall we seal it with a drink? Your treat, of course."

Harry was already questioning his choices, but he needed an excuse to get a little space. And more lube.

He pushed his chair away from the table. "Fine. What do you want?"

Malfoy's pale, arched brows jumped as if he didn’t expect Harry to agree so readily. "Vodka soda. Lime. Make it a double."

Harry nodded and headed to the bar, where he ordered the cheapest vodka available and another whisky for himself.

Harry kept his eyes lowered while he waited for the drinks, surreptitiously scanning the room. It was busier than when he came in, the scant tables overfilled, and everyone else forced to stand, leaning against the bar or the walls, or in clusters at the centre.

None of them were anywhere near as glamorous as Krum, Malfoy, or their friends, who looked as much the glossy celebrities as they were on the tabloid covers. Harry, in comparison, looked like the dirt on the bottom of their designer shoes, but he reckoned it didn't really matter. He was trying to avoid attention. Maybe they would take it all from him because that alone was reason enough to hang around this lot.

When Harry returned to the table, Malfoy's ankles lay crossed on the seat of his chair. Harry dropped his drink in front of him, then tipped the chair, dumping his feet onto the floor while Malfoy made sounds of protest.

Harry took his seat. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Malfoy took a smug sip from his glass, then cringed.

"Eugh," he said, wiping his mouth. "This is awful, Potter. What did you do, ask them to dump the bar mat into my glass?"

Harry shrugged. He hid his satisfied smile as Malfoy made a show of spitting into an empty glass and rubbing his tongue on the cocktail napkin, drawing chuckles from the rest of the table.

"I said I'd get you a drink. I didn't say it'd be a nice one."

Malfoy shrugged. "I guess I shouldn't complain. I can still say I got Harry Potter to buy me a drink."

"And here I was thinking if I gave you something to put in your mouth, you'd shut up for a while," Harry quipped.

Malfoy's eyes went large as saucers and Harry narrowly resisted the urge to slap and hand over his own mouth because he did not mean for it to sound so… suggestive. Well, no that wasn't right. Harry meant it exactly as it sounded. He just didn't mean to say it to Draco bloody Malfoy.

Jack snorted into his fist, and Astoria released a high-pitched squeal like a tea kettle while Krum thumped a meaty palm on the table, roaring.

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy burst out laughing, a startled but delighted sound.

Harry began mentally compiling spells to make the floor open up and swallow him whole.

"Keep it up, Potter. I'd be much obliged," Malfoy said with a little wink.

Harry's face flamed. Malfoy was putting on an act, Harry was sure of it. Malfoy had never once talked to Harry like that, teasing in a way that wasn't downright nasty. Did he want these people to think they were friends? No one in their right mind would ever believe it. Harry didn't know what to make of it himself.

Thankfully, Krum pulled Harry into a conversation about Quidditch that had nothing to do with Ginny. It was a relief to no longer have to look directly at Malfoy, but Harry could still feel Malfoy's gaze on him, flickering over his face, his body, away and back again, hot as a candle flame too close to the skin.

It should have ticked him off. It did, a little bit. But more than anything, it made Harry want to shift in his seat, to fidget with the button on his sleeve, or shred the soggy paper coaster that sat under his drink.

Harry finished his whisky too fast and went for another one. Despite Malfoy's insistence, no one seemed keen to move on to another pub or party. Harry prepared himself to beg off and head home when Krum stood.

"Another," he declared, holding up his empty glass.

"No! No more drinks," Astoria said, tugging his sleeve. "I told Emma we would meet her at The Hex Hole."

"I'm in." Jack swallowed the last of his watered-down whisky.

Malfoy shrugged.

Krum rounded the table and clapped Harry on the back. Harry bit down on his tongue to keep from cursing. He really wished Krum would stop doing that.

"Harry. We go to The Hex Hole. You'll come."

"Erm…" Harry didn't know what the bloody fuck a hex hole was, but Malfoy was watching him, lips curled.

"Yes, Potter, please come. Or did you need more lubricant?"

Harry scowled, his mind already made. "Good and wet, thanks. Let's go."

****

The Hex Hole, it turned out, was a nightclub in a nondescript corner of Battersea. The place could easily be written off as another abandoned warehouse if it weren't for the queue stretched around the building and into an empty car park. Harry was already dreading the wait, but Malfoy pushed Harry to the front of the queue and the bouncer let them right in.

Once Harry stepped beyond the entrance, past the membrane of Containment Charms, the noise slammed into him like a wall, nearly flattening him. The club was nothing more than a wide-open room flooded with bodies, jumping and swaying, illuminated by the colourful, strobing lights. Bubbles drifted from some undetermined place, raining sparkling fairy dust when they popped. It would probably be enchanting if you were into that sort of thing or high as a kite on Mudbloom Mushrooms, but Harry found the air in the club too hot and heavy, stinking of sweat, perfume, and liquor.

The bass thumped in Harry's chest, making it difficult to differentiate from the heart palpitations Harry was experiencing because there were so many people. They lined the walls, crowded the bar, and flooded the massive dance floor.

Harry was not a dancer. In fact, he avoided it at all costs. He could shuffle around awkwardly when forced, but even that required a significant amount of liquid courage.

Harry headed straight for the bar without a word.

He smoothed his overlong fringe across his forehead as he waited, obscuring the scar in time for the bartender to turn towards him.

"Whisky on ice?" Harry called to her.

Her eyes lingered on him a moment too long, but if she recognised him, she kept it to herself. She Summoned a glass from a rack and filled it with ice and some brown swill from an unmarked bottle.

A long, lithe body pressed against Harry's side and he got a whiff of sweet citrus and tobacco. He flinched away.

"I'll have a vodka soda. He's buying," Malfoy said to the bartender, tipping his head towards Harry.

Harry rolled his eyes but nodded when she looked at him for confirmation. She filled a second glass with a flick of her wand and slid it across the bar through puddles of spilt liquor into Malfoy's waiting hand.

"Two in one night, Potter. You're a peach," Malfoy said.

Harry expected him to take his drink and saunter off, but instead, he turned his back to the bar, propping his elbows against it in a casual lean as he surveyed the crowd with an air of superiority.

He was too close. Way too close, but there were people on all sides, trapping Harry, blocking any possible exits. It made Harry itch.

Krum and Jack appeared a moment later, along with Astoria and another girl—blonde, wearing a lot of makeup and a very short skirt—with whom she was whispering, their heads bent together. They both looked up at Harry and giggled.

Harry cursed inwardly as Astoria gave the girl a little push in his direction.

"Hi. I'm Emma," she said, eyes down-turned and coy.

Malfoy scoffed and pushed away from the bar, disappearing into the crowd. Harry wasn't sure if he was relieved by his absence or not. Strange as it was, out of all the people here, Harry knew Malfoy best, though he probably shouldn't be comforted by his presence.

Harry smiled at Emma, but it felt stretched and wrong on his face.

"Harry," he said.

She giggled. "Yeah, I know. Buy me a drink?"

Harry shrugged. Because why the fuck not? He'd already bought Malfoy two.

Emma took that as a yes and ordered something pink and smelling of pineapples. She sucked it through a straw while watching Harry from beneath heavy fake lashes that reminded him of spiders.

This sort of thing happened sometimes; girls sidling up to Harry even though, as far as anyone knew, he was still attached. Maybe it should have been flattering, but it only made Harry uncomfortable. These girls rarely had any interest in getting to know him beyond what they read in the papers, heard reported on the wireless, or in one of the seven unofficial biographies of his life. He tolerated it well enough, keeping conversations brief and polite before excusing himself and sprinting to the nearest exit.

Unfortunately, small talk was impossible over the volume of the music, though they attempted to scream a few words back and forth, if only to ease the tension.

Emma was Astoria's cousin from Surrey with aspirations as a model. She was allergic to mangoes, didn’t like this song, and then something about an argument with her flatmate over a Kneazel, and while Harry nodded, he never ascertained whether she was for or against.

With each shouted exchange, Emma sidled closer, until she pressed against Harry's side, shouting into his ear. Harry could feel her breath against his skin, and she clung to him in that way he hated, her fingernails digging into his arm. Harry itched to draw away, only to discover he was trapped, people pressing in all around him.

Chafed raw by the sounds, smells, and the hands clamped around his arm, holding him back, pinning him so he couldn't move, couldn't run, Harry felt the first flutter of panic. The anxiety swelled like a balloon inside his chest as his fingers sparked and tingled, the magic pooling, desperate to escape.

Harry swallowed around the tightness in his throat. He could control this. He'd practised. Drilled it for hours, days, bloody weeks.

Five second breath in, five second breath out.

The bright knot of magic in Harry's chest compressed, hissing and sparking as he shoved it down, burying it deep. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and thought of calming things like Hermione taught him. He thought of beaches with palm trees that he'd only seen in Muggle films, of warm fires in the Gryffindor common room, of freckled skin that smelled sweetly of jasmine and lavender.

Five seconds in, five seconds out.

Harry opened his eyes.

Emma relinquished her death grip on Harry's arm, momentarily distracted, and he glanced around, relieved to note that everyone remained unaware of his little meltdown.

Harry needed air. He needed Emma to stop standing so close because though Harry was controlling it, he was hanging by a thread.

"I'm going outside," Krum announced. "I have smelled Quidditch locker rooms fresher than this."

"I'll join you," Harry added quickly, identifying his escape route and taking it.

Emma pouted at Harry. "Come back, won't you? Or I'll come looking," she shouted over the music as he pulled away with a limp wave. It was probably meant to be cute, but Harry found it vaguely threatening.

Harry followed Krum, using his hulking form like a shield as they pressed through the crowd towards a back door that led into an alley. The air outside was biting compared to the humid club, and Harry pulled it into his lungs greedily, not caring that it stunk of cigarette smoke, trash, and piss.

Quite a few people were lingering in the alleyway already, chatting without the din of the music, exhaling curling clouds of smoke. Malfoy stood among them, one knee bent and a booted foot propped against the brick wall at his back. He was curled forward, speaking in low tones to a woman Harry belatedly recognised as Pansy Parkinson.

Harry hadn't seen or heard of her in years.

Parkinson was certainly dressed for the club in a tiny leather skirt, pointy high heels, and red lipstick. She shook her head sharply at something Malfoy said, and a curtain of short, dark hair fell over one eye.

Parkinson must have felt Harry's gaze, because she glanced up, then froze, her back straightening and her expression pulling tight. Malfoy, however, smirked lazily with one brow lifted and pulled a long drag of his cigarette.

Parkinson squeezed Malfoy's arm once, then fled, the click of her heels echoing in the alleyway, followed by the clang of the door shutting behind her.

"Draco, give me one of those," Krum said. "I would rather breathe Muggle poison than the air in that room. Do the English not bathe?"

"Only on the second Tuesday of the month. National mandate," Harry mumbled.

Malfoy snorted and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his tight, black jeans. He popped the lid, then grinned and said, "Fancy a joint instead?"

"Even better," Krum declared, giving Harry a friendly slap on the shoulder that turned into a shove towards Malfoy.

Malfoy crushed his cigarette beneath his heel and withdrew a bent and lumpy joint from his pack.

Two girls materialised out of nowhere, lured by the scent of free drugs, Harry assumed. They each kissed Krum on the cheek, nodded to Malfoy, then stood gaping at Harry.

He shifted, uncomfortable, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What is this, a zoo? Stop staring at the celebrity. You'll scare him off," Malfoy snapped at the girls.

Krum chuckled and Harry scowled.

Malfoy held the joint between his thumb and forefinger. He placed the paper to his lips and lit the tip with a spark from his wand. He inhaled deeply, then passed it to Krum as he released a fine, controlled trail of smoke from his mouth, breathing it back in through his nose.

Krum's drag was more utilitarian—in and out—while the girls dithered over it for a bit, the joint clipped between glittery fingernails while they chatted. Harry busied himself rolling a rock beneath the toe of his trainer, pushing it into a little puddle.

Harry had never smoked weed before, though not for any moral or fear-based reasons. Issues of legality only applied to Muggles, so he had no professional aversion to it. He knew Ron tried it with George once or twice, and said it was nice, even after they ate an entire sticky toffee pudding meant for Sunday supper and Angelina threw a fit. Hermione didn't condone or condemn it, and Ginny couldn't smoke because it messed with her lungs during training. Luna partook avidly, though Harry never caught her smoking, only the lingering scent and the pleasantly glazed expression.

It was a distinctly Muggle thing to do, smoking marijuana—smoking anything, really. But all things Muggle were considered cool these days, and even the most pureblooded adopted Muggle habits, fashions, and pastimes. Case in point: Draco Malfoy.

One of the girls finally remembered to pass it on, and without hesitation, Harry took a hit.

It tasted different from the cigarettes Harry smoked occasionally (only when drunk or hungover), sort of green and perfumey. It also burned like hell.

Harry sputtered, doubling over, coughing into his fist as his lungs seized. Krum and the girls grinned but thankfully didn't take the piss, returning to their conversation.

Harry gasped for breath, eyes watering.

Malfoy snorted out a laugh and took a step closer. "Not like that, Potter," he said.

Malfoy plucked the joint from Harry's fingers, brushing against them lightly.

Harry frowned.

Malfoy's hands were long and thin, pale with slim knuckles and perfectly manicured nails. He wore simple silver rings on his middle finger, thumb, and both index fingers. Suddenly self-conscious, Harry curled his own fingers into his fists, hiding the bitten nails and scars littering the backs.

"Let me show you," Malfoy said.

He put the joint back between his lips and sucked, cheeks hollowed as the cherry red tip burned brighter, ash forming at the tip. His lips stuck to paper when he pulled it free with his thumb and forefinger once more. He puffed out his chest, making a fluttering gesture with his hands, miming holding his breath. Then he released the fragrant cloud of smoke in one long stream.

"Now you," he said and handed the joint back to Harry. "Slower this time. First into your mouth, then into your lungs."

Harry inhaled again, slowly, as instructed. It still burned, but at least he didn't start coughing.

"Hold it in," Malfoy said, pressing his fingertips against Harry's breastbone. Harry felt all five points like brands, even through his shirt, and it made holding his breath one thousand times more difficult.

"Now let it go," Malfoy said.

Harry released the smoke from his lungs in a whoosh. His head swam immediately and his fingertips tingled, a bit like when the magic rose in him, but warmer, fuzzier. Harry smiled, dopey, even though he didn't mean to, and Malfoy smirked back.

"Much better," he said.

They passed the joint until the red ember burned too close to their fingers. One girl pulled a bobby pin from her hair and clipped it around the end so they could burn it to nothing. She said a Muggle boy taught her that, and her friend giggled uncontrollably, though Harry didn't think it was particularly funny.

Harry hit it when it came to him, and the dizzy, underwater feeling in his head grew. The weed somehow made Harry doubly drunk and a little stupid, so he didn't even try to resist when Krum and the girls corralled him back into the club, with Malfoy on their heels.

Inside, the music that initially felt too loud, almost grating, took on a whole new magic, the beat thumping against Harry's rib cage suddenly pleasurable. They were all grinning like idiots, except for Malfoy, who wore that omnipresent smirk, though his eyes looked darker than usual, more pupil than storm grey.

Astoria and Emma wiggled free from the crowd. Emma darted forward, snagged Harry's forearm, and tugged him towards the heaving dance floor. Behind them, Astoria twirled, her raven hair gleaming in the lights as she hooked her fingers into the front of Malfoy's shirt. He went easily, and they shouted the words of the song to each other, swaying to music. Malfoy grabbed her hand, spun her around, and yanked her back, dipping her dramatically as she laughed.

Then Harry couldn't see them anymore. There were people everywhere and Emma was drawing him deeper into the crowd, her hand around his wrist so tight it was almost bruising.

They found a small opening in the mass of bodies. Emma wrapped herself around him, her arms twined around his neck, and her body pressed against his. She smelled sweet, almost saccharine, and when Harry placed his hands on the small of her back, it was a little damp, the mesh fabric of her top clinging to her sweat. But it also felt sort of good, because her breasts were soft and he could feel her breath against his neck as she rocked her hips in a way that made him want to press harder against her.

Harry let Emma lead. It was easier that way and he felt a lot less self-conscious. It was more grinding than dancing, but that suited Harry just fine—at least Harry knew how to do that.

Emma buried one hand in his hair and tucked the other into the collar of his t-shirt, her nails scratching lightly against his skin. Now, that felt nice, far better than the gripping and grasping from before. Or maybe Harry was just high.

And Harry was really high. He floated, all the world's sharp edges softened slightly, blunted enough to no longer draw blood. He wanted to keep his eyes shut, to drift forever, unaware, but his head was spinning and when he feared he might lose his balance, he opened them.

The club's lights flashed across the crowd, mesmerising, as everything moved in slow motion. Harry caught sight of Krum with one of the girls from outside, kissing in the middle of the dance floor. Astoria and Malfoy were there too, dancing wildly, jumping around, singing to each other, taking up too much space. They looked happy—drunk and beautiful in the coloured lights and Harry wanted to laugh.

Emma's hands dropped from Harry's hair to tuck into the back pockets of his jeans. Harry's eyelids fluttered. He dipped his fingers beneath her top, across damp skin to settle at the curve in her spine.

Maybe it was the liquor, or the weed, or the fact that the body pressed against his was soft and warm, but Harry was getting hard. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind was a gnawing guilt, something telling him that what he was doing was wrong, that this body wasn't shaped right, didn't smell right, and didn't sound right as she hummed along to the music. But Harry pushed it aside because this felt good. Harry felt good, and he was going to ride this high for as long as he could.

Harry watched as Jack joined Malfoy and Astoria in their wild dancing, along with another man—big, with tattoos and greasy black hair. He stepped up behind Malfoy and wrapped one arm around his neck, clamping a hand over Malfoy's shoulder. Malfoy twisted in his arms, grinned, and then they were kissing.

Harry's stomach jumped, face burning hot because Malfoy was kissing a man. Right there. Out in the open where everyone could see.

Harry shut his eyes and didn't open them until the song changed. When he dared to raise his eyelids once more, Malfoy was looking back over the other bloke's shoulder, while he nosed at the crook of Malfoy's long, pale neck.

Malfoy winked at Harry, and Harry's arms tightened around Emma's waist.

Harry closed his eyes again, and this time, he kept them shut.

Chapter Text

Harry cracked one eye open, then shut it against the piercing grey light. Morning then, but just barely. He groaned, peeling his cheek from the sticky leather sofa, and gingerly pushed himself to an upright position. His stomach lurched and his head pounded like he'd been trampled by a herd of angry Hippogriffs and he clutched his forehead to stop the spinning.

Harry was dressed, thank Merlin, albeit rumpled and stinking of liquor, smoke, and sweat. He grimaced, patting his pockets to confirm he still had his wand, and thanked whoever for small miracles when he found it.

Now, if only he knew where the fuck he was and how he got here.

Harry pushed to his feet, swaying. He needed water. And a piss. And maybe to vomit. He weaved his way through the debris; empty bottles and unconscious bodies in heaps on the floor, trying two closet doors before he found the toilet.

The loo looked like a crime scene. Somebody had already got sick and barely made their target. A Floo address was scribbled across the mirror in red lipstick, a pair of knickers hung from the doorknob, and a half-naked man was snoring away in the bathtub. Harry pulled the shower curtain shut on him.

Harry pissed for what felt like forever, then ran the sink, ducking his head under the cool water, letting it run over his face and into his mouth. His gut roiled as soon as the liquid hit his sour stomach, and he had to brace himself against the counter until it passed.

Harry flinched away from his reflection in the mirror, deciding it was better not to know, and went in search of some fresh air to settle his stomach before he made his escape. He had faint recollections of a patio with an industrial view, a lungful of smoke, and a flash of a smile, though nothing so concrete as a memory.

He picked his way back across the living room, past the makeshift DJ stand, avoiding a precarious tower of empty beer bottles. Harry located the patio door, already ajar, and stepped outside.

The brisk autumn air was a welcome relief from the stomach-turning liquor stench indoors, and Harry drew it eagerly into his lungs.

"Morning, Potter. You look like something the Crup shat out."

Harry deflated.

He turned to find Malfoy curled up on a patio chair, bare feet tucked underneath him, and his oversized jumper slipping low to expose one bony shoulder. He looked pale and drawn in the early dawn, cigarette smoke curling from his smirking mouth.

"Yeah, fuck you too. Fancy giving me one of those?" Harry gestured to the cigarette.

Malfoy's smirk stretched wider and he fished a pack of cigarettes from his lap and tossed it to Harry, who caught it with one hand.

Harry plucked one from the pack and placed it between his lips, thoughtlessly lighting it with a whip of wandless magic. He inhaled deeply.

Malfoy watched him with curious eyes.

"So? What's the verdict? Did you have a good night? Best in your dull, domestic little life?" he asked.

Harry shrugged, resting his elbows on the balcony railing, as he looked out at the view of the old Battersea Power Station so he wouldn't have to look at Malfoy.

Did Harry have a good night? He couldn't even remember how he ended up at this flat. He'd walked, presumably. Stumbled, probably. The last thing he recalled was shots with Krum at the club. After that, things got blurry. There were snippets of memories: the taste of whisky, deep bass, and bodies all around him. There were horns blaring, the bleeding lights of London traffic. Then, cigarette butts hidden in a potted plant and, oddly enough, a vision of Malfoy dancing on a table. Everything else was just… dark.

"Not sure I remember enough of last night to make a conclusion."

"Not surprising. You consumed an ungodly amount of whisky. Honestly surprised you're upright. I assume that means you don't recall calling me a posh twat."

Harry smirked because yeah, that sounded about right. "No, but I reckon it's because you were acting like a posh twat."

"You stole my cigarettes."

"I smoke when I'm drunk." Harry looked down at the cigarette in his hand and frowned. He threw it on the ground and stepped on it. "And sometimes when I'm hungover."

Malfoy snorted. "Let's get out of here. Stay until everyone else regains consciousness and they might make us clean up."

Harry stiffened. He had no plans to go anywhere with Malfoy. He could Apparate home the second his stomach settled, which would hopefully be any minute now. Maybe Harry ought to have poked around the loo for some hangover potion.

Malfoy unfurled from the chair, stepped into his boots, and waved to Harry.

"Are you coming?"

When Harry made no signs of moving, he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. It was an oddly childlike gesture, petulant, and one Harry was certain he'd seen him make many times in school.

Malfoy's face turned stormy at Harry's amused chuckle.

"You can't Apparate out of here. It's got wards to prevent it. All the famous people do it. Keeps fans from popping up in their living rooms at will, as I'm sure you're aware."

Well, at least now he knew the owner of the house was famous, which was more information than he had a minute ago.

Malfoy sighed, settling into his hip. "We could share a cab. Apparating hungover makes me sick. You live in Islington, right?

"How do you know where I live?" Harry asked. Then, with growing alarm, "And since when do you take cabs?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Even if you weren't living in the old Black house, and my mother wasn't a Black, everyone bloody knows where you live, Potter. It's an urban legend that your house eats paparazzi. And I learned to take cabs during the year I spent without a wand after they let me out of prison." He smiled over his shoulder, too sweetly. "Or did you forget that part?"

Yeah. Harry forgot that part.

A condition of Malfoy's release included one-year probation, no wand. That wasn't public knowledge, but Harry was an Auror, and people talked. It must have been torture for someone like Malfoy who had never known a life outside of magic.

But still. A cab?

"So? Do you want to share or not?"

Harry sighed. He supposed it didn't make a difference. When hungover, Apparition and cars made Harry's stomach churn in equal measures, and a cab ride would only prolong the pain. Yet, Harry was desperate to stretch the minutes between himself and that strange, silent house, even at the risk of painting the inside of the cab with the contents of his stomach.

"Sure," Harry said.

Malfoy grinned at him.

He led Harry through the flat (which was probably quite nice when it wasn't covered in the evidence of last night's debauchery) as though he'd been there a million times. Harry trailed after him down a hallway and two flights of stairs, all the while marvelling at the absurdity of the situation.

A few short months ago, Harry had a career, a girlfriend he hoped to make his wife, friends always coming and going, filling his home with noise and warmth. And now, he was here: single, brutally hungover, and about to take a cab with Draco Malfoy.

Where the hell had it all gone wrong?

Once on the street, Malfoy raised a hand. With a twitch of his wrist and a waggle of his long, pale fingers, a cab screeched to a halt at the kerb. Malfoy opened the door for Harry with a grand gesture and a smug smile, clearly quite proud of himself.

Harry slid into the backseat, and Malfoy right after him, spitting, "Two stops," and an address to the cabbie.

Harry groaned when the cab lurched forward, taking a sharp turn onto the main street. He twisted his hands in his lap, eyes fixed out the window to keep the nausea at bay.

"So," Malfoy ventured. "What do you remember from last night?" He shot Harry a glance out of the side of his eye.

Suspicious.

"I remember the club," Harry said.

"And then?"

Harry shook his head. "Just flashes."

Malfoy hummed, watching him carefully.

Harry shifted in his seat, suddenly ill at ease. Malfoy was hedging, and Harry had a sinking feeling he'd done or said something inadvisable. Something Malfoy could lord over Harry, use as blackmail, or perhaps take straight to the press.

When drinking, Harry could be… unpredictable. He was usually in for a good time, only maudlin if someone else started him on that track, but he also tended to be less reserved, more forthcoming. Or, as Ron described, "blunt as a meat axe."

Whisky worked like Veritaserum, and the drunker he got, the more Harry struggled to hold his tongue. But what if it was something worse than Harry's usual foot-in-mouth? Once his inhibitions were down, he sometimes struggled to keep his magic in check. Not in a dangerous way. Harry wasn't a total monster. More in a revealing way. Most of the world didn't know Harry could do wandless magic, or that carrying a wand was only a formality, and he preferred to keep it that way.

"You're a lot more fun than I expected," Malfoy said.

"Yeah, right. I'm a bucket of laughs."

Malfoy huffed. "I admit I held the bar pretty low, but you managed to surpass it."

"What did I do that was so fun?" The sinking feeling grew into a crawling dread.

"Well, to start, you pulled the stick out of your arse," Malfoy said.

Harry scowled at him.

"Though it appears you have since reinserted it. But I have to say, I almost like Harry Potter after half a bottle of Ogden's Finest. He's certainly more interesting than the grumpy, brooding version we're usually stuck with."

Harry glanced at the cabbie again, forgetting for a moment that he was Muggle and had no idea who Harry Potter was.

"Just tell me what I did," Harry said, scraping a hand over his face.

"How about you try to guess, and I'll tell you if you're right."

"How about you just fucking tell me?"

Malfoy twisted, placing a hand on the seat between them, leaning closer. "Or what, Potter?"

The answer: Harry would obsess about it nonstop, imagining increasingly more outlandish offences and living every day in fear that they would appear painted across the next morning's Daily Prophet. But he wasn't about to say that to Malfoy.

Harry sighed. "Fine. Did I… dance like an arsehole?"

Malfoy wobbled his head, squinting one eye. "Eh, not much. Though when you did it, you definitely looked like an arsehole."

"Right. Erm," Harry shifted again, crossing his arms and leaning his head against the back of the seat. "Did I sing along to pop songs I don't know the words to?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed. "No! But I wish you would."

Harry huffed, almost a laugh, but he smothered it for fear of sounding too friendly. "Did I say something embarrassing?"

Malfoy hesitated, chewing his cheek, and said, "Nothing embarrassing, no."

Bingo.

"But I said something else?"

"You said all sorts of things, Potter," Malfoy said, flapping his hand. "I didn't write it down. I'm not one of your bloody fans. It was standard drunk shite."

"Well, that's rather ominous," Harry said with a shake of his head as his stomach flipped, and this time it had nothing to do with the amount of whisky sloshing around inside of it. "For fuck's sake will you just tell me? I would like to sleep sometime in the next week and if I don't find out if I made a total arse of myself then that will never happen."

So much for keeping it to himself.

"Fine. Merlin, you almost make me feel sorry for you," Malfoy said. "First of all, you proclaimed yourself a closet Chudley Cannons fan, which is very embarrassing for you. Then you took on Krum in arm wrestling and inexplicably won. I suspect magical intervention, even though I had both of your wands. I've also considered the potentiality of an accomplice?"

"Okay." That didn't sound too bad. "Anything else?"

"You ate two bags of crisps and hexed me when I tried to take some."

"You clearly deserved it."

"Then you cornered me on the balcony and bled me dry of cigarettes. I had to go to the shops for more. Honestly, Potter, you should cut down."

"I don't smoke," Harry said automatically, then grimaced when Malfoy gave him an unimpressed look because yeah, the Kneazel was out of the cauldron on that one already. "Anything else?"

"Emma made a valiant attempt to crawl into your trousers. Had her hand on your arse half the night, but you showed remarkable restraint."

"It's easy when you're not interested," Harry said.

"I put you to bed."

Harry rolled his head towards him. "I woke up face down on a sofa."

"Yes, well, you would have been face down on the patio if it weren't for me. We were—" his eyes darted away, then back again. "I found you out there, slumped like a rag doll. It was a rather pathetic end to your epic night."

Harry snorted. Malfoy was a shite liar. "Epic, huh?"

"Yes, Potter. You danced, you laughed, you acted like the young idiot you are," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Guess that means you win. Bragging rights are yours."

"How gracious of you," Malfoy said drily, then studied Harry for a moment. "Do you know Blake Alden?"

Harry shrugged. He hadn't the faintest, but that didn't mean they'd never met.

"He’s a total twat, but he has a popular show on the wireless. He's having a party on Saturday. Do you want to go?"

"With you?" Harry spun on Malfoy, instantly regretting it when his head throbbed in protest.

"Not with me, you idiot. Just… do you want to go? Alden would probably shit himself if Harry Potter showed up."

"And this is something we want? Alden shitting himself?"

"Not particularly. But like I said, you're almost fun. I'll enjoy watching you make an arse of yourself, at any rate."

"So I did make an arse of myself?"

Malfoy made an odd sound—a small giggle high in his throat. "Oh, Potter. When do you not?"

Harry could admit Malfoy had a point there.

The cab slowed and Malfoy shifted, gathering himself.

"This is me," he said.

Harry ducked his head and glanced out the window at a line of posh, modern flats.

"You live here?" Harry asked.

Malfoy opened his door, and then Harry saw him—the tattooed bloke from last night, standing on the kerb, arms knotted over his chest.

"Nope," Malfoy said, shooting Harry a grin as he slid out of the car. "Will I see you Saturday?"

Harry shrugged and said, "Sure," because he didn't know what else to say.

"I'll send you the address." Malfoy turned to the cabbie. "He'll cover the fare." And slammed the door.

Harry snorted.

The cabbie looked at Harry in the mirror. "Where to, mate?"

"Ah, Islington. Grimmauld Place."

The lead weight of dread resettled in Harry's gut the moment he uttered the address, and he slumped in his seat. He couldn't put it off any longer. Thank Merlin he was bloody exhausted. If he was lucky, he would sleep through the rest of the week and maybe, when he woke up, he would discover that this was all a dream.

But Harry was rarely lucky.

Harry stared out the window the rest of the drive, sending calming thoughts towards his stomach until the cab pulled onto his street. Already in the habit of carrying Muggle money, he paid the fare while silently cursing Malfoy, not because he cared about the cost but because it was such a typical dick move.

The cab drove away and Harry stood on the sidewalk in front of 12 Grimmauld Place, watching as it slid from its hideaway. Harry nudged the wards, giving them a magical kick, and they shuddered open, admitting him to his own fucking house with their usual reluctance.

Harry hesitated on the doorstep, hand on the knob.

He wasn't ready. He didn't want to face it, but he had nowhere else to go.

With a sigh, Harry pushed open the door.

Inside was dark. It didn't matter the time of day or how brightly the sun shone, daylight never quite managed to penetrate the gloom of Grimmauld Place. The musty scent of dust and ancient magic permeated the air, though Harry swore it was particularly pungent today, enough to make his nose twitch.

The cursed cuckoo clock in the hallway let out a wail, startling him, and Harry silenced it with a lash of magic, leaving it swinging on the wall.

He winced. It was barely seven in the morning on a Saturday, and here he was, stumbling in the door.

If Ginny still lived at Grimmauld Place, they would be tucked into bed together right now, as she traced lazy circles across Harry's chest with her fingers. She always did that in the mornings, letting the touches linger as they had a lie in, and Harry thought it a lovely way to wake.

He would then kiss her into the pillow and bury himself inside her body, fucking her slow and deep, swallowing her soft moans. Afterwards, they would cook breakfast together, Ginny in one of Harry's hoodies and Harry in just his pants. They'd eat eggs and bacon, and drink coffee on the sofa with their feet on the table and the wireless on low.

But Ginny didn't live at Grimmauld Place anymore. Five days ago, she packed her bags and left, moving to Wales to play professional Quidditch with no plans to return.

Harry slumped against the door, the hurt throbbing in his chest like an open wound as he slowly bled out.

Harry thought it was working, splitting their time between Wales and London. He thought they were happy. Ginny, however, disagreed.

"We're both miserable, Harry. I can't be the only source of happiness in your life. You need more. I need more."

"I've given you everything," Harry argued.

"I didn't ask you to! I didn't even want you to. I just wanted you, Harry."

"Then why are you leaving me?"

"Because it's what we both need. And I don't think you'll ever be able to do it. I never wanted to hurt you. I'll always love you, but this isn't right."

Harry pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard, until stars exploded across his vision. Then he dropped his arms to his sides, and with a sharp breath, pushed away from the door.

Harry stumbled through the murky darkness towards the kitchen. He rattled through drawers until he found some Hangover Potion of questionable freshness and downed it with a grimace.

Immediately, the queasiness in his stomach settled and his swollen head shrunk back down to its normal size, chasing away the vestiges of last night's mistakes. So why did Harry still feel like he'd been run over by a double-decker bus?

Merlin, he was so fucking pathetic.

Ginny wasn't coming home. He had to pull it together.

Harry opened the fridge, only to find it as empty as it was yesterday. He snagged a tin of half-stale biscuits from the cupboard—Ginny didn't like the ginger ones—and carried them to the bedroom, where he wrapped himself in the duvet and dropped onto the mattress with a huff. He abandoned the biscuits on the side table, wiggled out of his clothes, and pressed his face into the pillow.

Harry closed his eyes and let the dark comfort of sleep take him.

****

When Harry woke again, it was to utter darkness and pounding on his front door.

He pulled the blankets over his head and buried deeper into his pillow. He heard clattering and the slam of the front door, followed by hurried footsteps up the stairs.

Harry smelled the food first—Indian from the place on the corner with the samosas Harry liked and the curry Ginny thought was runny.

Hermione, then.

"Harry," she said softly, stepping into the inky black of his bedroom.

The mattress shifted at Harry's back, and then she was pressed against him, one arm wrapped around his front, holding him tightly. She smelled like outside—brisk air, mint chewing gum, and fallen leaves soaked in rain—and Harry curled in on himself.

They stayed that way a long time, not speaking, only breathing, until the aching knot in Harry's chest eased slightly. He timed his breaths with Hermione's, letting her slow inhale and exhale guide him.

"Harry," she said finally. "Have you eaten anything today?"

Harry shook his head, a scratch of hair and stubble against his pillowcase in the pitch darkness.

"Come on." She patted his shoulder.

Harry unwound himself from the nest of blankets and hung his legs over the side of the bed. He cradled his head in his hands and scrubbed them across his face.

Hermione dug around in his dresser, then threw a pair of joggers and a jumper at him. Harry didn't understand why he couldn't eat takeaway in bed in his pants, but Hermione planted her fists on her hips, meaning she was unlikely to budge.

Harry tugged on the clothes and shuffled after her down the hall.

Downstairs, Hermione settled Harry into a chair at the kitchen table. A vase of fresh flowers in a chaotic arrangement sat at the centre—chrysanthemums with rose hips, baby's breath, some leafy thing—none of which were there that morning. They looked nice.

Harry liked flowers. They seemed like the sort of things adults had, people who had homes and families and money to spend on stuff that looked nice but wouldn't survive more than a week without magical intervention.

He tugged at a petal.

Hermione placed a glass of water in front of him, then began unloading enough takeaway boxes for a family of six. She flipped the lids with a flick of her wand, filling the room with the scent of turmeric, ginger, and sweet curry. Harry's stomach growled in response, but all he could feel was a sickening, gnawing emptiness.

Hermione set a plate in front of him and started spooning heaps of fragrant rice and curry onto it. She pushed the entire container of samosas towards him before filling her plate with more modest portions.

"Eat," she ordered.

Harry ate.

The food was warm and satisfying, and though he hardly tasted it, the tension in Hermione's face lessened, so Harry kept at it.

He nodded towards the flowers. "Those are nice," he said, his voice little more than a croak, echoing in the silent room.

"Luna sent them."

"Why the hell is she sending me flowers? Ginny didn't die. She dumped me."

"You're mourning all the same," Hermione said. "You should call her. Luna, I mean. She'll be in Scandinavia another three weeks, but I know she'd like to hear from you."

"Sure," Harry said. "I'll call her."

Harry appreciated the gesture, but they both knew he wasn't going to call Luna. She remained one of his closest friends and Harry usually found her strange, elfin presence comforting. She made him feel less like the odd man out and never fussed over him. But Luna had a way of forcing Harry to look inward, always asking the uncomfortably honest questions that had him squirming beneath her pale, unblinking stare. Harry didn't want to know what Luna would read on him now.

"How's work?" Harry asked.

"Really? Small talk?"

He shrugged, sheepish, and she sighed.

"It's shit, if you must know. The Department of Labor is blocking us at every turn. I can't get a motion through to the Wizengamot about the protected land rights for the Centaurs, and Leslie has been eating egg salad in the office every bloody day even though she knows the ventilation is in disrepair. I swear, I can smell it on my clothes when I get home. Just bathing in it all day."

"Does smell a little eggy in here."

"It does not!" She slapped his arm lightly and Harry hissed, wincing away in exaggerated pain. "Oh, come off it, you arse," she said, fond.

"You want me to arrest her or something? I've still got the uniform."

"God, if you walked in, she'd have a heart attack and it'd be the hospital next."

"Then she can eat egg salad at Mungo's."

"You're a menace. And I know you're joking. Which is good. To hear you joking."

Hermione set down her fork and bit her lip. She was gearing up for something, had likely been chewing on it for some time. Harry could sense a signature Hermione Granger lecture on the horizon.

"I'm worried about you," she said. "You're not taking care of yourself."

"Hermione, it's only been a few days. And we were together for years. I think I deserve a bit of a wallow."

She shook her head, the frown returning. "That's not what I mean. I mean, before…" She hesitated. "Before Ginny left."

Harry pushed his plate aside with a scrape.

"It's just—" Hermione chewed her lip again.

She was choosing her words carefully, and Harry didn't like it. He didn't like it when she was overly cautious with him, treating him like a grenade with the pin pulled, mindful not to let him hit the floor. It meant that whatever she had to say, Harry wasn’t going to like it.

"You've been so… consumed."

"I don't know what you mean," Harry replied, voice flat.

"You're very passionate, Harry. When you're focused on something—or someone—you put your entire self into it. Into them. It's as if you don't exist outside of it, but you do. You do exist."

Harry let out a noisy sigh and shook his head. "I know I fucking exist, Hermione. If I didn't exist, I wouldn't feel like I've been locked in a room with twenty Bludgers and no bat."

Hermione shut her eyes. Harry could see her frustration in the deepening crease between her brows, but he couldn't fathom why. Hermione knew how it felt to be left in the lurch. She knew exactly what it felt like to have every plan she'd made for her life dashed to pieces while the person she loved pursued their own happiness. Not that Harry blamed Ron for that mess either, but it still fucking hurt.

"I only mean to say that you matter. Even without Ginny." Hermione took a breath. "Even without the Aurors."

Harry winced because that was a slap in the face followed by a knee to the groin. Harry didn't want to think about the Aurors or his subsequent dismissal. He didn't want to think about Ginny's dismissal, either.

Fuck, he needed a drink.

Without explanation, Harry stood. He cut to the small door at the back of the kitchen and descended into the cellar—a damp stone room with scurrying creatures and red eyes blinking in the dark—and rummaged around until he found a dusty bottle of Elven wine.

It was a white and would taste better chilled, so Harry breathed a cooling charm, watching as a web of ice crackled across the glass, then shattered away with a puff of frost.

Harry disliked wine and would have preferred Firewhisky if he had any. Alas, he'd drained that two days ago, and he didn't fancy drinking alone.

Back in the kitchen, Harry dropped the newly chilled bottle onto the table and uncorked it with a thought. Then, he Summoned two chipped coffee mugs from the cupboard because Ginny took the wineglasses, deciding Harry had no use for them.

Harry filled the mugs to the brim.

Hermione shot him a dark look but accepted the bribe to stop fucking talking about it, as he knew she would. Elven wine was her favourite, after all.

"What shall we toast to?" Harry asked, holding up his mug, slumped in his chair. "To Weasleys who break our hearts? Employers who don't know our worth? A future moratorium on egg salad in small communal spaces?"

Hermione's lips quirked. "To free wine we found in your cellar? I looked it up. This stuff is worth like four hundred galleons a bottle."

"Should have used the good mugs," Harry said with an exaggerated grimace.

"How about we keep it simple," she said. "To you and me. May we get everything we want in exactly the way we want it."

Harry snorted out a laugh. "I'll drink to that," he said.

And they did. They finished the whole damn bottle.

****

Harry wasted the next few days moping around Grimmauld Place. He hated it there, but it felt like an appropriate punishment for essentially shooting a Reducto at his life and blowing it to pieces. Quite settled in his melancholy, Harry pulled the curtains in every room, blocking the midday light and plunging the house into a murky darkness. He spent most of the week in bed.

By Thursday, he could smell himself. His hair had formed a greasy sort of helmet, and he finally dragged himself from the bed, set on a shower.

Harry stumbled to the toilet, turned on the taps as hot as they would go, and watched as the room filled with steam.

He glared at himself in the mirror, slightly foggy from the shower, dirty around the corners, thick with dust. He pushed the too-long and too-wild hair from his forehead and examined the stubble along his jawline, then prodded the dark circles beneath his eyes. He adjusted the way his jumper stretched over his shoulders, straightened his glasses, and tried to smile at the reflection, but it looked drawn, closer to a grimace than anything.

Harry sighed. He supposed he wasn't a terrible-looking bloke when properly washed. No longer a scrawny teenager, Harry filled out during Auror training, and he'd kept up the habit of going for jogs and duelling in the practice room until they sacked him. He still needed that haircut, but Ginny said he looked sexy with it long and he was inclined to believe whatever she told him. She was the one who had to look at him, after all.

In truth, Harry had no idea what girls liked. He got attention, but he reckoned that had more to do with his celebrity than the fact that he was particularly attractive. Girls liked blokes with style, blokes who had cool hair and clothes. Blokes like Krum, tall and strong who wore shirts with buttons instead of t-shirts, and whose jeans didn't have holes in the knees. Or maybe they liked blokes who looked like rock stars, blokes who dressed like Draco fucking Malfoy with his leather boots, silver rings, and shirts that showed too much chest.

Then again, Malfoy probably didn't give a rat's arse what girls thought of him, with the way he snogged that man in the club Friday night.

Harry frowned at his reflection, then averted his eyes.

Did that mean Malfoy was gay? And since when? Harry was sure Malfoy dated Parkinson in school, but after school? Harry didn't know because he hadn't thought much about Draco Malfoy after the trials, nor after they let him out of Azkaban.

Harry stepped away from the mirror and into the shower. He let it sluice over his skin, hot enough that it left it pink and tingling. He scrubbed himself clean, steering clear of the bottle of Ginny's shampoo, the one with the flowers on the label, instead opting for the dry, sad chip of soap left over from the last time Harry had to buy his own supplies.

After he showered, he trudged down to the kitchen in just his pants, his wet hair dripping damp trails down his back.

He knew he ought to eat something besides liquor and chips, and he was pretty sure Hermione had left some groceries for him, which was confirmed when he opened the fridge.

Harry set about cooking eggs and bacon. He made toast with thick pats of butter that left glistening puddles on the bread as it melted. He brewed his coffee strong enough that no light passed through, then added three heaping spoons of sugar, just the way he liked it. He often drank it black in front of other people because he'd somehow got it in his head that grown men didn't drink their coffee sweet as syrup.

Harry stirred his coffee and sucked the spoon, warm against his tongue, while he flipped through the pages of The Prophet he found abandoned on the table. Ginny was the only one who read the papers, and mainly the sports section. Harry avoided them outright and probably ought to cancel the subscription. He scanned over articles about inflation and the changes in the pound-to-galleon exchange rate, Minister Shacklebolt's half-arsed promises of Ministry reform, and the announcement of a new restaurant in Wizarding Soho.

Then, the spoon fell from his mouth and landed on the Lifestyle section, leaving a blooming damp spot on the paper, right across his own bloody face.

Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley split.

The photo beneath the headline was from last Christmas, when they got papped in Diagon Alley leaving the tea shop, huddled close, paper cups steaming in their gloved hands. Harry was smiling down at Ginny, oblivious to the photographer. But Ginny was looking straight into the camera, her usually expressive mouth a flat line and her brows drawn together in a frown.

Ginny hated the photographers. Harry wasn't fond of them either, but he'd got sort of used to them, with time. He didn't really understand the difference between the photographers who followed them on dates and to the shops with the ones who swamped Ginny after she was drafted or the constant flash of bulbs that lit her pink and sweaty face after the Harpies won a match.

Harry laid his palm across the photograph and crumpled the paper in his fist. He didn't read the article. He didn't have to because he already knew what they would say. It would be more of the same: the accusations that Ginny cheated, that she wasn't good enough, but also that Harry was sick, was angry, was fucked up (though they never said it quite like that, opting for words like 'troubled' and 'world-weary'). They didn't know shit. Not about Ginny at least.

They might have been right about Harry.

The kitchen window swung open, the frame hitting the wall hard enough to make Harry jump and spin in his chair, on the defence.

A small snowy owl fluttered in on a breeze and landed on top of Harry's coffee mug.

"Erm, hello," he said.

The owl deposited a stark white envelope on Harry's breakfast plate and flew out the window with a slice of Harry's bacon.

Harry grumbled as he opened the letter, then stopped when he found a single sheet of paper inscribed: From the Desk of Draco L Malfoy, with an address and nine o'clock until ??? written in curling script.

The party. Harry almost forgot.

Harry tilted his head, considering. He didn't have any intention of going when Malfoy asked. Not only because it was Malfoy who invited him, but because despite the wild night out, Harry wasn't the type to hang around with a bunch of strangers drinking until the lines blurred, dancing like a fool, and smoking fragrant Muggle marijuana with his school bully. No, Harry always fancied himself a stiff drink in a dark room type of bloke. He was a brood in silence type, a watch the moon rise in solitude type, a turn the picture frames face down and pack up her clothes but never throw them away type.

Merlin. He was going to be alone forever.

Maybe he would go after all.

Chapter Text

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, glaring up at the mansion in front of him.

This was a mistake.

He'd waffled back and forth all afternoon, eyes flitting constantly to that damned cuckoo clock as it counted down the hours. Harry didn't even like parties. Or, at least, he didn't think he liked parties. In all fairness, most of the 'parties' Harry attended were more aptly described as 'functions' or 'galas,' wherein he was expected to put on stifling dress robes, let Minister Shacklebolt, Head Auror Robards, or some other authority figure parade him around like a shiny new toy, and was never allowed to overindulge in the open bar.

There were birthday parties, of course, though they felt the same as an evening in the Gryffindor common room but with a little more booze. Whatever happened at that mystery flat last week could probably be called a party, but Harry had no proof that he enjoyed himself beyond Malfoy's questionable word.

It occurred to Harry that Malfoy might be the only person at this party he knew. Others would know him, but that only made it worse. Never the sort to converse willingly with strangers, Harry recognised belatedly that a party like this could be torture.

But was it worse torture than another night spent alone in Grimmauld Place, drifting from the bed to the sofa to the kitchen chair as Black Sabbath's Master of Reality spun endlessly in Harry's Walkman?

Potentially.

In the end, it was a pair of dead batteries in the CD player that decided for him. Forced to venture out for replacements, Harry got as far as the corner shop, fresh batteries in hand when he declared, "Fuck it," to a bewildered alleycat, then ducked around a building to Apparate to the address on the card hidden in his pocket.

Like he said. Mistake.

Harry could hear the music blasting inside the house. The windows rattled in their panes to the beat, and even beneath the racket, Harry caught voices. A lot of voices.

What was he thinking, coming here? Was he so willing to wade blindly into the deep end?

Before Harry could turn and back away, the front door swung open, and a couple stumbled out, laughing, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Harry jumped out of their way before they could recognise him, and with nowhere else to go, slipped past them through the door.

The inside of the mansion certainly matched the outside. A grand foyer sprawled in front of him, tiled in white marble with a crystal chandelier swinging overhead, casting the room in sparkling rainbow fractals. A massive staircase erupted at the far end of the room, adorned with plush red carpet and curling mahogany bannisters. Gilded frames containing paintings of pastoral landscapes, bowls of fruit, and long-dead aunts lined the walls.

Harry imagined this house playing host to formal parties and lavish balls where the highest members of society sipped from elegant stemware and plucked small, fussy bites from silver platters passed by servers in white gloves.

So, absolutely nothing like the chaotic mess that unfurled before him in every direction.

There were bodies everywhere. Some lounged on the stairs, bottles dangling from their fingers, while others draped themselves across the furniture. People were propped against the walls and scurrying over marble floors towards an archway leading into another room that pulsed with dance music.

Turning back was no longer an option—not without looking like a total arse, at least—which meant the only way out was through. Harry cracked his neck, mentally checked in on his happy place in case of emergency, and ambled past the threshold into the foyer.

Step one, find the bar.

Harry followed the crowd through the archway into a wide ballroom, where the chandeliers were enchanted to flash like club lights, while the music thudded and thumped to a beat Harry felt in his teeth.

He wove his way across the dance floor, dodging flailing arms and spinning bodies, tailing a group of girls teetering on platform shoes in what he prayed to Merlin was the direction of a stiff drink.

The eyes of a few strangers followed Harry as he hastened towards a well-lit hallway along the north wall of the ballroom. He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets and nodded when he accidentally met their gaze, looking away when they began whispering behind their hands.

As soon as Harry reached the hall, the music faded into the background, only to be overtaken by voices, shouts, and the roar of laughter. The hallway opened into a blindingly white kitchen—probably the poshest kitchen Harry had ever seen, even though every surface was covered in liquor. There were dozens of bottles, both empty and full, in every brand Harry had ever heard of and some he hadn't. Overturned cups and shot glasses still harbouring puddles of mystery alcohol lay abandoned on the gleaming countertops.

People were packed into the kitchen, and at the centre of them all was Malfoy, sitting on the counter with both thighs wrapped around the tattooed bloke from last week. Harry's strange relief at finding Malfoy was squashed when Malfoy lifted his shot glass and dumped its contents down his bare chest, rivulets of clear liquor running between the parted plackets of his shirt. Even more so when the tattooed bloke ducked his head and lapped it up with his tongue, the crowd hooting and hollering.

Harry grabbed the nearest bottle of Ogden's and sloshed it into a cup, deciding he'd earned a double, then topped it off with some room-temperature soda water to keep him from dying when he inevitably drank it too fast.

Malfoy caught sight of him right away and grinned, clamping a hand around the back of the tattooed bloke's greasy head.

"Potter," he purred, which Harry attributed to the man between his legs rather than his own presence because he'd never once heard Malfoy do anything but spit his name.

"Works better when you have tits, I reckon," Harry said, gesturing to… well. All of it.

"Care to show us yours?" Malfoy said.

"Nah, that's a behind-closed-doors kind of display," Harry said, dismissive despite his sudden flush.

The tattooed bloke removed his tongue from Malfoy's navel long enough to shoot a dark glare at Harry, which Harry met with narrowed eyes because what the hell was his problem? Harry wasn't the one just short of fellating a bloke in public.

Malfoy gave the man a little shove. With clear reluctance, he peeled himself away, grumbling as he went off in search of another drink. Malfoy hopped down from the counter to stand in front of Harry.

"You came," he said, smirking.

"I said I would."

"I expected you to chicken out." Malfoy swayed into Harry's space, close enough that Harry could smell the liquor on his breath—on his skin—and the warm scent of his cologne.

"What do I have to be afraid of?" Harry asked. But when Malfoy leaned closer, Harry halted him with a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place while Harry took a step back, putting a reasonable distance between them. Malfoy stared at the hand in baffled amusement, and before Harry could drop it, laughed and grabbed it with his own. He tugged Harry towards the far end of the kitchen.

"Come on, Potter. Do a shot with me."

"Er, can I have mine in a glass?"

Malfoy turned to him, eyes flashing, followed by another bright peal of laughter.

"Jack, pour Potter a shot," Malfoy called, then sighed dramatically. "In a glass."

Harry hadn't noticed Jack until that moment, his mohawk pink this time instead of blue.

"Hey, Harry," Jack said, nodding in his direction as he uncorked the nearest bottle with his wand and dumped it haphazardly across a line of shot glasses. Half the liquid ended up on the counter.

"Jack," Harry said with a nod, and accepted the proffered drink.

Suddenly, a body appeared on Harry's right—a woman with dark hair and darker eyes sidling up to him, while two young men leaned across the counter to grab shots of their own, dipping into Harry's personal space.

"Whoa, Harry Potter!" one of them said.

Harry clenched his teeth, gritting out a smile as held himself still to keep from shoving them away, or simply turning tail and bolting.

"Excuse me," Malfoy said, shouldering the newcomers aside. Then, more aggressively, "Move! What's wrong with you? Haven't you seen a ridiculously famous person before?" Malfoy looped an arm through Harry's elbow and Harry didn't think he'd ever been more conscious of such an innocuous part of his body in his life. "Besides me, of course."

Jack scoffed as he pushed the remaining shots into outstretched hands—including the tattooed bloke, Harry noted.

"The only thing you're famous for is being a tart and an arsehole," Jack said.

Malfoy grinned. "Still more flattering than being Ministry cannon fodder who got dumped by a ginger, right, Potter?"

Harry's heart spasmed in his chest. Because of course he wasn't the only one who read The Prophet that morning. He really should have expected it.

"Doing my best to ruin my good reputation every day, thanks," Harry muttered as he peered into the shot glass filled with smoking green liquid. "Think this will put me on that track right quick."

Jack snorted and Malfoy bloody giggled, which was just about the strangest sound Harry had ever heard. He cut Malfoy a sharp look, and Malfoy returned it with a bleary-eyed grin.

"Stick with me, Potter. I promise you'll leave with your reputation in tatters. Bottoms up," Malfoy said. He knocked the rim of his glass against Harry's and then threw it back with a wince and a hiss.

Harry followed suit, along with Jack and the rest of them. He was shocked by the taste, which was both medicinal and a bit like swallowing fire, and it punched a cough from his chest.

Jack poured another round, and Harry drank that one as well. Heat flamed in his cheeks and burned in his belly, but it was a pleasant sort of warmth that left him giddy and a little lightheaded.

By the third shot, Harry felt like he was floating, and had to put his palms flat on the countertop to ground himself.

"Steady there, Potter," Malfoy said, somewhere near Harry's left ear. A cool hand pressed between his shoulder blades, guiding him away from the next line of mysterious shots. "Let's have a smoke."

Harry followed Malfoy out of the kitchen to a patio overlooking a manicured garden. The fairy lights strung above them starred, bleeding liquid swathes of light into his vision. He sucked in a deep breath to anchor himself.

"First time drinking wizard's absinthe, Potter?" Malfoy asked, an amused edge to his voice.

"Maybe. Is it different from Muggle absinthe?"

"Stronger, I reckon. Will make you see things sometimes, like the Muggle stuff."

"Don't think you're supposed to take shots of that."

"No?"

"Aren't you supposed to sip it? Like, over time? And from a tiny glass?"

Malfoy chuckled as he withdrew a soft pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his skinny black trousers. "Where's the fun in that?"

He placed two cigarettes between his lips, but before he could go for his wand, Harry snapped his fingers and lit them, too busy wondering where the hell Malfoy kept his wand in those tight clothes to realise what he'd just done.

Malfoy's eyes widened, eyebrows reaching his hairline, but surprisingly, he didn't comment and simply handed one cigarette to Harry.

As he often did when drinking, Harry blurted the first thought that popped into his mind, which was, "What the hell are you wearing?"

Malfoy snorted and plucked at the gauzy fabric of his shirt. "It's called fashion, Potter. Not sure you've heard of it."

"You look like a member of a Muggle boy band."

Malfoy frowned, the cigarette hanging limply between his lips. "What the bloody fuck is a boy band?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. A group of guys who sing and dress like… that. They do coordinated dances while girls scream."

Malfoy's mercurial eyes rolled in their sockets. "And you like that sort of thing, do you, Potter?" At Harry's scowl, Malfoy's smirk tilted to a cruel angle. "Or perhaps that was more your girlfriend's thing? Ex-girlfriend, excuse me. Have you read what they're saying? They're linking her with pop stars now."

Harry heaved a sigh as the familiar pang of heartache throbbed in his chest, dulled only slightly by the alcohol.

"You're a real prick, Malfoy."

Malfoy chuckled. "Then why are you hanging out with me?"

"You're the one who dragged me out here."

"But you came to the party," Malfoy said, and when Harry looked at him, he saw none of the condescension he was used to, only a strange openness, perhaps even curiosity.

"Free booze," Harry said. He took his first drag of the smouldering cigarette, his eyes fluttering shut as the nicotine wrapped his mind in buzzing warmth.

Malfoy snorted. "Rumour has it you're bloody loaded. You could buy your own."

"Maybe I didn't want to sit around the house by myself."

"And I was the next best option? Oh my, it's worse than I thought," Malfoy said with a disbelieving bark of laughter. "Where are your legions of friends?"

Harry shrugged, because the truth was, he didn't really know. He guessed Ron was probably at home with his girlfriend, listening to the wireless, fucking, doing all the couple-things Harry no longer did. Hermione was likely working late, as she did every night. As for Harry's other mates? Well, there was Luna, who Harry still hadn't called and was presently on holiday with no definitive return date. Seamus and Dean were around and Harry got a pint with them on occasion. It was easy enough to be around them because they didn't mind going to the Muggle pubs to avoid Harry getting recognised. But it felt as though a wedge had been driven between them—between Harry and all of his friends. Too often, the silences stretched long and thin, by which time Harry would make some excuse and escape, leaving them alone. The tension visibly drained upon Harry's departure, their shoulders relaxing and expressions loosening.

It was just Harry, then.

Ginny said he was intense. Hermione said he was passionate. And Harry supposed that was true. He didn't mean to be that way, but everywhere he went people were looking at him, trying to talk to him, to take his photo and touch him and he couldn't bloody bear it. As soon as he felt skin against his own, uninvited, something in his gut began to writhe and lash, growing teeth, desperate to leap out at the nearest target and rip them to shreds. Harry pushed it down, thanks to Hermione's coaching, and the alcohol helped dull it.

"They've got their own lives," Harry said by way of explanation.

Malfoy tilted his head. "You don't see them?"

"Course I do. Should I call them up? Invite them out here?"

"Merlin, no. You're about all the Gryffindor I can handle in one sitting. If you weren't… well… you, I'd accuse you of bringing down the value of the entire party."

"Why? Because I don't dress like a tarty model from a Witch Weekly spread?" Harry said, gesturing at Malfoy's clothing, or lack thereof.

"I hope you realise how thoroughly you just complimented me. And don't you think that's all a bit hypocritical? Judging my clothes when you can barely pull yourself together?"

"What's wrong with how I look? It's not a ball or anything. I can wear what I want. And I want to be comfortable."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and pushed off the railing he was lounging against to stand straight-backed in front of Harry. He hummed, running an appraising eye across Harry, from his head to his toes.

"I'll admit the jacket works," he said, plucking the collar. He stepped in close, sniffing. "And at least you showered this time." He drew away, then leaned right back in, inhaling deeply. "Actually, you smell fantastic. What are you wearing?"

"Ah—" Harry murmured, swallowing hard because Malfoy's face was fitted into the crook of his throat, where his neck met his shoulder, not touching but close enough Harry could feel his breath. "Soap. Probably."

Malfoy snorted and took a long step back, much to Harry's relief. "How divine," he said flatly.

Harry hoped the darkness hid his flush. "Maybe I don't give a shit about how I look or what I wear."

"And thank Merlin you don't! Hell, Potter, if you gave a shit, you'd be devastating."

Harry frowned, puzzled, because that wasn't what he expected Malfoy to say at all.

"How do you do that?" Harry asked.

"Do what?"

"Insult me and compliment me at the same time."

Malfoy smirked, though he was clearly pleased. "It is a gift and an art, Potter."

Malfoy dropped his cigarette and crushed it under the heel of one clunky black combat boot. "I'm going in for another drink. You coming?"

Harry shook his head, not yet ready to rejoin the masses. "In a minute."

Malfoy turned, but before he disappeared through the door, Harry's mouth spat words without permission from his brain. "Why are you being so nice to me? I thought you hated me."

Malfoy tossed Harry a crooked grin. "Hate you? Please. I'm going to use you to get into all the good parties. And if you think this is nice, wait until you see how nice I can really be."

And then he was gone, through the patio door, colliding with some other person Malfoy knew and Harry didn't, swinging a friendly arm over their shoulder as they danced away.

Harry stubbed out his cigarette, no longer needing a distraction for his hands or mouth, and Vanished the butt. He stood there for what was maybe only a few minutes but felt like an eternity, staring into the tidy garden, until a group of girls, drunk and messy, stumbled into his space. Harry slunk away, slipping back inside before they got a good look at his face.

Harry drifted to the kitchen, not looking for Malfoy, but suffering an unwelcome pang of disappointment when he didn't find him waiting.

He bypassed the absinthe this time because the walls were starting to pulse and breathe like a living thing, and opted for whisky instead, tossing back a shot, then took the whole bottle. He wandered, exploring the house, peeking in rooms, some of which were empty, decorated in only the most lavish furniture, while others were very occupied. Harry hoped the homeowner knew the spells to get semen stains out of silk damask.

Harry found Jack holding court in the sitting room—and it was definitely a sitting room, not a living room because one couldn't do something so comfortable as living in a room like this. The walls were lined in silk, dark, shiny, and smooth to the touch when Harry ran a hand over them. An enormous fireplace sat at the back of the room, though the grate remained cold. From here, Harry could see the entryway, where people spilt in and out the door in smokey clusters.

"Oi, Harry, get in here," Jack said with a beckoning wave. "We're talking about the bullshit going on inside the Ministry."

Harry groaned internally but dropped onto the straight-backed sofa next to him.

"Harry, you'd know the answer to this. Is the entire DMLE useless bags of pig shit? Or is that just the Aurors?"

"Oh," Harry said, befuddled. "Wow. Erm, can't say I know all the Aurors. So. Hard to say."

"You were lucky as hell to get out, mate," Jack said with a shake of his head. He produced a joint from his pocket and lit it, seemingly unconcerned about ash on the upholstery.

"Yeah, well. They sacked me."

"Because they couldn't handle you, man. Out of their league, right? They're afraid to release a weapon on the world that they can't control because you don't take shit from anyone. They're trying to hold you back, pin you down. Because they're fascists, man. The whole Ministry."

Harry hummed because, despite Jack's very loose grasp on politics or the meaning of fascism, the rest wasn't that far off from something Hermione said. She swore up and down that Head Auror Robards attempted to bring Harry to heel by making him beg for his job back.

"You ever been inside Azkaban?" Jack asked.

"No," Harry replied, accepting the joint when Jack passed it to him. He tapped the ash gingerly into an abandoned cup on the side table.

"They're locking innocent people up in there, you know. Undesirables. People they don't want talking to the public, exposing the Ministry for what they are. But it's all there if you go looking for it. The Wizengamot court records write it all out like a bloody fucking shopping list. No hearings, no justice, no truth, nothing. Ask Malfoy, man. You know he was in there for almost two years?"

Harry kept his mouth shut, offering only a noncommittal hum in response.

"He doesn't talk about it, but there are rumours. About what they did to him in there. I know he seems fine, but that place is half prison and half torture chamber."

And that Harry could believe. Harry heard things from other Aurors about Azkaban after the war. They dismissed the Dementors and converted the guard to humans and a series of complex warding systems, but Harry knew the corruptibility of humanity, and the type of person who would take a job at Azkaban. Members of the DMLE called them Auror-wannabes, those without the skill or the pedigree to join the force, and whose anger towards Voldemort's followers was untempered by professionalism. And while Harry understood the simmering rage all too well, he also wasn't so naive as to believe that everyone locked away in Azkaban deserved it. Look at Sirius Black, for instance. Look at Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not innocent by legal standards, but did they deserve a sentence deemed worse than death? Harry had his reservations.

Jack, however, seemed uninterested in any real feedback and carried on his diatribe unperturbed. Harry kept his thoughts to himself, instead swallowing down another mouthful of whisky straight from the bottle.

People flitted into the room to argue with Jack, to gawp at Harry, or to take a hit of the seemingly never-ending joint. Before long, Harry was too high and too tipsy to care about much of anything, his interest focused solely on how soft the sofa suddenly felt.

Harry was content to drift until he caught sight of Malfoy through the sitting room entryway. Malfoy lingered in the hallway, long arms encircling the tattooed bloke's shoulders, while he nuzzled into Malfoy's collar, tugging aside the scrap of his shirt to get to skin. But then Tattooed Bloke whispered something in Malfoy's ear, and Malfoy's face pinched. He dropped his arms to his sides and fell back a step, giving the man a small shove against his chest. Tattooed shook his head, jerking his thumb towards the door. Malfoy pouted, then glanced to one side. Right at Harry.

Harry turned away quickly, but not before he caught a flash of Malfoy's teeth.

Harry was so busy pretending not to look at Malfoy, he almost didn't notice Emma dropping down next to him, supporting a sobbing Astoria.

"Harry," Emma said. "Tell Astoria she's pretty."

"Ah—what?"

Astoria sobbed a little louder.

"She came here with a bloke who left with another girl who wasn't half as pretty as she is."

Harry glanced at Jack, hoping for an exit, but he was busy ranting about something called GMOs and chemicals dropping from trails left by aeroplanes to a couple of girls who blinked blearily back at him.

"Right, well," Harry said, clearing his throat. God, he was so shit at making people feel better. "He was probably an arsehole because—er—you're great. And pretty. His loss. For sure."

Harry winced because that was bloody pathetic, but Emma seemed more than satisfied. Her hands shot out, grasping Harry's arm.

"Harry, you're so sweet. Why can't all guys be like you?" she said, ducking forward to drop a kiss on his cheek. Then another. And another.

Suddenly, it was too much. She was too close, her perfume cloying and her grip too tight. Harry's throat closed, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the whisky bottle on the side table cracked, shivering, threatening to explode.

Harry launched himself from the sofa, dislodging both Emma and Jack.

"Sorry, I—" He stumbled backwards, then smacked into something tall and unyielding. Harry turned, caught in the swirling grey of Malfoy's eyes as Malfoy's hands clamped onto Harry's shoulders, steadying him.

Harry winced, and Malfoy released his grip immediately.

"Potter," he said. "Let's take a walk."

Harry glanced behind him. Jack had already picked up his conversation, but Emma looked ready to pounce, despite Astoria next to her, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

"Sure," Harry agreed, and let Malfoy guide him from the room towards a quiet hallway.

Malfoy appraised him as they walked, gaze sweeping across Harry's face, while Harry remained determined not to make eye contact.

"Want to come back to mine?"

Harry halted. "What?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Don't get any ideas, Potter. You aren't my type. I'm saying this party is dead and I'm not ready to sleep yet."

"Okay. But why invite me?"

Malfoy shrugged. "You're here. And you look fucking miserable."

Harry frowned.

"I've got weed," Malfoy said.

Harry didn't find that particularly enticing, but he couldn't deny the clawing curiosity about where Malfoy lived. And if he were being honest, Harry wasn't ready to go home either.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"I'm too pissed to Apparate and my flat isn't on the Floo network," Malfoy explained. "A cab fare will be astronomical."

Harry huffed a laugh. "So, what, you want to take the Tube?"

"You have a problem with that?"

Harry boggled. "Do I have a problem with that? Do you have a problem with that?"

"Not in the slightest."

Now this, Harry had to see.

"Alright then, let's go."

****

"Stop staring at me."

"I can't. I'm sorry. It's too weird."

"It's not weird, Potter," Malfoy hissed, kicking Harry from across the aisle. "And it's not like I do this all the time. Hardly ever, actually."

"You have an Oyster card!"

"So do you!"

"Yeah, well, I don't mind the Tube."

"Of course you don't. You rode it all the time growing up as a strange little Muggle."

Harry kicked him back. "Don't say Muggle around Muggles. And I didn't live in London as a kid. Barely saw past the end of my street until I came to Hogwarts. But I rode it a lot when I got older and moved to the city. I still do. Sometimes I'll take it all the way to the end of the line."

It was true, though why Harry felt the need to tell Malfoy, he couldn't say. After the war, with the press constantly buzzing around, Ginny stuck at practice, Hermione in another endless board meeting, Ron busy at the Wheezes, and Harry with nothing to do, he would ride the Tube. He didn't go anywhere in particular, although sometimes he would disembark and let himself be carried out the doors by the press of the crowd. Then he wandered, sometimes ending up nowhere, sometimes ending up where he ought not be, before he ducked behind a building and Apparated back to Grimmauld Place.

Malfoy frowned. "What's the point of that?"

"Dunno. To see what's there, I reckon. At the end."

"And what is there?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing, really."

Malfoy stared at him a beat too long, then huffed, resettling himself in the vinyl seat. "That's a ridiculous thing to do, Potter. What a waste of time."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, probably."

"I, for one, can't stand the bloody thing. Are the Muggles sure there's enough air down here?"

"Think they would have noticed by now if there weren’t."

Malfoy crossed his arms, shifting nervously for the rest of the ride while Harry kept on staring. Ron and Hermione would never believe him if he told them about this. He wouldn't tell them, of course, but he could already imagine their faces, slack with shock.

"This is my stop," Malfoy said eventually.

Malfoy led Harry out of the station and across a park to a building at the end of a long, shadowy street with a flickering streetlight. Nearby, a cat yowled and the sound of a television playing a quiz show drifted through an open window.

It all looked perfectly normal if a touch run-down.

Malfoy kept shooting Harry surreptitious little looks as they walked. Harry maintained his blank expression, but when Malfoy opened the front door to the flat with a key instead of his wand, Harry had to smother a sound of surprise.

Malfoy flipped a switch inside the door and the room flooded with light.

Harry expected opulence. He expected white furniture, crystal, calfskin rugs, and silk throw pillows. He did not expect a cosy living room with mismatched furniture and an Ikea paper lantern hanging from the ceiling.

"Try not to look so bloody disgusted, Potter."

"I'm not disgusted," Harry said truthfully. "It's just… not what I expected."

Malfoy's face pinched. "What did you expect?"

"Dunno. Something less…"

"Shit?"

"Muggle."

Malfoy pursed his lips, then turned and disappeared through a doorway towards an adjoining kitchen.

"Yes, well. Magical real estate is a tough sell when you're a former Death Eater," he called over his shoulder.

"You live here alone?" Harry asked as he followed, though he already knew the answer was no. He could see evidence of people besides Malfoy in the flat: a pair of leather shoes, much too large, a tube of lipstick and a bobby pin on the coffee table, a woman's red coat thrown over a chair.

"Obviously not. Pansy's room is just there. She's probably still out." He pointed towards a door off the living room. "Blaise is at the end of the hall. He's on a business trip to… fuck, I don't know. Shanghai? Prague? Theo lives here too, but he's in America with his parents."

Harry nodded, at a loss for words because he was standing in Draco Malfoy's humble flat. Where he was invited. And entered willingly.

It was all a bit surreal.

Malfoy rummaged around in the fridge, then emerged with two bottles of beer. He handed one to Harry.

"Theo and I have rooms upstairs. Want to see?"

Truthfully? Yeah, he really fucking did.

Harry shrugged.

He trailed behind Malfoy as he jogged up a narrow staircase, all the while suffering the oddest sensation; a strange lightheadedness, not unlike vertigo, as if he were watching himself from the outside. It left him a little punchy, because in no version of reality could this be Harry's life. And yet here he was, following Draco Malfoy to his bedroom like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. Maybe he was dreaming.

Maybe it was just the weed and wizard's absinthe.

The stairs ended in a landing and two identical doors. Malfoy opened the door on the right and turned on the light.

Malfoy's room wasn't what Harry expected either. The first thing Harry noticed was that he didn't have a lot of stuff. The furniture was simple and didn't look particularly expensive, but it was all laid out nicely, with framed posters on the walls for bands and Quidditch teams, books on the shelves, and decorative accents that gave it a lived-in feel. The bed in the corner was neatly made with a dark duvet. It was almost homey; a far cry from the slick Slytherin dormitory Harry envisioned.

"It's not much," Malfoy said defensively.

Harry tried to smile at him. "It's nice."

Malfoy scoffed. "It's alright. But I haven't shown you the best part yet." He tipped his chin, indicating for Harry to follow him.

Malfoy snagged a plastic bag from his nightstand, then moved to a sturdy desk tucked beneath the window. He shoved aside some uncorked vials and a small cauldron, and climbed atop the desk to unlatch the window, wiggling the handle until it budged and swung open. Malfoy hoisted himself onto the sill with a grunt, then tipped out onto the roof.

Harry followed, landing softly on the tiles in a crouch. They shuffled to the eave between two windows where the roof flattened, rising in a gentle slope behind them.

Harry turned, facing outward, and then exhaled sharply.

"Fuck," he breathed, because that was one hell of a view.

Harry hadn't realised it from the street, but the building stood a head above those surrounding it. From Malfoy’s top-floor flat, they had a bird-eye perspective of the sprawl of Hackney to the River Lea.

"Right? The place is a dump, and the neighbours never shut the fuck up, but this view? Worth it."

Malfoy sunk to the ground, legs extended in front of him with ankles crossed as he pulled the baggie he grabbed from his nightstand into his lap.

Harry lowered himself down next to him—but not too close—wrapping his arms around his knees.

Harry could smell the weed as soon as Malfoy opened the bag, the green herbaceous scent tickling his nose. When Malfoy pulled papers from the bag and set about rolling a joint, Harry had to force himself to look away from Malfoy's long, deft fingers.

"So, like, what do you do?" Harry asked. And there went his mouth, running away without him once more.

Malfoy glanced up from his work, smirking. "What do you do?"

"I asked first."

"Right now? Nothing." Malfoy said with a shrug.

"You just go to parties, get pissed, and sleep all day?"

"You forgot have sex with beautiful men and go to all the coolest clubs and bars."

Harry congratulated himself for not flinching at Malfoy casually admitting to fucking men. "Doesn't that get old?"

Malfoy watched him with narrowed eyes as he ran his tongue along the seam of the rolling paper. "Not yet," he said.

Harry remained unconvinced. "Do you ever want to do anything more?"

"What is this, a motivational pep talk? Please. Even if I didn't enjoy my life of leisure, it isn't as if I could just go out and get a job."

"Why not?"

"Don't pretend you're that naive, Potter."

Harry rested his chin on his knee. Malfoy had a criminal record, more than a year in Azkaban, and a Dark Mark tattooed on his arm. Now that Harry thought about it, his options were no doubt limited.

"How do you pay for things?" he asked.

Malfoy sobered then. "Same way as you. A Gringotts' vault full of my parent's money. Only difference is my parents aren't dead. Though they might as well be."

Harry dared a glance at him and caught Malfoy fiddling with the tidy little joint, spinning it like he did the cigarette that first night in the pub. Then he exhaled noisily and set it between his lips.

"And what about you? What do you do with your endless hours of free time since the Aurors sacked you?"

Harry shrugged. "This and that."

Harry lit Malfoy's joint with a snap, startling him enough that it almost fell from his mouth.

"Did you just—" He stared at Harry a moment, then shook his head. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to know what happened. Must have been something serious to dismiss the great Harry Potter from the Aurors. The papers absolutely slandered you."

"Uh, yeah. I heard."

Malfoy waited but Harry didn’t elaborate.

"Oh, come on, Potter. Give me a little hint."

"No."

"Was any of it true? What they wrote about you?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"How should I know? I don't read that shit."

Malfoy looked at him in surprise. "What? Why?"

"Most of it is nonsense. And not particularly nice."

"Uh, yeah. That's why it's fun. Pansy and I pin our favourite paparazzi photos on the fridge every week. It isn't even always pictures of me. Last month Krum left the loo with his fly down and there was an entire article speculating about the size of his cock. They were a solid three inches off, by the way."

"Fascinating," Harry replied, tone brittle.

"I can feel your sarcasm, Potter."

"I should hope so. I'm laying it on pretty thick."

Malfoy snorted and passed the joint to Harry, who took it. Malfoy watched him as he inhaled and released the smoke, throat constricting as he suppressed the need to cough. He passed it back.

"Fine. So you won't tell me why you got sacked."

"No."

Harry didn't tell anyone why he got sacked, save for Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. He didn't even like to think about it. Harry locked that particular memory in a box and pushed it under the proverbial bed, where he intended to leave it for as long as he could get away with it.

"So, tell me something else in exchange."

"Wasn't aware I owed you something," Harry said, one brow raised.

Malfoy flopped backwards, his head pillowed on his hands. "I'm sorry I have to be the one to explain this to you, but normal social interactions require a give-and-take of information. I gave you some, now you give it back. It's called conversation. Maybe you should write that down. Should I spell it for you?"

Harry huffed and shook his head. He could offer Malfoy any small, innocuous detail. He could lie. Hell, he could refuse outright and Malfoy wouldn't be able to do a bloody thing about it besides pout. But instead, Harry said, "I put in an appeal."

Malfoy stared at him, unblinking.

"With the Aurors," Harry clarified.

"You want to go back?"

Harry raised and dropped one shoulder. "I guess."

"Why?"

"I don't know how to do anything else. Might as well stick to what I’m good at."

That was a touch more honesty than Harry intended, and also the first time he'd uttered that truth out loud, though he'd thought it for some time.

Malfoy exhaled a long stream of smoke. "That's exactly what they want, you know."

"What?"

Malfoy passed the joint to Harry once more, and he took it, careful not to let their fingers brush.

"The Aurors. The Ministry. The whole ordeal, whatever it was, took you down a peg, and rather publicly. They were checking you, Potter. Best to keep their attack dog on a short lead."

The ash crumbled from the tip of the joint to the roof as Harry stared out at the skyline without really seeing it.

"Weird. Jack said something similar." Also most of Harry's friends, but he kept that to himself.

Malfoy snorted. "Yes, well, Jack uses heresy and conspiracy theories to bolster his argument. That idiot thinks you've got superpowers. That you’re riddled with something called ‘radiation’ from all the curses you’ve absorbed. Whatever the hell that means. But you have to know, it's a fairly common narrative."

"That I'm basically Spider-Man?"

"What on earth are you talking about? What is a Spider-Man? Sounds horrifying. And don't play as if you're dense. You hear what they say about you in the press even if you don't read it."

Harry shrugged because yes, sometimes the gossip got through to him. He did his best to ignore it, looking away when he passed the newsstands, or turning off the wireless once the talk shows started. Occasionally his friends brought something to his attention, or worse, it came from a colleague at work. More often than not it pinned Harry as the butt of some humiliating joke that Harry would have to laugh off like it didn’t affect him. When Harry was in his element, confident, focused, there were no flashbulbs, no mobs of reporters. However, when Harry went out and had a pint too many with his mates, they were there, waiting to catch him stumbling or sweating or god forbid smiling in an unattractive manner. When Harry lost his job, the Quick-Quotes Quills were already scribbling lies beneath the header, Harry Potter: Unfit for Duty. So yes, he knew what they said about him, and it was all the more reason to avoid listening to them talk.

"Does it make you angry? That people are obsessed with everything you do?" Malfoy asked.

"Sometimes, I guess. But mostly I'm just embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?" Malfoy said, grinning, disbelief etched into the lines between his brows, though Harry couldn't fathom why.

"Yeah. No one wants people talking about the shit they do when they don't think anyone's looking. Plus I don't know why anyone cares. There's nothing interesting about me."

Malfoy’s mouth dropped open. "Merlin's beard, I've been convinced the brooding, self-deprecation thing was an act and you were secretly some buoyant Crup putting it on for the cameras so they'd get scared off easier."

"I'm not a good actor."

"But you must be aware that your behaviour only makes the press more desperate to follow you."

"Why? I never give them good stories." Not when he stayed out of trouble, at least.

"Potter, you are the story. Everything you do is the most interesting thing they've ever heard. And since you and the DMLE refuse to give the public a single scrap of information about an incident so horrendous that it was enough to get Harry Potter sacked, you leave them to speculate and come to conclusions all on their own. Conspiracy theories aside, there are plenty of people who think you were removed for unjust reasons."

Harry gritted his teeth, jaw ticking enough for Malfoy to see, to know Harry was barely holding it together.

"I promise you, the reasons were just."

Malfoy uttered a guttural cry of frustration. "Now I want to know even more! Don't you see? You're an enigma, Potter. What is more intriguing than that?"

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Tell me you aren't this oblivious,” Malfoy said.

"It has been argued. Though I would counter that it's selective."

"Of course you would. You aren’t even curious to know what people say about you?"

Harry shook his head. "I hate it. I hate people talking about me when I'm not there. Like they know me."

"Now that I can relate to. Though I prefer to lean into the spotlight. It's easier to control that way."

"So you like it when they publish unflattering shite about you? The drugs you're doing, the people you hang around, who you’re fucking."

"And I thought you said you didn't read the tabloids?” Malfoy said with a growing smirk.

"I don't. I was guessing based on first-hand exposure."

Malfoy chuckled, amused. "Maybe I do like them publishing those stories. It's better than the alternative."

"Which is what?"

"Why, the truth, of course," he said.

Harry snorted, then took a long drag from the joint, watching the smoke curl into the dark sky before it was whisked away by the chilly autumn breeze.

They sat without speaking for a few moments, passing the joint back and forth. The distant wail of an ambulance and the roar of a car cut through the night, easing any awkwardness from the quiet.

Then Malfoy spoke. "I'll admit, I think it's rather funny how fucking scared everyone is of you."

"People think I'm scary?" Harry asked, surprised. "You think I'm scary?"

Malfoy's wry mouth quirked at one corner. "I know you're scary. But that's not why everyone else shits their knickers around you. You're very… intense, you know? Always scowling."

On instinct, Harry scowled. At least Malfoy and Harry's friends could agree on one thing.

"Yeah, like that," Malfoy said with a chuckle. "Don't frown so much, Potter. You'll get stuck that way."

"Bit rich, coming from you."

"I don't frown or scowl, I smirk." Malfoy pulled a face and gestured with an elegant wave of his hand. "See? Far more fetching. And a better mask for the murderous rage. Try it sometime."

Harry huffed an unexpected laugh and Malfoy dipped his chin, shaking his head, though Harry could see his throat bob. "Miles off," Malfoy said. "Keep practising."

Malfoy stubbed out the last ashes of the joint. "I'm going to bed," he said, standing and brushing the backs of his jeans. "You can stay here tonight. If you want."

Harry froze, half standing.

"What?" he blurted. "With you?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Again, Potter, not with me. You can use Theo's room. He won't be back for two more weeks."

Harry was still high and a little drunk, though he wasn't incapacitated. He could easily Apparate home or call the Knight Bus.

But he didn't.

He nodded to Malfoy.

Malfoy slipped through his open window, and Harry moved to the other. Malfoy never expressly said the second window led to Theo's room, but Harry figured it must be. On first try the window stuck, locked from the inside. Without thinking, Harry applied a little push of magic and the window flew open, slamming into the sill with force.

Behind him, Harry heard a sharp inhale. He turned to see Malfoy leaning out his window, staring at him with wide eyes.

"I was going to show you to the door," he said.

"This is fine," Harry said. He gripped the upper edge of the sill and used it to support his weight as he lowered himself carefully through the window and onto the floor below.

"This is fine," he heard Malfoy repeat, followed by the slam of his window.

Chapter Text

Waking up hungover in a room that wasn't his own was no less jarring the second time it happened.

Harry blinked open his eyes and took stock. This was not his bed, but he was alone, clothed, headache present, stomach questionable. He patted the side table until he found his glasses and shoved them onto his face, bringing into focus a mostly barren room. The mattress was large and comfortable, though the sheets smelled a little stale. There were few personal effects save for a framed photo, dusty books, and a set of robes hanging in the closet with some forgotten shoes.

Then it all came flooding back. This was Theo Nott's room.

Merlin, there was another Slytherin Harry hadn't so much as thought about in years. The bloke never made an impression on him beyond that he was chummy with Malfoy, a bit swotty, and good-looking in a conventional sense.

From what Harry could tell from his cursory glance around, Nott hadn't been here in quite some time.

Harry’s attention snapped to the door when he heard a clatter downstairs, followed by muffled shouting. He couldn't make out the words, but it sounded like a woman's voice, answered by the familiar growl of Malfoy's velvety timbre.

Harry supposed it was time to face the music.

He rolled from the bed and dressed in yesterday's clothes, casting a few quick freshening spells to chase away the lingering smoke and sweat. He glanced in the mirror long enough to be sure nothing was nesting in his hair and popped his head out into the hallway.

Malfoy's door remained closed but Harry could hear the commotion clearer now, the female voice turning shrill as Malfoy attempted to hush her. Harry descended the stairs on light feet, pausing with a wince when the floorboards creaked. He wasn’t eavesdropping, or anything, he just didn’t want to interrupt.

"It's the tequila, Draco! It turns off every last bit of sense rattling around in that empty head of yours. You can't have him here. You live here!"

"Okay, first of all? Rude. Secondly, Pans, I swear to Merlin, if you don't keep your bloody voice down, I will seal your mouth shut with Spellotape. I've done it before and you know I'll do it again," Malfoy said in a harsh whisper.

"I dare you to try."

Okay, now Harry was eavesdropping because he was pretty damn sure they were talking about him. He hesitated beyond the threshold of the kitchen, keeping out of sight.

"I'm not sure if you're stupid or just a fucking masochist, because this is utterly beyond, even for you," growled the woman—apparently Parkinson.

"Why? We could be friends!"

"You can not be friends," she hissed back.

"Things are different now. Plus, with the Weaslette out of the picture—"

"Do not finish that sentence, because if you do I cannot be held responsible for my actions."

They were definitely talking about him. And not even about murdering him and hiding the body as he expected, but befriending him? Maybe it was code.

Harry decided that was his cue.

"Er, hi," he said, peeking around the corner.

"Bloody hell!" Malfoy shouted at the same time Parkinson shrieked, launching herself backwards, half on top of Malfoy.

"Circe's tits, Potter! Wear a fucking bell or something," Malfoy said, clutching his heaving chest.

Parkinson steadied herself, smoothing a hand down her smart blouse as her expression zipped shut.

"Ah—I'm going to go," Harry said, already edging away. "I just thought I ought to say—"

"No, no, no." Malfoy crossed the room in two long strides and wrestled Harry into a seat at the kitchen table.

"Sit. Do you want coffee?"

"Erm. Okay?" Harry replied, bewildered.

Parkinson stayed put, arms folded over her chest, glaring at Harry. He attempted a weak wave, but it only darkened her expression. Harry turned away and focused on Malfoy Summoning a mug from the cupboard and filling it with coffee from a pot on the counter. A Muggle coffee pot.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"Sugar. Thanks."

He dropped the mug in front of Harry along with a sugar bowl, then went to a glass-front cupboard filled with small vials in tidy lines. He pulled one down and placed it in front of Harry without explanation, then returned to fixing his own coffee.

"Are we poisoning me out in the open now? Bold,” Harry said, inspecting the bottle.

"Do you always get defensive when people do you a favour? It's Hangover Potion. You look haggard; excuse me for assuming."

Harry held the vial up to the light. He opened the cork and sniffed—not that he would know if Malfoy messed with it, but it seemed like the thing to do. It smelled awful, so about right, he reckoned. Harry kept eye contact with Malfoy as he drank it because if the bastard planned to kill him, he'd have to look Harry in the face while he tried it.

The back of his throat tingled, and then, like a hand smeared across a chalkboard, Harry’s headache disappeared. A moment later, his stomach eased and his vision cleared.

Harry felt bloody fantastic.

"Not bad," he said.

Malfoy shot a look at Parkinson, who huffed loudly, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the kitchen.

Malfoy paid her no mind, dropping into the chair next to Harry. "Thank you," he replied airily. "I brew them myself."

"Have enough hangovers that you needed a DIY fix? Or is this your racket? Instead of selling the drugs, you're selling the cure for the come-down?"

"My god, Potter. You can take the Auror out of the robes but not out of the man, I see. While that's actually a brilliant idea, they are for personal use only. And it's not all I brew. It's convenient and I'm good at potions, if you recall."

"Good at sucking up to the professor, maybe. I don't understand why you love that shite."

Malfoy didn't bristle as Harry expected but continued sipping his coffee benignly. "I don't love it, but sometimes we do what we're good at, as you well know. Fortunately for me, I'm good at quite a lot of things."

Harry rolled his eyes to the ceiling because it was such a typical Malfoy thing to say; arrogant, haughty, and delivered without preamble.

"Don't scoff at me. You'll remember I was good at things, but I was never great at anything. And even the things I was good at, you were always better."

Harry lowered his coffee, surprised.

"I liked Quidditch, I was even fairly talented. One of the youngest Slytherin Seekers in fifty years. But that doesn't matter when Harry Potter is the youngest ever. And even though you were mediocre in classes at best, there was still Granger. Bloody know-it-all had to be better than me in every subject."

"Don't talk about Hermione like that," Harry snapped.

"In what way, Potter? All I said was that she was better than me at everything you weren't."

Harry deflated. "Well, bully for you. I'm not particularly good at anything anymore."

Malfoy hummed. "It's the strangest thing. Hearing you say that didn't bring nearly as much joy as I hoped. In fact, it made me a bit sad."

Harry snorted. "I'm going home." But first, he took a long drink of his coffee. It tasted leagues better than the swill he made. "Thanks for the coffee. And weird party. And… I don't know. All of it, I guess."

Harry stood, sending his cup towards the sink with a wave of his hand, remembering at the last minute to drop the wand from his sleeve, despite being entirely decorative.

"We meet at The Briar and Toad on Fridays at nine and usually go out after. If you're up for it," Malfoy said.

Harry shrugged, Summoning his jacket from upstairs. "Not like I have anything better to do."

Malfoy didn't smile outright, but it sure looked like he was trying to suppress one. "Then I guess I'll see you around, Potter."

"I guess you will," Harry replied and saw himself out of the flat.

Once on the street, Harry hesitated, swaying with a gust of wind. He still couldn't shake that peculiar, swooping wrongness that told him this couldn't be real. That he hadn't slept over at Draco Malfoy's flat after spending most of the night with him.

But it was real. And Harry felt okay—good, even.

As he began his mourning march home, knowing nothing but silence and dust awaited him, he wondered, would it be so bad to lean into this strange reality, just a little? What did he have left to lose? Ginny was gone, he had no job, and his friends would forgive him for whatever he did, or forget entirely by the next time he saw them. The gossip would be unavoidable, but Malfoy said the press was easier to control when out in the open. If Harry went out, hit a few parties, drank more than he should for a Thursday, would the press abandon the prevailing headline of Harry as the pathetic, dejected ex? Could he convince them he was having fun, that he was happy?

Perhaps Malfoy, with his endless string of parties, forgettable friends, and lack of responsibilities, was exactly what Harry needed to forget about Ginny, the Aurors, everything.

Noting that there were only five days left until Friday, Harry Apparated home.

****

Harry hit the deck at a run, his weight shifting on the skateboard beneath his feet as he leaned into the curve of the sidewalk. The wind caught his hair and his eyes fluttered because fuck, he loved this feeling.

It took a while to get here, to feel free riding the skateboard instead of pure, full-body tension as he fought for his balance and his bloody life.

Ginny thought he was fucking batty when he declared 'learning to Muggle skateboard' his new, post-Auror-sacking mission. She likely blamed it on a mental break, and Harry understood why. Adrift without his work as a beacon, he spent summer afternoons sitting on the kerb outside Grimmauld Place drinking lager and watching the neighbourhood kids fuck around with skateboards in the street. The other neighbours hated it, that much was clear, but Harry thought it looked like loads of fun.

He bought a board the very next morning.

It turned out to be a lot harder than the kids made it look, but eventually, Harry could roll from the foyer to the kitchen and through the sitting room without falling on his bruised arse. Finally, he felt steady enough to take on some real speed.

In retrospect, it was a bit preemptive. Harry wiped out on his first hill and broke his arm. Ron was the only one to offer any sympathy, despite the snorting laughter over the Floo when Harry told him. Ginny demanded he go straight to Mungo's, but Harry went to Hermione instead. It meant he had to explain what stupid thing he did to get himself hurt this time, but it was better than going to the hospital, where the story would definitely be leaked to the press, as it did whenever Harry landed in their care. He had quite enough public embarrassment without this hitting the front page, thanks.

Hermione patched him up while delivering the predictable lecture about not treating his body like a sack of potatoes. She accused him of using skateboarding to fill the need to endanger his health regularly now he no longer had the Aurors to do it for him, then told him she would see him the next time he fell off the skateboard, but to please avoid breaking anything major as that pushed beyond her skill set.

Harry tried the hill again the following week, and not only survived it but fucking conquered it. And just like that, Harry was obsessed, because skateboarding was the next best thing to flying.

Harry never got the chance to fly anymore. Once Ginny joined the Harpies, their regular flying sessions became rarer until they halted altogether. Harry missed it. He missed the speed, the freedom, the danger, but most of all, the ability to trust his body, letting his instincts and muscle memory guide him and keep him safe. When Harry flew, he stopped thinking and started feeling.

Skateboarding gave Harry a similar sensation, particularly when he added a little magic. Because while skateboarding was cool on its own, skateboarding with magic was fucking brilliant.

Harry hummed spells to speed the rotation of the wheels and lighten the board so it barely touched the sidewalk, hovering a hair above the ground. He added Cloaking Charms so the Muggles couldn't focus on him, turning him into nothing more than a breeze as he rode past them.

The skateboard picked up speed like Harry was going downhill, floating over cracks and exposed cobblestones. He shifted his weight back and forth to cruise between pedestrians, then jumped the kerb onto the street to avoid colliding with a crowd.

Harry kipped the board ninety degrees to dodge the tail end of a lorry, then kicked off hard, putting the magic for speed into his next exhale. He hopped the kerb back onto the sidewalk, swooped around a lamppost, then dropped low, riding the momentum. He shut his eyes for a few seconds, and he could almost convince himself he was fifty feet in the air.

Harry opened his eyes and eased off his magic, letting the wheels make full contact with the pavement. Their turning slowed naturally as the sidewalk flattened, and Harry coasted to a stop in front of a nondescript pub. He kicked the skateboard into his hand and pushed inside, his feet clumsy and his legs slow without wheels beneath him.

The pub was Muggle and a stone's throw from Diagon Alley, which made it the perfect place to meet Ron after he got off work.

They gave up trying to go anyplace in the magical parts of London ages ago because Harry wasn't the only one beating away press and fans. Ron became something of a celebrity in the years since the war. Beyond his associations with Harry, he joined George at the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and the shop took off, boasting seven locations across England within three years. On top of that, Ron was charming and easygoing in a way Hermione and Harry never were, and found himself with his fair share of attention.

Ron enjoyed it at first, giving autographs and hugs to strangers, but it grew tedious when they went out, never able to get a word in without interruption.

Muggle pubs were easier.

The pub where Harry currently sat was ordinary, no different from any other pub found in downtown London. It was exactly the sort of place Harry liked, where the lager was cheap and the patrons subdued. The sort of place where no one had ever even heard of Harry Potter or Ron Weasley.

Harry was already onto his second pint when Ron came bustling through the door, bringing with him a gust of brisk air and the ubiquitous spicy scent of Erumpent Horn powder that followed him ever since he and George began testing the range of the damage from their new Exploding Whizzbangs.

"Alright, Harry?" Ron said, a little breathless as he unwound his Chudley Cannons scarf from his neck. He pulled out the chair opposite Harry and dropped into it gracelessly.

Pinned to his lapel, Ron's Wheezes badge spit sparks, transfiguring from a broomstick to a cauldron in rapid succession. Harry gestured at it with a smirk and Ron snatched it off his chest, shoving it into his pocket as his face flushed.

Ron did the best he could in the Muggle world. It was all still very new to him and more often than not, he would stumble over the different currency or freeze over the credit card reader. But Ron took to the developing Muggle craze with great gawking enthusiasm. Like father, like son, Harry thought.

"Here," Harry said, pushing an extra pint towards Ron, who accepted it gratefully and drained half the glass in one go. He wiped the foam off his upper lip with the back of his fist.

"Cheers," he said. "I needed that. Got a new shipment of Pygmy Puffs in today. George wanted to get ahead of the holiday crowd, and I swear, they've been feeding them straight espresso and Cauldron Cakes because they've gone totally bonkers. I'm still missing a couple of them. Afraid I'll find them roosting in the kettle by morning."

"Best check before you turn it on, then."

"Could you imagine? Boiled Pygmy Puffs in my morning cuppa. Merlin's tits, don't tell Gin," Ron said, then froze. He set down his pint slowly with a wince. "Sorry."

Harry shrugged and studied his hands. "S'all right. It'll take some getting used to."

"How are you doing with… things?"

"I'm okay."

"Yeah?" Ron looked hopeful.

"Oh, sure. Who wouldn't want to rattle around in some creepy old house all alone with nothing to do but watch the wallpaper peel while your girlfriend is out having the time of her life? Sorry, ex-girlfriend."

Guilt rolled over him as Harry watched the hopeful look on Ron's face falter and fade. But honestly, he ought to have known better.

"She's having a rough go of it too, mate," Ron said, uncomfortable.

"Right. Sure she is."

"Be fair, Harry. She loved you."

"Yeah, loved. Past tense."

Rob scrubbed a hand across his jaw. "I'm sorry things ended the way they did. I hoped it would work out. That you'd end up my brother and all."

Harry shifted in his seat and traced the condensation on his glass with his finger, a familiar guilt gnawing at his insides. It wasn't Ron's fault for being a touch on the emotionally tone-deaf side. It was part of why Harry enjoyed spending time with Ron without Hermione. He still fiercely missed the days when the three of them were inseparable, but when it was just Ron and Harry, they didn't fill every minute talking about their feelings, or how Harry was doing, was he practising the exercises she taught him, was he taking care of himself.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "Still a bit sore, I guess."

"Rightly so."

The silence stretched a touch too long as the world carried on around them; someone laughed loudly behind Harry and a car horn blared as it passed by the open window.

Harry cleared his throat. "So, how are you, then?"

Ron's lips thinned as he tried to suppress a grin, but it won out, breaking across his face like sunshine. "I'm good. Really good. Is that a dick thing to say when you're suffering?"

Harry chuckled. "God, no. Let me live vicariously through you."

"The shop is doing great. Angelina's pregnant again and George is over the moon. And, ah—" Ron looked at Harry, then flushed beet red. "Lizzy and I are talking about moving in together."

Harry's face smiled but his heart sank.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Ron and Liz had been practically inseparable since they'd started dating nine months prior. Although it felt like a betrayal to Hermione, Harry liked Liz. She was friendly, kind, and Harry hadn't seen Ron smile and laugh this much since they were kids. But Harry still felt shit because Hermione wasn't smiling or laughing much at all these days.

Hermione told Harry that things were fine between her and Ron, that it would probably be a long time before they could be friends like they were before, but after two years and little progress, Harry suspected that their days as the Golden Trio lay permanently behind them.

Liz wasn't even the reason Harry felt sick. He was happy for Ron, but he'd invited Ron for a pint to ask if he wanted to move back into Grimmauld Place now that Ginny was gone. Ron could have his old room back, the one Harry still thought of as Ron's room, even though he'd moved out years ago. He thought of it as Hermione's room, too, which was why no one was allowed to stay in it, and the few times Hermione did crash at Harry's house, she opted to sleep on the sofa.

Harry willed lightness into his tone. "That's great, Ron. I sure hope you're moving into hers and not the other way around."

Ron pulled a face. "Merlin no. Crowded enough as it is. It'll be nice to get out of the guest house, finally. And what with the new baby coming, I'm pretty sure George and Angelina will be glad to be rid of me."

"I don't know about that. They never seemed to mind the free babysitting."

Ron snorted. "Maybe not George, but I'm not quite sure Angelina ever trusted me not to lose little Fred. She still Floo calls once per hour and makes me hold up the baby to prove I haven't misplaced him."

"Ron, you did misplace him," Harry said with a chuckle.

"Oi! I didn't misplace him. How was I supposed to predict he'd be a bloody speed racer? I thought babies who can't walk just lay there. Didn’t expect he'd go dashing off the second I went to take a piss. And he turned up eventually."

"So when's the move?" Harry asked, draining the last of his beer and gesturing to the bartender for another.

"Next month, I think. It'll take Lizzy that long to clear six inches of her closet for me," Ron said with a fond roll of his eyes. "What about you? Are you thinking about sticking around Grimmauld now that…" He hesitated. "Now that you have the place to yourself?"

Harry suppressed a grimace. "I mean, yeah. Where else would I go?"

Ron tilted his head and a little crease formed between his brows. "Anywhere you want, I reckon."

Harry sighed. Ron wasn't the first person to offer that sort of answer, as if the vastness of 'go anywhere' or 'do anything' wasn't even more daunting. Harry didn't plan to stay at Grimmauld Place forever. Ginny hated the house and they'd talked about moving, about getting someplace new that was theirs. But without her, Harry didn't much care where he slept at night. He only knew that he didn't like living alone. He hated coming home to a dark living room and a cold bed, to the busted wireless gathering dust, and only one set of dishes next to the sink.

"Lizzie wants to throw a housewarming party when we get settled," Ron said, scrubbing a hand through his hair, clearly searching for a safer topic. Ron could sense Harry's impending strop in the way all of Harry's friends could, foretelling the storm based on a cloud darkening the horizon. "You'll come, yeah?"

"Course," Harry said, though he wasn't really thinking about it.

They stuck to safer topics after that. Ron knew better than to ask about the Aurors or Hermione, so they talked about Quidditch, the Cannon's new Seeker, Ron's mum, and the Doxy problem in Harry's attic.

Before Harry realised, it was well past dark and Ron had to go home, because unlike Harry, he had someone there waiting for him.

"Don't be a stranger, mate. Come round even before we're settled." He hesitated. "I'm still on your side, you know. I think Ginny's an idiot for ending things. But there's no telling Ginny when she's made up her mind."

Harry nodded with a small, sad smile.

"Thanks, Ron."

"Course." He clasped Harry to him for barely a moment, but in that hug was everything they didn't say.

"Get home safe."

"Home. Yeah."

****

"Again," Hermione demanded.

Harry gave himself a good hard shake, hoping to cast off the fog of sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion. He’d slept like shit; the old nightmares returning with a vengeance. After three nights in a row of waking, screaming into the empty darkness, he was in poor form.

Harry exhaled a long breath, mopping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Focus," Hermione said.

He shoved aside the weariness tugging at his limbs and assumed the position: wand raised, weight centred between staggered feet, and nodded his readiness.

Hermione waved her wand and a combat dummy flew to the centre of the makeshift training room and dropped to the floor in a slump. Shadows engulfed the wooden form and it straightened to full height before turning its blank, faceless head towards Harry. A pause—and then it charged, barrelling towards him in a frightening, jerky gait.

Harry shook his head. Hermione was entirely too good at this, and it sort of freaked him out.

He adjusted his grip on his wand then pointed it at the approaching target, and cast—once, twice, three times, moving with the dummy as it ducked and swerved, its shields activating and deactivating at random.

The dummy’s shields neutralised Harry’s first barrage of spells, reducing them to a harmless rain of sparks on impact. The second attempt was no better, and as Harry increased the speed and power of his attacks, the dummy’s Shield Charms refortified and grew stronger, surrounding it like a suit of armour.

That just meant Harry needed to find a way to get his spells between the plates.

He took a running start then dropped low, sliding on his arse and the outside of his thigh, shooting his spells between the layers of Shield Charms from point-blank as he skidded past. One of Harry’s curses hit, clipping the dummy’s right thigh and while it was probably enough to bring a human to their knees, the dummy barely stumbled. It lurched towards him with inhuman speed, its spells lashing like whips.

Harry leapt to his feet and fell back, throwing up shields of his own to absorb the dummy's torrent of magic. Confident in the strength of his protective magic, Harry regained his footing, moving in close. From this distance, he could probably take the dummy down by hand, but he refrained. The exercise’s objective wasn’t hand-to-hand combat, it was all magical control and intent, focusing his energy through his wand and wielding it with accuracy.

A single pause in the dummy’s wave of offensive magic was all the window Harry needed and he moved on instinct. He dropped his shields entirely, letting the gossamer barrier of protection blink out of existence. The dummy reacted exactly as he hoped and attempted to restrain him with a binding spell, but Harry was faster. Instead of the flexible tiling of a Shield Charm, Harry cast a Warding Spell, and it slammed shut like a vault door on the dummy’s attack. The dummy’s Encarcerous pinged off the impenetrable wall of magic and crashed into its unarmoured body. Red rope exploded from the impact point, wrapping the dummy from head to toe like a spider preparing its supper, topping it with a tidy little bow.

Harry released his wards and pointed his wand at the dummy.

Finite Incatatum, he thought, and the dummy's magic dissipated, the shadowy possession leaching away as it stumbled and collapsed to the floor in an innocuous, vaguely human heap.

Harry lowered his wand and turned to Hermione.

"Better," she said as she dissolved the safety barrier made to contain the exercise. "But you didn't use your wand for that Ward Spell. We've talked about this, Harry. You have to channel your magic; you can't have it coming out your ears like that."

"I used my wand," Harry argued weakly.

"Holding your wand isn't using it."

"I feel like there is a dirty joke somewhere in there."

"Don't you dare," she said, a smirk tugging at the straight line of her mouth. "I'm serious. If I can tell, so can everyone else."

"Okay, well, at least it was cast 'intentionally and with purpose,' like you wanted."

Hermione sighed. "You're a terrible liar. And you're hardly intentional about anything."

"Hey!"

She stepped closer, sending the dummy flying back to the heap with the rest of them. "You react with magic like a flinch. You always have. It served you for a time, but you're so much more powerful now, Harry."

Harry bristled but kept his mouth shut.

"I don’t think you’re dangerous, and I can say without hesitation that you have a good heart and the best intentions. But we both know you're not entirely harmless. And regardless, what you can do scares people. You don't want them afraid of you."

Harry deflated because Hermione was right. She was always bloody right.

"This isn't just about the Aurors, either. It's good practice," she said. "And you have time. It's not like you're busy."

Harry glowered at her. "Low blow, 'Mione."

"Good. Get mad about it. The more emotional you are during these training sessions, the better.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but instead of letting him brush it off, Hermione drew close enough to place a hand against his arm—an anchoring, comforting touch.

"The world is going to keep coming at you. I wouldn't even blame you if you wanted to run away for a while, not after what you've been through. But if you stay here, you have to be able to keep your control. No matter what is thrown your way."

"You're right," Harry replied with a sigh.

"Sorry, not sure I heard you. Once again?"

Harry snorted and Hermione grinned back.

"Okay?" she asked.

Harry nodded. Yes, they were okay. He was okay.

"Ready to go again?"

"I'm ready," Harry said.

Hermione released her grip on Harry's arm as the magical barrier bloomed around them, expanding to cover all but the perimeter of the room. She waved her wand and three of the dummies aligned themselves, the shadows taking over their dull wooden bodies. Hermione's wand twisted in the air and a crease formed between her brows as she wove the attack spells into their protocol. When she finished, she stepped outside the barrier.

"I won't go easy on you," she warned.

"You never do," Harry replied. He tightened his grip on his wand.

Hermione gave him one last nod, and then, with a whip of her wand, she unleashed hell.

****

Harry got through it. Barely.

Hermione's dummies were relentless, forcing Harry to constantly defend and attack without a moment to breathe or even think. When the last dummy fell, the shadow withdrawing to leave behind nothing but spell-scarred wood, Harry flopped to the ground on his arse.

"Fuck me," he exhaled, then collapsed backwards to stare blankly up at the ceiling.

Hermione appeared over him, haloed by bluish fluorescent lights.

"You could at least finish out the exercise properly. You wouldn't just drop to the ground like a puppet with his strings cut if you were in the field."

"Obviously not. Which is why it's a good thing I'm in the basement of your office," Harry said, grinning up at her. "That was practically sadistic. You might have some issues of your own to work out, Hermione."

Hermione huffed, but offered him her hand, pulling him to his feet.

"Dinner?" she asked.

Guilt flooded Harry's gut like ice water, but he pushed past it and said, "Can't tonight. I need to go home and crash after that bludgeoning."

"Oh stop," she said, laughing as Harry pretended to limp towards the door, hissing and wincing with each step. He was legitimately wrecked, but he played it up to make her smile. Hermione didn't smile enough these days.

"I'll make it up to you after training on Wednesday. Caffè Costanzo?" Harry offered.

"Oh, deal."

Harry kissed her cheek, grabbed his skateboard, and ducked out the door. He usually rode home from their sessions to clear his head and breathe some fresh air, but tonight Harry was in a hurry.

It was Friday night and Harry needed to be at The Briar and Toad by nine o'clock.

Chapter Text

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry was in and out of the shower in minutes. He mussed his hair with his hand as he muttered a half-arsed drying charm, then tossed the towel aside in favour of his usual uniform—t-shirt, jeans, trainers suited for quick getaways, leather jacket—and he was out the door.

The Briar and Toad was packed; unsurprising for a Friday night, but Harry's shoulders were already inching closer to his ears, the fluttering inside his ribcage growing increasingly violent.

Harry knew it wasn't real, that his greatest threat was an overpriced cocktail or a line for the toilets. He knew that, but it didn't make a lick of difference to his body, which reacted to even the most basic situations with total system failure. On top of that, Hermione's training always left him raw—chafed from the inside. Walking into a crowded bar was probably the last thing he should be doing.

A Targeting Spell slipped to the forefront of Harry's consciousness, though for what, he wasn't sure. Malfoy? One of the others? He only knew he couldn't take wandering on his own for long.

Before he could decide, long fingers closed around his forearm.

Harry spun, the embers of panic fanning into full flame, and instead of the Targeting Spell, a vicious Stinging Hex snapped free.

"Whoa!" Malfoy yelped, dropping Harry's arm as if burned. "What the fuck was that?!"

Harry must have looked a little wild-eyed because Malfoy raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay. No touching."

Malfoy fell back a step. Still holding Harry's eyes, he leaned across the bar and shouted something at the bartender. A moment later, he pressed a double whisky into one of Harry's hands and a glass of water into the other.

Harry took a long drink of the whisky and discarded the water on the bar, untouched.

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "I guess I'm a little on edge today. Are you alright?"

"Fine. It was honestly pretty pathetic for a Stinging Hex," Malfoy said with a dismissive wave. "And what do you mean today? Potter, you've been on a razor's edge since you were twelve. Learn to loosen up."

Harry scowled at him.

"That really is your default expression, isn't it." He gestured to Harry without touching him. "Come. We've got the table at the back again. Jack and Krum are arguing about Muggle football and it's fucking hilarious."

It was the same crowd as before. Krum, who greeted Harry with a bruising one-armed hug, Jack with orange hair this time, Astoria, and of course Malfoy, who shuffled Harry into the far corner of the booth and slid in after him, trapping Harry between himself and Krum. He kept a respectable distance, though Harry's heart rate maintained its elevated pace.

Jack and Krum were indeed discussing Muggle football, though they seemed to be under the impression that inflicting injuries on the opposing team held greater bearing on winning than getting the ball into the goal.

"I could easily play professional football," Krum said. "For one, I am very fast. They could not catch me long enough to kick my shins. Number two, I am much tougher than these men. Do you see them? A little nudge and they are crying for their mothers. I have been hit by a hundred Bludgers, and do I complain? Do you see me carried out on a cot and taken to hospital? No. Because I am not a weakling like these Muggles."

"I wouldn't brag about getting smacked around by Bludgers, Viktor. Pretty sure you're supposed to be avoiding them," Malfoy said.

"The impact strengthens my focus, which is why I am one of the best Quidditch players in the world."

"And so humble," Malfoy retorted.

"Why should I be humble? I am the best. Do you think you can play football better than me, Draco? Or are you one of these weak men, sobbing in front of the cameras like babies?"

Malfoy laughed a little cruelly. "I have endured far worse pain than a kick to the shin, or even a Bludger to the skull," he said, but before anyone could think too long about what that meant, he added, "And of the two of us, I have the superior ball-handling skills."

Malfoy waggled his fingers suggestively at Harry, and he looked away with an eye roll, his face flaming.

"Keep your hands away from all balls and someday we will play. But Harry will be on my team," Krum said with a definitive nod.

"Yeah, I didn't volunteer for that."

"Afraid you'll lose to Harry again if he isn't on your team?" Astoria quipped. "That arm wrestling match a few weeks ago was embarrassing to watch."

"The arm wrestling was not fair. I was drunk," Krum said.

"So was he! And half your size!" Jack added.

Harry frowned. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You remember, mate," Jack said. "You beat Viktor in an arm wrestling at the after-party at my flat."

That was Jack's flat in Battersea? Harry glanced at Malfoy, whose brow twitched. He thought he remembered Malfoy saying something about winning an arm wrestling match.

"Oh, that. Right."

"Can we figure out the plan for tonight? I don't know how much longer I can stand sitting around this smelly pub," Astoria whined.

"Astoria's right. Let's shake it up. Make your offerings," Jack said.

"I heard about an art opening in Chelsea," Malfoy said. "There will be wine, but the party only gets weird after hours."

Astoria shrugged. "Club? It's eighties night at The Hex Hole."

"There is a new cocktail bar in Notting Hill. My friend is an investor," Krum said.

"That's got my vote," Harry chimed in. Bars were easier than clubs, and Harry didn't really like wine, though he thought art was alright.

"All in favour, say aye," Jack said and was answered with a chorus of 'ayes.'

****

The bar in Notting Hill, while catering to magical clients, was located in a Muggle district. This was apparently a draw, giving it a speakeasy feel, as the only way to find it was to know exactly where it was.

Getting there proved a problem because they all declared themselves too smashed to Apparate across town. Malfoy and Astoria complained the Floo would dirty their clothes, and Jack was banned from the Knight Bus for life, though no one would tell Harry why.

"Tube?" Astoria asked, wincing.

"Oh, Potter's favourite!"

Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy but led the way to the nearest station.

When they reached the barrier, Harry watched, amused, as Malfoy produced his Oyster card and passed it through the reader without trouble.

"I can feel you staring," Malfoy called over his shoulder.

Harry stifled his laugh. "Still something I never imagined I'd see you do."

"Oh, Potter, I do all sorts of things you've never imagined."

Harry raised a brow at that but received only a wink in response as he pushed through the gate.

Jack and Krum hopped the barrier, Krum turning around to help Astoria over because they apparently saw no point in owning an Oyster card or paying at all.

"We're breaking laws in front of an Auror," Astoria hissed in an over-loud whisper to Malfoy.

"He's not an Auror, love," Malfoy said, fully aware that Harry was within hearing distance. "They sacked him. Because he was shit."

"Muggle train fare theft wasn't my jurisdiction, anyway," Harry added.

Malfoy let out a rich chuckle that echoed in the underground.

There was significant discussion over which train to take, but Harry guided them gently in the right direction before Jack sent them hurtling all the way to Chesham. They had to run to catch the train, shouting and leaping through the doors right as they slid shut (thanks to minor magical intervention from Harry, though he kept that to himself).

The car was nearly empty save for a couple of people at the far ends, and Harry dropped into the nearest seat. Jack slumped next to him, chatting with Astoria and Krum, while Malfoy took the seat on Harry's right.

Malfoy stretched his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. Harry found himself staring at Malfoy's shoes: boots, black leather to his ankle with pointed toes. They looked expensive and posh, though well-worn. One boot moved, tapping lightly against the side of Harry's trainer.

"Still with us there, Potter?" Malfoy asked, and when Harry looked at him, he was half smiling.

"Up for debate," Harry admitted. He'd downed his last drink too fast and it went straight to his head.

Malfoy chuckled and Harry wiggled his ankle to tap the side of Malfoy's boot once more, then Harry tipped his head to look up into the fluorescent lights, his vision blurring.

"Alright you lot, I'll need to see your tickets."

Harry's head snapped up to find a ticket guard in a neon jacket hovering over them with arms crossed.

"Fuck off, pig," Jack said, showing the guard two middle fingers instead.

The ticket guard sighed heavily. "Kid, I just work here, alright? Don't make trouble. Tickets, please."

"Fuck this capitalist transportation system and its—"

Malfoy stood, slamming a hand onto Jack's shoulder to hush him. "What my idiotic friend is trying to say is the ticket machine at the last station was broken."

"That's funny, because I just came from there, and they were working fine. Now, I'll ask one more time. Tickets or I'll have to issue you a citation."

"I won't pay no fucking citation," Jack shouted, leaping to his feet. "You want my money, you'll have to pry it from my bloody fingers. I hear you coppers aren't afraid of a little unwarranted violence."

"Jack!" Malfoy hissed. "He's not even a copper. He's practically a train conductor. And if you keep it up, I'm going to inflict some very warranted violence on you."

Harry sighed, deciding it was time to intervene before Malfoy and Jack got into a duel on the Tube.

Harry stood and placed a hand on the man's arm, pushing the gentlest Confundus Charm towards him. It manifested as nothing more than temporary befuddlement, but Harry reckoned it was enough. He glanced up just as the train entered the next station.

The Muggle blinked. He turned to Harry, looking at him as if it was the first time he'd seen him. "Where did you come from?” He frowned. “I'll need to see your ticket, young man."

"What the—" Jack muttered.

Everyone stared at each other for a few confused seconds.

"Shall we—" Harry jerked his thumb towards the doors as they slid open.

"Oh bloody hell," Malfoy grumbled.

"I am not dressed for this," Astoria hissed, already tugging on Krum's sleeve.

"Sorry," Harry said to the guard.

They all bolted.

Harry was quicker than most, far outpacing Krum, Jack, and Astoria, leaping the railing and taking the stairs at a run. Malfoy was ten paces ahead of him, the leggy fucker, and when Malfoy glanced back with a laugh, it became a bit of a race.

They dodged tourists, business people wearing headphones, and a group of drunk teenagers, snaking through the crowd until they had the exit in sight.

As soon as they cleared the station, Harry and Malfoy ducked down a narrow street, whistling to the others trailing behind them.

"Good show, mate," Jack said, grinning as he jogged to a halt.

Malfoy punched him in the arm. "What the fuck was that? The goal with Muggles is not to draw attention. Are you completely daft?"

Jack shrugged, practically buoyant. "Who cares! Bloke was clearly senile. And we got away with it. We stuck it to the man!"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Malfoy said, dropping his face into one hand.

"Hey, isn't that the place?" Astoria said, pointing across the street to an unassuming shop front with a sign that read: Bill's Quills and Notary Services.

Jack cackled, pounding Malfoy once on the back, then skipped across the road, tugging Astoria by the wrist.

Malfoy held back with Harry as Krum trailed after them.

"Bit weird how he went all fuzzy like that, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged, burying his hands in his pockets, his eyes on his shoes.

"Yeah, weird."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Almost like he'd been Confunded."

"I guess."

"Even though none of us had our wands out. And also because that would be a totally illegal thing to do. Using charms on a Muggle."

"Seemed to me like he just has a poor memory. Gets confused."

Malfoy snorted. "Confused. Sure." He shook his head. "Come on. It's late and I'm not nearly drunk enough."

Harry could agree with him there.

****

"Well, this is fucking dreadful," Malfoy said.

Harry could agree with that, too.

The bar, called The Magna Vox, was beyond pretentious. The drink prices had Harry's eyebrows at his hairline, particularly when he realised that after downing three in a row, he was barely buzzed. The decor was a weak attempt at industrial chic that managed to look both unfinished and overdone all at once, and the staff acted surlier than Old Marv, the ancient late-shift bartender at The Briar and Toad. At least this lot had both eyes and all ten of their fingers, which was more than Marv could say.

Harry leaned his hip against the bar and folded his arms over his chest. Save for Harry, every single person in the room looked like they belonged there. They were all adorned in the trendiest fashions and constantly adjusting themselves as if waiting to have their photo taken at any moment.

Harry was, in fact, waiting to have his photo taken at any moment—a hazard of being Harry Potter—but instead of preening, he was hoping to melt into the woodwork. He edged behind Krum, letting him serve as Harry's human shield, absorbing any incoming fans. Krum loved fans. Harry, not so much.

On top of all of that dreadfulness, Malfoy was driving Harry mad.

"Would you stop fidgeting? What's wrong with you?" Harry snapped, at his wit's end because Malfoy wouldn't stop moving. Every time he settled he was up again, shifting, peering across the crowd, long neck craning every which way.

"I'm looking for someone, you arse," Malfoy bit back.

"Let me guess. The big sleazy guy covered in tattoos?"

Malfoy's head whipped in Harry's direction, his eyes narrowing. "You have something against tattoos?"

"Nope." He didn't, and most of the time thought they looked quite cool. He simply didn't like that bloke, who Harry believed to be an arsehole, despite never speaking to him.

Malfoy straightened, his gaze skittering away. "His name is Alex, by the way. And so what if I am waiting for him?"

Harry shrugged. "He your boyfriend?"

Malfoy's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. "Would that be a problem?"

"No. Doesn't have anything to do with me."

"Then why ask?"

"Because he keeps turning up, sucks on your face for a while, then fucks off while you pout about it."

"Selective obliviousness indeed," Malfoy muttered. Then he gathered himself, spine straightening and jaw set. "Alright, Potter. If you must know, the answer is no. He's not my boyfriend. We just fuck a lot."

"Do you want him to be your boyfriend?"

Malfoy croaked and sputtered while Harry waited for him to sort it out. The answer made no real difference and he didn't even know why he asked other than that he was curious. The same way that Harry was curious about Malfoy's flat, his bedroom, and what he looked like in the mornings.

"I might," Malfoy said finally.

Harry huffed a laugh. "A resounding maybe."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe I would like to be more than a regular and super fantastic dick appointment. I'm a simple man, Potter. I like to fuck, and often. But I also like a bloke to make me dinner or bring me coffee in bed every once in a while. Now, do you have any more intrusive questions or is the interrogation over?"

"It's not an interrogation just because I'm asking you about your life. It's called conversation, remember?"

A smirk slid onto Malfoy's face. "Very good, Potter. You were taking notes." He started shifting again, and Harry resisted the urge to grasp him by the shoulders, forcing him to hold still. "He probably won't even show up."

"Were you expecting him?"

"No. He's… not great at making plans. But he shows up at all the cool functions. That's how we met."

"Somehow, I don't think this qualifies," Harry said, and Malfoy conceded with a shrug of one shoulder. "What does he do?"

"He's an artist," Malfoy said, voice gone dreamy.

Harry snorted.

"Oh, shut up."

"So that art show in Chelsea?"

Malfoy shook his head. "No. He's never had a show of his own. Not yet."

"Oh, so he's quite good then, is he?"

"Such an arse, Potter," Malfoy said, elbowing him even though he was grinning. "Come on. Let's order another round of these horrid cocktails, put them on Viktor's tab, and have a smoke. I can't stand another moment in here with everyone standing around staring at each other."

"Really? Thought you'd like that, being the peacock you are."

Malfoy's grin grew teeth. "That's why you hang around me, isn't it? A shiny distraction so no one notices you're here?"

"Actually, yeah."

"Such a waste. You'd make such a pretty accessory," Malfoy said with a sigh. "So, what will it be? Whisky straight up, or are you watering it down tonight?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Straight up it is."

****

The patio turned out to be even worse.

A bubble of warming charms kept the temperature cosy, which meant everyone who couldn't fit inside was outside. The echo of laughter was brittle, stilted, and the conversation practised. It gave Harry the creeps.

Harry pushed to the edge of the fenced space, facing the hedge rather than the swarm of people.

"This is worse, isn't it," Malfoy mumbled, pulling up beside him and immediately lighting a cigarette. "How is it worse?"

Harry shook his head.

"I blame you for this entirely, Potter."

"Me? Why?"

"It was your idea."

"It was Krum's idea," Harry argued.

"And you endorsed it. Viktor has terrible ideas. Everyone knows that. Where is he, anyway?" Malfoy glanced around, then snorted.

Harry followed his eyeline until he found Krum, chatting up a girl who was probably a model. She certainly looked like a model.

"Glad it worked out for someone. This place is tragically heterosexual. And that's only part of why it's shite."

He passed Harry the cigarette, and even though Harry didn't feel like smoking, he took it. When he placed his lips against the filter and found it damp from Malfoy’s mouth, he had that feeling again. The creeping strangeness, but this time it wasn't so unpleasant. This time, it felt almost nice.

The flash of a camera bulb from inside the hedge thrust Harry back into his body, panic flooding him.

Another flash. And now he could see them, the paparazzi using Cloaking Charms to hide in plain sight, which was not only illegal but a massively horrible thing to do.

Harry froze, clamping down on the twisting, growling thing in his chest.

"Harry Potter! How are you faring since the breakup? What do you have to say about the rumours that Ginny Weasley left you for her Quidditch coach?"

Harry's veins filled with fire, but before he move or react, Malfoy pressed a hand against his chest.

"Let's go."

Malfoy dragged him inside by the front of his leather jacket.

The flashbulbs continued behind them, maybe catching on some other celebrity, or maybe chasing him, Harry didn't know. Malfoy manoeuvred them through the crowd to the back of the room and down a short hallway to the toilets.

"Hey!" a girl shouted at Malfoy as he shoved her out of the way and pushed inside the private toilet, pulling Harry right along with him.

He slammed the door shut behind them, turned the lock, and hit it with a barrier spell before turning to survey the room. Malfoy's eyes caught on the window and he grinned.

"What is it with you and crawling out windows?" Harry asked though he'd already accepted that it was the best option.

The sound that came out of Malfoy—some sort of high-pitched mad giggle—almost had Harry tripping over his feet.

Malfoy waved his wand and the bin flew across the room, dumping its contents onto the floor before slamming upside down in front of the window. He propped a foot on the upturned bin, testing its strength with a little weight, then heaved himself on top. The window slid open with ease and Malfoy peered out, looking right and left, then, deeming it safe to proceed, slipped the rest of the way out. He dropped to the ground with a grunt.

"Any day now, Potter," he called from below.

Harry hissed because Malfoy should not be shouting his name right now.

Someone pounded on the door hard enough to rattle its hinges, and Harry jumped, grabbing the upper window frame, and swinging to launch himself through the opening. He landed in a crouch at Malfoy's feet.

"Do you practise that, or does it come naturally?" Malfoy asked, one eyebrow raised as he stared down at Harry.

Harry smirked and stood. "Bit of both." Harry glanced around him. "Think it's clear?"

"Looks like it. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Why are you running? I thought you liked the press."

"But you don't. Plus, I refuse to be photographed at this rubbish heap they call a bar."

They only made it a few steps towards the main street, and suddenly the cameras were there. Harry blinked away another flash.

"Harry Potter! Over here! Give us a smile!"

"Is that Draco Malfoy?"

Malfoy snagged Harry by the collar and yanked him in the opposite direction. They took off running down the street towards a smaller road, and for a moment Harry thought they'd lost them, but as soon as they rounded the corner, he heard the pop of Apparition and there they were again.

They both halted in their tracks as it quickly dawned on them that they were surrounded. Harry looked at Malfoy, and Malfoy glanced back.

"Sorry," Harry said.

Malfoy had only a split second to look confused before Harry grabbed his arm, and with a flash, they were gone.

The next moment, they stood atop a roof overlooking the river.

Malfoy stumbled next to him, and Harry steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, which he dropped immediately.

"Potter, is this my roof?"

"Yeah."

"And why are we on the roof?" Malfoy asked slowly.

"Felt rude to just let myself in."

Malfoy waved his hands wildly. "So put us on the sidewalk!"

"What if someone sees?"

"What if—oh my god, you're ridiculous. You could have missed! I could have stumbled and fallen to my death! Splattered across the pavement like an egg!"

Harry chuckled. "I wouldn't miss. And I would have caught you. Probably."

Malfoy scoffed, and then his gaze settled on Harry's hands. His empty hands.

Shit.

"Where's your…" Malfoy swallowed, then lifted his eyes to Harry's.

Harry held his gaze, some part of him daring Malfoy to ask, to point out what Harry already knew he'd seen.

Inevitably, anyone who spent enough time with Harry would see it. He didn't mean to do it, and that was exactly the problem. Hermione said he used magic like a flinch, but Harry thought it was more like breathing—the easy, unconscious intake and release as it moved through him.

But people didn't go around doing magic without wands. More than unusual, it was practically unheard of, and those rare individuals able to wield wandless magic could only master the simplest spells: Summoning, minor transfiguration, a few charms.

They certainly didn't use it to Apparate with a Side-Along all the way across London after a few whiskys.

Hermione had theories about Harry's magic—something involving transferal from the numerous magical battles Harry fought throughout his life. He'd seen Healers who said he was technically healthy, all his vitals well within the normal range and under no risk of long-term physical repercussions. Hermione begged him to let them run additional tests, but Harry decided early on that he didn't care, didn't want to know, and preferred to take the easier route: ignoring it and pretending everything was fine.

Malfoy had reason to ask why Harry never used a wand, but instead, his posture softened. "The windows are locked. Muggle locked. We'll have to break in."

"What's one more window?"

Malfoy smirked. "Now you're getting it."

Malfoy flapped a hand at Harry in an invitation, and Harry snorted in disbelief.

"I'm not breaking into your room," he said.

"You broke into Theo's."

"You told me I could stay there!"

"Yes, and I assumed that meant you would enter through the door like a normal fucking per—no. You know what? I'll break into my own room. Can't have you thinking you can go around shoving your way through any window you want."

Harry waved him on because that was what he wanted in the first place.

Malfoy withdrew his wand and, with a bit of fiddling, got the window unlatched from the inside. He threw the sill up and stepped gingerly to the desk below before disappearing abruptly from view. There was a flurry of curses as something heavy crashed to the floor.

Harry peered into the dark room, watching as Malfoy fumbled himself upright, brushing his trousers, then kicking the upturned cauldron toppled beside the desk. Harry chuckled and launched himself through the window, sailing over the desk to land softly on the floor. Malfoy shot him an annoyed glare as he lit the lamp.

Harry tried not to stare at his surroundings too obviously as he catalogued all the details he missed or forgot the first time he was here. Little clues to Malfoy's life, like the dusty broomstick in the corner, or the journal with what looked like potions recipes handwritten in perfect cursive lying open on the desk.

Malfoy dropped onto his bed and kicked off his boots. "I have done entirely too much running tonight."

"I like running," Harry said with a shrug. "Wore the trainers just in case I'd need to."

"Run away often, Potter?"

"Often enough."

"God, you're weird," Malfoy said, and somehow, it didn't have the bite of an insult. It sounded almost fond.

"Maybe, but considering we've had to make a run for it twice tonight, I think we can admit I was a little bit right."

Malfoy laughed brightly and Harry couldn't help but smile back.

"Come on," Malfoy said, standing. "Let's go steal food from Blaise while he's out of town. He goes to the boutique shops in Soho where the marmalade alone costs three galleons. It's utterly magnificent."

"All you had to say was steal from Zabini and I was in."

Malfoy cackled, and Harry chased him down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Harry's nightmares persisted through the rest of the week. Awoken yet again, drenched in cold sweat, heart beating out of his chest, he broke the bedroom mirror in frustration. All he wanted was to sleep. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently, the answer was yes, because while Harry's nightmares started their relentless torment after the war and only increased in intensity as he aged, they'd grown worse since leaving the Aurors. And even more so after Ginny moved out.

They differed slightly each time. Sometimes they were filled with imagined horrors—Hermione's death, a fire at The Burrow, the betrayal of a friend. But other times, they were real events, moments in Harry's life that changed him, twisting his magic into the thorny, vicious thing he now carried. It was almost cruel how the things Harry refused to think about during the day lurked in the shadows, waiting for him to relinquish control so they could drag him into the dark.

Four sleepless nights in, Harry gave up altogether. He passed the time until dawn practising ollies in the foyer and jumping the troll foot umbrella stand on his skateboard, the CD player levitating next to him with the Sex Pistols' Never Mind the Bollocks spinning in an endless, angry loop. The disapproving glares from the portraits and the dangerous creak of the old wood floors only fuelled him.

Time passed slowly in the house, and unable to rush it along with sleep, it stretched on almost unbearably. Harry filled the hours as best he could. He chased the Doxies out of the attic for the dozenth time and refortified his wards while wrestling with the house's iron-strong magic.

Harry caught himself counting down the days until Friday and briefly considered sending Malfoy an owl to see if anything was going on that weekend. Or weekday. Any day, really.

On Wednesday morning, Harry trained with Hermione. She had him practise holding his control while surrounded. Harry hated those sorts of drills, when the creepy, shadowy dummies encircled him, bearing down, thrusting Harry mentally right back to third- and fourth-year, when the Dementors loomed. Harry wondered if it was a targeted attack on her part. She often emphasised the importance of getting emotional during exercises, encouraging Harry to tap into all the things he so adamantly avoided.

That day's session went as well as it could. Hermione was pleased with him for using his wand during drills, though Harry ached to lay the dummies flat in one go and be done with it. As Hermione reminded him, that wasn't the point.

Wand work wasn't hard for Harry, but it felt so inefficient. He moved faster without the wand, able to shorten his movements, compact them, making it easier to release them in rapid succession.

He'd expected the Aurors to see it as an asset. In the field, he could both defend and attack in unison and was near impossible to restrain. Harry protected his team and the victims. He could stop the people who used, hurt, cheated, killed.

Unfortunately, the DMLE did not share Harry's sentiments. In fact, they flat out forbade it, calling it a 'gross misuse of power,' which had Hermione snorting about hypocrisy into her wineglass when he told her. Unfortunately for everyone, Harry was shite at following the rules and, with one fatal misstep, handed the DMLE all the evidence they needed to prove in their favour. Which was how Harry found himself here, kicked off the force and relearning how to rely on a wand.

"Let's get lunch," Hermione said, dismissing the dummy and patting Harry's shoulder. "You promised me Caffè Costanzo."

She helped him into his jacket, making sarcastic pitying sounds as Harry winced at the twinge in his shoulder.

"You should stretch out a little if you plan to go somersaulting across the concrete like that again."

"Looked cool though, didn't it?"

Hermione laughed with her head thrown back, and the weight on Harry's heart lightened.

"I'd say you cancel it out by limping out of here."

"A fair point," he said, struggling not to favour his right leg as they ascended the stairs from the basement training room into Hermione's messy office suite.

They only trained on days the offices for her nonprofit were empty because the last thing they needed while practising dangerous and legally questionable magic was a building full of solicitors, even if they worked for Hermione.

Hermione was brilliant as founder and CEO of Better Universal Magic (though she remained questionable at naming things). With her organisation, she was able to affect real change by using the Ministry of Magic’s own systems against them. Hermione had her team of expert paper-pushers filing motions, calling for litigation, inspecting and reporting misconduct. She opened her nonprofit two years prior and in that short time, Harry would say she was well on her way to changing the world. But Hermione still got frustrated at what she saw as change at a glacial pace. Harry knew she had her sights on a recently vacated Wizengamot seat, a way to straddle the line between government disruptor and government official—to dismantle the machine from the inside.

Harry would have much rather talked about that or any of the other fascinating things Hermione busied herself with all day. But all Hermione wanted to talk about was Harry.

"Have you heard anything from the DMLE yet?" she asked as she locked the office door behind her, following Harry down the street.

"Not yet."

Hermione growled. "We sent that appeal weeks ago."

"What did you expect?"

"I expected Robards to make you grovel, but I didn't expect him to get away with blocking you at every turn. What in Merlin's name is he thinking? You have the people's support."

"What people?"

She frowned at him. "The public."

"My fans."

"Not just your weird, rabid fans. Magical people all over England. They want you back in your former position. They felt safe knowing you were protecting them."

"Was I really protecting them?" Harry asked, sceptical.

"Yes. Sometimes I think you were the only one doing so in that joke of a department."

"How do you know that, though?"

"Harry, I know you don't read the papers or magazines, but not everything they write about you is gossip. There are people who stand behind you, who believe you can make a difference but are being purposefully blockaded by the Ministry in their desperate attempts to keep you under their thumb."

"And how is that not gossip?"

"Because I know what really happened and why they sacked you. The public may not know the details, but they're right to trust you. To trust your judgement. The Aurors threw you in alone and never gave you more than half the information you needed. It was so obvious they wanted you to fail."

"And I failed."

"You didn't fail. You behaved exactly as they expected you to, and they used it against you. Harry, you are so damn good at protecting people. You just don't know how to protect yourself."

Harry shot her a half smile. "That's why I've got you."

"You've got more than me. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

It was hard to believe anything the papers said could be in his favour, but didn't Malfoy allude to the same public support? And Jack, though slightly less coherently?

Too bad they were all wrong about him. Harry deserved to be sacked for what he did. He deserved more than that.

"Don't make that face,” Hermione said.

"What face?"

"The frowning one that says you think you deserved to be sacked."

Harry snorted. Hermione didn't need Legilimency to get into his mind.

"You didn't,” she said, voice hard. “You didn't deserve what they did to you. And that's why I'm going to show up at Robards' office personally to ask about the status of the appeal."

Harry huffed a laugh because he had no doubt that's exactly what she'd do. He only wished he shared her urgency.

Caffè Costanzo, down the street from Hermione's office, was a regular stop after their scheduled training sessions. It was a casual cafe with familiar comfort food reminiscent of a home-cooked meal. It was no replacement for Mrs Weasley's cooking, but it filled a void.

They were seated right away, obliviously chatting about the postcards they'd received from Luna and the ongoing status of Leslie and her egg salad (she'd since added tuna fish and Hermione was apoplectic). Completely at ease, it was the last place Harry expected anyone to sneak up on him.

"Potter? Is that you? Well, what are the odds?"

Harry froze mid-sentence because—no. It couldn't be.

Harry spun to find Malfoy crossing the dining room with Parkinson in tow.

Unlike Harry, Malfoy did not appear surprised at all. In fact, he looked quite smug, while Parkinson glowered as though she'd lost a bet.

Next to him, Hermione straightened.

This was not good. Harry had conveniently neglected to mention Malfoy to Hermione. There never seemed to be the right moment to tell her that Harry liked to get drunk with their childhood bully, follow him to the club and onto the Tube, and spend the night at his house.

"Granger," Parkinson said, nodding towards Hermione, not quite able to make eye contact.

"Parkinson."

"I haven't seen you around Ginger's lately."

Hermione cleared her throat, gaze slanting away and then back. "Litigation season ended. Been drinking my conciliatory wine in solitude instead of in public these days."

"That's too bad," Parkinson said, her voice flat, but there was a flicker of something behind her eyes.

Harry watched the exchange with thinly veiled curiosity. Since when did Hermione see Parkinson? And who the hell was Ginger? Malfoy appeared similarly intrigued, but then his face lit up, and he leaned forward, hands on their table.

"Since we're all here. You should know we're having a little get-together—ouch!"

Harry winced in sympathy when Parkinson's pointy high heel made contact with Malfoy's shin, but Malfoy carried on through gritted teeth.

"We're having a party at ours on Friday. You ought to come," he said.

"Having a party, are we?" Parkinson spat into his face, but Malfoy ignored her.

"Yes. We are. And you're both invited. Eight o'clock," Malfoy said.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, alright."

"What?" Hermione whirled on him, mouth open in shock.

"I don't have any plans," Harry replied. He had no plans ever. And a party on Friday sounded like a far superior alternative to another night at home.

"That's not—" Hermione's eyes darted from Harry to Malfoy to Parkinson, and back again. She pursed her lips. "Fine. Eight o'clock on Friday. What's the address?"

"Potter knows it," Malfoy said. He rapped the table with his knuckles and drew away, straightening. "Well, we were just leaving. Enjoy your lunch."

Malfoy linked his arm around Parkinson's, turning and all but dragging her away from the table. As soon as they were out of earshot, they began whispering furiously and kept it up all the way out the door. Harry thought he caught a hissed, "—only to look, Draco!", followed by a, "Now we can look all night," but his hearing wasn't all that good.

Hermione turned to him. "Harry."

"Hm?" Harry busied himself with the menu. "Did you see? They have roast duck."

"Harry, what just happened?"

"We got invited to a party."

"At Malfoy and Parkinson's house," she continued slowly.

Harry hummed in confirmation, focusing hard on the drinks section of the menu. It wasn't too early for a pint, was it?

"Where you have already been?" she asked.

"Oh. Yeah."

Hermione stared at him. Harry stared at his menu.

"Harry Potter!" Hermione's palm slammed against the table, rattling the silverware and drawing a few eyes.

Harry winced.

"Why were you hanging out at Malfoy's house?"

"It's a flat. And it's not only his. Parkinson lives there too. Also Zabini and Nott, though I hear they don't come around much."

"They don't come around much," she repeated blandly, nodding, her eyes boring into him.

Harry looked everywhere but her.

Hermione's dessert spoon smacked into the side of Harry's head and he hissed, turning towards her.

"Harry, what the hell! What are you doing?"

Harry sighed, rubbing at the spot on his temple where the spoon made contact. "It's nothing. We bumped into each other at a party."

"Since when do you go to parties?"

Harry clenched his jaw and gritted out the words, "Since Ginny left."

"Okay. So you went to a party with Malfoy. Then went back to his house with him?"

"Flat" he corrected. "And more like a couple of parties."

"A couple?"

Harry chewed his lip, counting in his mind. There had to be at least three, plus that club.

Hermione’s voice raised higher in pitch. "You really have to think that hard?"

"No, I just don't think you'll like the answer."

Her mouth fell open, then shut with a click. She sat a little straighter the way she always did when steeling herself. "And you want to go to this party. At Malfoy's. And Parkinson's and sometimes Zabini and Nott's."

"Sure, I guess," Harry said.

"Fine. I'm going with you."

Harry smirked. "You say it like it's a death sentence."

"I don't go to a lot of parties."

"They're supposed to be fun."

She shot him a dry look. "And are they fun? Since you're the expert."

Harry lifted and dropped one shoulder. "They can be."

"Fine," she said with a sigh and picked up her menu. "Roast duck, you said?"

****

Harry glanced over at Hermione. Next to him, she straightened her coat and cleared her throat, tossing her hair over her shoulder, back ramrod straight.

"What?" she asked, catching Harry watching her.

"You look very nice," he said with a half-smile.

Hermione scoffed, but her cheeks tinged pink.

"Is that a new skirt?" Harry asked.

She sent him a sidelong glare, then continued staring straight ahead. "It might be. Since when do you notice my clothes?"

Truthfully, he didn't, but Hermione was coiffed tonight. There was no way around it and Harry found it quite curious.

"Should we knock?" Harry asked.

Hermione rolled her head. "Yes, Harry. Just bloody knock, would you? Let's get this over with."

Harry grinned and rapped on the door. "It might not be so bad. Maybe you'll meet some new and interesting people."

"Who the bloody hell are you? Is that what you do at parties, Harry? Meet new and interesting people?"

Harry snickered. "Not at all. I stick to the bar and people I've already met and preferably known ten years or longer."

"So that's how you ended up with Malfoy?"

"Sort of."

"New and interesting people," Hermione mumbled, then huffed.

Harry stifled a giggle.

When the door swung open, they had to tilt their necks to look into Blaise Zabini's face, staring down at them. Bloody hell, the bloke was at least a foot taller than the last time Harry saw him. And he looked like something straight out of a fragrance advertisement in his purple shirt and pressed trousers, lounging against the door frame with practised ease.

Zabini raised one dark eyebrow. "Well, would you look at that. Draco wasn't exaggerating, for once."

Somewhere behind Zabini, there came a crash and some hissed curses, and then Malfoy came flying around the corner.

"Potter. Granger," he said breathlessly, running and hand through his hair. "Do come in."

Harry and Hermione shared a look before they stepped inside.

The living room looked nice, the lights low and tables tidied since the last time Harry was here, which was the first sign that something was off. Parties were usually a lot messier. The lack of mess came secondary to an even more startling sign that something was off because the only other people in the room were Parkinson and Zabini.

"Here, sit," Malfoy said, ushering them towards a couple of chairs. "I'll go get the wine." And he darted off again.

Parkinson sat on the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, glaring, and Zabini dropped down next to her with a bored sigh.

Hermione tugged Harry's sleeve, hissing into his ear. "Are we early?"

"I have no fucking idea," Harry muttered back. He lifted his voice to Parkinson and Zabini. "I'll just go see if he needs help."

He gave Hermione a squeeze, but when he attempted to withdraw, she clung to him. He had to peel her fingers off his arm while she stared into the living room as though it was filled with poisonous snakes rather than a couple of bored socialites.

With a reassuring pat, Harry stepped away, walking backwards, then spinning to jog the rest of the way to the kitchen.

Malfoy's head snapped up when Harry appeared, his wand raised over a bottle of wine.

"Potter, what are you doing? Go out there and sit down," Malfoy snapped.

"What the fuck is this?" Harry asked.

Malfoy looked at him like he'd lost his gobstones. "A 2001 Chenin Blanc. Don't tell me you prefer red."

"No! I don't give a fuck about the wine. I mean this. Tonight. I thought you said it was a party."

"It is a party." Malfoy jerked his wand and the cork pulled free with a pop.

"I expected it to be like the parties we go to. With Krum, Jack, and all the other super random people that are always orbiting around them."

Malfoy snorted. "As if I would ever let any of those people inside my house."

"You let me inside your house."

"Yes, Potter," Malfoy said with a put-upon sigh. "You might be a right wanker but I've known you since we were eleven. Those are people I drink with, dance with. I don't invite them over for tea. I definitely don't invite them over for dinner."

Harry blinked. "We're having dinner?"

"Yes, Potter! What did you think this was?" Malfoy waved his hand in a wild, expansive gesture at the kitchen that was, in all honesty, a bit of a mess, though it smelled nice.

"I'm still not sure I know what this is," Harry admitted with a slow shake of his head. "What is this?"

"It's a party! With dinner!"

"A dinner party?"

"Yes, if you want to be completely obvious about it."

Harry nodded. "I do. I want to be completely obvious about it. Because I am so confused right now."

"Oh, Potter, I almost pity you. It must be difficult going through life with so little brain. I don't know how you do it."

Harry snorted. "Twat."

"Prick," Malfoy spat back, then crossed his arms. "So, are you staying for dinner?"

"What are we having?"

"Pansy made Chicken Fricassée."

Harry wobbled his head, considering. Then said, "Nah."

Malfoy's mouth fell open and Harry chuckled. "I'm joking. That sounds good."

"You're such an arsehole, Potter," Malfoy said. He swiped the wine bottle from the counter and sauntered out of the kitchen, calling over his shoulder to Harry. "Bring the glasses."

Still suppressing giggles, Harry levitated the wine glasses from the cupboard and followed Malfoy into the living room.

****

The whole evening felt a bit like attending a show, and one Harry was expected to participate in.

They started in the sitting room, chatting over wine. It was stilted and awkward, and Harry was tempted to make a scene simply to break the tension.

At last, Parkinson announced dinner and they all moved to the dining room. It turned out Malfoy had a very specific seating chart that Harry and Hermione bungled immediately by sitting next to each other and refusing to budge. Malfoy grumbled, muttering to himself while Zabini shoved him towards an open chair with a roll of his eyes.

Parkinson got the food on the table—the creamy chicken stew and a simple salad—only for them to discover there were no knives.

Malfoy lost it over that. He called Zabini an uncultured swine for not knowing how to set a proper table, to which Zabini responded that it was actually the opposite. He had never once set a table until he moved into this cursed flat, because that was house-elf work.

Harry could sense Hermione boiling over next to him, but she never got her turn because Malfoy started bellowing at Zabini to take the silver spoon out of his mouth long enough to set it on the fucking table, to which Zabini instructed pot to meet kettle. Then Parkinson declared that she didn't know what the hell they thought they were doing with all the kitchen metaphors, as neither of them could boil water without burning it. It devolved into an incoherent shouting match after that, and Harry struggled to contain his laughter.

He was having a brilliant time.

It felt good to be around people who bickered like family, at each other's throats more out of familiarity than malice. Harry missed this. It had been this way at Grimmauld Place for a while, when none of them were quite settled and behaved like the school children they were, on their own for the first time.

They eventually got the knives sorted (Malfoy stormed to the kitchen and distributed them aggressively, all while glaring and Zabini), and they were finally allowed to eat.

The food turned out to be pretty good.

"I got a cookbook," Parkinson said proudly. "I've been practising."

"I can confidently say it's your best yet, Pans. Miles ahead of the first four attempts," Zabini said.

Parkinson flushed, then snagged Harry's bread roll from his plate and threw it at Zabini, which was disappointing because Harry planned on eating that.

"Do not start throwing food again," Zabini said, one finger raised. "I swear to Merlin, I will not spend another three hours cleaning this flat today."

Harry forgot to stifle his grin.

"What are you smiling about, Potter?" Malfoy barked.

"Nothing," he said, but kept on grinning.

They were all drunk by dessert—cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. It was easy to over-imbibe when it was all so bloody awkward. Plus, the wine tasted alright (for wine), went down easy, and suddenly Harry's head was pleasantly fuzzy.

They didn't bother with plates for dessert; a lemon cake, which Malfoy dropped into the centre of the table with a handful of forks.

"Since someone can't figure out how to set a table with the proper number of utensils, we might as well dine like the animals we are," Malfoy said and stabbed into the cake with his fork.

Harry was tempted to eat it with his hands just to prove it could get worse.

Maybe it was all the alcohol he drank, but the cake tasted fucking delicious. Though clearly store-bought, the flavour was bright, and it stuck to the roof of Harry's mouth. Harry washed it down with another swig of wine.

A loud knock on the door had everyone swivelling in their seats.

"Who in the hell?" Malfoy muttered with a frown, but it was Parkinson who stood and went to answer it.

They all sat, listening to the murmur of voices at the door. Malfoy got up from his chair and disappeared into the hallway, and the tone of the voices changed, first to surprise, and then frustration.

Zabini groaned. "Not again."

Parkinson returned to the dining room, arms crossed and face crosser. Behind her trailed the tattooed bloke—Alex.

Alex's eyebrows shot up as he glanced around the table. "Oh shit. You're having a tea party."

Harry wasn't sure he'd ever heard Alex speak, always too busy sucking marks into Malfoy's neck or fucking off and upsetting him.

"I told you. We have people over," Malfoy said.

"Then you won't mind if I join you."

"Actually, yes, we do mind," Pansy said.

"Simmer down, love," Alex said and winked at Parkinson. Hermione stiffened beside Harry.

Alex's attention landed on Harry next and he knew what was coming before the bloke even opened his mouth.

"Holy fuck, it's Harry Potter."

Harry shot him a tight smile he knew didn't reach his eyes.

"I've seen you around quite a lot lately, mate. I'm Alex."

"Yeah, hi," Harry said.

He didn't like the look in Alex's eyes, a cruel flicker behind blue irises that had Harry on his guard.

It turned out his instincts were right because the next thing Alex said was, "You been around so much because the Quidditch bird dumped you? Tough go after the Aurors shamed you." He finished it with a toothy grin.

The whole table turned to Harry, awaiting his response in various states of horror (Malfoy), amusement (Parkinson and Zabini), and simmering rage (Hermione), but Harry just sighed. He'd met a million arseholes like this one, armed only with pomp and swagger. They tended to deflate faster than a pricked balloon beneath even the slightest pressure.

"That the sort of thing you say to everyone the first time you meet them? Or just me?" Harry asked.

Alex snorted. "Not everybody feels the need to suck up to you. You think you're that important that you deserve special treatment?"

All the eyes in the dining room bounced to Harry.

"Not particularly," Harry said with a shrug. "Although it's my mistake for expecting basic human decency from a stranger."

Hermione eyed Harry warily, but before Alex could run his mouth again, Malfoy snagged him by the arm.

"A word?" he said and dragged Alex into the kitchen.

And then the shouting started.

Harry scowled at the kitchen door because what the fuck was that guy's problem? They'd never even met and he decided Harry was less than dirt. And since when did he feel the need to escalate from glowering at Harry across the room at parties to verbal jousting?

Parkinson dulled the noise with an irritated flick of her wand and returned to her seat.

Zabini drained his wineglass. "Draco has the worst taste in men."

Parkinson hummed in agreement.

"Is that his boyfriend?" Hermione asked.

"I doubt anyone has ever called Alex their boyfriend. Current fuck is probably closer."

Harry winced, remembering Malfoy admitting he maybe wanted more.

Parkinson caught his sour expression and scowled. "You have a problem with that, Potter?"

"With dickheads like him? Yeah, kind of."

"I meant, do you have a problem with who Draco is fucking?"

Harry frowned, confused. "Why would I care who Malfoy fucks?"

"You know what?" Hermione said, standing. "It's about time I head out. See me home, Harry?"

Harry shot a look at the kitchen door but nodded. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

They gathered their things, bidding Parkinson and Zabini a stilted goodbye.

Harry made it one step out the front door before Malfoy came skidding into the foyer.

"Wait!"

Harry turned, but Hermione rolled her eyes and kept walking.

"Can I owl you?" Malfoy asked, pushing the hair off his forehead, cheeks pink.

"Owl me about what?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I don't know. Whatever I want."

Harry considered it and for lack of a better answer, said, "Okay. Owl me."

Malfoy grinned, victorious, then glanced over his shoulder as the voices inside grew in volume.

"Thanks for coming, Potter," he said.

And there was something about the way he said it that had Harry's gut twisting, his face growing hot.

"Yeah. Thanks." Harry nearly missed a step as he backed out of the door.

Harry jogged after Hermione. They walked half a block in silence before Hermione said, "That might have been one of the strangest evenings I've had in a long time."

"Yeah," Harry said, though he admitted to himself that he seemed to have a lot of strange evenings lately.

"Thank you for including me."

Harry looked at her, surprised, only to find her smiling at him.

"I don't know what you get up to sometimes, Harry, but so long as you don't shut me out, then I'm happy for you. You'll be careful though, won't you? Remember what I said?"

"You say a lot of things, Hermione. You're going to have to be more specific." Harry smirked when she cuffed him.

"About losing yourself to things. To people."

"Right. Consumed, you said. I am definitely not consumed by Malfoy," Harry replied with an easy laugh.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

Harry groaned. "Oh my god, I was like twelve."

"And also fifteen. And seventeen. And—"

"Alright, I take your point. That was different, anyway."

She looked unconvinced. "Just watch yourself, alright?"

"Alright."

"Ready?" she asked, holding out her hand.

Harry took it. "Let's get the fuck out of here before that bloke comes out and tries to duel me."

"Good idea. I'm too tired to move a body tonight."

Harry snorted and Apparated them back to Grimmauld Place.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Malfoy sent Harry an owl. It was another note on personalised stationery with the words Pub tonight? 8:30? in elegant cursive.

Harry, predictably, had no plans, replied with a hasty yep, and that was that.

Harry met Malfoy at The Briar and Toad. They were soon joined by Krum and Jack, as well as one of Jack's bandmates and a new assortment of girls Harry didn't recognise. He downed a few drinks, then followed the lot of them to a party in a third-floor flat with no lift and no Apparating allowed. Malfoy had to walk all the way up and down the stairs to smoke, meaning Harry found him hogging the loo and smoking out the window every time he went for a piss.

By three in the morning, half the guests were already passed out on the sofa or fucking in stolen beds, and the rest had left. Malfoy snagged a couple of beers from the abandoned kitchen, handed one to Harry, then shoved him out the door, demanding that he Apparate them back to Hackney. Harry deposited the two of them on the roof just to be a dick about it, but Malfoy didn't seem to mind. He simply dropped his arse onto the tiles and lit another cigarette, which he held out to Harry while they watched the sun rise over the river.

****

After that, there were nightclubs. Three of them to be exact, though the details in Harry's mind quickly grew fuzzy and indistinct, melding them into one loud, drunken, sweaty mess.

Harry was getting used to it now, dancing all night only to stumble out into the street, blinking into the predawn light.

"Mine for coffee and a joint?" Malfoy asked, shoving his sweat-damp fringe off his forehead with long fingers.

Harry had nowhere else to be, so he said yes.

Harry ended up dozing in the autumn sunshine as the sun rose, until Malfoy kicked him towards Nott's bedroom, then disappeared through his own window.

Harry woke again a few hours later and slunk downstairs before Malfoy was up. He encountered a dressing-gown-clad Parkinson in the kitchen while Harry chugged a glass of water like he'd spent the night in the desert rather than a club in Shoreditch. Parkinson glowered at him and said nothing, topped off her tea, and left.

Harry escaped back to Grimmauld place where he sat in his kitchen eating takeaway of questionable freshness, and tried to think of a reason to go out.

****

On a Friday, Jack invited Malfoy and Harry to his band's show.

Harry had never been to anything like it. The venue was a dark basement with low ceilings. It stunk of sweat and stale beer and was home to the most horrifying toilets Harry had ever seen. The crowd thickened closest to the stage, where bodies thrashed violently, but even from Harry’s post near the door, the music blared loud enough to crack skulls, if a flying elbow didn't do the job first.

Harry hung back, hovering near the bar to protect his sensitive parts, until Malfoy appeared and thrust two shots of unidentifiable alcohol into Harry's hands. He looked annoyingly posh in a simple white t-shirt but proceeded to remove all his jewellery—rings, necklaces, bracelets, the bloke wore more precious metal than the bloody Queen—and tucked them into his pockets before reclaiming one of the shots and tossing it back. Then, with a roar, he threw the shot glass to the floor, shattering it, and shoved Harry into the mosh pit.

It was fucking brilliant.

Harry thrashed and flailed, crashing into other bodies without once saying sorry. He didn't care for the music—too discordant and grating—but it gave the all-out brawl a fitting soundtrack.

It wasn't until Harry slammed into a tall bloke in a spiked jacket and sliced his face open that Malfoy pulled him kicking and screaming from the pit, calling him "a rabid fucking Nazzle Mumph."

Harry and Malfoy looked a sight as they rode the Tube back to Hackney; bruised, bleeding, and splattered in beer. But Harry was still amped, his ears ringing and body buzzing. He couldn't keep still and took to hanging from the overhead bars of the mostly empty train car, sprinting up and down the aisle, kicking off the seats.

"Will you sit the fuck down, you lunatic?" Malfoy hissed at him, but he was grinning, which Harry knew meant he didn't actually care.

Harry offered him his middle finger, then attempted a backflip off the seat, only to crash to the floor.

Malfoy laughed so hard that tears streamed down his face.

****

Back at the flat once more, Malfoy grabbed two room-temperature beers from Zabini's hiding spot beneath the sink. They drank them in Malfoy's loo while he dabbed at the cut on Harry's forehead with gauze.

"I don't want to speak too soon," Malfoy said as he crumpled the bloody cotton and chucked it into the bin. "But I daresay you'll survive."

"Thank you, Healer," Harry said with mock gravity.

Malfoy smirked as he dug around in the drawer. "I wanted to be a Healer, you know."

"So why aren't you one?"

Malfoy raised a brow. "Would you trust a Healer with a Dark Mark?"

Harry hummed, thinking. "Maybe not. But don't let that stop you. You could—I don't know—work exclusively with coma patients. Or orphans born in the last five years. Rural communities in South America?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He unearthed a plaster from the drawer and held it out to Harry. "You either get a Kenmare Kestrels plaster or I heal that cut for you."

"Heal it. You already know I'm for the Cannons."

Malfoy barked a laugh and lifted his wand to Harry's face. Harry probably shouldn't have been as comfortable with it as he was, especially after Malfoy smacked him on the temple with his wand, mumbling something like, "Cannons. What a joke." But Harry reckoned Malfoy had ample opportunities to harm him thus far, why wait until now?

Harry felt the zip of Malfoy's spell like a rubber band snapping against his skin, and then nothing. He raised a hand to his brow and found it unmarred.

"That's some solid work, there. You have my endorsement," he said.

Malfoy snorted, kicking Harry's shoe, but Harry saw the flush creeping up the back of his neck and tingeing the tips of his ears pink when he turned.

"Have you thought about trying for Healer training?" Harry asked.

Malfoy shrugged again. "They rejected me the first time. Didn't feel like wasting my time if they were just going to deny me once more. My fragile ego can only take so much."

"Fragile is it? Could have fooled me."

Malfoy grinned at that and shook his head. "I'm going to smoke. You staying?"

Harry knew he should go home, sleep in his own damn bed for a change. But that meant waking up alone, drinking coffee alone, facing the day alone.

Harry watched the sunrise from Malfoy's roof for the third time that week.

****

On a Sunday, Malfoy invited Harry to a rave in the woods. It sounded questionable, but Harry had long since stopped asking questions, even after Malfoy told him Parkinson was coming and to bring Hermione.

"You're joking," Hermione said when Harry asked her. "Is this what you and Malfoy get up to?"

"I've never been to a rave in the woods."

"Just a regular rave though," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Well, yeah, I guess you could call that warehouse thing a rave."

"Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?"

Harry chuckled. He didn't blame Hermione for being confused. If someone told Harry six months ago that by autumn he would be single, living on whisky and toast, and dancing the night away with Draco Malfoy, he would have told them to get their head checked. And yet, here he was.

Truthfully, Harry didn't know who he was or what he was doing, because those questions were too broad, too daunting to confront. For now, Harry could only see twenty-four hours ahead, and in the next twenty-four hours, there was a rave in the woods.

"Come on, Hermione. Take a break. Have some fun."

She snorted at him but nodded. "Alright. Let's go rave in the woods, I guess."

****

The rave was held in a wide clearing bathed in dancing conjured light. A translucent bubble of magic kept the music contained to the clearing, but there were no walls, no structures, only the cloudy night sky stretching overhead.

Hermione loosened up faster than Harry expected—certainly faster than he had when he started going along with Malfoy's mad plans. She dragged the clip from her hair, freeing her wild curls, and danced like he'd never seen her, all the while sipping from a flask Parkinson kept stashed in her blouse.

Malfoy was at Harry's back, probably grinding on some bloke because Alex stood him up again, but Harry could still feel him there, hear his laughter or his howl when the beat hit just right.

Halfway through the night, the sky opened up. The downpour soaked the crowd in seconds, but aside from some delighted shouting, everyone kept dancing. It was a different kind of magic when the lights caught on the rain, creating a glittering, colourful curtain. As they danced, the wet ground softened, and the grass churned into sticky mud that covered their legs and splattered their clothes, but even that didn't stop them.

They danced in the rain all night until their teeth chattered and no warming charm could chase away the deep chill in their bones.

They stumbled from the contained bubble of sound into the ringing silence of the forest bordering the clearing. Harry shook his head to clear the fog.

Hermione sniffled into her sleeve, the colour high on her cheeks. "I'm going home. I'll send along some potions so we don't all get sick."

She kissed Harry's cheek, brushed Parkinson's arm, and was gone with a crack of Apparition. It would take her at least three jumps to get back to the city and Harry hoped she made it to her flat in one piece.

"Come back to ours," Malfoy said, bumping his shoulder against Harry's. "We've got tea."

Harry had tea at Grimmauld Place but went home with Malfoy anyway.

****

"Potter, so lovely to see you for the millionth time this week," Zabini said as they stumbled into the kitchen. "Play in some dirt, did we?"

"Might have," Malfoy said, peeling his soaked jacket from his shoulders and slinging it towards the peg by the door before he set about making tea.

Harry spelled himself dry, then shot an extra charm at Malfoy's jacket, because he'd clearly forgotten and it was dripping rain and mud onto the floor. Zabini's eyes cut to Harry, one brow raised, then he turned and opened the fridge.

"So, are we considering showers?" Zabini asked, voice falsely cheerful as he pulled out a yoghurt. "Because I just cleaned this house and you lot come in smelling like something that lives in a barn."

"Then maybe you should have waited until after we finished mucking the place up, hm?" Malfoy said. "Potter, you can shower first. Use the toilets upstairs and take Theo's room if you want. That tosser still isn't back from America."

"He's not coming back from America," Zabini said to his yoghurt.

"What?" Malfoy dropped the kettle to the hob with a clatter.

"Yeah, I talked to him on Thursday. He's got a job in New York. And a girl. Says he'll pop by for the holidays but he won't be staying."

"Were you planning on telling me this information at any point?"

"When? You lot were out there rolling around in the mud like piglets."

"Not since Thursday! Whatever," Malfoy spun back to his tea-making, waving a dismissive hand. "We'll put out an advert for his room. That wanker. I can't believe he wouldn't tell me directly."

"And listen to you shriek at him about giving notice? Not bloody likely."

"Oh fuck you, Blaise. Eat your expensive yoghurt.”

"Thank you, I absolutely will. Best do it now before you lot sneak down and steal it in the dead of night. My yoghurt will go the way of the marmalade if I’m not watching you."

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. And if I wanted overpriced dairy products I’d buy them myself,” Malfoy said, lifting his chin.

Harry hovered, certain he should have left the room already but unsure how to resolve it. "Um," he said cleverly.

"Go shower, you great oaf!" Malfoy shouted at him.

****

Once showered and redressed, Harry met Malfoy on the roof. They wrapped themselves in blankets, nursing steaming cups of tea with honey and lemon. Malfoy added whisky to Harry's tea—not too much, but enough to soften him—while Malfoy smoked like always, watching the sun peek from between the clouds.

Hermione's owl delivered the potions she promised: Pepper-Up and Warming Draught, which they each threw back with a sigh.

Malfoy took a drag of his cigarette, coughing lightly.

"We need to quit smoking," he said.

Harry looked at him. "We? Why we? I'm not the one smoking."

Malfoy rolled his eyes in Harry's direction. "I've watched you suck down half a pack after a few drinks. A pack that usually belongs to me, I might add."

"I only smoke when I'm drunk."

"Or hungover."

Harry shrugged.

"They're horrible for you," Malfoy said. "Cigarettes."

"Yeah. Everyone knows that. Says so right on the tin."

"So we should quit."

"What will you do out here on the roof all the time if you don't smoke?"

Malfoy twitched one shoulder. "I don't know. Sit, I suppose."

"How did you even get started?"

"Met a boy in France," Malfoy said, voice wistful. "Before… everything. Pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes, kissed like a fucking dream. I was hopelessly infatuated. Would have done anything to impress him." He flicked the ash from his cigarette.

Harry frowned but didn't interrupt.

"My mum caught me smoking at the Manor after we returned to England and lost her bloody mind. She thought it was a dirty Muggle habit, and maybe she was right, but it made me feel closer to him. I picked it up again after they let me out of Azkaban. Saw them in a shop, bought a pack, and haven't stopped. It helps take the edge off, you know?"

Harry knew.

Once again, Harry got that feeling, the unsettling oddness that rattled him for a moment.

It happened less and less the more they were together, but this time, the feeling didn't dissolve completely, and instead left behind a strange ache. Harry couldn't say if it was because of Malfoy's reference to his time in Azkaban, his mother—still locked away—or the young and carefree life he lived before everything came crashing down around them, but it left Harry wrong-footed and a little sad.

"You should move in,” Malfoy said.

Harry blinked. "What?"

Malfoy wasn't looking at him, instead staring out at the city. "You hate your stupid house. You complain about it all the time and it sounds dreadful from your descriptions. You practically live in Theo's room already. You should just move in."

Harry stared at him.

It was the craziest thing, but Harry was actually considering it. He had a perfectly suitable house all to himself. He didn't need roommates and could afford to live comfortably on his own, but Malfoy was right, he bloody hated it.

Harry hated living alone. He missed the dormitories at Hogwarts and sometimes longed for the barracks during Auror training because there was always someone around, making noise, keeping the dust from settling. Even living with only Ginny was difficult for him at first. Ron and Hermione stayed at Grimmauld Place for a while when they were first out of school. Back then, friends were always dropping by to crash—Seamus and Dean, Luna, Neville, Ginny. It was a revolving door of the people he loved most and Harry thought things would be perfect forever.

Then Ron and Hermione found a place of their own. Luna started travelling more, and Seamus and Dean got distracted by work and girlfriends. Neville moved back to Hogwarts to apprentice with Professor Sprout. Ginny stayed, however, and with time, it felt right, like they were proper adults starting a life together.

And then things fell apart again.

Perhaps moving in with Malfoy was strange, even a little desperate. But Malfoy liked the same parties as Harry and was never the first to turn in for the night. He seemed to want to chase away the daylight with the same ferocity as Harry.

Would it really be so bad?

"We'll quit smoking when you move in," Malfoy said with a nod. "You'll need to sit out here with me and watch to make sure I don't cheat."

"Sounds like a lot of responsibility," Harry said.

"It'll be good for you. You need something to do."

A smile tugged at Harry's lips. "And babysitting you to keep you from smoking is what I ought to do with my time?"

"Yes. Come on, Potter. You're the heroic sort. It’s your duty to help me."

Harry chuckled. He sipped his tea, squinting one eye at Malfoy in the dark, pretending he couldn't see the false looseness in his posture, the overdone way he attempted to look casual.

For once, Harry decided not to leave him to wade in his discomfort.

Harry shrugged. "Yeah, alright. I'll move in."

Malfoy smiled at him. Not a smirk, not a cheeky half-thing, but a genuine smile and Harry returned it easily.

****

Hermione was not nearly as surprised as Harry expected her to be when he informed her of the move.

"I don't know how you can sleep with Malfoy one door over, but I trust your warding spells," she said with a sniff, then shot Harry a small, secret smile. "I'm glad you won't be rattling around that old house alone, Harry. It never took to you."

"So you agree the house hates me!" Harry said, triumphant. People often dismissed Harry's insistence that Grimmauld Place held a grudge against him despite the million and one examples of its hostility.

"Houses can't hate," Hermione said, then grimaced. "But if they could, that one would definitely hate you."

"Knew it."

Harry didn't move out of Grimmauld Place entirely. Most of the house's contents were there when Harry acquired it: the furniture, cookware, a variety of cursed objects for every occasion. So, Harry packed his meagre wardrobe, a few books he meant to read, a couple of posters, and a photo of him, Ron, and Hermione the summer they went to Spain. He stuffed everything into boxes which he shrunk down and sent over via courier ("No parcel owls, Potter! The Muggle neighbours already think we're Satanists," Malfoy said).

It was less like moving and more like packing for an extended vacation; a reprieve before life inevitably slammed into Harry with the speed and force of the Hogwarts Express.

Downsizing was actually a relief. Harry didn't use half the rooms at Grimmauld Place and behind locked doors, the bedrooms, studies, attic, and cellar collected dust. Hell, even the rooms Harry used accumulated dust at an astronomical rate. In contrast, the flat in Hackney was cluttered but clean. Instead of the omnipresent scent of mildew and stale magic, the flat was fresh and unfettered. His new bedroom was half the size of the one he claimed at Grimmauld Place, but Harry didn't mind. He felt safest in small spaces, anyway.

Parkinson, the flat accountant, slapped Harry with a handwritten rental contract as soon as Malfoy shared the news, and by the lack of surprise on her face, Harry suspected she knew it was coming. The rent was more than manageable, and Harry agreed to her terms, including the added 'arsehole tax,' which she assured him Malfoy also paid.

And that was that.

Harry locked and warded Grimmauld Place. He activated the stodgy Old Magic along with a few spells of his own design while the house fought him to the last bloody charm. Harry threw a middle finger behind him as the house folded itself away, and with the final box of things tucked under his arm, he Apparated to his new flat.

As soon as Harry stepped through the door, he heard signs of a disaster. Malfoy was shouting, Parkinson was shouting back, and when Harry followed the commotion to the kitchen he understood why.

"If that shit stains the walls, Blaise is going to lose his bloody mind," Parkinson growled. "And it's going to be your head, not mine."

"Oh calm your tits, Pans. It isn't going to stain. And Blaise will lose his mind if there's a centimetre of tea in the bottom of the cup when left in the sink, so I believe my level of concern for what Blaise loses his mind over is well within range."

Harry craned his neck to survey the mess of… something all over the kitchen walls. It smelled a bit like ginger and turmeric.

"Is that curry?" Harry asked.

Malfoy and Parkinson whirled around, screeching when they discovered Harry standing in the doorway.

"Potter?! Bloody fuck, I nearly had a heart attack. You've got to stop doing that!" Malfoy said, breathing heavily.

"I'm not that quiet. You two are just loud. And is it?"

"What?" Malfoy asked, edging towards hysterical.

"Curry?"

"Yes, it's fucking curry! Which is what I was cooking—" he looked pointedly at Parkinson, "—for us to eat for dinner tonight. To celebrate Potter moving in. You said you liked curry."

Parkinson shook her head, scoffing noisily while Harry sputtered because what?

"I don't—ah—I mean, yes. I like curry. But… for me? Please no. Can you even cook? I've only seen you burn toast," he stammered.

"Of course I can cook!" Malfoy said with a wild wave of his arm. "Everyone can cook. It's just like potions; you follow a recipe and everything turns out exactly as it should."

"Yeah, not my experience in either case. But why is there curry on the ceiling? I can't imagine that was part of the recipe."

"Yes, Draco. Tell Potter how the curry got on the ceiling," Parkinson said, hands on her hips.

Malfoy scowled at her, deflating slightly. "The blender exploded," he muttered.

"You have a blender?"

"It came with the flat," Malfoy replied with a sigh. He tipped to lean against the counter, only to leap back when he realised it was covered in curry sludge. Not that it mattered as it appeared the front of Malfoy's white shirt took the brunt of the explosion.

"You know you've got a bit of it right here." Harry gestured to Malfoy's chest.

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed," he said drily. "And what is this? Another interrogation?"

"I just have a lot of questions."

"I also have questions," Parkinson added.

"The main one being what you did to make the blender explode," Harry said.

"Oh, like you're some kind of blender expert, Potter?"

"I mean, I have used one."

"It just… exploded! I don't know! I pressed a button and the lid blew off! Shot curry like a bloody geyser! I was simply trying to smooth out some of the onion peel and carrot tops because it looked much lumpier than in the pictures."

Harry and Parkinson winced in unison.

"Maybe we get takeaway?" Harry offered.

"Fuck that," Parkinson said, throwing up her hands and heading for the door. "I'm going out. Draco, clean this mess up before Blaise gets home."

"Which will be, what, next week?"

"Before I get home, then," she snapped. Then for no reason at all, she shot Harry a nasty glare and walked out, slamming the front door behind her.

Harry and Malfoy stood silently in the curry-covered room as a giant glob slid from the cupboard and landed next to Malfoy with a splat.

"So, hi," Malfoy said, turning to Harry and flashing a grin. "Welcome home. Care to clean this up for me while I take a quick shower? Great! Thanks, Potter, you're a dear—"

"Oh, no you don't." Harry snagged Malfoy by the back of the collar before he could slink out of the room, then dropped him to wipe his hands on his jeans. That shit was everywhere.

"You're cleaning this up," Harry said, giving Malfoy a little shove. "But I'll help you."

Malfoy groaned. "Fine."

Harry took one corner of the kitchen and Malfoy took the other, aiming foamy Scrubbing Charms at every surface until they met in the middle at the fridge.

Harry paused, glimpsing a newspaper clipping stuck to the door with Spell-O-Tape. Harry leaned in closer, wiping a smear of curry from… was that…? Yep, it was his own stupid face. But not only his face, Malfoy's as well.

The photo was the paparazzi shot taken from the hedge at Magna Vox. It was the first time Harry had seen it, and he plucked it from the fridge.

Harry's face was downcast in the photo, but there was a clear smile playing at his lips, his whisky glass held loosely in one hand, and Malfoy's shared cigarette in the other. Malfoy was grinning at him, tucked behind Harry, his chin dipped towards Harry's shoulder. They looked quite friendly, intimate even, and Harry's gut twisted. The headline was cut away, but Harry could only imagine what horrible assumptions accompanied that photo.

"You aren't even helping," Malfoy whined next to him. "What are you looking at?"

He ducked around Harry and caught sight of the scrap between Harry's fingers.

"I thought you said you weren't plastering the walls with pictures of my embarrassing moments?" Harry teased.

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy flushed scarlet and made a mad grab for the stained piece of paper. Harry tugged it from his reach easily, one eyebrow raised.

"I told you, it's a thing we do. We save tabloid photos. They're not always of you, so don't get a big head about it."

"So what's this one then?" Harry said reaching for another clipping pinned behind it, and this time, Malfoy cursed, darting forward and snatching it from the fridge, but not before Harry caught sight of it.

Unlike the first photo, this picture he knew. It was a few weeks old. The cameras caught him and Hermione leaving Caffè Costanzo and the accompanying story included wild speculation about the nature of their relationship. Harry and Hermione had a good laugh about it, though they lamented they would probably have to find a new restaurant before people started showing up to harass them. Hell, Malfoy and Parkinson dropped in on them the very next week.

Which when Harry thought about it, was a pretty outrageous coincidence. And now, looking at the newspaper clipping on Malfoy's fridge, it became so outrageous that Harry dared to believe it wasn't a coincidence at all. Yet he couldn't come up with a single reason why Malfoy and Parkinson would want to run into them. Certainly not to invite them to some party Malfoy clearly made up on the spot.

"Are we done here?" Malfoy said, tossing the crumpled photo into the bin.

Harry shrugged. He reckoned they'd be finding curry in nooks and crannies for the next year, but it was good enough for the first pass.

"You said something about takeaway?" Malfoy hedged.

"Sure. What do you want?"

"Anything but curry."

"Yeah, I don't think I'll ever want to eat curry again, thanks."

Malfoy snorted and threw a few takeaway menus at Harry.

****

Living with a bunch of former Slytherins was a true test of Harry's patience.

Harry was used to sharing space with others: dorms, tents, and a host of beds beneath a dozen other roofs. But this was different. It wasn't home, nor was Harry a guest. Instead, he felt like an infiltrator, piercing their strange little triad without permission.

Malfoy told him not to worry about it.

"They come around easier than you'd expect," he said that first night, as he watched Harry unpack his belongings into Nott's barren wardrobe from his sprawl on Harry's bed. "Pansy is all bark and no bite. And honestly, Blaise thought you'd already moved in. He wanted to start charging you rent a week ago."

They tiptoed around each other the first few days. Parkinson evacuated any room Harry walked into, while Zabini, when home, barely gave him a passing glance. In the evenings, Harry followed Malfoy to the pub, a forgettable party, another show, every night falling face first into a bed that he supposed was his own, though it didn't really feel like it.

It was fine. Good, even. Harry no longer needed to come up with excuses to keep from going home after the party wound down and the sun threatened the horizon. He and Malfoy went straight to the roof most nights. If Harry didn't join him right away, Malfoy would demand it, telling Harry he would be personally responsible for his eventual death because, without supervision, he would smoke an entire pack of cigarettes.

Harry told Malfoy to knock himself out but ended up sitting on the roof next to him anyway, dreading the sunrise the same as every other night.

The first week bled into the second, and the idiosyncrasies of Harry's new flatmates only became clearer.

First of all, Zabini was compulsively tidy. Malfoy put his tea down without a coaster and Zabini hit him with a hex sharp enough to have Malfoy inventing new and colourful curse words. He followed Harry around the kitchen while he made breakfast in the mornings, huffing and putting things away as soon as Harry pulled them out until Harry threw up a frustrated Shield Charm, which Zabini smacked into face-first. He looked startled for a moment, as people often did when Harry did magic accidentally, then declared Harry unhinged and stormed out of the kitchen.

Parkinson kept strange hours. Most nights, she came home as late as Malfoy and Harry, and they would find her eating beans straight from the tin over the sink with her eyes closed. Talking to her in such a state was useless and she hushed them if they tried before stumbling to her room, where she would remain well into the next day.

Malfoy was the strangest of them all, and also the most distracting. He must have declared some kind of moratorium on clothing the way he flounced around the flat in his dressing gown and sleep trousers, his chest and feet bare. Harry averted his eyes more often than not, face hot and stomach tight.

Malfoy was a horrid cook. It was almost impressive how bad he was, and even more impressive that he refused to admit it. Zabini threw regular fits over the messes Malfoy made in the kitchen, and in an attempt to create some small pocket of peace, Harry took up that chore. He liked cooking but saw no point when alone. It was more fun to feed a crowd anyway, even if Parkinson pretended she was allergic to everything he made and Zabini kept on about how it didn't compare to the meals he ate during his last trip to Paris.

Malfoy also had strange sleeping habits, in that it appeared he hardly slept at all. In the mornings, when Harry trudged downstairs for coffee, cradling his poor aching head, he would often find Malfoy curled into a nest of blankets on the sofa, already Summoning a hangover potion for Harry.

The only nights Malfoy didn't end up on the sofa were the ones he didn't spend alone. And those nights were the worst because suddenly, Alex was around all the time.

"This is your fault, Potter," Zabini said, cringing up at the ceiling and the repetitive thump, thump, thump of what Harry assumed was the headboard hitting the wall. "He was never here this often before you moved in."

"I didn't invite him over," Harry grunted from behind the book he was pretending to read on the sofa.

A loud groan echoed from upstairs and they both hissed, casting sound dampening charms in unison.

"Yeah, well, before you showed up, he barely gave Draco the time of day."

"Still don't see what that has to do with me," Harry replied absently.

"Of course you don't." Zabini rolled his eyes as another loud moan broke through the charms. "Fuck this. I'm leaving."

Harry threw him a thumbs up and Summoned the CD player from his room to drown out the screams.

A shared hatred of Alex created a strange solidarity within the flat; Harry, Parkinson, and Zabini all subjected to what they referred to as sexile every time Alex chased Malfoy up the stairs to his bedroom.

They each had their method for enduring the noise. Parkinson's involved a unique evolution of the Bubble-Head Charm. It made her look like a hamster in a ball, and she couldn't eat or drink, but Harry bet it was blissfully silent in there. Zabini relied on a multilayered wall of silencing charms around his person, and Harry preferred the Walkman. He even went out and bought himself a dozen new albums and enchanted the device to play extra loud.

The inability to hear each other made communication complicated, so they resorted to writing notes on a pad of parchment. In one such instance, Harry was in the kitchen making breakfast, headphones on and CD player in his hoodie pocket when Parkinson and Zabini sauntered in.

Harry grabbed the pad, scribbled out a few words, and turned it towards them.

I'm making eggs. You want?

Parkinson shrugged, dipping a straw into her coffee mug to suck it through the Bubble-Head Charm without popping it. Harry accepted anything other than a glare as a resounding yes and nodded.

Zabini tugged the pad towards himself.

Only the whites for me. I'm watching my cholesterol. And don't over-salt them like you did last time. My mouth was drier than a sand dune.

Harry rolled his eyes and took the pad back.

Not a fucking restaurant, prick.

Zabini flipped him off.

Harry made him the stupid egg whites and left the pan to crust over in the sink, just to spite him.

****

Harry made it a whole two weeks without an incident, which was a miracle in itself. As much as he enjoyed the quiet unconsciousness he achieved most nights since the move, it was only a matter of time before the nightmares found him again, and once they did, he would have some explaining to do.

When the dream came, it crashed down on Harry almost as soon as he slipped under, and the faceless terror held him there, pinned in place as horrors swirled around him. This particular nightmare was less specific than usual, more like a reel of his greatest hits: death, destruction, the light fading from green eyes as Harry's hand tightened around a bobbing throat. In dreams like this one, Harry knew if he could only wake himself, he would be free. But that was easier said and done. Harry fought against the current for what felt like hours, forced to watch all of his most horrible moments in rapid succession. When at last Harry's conscious mind grasped reality, it was like dragging himself out of the grave, through layers of wet, heavy dirt and freshly planted grass, one skeletal hand piercing the earth.

He sat abruptly with a gasp. As soon as the room solidified around him, Harry let out a roar of rage, throwing up his hands and sending the chair tucked beside the desk crashing into the opposite wall. He curled in on himself, counting his breaths.

Five second breath in. Five second breath out.

But it wasn't working. The air felt thick and swampy in his lungs, and Harry stumbled from bed towards the window. He threw it open and sucked in a deep inhale, then another, before launching himself out the window onto the roof.

His landing was stumbling and graceless, unlike the smooth drop when he showed off to Malfoy. He tucked himself between the eaves of the two windows and pressed his face against his bent knees.

His heart rate had nearly settled when he heard Malfoy's window slide open.

"Potter?"

Harry said nothing, still counting his breaths. He heard a grunt, felt footsteps vibrating the ground beneath him, and then there was a warm body beside him—not touching but near enough to feel his heat.

Harry lifted his face to rest his chin on his knees.

"Bad night?" Malfoy asked.

Harry clenched his jaw and shrugged. He didn't want to explain himself, but it would happen again. And next time it might be worse.

"I heard a crash," Malfoy continued.

"Alex put his dick away long enough for you to hear anything? I'm impressed," Harry said. And though his words lacked snap, he could practically feel Malfoy's scowl. Harry sighed. "I broke the chair."

"Why? What did the chair do to you?"

Harry's lips twitched. "I didn't do it on purpose, you twat."

Malfoy was quiet for a moment while Harry chewed on the words he didn't want to speak aloud.

"Sometimes—" Harry started, but that was as far as he got.

Alex ducked out Malfoy's window, shirtless and rumpled, with the clear indentation of teeth marks on his throat. As soon as he caught sight of Harry, he sneered, a look Harry returned with equal venom.

"What are you doing out here? And why is he half naked?" Alex asked.

Harry hadn't even realised he'd neglected to grab a shirt. And joggers.

Malfoy waved Alex off. "He's checking the… integrity of the shingles. He likes to do it in his pants. Mind your own business."

Alex narrowed his eyes. "Are you coming back in or should I go home?"

That was another thing. Alex never stayed the night. Wrung free of noisy orgasms, Alex left and Malfoy would either pass out or return downstairs to pester Harry or pilfer through the fridge.

Malfoy glanced at Harry, then shook his head at Alex. "You can go home," he said. "Potter needs a second opinion."

Alex's expression turned thunderous, but he disappeared from the window anyway.

They sat in silence for a moment, Harry with his arms curled around his knees, and Malfoy in a hoodie that was far too large to be his own, pretending he was watching the view instead of studying Harry. But Harry could feel it.

"How's the not-boyfriend thing going?" Harry asked.

Malfoy slanted a glance at him. "What difference does it make to you?"

"None at all," Harry said, but even as the words left his mouth they felt… wrong, somehow. "I still think he's a dick."

"Well, I think you're a dick."

"Then I guess you have a type."

Malfoy's head snapped in Harry's direction, and Harry winced.

He didn't mean it like that, and scrambled to mend his phrasing. "I mean, Zabini and Parkinson are also dicks. So, you like… dicks. To hang out with dicks."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Are you finished?"

"Definitely."

Malfoy huddled in on himself, hands tucked into the pockets of the hoodie.

"I'd kill for a cigarette right now," he said.

Harry shook his head. "Afraid I can't allow that. It's my sworn duty."

"If I push you off this roof, you won't be able to stop me."

"If you try, I'm taking you down with me." Harry hesitated for a beat, then said, "You don't have to sit here with me."

"Do you want me to go?"

Harry hated the sick little lurch his heart gave at the thought of being alone, and it must have shown on his face because Malfoy nodded and settled further into the bunched neck of the hoodie.

Malfoy shivered next to him, and although Harry didn't mind the bite in the air, the Warming Charm was already on the tip of his tongue. But he hesitated. Harry didn't have his wand and it would be obvious Harry wasn't hiding it anywhere on his person. Malfoy wouldn't miss it. He never seemed to miss it, simply neglecting to comment and Harry was grateful for it.

Malfoy shivered again. Harry tightened his grip on his knees and shut his eyes, calling for warmth and sighing as he felt it envelop them. He heard Malfoy's small intake of breath, his body unfurling next to Harry.

Harry waited, certain that this time Malfoy would say something and shatter the tenuous truce between them.

Malfoy only groaned and melted back against the roof, his eyes fluttering shut.

"That's brilliant," he said as he stretched his long limbs like a cat in a pool of sunlight.

The silence continued another minute and Harry wondered if Malfoy had fallen asleep, until he said, "So tell me more about this chair that attacked you."

Harry picked at a loose bit of moss on the roof. "I told you, it didn't attack me. I just… lost my temper."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

"I—" Harry paused. "I have nightmares."

"About evil chairs?"

He snorted. "No. The chair was a casualty. An innocent bystander."

Malfoy studied him and Harry silently panicked. Would Malfoy make him say it? Would he ask Harry about what he saw in those nightmares? Harry wasn't used to talking about it, and usually didn’t have to; anyone who knew a damn thing about him could fancy a guess as to the types of things that haunted his dreams.

But when Malfoy asked the question, it wasn't the one Harry expected.

"Should I worry?"

Harry turned to look at him. "About what?"

"About what happens when you have nightmares. We share a wall," he gestured towards his room.

Harry's jaw clenched. "No. I'm not going to hurt you. I don't… do that."

"But you could. If you wanted."

Harry frowned at him. "And you could come round with a frying pan and whack me over the head while I sleep. So, sure, I could, as much as anyone could."

Malfoy's lips quirked up on one side. "Dark, Potter. And also the absolute last way I would choose to murder you."

"Good to know you've thought about it."

"Among other things, but don't change the subject. We are discussing the possibility of you murdering me in my sleep with your mad nightmare magic."

"I would never—" Harry grit his teeth and took a steadying breath. "I use wards." Harry said, and it was true. It was one of the first things he did when he arrived at the flat, even before unpacking his things. "And I always wake up. Before something happens."

"But what about the chair?"

"What is with you and this chair? Are you involved or something?"

Malfoy laughed, a bright, happy sound that settled a small part of Harry.

"That was more of a… reaction. To the nightmare," Harry explained.

"Let's just call a tantrum what it is, shall we?"

Harry sighed, but his heart lightened a little more because Malfoy was teasing him, tossing petty insults like everything was normal. Like it was okay.

They didn't talk anymore after that, simply sat there watching the sky as it slowly lightened.

How many dawns had they shared on this roof? Harry had lost count.

He wondered if Zabini or Parkinson ever came up here. Did Alex sit with Malfoy between the eaves talking about nothing and everything? And why did the thought of them huddled together in this very spot make Harry’s insides twist and curdle? Why did Harry even care?

Before Harry could chew on that thought for too long, Malfoy shifted, pushing to his feet.

"I'm knackered. I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry nodded. "Afraid so."

Malfoy snorted, but he hovered for a moment, something complicated passing over his features as he swayed towards Harry, then away.

He turned and slipped through his window, sliding it shut behind him.

Harry returned to his own room shortly after. Once settled back in bed, he heard a murmur of voices through the wall, followed by a giggle, a yelp, and then a moan.

It sounded like Alex didn't go home after all.

Harry Summoned the Walkman, pressed the foam of the headphones against his ears, and hit PLAY to pass the time until morning.

Chapter Text

Ron's new house was perfect. Not too big or too small, with a wrought-iron fence, brick facade, and a big red door. It needed some work; the ivy was overtaking the flowerbeds, the paint beginning to flake on the shutters, and the hardwood floors worn in places, but that only made it more perfect.

While they had originally planned to move into Liz’s flat, Ron joked that she couldn’t sacrifice the closet space and it was a bit far from his work anyway. Harry thought this was better, because Ron had always wanted a house of his own, and this one was just right.

The neighbourhood was Muggle—not an uncommon thing for a magical folk living in London proper, but Liz being Muggle-born, Harry reckoned Ron did it for her. This, of course, meant the No-Parcel-Owls rule applied the same as it did when Harry moved. George rented a truck to move Liz's things from her flat, and Ron's things from his and Angelina's, where Ron lived since he and Hermione split a year and a half ago. Ron took the opportunity to force his friends into doing the labour, although Harry cast a web of Notice-Me-Not charms on the front yard so they could at least use magic to get the furniture into the house.

"Oi, Harry. I saw you in the rags again," Seamus said as he Levitated a box from the pile. He was so busy jeering at Harry he smacked it into the side of the house—resulting in a suspicious rattle—before he shoved it through the door with a wince.

"You admitting you read the tabloids, Seamus?" Harry said, smirking.

"I like the articles, alright? How else will I find out Celestina Warbeck's favourite salad dressing?"

Harry snorted and lifted the sofa from the truck with a spell. He shrunk it slightly to fit it through the narrow doorframe then, following it into the house, placed it alongside the bay window, adjusting it so it sat straight.

Seamus stood next to him, hands on his hips. "So you're hanging out with Krum, now?"

"Oh, bloody hell. Lizzy would leave me tomorrow if he came knocking," Ron said with a roll of his eyes.

"Who?" Liz asked brightly as she stepped through the front door carrying a case of beer, which she dropped to the floor.

"Victor Krum," Ron said, a touch wistful himself.

Liz's knees gave and she swooned against a wall. "Oh, Merlin, yes. He is so fit. Harry hangs out with him, don't you?"

"I see him around," Harry replied. He accepted a kiss on the cheek from Liz and only hated himself a little for the warmth that bloomed in his chest.

"And Malfoy as well?" Seamus asked.

The room fell silent.

"I mean, he was in that picture with you. The one I saw in Wizarding World Daily."

This was Harry's chance to tell them the truth. Seamus offered him the perfect segue to announce that he'd moved in with a bunch of bloody Slytherins in Hackney and no, he would not be taking questions, but he didn't, deciding instead to ease them into it.

"I've bumped into him."

Okay, lie. Harry decided to lie.

"Still as big of a twat as usual?" Seamus asked with a crooked smile.

"Yep," Harry said confidently. He neglected to add that he was also sort of funny and ridiculous in a good way, but Harry had a difficult time admitting that to himself most days.

"Bet he gets you into all the best spots," Seamus said.

Harry shrugged. "More like the other way around. Pretty sure he's using me for the queue-cutting."

"That sounds like Malfoy, the prat. But good for you, mate. Getting out there, having fun as you ought to be. I should join you sometime. I haven't got properly pissed in ages."

"You got pissed at the pub last week," Dean said, reappearing from the kitchen where he was helping George figure out the dishwasher. "I had to call the Knight Bus because you wouldn't stop singing Do the Hippogriff. In falsetto."

"After-work lager pissed isn't the same as what Harry's doing," Seamus argued. "He's going out to clubs and hanging around celebrities. Bet he's living on champagne and twenty-year Single Malt."

"Er, no. Just the regular swill for me, thanks."

"Fame is wasted on you," Seamus said with a forlorn shake of his head.

"Probably," Harry agreed.

"I reckon you know all the good goss, too. Does Krum really have a penthouse in Knightsbridge?" Seamus asked.

"I don't know. Never been."

"And I heard Malfoy is seeing that model. Emma Partrich? Pretty thing with blonde hair and big tits." Seamus held his hands to his chest, wobbling imaginary breasts.

Harry raised a brow because that seemed mighty unlikely. "Not sure."

"Who would have thought ferrety little Draco Malfoy would end up fit enough to pull a model," Dean said.

"You fancy Malfoy, Dean?" Seamus elbowed Dean in the side. "I'm telling your girlfriend."

"Don't be daft. But you have to admit, he looks a right bit different than he did in school."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. He agreed, of course, but he didn't expect his friends to notice that Malfoy stopped looking like a slimy little twit and started dressing like a rock star.

"Thought he'd be more like his da, really," Seamus said in agreement. "Stuffy arsehole, permanent sneer." His face pinched in a decent impersonation of Malfoy Snr.

"Who knows?" George said as he wiped his hands on a dishtowel. "Maybe little Lucius Malfoy had a rebellious stage. Wore bellbottom trousers and his shirt undone to show his chest hair."

They all shot him a sceptical look.

"What?" George said with a shrug. "It was the seventies."

"When you boys are finished discussing how dreamy your school bully is, perhaps you could help me get the boxes off the steps? A dog was trying to piss on the end tables. I had to scare it off," Liz said, popping through the front door with three boxes stacked atop one another.

"Scaring puppies? You monster." Ron kissed the side of her head as he waved them towards the door.

"You could have hired movers, Ron," Dean said. He glanced up at the sky, which looked threateningly like rain.

"I'd rather force you lot to do the work. Keeps you humble."

"So it's a power move," Harry said.

"Completely." Ron threw an arm around Harry's shoulder and dragged him outside.

****

Later, after they'd brought all the boxes inside and finished the beer, George, Seamus, and Dean headed home, or out, or wherever they went when Harry didn't see them. Harry, however, lingered. He volunteered to put together the new patio furniture in the garden, and Liz was so delighted she nearly wrung Harry's neck with the strength of her hug. Ron tugged her off gently, catching the flash of panic in Harry's eyes and followed Harry outside.

The furniture held half of Harry's attention as he directed Part A into Part B with screw 9F.

Eventually, he would have to head back to his flat.

He didn't have any specific plans beyond popping by The Briar and Toad and seeing where the night led him. Maybe he'd get lucky and Alex would take his dick and fuck off for a few hours and Malfoy could go with him. He hated to admit it, but it wasn't as fun without him. Harry hung around Jack and Krum, and Astoria and Emma to a lesser degree simply because he knew them. But Krum was constantly trying to pull. The girls were too handsy, and sometimes Harry just couldn't listen to any more of Jack's conspiracy theories, even if he occasionally got it right.

"You've got the side panel on backwards," Ron said.

Harry looked closer, then groaned, releasing the magic holding the pieces together. "You could help, you know."

Ron rolled Harry's skateboard side to side beneath his feet. "I am helping."

"You could help more."

"Best not. I'd probably fuck it up and you'd have to start over."

Harry shot him a look but adjusted his glasses on his face and squinted at the directions floating in front of him.

"I stopped by Grimmauld Place the other day," Ron said.

Ron's voice sounded casual, but Harry stilled. "Yeah?"

"It's warded shut."

"Yeah."

Silence for a beat.

"Did you move, Harry?"

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I needed a change of scenery."

"That's great! Why didn't you tell me?" Ron asked. "Where to?"

"Erm…"

Ron gave the ground a little kick, propelling the skateboard forward, holding out his arms to gather his tottering balance.

"Just a flat. Not even that far away. I couldn't… be alone in that place."

Ron shuddered. "Me either. That house is creepy as hell, and it doesn't even hate me the way it hates you. Remember when it locked you in the upstairs toilet and tried to flood it?" Ron said with a grin.

"Or when it tossed me from my bed at three in the morning?"

"Thought that hole you put in the wall would be there forever."

"I was trying to teach it a lesson!"

"And how did that go for you?"

Harry sighed. "It let rats in all winter."

Ron nodded solemnly. "It let rats in all winter." Ron's focus slipped and the skateboard wobbled beneath him. He threw out his hands with a shouted, "Whoa!"

Harry returned to his cryptic furniture instructions.

"So if you're not living alone, who do you live with?"

Part C connected to B8 using the wooden dowels.

"Some people. From school."

"Anyone I know?"

Balance that at a ninety-degree angle while and using the hex key to secure it to Part E.

"Yeah."

Ron removed one foot from the skateboard to steady himself. "Blimey, if you're being this cagey, it must be bad. Who is it?"

Harry slanted a glance at Ron. Where the hell was Part E?

"Don't make me guess, because the only person from school I see you hanging out with besides Hermione is Malfoy and…"

Part E flew across the porch and smacked into Harry's hand with too much force.

"No." Ron stared at him. "Seriously, Harry?"

Harry's face must have given him away because Ron dropped his arse to the skateboard, long legs flopping in front of him like someone let the air out of him.

"You're living with Malfoy? Mate."

Harry wanted to make excuses. He wanted to tell Ron that it was a lapse in judgement, that it was temporary, that it wasn't what Ron thought, but instead, Harry said, "Yeah. And weirdly, it works."

"It does?"

"The flat is comfortable. There is always someone bustling around to keep me from scratching the walls. I have people to cook for again and there's a great view from my room."

"But Malfoy lives there."

Harry huffed a laugh. "He's… not so bad. I mean, he's awful, but…"

But what? Harry didn't know where to go with that besides saying that he wasn't awful at all. That Harry almost liked him, considered him a friend.

Ron's face pinched with concern, but Harry kept going. "Honestly, the worst part is Malfoy's boyfriend. Or, not-boyfriend? I'm not sure. But he's around all the bloody time and thinks I'm shit for some reason."

The wrinkle in Ron's brow inexplicably eased at the mention of Malfoy's boyfriend. Ron shook his head and sighed. "I stopped questioning why you do what you do ages ago, Harry, because I trust that you'll figure it out. You always do. But this seems…"

"Like I'm having a crisis?" Harry said with a meek smile.

"Only a small, totally justifiable crisis, just not the one I was expecting."

"You were expecting I'd have a crisis?"

"Come on, Harry. How long have we known each other? When things blow up in your face, you usually make a rash decision—wait!" Ron held up a finger before Harry could interrupt. "Not a bad decision! A rash one. But even in my wildest, Mudbloom Mushroom-induced hallucinations, I would never guess Malfoy."

"To be honest, me neither."

"So, you live with Malfoy," Ron said, as if saying it aloud somehow made the truth easier to handle.

"And Parkinson and Zabini."

Ron's mouth fell open and Harry watched him physically war with his reaction. A series of emotions passed over Ron's face until he arrived at a sort of helpless resignation.

"Okay. Sure." He chewed his lip, then asked, "What in the hell do you do all day? And I don't mean that to be an arsehole. I'm genuinely curious."

Harry shrugged.

"Do you have hobbies?"

"I guess."

"Like skateboarding?" Ron scooted his arse on the skateboard to make it roll.

"I mean, I don't skate that often. Only when the weather is good and I don't have far to go."

"So… what then?"

"I don't know. Is whisky a hobby?" Harry said, only half joking.

"For some people, yeah."

"And clubbing?"

Ron's eyebrows crept up, but he nodded. "Yeah, clubbing." He blinked rapidly, then cracked. "Clubbing, Harry? Really? You can't even dance!"

"Says who?"

"You, up until recently! Can't say the words 'Yule Ball' without—"

"Ron, don't you dare."

"You see my meaning."

Harry sighed and swatted the floating furniture assembly instructions out of the air. "I wouldn't call any of those things my hobbies, or even interests. They are just things I do to pass the time."

"The time between what?"

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it. He opened it again. "I don't rightly know. Night and day, I suppose?"

"Night and day. Right." That pinched look was back on Ron's face, and Harry didn't like it.

"What, Ron? Just say it."

Ron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, wide eyes staring into Harry's. "Are you good, mate? Like, are you happy?"

"Ron, I lost my job, then my girlfriend. What do you think?"

"Were you happy when you had them?"

"Yes!" Harry said too quickly, then tried again. "I mean, yeah. Of course. Of course I was."

"Wow, Harry. You've convinced me," Ron said, tone dry as dust.

Harry snorted and flung out a leg to kick the skateboard, sending Ron's balance flailing. Ron swung at him, but it only made the wobbling worse.

"I wasn't… unhappy," Harry said when they settled.

"And what about now?"

"Now I'm not anything. I'm just… sort of numb.

"Yeah, that's not like you, Harry. You're passionate. A little intense, really."

Harry groaned. "Why do people keep saying that?"

"Because you are! Would you rather I say you're bloody mad most days? Because you can be," Ron said, throwing up his hands.

Harry laughed in spite of himself.

"But you don't idle well," Ron added.

"Sputtering like an old car, am I?"

"You know I barely understand that reference. Listen, I'm not judging you for making batty decisions."

"Sounds a bit like you are."

"Okay, maybe I am, but only out of concern. You know that, don't you? No one expects you to be unscathed by this. I just want to know that you're alright."

"I'm fine."

"Forgive me for being a little sceptical." He shook his head. "When I saw those pictures in the papers, I didn't think they were real. I assumed they were using magic."

"Oh Ron, not you too. I thought you didn't read that shite?"

"I don't! Mum sends them to me. She's worried about you. You haven't come round for Sunday supper in weeks."

"Ron. I can't."

"Hey, I get it. But you know how she is."

The silence stretched until Ron stood. "I'm not your mum. You can do whatever you want, even if that means moving in with Draco Malfoy and going bloody clubbing, for fuck's sake. But promise me you'll watch yourself, Harry. Don't go running into anything too fast."

"Like what?"

"Like… anything! Walls, the bottom of a bottle, back to the Aurors, Malfoy's skinny arms!"

Harry pulled a face and Ron laughed, then he softened.

"You know I'm here for you, right?"

"Course, Ron."

"And that I'll be honest with you?"

"Yep."

"Okay, because I'm going to be honest with you right now. I don't think tables are supposed to look like that." He gestured at the pile of parts Harry was attempting to piece together with minimal success.

"Maybe it's avant-garde. An abstraction of a table."

"Maybe you're shit at building furniture."

Harry poked the table and it collapsed into a heap of particle board. "Yeah, that's got my vote."

"Liz will love you for trying," Ron said with a heavy sigh.

Harry swept the various bits and bobs back into the box. "Thanks, Ron. For not freaking out."

"I'm freaking out a little."

"Well, thank you for only freaking out a little. You're doing great, you know. This house, your job, Liz. It's good. I'm happy for you."

Ron chuckled. "Who would have guessed I'd be the one to have it all figured out, eh?"

"Everyone, Ron."

Ron smiled, softer this time. He shifted his weight on the skateboard and the thing went flying, shooting out from underneath him to smack into the garden fence. Ron landed on his arse with a curse and a groan.

Harry laughed so hard he nearly peed himself.

****

By the time Harry left Ron and Liz's house, he felt good, almost like himself again. Ron gave him a sample of the Neverending Chewing Gum from the shop and he skateboarded home while blowing bubbles the size of his head. The clouds weighed heavily on the horizon, threatening rain, and Harry pushed more speed into the skateboard to outrun the downpour.

He almost made it, too. But as he rounded the last blocks to the flat, the clouds opened and released a deluge.

Harry laughed, shaking the droplets from his hair as he stumbled into the flat, but his good spirits withered as soon as he caught sight of Parkinson crossing the living room in her Bubble-Head Charm. She tossed him a look that was part pity and part disgust, and Harry groaned. A similar sound echoed from upstairs a moment later.

Parkinson disappeared behind her bedroom door, and with an angry slash of his hand, Harry Summoned the CD player from his room. It smacked into his palm as Harry stormed into the kitchen. He slammed the headphones on, pressing them hard against his ears to muffle the sharp shout of, "Oh fuck yes," through the floorboards.

The book 101 Recipes for the Happy Housewitch fluttered across the kitchen to settle on the counter in front of Harry like a prim lady adjusting her skirts. He sighed and flipped through the pages, selected a recipe at random, and set about making chicken and mushroom crepes.

****

An hour later, Parkinson reemerged, following the scent of Harry’s cooking, and Zabini came straight through the front door and into the kitchen to drop down at the table. It should have been nice, sharing a home-cooked meal together, but this felt less like flatmate bonding and more like communal misery. All the same, Harry made more than enough to go around and dropped a plate in front of each of them.

They ate during a break between the sex marathons, chatting idly.

"I'll admit, Potter. You've got a skill," Zabini said, inspecting the last bite of creamy chicken in bechamel sauce scraped from his clean plate.

"Just the one? Wow, thanks."

"If the Aurors still don't want you, you could start a restaurant," Parkinson said.

"Or work in one," Zabini added.

Harry snorted. It appeared the compliment disguised as an insult was a talent shared by the whole house.

Harry was considering making dessert when the rhythmic thumping from upstairs started up again.

They all groaned in unison.

"If it weren't so annoying, I'd almost be impressed," Harry said, standing to clear their plates. He collected them in his hands rather than doing what came naturally, which was to sweep them into the sink with an exhale of magic. Harry's wand remained in his coat pocket, and he decided retrieving it would only draw more attention.

"Yeah, you'll get over that pretty fast living with him,” Zabini said.

Harry winced. "The annoyance or the being mildly impressed?" Harry asked.

"Both," Zabini and Parkinson said in unison.

"It's always like this," Zabini added. "If it's not Alex, it's someone else."

Parkinson shot him a sharp look, then turned back to Harry.

"Not always," she said, as if it pained her.

"I honestly assumed it would quit when Potter moved in. Or at least slow down."

Parkinson kicked him under the table.

"What? It's true. I expected him to redirect a lit—ow!"

"Draco is just…" Parkinson started.

"A sex addict." Zabini finished.

"He is not!"

Zabini gestured upwards with raised eyebrows as the distinct slap of skin on skin was followed by a muffled groan.

Harry's face flushed.

"You'll get over that too," Zabini said with a smirk, gesturing to Harry's obvious embarrassment. "Just one of the many joys of living with Draco."

Harry turned on the sink, rinsing the dishes, though the rush of water did nothing to drown out the sounds of pleasure. "Now I understand why Malfoy gets charged the arsehole tax. But why do I?"

Parkinson shrugged. "Because I don't like you."

"I made you dinner."

"You did. Keep it up and I might be willing to renegotiate your rates."

"Don't bet on it," Zabini said as he pushed his chair away from the table to stand.

Harry snorted. "Whatever. I'm putting headphones back on."

"What?" Zabini said, already safe behind his wall of silencing charms. He directed a few additional cleaning spells towards the dishes in the sink, then sauntered off.

Harry's bedroom was off-limits, way too close to the source of the noise, so Harry resigned himself to the living room. Before he dropped into the comforting embrace of the sofa, Parkinson snagged him by the shirtsleeve. Harry jerked back in surprise.

"For the record," she said, voice lowered. "Draco isn't a sex addict."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, unsure why she felt the need to tell him. It wasn't any of his business.

"When he wants someone to like him, he'll do what it takes to keep them around."

Harry tilted his head, unconvinced. "Then why doesn't he worry about driving you and Zabini away?

She huffed. "We're built-in, a done deal. He couldn't drive us away if he tried." Then she said, quieter, "And that goes both ways."

Harry suffered an unexpected pang of jealousy at the adamance in her voice. He'd thought that once about his friends. Could he still say it was true?

"All Alex wants is sex, so that's what Draco gives him."

"Yeah, he seems really broken up about it," Harry grumbled. Malfoy groaned, as if on cue.

"I just thought you should know. I don't want you to get the wrong impression of Draco."

Harry snorted a disbelieving laugh. "Pretty sure I've had nothing but the worst impression of Malfoy my whole life. Don't know why you're worried about it now."

Her brows twitched inward, not quite a frown. "It's different now. You know him better. And you're here."

Harry was seriously confused. Parkinson looked at him like he was missing something entirely, and Harry had to agree. What difference did it make to Harry if Malfoy fucked around? Harry had cause to judge him over far more severe and complicated actions than a penchant for noisy sex. It didn't matter why he did it, only that it kept Harry from peace in his own bloody flat. That was all.

"Thanks?" he said.

Parkinson sighed like Harry was the biggest idiot in the world—granted, she did that a lot—and disappeared into her room without another word.

Harry dropped onto the sofa with the CD player. He stretched out his legs, which were just slightly too long for the seats, and propped them on the arm of the sofa. He snagged the nearest magazine from the table—Wizarding World Daily, one of the worst offenders—and started flipping through it, too lazy to Summon a book from his room.

Merlin, he hadn't looked at one of these in years.

The first few pages were the society photos, the trashiest of the tabloid shots, mostly of people going about their own damn business looking imperfect, doing the shopping, coming home from the bar—or in Malfoy's case, sucking on Alex's tongue in full-colour print.

Harry pulled the headphone's earpiece away for a moment and listened.

"Yes! Fuck me!"

He returned it to his ear.

Harry skimmed the text accompanying the photos of Malfoy and Alex.

Harry knew very little about Alex beyond that he left towels on the bathroom floor, fucked loud, and disliked Harry for no apparent reason. According to the article, Alex was the son of a musician popular for his Christmas music, which had Harry stifling a laugh into his fist. Alex was part of a band himself for a moment, but they flopped by their second album, at which time he began his life as a 'career artist.'

Harry turned the page to be inundated with more pictures of Malfoy and Alex together. Malfoy looked tall and posh in all of them, never smiling at the camera, but always making eye contact, and it made Harry's insides squirm.

He turned the page again.

Where is Harry Potter?

Harry's chest clenched. They dedicated the next three pages to the rare sightings of Harry since his split with Ginny.

There was a fair amount of speculation on Harry's whereabouts, but to his relief, they had little to go on. The paparazzi caught a few flashes of him en route to bars, with Krum's arm around his shoulder, looking bored waiting outside a club with Emma, and one of Harry alone, hunched in on himself.

Harry squinted at the photos. What the hell did people see in him and why were they remotely interested in how and with whom he passed the time? He wasn't broad and strong like Krum, wild like Jack, or stylish and cool like Malfoy. He was just… Harry. A bit of a mess on a good day.

Harry felt the thump of footsteps on the stairs and pressed the magazine to his chest, hiding the page as he sat up and turned.

Alex shot Harry a smug smile as he jogged down the stairs and out the door without so much as a greeting. Harry rolled his eyes and tossed the magazine on the table, sick of gossip and unsure why he even looked at it in the first place. It always left him feeling slimy and a little ill.

Harry snagged a book from the side table, something Zabini was reading the other night.

The book turned out to be a Muggle culture study guide and Harry was enjoying it immensely, particularly the part about American shopping malls, when he felt footsteps behind him, lighter his time.

Harry didn't turn, even when he caught a whiff of familiar cologne and long fingers brushed against his temple, tugging the headphones away from his ear.

"Want to get takeaway?"

Harry looked up from his book and resisted rolling his eyes. Malfoy was fresh out of the shower, his hair wet and skin pink, but he was also half naked—in nought but pants and the ubiquitous dressing gown.

Harry tried to avert his eyes, but they skittered back to Malfoy anyway. "I made dinner. Left you some in the fridge."

Malfoy's face lit up and he leapt towards the kitchen in a few long strides. Harry smothered his smile when he heard a squawk of excitement.

"Potter, I might marry you," Malfoy said, returning cradling his plate as he settled on the sofa next to Harry.

He took a reverent bite, then groaned with his head thrown back and his eyelids fluttering shut.

Harry flushed so violently he felt a little dizzy because he'd only heard him make that sound through the walls and floorboards.

"This is fucking fantastic."

"That might be the most openly you've ever praised me," Harry said, gaze fixed on the book though the words blurred on the page.

"I'm a slag for good food. And this is very good food."

"Noted," Harry said. It came out too strangled, but Malfoy either didn't notice or didn't care.

Malfoy settled back into the sofa and shot a spell at the wireless. A Quidditch game replay murmured quietly in the background—not Ginny's, thank Merlin.

"You didn't go out?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. He could have gone to the pub or some party, probably should have, but going without Malfoy was somehow less appealing.

Malfoy's dressing gown fell open as he stretched his legs to rest bare feet on the coffee table, and for some reason, anger flared in Harry's belly as his face burned.

How could Malfoy be so blasé about everything? Harry supposed if he was long and slender like Malfoy, he would want to show off, too. Not that Harry considered himself unpleasant looking when naked, he just usually reserved that for people he was intimate with. Malfoy let everyone look.

And now that Malfoy's skin lay exposed, Harry could survey the damage. Because there was damage. Malfoy's pale chest was littered with love bites—teeth marks and purpling bruises—and Harry's anger sparked hotter, because those were some possessive marks for a man who didn't want to call Malfoy his boyfriend.

Harry didn't know why it bothered him but it did. Maybe it was because Malfoy had confessed to Harry that he hoped for more from Alex, or maybe Harry just thought the guy was an arsehole, but the longer he looked the more it fanned the flames.

Harry knew he wasn't hiding his anger very well, and that was confirmed when Malfoy narrowed his eyes at Harry, dropping his fork to his plate.

"You're particularly broody tonight," he said.

The snide tone of his voice further rankled Harry, and he had to suck in a sharp breath to keep the anxious magic from rising to the surface.

"Fuck off," Harry gritted through clenched teeth.

"If that was an attempt to prove otherwise, you failed." Then Malfoy sighed. "What are you so miffed about?"

"You really want to know?"

Malfoy spread his palms. "By all means."

"It's you."

"I'm shocked," he said flatly.

"Why don't you have the common decency to cast a fucking Silencing Charm on your room? I feel like I'm being forced to sit front row at your porno when all I want to do is make a cup of tea. Maybe have a bit of toast."

"I'm sorry my active sex life is disturbing your tea and toast after a long day of doing absolutely nothing. Try to sound more like an old man about it, will you?"

"It's not just me, you prick. Parkinson and Zabini live here too."

Malfoy had the nerve to smirk at him. "You're all jealous I'm getting so much dick."

"C'mon. It's annoying. Cast your charms."

"I can't," Malfoy said. "My hands are otherwise occupied."

Harry gave him a hard look but refused to ask him to elaborate. "Have Alex cast them."

Malfoy chuckled darkly. "No, I rather think he wants you to hear."

Harry groaned. "He's such an arsehole, Malfoy. What the fuck are you doing?"

"Hey! It's a thing between him and me. I can't expect you to understand. Do you know what it feels like to crave a person? To the point where you can't get enough of them? Want to be around them all the time?"

"And that's the bloke you crave? Circe's tits."

Malfoy's face hardened. "You're so fucking judgemental, Potter. Do you only fuck perfect Gryffindor stereotypes? Maybe a polite Ravenclaw when you're roughing it?"

"We're not in school. None of that shit matters."

"Alright, enlighten me. Who do you fuck?"

"Don't turn this around on me! We're talking about your obnoxiously loud sex, not my very quiet lack thereof."

"Ha! I knew it," Malfoy said with a wild grin. "Pansy said you were probably pulling like mad, but I disagreed. Not that everyone isn't trying their hardest to crawl in your trousers. You're such a sap, Potter. Why deny yourself simply because some ginger tossed you aside?"

Harry growled. "Pretty sure my sex life is none of your business."

"Maybe I want it to be."

Harry looked at him sharply, but Malfoy grinned back, all teeth.

"C'mon," he said. "Pansy and I have a wager."

"On what?"

"She thinks you're a hit-and-quit type. Probably the fame and the…" Malfoy waved a hand at Harry's general person, though Harry hadn't the foggiest what he meant by that. "But I think you're a closet romantic. Only fuck for love."

Harry scowled. "Do I get the money if you're both wrong?"

Malfoy's eyes flashed and he leaned in. "How wrong?"

"I can fuck without love just fine."

And he could. He just hadn’t in a very long time.

"So why don't you?"

"How do you know I don't? Are you with me every second of the day?"

"No, but I assume if you were getting laid you would be a lot less uptight."

Harry scowled at him.

"And you'd be smiling instead of scowling," he said, grinning triumphantly. "Unless whoever you're fucking is shit at it."

"I'm not talking about this with you," Harry said in an attempt to squash the conversation. How did it all get turned around on him?

"Then who will you talk about it with?"

"No one, preferably."

"Dull."

Harry shrugged.

Malfoy went back to his loud moaning over the food while Harry tried desperately to pay attention to the Quidditch commentator on the wireless. Ten minutes in and Harry could barely hazard a guess who was playing, too busy not looking at, listening to, or thinking about Malfoy, and failing. Pretty miserably in fact.

He just couldn't get over all those bloody marks. Did Malfoy like the bruises sucked into his ribcage and the teeth marks pressed into his long, pale throat? Or did he allow it simply to keep the bloke he liked around, like Parkinson said? Malfoy displayed them without any sign of self-consciousness, which either meant he was entirely too comfortable around Harry, or he wanted him to see.

Harry had never marked a person like that. He'd thought about it, sure. Both Harry and Ginny liked it a little rough, but visible marks were out of the question. Ginny didn't like when Harry got possessive or jealous, and even in the throes of their filthiest sex, she always hissed at him to watch his teeth. Harry didn't mind. Ginny didn't want a man's marks on her and Harry respected that. But it didn't mean he didn't think about it. It didn't mean he didn't want it.

Unbidden, Harry's treacherous brain took a hard left and suddenly Harry was wondering what it would be like to leave his teeth marks on Malfoy's pale skin. He could already imagine it, gripping slim hips with bruising fingers as he left evidence of his mouth everywhere it landed. If those were his marks on Malfoy, seeing them would light his blood on fire. It would drive him to touch, to press his fingers and tongue into tender flesh while Malfoy hissed and writhed and—

Oh fuck.

Harry paled, the blood draining from his face so quickly his head spun.

Why in the hell was he thinking about Malfoy like that—naked and heavy-lidded with lust—and why was he still thinking about it?

The righteous indignation ebbed away without Harry even noticing, to be replaced with an unexpected yearning for skin on skin. More specifically, Malfoy's skin against Harry's.

Next to him, Malfoy hummed in satisfaction. He set his empty plate on the coffee table and relaxed back into the sofa, limbs spread, far too close to Harry for comfort.

"I'm keeping you," he said, eyes easing shut. "You're staying forever. I'm going to chain you to that kitchen and make you cook for me all day."

"A please and thank you work just as well," Harry said, too quietly.

Malfoy opened his eyes and looked at him. "Is that so?"

Harry shrugged, attention on his hands because Malfoy's dressing gown was very open and he didn't trust his eyes to stay on his face.

"Thank you for the exquisite meal, Potter. May I please lock you in the kitchen forever?"

Harry snorted. "You're welcome. And I don't recommend trying."

Malfoy hummed, but he was smiling at Harry in an odd soft way that made Harry's insides turn to liquid.

Harry needed to remove himself from the situation immediately or risk doing something stupid. Harry hated to admit it, but Ron was right; Harry was the king of impulsive decisions and he felt one itching at the back of his mind that he absolutely could not—would not entertain.

It was simply an issue of overexposure. Malfoy was making gross sex noises all night long, so it wasn't surprising that Harry was having sexual thoughts about him.

Right?

"I'm going to bed," Harry said, standing abruptly.

Malfoy blinked up at him. Even now, he looked fucked out and gorgeous, pretty in the way people got when they were fully satiated. Had he looked so languorous when he came downstairs? Before he tasted Harry's food? And why the hell did that answer matter?

Harry felt sick.

He tried not to let it show in his expression. He averted his eyes and ducked around the sofa, taking his face, painted in all his revealing arousal, out of sight.

Behind him, Malfoy slumped into the sofa. He would still be there in the morning, blinking and groggy, Harry knew as much. Malfoy didn't sleep alone. Either Alex fucked him until dawn, or Malfoy laid on the sofa in the dark, not sleeping, but Harry still felt strange leaving him there.

"G'night, Harry," Malfoy said.

Harry froze with one foot on the stairs. "Did you just call me Harry?"

Malfoy's back was to him but he flapped a hand in his direction. "Of course not. I would never do such a thing."

Harry turned away slowly, then dashed up the stairs, kicking his bedroom door shut. He pressed his back against the wood and breathed.

In for five. Out for five.

Maybe Zabini was right. Harry would get used to it, eventually. He ought to approach time with Malfoy like the exposure therapy Hermione subjected him to during his training sessions. Running away from him would only make their interactions more awkward and painful for Harry to endure.

Harry abandoned the doorway and stumbled towards the bed. He landed face-first into the duvet and let himself suffocate a little, if only to keep from screaming.

Harry was, potentially, a bit pent-up and it was not helping the situation. He hardly wanked since Ginny left, and when he did, he finished feeling lonely and a little dirty, a sickly pit in his stomach replacing the arousal as soon as his orgasm passed. But the need was still there.

Harry flopped onto his back. He kicked away the covers, then shucked his shirt and joggers. Embarrassingly, he was already half hard and he hissed as he palmed his cock.

He braced his foot flat on the mattress to rock against his hand, not thinking of anything, simply riding the sensation.

Harry was never big on porn. It always looked so fake, but at this moment, he kind of wished had some. He didn't trust his brain not to run in the wrong direction as soon as he dropped the lead, and Harry desperately needed to let go. He loved that about Ginny. They'd been a couple for years and learned so much about sex together that Harry knew how to please her on instinct. He knew her limits, her desires, and how to make her melt in his hands.

But he couldn't think about Ginny without a lance of pain straight through his heart and the last thing Harry needed was another pathetic wank.

He tried to think of strangers—the beautiful girl he saw at the pub last week, or the Auror trainee from boot camp with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen—but he didn't know them, couldn't imagine how they would act. Would they like it rough and hard the way Harry did? Or would they want him to go slow, move tenderly and kiss them through it?

Frustrated, Harry pushed away thoughts of real people and imagined a blank body, beautiful in the conventional sense, a vessel for pleasure, and that worked a little better.

Except the body changed and developed new details as Harry stroked his length, squeezing the tip before dragging his fist back down again. A freckle above the clavicle. A flat chest, a defined stomach with a fine trail of pale hair beneath the navel.

No.

Dark hair. Harry corrected the mental image. He shook his head, as if that could dislodge his fantasy and allow another to take hold.

Harry's hand on his cock sped up as he imagined burying himself deep in that body, watching it move in time with the motion of his fist, riding him, desperate for it.

Harry gasped.

Yes, that was it. The desperation. Fuck, he loved it when they wanted him, when their hands grew possessive and the kisses biting. Another person's hunger drove Harry to new heights, and made him, in turn, ravenous.

He was close in no time at all, teetering on the brink, sinking into the slick slide of his hand—pure sensation. But that body above him, a shifting changing thing, took a more solid form as Harry's impending orgasm burned deep in his belly. Harry was too far gone to stop it, so he let it come—miles of pale skin littered with love bites, narrow hips and sinewy thighs.

"Fuck," Harry groaned into the dark of his room. He bit his lip to keep from moaning too loud because Harry hadn't bothered with silencing charms, and he'd always been vocal.

He was right there, hovering on the edge, and then, suddenly, that body had a face and a mouth and it was kissing him.

Harry kissed Malfoy back.

He came. Hard.

Harry shoved his left fist into his mouth to muffle the sounds, because oh god, it was like every muscle in his body contracted at once, then released, leaving Harry tingling and twitching through the aftershocks.

Once it was over, Harry collapsed, the tension leaking from his body as his cock dribbled onto his stomach.

"Bloody hell," Harry cursed into the darkness because that was the hardest he'd come in… Merlin, he didn't even know how long.

And he'd done so imagining fucking Malfoy, imagining kissing Malfoy.

Harry Summoned his bath towel from the hook on the door and used it to wipe himself clean. He needed a shower but it could wait until morning. For now, Harry's limbs weighed heavy and loose. Sleep danced at the edges of his consciousness and Harry let it drag him under.

He'd worry about the rest tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Harry threw open the door to the flat with a belligerent slash of wandless magic. It slammed against the wall, creaking on its hinges, but he didn't fucking care. Malfoy wouldn't notice anyway, too busy with his hand down Alex's trousers on the front porch.

"Potter?" Parkinson said when Harry stormed into the kitchen, growling. "Where's Draco?"

Harry waved behind him. "Blowing Alex in the street for all I know."

"How did you get home?"

"I fucking Apparated us."

Parkinson blinked at him. "All three of you?"

"Yes."

"While he was—"

"Yes."

Parkinson had the decency to grimace.

"Sexile?" she said.

Harry just growled again and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He snagged a second one for good measure.

Harry heard Parkinson curse followed by the pop of the charm engulfing her head. Harry continued to grab supplies from the kitchen because based on how Malfoy and Alex were practically humping on the dance floor at The Hex Hole, they were in for a long night.

Harry was sick of surrendering his room. Parkinson and Zabini retreated to the safety of their rooms during sexile, Harry ought to be able to do the same. They had talked about Malfoy casting his own charms and though he made excuses, Harry vainly hoped that some of it penetrated his thick skull.

Malfoy and Alex stumbled through the front door, and Harry made an audible sound of disgust as Malfoy giggled into Alex's neck. He had the nerve to look up and make eye contact with Harry over Alex's shoulder, which Harry met with a thunderous glare, before storming up the stairs and throwing the door shut.

Harry blew off the cap of his beer with a thought and took a long drink. He tossed the biscuits, crisps, and leftover supper he pilfered from the kitchen onto the bedside table, then Summoned his Walkman.

Harry had the headphones on and his fingers poised over the PLAY button when he caught laughter and footsteps on the stairway.

He waited. And listened.

Malfoy and Alex crashed into Malfoy's closed door. Malfoy let out a low, muffled moan, then gasped into open air, as if released from a kiss. Harry heard fumbling at the door handle, a throaty laugh, and more hurried footsteps as they tumbled inside Malfoy's room.

Harry gritted his teeth. God damn the shoddy construction and thin walls because Harry could hear everything. His mutinous brain did the rest of the work, filling in the gaps, so when a creak followed a thump, Harry imagined Malfoy's back hitting the mattress hard enough to rock the bed against the wall.

Were Harry sober and in his right mind, he would have pressed the button on the CD player and drowned it all out before Malfoy and Alex even reached the stairs. But Harry had been downing whisky like someone was going to take it away from him. He was still reeling from wanking to thoughts of Malfoy the night before, and yet here he was, once again hard as a rock because Malfoy all but forced these lurid thoughts on him.

Harry couldn't be blamed for his imagination, not even when it dropped him into that room instead of Alex. In Harry's mind, it wasn't Alex hovering over Malfoy, licking his lips before ripping away those wretchedly tight trousers he wore—it was Harry. He wouldn't be surprised to discover Malfoy wasn't wearing pants because there simply wasn't room, and yes, he'd spent plenty of time looking. Could hardly look at anything else all evening.

He imagined Malfoy wearing that same soft look from the night before, lashes low and cheeks rosy, drunk on pleasure. Harry would strip him naked and splay him over the sheets with his own body, still clothed. It felt sexy-dirty that way, to be fully dressed with his partner bared. There was something about the rough drag of fabric over sensitive skin that had Harry vibrating with desire.

That's when Harry would drop to his knees.

He fantasised about sucking cock often, though he'd only done it twice, both times in the brief period between the end and the war and when he and Ginny got together officially. She had another year of school to finish and the Aurors had recruited Harry. Time felt precious and Harry soaked it up as best he could for an eighteen-year-old who was also the most famous wizard in England.

Bisexuality never came as a shock to Harry. It had always been there, and he was aware of it, even before he knew it by name. So when the lot of them went out for Seamus' birthday, and Harry ran into Oliver Wood, Harry let Oliver kiss him. And then he let him drag him back to his hotel room where he sucked Harry's cock and showed Harry how to suck his.

They did it again after Oliver became the coach for Puddlemere United and Harry went to Dorset for a match. That time, Oliver taught Harry how to open him up and fuck him into the mattress, and Harry often returned to that memory when wanking.

But that's not what he thought about now. Oliver's moans were miles from his mind because all he could hear was Malfoy begging for more.

More what? More fingers in his arse? A cock stuffed deeper down his throat? Stronger arms pinning him to the bed?

Harry could give him all of that and more. The more being that he wouldn't leave as soon as he'd taken what he wanted.

"Oh fuck, yes. Just like that," Malfoy moaned from the other side of the wall. Alex echoed with an affirmative groan.

Harry dropped the hand on his aching prick and growled. What were they doing over there? Was Alex still lingering with only fingers? Or was he pushing in with his cock? The angle would have to be perfect to wring free a satisfied whimper like the one Harry just heard. Was Alex strong enough to lift Malfoy's arse to meet the snap of his hips? Because Harry would flip Malfoy over, settle him on hands and knees. He would press his palm between Malfoy's shoulder blades and flatten him to the mattress, forcing the arch of his back and the tilt of his hips to hit the exact right angle, hammering into him until he begged for mercy. Until he begged Harry to touch him, please.

That was Harry's favourite part, when he got to give his partner exactly what he wanted. When he released that moan of simultaneous relief and anguish as Harry wrapped a hand around his aching cock, so hard he suffered pangs of sympathy. Harry would stroke him slow and firm, in time with each thrust into that tight heat. And then, Malfoy's muscles would tense, his arsehole tightening around Harry until he throbbed, releasing a groan exactly like the one Harry heard through the wall as he came on Harry's cock and all over his fist.

Harry was there, so fucking close, and then—

"Oh Harry, fuck!"

Harry's orgasm hit him like a sledgehammer, punched out of him and he was coming all over his stomach, pulse after pulse wrenched from him. He slapped his free hand over his mouth to keep from shouting because fuck, his fist was so tight and it felt so good. The tension poured out of him in hot, gut-wrenching throbs until Harry was nothing but a puddle.

Harry sighed.

And then his eyes snapped open.

Did Malfoy say his name?

****

Harry was a mess the next morning. He captured a mere few hours of sleep before he woke, hard and rutting into his mattress before the sun even lit the sky. He had to make himself come again, and fuck it all, if he didn't think about Malfoy moaning his name as he pulsed into his soiled sheets.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Was he losing his bloody mind?

By the time Harry dragged himself from bed and to the loo, he had convinced himself that he imagined the whole thing. It was simply his lust-addled brain supplying what he wanted to hear in the heat of the moment, because there was no way Malfoy actually said Harry's name while fucking someone else.

Harry also convinced himself that the angry, hushed voices he caught through the wall last night were also unrelated. He couldn't make out any of their words and eventually returned the headphones to his ears and hit the button on the Walkman to drown out their argument.

Things grew no clearer as the day progressed.

Training with Hermione was a disaster. Harry bollocksed the whole thing up as soon as Hermione started the first drill, far too distracted to channel his magic properly. She sent him home with a disappointed, "Get some rest, Harry. Bloody hell."

Guilt joined Harry's growing heap of concerns. Hermione was trying to help him get his life back together and all Harry could think about was whether he'd suffered a concussion recently because there were no other good explanations for the strange and unwanted direction of his thoughts.

After the failed training, Harry foolishly hoped for a calm afternoon around the flat.

No such luck.

Harry caught Malfoy's distressed shout from the living room as soon as he stepped through the door, and he followed the tug of the sound like a Crup on a leash.

"He didn't even call. What the fuck?" Malfoy paced the room's length, fully dressed for a change, in smart trousers and a well-fitting button-down shirt.

"That's because he's a dick," Parkinson explained from the sofa, where she flipped through the same magazine Harry abandoned a few nights prior.

"Who's a dick?" Harry asked.

Malfoy jumped about a foot and Parkinson let out a banshee shriek, throwing the magazine into the air so hard that it smacked the ceiling and crashed down into a potted plant beside the sofa.

"Do you live in the walls, Potter?" Malfoy asked, voice shrill. "Stop jumping out of corners!"

"I didn't jump out of anywhere. I just walked in and you all were talking about dicks."

"Mm, yes, Potter's summoning song," Malfoy said, gathering himself. "And Alex is not a dick," Malfoy addressed Parkinson now. "Maybe he forgot."

"Forgot what?" Harry asked.

"Our anniversary."

Harry snorted. "Of what, like a week?"

"A month! We had dinner reservations! For—" he checked the shiny silver watch on his narrow wrist. "Two hours ago."

Harry winced. "Yeah, I don't think he's coming."

"I got that! Thank you!" Malfoy groaned. He flopped over the sofa's armrest towards Parkinson. "Let's go out."

"Can't. I'm leaving," Parkinson said and pushed to her feet. She smoothed a hand across her top—a black t-shirt that read Ginger's Bar on the back. She pulled a small rectangle from her pocket and clipped it to the front of the t-shirt.

"Call out," Malfoy said.

"Some of us don't have vaults to live off. I've got to go to work."

"You work?" Harry asked, dumbfounded.

"No, Potter. I stay out until three in the morning for a laugh and wear the badge for fashion," she said, pointing to the pin on her chest that said Pansy. "Honestly, I can't decide whether you're dim or just unobservant."

"Both," Malfoy said with a shake of his head. "A deadly cocktail. Potter, go to the pub with me."

"After you called me dim? Fuck off."

"We can go to that venue! With the music you liked," Malfoy tried.

"How do you know I liked it?"

"You were bobbing your silly little head for a solid hour last time we went. Probably shook the last two of your brain cells loose."

Harry rolled his eyes.

Insults aside, he could use a little decompression. And they always had live music to dampen Malfoy's half-arsed jabs at his intelligence. Plus, it might be good for Harry's exposure therapy to be around Malfoy anyway, especially if Alex wouldn't be there to use Harry like a taxi service.

"Fine," Harry said.

"Yes," Malfoy hissed in triumph. "Go change.

"What's wrong with this?" Harry plucked at his t-shirt, only slightly damp from the rain and perspiration from training.

"You're sweaty! Go put on that green shirt with the buttons. It's your best one."

Harry raised an eyebrow at that but went and changed anyway. He almost selected a different shirt just because, but threw on the green henley after all. It was one of his favourites. He would have picked it all on his own, even without Malfoy mentioning it.

Probably.

****

Harry liked this bar.

The decor was understated and the lights pleasantly dim. People minded their own business, engrossed in the music, or their friends, or their date.

And yet, the music tonight differed from the last time they came, when it was drums and guitars and a sweaty, long-haired singer wailing about heartbreak. This music thrummed with a low, slow beat. It was quieter, sexier. Not really Harry's taste, but he didn't hate it.

At the bar, Harry ordered a lager for himself and a vodka for Malfoy, who remained at the table to keep it from getting swiped. When Harry returned, he dropped the drink in front of Malfoy, then took the chair next to him.

Harry shifted, restless, because this felt… intimate.

They'd been out alone, hadn't they? Since Harry moved into the flat, Malfoy and Harry always arrived at the club, pub, or bar together. Most nights started and ended with just the two of them, but the others were there in the interim, softening the tension Harry hadn't noticed until now.

On top of that, the energy in the room was distinctly sexual. It was more than the music. The clothing was tighter than usual, the lighting low and warm. Most everyone was paired off, seated at the small tables or moving together on the dance floor. Anyone alone was propped against the bar, watching the room with hungry eyes, assessing potential partners.

"Cheers," Malfoy said as he took a sip of his drink. Harry ordered him the vodka he liked this time, not in the mood to listen to Malfoy whine about Harry buying him the cheap stuff.

Harry felt Malfoy's eyes on him, burning into the side of his face. He was so unapologetic with the staring sometimes, and it made Harry squirm.

"Now, I know why I'm in a shit mood," he said. "But what's got your knickers in a twist?"

Harry kept his attention straight ahead, watching the band slide between songs. "What makes you think they're twisted?"

"You're not rainbows and sunshine on a good day, Potter, but you've been particularly stormy the past few days. You've already expressed your discomfort with my… extracurriculars. Is that all it is?"

Harry rolled his eyes towards Malfoy. "Extracurriculars? Bloody hell, Malfoy. Most people pick up knitting or join a neighbourhood Quidditch league, not shag loud enough to shake the walls."

"Don't tell me you can honestly see me knitting?"

Harry didn't fight the grin that stretched across his face at the thought of Malfoy knitting socks.

"Oh Merlin, you're imagining it, aren't you. Stop it right this second."

Harry grinned wider when his mind moved onto jumpers like the ones Mrs Weasley made, or perhaps a lumpy quit.

"I hate you so much." Malfoy took another sip of his drink and hummed an appreciative sound that Harry would adamantly swear did not make his chest swell.

"So?" Malfoy prompted. "What is it?"

Harry considered his options. Telling Malfoy he wanked thinking about him multiple times was not an option, for obvious reasons, as was continuing to whinge about his hatred of Alex because it would only make him sound childish. Harry simply had to pick from one of the many other things that caused him grief and had nothing to do with thoughts of Malfoy spread naked on his bed.

Harry cleared his throat and selected the lowest-hanging fruit. "The DMLE responded to my appeal. I have a meeting with Robards next week."

He'd received the owl that morning, with a terse but professional note from Head Auror Robards instructing Harry to meet at his office the following Tuesday. Instead of relief, excitement, vindication—any of the emotions Harry expected to have when the summons finally arrived, he experienced a peculiar sinking feeling, as if the floor had melted away beneath him and he was dropping through space. An impending sense of doom signalled the end of his newfound freedom.

"Really," Malfoy said flatly. "The Aurors? That's why you're walking around with a face like a slapped arse?"

Harry scowled at him, which apparently didn't help his case because Malfoy snorted a laugh.

"It surprises me, is all," Malfoy said.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "You never talk about them."

"I'm talking about them right now."

"Yes, when prompted. But be honest, Potter, how often do you think about your work? Excuse me, former work."

Harry frowned, because the answer was all the time. Right? He liked working cases, he enjoyed helping people, being useful, keeping busy. Now, all he felt was idle, suspended in time with no push towards the future or past. He existed in limbo, both personal and professional. That's why he wanted to go back.

But did that mean Harry only wanted his job back because he had nothing better to do?

Malfoy chuckled, soft and fond. "I love watching the wheels turn in your little head."

"Fuck you."

"It's not my fault you wear every thought on your face."

"Leave my face alone, will you? First I'm a slapped arse and now I'm—what? Too expressive?"

Malfoy laughed. "But what a lovely slapped arse it is." He gave Harry's cheek a gentle slap. It was probably an unconscious gesture, if a little over-familiar, but the blood rushed to Harry's cheeks all the same.

He expected Malfoy to pull away at the thunderous shift in Harry's expression, but he only grinned into Harry's anger.

"And then you go and prove my point," he said.

Malfoy looked like he was about to say something else, lips parted and eyes bright, but his gaze snagged on something in the crowd and his face fell.

Harry turned, scanning the room, and then he saw it. Saw him.

In the centre of the dance floor was Alex, wrapped around another man, devouring his mouth like he was starving for it.

Harry dared a glance at Malfoy, who was already on his feet next to him, fire in his eyes. Harry winced, bracing himself for impact because Malfoy was about to explode, there was no question about it.

Malfoy snatched Harry's lager from the table and stormed across the room, shoving aside a couple dancing.

"Shit," Harry grumbled, leaning forward onto the table to get a better view.

Malfoy's hand landed on Alex's broad shoulder, spinning him around, tearing his mouth away from the other man.

"You arsehole!" Malfoy shouted.

Alex's expression was a mixture of annoyance and disappointment, which turned quickly to shock when Malfoy threw the lager in his face.

"Hey, that was mine," Harry muttered weakly.

The other man, still clinging to Alex's chest, shrieked and flew back as if slapped.

Harry couldn't make out the details of the fight over the thrum of the music, but he caught bits and pieces from their raised voices. Malfoy berated Alex for forgetting their plans, for lying to him, for using him like a revolving door. And Alex shouted back, something about Malfoy having issues, and then his eyes caught on Harry.

Alex snarled, and the enraged shouting started anew, which Harry still didn't understand because he hadn't done shit to this bloke!

Harry quickly decided he wanted no part in Malfoy's little domestic and darted to the bar for another drink—make that two—attention fixed anywhere but the dance floor.

Harry was halfway through a fresh lager when Malfoy returned, dropping into the chair next to him with a growl. He drained the rest of Harry's pint and threw back the shot of whisky he had yet to touch.

"Can you waste your own drinks, please?" Harry said.

"Don't be silly, Potter. They're all your drinks. You're paying for mine as well." He waved to the bartender for another round, which came sailing across the room on a tray moments later.

"I knew he was cheating on me," Malfoy said as he swallowed the first shot, hissing through his teeth at the burn.

"So why did you stay with him?" Harry asked.

"I mean, I didn't know. But I knew. You know?" He drained the next shot as well.

"Merlin, slow down, will you?"

Malfoy huffed. "Really, Potter? You're telling me to slow down?"

"Yeah, I'd rather not carry you out of here."

"But you would, wouldn't you? Like a damsel in your arms?"

"Like a sack of potatoes over my shoulder," Harry corrected.

Malfoy shrugged. "That way comes with the better view."

Harry choked on his beer, unsure what to say to that, but it didn't seem to matter. Malfoy raised another shot and Harry was ready to slap it from his hand, but he just held it there, staring into the murky depths.

"He told me he loved me."

Harry turned to him sharply.

"And I, like an idiot, believed him. He couldn't love me. Fuck me, sure. But love? Please." Malfoy sighed, wilting into his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "What is it about me that screams 'doormat'?"

"Erm."

"Because everyone thinks they can walk all over me. Do you know how many times I've been cheated on, Potter?"

"No, obviously not," Harry said. "Or did you want me to guess?"

"Merlin, no, don't guess. I couldn't bear it if you got it wrong. But the answer is three times. Three! Is it me?"

Harry shifted. "That feels like a trick question."

Malfoy released a noisy, suffering sigh. He threw down the shot, not even wincing this time.

"That's it," he declared, dropping the glass to the table with a definitive smack. "I'm finished. I'm swearing off relationships. Dating. All of it. I'm fucking done. From here on out, it's meaningless sex only."

"Oh, fantastic," Harry said flatly.

"I bet I could find someone to fuck me tonight. Someone in this very bar. I'm attractive enough. I can be charming. I know how to pull," he said.

Harry simply nodded and sipped his drink. There were no right answers when Malfoy started ranting like this, and Harry learnt it was best to let him run the course. At the same time, Harry didn't like where this one was going; it did not bode well for his peace at the flat or in his mind.

Malfoy eventually grew bored with Harry's monosyllabic responses and went off in search of "a fitter fuck than Alex." Harry tried not to bristle, even when he saw Malfoy dancing with a man not ten minutes later.

As much as Harry wanted to flee home, he remained glued to his chair for the rest of the evening. Harry stayed, sipping his beer, unwilling to let Malfoy's drama distract him from what should have been a decent night.

He tried to listen to the music, even entertained a conversation with a girl one table over until she asked for his autograph. Harry scribbled it on a cocktail napkin, then abandoned the table, officially over it.

He considered walking out the door and Apparating back to the flat, but hesitated by the exit. Malfoy could sort himself out. He didn't need Harry to check on him and certainly didn't need him to intervene. So why was Harry storming across the room towards the back patio?

Malfoy was exactly where Harry expected him to be: smoking cigarettes and wrapped around a stranger like a limpet. As the door shut behind Harry, the man extracted himself from Malfoy's arms, muttering, "Let me piss and we'll get out of here." He turned, eyes widening as he passed. "Holy shit, Harry Potter!"

Harry sighed.

"I told you I'd find someone," Malfoy said, catching sight of Harry as soon as the bloke was through the door.

Harry stepped up to him with a sigh and plucked the cigarette from his fingers, crushing it under the heel of his trainer.

"Yes, kudos. Now can we go home?"

"Not until… whatever his name is comes back." He leaned against the wall and Harry caught a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, noting the glassiness of his eyes.

"No way. You're fucked."

"Not yet, but I'm about to be." He waggled his eyebrows.

Harry groaned. "Come on. Let's go before he gets back."

Malfoy swayed forward, catching Harry by his collar. He studied Harry's face from close enough that Harry could see the width of Malfoy's pupils swallowing the cool grey.

"Fine."

Harry nodded, relieved, and threw a hand around Malfoy's waist to steady him. He Apparated them back to Hackney with a thought.

Harry dropped them into the foyer instead of the roof this time. He didn't trust Malfoy's balance, nor did he fancy manoeuvring him through the window while pissed.

Malfoy hummed, forehead pressed against Harry's shoulder, and for a moment, Harry feared he was going to be sick.

But then he heard a distinct hitch in Malfoy's breath. "Fuck, it's so hot when you do that."

Harry released his grip on Malfoy's waist abruptly, but Malfoy didn't pull away, simply raised his head to blink blearily at him. "The way you do magic—you don't even realise you're doing it, do you? I never see you use your wand. You think it and—" He attempted to snap his fingers, but missed. He frowned—kind of adorably—and tried again, managing a weak click. He beamed. "Got it."

"Um, thanks, I guess." Harry said, but his blood had already run cold, then boiling, then cold again. Malfoy finally acknowledged aloud that he knew what Harry could do. And somehow found it hot? It wasn't the reaction Harry expected. He was used to fear, horror, disbelief, but not this.

Harry blamed it on all the shots Malfoy took at the bar.

Malfoy stepped back with reluctance, putting some much-needed space between them, then turned and tried for the stairs. He swayed dangerously and Harry threw out a hand, grabbing his elbow to keep him upright.

Harry sighed. "Come on, you idiot. Let's get you to bed."

Harry practically carried Malfoy up the stairs, and by the time they reached the landing, Harry's face was flushed bright red and his heart threatened to thunder out of his chest. Malfoy was too fucking close. He'd wound one arm under Harry's jacket, his hand pressed against Harry's waist, hot as an iron even through his shirt.

They fumbled their way into Malfoy's room, Harry lighting the bedside lamp with a wave before depositing Malfoy onto the mattress.

Malfoy flopped backwards, boneless, his crisp button-down wrinkled and rucked over his hip to expose a thin sliver of pale skin.

Without thinking about it, Harry lowered to his knees and began untying the laces on Malfoy's shoes.

"Look at you, ever the hero," Malfoy mumbled, pushing himself up onto his elbows to watch Harry with a hazy gaze.

Harry yanked off one shoe, dropped it to the floor, and started on the other. "I'm not being a hero."

"I've been made an arse of tonight," Malfoy said. "And made an arse of myself. Yet, you are being nice to me. Why, if not for heroics?"

Harry paused, surprised by Malfoy's articulateness despite being barely able to stand, but resumed his task. The answer was simple, really.

"Because that's what you do for friends."

"Are we friends?" Malfoy asked, voice soft.

"Unfortunately, yes. It looks that way."

"You're helping me because we're friends."

Harry tossed the second shoe over his shoulder. "And because you need help."

"And who helps you?"

Harry chuckled. "I'm not the one who can't untie his own shoelaces."

"But if you couldn't?"

"I'd manage."

Malfoy pushed himself to a seated position, scooting forward, so Harry sat between his knees. He leaned forward, curling over him, and before Harry could think to withdraw, Malfoy's hands found his face. His palms were warm and dry, his fingers long enough to reach past Harry's jaw and tuck behind his ears.

He studied Harry with glassy, red-rimmed eyes, and Harry didn't move, didn't dare breathe. Malfoy brushed a thumb against his cheekbone.

"Weasley was a fool for leaving you," he said.

Harry swallowed hard. When he spoke, the words came out rough and far too low. "I don't think she'd agree."

"Like I said, a fool." Malfoy released Harry's face, his hands slipping away, dragging across his jaw until they were gone, leaving Harry's skin chilled.

Harry stood, taking a step back, and then another.

"Get some rest," he said.

Malfoy dropped back onto the mattress in a sprawl. "Goodnight, Harry."

Harry's chest squeezed so hard he started counting the seconds of each breath.

"You called me Harry again."

"Haven't a clue what you're talking about," Malfoy said with a yawn.

Harry slunk out the door, pulling it shut behind him. He hovered in the hallway before returning to his own room, all the while wondering if Malfoy would actually sleep, or if Harry would find him on the sofa before morning.

He also wondered what Malfoy meant about Ginny being a fool, because Harry so desperately wanted to believe there was something redeeming about him, something worth missing. Malfoy was drunk and probably taking the piss, but that didn't stop Harry's treacherous heart from hoping.

Chapter Text

Harry was an idiot for hoping that things would improve with Alex out of the picture. Now, instead of whinging about Alex not showing up when they went out, Malfoy flirted shamelessly with everybody. Truly everybody.

Malfoy wasn't even attracted to women, but that didn't stop him from dancing with them at the club, touching their hair or their waists. It was worse with men. Malfoy carried on every night like he was on a mission, and that mission was to garner as much sexual attention as possible.

Harry might have tolerated the flirting, groping, and purring at every willing body, but it was more than that. Too often, Malfoy dragged a stranger back to the flat—some nameless bloke with hunger in his eyes who would disappear by morning, never to be seen again. Other nights, Malfoy didn't come home at all, only to stumble in at dawn with mussed hair and wrinkled clothing before disappearing into his room, where he stayed until at least noon.

Not all of the men Malfoy brought home were as careless about the noise as Alex, but by now, Harry's wards and soundproofing were fortress-strong, gone over so many times he lost count. Still, Harry's ears strained in the silence to hear something, anything, as his belly burned, his skin flashing hot then cold. On those nights, even the Walkman blasting in his ears couldn't drown out his lustful thoughts.

Harry hated himself for glowering at every bloke Malfoy lured back to the flat, all the while assessing what it was Malfoy saw in them. Malfoy didn't appear to be very picky. They were all good-looking, of course, but not particularly tall or well-dressed. Some were even a little sloppy with messy hair and simple clothes. It didn't seem like Malfoy's type, which ought to have been coiffed and poised like him.

On the morning of Harry's dreaded meeting with Head Auror Robards, one such gentleman was standing in the flat's kitchen, helping himself to the last cup of coffee. Harry glared at him over the top of The Daily Prophet, which he was not reading. It was, however, easy to hide behind when a stranger wandered into the kitchen while Harry was enjoying his toast.

The bloke adjusted his glasses—far more fashionable than Harry's own—and squinted at him.

"Bloody hell, are you Harry Potter?"

"No," Harry said, then stood abruptly and left the room.

Harry made it to the front door, coat half on and skateboard tucked under his arm when Malfoy jogged down the stairs.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Out," Harry said.

"Out where?"

Harry knew he shouldn't look at him, but did it anyway. He winced. Today was no exception to Malfoy's lenient policy on clothing in the house, and Harry was quite sure the oversized white shirt draped over his slender shoulders was not his own.

"I have an appointment," Harry said.

"A dick appointment?" Malfoy waggled his eyebrows.

"Not unless Head Auror Robards plans to fuck me more than he already has."

"Hot," Malfoy said with a snorted laugh.

"By the way, your bloke finished the last of the coffee."

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Shit, is he still here?"

"Yep."

"Can you tell him to fuck off?"

Harry scowled at him. "You want me to run off your one-night stands?"

"Come on, Potter," Malfoy whined. "Be the hero I need. Rescue me."

"From what? Another mediocre lay?"

"What makes you think it was mediocre?" Malfoy said with an outraged squawk.

"The walls here are pretty thin."

"You know your charms."

"So do you."

Malfoy glared at him. "Does that mean you aren't going to scare him off for me?"

"I'm leaving," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

"Bring me a coffee on your way home?"

Harry flipped Malfoy off and slammed the door behind him. He sighed, staring up at the cloudy sky. It looked like rain.

Harry hopped on his skateboard and rode it to the Tube station anyway, casting an extra water-repelling charm just in time for the first fat raindrops to fall.

****

Harry shifted in the chair, the leather creaking. His eyes flicked across the framed newspaper articles, the family photos, the certificates of excellence on the walls for the dozenth time. Head Auror Gawain Robards' office was practically a trophy room, and Harry might have been impressed if Robards weren't such an arse.

Harry had been in this room plenty of times before—been made to wait here before. Harry knew it to be a power play in line with Robards' usual style. He would leave someone here, sweating and twiddling their thumbs, fretting over the direction of their future while Robards took his time making tea and chatting up the secretary.

Harry caught the thud of boots in the hallway and quit his anxious shifting, holding himself painfully still as the door swung open.

"Ah, Potter. It's good to see you. You're looking…" Robards paused, rounding his desk, then finished weakly. "…well."

Not a round of approval, that was for sure. Maybe Harry should have listened to Hermione and booked that haircut before the meeting.

"Likewise, sir," Harry said, standing to shake Robards' hand, then returned to his seat.

He reminded himself not to fidget and knotted his hands in his lap. Harry knew better than to give himself away too easily because Robards might be an arsehole, but he wasn't stupid. He knew how to read tells, was trained to do so, and though his posture appeared casual, almost too loose, Harry knew his trial had already begun.

Robards drummed his fingertips atop a file on his desk—presumably Harry's—his eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

"I'll admit, Potter, I was pleased to receive your appeal. It's good to know you're still dedicated to the job."

Harry smiled tightly. "Of course."

"I had my doubts."

Harry said nothing but clenched his teeth to keep his face from falling into a sneer. He was nothing if not committed to his work. Most would accuse him of being overly devoted, only too ready to take an extra shift or volunteer for a dangerous mission. Harry could practically hear Hermione grumbling at the back of his mind, reminding him that Robards had no compunctions about his dedication, only his obedience. It seemed Robards took Harry's appeal precisely as she feared he would: as a surrender.

Robards waited only a beat before barrelling on. "So, what have you done while away from the DMLE?"

"Took some time for myself. Got a lot of rest. Saw friends. Kept up my training."

Robards' eyebrows lifted. "Good. That's good. Because when your appeal went in front of the Council, there was some concern as to your… recreational activities."

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," Harry said, expression blank, though inside he was howling with indignation.

It was a trap. Robards read the papers and Harry had no doubt he knew exactly what the tabloids said about him. He likely celebrated the humiliating demise of Harry and Ginny's relationship, as well as the speculation that he was adrift without his job.

"You realise that kind of press could reflect poorly on this department."

No longer interested in playing diplomatic word games with Robards, Harry cut to the chase. "With all due respect, sir, my 'recreational activities' aren't even the worst press this department gets. You have your own fires to put out and most of them have nothing to do with me. I get why you wanted to bury what happened in Hackfall. And I regret what occurred more than anyone. No one should have got hurt—"

"Somebody died, Potter."

Harry's jaw twitched. "People die, sir. Isn't that what you told me before the mission?"

Robards narrowed his eyes.

"And for what it's worth," Harry continued. "Even if I spent the last six months at home drinking tea in my pyjamas, the papers would still be reporting on me. They did when I worked here, and they'll do it when I don't. It's on you if you believe everything you read."

Robards shook his head. "You were a good Auror, kid."

"And you fired me anyway."

"You broke protocol."

Harry smiled without humour. "Somebody died, sir."

Robards' expression flinched into rage, and Harry watched with no small amount of satisfaction as he visibly attempted to subdue it.

"What's one more body to add to your count, right, Potter?" he snapped. "What you fail to realise is that protocol exists for a reason. You should know better than anyone that I will not hesitate to come down Aurors who disobey my orders. Do not expect special treatment simply because you are the Minister's pet."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but the orders were shit."

Robards' open palm slammed onto the desk. "Orders are orders! It is not up to you to decide if they are right or wrong. It is your job to follow them."

"It was my job to get those people—those kids—out alive."

"You disobeyed your superior. You went against my direct orders to stay put. Are you telling me that, given the chance, you would do nothing different?"

Harry held his tongue, because no. If he could do it all over, no one would have died. Harry would have pulled his magic at the last minute and the dark wizard Harry and his team had been hunting for months would be in Azkaban instead of six feet underground. But that wasn't what Robards wanted to hear. He wanted to be sure that Harry would blindly follow his word, that if he were to live that horrible night all over again, would Harry hold back and keep cover as the wizard's spells sapped the last gasp of life from another child, right in front of Harry's eyes? Given the chance, Harry would break that order every fucking time.

"I would do what needed to be done to save people," Harry said.

"Even at the expense of your job."

"Yes," Harry said. "Without hesitation."

Harry held Robards' angry glare until the other man sighed and folded his hands on the desk in front of him.

"The Council wants to reinstate you. The Minister wants to reinstate you."

Harry waited for the 'but.'

"But you will need to attend a formal hearing and skills assessment."

Harry nodded. "Understood."

"I will administer the assessment myself," Robards said, standing.

Harry nodded once more and pushed to his feet as well, certain this meeting was over.

"I won't go easy on you, Potter."

Harry's mouth thinned—not a smile, not even close. "I'd expect no less."

They stared at each other for a moment, a silent battle, then Robards nodded. "That will be all. You're dismissed."

Harry let the door crash shut behind him, a small show of childish petulance that still felt really fucking good.

He unshrunk his skateboard before he reached the Ministry doors, and was on it as soon as he hit the sidewalk. The weather was once again threatening, so Harry moved quickly, using an exhale of magic to push him faster. The wheels floated over the pavement. Harry bent his knees, sitting low, tipping his weight to manoeuvre the board between pedestrians.

The city whipped past him, and the next thing Harry knew, he was back in Hackney right as the rain started up. He tore through the front door into the house, ignoring Parkinson's frown and Zabini's shouting about wet shoes on the carpet.

Harry took the stairs three at a time then slammed the door to his room, throwing wards up right and left—one layer, two, three. Harry's lungs burned as if holding his breath underwater, the magic tingling in his fingertips.

With a roar, Harry let go.

The entire room shifted. The furniture, the laundry on the floor, the open book next to the bed all flew into the air, then crashed back down to the ground with force.

Harry stood there breathing.

In for five, out for five.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets until he saw fireworks, then forcefully released the tension in his body. He dropped his shoulders and attempted to smooth the wrinkle from his brow.

He was fine. This was fine.

So why did he feel ready to crawl out of his skin after a few curt words from Robards? He took that man's shit for bloody years, grit his teeth and bore it through the critique, ridicule, and obvious attempts to set Harry up for failure time and time again.

Harry gathered himself and descended the stairs to the living room, where Parkinson and Zabini waited with raised eyebrows.

"Feel better?" Parkinson asked drily.

"You're financially responsible for anything you broke," Zabini added.

Harry winced, realising he'd forgotten his silencing charms. He nodded. "Fair enough. And yeah, feeling great."

Harry held out a hand and a half-empty whisky bottle whizzed from the kitchen and smacked into his outstretched palm.

"It's barely noon," Zabini said with a critical quirk of his brow.

"It's been a shit day," Harry said, biting the cork from the bottle.

"Still only noon," Zabini muttered into his book.

"Why? Did you want some?" Harry asked.

Zabini and Parkinson shared a look, then Parkinson waved her wand and two glasses flew from the kitchen cupboards.

"Where's Malfoy?" Harry asked, filling their glasses.

Another shared look and Harry brushed away the lick of annoyance.

"Out. No idea."

Harry shrugged. "More for us, then."

He took a swig straight from the bottle.

****

Sometimes, the alcohol turned off Harry's nightmares like a light, dropping him into a dark and dreamless sleep. Those were good nights, because other nights, the whisky brought on nightmares with a vengeful clarity, like dipping his face into a Pensieve overflowing with all his most horrible memories. Harry reckoned it was some sort of self-inflicted punishment from his subconscious for overdoing it, or perhaps for hoping that the drink could drive away the bad memories permanently.

Alcohol offered only a temporary reprieve because the memories always came back, just like the nightmares, and suddenly, Harry found himself in a dark forest, staring intently through the dirty window of a lonely hut.

The rest of the team shifted at his back, all cloaked in spells to hide their presence. It took them nearly eight weeks to track Henry Paulson down to this location, which was nowhere, really, a stone structure in the middle of the Hackfall Forest. But when the tip finally came in, they were out the door and huddled around a Portkey to Yorkshire in minutes.

Inside the cabin, seven cots encircled an elaborate map of chalk runes on the floor. Paulson stood at the centre, wand raised as magic poured from the end in a blinding cascade that spilt to the floor, where it snaked like veins to the surrounding cots. The magic pulsed and thrummed, siphoning the life and pure, untrained magic from each cot's tiny inhabitant: children kidnapped from all over the region.

The kids barely looked alive, their eyes closed and bodies inert. They were too damn pale.

Harry turned to the Healer on the team, a hardened young woman by the name of Osbourne.

She surveyed the spells tracking the victims' vitals with a frown. She caught Harry looking and her mouth thinned.

"The boy in bed seven is fading. His heart rate is irregular and his blood pressure is on the floor."

Harry spun on their squad's leader, Auror Edwards. "We need to move now," he said.

Edwards shook his head. "No. Our orders are to wait until the spell is complete before we make our move."

"The kid won't last that long," Harry argued.

"And we won't have the proper evidence for a conviction unless he completes that spell. Those are direct orders from Head Auror Robards."

Edwards was such a kissarse and greener than spring grass. Everyone on the mission knew Robards made him lead because he would follow orders unflinchingly, leaving the control exactly where he liked it, in his own hands comfortably back in London.

"That's fucking bullshit. We can't sacrifice that kid because Robards wants an easy trial,” Harry said.

Edwards' lip curled. "You watch your mouth, Potter. Our instructions are to follow the Head Auror's orders at any cost."

At any cost.

Harry frowned. That very morning, before they departed for the mission, Robards called Harry to his office. He gave Harry a lecture about the consequences of dangerous assignments like these. He warned Harry that injury and death were very real possibilities, and questioned whether Harry was ready to accept that. Harry assumed Robards meant him, that his job as an Auror meant putting his life on the line, which Harry knew all too well and had long since accepted. But he never considered that Robards meant the death of victims, the death of an innocent child that could be prevented.

Fuck that.

Harry was already on his feet and rushing towards the window, Vanishing the glass and leaping through the now empty space. Harry knew going in alone meant all he had in his favour was the element of surprise, and he would use it for all it was worth. It offered him enough time to slam shields down around the circle of cots before aiming a wall of assault spells at the shocked wizard.

Paulson gathered his bearings quickly, dodging Harry's disarming spells and the whip of his binding spells. They glanced off of him like he was greased, and Harry growled, doubling his force.

Part of him hoped his team would back him up once he got in here, but it appeared all of them would sooner let Harry die, let these kids die, than disobey Robards' orders. Robards, who sat comfortably behind his desk with his paperwork, his pension, his party invitations, while he sent them to do the dirty work of ensuring a smooth trial and a smaller invoice from the solicitors. At any cost.

Robards never liked Harry, that much was clear, but ever since The Howling Herald ran an investigative expose on the mismanagement of DMLE funds, insufficient training, and implementation of questionable tactics, he'd been particularly chilly towards Harry. Harry guessed Robards suspected him to be the leak, and though Harry had been vocal in his disagreements with the Head Auror since he was a Trainee, it wasn't Harry who ratted him out. Not that it disappointed him to see Robards knocked down a peg in public opinion.

With each dodged spell, Harry grew angrier, sloppier. The protective shields he wove around himself were in the way, blocking his ability to attack with full force, so he dismissed them, instead dropping down a series of magical wards, as strong and solid as concrete, but invisible. Able to duck behind the magical walls, Harry stopped wasting energy channelling the magic through his wand, instead letting it roll out of him, in a dizzying scattershot of destruction. Paulson tossed a body-binding curse intentionally wide, and Harry let it zing past him without concern, until it glanced off one of Harry's wards, and ricocheted, catching Harry in the back.

Harry went down with a surprised shout, crashing to the floor hard enough to knock his teeth together. And then Paulson was on top of him, his hand closing around Harry's throat, his body—impossibly heavy—flattening him into the ground. He pressed the tip of his wand against Harry's forehead and began muttering a string of Latin words.

The spell began as a tug behind Harry's brow bone, followed by a vicious dizziness. Weakness flooded his muscles as the tugging increased, leaving him boneless and vulnerable. Paulson's spell siphoned the life from Harry, sucking it straight from his centre until Harry was floating, vision foggy.

It was horrible.

Harry was dying and he could barely move. The last thing he was going to see was Paulson's mad face grinning down at him because he lost. Harry lost and he wasn't ready.

With a final gurgling gasp, Harry dropped his wand and focused on that hissing, sparking knot that lived inside of him, cobbled together with strings of rage and fear, and tore it open. Harry mustered the last of his strength to raise his arm and laid numb fingertips against Paulson's chest. His cruel smile stretched wider at Harry's pathetic attempt to fight back, and Harry released his grip on that angry, devastating magic and it poured forth in an uncontrolled maelstrom.

Harry was never able to explain what happened next, no matter how many times Robards interrogated him, no matter how much Veritaserum they spilt down his throat. He blacked out for no longer than a blink, but suddenly, Paulson's weight disappeared, followed by a sickening crack and a thud.

Harry sucked in a sharp, desperate gasp of air. His lungs ached, burned, and he coughed around his next breath. Harry sat up, his head spinning, only for his stomach to sink to the floor and his heart to stutter in his chest.

Across the room, Paulson hung slumped over the arms of a coat rack, his body broken and bloodied.

And dead. Very dead.

Darkness tinged the edges of Harry's vision as his head swam.

"Potter, what the fuck!" Edwards stormed to where Harry sat crumpled in the circle of cots. Edwards caught sight of Paulson's body and retched, hiding his nose and mouth in the sleeve of his uniform.

Harry ignored Edwards' weak stomach and scrambled to his feet, dropping the shields around the cots. He rushed towards the boy in bed seven, only to find Healer Osbourne already there. She waved her hand over the child but released her spell a moment later. She shook her head at Harry.

The ground disappeared beneath Harry's feet and he dropped to his knees, head in his hands.

He was too late. He failed.

The world faded around him, his team's voices dissolving into static so deafening he almost didn't notice Edwards shouting at him or the click of magical handcuffs around his wrists.

Harry slowly raised his head, dazed, to look into Edward's sneering face. "Get his wand," he ordered.

The two other Aurors on the team, Collins and Fischer, looked at each other, hesitating.

"Collins," Edwards snapped.

Collins shook his head but collected Harry's wand from where it sat, abandoned on the floor next to him.

Edwards waved to Fischer and Healer Osbourne. "The three of you, clean this up. Get the kids to Mungo's. I'm taking Potter back to the Ministry. Robards will want to have a word with him. I'll send someone from the morgue for the bodies."

Healer Osbourne looked ready to protest, but Edwards yanked Harry to his feet and shoved him out of the stone hut and back amongst the trees.

"You've finally fucked yourself, Potter. It's about bloody time," Edwards hissed into his ear as he activated the Emergency Portkey, and they were flying.

****

Harry awoke in the dead of night, released abruptly from his twisting nightmare by a very real crash.

He sat straight up in bed with a gasp, listening, willing his heartbeat to slow its rabbity pace.

Fuck, he hated that dream. It never got easier, no matter how many nights in a row it tortured him. Harry scrubbed a hand across his face, hoping to wipe away the last vestiges of the nightmare.

He dropped his hand at the sound of uneven footsteps on the stairs, and a familiar voice humming off-key to… was that Wham!? Harry exhaled a sigh of relief because one set of footsteps and a singular voice meant Malfoy was alone, for once.

Harry settled back in bed and shut his eyes, but they snapped open again when he heard a thump on the roof overhead. He frowned and cast a Tempus.

"Three in the morning," he muttered into the darkness. "Malfoy, what in the bloody hell?"

Harry flung himself from the bed, tugged on a hoodie, and threw open the window. He hopped his arse onto the sill to peer across the roof.

Malfoy sat tucked into their usual place between the eaves, looking rumpled and flushed, pale hair glinting in the streetlights.

"Cigarette patrol," Harry announced, and Malfoy smirked.

"Going to arrest me, Potter?"

"Are you smoking?"

Malfoy looked at his empty hands, almost surprised. "No."

"Then no."

Harry gripped the window sill, planted his feet below and heaved himself out onto the roof. Without thinking, he cast a net of warming charms over them as he settled beside Malfoy, pushing away the biting chill of true autumn like the heat of a fire.

Malfoy moaned, settling into the warmth, his body lax.

"You're welcome," Harry said, laughing tightly. "Have a good night?"

Harry didn't know why he asked because he didn't want to hear the answer, but he needed to break the silence somehow.

Malfoy shrugged. "I suppose. Just some party. You should have been there. Everyone asked about you."

Harry gave him a once-over. Now that Malfoy was close, Harry could see that his eyes were unfocused, the pupils blown wide. Colour burned high on his cheeks, and while that could be attributed to the chill Harry insisted on chasing away, Malfoy was definitely intoxicated. On what, Harry couldn't say, and he had no plans to ask.

"So, why are you sitting out here in the cold if you aren't sneaking cigarettes?"

"Needed a moment."

Harry immediately shifted to stand, feeling like an idiot. Of course Malfoy came out here to be alone, and Harry barged in without asking. But before Harry could rise, Malfoy caught him by the wrist, long fingers clinging.

"Not a moment from you. From everything else," he said, tugging Harry's sleeve.

Harry lowered himself back to the roof, hesitant.

"Don't look so skittish, Potter. I'm using you for your brilliant charm work, alright?"

Harry's lips twitched. "Did you just call something about me brilliant?"

"Only your heating charms. They're like a warm blanket," he said with a delighted shiver.

"I get it. You only keep me around for my magic."

"And your cooking."

"It's fine," Harry said airily. "Use me. I don't mind."

"Don't tempt me, Potter. I'm already in a weakened state."

Harry chuckled at the flirtatious lilt to Malfoy's words. He acted that way with everyone. Harry knew he wasn't special, but it warmed him anyway. It felt easy to banter with Malfoy, natural in a way that so few things did.

"That's actually why I came out here. Wanted to make sure you didn't roll off the roof into the neighbour's yard. We're already on thin ice with Mrs Easton since Parkinson lit her azaleas on fire because she didn't like the colour."

"Aw, Potter, you do care," Malfoy said, batting his eyelashes.

Harry scoffed. "About not letting you get us evicted? Absolutely." He dropped back on his elbows to look up at the pale blanket of clouds above them.

"So how was your not-dick appointment with the Aurors?" Malfoy asked, settling beside him.

Harry hummed. "They want to reinstate me."

"Just like that?"

Harry snorted, a humourless sound. "Not exactly. Robards made it very clear what he thought of me, but I think this goes over his head. There will be a hearing and they'll run me through the gauntlet to see if I'm still in fighting shape."

"How long until you go back?"

Harry shrugged. "He didn't say."

Until now, returning to work seemed an abstract thing, a future worry yet to pass. But with the hearing on the horizon and a potential end to Harry's idleness, did that also mean an end to this nonsense with Malfoy? Once he was back on the job, would Harry be able to follow him to parties, stay up until dawn on the roof, or chase after him in clubs?

Probably not.

It should have been a relief. Harry felt like he was going out of his bloody mind most days. So why did he instead feel nothing but creeping unease?

"Robards looked at me like I'd grown a tail as soon as he saw me," Harry said with a wry laugh to cover his discomfort.

"More like a mane," Malfoy said. He gestured to Harry's wild mess of hair, now well past his chin.

"You think it's the hair?" Harry pushed a hand through it, and Malfoy followed the movement with his eyes.

"I'm not saying it's not working for you, but I'd be afraid to take you home to meet mummy looking like that. She'd think someone let a wolf in the house."

Harry barked a laugh.

"I could cut it for you," Malfoy said.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Just because you have good hair doesn't mean you know how to cut hair."

Malfoy's entire demeanour changed. He dipped his chin and looked at Harry through his lashes, voice syrupy sweet. "You think I have good hair?"

"Oh, come off it."

The facade melted away with a low cackle. "I promise, you will leave looking at least fifty per cent less like you've been living in the woods for the past six months."

"Circe's tits, is it really that bad?" Harry patted his head, crushing the wild strands against his skull. He'd always considered his hair a lost cause and had long since stopped trying to tame it. Even the stylists brought in before Ministry functions or speaking engagements declared it 'impossible' more often than not.

Malfoy raised a hand but hesitated. It hovered close to Harry's ear for a moment, like he was waiting for a rebuff. He ran a rogue curl between two fingers.

"It could use refinement."

Then, braver, he scraped blunt nails from Harry's temple to the base of his skull. Harry suppressed a shiver.

"It's like petting a lovely soft Crup," Malfoy said with a smirk.

Harry smacked his hand away and Malfoy cackled some more. "Prick."

"Beast."

Harry sighed. "You really think you can cut my hair?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Ask anyone! I'm quite good."

"And you acquired such a skill, how?"

"I practised on friends. I was the resident stylist in Slytherin."

"Bollocks. There's no way that's true."

"It is!"

Harry narrowed his eyes, sceptical, but then he said, "Tomorrow?"

Malfoy beamed at him. "Sure."

****

In retrospect, Harry ought to have asked for Malfoy's references.

The lift of Parkinson's eyebrows as Malfoy directed Harry to a chair in the kitchen, scissors in hand should have been his first warning. The second should have been when she pulled up a chair of her own, spread a magazine across her lap, and settled in for the show.

Usually, Harry squirmed through haircuts, but whatever Malfoy was doing felt quite nice. He let himself drift under the pressure of fingers against his scalp and the rhythmic snip of the scissors.

Harry's suspicions should have peaked when Zabini appeared and joined Parkinson at the kitchen table, ankle propped on his knee and an expression of barely restrained glee on his usually passive face.

Malfoy hummed in contemplation, tugging another strand as the dark curls dropped to the floor around them.

It wasn't until Hermione inexplicably arrived that Harry started to worry, but by then, it was already too late.

She halted beside Parkinson's chair, eyes wide, then said, "Oh, Merlin."

Behind Harry, Malfoy snorted. Parkinson bit her lip hard to keep back a laugh, and Zabini was practically vibrating.

Hermione lost it first; a high-pitched wheeze followed by an explosion of laughter barely muffled behind her hands. Zabini broke next, choking on what was probably the first laugh Harry had ever heard out of him. Hermione's increasing hysterics set Parkinson off and they clutched and batted at each other as Parkinson slid from her chair, laughing.

Harry summoned a mirror from the toilet with a wild wave of his hand, his eyes bugging out of his head when he caught sight of Malfoy's butchery.

"Bloody hell. I look like one of The Beatles," Harry said in horror.

"You don't look anything like a beetle," Parkinson said, then choked on a laugh. "Maybe a mushroom, though."

Harry whirled on Malfoy to find him purple in the face with tears in his eyes.

Harry snagged him by the front of his shirt. "I'm going to get you for this. Sleep with one eye open."

Malfoy laughed brightly in his face, fluffing Harry's ridiculous haircut with his hand.

"You don't like it?" Malfoy said between giggles. "I'm crushed."

Harry released Malfoy's collar, shoving him away. "This is fucking sabotage. You're going to buy me a real haircut. Today. Right now."

"And if I don't?"

Malfoy yelped when Harry's stinging hex caught him on the arse. "Cheeky!"

Harry huffed as they all fell apart, giggling around him. He ran a hand through the mess of his hair, causing it to stick up in all directions, inciting another round of hysterical laughter.

****

When Harry returned from the salon, he was surprised to find Malfoy on the sofa. It was nearly nine o'clock and Malfoy was usually out by now. Malfoy turned to face the door as Harry stepped through, then froze, his mouth hanging open.

Harry ruffled the new shorter curls self-consciously.

Malfoy moved fast, launching himself over the back of the sofa to stand in front of him.

"Oh, Potter. They did you right."

One of Malfoy's hands landed in Harry's hair, mussing it. Harry froze, overwhelmed by the casual touch, but he resisted the urge to pull away.

"Yeah, well, you ordered it. Thought you were speaking a different language with the stylist."

"It was the least I could do," Malfoy said with a growing smirk.

"You did that on purpose," Harry said, gesturing to his hair. "To fuck with me."

Malfoy's smirk stretched into a grin. "Not intentionally. In my very detailed daydreams, I did a brilliant job and you were ever so grateful. Alas, I may have overestimated my skill. I have only cut my own hair one time. A true act of desperation which I sorely regretted. Pansy let me cut her fringe once when we were drunk. She had to wear headbands for two months."

"I knew she looked too smug. She's on my shit list, too."

"She'll be heartbroken, I'm sure. But just look at you now, Potter! You're gorgeous."

Harry meant it as a joke when he dipped his chin and lowered his eyes, the same way Malfoy did when flirting. "You think I'm gorgeous?"

Harry expected Malfoy to react—to reel back or sputter, but instead, he leaned closer, the long fingers of his left hand framing Harry's jaw. He scanned Harry's face, tilting his chin this way and that, inspecting him. Harry watched in slow motion as Malfoy's pupils blew wide and he felt it like a kick to the stomach.

"Don't fish for compliments, Potter," Malfoy said at last, his voice an octave too low. "It's unbecoming." He drew away with a soft pat on Harry's cheek. "Let's go out."

"I just got home."

"I know. And I waited for you. Plus, we need to inflict this brilliance on the world before you fuck it up with your lack of a proper grooming routine."

"You make it sound like I'm unhygienic."

"On the contrary! We live in the same house. I know exactly how often you shower, what your shampoo smells like, your aftershave, that you don't bother with cologne."

"Creepy."

"Can you not say the same?"

Harry scowled, because yeah, of course he could. He could probably pick Malfoy's cologne out of a crowd of a hundred, but Harry could say that for anyone he lived with for an extended time, couldn't he? It was the way Malfoy phrased it, though. It sounded so… suggestive.

"Don't you want to show off? The girls will fall all over themselves for this." He tugged Harry's curls once more and Harry swatted him away weakly.

All the touching was throwing him off, making his head spin and his skin tingle in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"No, I do not. And I am not really looking for attention from girls, thanks."

"Oh come on now, Potter. Celibacy doesn't suit you." Malfoy threw Harry's leather jacket at him, even though he'd only just hung it up.

"Not committed to celibacy. I'm just saying I'm not looking for girls."

Malfoy froze, one arm in the sleeve of his coat. "Potter, I realise I occasionally jump to wild and irrational conclusions with little to no prompting, but you must know how that sounds."

Harry tugged on the jacket, armour back in place. "Yep. I do. Pub?"

Malfoy nodded, dazed, taking Harry's arm when he offered it.

Harry Apparated them to the street outside The Briar and Toad.

Malfoy clung to him when they landed. Harry tried to take a step towards the pub, only for Malfoy to tighten his grip on Harry's arm.

"What are you—"

"Right. Okay. But do you know what it sounded like?"

"Oh my god." Harry pried him off his arm with a roll of his eyes and started walking.

Malfoy scrambled after him. "Potter, are you interested in men?"

"I'm not… not interested in men."

Malfoy squawked. "You are being intentionally vague and I'm not pleased about it."

Harry chuckled at Malfoy's frowning face. "I think I can live with that."

Once inside the familiar walls of The Briar and Toad, Malfoy said to Harry, "Divide and conquer?"

Harry nodded and headed to the bar while Malfoy went to bully people away from their table. He ordered Malfoy the usual and dropped it in front of him before taking his seat.

Harry gazed into the crowd without seeing while Malfoy drummed his fingers on the table, staring blatantly at Harry.

"What." Harry sipped his whisky.

"Do you date men or is it just sex? Have you had sex with a man? Kissed a man? Who was your first?"

"A little invasive, don't you think?"

Malfoy twisted in his chair to better face Harry. "This is your fault! If you hadn't said that cryptic nonsense I wouldn't be so desperate to know the truth! Is it some kind of… transference? You've been hanging around me too much and now you're confused?"

"Bloody hell. That's massively condescending."

"Forgive me, I'm having a fucking crisis here! I'm not in my right mind!"

"You're having a crisis over my sexuality? Thought that was supposed to be my thing."

"Are you having a sexuality crisis? So it is transference?"

Harry rolled his head. "It's not fucking transference. That isn't even a thing and I think you know it. You're just saying it to be a twat."

Malfoy groaned, throwing himself back in his seat.

"It's not just about you, okay?" Harry said. "And I'm not having a crisis. I'm well aware of my own preferences. Not that it's any of your business but yes, I've had sex with a man. I hooked up with Oliver Wood a couple of times after Hogwarts. And even before that, I'm pretty sure I had a crush on Cedric Diggory in fourth-year."

"Now there's a tragic love story if I ever heard one," Malfoy said, smirking.

"Wow."

"Too soon?"

"You're such a dick."

Malfoy grinned. "I heard what you said, by the way."

"Yeah? Good. Listening's tricky, I guess."

"No," he said, eyes dancing with mirth. "You said, 'it's not just about you.' Just."

Harry's blood ran cold. "No, I didn't."

"You did."

Harry held Malfoy's amused gaze with his own harder stare, unwilling to back down. He was ready to argue, to come up with an excuse, but before he could say anything, a pair of arms snaked around Malfoy's neck from behind, tearing Malfoy's attention away.

"Astoria, darling," Malfoy said, running his hands up her slender wrists.

"You're early," she said. "You're never early."

"We were in desperate need of a drink. Potter's had quite the day."

Astoria looked up at Harry and gasped.

"He's been shorn," Malfoy said with a grin. "Brilliant, isn't it?"

"So fit, Harry!"

"So fit," Malfoy agreed.

Harry flushed so hard and so fast that he felt a little lightheaded.

****

They ended up at a party. They always ended up at a party, but this time, Harry wasn't feeling it. He drained another beer while Krum prattled on about… hell, Harry had no bloody idea what Krum was on about. He'd stopped listening as soon as Malfoy and Astoria hit the dance floor, all his attention zeroing in on the way they moved to the music.

Where did Malfoy learn to dance like that? Was he one of those people who just knew how to move? It seemed unlikely for a posh brat from Wiltshire, but Harry could admit he was mesmerising. Harry had never felt that free while dancing, always haunted by an edge of self-consciousness, and the knowledge that people were watching him do something he wasn't particularly good at.

Harry Summoned another beer and took a long pull, eyes still fixed straight ahead until Malfoy caught him staring. He kept dancing as a knowing smile slid onto his face.

He held Harry's eyes, and it was as if time stuttered and dragged into slow motion. Every detail stood in stark relief: the bounce of Malfoy's hair, the bead of sweat at the hollow of his throat, the movement of his shirt as he twisted.

Harry's hand tightened on the bottle as he stared back, blinking slowly. It wasn't subtle, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. Now that his brain had dipped a toe into that dark pool of desire, there was no crawling out. It crept up on him, evolving from a mild appreciation for objective beauty to… something else. Something that made Harry's belly burn and his chest ache with the need to… what? Touch? Claim? Fuck?

Yeah. Harry wanted to fuck him.

The song changed and Malfoy headed straight for Harry. Was Krum still talking? Harry didn't know because suddenly Malfoy was in front of him, smiling slyly.

"You're going to dance with me."

Harry snorted in surprise. "No."

"Yes." Malfoy grabbed the front of Harry's shirt and tugged him towards the dance floor.

Harry could easily break his hold, but he didn't, instead letting Malfoy lead him. It reminded Harry of that first night when Emma dragged Harry into the crowd, where Harry caught glimpses of Malfoy in the coloured lights. But this time, instead of panic, Harry only felt the heat of anticipation as Malfoy pressed two fingers against Harry's chest. His eyes flicked to Harry's as he flattened his palm.

Harry's heart kicked up a violent rhythm and Malfoy's hand smoothed to Harry's shoulder.

Malfoy smiled languidly. "Exactly how many people do you allow to touch you?"

Harry swallowed hard. "Not many."

Malfoy's smile grew teeth and he wrapped the hand around the back of Harry's neck.

"That means you absolutely have to dance with me."

"Not a dancer," Harry said as Malfoy swayed. There was plenty of space between them, despite Malfoy's hand at Harry's neck, anchoring him, preventing him from running.

"I've seen you dance."

"You said I looked like an arsehole."

"You did." Malfoy grinned, then tugged Harry a little closer. "The trick is to stop caring what everyone thinks."

"I don't care what they think."

"You say that, but your behaviour says otherwise."

Maybe it was the challenge in his voice, or maybe Harry was a little drunk, but Harry dropped his hand to Malfoy's waist, yanking him closer. Malfoy's mouth fell open, his throat bobbing, but then his smile spread. He curled around Harry, fitting himself into all the negative spaces until their bodies were flush.

Harry's nervous system lit up, blaring signs of panic until the hand at the back of his neck slipped up into his hair, tugging lightly. Harry sucked in a breath and held it.

"Do you want to know the secret?" Malfoy asked, voice low and breath tickling against Harry's ear.

Harry swallowed hard but managed a nod.

"As soon as you realise that everyone in this room is thinking more about themselves than they are about you, you're free."

Harry pulled back enough to meet his eyes, dark and glittering.

"They're all thinking about how uncomfortable their clothes are, whether they should have another drink, what their boyfriend thinks of them, what their mum thinks of them, what that random stranger across the dance floor in leather trousers thinks of them."

"Who's got leather trousers?" Harry craned his neck, half joking, but mostly needing the space.

Malfoy held him fast, not restraining him but not letting him drift away either. "They notice you, how could they not? But everyone is thinking entirely about themselves." He tilted his head to one side, appraising Harry with heavy-lidded eyes. "Well, almost everyone."

Malfoy's fingers, still buried in Harry's hair, tightened, blunt nails scraping across his scalp. Harry's eyes fluttered shut.

Maybe Malfoy was right. Even if he wasn't, even if every person in the room was staring straight at Harry, waiting for him to make a mistake, Harry wanted so badly to let go.

He released the breath held captive in his lungs in one long exhale.

Malfoy kept dancing, rocking and swaying, moving Harry with his tide. Harry dropped his head to Malfoy's shoulder, eased the nervous tension in his body, and let himself get lost in the music.

It had been so long since Harry relaxed under someone's hands. Malfoy shouldn't have been the one to take him down, but somehow, he was. Harry was too tired, too worn to fight it, so he didn't. He let himself float without thinking about what he looked like, who was watching, or what they thought. He stopped worrying about what would happen next, when the music stopped and the sun rose, when the light of another day chased away the shadows where Harry hid.

Harry just danced.

He could worry about the future when it got there.

Chapter Text

Something had changed.

At first, Harry thought it was just him. His imagination had run off with him and Harry was struggling to keep his fantasies in check. Unable to restrict them to safer subject matter, they always ended in the same place: Draco Malfoy.

Wanking constantly to lurid thoughts of his flatmate was a bad fucking idea for a variety of reasons, the primary being that Malfoy was around all the damn time. This was far worse than a crush on a friend or coworker because Harry couldn't escape him. Harry saw Malfoy first thing in the morning, hair mussed and eyes puffy. He saw him fresh out of the shower with a towel slung low on his hips and water droplets cascading down his spine. He saw him drunk on vodka, grinning like mad, as well as maudlin, cocooned in blankets on the sofa, looking wan.

It was all so personal, so real.

Harry had a tendency to idealise the people he fancied, to see only the most perfect and beautiful parts of them until the flawed human parts became impossible to ignore. With extended exposure, Harry's crushes faded and he would inevitably move on. But with Malfoy, it was the opposite. Harry found himself obsessing over the most mundane details; Malfoy's different laughs, the casual way he cuffed his shirts to his wiry forearms, how he never used spells to cool his tea, instead blowing across the surface with pursed lips. One night on the roof, Harry caught himself contemplating the moonlight glinting off Malfoy's hair and nearly threw himself over the ledge, Mrs Easton's azaleas be damned.

Harry soon realised he wasn't the only person in the flat acting differently.

Parkinson seemed odd. She remained wary of Harry, but her chilliness had thawed somewhat. She laughed at Harry's joke over supper one evening and looked so startled she excused herself from the table.

To Harry's great surprise, Hermione began coming round the flat more, either visiting Harry or following him home after lunch or a training session, at which point Parkinson really started acting strange. She giggled and smiled, donning low-cut blouses around the flat instead of her usual baggy jumper.

Harry would occasionally catch Hermione hanging around when Harry didn't expect her, listening to talk shows on the wireless with Parkinson, or reading on the sofa (Hermione, an actual book, Parkinson, a fashion magazine). Once, Harry even found Hermione in the kitchen at two in the morning sharing Parkinson's eyes-closed can of beans.

Zabini was also around more, claiming a slow week at work, but Harry caught him pilfering leftovers from the fridge on three occasions and he decided Zabini liked his cooking, though he'd never admit it. Zabini even took to leaving recipes around the kitchen, chastising himself noisily whenever Harry stumbled upon them.

"Oh, silly me. I didn't mean to leave that recipe for roast rack of lamb, just like the one I tried at Le Train Bleu in Paris. Unless… did you want it, Potter? Might be time to expand your decidedly British horizons."

Harry planned to make the lamb on Tuesday.

Malfoy's shift in behaviour was the strangest by far.

Something changed after that night they danced together. That shared moment was painfully brief, if a bit hazy and rose-tinted, because soon after, Emma got sick in the toilets and they had to carry her out. Malfoy and Astoria saw her home while Harry returned to the flat alone. He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling with headphones on but CD player silent until he heard the front door open and shut, followed by Malfoy's footsteps in the foyer.

Malfoy never came up to his room, likely remaining on the sofa, but Harry found it comforting to know he was in the house and hadn't brought company.

Malfoy came home alone from the club the next night. And again the following night after a show.

Wednesday night, they didn't go out at all. Malfoy sat in the kitchen in his usual skivvies and watched Harry cook dinner. Parkinson helped by offering to cut a single cucumber, for which she was heavily praised by both Hermione and Malfoy.

Malfoy acted friendlier than ever towards Harry. He sat too close on the sofa, smiled often, and stole food from Harry's plate while making smug faces at Parkinson.

That was odd too, because soon, Harry noticed a strain developing between Malfoy and Parkinson. Normally thick as thieves, Harry caught them hissing arguments in the kitchen or living room on multiple occasions. Harry made plenty of noise when entering so they wouldn't accuse him of creeping or eavesdropping, even though Harry desperately wanted to listen.

What were they talking about? Why was Parkinson calling Malfoy an idiot with more venom than usual? Why did she look at him sadly when he smiled? It seemed unkind and was starting to annoy Harry a little. He expected Malfoy's so-called best friend to be thrilled to see him in such good spirits. Malfoy was moving on after Alex without using sex as a crutch every damn night. It should be good. It was good. At least Harry thought it was.

Things were different. Harry's life was different and that strange feeling of wrongness he used to get was all but gone. Now this was real, and everything else—the Aurors, Grimmauld Place, Ginny—felt like the dream.

Hazy and far away as that life sometimes seemed, Harry could never truly escape it. The hearing with the DMLE board loomed, though the date remained unset. Harry dreaded it and the nightmares where he woke with his own hands around his throat were coming more and more frequently, but he kept up his training with Hermione. It helped to centre him. Plus, it gave him an opportunity to redirect some of his endless supply of sexual frustration towards dummies spelled to attack him.

After Harry blasted the nearest dummy to bits, its stuffing and fabric flying everywhere, Hermione cut the exercise short.

"Maybe next time we try to keep the target intact? I don't think the DMLE will be pleased if you tear your opponent limb from limb."

"Even if I use my wand?" Harry said with a teasing waggle of his eyebrows.

"Even then," she replied flatly.

Harry still preferred to cast without the wand, but using it was getting easier, more intuitive. He could once again channel his magic like he used to without feeling as though he was holding back the river from behind a crumbling dam. It still tempered the strength and range of his spells, and occasionally, Harry had to loosen his grip and let go for the release alone because release was something he needed more than ever these days.

Hermione, politely, didn't comment. She did, however, comment on other things.

"Has Robards set the date for your hearing?"

"Not yet," Harry said, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the bottom of his shirt.

"God, he's such an arsehole. He's still making you sweat it out and isn't even pretending to do otherwise. I have it on good authority that Shacklebolt wanted you back in uniform months ago."

Harry was only half-listening. "Hermione, what if—what if I fail?"

She turned to him sharply. "Fail?"

"The exam. And the hearing."

"You won't fail," she said, firm.

"But if I do? You know Robards likes to goad me. What if I lose control and fuck it up?"

"Harry, you've always had the control. You just needed to learn how to maintain it."

"Have I learnt that?"

"Of course," Hermione said without hesitation.

"Hermione, I blew up the dummy."

"Well, yes."

Harry sighed. "That could have been a person."

"No. It couldn't." Hermione shook her head. "It was an inanimate object, something you were well aware of when you blasted it to pieces."

"Hermione," Harry groaned.

"Harry, stop. I know where you're going with this. I know you've been torturing yourself all over again about what happened on the Paulson mission. It wasn't your fault that little boy died."

"It was my fault that Paulson died."

She heaved a heavy exhale. "While I adore your ability to take responsibility for your actions, don't you think you've suffered enough?"

Harry bit his tongue around his automatic answer of not even close, but it didn't matter. Hermione read his flinch for exactly what it was.

"Oh, Harry," she said.

Harry hated to hear the pity in her voice.

"I'm dangerous," he said.

"No, you aren't."

"I killed someone."

Hermione darted forward and grabbed Harry by the arms. "You also saved someone. A lot of someones."

Harry sighed and waved her away, but she refused to let him shake her off. She turned him and forced him to look her in the eyes.

"The fact that you're beating yourself up over this is proof that power has never corrupted you. Do you know how impossible that is? To be who you are, to have lived through what you've lived through, and then to be handed the power you possess?"

Harry smirked. "Villain origin story?"

"A bit, yeah! But not you, Harry. Never you. Robards is a shit. He's jealous of your relationship with the Minister, and because you have the love of the public in a way he never will. I think we both know that if he had your gifts, he wouldn't use them like you do. That's why the DMLE needs you. It's not because you need them."

"Don't I?" Harry argued. "Look at me, Hermione. What have I done with my life since Robards sacked me?"

"I am looking at you, Harry. I'm watching you have fun for the first time in years. I'm watching you try new things and live your life for you instead of everybody else."

Harry arched a brow. "By getting drunk and going dancing with Malfoy every night?"

"Yes! I'll admit, I don't always love it. And I’ll never understand it. But if anyone has earned the right to make a few harmless mistakes, it's you."

"Which is the mistake, Malfoy or the dancing?"

"Definitely the dancing. Malfoy has been… strangely good for you."

Harry gaped at her. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard you."

Hermione threw up her hands. "I know! I can hardly believe it myself."

"I thought you'd say he's a bad influence."

"Oh, he is. But you need a bad influence now and then. He lets you be yourself and he's stopped you thinking about Ginny all the time, or what they're saying about you in the papers."

"Have I stopped?" Harry asked.

Hermione tilted her head and shrugged. "I don't know, Harry. You tell me."

It was true, wasn't it? When Harry thought about Ginny, it no longer caused that sharp lance of pain that threatened to bring him to his knees. Now, it ached like an old bruise, nostalgia for a place, time, and version of himself that he might never get back.

Harry wasn't sure he even wanted it back.

"Just promise me you'll be careful," Hermione said.

"Trying to be. Honestly, I am."

"I believe you." Her shoulders drooped and she smiled at him, soft and fond. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah," Harry said, grinning at her. "Yeah, I do. I love you, too."

She bumped her shoulder against his, then left it there. She leaned into him, letting him take her weight.

Harry dropped an arm over her shoulder. "So. What's with you and Parkinson?"

Hermione shoved him hard, and Harry went sprawling onto the floor, laughing.

****

Another night, another party.

This one was at the home of a Quidditch star by the name of Bancroft—not that it mattered. Malfoy fluffed Harry unnecessarily at the door before they left, fussing with the collar of his leather jacket and the fall of his hair until Harry smacked him away with a growl. He couldn't think properly with Malfoy touching him. Except now, instead of the simmering panic, it caused a flash of heat that went straight to his dick—an even more unfortunate and inconvenient turn of events.

They met up with Astoria, Emma, Krum, and Jack at The Briar and Toad long enough to suck down a couple rounds of shots. To Harry's great displeasure, Malfoy bumped into some bloke he knew, or fucked, or wanted to fuck, and invited him to tag along. He told Harry his name, but Harry didn't bother to listen and let it slip in one ear and out the other the moment it was uttered. After a few days' reprieve from Malfoy's boy toys, this new addition to their group had Harry on edge, grinding his teeth as he followed them out of the pub and into the street.

The route to the party included a stop at a corner store for cigarettes and beer; a humble offering to the party's host, according to Jack. While he and Krum went inside to get the supplies, the rest of them waited outside in an empty car park.

Harry dropped his arse onto the kerb. Malfoy plastered himself to Harry's side but went on flirting shamelessly with what's-his-name while Harry did his best to ignore them.

Emma stood in front of him, her head tipped back as she stared into the night sky. She had the red, glassy eyes of a severely high person, and was swaying slightly.

"Do you believe in aliens?" she asked.

Malfoy trailed off, mid-innuendo. "Excuse me, what?"

"It's so big out there," she said, rocking backwards dangerously. "Don't you think there's something… else?"

"Exactly how many tabs did you take, Em?" Astoria said, squinting at Emma.

She blinked skyward. "Have you seen the Muggle films about aliens? Little green men flying in tea kettles."

"Saucers," Malfoy's bloke corrected, but Emma shook her head.

"No. Definitely metal. With peepholes. Muggles think they're abducting them for testing. Probing their arses for answers. Why would aliens think Muggles have the answers in their arses?"

Malfoy snorted. "Jack will be so disappointed he's missing this conversation."

Astoria shifted next to Emma, worrying her nail between her teeth. "They've been in there too long."

"It's not like it's their first time or anything," Harry said.

"Pretty sure it is," Malfoy replied.

Harry twisted towards him. "What?"

"I'm not even sure they have any Muggle money," he said, giggling into the nameless bloke's shoulder.

"What?!" Anger flared in Harry's belly—at Malfoy for letting Krum and Jack wander into a Muggle shop with no money, at Emma for being fucking annoying and unable to hold her liquor and drugs, and at this random fucking bloke because who the hell even was he? Why was he here? And why was he acting so bloody familiar?

"What do you mean? Where do you lot get your endless supply of cigarettes if you aren't going to the shops?" Harry asked.

Emma shrugged, eyes still cast upwards. "They sell Lambert & Butler at in the Apothecary in Diagon Alley."

"Potter and I quit. You all should quit," Malfoy said, pressing harder into Harry's side, though his hand was still on the bloke's thigh. Harry glared at him.

"You didn't quit," Astoria said. "I saw you smoking on the patio at the club on Saturday."

"Well, that's Potter's fault. He was meant to be looking after me," Malfoy replied.

Harry snorted. "Looking after you? You want me to trail you around like a Crup?"

"You already do. And you love a little vigilance, don't you, Potter?" Malfoy ruffled Harry's hair.

Now he was furious. "Do that again and I'll hex you."

Everyone's attention snapped to Harry.

"Is that a threat?" Malfoy asked.

"It's a promise."

The nameless bloke whistled low and Harry had to grit his teeth to keep from sending a hex at him instead.

"What the fuck crawled up your arse and died?" Malfoy bit back.

"I'm not the one preoccupied with what's up my arse!"

"No? Maybe you ought to be. Give it a try, Potter. It's brilliant, Mr I-can-fuck-without-love-just-fine."

Harry crossed his arms. "Why do you even care?"

"Because your sour mood will not ruin my night again."

"Maybe my mood is sour because of you!"

Malfoy threw up his hands. "Oh for fuck's sake, Potter. What now? Have I not been good? Do you have a new list of complaints? Or perhaps you would prefer to just glower at me all fucking night like usual."

"I really think someone should go check on them," Astoria said, nervously. "It's been way too long. They should be back by now."

"I'm sure it's fine," Malfoy snapped at her, his glare still fixed on Harry.

It wasn't fine.

Before Harry could come up with a properly biting comeback, the door to the shop flew open and Jack and Krum burst through it, a twelve-pack under each arm. On their tails were two off-duty Muggle police officers.

"Fuck." Malfoy said.

"Again?" Astoria wailed.

"Run!" Jack shouted.

Harry, already standing, hauled Malfoy to his feet and took off. Thank Merlin he wore the trainers because everyone else was fucked.

To Harry's surprise, Astoria and Emma outpaced Malfoy and his bloke even in stilettos. The girls disappeared around the corner, and Harry heard the echoing crack of Apparition. He hoped Astoria did the casting because, with Emma in charge, they might end up in Belgium. Or on the moon.

The coppers were closing in and Krum and Jack could barely outrun them, overburdened with beer. Harry took a different tactic, and while the coppers made a mad, albeit unsuccessful grab for Jack, Harry peeled off, ducking into an alleyway. He pressed himself flat against the wall, the Notice-Me-Not charm slipping free to hover around Harry in a protective cloud.

Malfoy's bloke passed the alley entrance, flailing, followed by Malfoy, who was shouting at him to hurry the fuck up. With a curse, Harry darted out and snagged Malfoy by his coat collar, dragging him into the shadows of the alley as his charms swallowed them both. Malfoy opened his mouth, ready to shout for the other guy, but before he could make a sound, Harry slammed him against the side of the building, slapping a hand over his mouth.

Malfoy's eyes went heavy-lidded and Harry felt his lips curling against his palm.

He grabbed Harry by the wrist and tugged his hand away.

"I think they caught Ethan," he said.

"Who?"

Malfoy looked at him flatly. "Seriously?"

Harry shook his head and grumbled. "He'll be fine. He didn't do anything. We probably didn't even have to run."

"That bloke has met like… three Muggles in his entire life. He’s going to royally fuck up any interaction with Muggle coppers."

Harry shrugged. "Then it sounds like he's fucked. Bet the Ministry will get involved."

Malfoy snorted. "Some hero you are," he said. "But then again, you saved me."

"More like I sacrificed him," Harry said, finally dragging his gaze from the opening of the alleyway to Malfoy, who smirked back.

"Why?"

Harry tightened the grip he still held on Malfoy's coat. "Because if I have to listen to you and that bloke fuck tonight, I'm going to bloody lose it."

"I've got a high sex drive, Potter. What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. Inflict it on someone who knows how to cast a proper Silencing Charm and make a decent pot of coffee after they finish the last cup."

"But you do both those things better than anyone." His smile was too benign for the light behind his eyes. "Unless you're offering."

Ice flooded Harry's veins and released his grip. He took an abrupt step back, putting some much-needed space between them. "I'm not."

Malfoy's smile grew toothy and wide. "But you thought about it for a second, didn't you."

Harry scowled. He thought about it a hell of a lot more than that. Harry thought about fucking Malfoy every night this week. And most of the days, too.

But they couldn't. Fucking his flatmate—fucking Malfoy? It was a fine enough fantasy, but the two of them actually together was unfathomable. A disaster. A fire that would burn so hot and fast, it would take everything down with it. Best not to light the match, he reckoned.

But what about Malfoy? Did that mean he wanted it too?

"Well?" Malfoy prompted.

"Let's go." Harry didn't wait for a response before walking in the opposite direction, launching himself over a low fence towards the street without checking to see if Malfoy was following.

****

Harry wasn't having any fun. He hated these sorts of parties, where there was nothing to do but drink or chat, and judging by the under-stocked bar, the chatting was heavily emphasised.

By some miracle, everyone save for Ethan made it to the party in one piece. But even without Ethan there, Malfoy was back on his bullshit, making a scene and fawning over anyone who showed him a shred of attention. It made Harry's stomach roil and his face burn.

Harry knew what this was, the sick pit in his belly and the obsessive churning thoughts.

Jealousy.

Identifying the emotion didn't mean he had to acknowledge it. It didn't mean he had to tear it open and look inside, to decipher what it meant for him to want to rip every single person away from Malfoy the moment they got too close. Instead, Harry clung to his righteous anger and decided to ignore him for the rest of the night.

And yet, no matter how hard he tried, Harry's eyes cut to him again and again, each time narrowing into a glare when he saw him pressed against a stranger, tossing around that dipped-chin-lowered-lashes look he used to pull. Malfoy caught him at it, too, smirking back at Harry like he knew some great bloody secret.

It was maddening. Infuriating. Harry felt ready to smash through a wall, explode a beer bottle, do something reckless, but even he was self-aware enough to know that a reckless Harry Potter was a dangerous one. Merlin, he could practically hear Ron in his ear, going on about rash decisions.

Harry needed a minute to screw his head on straight.

His beer was still half-full, but Harry went to fetch another drink. Hell, maybe he'd upgrade to whisky and properly fuck himself over.

Harry's eyes were so fixed on his feet and his mind a swirling mess that he forgot to watch where he was going and smacked into another person.

He grumbled his apology as steadying hands gripped his shoulders gently.

"Harry?"

Harry blinked up into honey-coloured eyes and faltered. "Oliver?"

Oliver Wood laughed, a lilting musical sound, and suddenly Harry was being hugged.

"Fucking hell, Harry. It's good to see you."

Oliver released him, grinning easily, and Harry's shoulders dropped. He smiled back.

"You too. What are you doing here?"

"My team is in town for a match against the Lions, and Bancroft is an old mate from when I played for Montrose. I'd ask what you're doing here, but I've seen your face all over the filthiest rags lately. It seems Harry Potter is the honoured guest at every party. The wilder the better." He winked at Harry.

"Don't believe a word they say," Harry said.

"I never do." Oliver's friendly grin faltered, his eyebrows tipping inward. "Hey. Sorry about Ginny."

Harry shrugged. "It's alright."

"Is it?"

"Getting there."

Oliver nodded. "I broke up with Patrick."

"Oh?"

If Harry remembered correctly, Oliver started dating an engineer for the Nimbus Broom Company a few years back. He seemed like a nice bloke. Harry met him at George's Christmas party, where they shared a Firewhisky and chatted about Quidditch.

"Yeah. So, if you ever need someone to talk to…" Oliver’s lips twitched.

Harry gave Oliver a quick once over, something inside him going warm and liquid. Oliver grew up fit. He was wiry and strong, not unlike Harry, but with deep dimples and warm eyes.

"I'll be honest," Harry said. "I'm a little tired of talking."

Oliver laughed, light and good-natured. "You were never one for talking, Harry."

Harry grinned back at him. He didn't run into Oliver often, but every time he did, it always felt like the exact right moment. Maybe Oliver was what Harry needed: great sex, no strings, and no fear that he would find a play-by-play of his dirty talk in the Sunday gossip column.

"You look good, Harry."

"You too," Harry said truthfully. Oliver looked really good.

Oliver bit his lip. "Can I get you a drink?"

Harry glanced at his beer, still half full. He smirked at Oliver and drained it in one long pull. Oliver's eyes locked onto his throat as he swallowed, darkening when Harry caught an errant drip with his tongue.

"Yeah. I'd love a drink," Harry said.

Oliver grinned crookedly back at him. He brushed a hand against Harry's and took a step back. "Beer or whisky?"

"You remember what I drink?" Harry asked, surprised.

Oliver's eyes darkened. "I remember a lot more than that."

A stitch of arousal tugged behind Harry's navel, his heart rate picking up the pace. "Beer is good."

"A wise choice. You know what whisky can do." Oliver's eyebrow twitched and he turned, heading towards the bar.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, hot under the collar.

He could have this. It had been ages since he and Oliver found themselves single at the same time and things with Oliver were easy. He was good in bed, attentive, knew when to ask for more, and when to back off. Best of all, he asked for nothing more than a night spent together, a cup of coffee in the morning, and a kiss paired with a "see you around." It was everything Harry needed to get Malfoy out of his head.

Ginny! He meant Ginny.

Maybe both?

Fuck.

Both.

As if summoned by Harry's thoughts, Malfoy appeared at his side.

"This party is dismal."

"I don't know," Harry said, eyes locked on where Oliver disappeared into the crowd. "I feel like it's looking up."

Malfoy's face pinched in disbelief. "Why? Did you find where they're stashing the proper liquor? Because from what I can see, all they've got is beer and swill."

"Don't be a snob."

"Don't be a dickhead."

Harry turned to scowl at him, but Malfoy was smirking back, amused.

"Want to get out of here?" he asked. "I've got a good bottle of Ogden's hiding under my bed."

Harry's mouth dropped open in feigned surprise. "You've been holding out on me?"

"It's for emergencies. And this is an emergency."

Harry chuckled and shook his head. "You go on. I'm staying."

Malfoy's face fell. "What? Why?"

Oliver reappeared holding two beer bottles. His brow creased when he caught sight of Malfoy, but his step didn't falter. He pulled up next to Harry and handed him a beer.

"Malfoy." Oliver nodded.

"Wood," Malfoy said with no trace of kindness. He crossed his arms over his chest.

They stood there for a few strained moments while Harry sipped his beer. Eventually, Malfoy scoffed and stormed off, muttering something about Gryffindor stereotypes and needing another drink.

Oliver leaned into Harry, nudging him with an elbow. "What's with you and Malfoy?"

Harry shrugged. "Nothing. We hang out sometimes."

"So he won't be mad if I do this?" Wood flattened a hand against Harry's chest and leaned in. They were of a height, chests bumping as Oliver brushed his nose against Harry's jaw.

A shout followed by shattering glass echoed somewhere behind Harry, but he didn't see it, his eyes already fluttering closed.

Oliver withdrew slightly, and Harry hooked a finger into his belt loop to keep him from going too far. Oliver smiled.

"Don't look at me like that, Harry. I'd lick that grin off your face in front of everyone if I didn't think Malfoy would hex me."

Harry frowned and glanced behind him to find Malfoy ranting wildly to a bored-looking Astoria, gesturing towards Harry. She grinned when she caught him watching and pointed. Malfoy whirled, shot Harry the nastiest look he'd ever seen, then stormed off, but not before stealing a pack of cigarettes from Jack's back pocket, leaving him shouting and gripping his own arse.

What the hell was his problem? Wasn't he just telling Harry to end his self-imposed celibacy? He thought Malfoy might be pleased that he was keen to take a page out of his very smutty book.

"Sorry, don't know what going on with him."

Oliver lifted a brow. "Really?"

Harry shrugged, shaking his head. "He can be a little dramatic, I guess."

Oliver groaned, head thrown back and hand fisted in Harry's shirt. "Gods, Harry, you haven't changed a bit. It kills me."

"What have I done now?" Harry asked, confused.

"Definitely not my place to say, and even if it was, I wouldn't want to. I'm not that selfless."

Harry shook his head, lost.

Oliver wet his lips, smiling at Harry, considering. He pulled a pen from his pocket and took Harry's hand. "This is my hotel. And my room number." Harry's fingers twitched at the tickle of the pen across his palm. "I have to make sure my team doesn't drink too much and goes back to the hotel on time, so I won't be back there until late, but come by. If you want. No pressure."

Oliver blew lightly on Harry's palm to dry the ink, then brushed the fingers of his free hand against Harry's jaw. "See you, Harry."

He stepped away.

"Yeah," Harry said, dazed, his hand still hovering in the air as Oliver slipped into the crowd.

Harry turned towards the hallway where Malfoy disappeared, and frowned.

He shouldn't go after him. He didn't actually care if Malfoy smoked and only enforced the ban because Malfoy asked him to. Harry wished he could say he also didn't care why Malfoy was angry enough to rant and break glasses, or why Oliver thought Malfoy would hex him, but he did. Harry wanted an explanation.

Harry glanced back across the crowded room after Oliver. Then with a sigh, he jogged in the opposite direction, down the hallway after Malfoy.

The hallway ended in a single door, and since there were no windows for Malfoy to escape through, Harry knocked. He got no answer and knocked again, louder this time, rapping constantly until the door swung open on Malfoy's sneering face.

"Give me a fucking sec—" Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Potter."

Harry peered back down the hallway, and when he saw no one watching, he pushed his way past Malfoy into what turned out to be the toilet, shutting the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" Malfoy asked.

Harry crossed the room to the sink where a cigarette burned, smoke curling from the tip. Harry Vanished it.

"Hey!"

"Your rules, not mine," Harry said, crossing his arms.

"Oh fuck off, Potter. Go torture someone else."

"Since when is being around me torture?"

"Honestly? Since pretty much forever."

"What? Why?"

Harry was used to Malfoy's sharp tongue, unbothered by his cutting remarks, but he thought they were getting along. Maybe he wasn't doing the best job hiding his attraction, but he behaved and kept his hands to himself. That was more than Malfoy could say and he wasn’t even in Harry’s predicament.

"Because you're impossible," he said. "Look at you."

Harry glanced down dumbly because he didn't know what else to do.

Malfoy snorted without humour. "What are you even doing here? Why aren't you off staring dopily at Oliver Wood?"

"He had to leave."

"What a pity," Malfoy said, voice flat.

"What's your problem with Oliver?"

Malfoy's lips pressed into a thin line, colour blooming on his cheeks. "You fucked him. That's what you said when I asked if you were interested in men. Besides an old crush on a dead schoolmate, you said you fucked Oliver Wood after you got out of school."

"Yeah," Harry said slowly, willing it all to make sense.

Malfoy growled. "Shall I be expecting him round the flat tonight, then?"

"He invited me back to his hotel." Harry lifted his hand to show Malfoy his palm.

Malfoy grabbed his wrist a touch too hard, yanking it close to his face though he barely glanced at the writing.

"Are you going?"

"I haven't decided," Harry replied truthfully.

Malfoy's eyes bored into his. "Don't."

Harry blinked at him, surprised, tugging his hand from Malfoy's grasp. "Seems pretty hypocritical for you to have an opinion on that."

"Oh, it is. Completely."

Now Harry was really confused. "Weren't you telling me that celibacy didn't suit me?"

"It doesn't. But that was before."

"Before what?"

"Before I knew you liked cock."

Harry's mouth dropped open because Malfoy had some nerve. "What fucking difference does it make to you?"

"My gods, the answer to that should be painfully obvious, but let me make it abundantly clear." Malfoy's fingers tightened on Harry's wrist, and before Harry could think or react, Malfoy pressed Harry's hand against the front of his trousers, his cock a hard outline beneath Harry's palm.

Explosions lit behind Harry's eyes, bright red flags waving in every corner of his brain because this was more than a bad idea. This was dangerous.

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly too tight and too dry. "So you think because I like dick, I want yours?"

Malfoy bit his lip when Harry's fingers twitched, and Harry felt him throb through the fabric.

"No," Malfoy breathed. "Never in my wildest dreams. But you aren't exactly subtle. I see you watching me. I felt you that night when we danced. You want me."

Harry tightened his grip on the bulge in Malfoy's trousers, and Malfoy's next inhale hitched. Harry studied him with hard eyes, looking for the joke, the lie, a reason why Malfoy would be so cruel as to tease him, but Harry found none.

"I want you too," Malfoy said, his voice a rasp. "Fuck, do I want you."

Harry's last thread of restraint snapped and he crashed into Malfoy, taking his mouth in a rough kiss.

Malfoy gasped beneath him, his lips parting around a sharp breath, and Harry plunged in. He slotted their mouths together licking past Malfoy's teeth as he pressed their bodies flush, needing as much contact as possible because for once, Harry felt something other than a flood of panic at another person's touch.

His hand abandoned Malfoy's cock—the angle all wrong—and instead locked an arm around his waist. He wrapped his free hand around the back of Malfoy's neck, fingers tangled in the hair at his nape to keep him from pulling away long enough to breathe, or speak, or gods forbid stop.

Harry was done thinking. He didn't want to worry about the consequences for once and refused to consider all the ways in which he just made this strange, impossible friendship with Malfoy a thousand times more complicated, because this felt good. It felt right, and Harry was ready to lose himself to a sensation other than panic, fear, or blistering rage.

Malfoy released a soft sound as Harry licked into his mouth and threw his arms around Harry's neck. His fingers pushed into Harry's hair as he wilted back against the counter, knees buckling. Harry followed, slotting himself between Malfoy's spread legs as they kissed frantically.

And oh fuck, that was even better, because now Harry could push between Malfoy's thighs. He dropped both hands to Malfoy's arse helping him hop clumsily onto the counter.

Malfoy moaned, low and gravelly, his mouth still attached to Harry's as Harry drove his hips forward, grinding their cocks together through the unforgiving fabric of their jeans.

Kissing Malfoy was surprising and addicting—unpredictable in a way Harry had never experienced. He went from deep, probing strokes of his tongue, fucking Harry's mouth with his kiss, only to withdraw, easing away to nip and lick, as Harry chased after him, drawn as if magnetised.

Malfoy gasped away, sucking in desperate breaths as Harry dropped his mouth to Malfoy's long, pale neck—the star of a fair few of Harry's most embarrassing fantasies.

"Fuck," Malfoy breathed, clutching at Harry's shoulders, body arching.

Harry used his grip on Malfoy's arse to encourage each shaky roll of his hips. Long legs wrapped around Harry's middle, locking them together as they rocked, the heat of desperation burning through the layers of clothing.

Soon, Malfoy's hands grew frantic, first tugging Harry's hair, then his collar, before dropping to his fly and tearing it open to get a hand inside his pants.

A groan shuddered out of Harry as long fingers wrapped around his aching cock. Malfoy practically whimpered in response and firmed his grip, adjusting the angle of his wrist. He gave Harry an experimental tug, and Harry sighed. Fuck, it had been too long. He didn't realise how much he needed this—craved it—until now, with Malfoy's large, graceful hand stroking him, slow and steady. His fist moved with the perfect pressure, drawing small, desperate sounds from deep in Harry's chest. Sounds he would find embarrassing if he weren't so lost to the sensation.

Harry was drunk and though it had nothing to do with the alcohol, the symptoms were the same—head swimming, vision blurry, hungry for skin against his own.

Harry wanted more.

His hands dropped to Malfoy's fly and tore it open, leaving the button hanging by a thread as he yanked down the zipper. Harry's eyes flicked up to Malfoy's, burning, because of course he wasn't wearing pants, a suspicion that had haunted Harry's thoughts for weeks. With a tug on the belt loops, Harry got Malfoy's jeans below his cock, but they were so damned tight they caught below his arse, squeezing his thighs together.

That absolutely would not do. Harry had too many daydreams about getting those long legs around him to be thwarted by some bloody too-tight trousers.

Harry growled, tearing away from Malfoy's addicting mouth to strip his jeans to his knees with one sharp yank. Then he ducked beneath Malfoy's thigh to insinuate himself into the vee of his legs, the jeans trapping his ankles behind Harry's back.

"Fucking hell," Malfoy hissed, wide-eyed. And then he was back on Harry, hand on his cock and tongue in his mouth, clinging to him with heady desperation.

But Harry had other ideas. He tugged Malfoy's hand from his dick and rolled his hips, their cocks pressed together, trapped between their bodies. With a nip to kiss-swollen lips, Harry wrapped a hand around both of them and squeezed.

"Oh, god, yes. You're brilliant," Malfoy mumbled against Harry's mouth, his longer hand wrapping around Harry's, tightening their grip.

The sound Malfoy made at that first drag of their fists was fucking pornographic. One would think he hadn't been touched in ages, that he was gagging for it all day. He couldn't stay still, kissing Harry as he fucked into their combined fists. His free hand rucked up Harry's shirt, grabbed his arse, pulled his hair, all the while writhing like a wild thing. It was unbelievably hot, and even though the thrust of their hips was too hard and their palms too dry, Harry was already aching, his stomach clenched tight as sparks burst at the base of his spine.

"I'm so fucking close, god, you're perfect, just like that," Malfoy murmured, thready whimpers spilling from his lips as his hips twitched in an unsteady rhythm.

Harry watched, mesmerised, as a rosy flush crawled up Malfoy's chest, visible between the open plackets of his shirt. It bloomed across his throat before it reached his face, staining his cheeks a feverish red. It was fucking gorgeous to watch his orgasm coalesce, his body a constantly rolling wave, moving against Harry, their cocks now slick with precome and sweat.

A pounding knock rattled the door on its hinges.

Malfoy's eyes flew open as he gasped, his free hand shooting up to clutch Harry's collar, preventing him from drawing away.

Harry stilled, twisting towards the door as the person on the other side resumed their banging, now accompanied by muffled shouting.

Malfoy grabbed Harry by the chin and forced him to look at him. "Don't you dare stop," he snarled.

Harry fought a smirk and dragged his hand back up their cocks, squeezing gently at the tip the way he liked.

Malfoy moaned, muscles twitching, as Harry dipped forward, nose pressed against the space behind Malfoy's ear.

"Wasn't planning on it," he said, nipping his earlobe just to hear him keen.

The pounding on the door grew louder, the shouting angrier, and it was bloody distracting because Harry was close too, the heat in his belly building, aching. And god, everything Malfoy did, every sound, every blissful moan was shoving him closer to the edge, as every bang against the wood tugged him back into reality.

Fed up, Harry slammed a fist against the countertop. Beyond the door, there was a shout followed by a thump as Harry's ward smashed down in front of the door.

Malfoy stilled.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Malfoy hissed. And then Harry was being kissed recklessly, teeth clacking, and lips bitten almost bloody. "So fucking hot," Malfoy muttered between violent kisses. "So fucking hot, I can't—oh, god, Harry."

He groaned—a throaty, rumbling sound that Harry had only heard through the bedroom wall—and he was coming all over Harry's fist, pulse after pulse of liquid heat coating their hands, his dick, and smearing across the fronts of their shirts.

His entire body trembled as he arched, and fuck, it was so sexy. Harry's stomach cramped, his belly aching in pleasurable sympathy. With a flash of white and a burst of overwhelming sensation, Harry tumbled over the edge after him.

They kissed clumsily as they came down, Malfoy still clinging to any part of Harry he could reach.

"Holy shit," Malfoy mumbled against Harry's mouth. "That was fucking fantastic. I'm a mess."

Harry glanced down between them and couldn't help but laugh because so was he. Their shirts were lost causes, and there was come smeared across the front of Harry's jeans.

Harry eased himself out from between Malfoy's legs, throwing out a hand to steady him as he hopped from the counter and struggled to get those tight jeans over his arse.

"What happened to—" Malfoy gestured towards the door.

"He's fine. He just can't get in until I let him," Harry said with a wince. In retrospect, he might have been a little overzealous with the intensity of his wards, but he could hardly be blamed given the circumstances.

Malfoy exhaled, lids drooping before he shook his head and buttoned his fly.

"I can't go out there like this," Malfoy said. "And my cleaning charms are shit."

"Mine are no better," Harry said with a shrug.

At the same moment, two sets of eyes cut to the window. Malfoy grinned at him and Harry grinned back. The window swung open.

"After you."

As soon as they had feet on the ground outside, Harry snagged Malfoy by the wrist and Apparated them back to the flat. He dropped them on the front steps and they tumbled through the door, grinning like lunatics.

Anticipation welled in Harry's chest because he had no idea what came next. Would Malfoy follow him back to his room where Harry could spend the rest of the night taking him apart a dozen different ways? Would he let Harry kiss him goodnight? Or was this one of those 'everyone got off and that was the end of it' things—a momentary lapse in judgement they would laugh about down the road?

Harry knew he wanted more, that a mutual wank in the toilets wouldn't sate him, not now that he saw what Malfoy looked like when he came. By the way Malfoy smiled back at him, he wondered if maybe Malfoy wanted more too.

"You two look like you just robbed Gringotts."

Malfoy jumped and they spun to find Zabini sitting on the sofa watching them, his ankle crossed over his knee and a book in his lap.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Malfoy snapped.

"It means you look suspicious."

"No more suspicious than you sitting here alone in the dark like a jilted wife awaiting her bastard husband to return from another late night at the office."

Zabini rolled his eyes. "You realise that makes you the bastard husband, right?"

"Oh fuck off," Malfoy said. He tossed his coat at the hook and stalked off towards the kitchen.

Zabini lifted an eyebrow at Harry, but Harry just shrugged back. He dropped his leather jacket onto the hook next to Malfoy's coat and trailed after him into the kitchen.

Malfoy stood at the sink with his back to Harry, shoulders tense. Harry stepped up behind him as Malfoy Summoned a glass with a flick of his wand, filling it with water as it landed in his hand. He downed the glass in three gulps, then turned, choking when he found Harry hovering close. Harry dropped a hand onto the counter behind Malfoy's hip, crowding against him.

Malfoy cursed softly and ducked around Harry to glance at the doorway to the living room. He shoved Harry away with a gentle hand.

"None of that here," he said.

When Harry made no move to back away, Malfoy groaned in frustration.

"Potter, if you want to burn off some tension, consider me a willing participant. More than willing, fuck." His eyes swept over Harry, a hungry once-over that had Harry's face burning and pleasure curling in his belly. "But not here. Never at home."

"Why? You have to admit, it's pretty convenient."

"Pansy and Blaise—"

Shuffling in the living room had Malfoy's eyes darting towards the door, and he pushed Harry a little further out of Zabini’s eyeline.

"They wouldn't approve," he finished.

"Because we live together?" Harry guessed.

Malfoy blinked rapidly then licked his lips, eyes cutting away from Harry's and then returning. "Yes. That's… part of it. Listen, I'm saying yes to all of this." He waved a hand at Harry. "Anywhere and everywhere. But not at home. Here, nothing changes. It's how it has to be."

That sounded like a bloody awful idea, and near impossible. Harry wasn't sure he even possessed that kind of restraint but when Harry didn't respond right away, Malfoy's expression faltered.

"That is if you even want to do this again, of course,” he said, uncharacteristically unsure.

The easy answer was yes. Harry wanted to do it again and again, every which way. He felt fantastic, loose and at ease for the first time in ages. It was an exhale after holding his breath too long—relief and pleasure all at once and he wanted more of it.

Getting involved with his flatmate was risky, and getting involved with Draco Malfoy even more so, but if it left Harry feeling this good, maybe it was worth trying. It didn't have to be the disaster Harry originally predicted, not if Harry kept his wits about him. If Malfoy could survive on a mutual exchange of orgasms based on shared attraction and nothing more, why couldn't Harry?

"Yeah. I want to," Harry said. "I want you."

Malfoy beamed at Harry and darted forward like he meant to kiss him, but quickly shifted away. He glanced back at the kitchen door, huffed, then collected his water glass and took a step back.

"I'm going to go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Harry nodded. "Yep."

Harry waited in the kitchen until he heard Malfoy's hurried footsteps on the stairs and the slam of his door before he headed for his own room. Zabini glanced up at him as he passed, but said nothing and returned his attention to his reading.

"That bit on the shopping malls is hilarious," Harry said, pointing to the book.

"Your outfit is hilarious," Zabini quipped without looking at him.

Harry rolled his eyes and jogged up the first few steps. Then, he snapped his fingers and all the pillows flew from the sofa and directly at Zabini's face, pummeling him and muffling his shouts of rage.

Harry smirked and ran the rest of the way up the stairs, ducking into the safety of his room and fortress of his wards before Zabini could come up with a counter-curse.

Harry stumbled to the bed and lit the lamps with a sweep of his arms as he dropped onto the mattress with a sigh.

He raised a hand to scrub through his hair and caught a glimpse of smeared ink on his palm. Harry pushed up onto his elbows and squinted, unable to make out the address or Oliver's room number—then he coloured. He bet Malfoy had a matching ink mark on his cock.

With a laugh, Harry flopped onto his back and closed his eyes. He didn't even get up when he heard footsteps on the roof above, followed by the scent of cigarette smoke.

Chapter Text

Harry expected the world to look different the next morning. That somehow, because Harry got off in the toilets with Draco Malfoy at a party, the earth would have tilted on its axis, causing the light to change, or the seasons to shift. Harry expected he would be different. But nothing seemed to have changed at all. The overcast grey daylight still filtered in through Harry's window as it did every morning. He still found his duvet bunched and rumpled at the end of his bed, kicked aside in fitful sleep, and he still woke with his cock hard and aching in his pants.

Had it all been a dream?

A quick Tempus informed Harry that it was past noon and he pushed himself from bed, ignoring his morning wood to don a pair of wrinkled joggers and a hoodie before heading downstairs. He hoped there was still coffee left to help clear the fog from his mind.

Harry nearly ran smack into Parkinson at the bottom of the stairs, as she stood blinking and yawning in her floral dressing gown, which was open to reveal a skimpy negligee and fuzzy, calf-high socks.

"Not a word," she said to Harry as she slid glasses with purple frames onto her nose.

Harry smirked and mimed zipping his lips shut as he followed her into the kitchen.

Zabini and Malfoy were already there, both dressed—or as dressed as Malfoy ever was around the house. At least he had a shirt on. Zabini, on the other hand, looked ready for a board meeting.

Malfoy glanced at him, smirking, and Harry's heart skipped a beat because this was different from the usual snobbish curl of his lips. It seemed softer somehow, conspiring rather than haughty. Or maybe Harry only saw what he wanted to see, looking for meaning where there was none because the moment was gone in a flash.

"Potter!" Zabini said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm and a clap of his hands. "Thank Merlin you're awake. Draco was threatening to make breakfast."

"What are we having, then?" Harry asked, scrubbing his fingers over his eyes beneath his glasses to rub away the sleep. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table next to Parkinson.

"May I interest you in some burnt toast, long gone cold, with frozen, freezer-burnt flakes of butter?" Malfoy gestured grandly at what appeared to be a pile of ash on a plate.

"Potter," Zabini implored. "Do something."

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked. "Give him lessons on how to use the toaster?"

"I mean, maybe! But you could start by cooking breakfast. I'm starving."

Harry's eyes went wide and he twisted towards Zabini.

"I beg your pardon?" Harry asked slowly.

Next to him, Malfoy snickered.

"That's your thing, isn't it? You do the cooking and we, in turn, don't draw dicks on your face while you're sleeping or enchant the wheels of that bloody skateboard to pop off while you're riding it."

"Try that and I can guarantee it won't go well for you," Harry warned.

Malfoy turned to Zabini, patting his hand. "Potter once told me that 'please' and 'thank you' work better than threats if you want him to feed you." He sauntered over to Harry and propped his arse on the table next to him. "Potter, thank you for being the most marvellous cook this flat has ever seen. You are the king of Muggle appliances. Will you please save us all from my less-than-perfect but still better-than-Blaise's cooking by making us breakfast?"

Harry arched a brow and crossed his arms, biting down on a smile. "What are you going to do if I say no?"

"Starve," Zabini offered, but Harry was still looking to Malfoy for an answer.

Malfoy's lips twitched, his eyes darkening just like they did the night before, when Harry had his hand pressed against the bulge in Malfoy's trousers. "Do you want me to get on my knees and beg?"

"You'd beg for breakfast?"

Malfoy winked. "I'm a slag for good food, remember?"

Zabini made gagging noises as he arranged himself in the chair across from Harry. "No foreplay at the breakfast table," he said. "Pans, write that into the rental contract. Charge them additional arsehole tax. I can't stand it."

Harry's stomach dropped, fearing they'd already been discovered, but before he could fully panic, Malfoy whipped out his wand and one leg of Zabini's chair vanished. Zabini's face fell slack, hovering for one horrible moment before the chair tipped and crashed to the floor. Zabini went down with a shout, limbs flung in an undignified sprawl.

Parkinson snorted, and Malfoy giggled gleefully.

"Draco, you fucking arsehole!" Zabini swiped out a leg, catching Malfoy behind the knees, forcing him off balance. Malfoy crumpled onto the floor next to him with a shout.

"You prick!"

"I'm the prick? You're the prick!" Zabini shot back.

There was some scuffling; Zabini tugging at Malfoy's hair and Malfoy smashing a palm against Zabini's face while they growled insults at each other, tussling like school children.

Parkinson rolled her eyes. She snagged Zabini's abandoned tea and plucked a magazine from the stack of gossip and fashion publications she had delivered daily and started flipping through the pages.

Harry cast a forlorn glance at Zabini and Malfoy squabbling on the floor and sighed. He struggled to reconcile this bloke in the midst of a slap fight with one from last night, flushed and moaning as he came beautifully with Harry's name on his lips.

"Breakfast?" Harry asked Parkinson.

She wrinkled her nose. "You make it too greasy. Pass."

"Fantastic," Harry said and went to the fridge to get started.

Even if he didn't imagine whatever happened between them, maybe nothing would change after all.

****

When Malfoy declared they were all going to party with a black tie dress code, Harry already had an excuse on the tip of his tongue.

Malfoy would have none of it.

"You're going," he said.

"No." Harry shook his head sharply.

"Yes."

"Why does it have to be formal attire?"

"Because it's fun! Everyone loves a theme."

"I don't love a theme," Harry said, crossing his arms. "How am I supposed to have fun all buttoned up?"

"Potter, you don't even know what fun is. I have to force you into fun most of the time, or you'd sit there scowling at the bar all night."

"That's fun for me."

Malfoy mirrored Harry's stance. "Well then, you can do it in a suit."

"I can also do it in my jeans at the pub."

"Lucky you, we're meeting at the pub beforehand. Be ready to go by eight," Malfoy said, and walked off, accepting no more comments.

****

Harry tugged at his jacket sleeves, then hooked a finger into his collar, trying to make some space to breathe. He hated dressing up. Formal robes were the bloody worst and Harry was relieved that they were out of fashion, but he still preferred his jeans and hoodie to the slim, midnight blue suit he pulled out of the back of the closet at Grimmauld Place for the occasion.

Malfoy didn't comment when Harry stepped out of his room, grumbling and fussing with his tie. Instead, he looked at Harry like he'd done something to personally offend him and stormed off. Malfoy ignored Harry when they met Krum, Astoria, Emma, and Jack at The Briar and Toad, and abandoned all of them as soon as they were through the doors to the party.

The party was hosted by Astoria's sister Daphne, who Astoria said fancied herself a debutante, but whose parties always devolved into a drunken mess and the authorities were usually called to break it up by midnight.

Harry found that hard to believe as he stepped through the door into the stately foyer. It reminded him of the first party he went to, in that grand mansion outside the city where he drank wizard absinthe and followed Malfoy home for the first of many times.

Harry helped himself to drinks at the bar, passing on the champagne in favour of whisky while Krum dragged him around, introducing him to his Quidditch mates and a whole new slew of starry-eyed girls. Harry smiled tightly and sipped his drink, counting down the minutes until it would be appropriate to leave, all while tracking Malfoy's movements out of the corner of his eye.

It was impossible not to watch him, so at ease in the perfectly tailored black suit he wore with the shirt unbuttoned to his sternum. Slim trousers skimmed long legs and ended at the tops of shiny leather shoes. He left his hair artfully tousled as if he'd been ravaged on the ride over, even though Harry knew that wasn't the case because Malfoy arrived with him. He looked chic and effortless. Harry couldn't look away.

Every time Malfoy caught him at it, their gazes meeting across the room, Malfoy glared back, his eyes narrowing and mouth pinching. Harry didn’t understand what the hell he’d done now, but he refused to stand around dressed up like a prat while Malfoy tried to shoot curses at him with his eyeballs.

Ready to pack it in, Harry backed out of the ballroom to collect his jacket from the coatroom. The attendant had wandered off, so Harry pushed his way into the magically expanded closet, which sprawled larger than Harry's bedroom, flipping past furs and fine wool, looking for leather.

Before he found it, a hand landed on his shoulder, spinning him forcefully.

"Malfoy?" Harry asked, withdrawing a startled Leg-Locker Curse before it clawed free. "What the fuck?"

Malfoy loomed, silhouetted by the light from the open closet door.

"You arsehole," he hissed.

Malfoy grabbed Harry by the knot of his tie and yanked him close, smashing their lips together. Harry accepted the harsh kiss with a groan, clamping his hands around the back of Malfoy's head to keep him from pulling away.

Any worry that Harry had dreamed the whole thing up disappeared as Malfoy melted against him, his fists crumpling the crisp cotton of Harry's shirt. The desire came flooding back, so thick and heady Harry swayed as if drunk.

"You're such a bastard," Malfoy muttered against Harry's lips, yanking Harry's tie loose and starting in on his shirt buttons.

"What did I do now?"

With a growl, Malfoy tore back. He abandoned Harry's shirt buttons in favour of his trouser fly.

"What you did was wear this bloody suit."

Harry frowned. "What's wrong with it? It's my best one."

"What's wrong with it?" Malfoy's eyes flashed dangerously. "It's fucking Tom Ford, you absolute tosser. It's perfect and you kept it from me."

The laugh that punched out of Harry bordered on hysterical, but it turned quickly to a groan when Malfoy shoved his hand down the front of Harry's trousers.

Harry's head tipped back into the downy softness of a fur coat, sinking into the fist wrapped around his cock. But then Malfoy had him by the nape. He wrenched Harry closer, sucking kisses up his neck until he claimed his mouth.

Harry hung on for dear life, bracing himself with one hand along Malfoy's sharp jaw and the other bunched in the back of Malfoy's posh jacket.

Malfoy licked past the seam of Harry's lips, tongues brushing and igniting sparks of pleasure in the pit of Harry's stomach. Harry pressed in, chasing that slick heat because Malfoy tasted fantastic, bright like the effervescent champagne but rich like chocolate.

"Fuck, you taste like cake," Harry breathed against Malfoy's lips, tongue flicking to taste his bottom lip and the backs of his teeth.

Malfoy's hand slid into Harry's hair, tightening as he panted. "There's Sachertorte," he mumbled offhandedly. He gazed at Harry, dazed, licking his own kiss-bitten lips. Then he said, "I'm going to blow you."

Harry blinked, and Malfoy dropped to his knees.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, but Malfoy was on his feet again, hissing into Harry's face. "Come on my suit and I'll make sure you regret it."

A giggle was clearly not the response Malfoy expected, judging by the confused look on his face, but it was the one he got because Harry couldn't help it. The whole situation was mad and it made Harry a tad loopy.

Malfoy shook his head and sank to the floor.

He held Harry's hips as he nosed at Harry's pants between the open teeth of his zipper.

Harry's cock twitched, stiffening, and Malfoy didn't miss it. He grinned up at Harry wickedly as he lifted his hand. Slim, elegant fingers traced Harry's outline through his pants, the touch enough to make his stomach clench and his breath leave him in a harsh gust.

Malfoy freed Harry's cock from the confines of his pants and trousers with eager hands, tugging the fabric away to give him better access.

Harry choked on a gasp and threw up a hand to grip the bar lined with coat hangers overhead.

Blinking slow and languid but never looking away, Malfoy sucked the tip between his lips, engulfing the head of Harry's now-aching prick in wet heat. His mouth was perfect, tight and hot, teasing free a throbbing pulse of precome. He hummed like he fucking loved it, his lashes fluttering closed. When they blinked open again, Malfoy's eyes were pools of black, dark pupils devouring the pale grey irises.

Malfoy's long fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, firm but not squeezing. His lips, spit-slick and hovering just out of reach, curled up at one corner. With a wink, he swallowed Harry to the root.

Harry groaned like his soul left his body. He squeezed his eyes shut until he saw explosions of colour while Malfoy dragged the heat of his mouth back to the very tip of Harry's cock. He punctuated the movement with a soft kitten lick to the slit that had Harry biting his lip to keep quiet, before taking him all the way down again, tucking the head of Harry's cock into the cavern of his throat and holding it there.

"Fucking hell," Harry cursed, one hand floating towards Malfoy's head, stopping at the last moment. It wasn't exactly polite, even if Harry had no intention of pushing or choking him without permission. But before Harry could withdraw, Malfoy snagged his wrist and settled Harry's hand in his hair.

He blinked up at Harry, heavy-lidded, and Harry buried his fingers in the pale strands, tightening enough to give a gentle tug.

The vibration of Malfoy's moan around his cock had Harry clenching his teeth with the effort to keep still, a sharp stab of pleasure piercing him through his centre.

Despite Harry's growing need, Malfoy kept his movements slow and controlled. It was fucking agony and Harry bit back curses as Malfoy's slick mouth slid up and down his dick. The pressure was enough to have fireworks exploding behind his eyes and his knees weak, but not nearly enough to send him hurtling towards orgasm. It was a place Harry would have lingered happily if they weren't in such a precarious position, barely hidden behind a line of coats.

Harry tightened his grasp on Malfoy's hair to get his attention, but Malfoy didn't seem to care. He kept his pace steady, each pull slow and sweet as treacle until Harry's vision darkened at the edges, his grip on the bar overhead white-knuckled.

Malfoy seemed to relish in Harry's increasing desperation, his mouth curling into a satisfied smirk even as he swallowed Harry to the hilt.

His throat contracted around the sensitive crown and Harry's eyes rolled back in his head.

Malfoy was too fucking good at this. Harry was no virgin; he'd been granted some fantastic blow jobs in his life, but Malfoy was sucking him like a bloody ice lolly, lapping up spit and precome and purring around Harry's dick like a pleased house cat every time Harry's hips twitched and an embarrassing sound fell unbidden from his lips.

If Malfoy simply tightened his grip and increased his speed, Harry would blow off in seconds, but he took his time. Harry's orgasm built low and slow, heat licking up the base of his spine and sparking across his nerve endings with enough intensity that Harry had to open his eyes to make sure he wasn't shooting off magic without realising. It wouldn't be the first time.

The churning, liquid warmth coalescing in Harry's belly grew into an ache, sharpening until Harry was hovering on the precipice. He groaned, hips rolling slightly, not hard enough to choke but enough to have Malfoy blinking rapidly and tightening his grip on Harry's hip.

He pushed up onto his knees slightly, the added leverage allowing him to rock forward into each gentle twitch of Harry's pelvis.

Malfoy hummed, the hand not wrapped around Harry's cock slipping to grab his arse and squeeze. Harry startled out a sharp groan and Malfoy grinned against his slit, redoubling his efforts and using his new grip to drag Harry harder into his hot, wet throat.

Gods, Harry was so close, right bloody there, about to hiss at Malfoy to pull off before he fell apart, but before he could, the doorknob rattled.

Harry's eyes snapped open—when had he shut them?—as a sliver of light pierced the dark room, the sounds of the party filtering in through the open door.

Harry stumbled behind the curtain of coats, dragging Malfoy with him. Malfoy shuffled forward on his knees with a surprised gasp, his palm pressed flat against Harry's abdomen, pinning him against the back wall.

"What colour is it?" asked a deep voice.

"Black," came a second, higher than the first.

"You're going to have to give me more than that, Lydia. They're all bloody black."

"Mine is fuzzy."

"Fuzzy? Fuzzy how?"

"Bit like a Kneazle."

"Is it actually made of Kneazle?"

A high-pitched giggle. "No, it's faux!"

Malfoy snickered against Harry's hip, and Harry batted at him. He tried to sink further into the closet without disrupting anything when his hand landed on the nearest coat. Soft as a Kneazle. And black.

Malfoy caught it at the same time as Harry, realisation dawning as his gaze swept across the coat hanging next to Harry's shoulder.

Harry really didn't want to do it, but he closed his eyes and focused, struggling to think past the haze of lust and panic as his Notice-Me-Not charm unfolded around them.

He opened his eyes and gripped Malfoy by the collar, holding him within the bounds of his spell.

"Maybe it's back here," the voice said.

Malfoy's eyes widened, but Harry held a finger up to his own lips, begging him silent.

And then they were right there, standing on the other side of the line of coats, Harry with his cock out and Malfoy looking somewhere between horrified and delighted as they flipped through the hangers.

Harry clenched his jaw, willing his magic to hold.

"Is it this one?" the deeper voice asked, pawing aside a hanger.

"No, that's blue."

"Is not," he said, squinting.

"It is. Dark blue."

"Looks black to me."

"Well," the young woman said. "It isn't.”

Now that they were closer, Harry smelled the scotch and pot smoke on them. He heard them fumbling, clutching the sleeves of nearby coats to keep steady on their feet. Harry suppressed an irritated groan. They were so bloody plastered it would take them all night.

Malfoy's grip on Harry's hip tightened, hard enough to bruise, and he glanced up at Harry, eyes glinting mischievously as he ran his tongue over his lips.

No.

Harry's heart spasmed in his chest, stomach dropping as Malfoy dipped forward to lick a stripe up the underside of Harry's flagging cock. Harry's jaw twitched, teeth clenched together to keep back the moans because while their unwelcome guests couldn't see them, they could certainly hear them. Casting additional spells was too risky because Harry was barely hanging on, his brain swimming with lust, his magic already humming beneath the surface. With his luck, he'd end up knocking out the entire house with his Silencing Charm.

Harry bit his tongue until he tasted blood as Malfoy wrapped that wicked mouth around his dick and sucked him down hard and fast.

"Is it this one?" A hand tugged the fur coat from the rack and now Harry could see them—a man and a woman, half-lidded and looking worse for wear despite the posh suit and sequin dress.

Malfoy slowed his movement, teasing Harry's slit with his tongue.

The young woman squealed. "Yay! That's it! Thank you, baby."

And then they were kissing, drunk and sloppy, grasping at each other and at nearby coats, an elbow flung inches from Harry's face.

Oh, fuck no.

Harry had zero interest in turning this into a group thing and clenched his hand into a fist. Three of the coats nearest the exit shot off the rack and flew out the door, their hangers clattering to the floor in the middle of the foyer.

The couple sprung apart, clutching each other.

"What was that?"

"Someone must be out there. Let's go."

They stumbled out of the closet and Harry slammed the door behind them with a blast of overenthusiastic magic. He added a locking charm for good measure.

"Fuck," Malfoy groaned, voice hoarse and awed. And then Harry's dick was all the way down his throat. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room, but it only drove Harry higher. He was hard and aching again at lightning speed and Malfoy was no longer teasing, sucking Harry's cock like he was starving for it.

It was everything Harry wanted: the desperation, the hunger, relief from the days' worth of looks and lingering touches that had Harry questioning his damn sanity. Harry abandoned his grip on the coat rack in favour of carding restless fingers through Malfoy's hair, tracing his jaw, and the curve of his lips. It was oddly tender, Harry knew that, but he liked to feel Malfoy's lips stretching to accommodate him, the bob of his throat as he swallowed, the shifting of his body as he dragged up and down Harry's length.

"Fuck," Harry growled. "That's it. God, your mouth."

Malfoy's eyes blinked open, then slid low again with a pleased hum.

"I'm—I'm gonna—" Harry cut off with a groan as Malfoy's free hand cupped his bollocks, giving them a gentle tug.

"Oh, fuck, yes, I'm going to come," Harry gasped out, fingers tugging on Malfoy's hair to pull him off but Malfoy batted him away, sliding all the way down until his nose pressed against Harry's groin, throat fluttering around his cock.

The burning, cramping ache in Harry's gut burst, exploding in white hot pleasure that sparkled across every nerve as Harry's muscles tensed and convulsed, cock pulsing down Malfoy's throat.

Malfoy pulled off with a wet gasp, wiping the errant drops of milky liquid from his chin on the sleeve of the nearest coat.

Harry slumped against the wall, breathing hard as Malfoy slid up his body until they were standing eye to eye.

He leaned into Harry, pressing the hard rod of his cock into Harry's belly.

"Touch me," he said, hands finding Harry's face, dropping hungry, open-mouthed kisses against his jaw and the corner of his mouth.

Harry grabbed him around the back of his neck and kissed him, plunging past his teeth, tasting himself on Malfoy's tongue. Malfoy groaned into the kiss, rutting into Harry's hip as he clutched at the lapels of Harry's suit jacket.

"God. Please," he whimpered against Harry's lips. "I need to—"

Harry made quick work of his fly, even as Malfoy ground into him, dragging his dick against Harry's body hard enough to have his arousal sparking anew.

Harry yanked aside the offending fabric to wrap a hand around Malfoy's cock, hard and hot in his palm.

"Oh, fuck yes," Malfoy groaned, nipping at Harry's lips, licking, kissing. As Harry started moving, hand sliding through the moisture at the tip to ease the way, all Malfoy could do was gasp against Harry's mouth. His body rolled, pushing into Harry's tight fist until he tore his mouth away, still fucking into Harry's fist and clutching at Harry's shirt, the buttons ripped from their holes, the cotton shoved open, though Harry couldn't say when it happened.

"I can't—" Malfoy growled. "Not on our fucking suits."

Harry barked out a laugh because of course Malfoy would worry about his clothes, the bloody peacock, and Harry shouldn't find it as endearing as he did.

"Fine," Harry said and released him despite Malfoy's frustrated whine.

Before he started complaining, Harry spun him so he faced away, his back to Harry's front and a rack of coats between them and the door.

"Hold here." He grabbed Malfoy's wrists and pressed his hands to the bar between the hangers. He wrapped Malfoy's fingers around the cool metal, then slid away, down his arms, over his sides, to settle one hand on Malfoy's abdomen and curled the other around his dick.

"Like this," Harry said and gave him a long, hard stroke.

Malfoy's knees wobbled and he slumped, his head dropped back against Harry's shoulder. Harry held him upright with one palm flat against his stomach, shoved under his shirt where the skin was smooth and firm and so fucking warm.

Curses poured from Malfoy's lips as Harry worked him, his body trembling, then tensing. A few strokes later, Malfoy gasped Harry's name and went rigid. His name. Not Potter, but—

"Oh fuck, Harry." With a final shiver, Malfoy spilt over Harry's knuckles, groaning, gasping, and rutting into Harry's fist.

As soon as Harry squeezed the last pulse from him, Malfoy turned and pinned Harry to the wall, kissing him, biting his neck, laughing—a low sound from deep in his chest that burst forth in delighted peals.

Harry couldn't help but laugh too.

"You mad bastard," Malfoy muttered between laughs and kisses.

When they parted, Harry wiped his hand and hummed a cleaning charm while Malfoy inspected their suits with the glowing at the tip of his wand.

"Oh dear," he said, clucking his tongue.

"What? Don't tell me you deflowered Tom Ford," Harry teased.

Malfoy's attempt to appear unimpressed was totally ruined by the smile tugging the corners of his lips.

"Not your suit or mine, but two other jackets." He pointed to the smart camel-coloured trench coat he’d wiped his mouth on. "That's yours," he said, then waved to a black peacoat. "And that's mine."

"Think we should clean it up?"

"Probably."

"I'm no good at laundering charms but…" Harry tugged a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket. "We could… " He dabbed at one of the stains but winced back. "Gross."

"Oh my god, are you five?" Malfoy flicked his wand and with a sparkle, the stain disappeared… along with much of the fabric. It burned away beneath Malfoy's spell, then extinguished with a puff of smoke, leaving half the jacket he started with.

"Shit," Malfoy said.

"Okay, so you didn't mean to do that?"

"No, of course I didn't!" He groaned. "I don't really do a lot of laundering spells. I send mine out."

"Mine are shit too," Harry said with a shrug. "I had a house-elf."

Malfoy boggled at him. "You? And Granger still speaks to you?"

"I tried to free him," Harry said, buttoning his trousers and adjusting the waistband on his narrow hips. "Gave him a whole armful of clothes straight out of my suitcase the day I moved in." Harry sighed. "He started folding it."

"Is he still there? Tottering around your creepy old house?"

Harry chuckled, scrubbing a hand through his hair, though it probably only made it look more sex-rumpled. "No. After a couple of years I convinced him to go stay at Hogwarts. Although I wouldn't be surprised if he's moved back while I'm gone."

Malfoy smacked Harry's hand away from his hair. "Stop touching it. You look like you've been in a windstorm." He gave it a gentle tousle. "Now leave it."

"Fine. Should we…?" Harry jerked a thumb towards the door.

Malfoy shot a last look at the burned coat and the come-stained trench. "Yeah, let's get out of here. Shall we get some champagne?"

Malfoy pushed Harry out the door with a hand low on his back.

"No way. Stuff is only good for a headache," Harry said, checking to be sure the coast was clear before stepping through.

"Whisky, Beer. Whisky, Beer. Ever think of branching out?"

"Nope. I like what I like." He grinned at Malfoy easily.

And it truly was easy. There was no awkward fumbling after the sex glow faded and reality slammed back down around them. They barely had their trousers up before they were back to banter and familiar flirtation.

And Harry realised with relief that not only was this strange thing between him and Malfoy real, but maybe it could work.

****

A few days later, it happened again.

Jack invited the lot of them to another show and, by some curse or miracle, this venue was even nastier than the last. The music was different, however—sexy, dirty grunge rock that Harry could practically smell.

The place was dark, and the beers delivered fast, and before Harry knew it, he was pleasantly tipsy in the middle of the dance floor with Malfoy wrapped around his back. The hard line of his dick pressed into Harry's arse as they attempted some imitation of dancing that was little more than rutting to a beat. No one around them seemed to notice or care, too focused on the band or the drugs or the nearest warm body.

When Harry couldn't stand it one more second, he dragged Malfoy out of the crowd by the wrist and bullied him into the toilets—the grimy, stinking, graffiti-covered toilets—and proceeded to kiss him stupid.

"Oh fuck, it's so gross in here," Malfoy moaned as Harry mouthed at his neck. "There's no way I’m putting my knees on the ground. I'd have to throw my trousers in the trash."

Harry kissed him with tongue and a little too much teeth and all the tension drained out of him. He slumped into Harry, inhaling sharply, before regaining his footing.

"That's okay," Harry said. "I'll do it."

"Gods, Potter, no. You can't. It's filthy."

"Yeah, well, you started it."

"I did not!"

"So your dick was just rubbing against my arse by coincidence?"

Malfoy snorted a laugh. "Where my dick and your arse are concerned, there are no coincidences."

"Bloody hell," Harry said with a roll of his eyes and dropped to his knees.

Unlike Malfoy, Harry wasn't interested in wasting time teasing. Malfoy had been tormenting him all night and ever since the incident in the coat closet, Harry couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy's dick in his mouth.

Maybe Harry thought he had something to prove because Malfoy gave him some of the best head of his life. Harry hadn't done this in ages, and even then, his experience was limited. But the few times he sucked cock, he loved it. The feel as it thickened and hardened on his tongue, the taste of sex and skin, the power over another person's pleasure—Harry liked every part and had been gagging for another shot for years.

It started a little rusty. Harry choked too soon, and it took a few pulls to settle his lips around his teeth right, but once he fell into the rhythm, it was bliss. Malfoy was responsive like always, twitching under each touch, constantly moving, trembling, gasping.

"Fuck, Harry," Malfoy said, almost startled, and then Harry's mouth flooded with hot, bitter liquid. He choked, spitting towards the bin and mostly making it.

"Now this toilet is officially worse. Well done," Malfoy said, but his voice was airy and pleased.

Harry swiped the back of his hand over his lips as he got to his feet.

Malfoy wrinkled his nose at him. "You've got come on your face."

Harry wiped the wrong cheek with wide, innocent eyes. "What, here?"

"No, more—" Malfoy gestured to the other side.

"Oh, you mean here?" Harry grabbed him round the back of the neck and smeared his sticky cheek against Malfoy's face.

"Eugh! Potter, fucking disgusting," he wailed.

Harry kissed him before he could keep complaining and, to his surprise, Malfoy gave in.

"Filthy," Malfoy said, pulling away with reluctance. Then he grinned and pressed his palm against the front of Harry's jeans. "Now, it's your turn."

****

It kept happening.

Before long, Harry and Malfoy were getting off in the toilets at The Briar and Toad, the toilets in Jack's loft, toilets at parties, bars, venues—honestly, just a lot of toilets. There were attempts to hold off, to actually finish a drink or dance a few songs, but sooner or later they crashed into one another. Sometimes Malfoy started it, other times it was Harry, but it always ended the same; the two of them tangled together, tearing away clothing behind a warded door.

Their encounters were hurried and desperate and never went beyond enthusiastic rutting, a mutual wank, or a messy blowjob—all of which were brilliant. Harry had no complaints.

But every night, after they returned home to their respective rooms, Harry would lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling with headphones on to distract him from the thinness of the wall separating them or how easy it would be to walk out of his room and into Malfoy's. There, Harry could spread him across the mattress and kiss him for longer than five minutes before someone started banging on the toilet door. He could see him flushed and naked without impeding clothing. But most of all, he could open him up with slick fingers before spearing him with his cock.

Harry thought about fucking Malfoy all the time. Time spent at home was maddening, torturous, all because Malfoy made that bloody rule and appeared intent on adhering to it.

It seemed arbitrary to Harry. Why was he so worried about Zabini and Parkinson finding out? Was Harry that much worse of an option than the random string of strangers that preceded him?

To keep from cracking, Harry went out more than ever, and Malfoy went with him. While Harry's dick was thrilled about the arrangement and Harry was sleeping better than he had in weeks, the hangovers throbbing at the base of his skull every morning kind of ruined it.

Harry stumbled down the stairs after a night at some nameless club that ended with Malfoy's thighs wrapped around Harry's waist as they kissed and rutted until they both stained their trousers and had to exit through the window again to avoid the photographers. Malfoy lay stretched out on the sofa in the living room, his feet propped on the armrest and his hands cradling Harry's CD player where it rested on his stomach. He had his eyes closed and the headphones over his ears, and didn't even twitch as Harry approached.

Surprised because Harry had never once seen Malfoy sleep, he leaned over, studying him. Malfoy's eyes snapped open, and he yelped, flailing so violently he flung himself to the floor, tangled in the headphone's cord.

"Fucking hell, Harry!" Malfoy shouted, knocking the headphones off his ears.

Harry grinned down at him. "Definitely called me Harry that time."

"No, I absolutely did not. Why would I do such a thing?" Malfoy snapped. He collected himself and dropped back onto the sofa, seated and twisted towards Harry.

"Because it's my name."

"Not the name I call you."

Harry crossed his arms and lifted one brow. "You do sometimes."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

Malfoy called him Harry when he was about to come. Harry noticed it every time, no matter how lust-drunk or regular drunk he was, Malfoy always said his name. It was different from the way he said his surname; Malfoy purred 'Harry' but spit 'Potter,' and hearing his name spoken like that made Harry's brain go a little soft and mushy, all the blood rushing elsewhere.

Harry noticed Malfoy tended to drop Harry's first name when his guard was down, such as when frightened, half-awake, or on the verge of orgasm. Malfoy was softest at those times, and Harry felt a bit like a voyeur seeing him that way. Malfoy was rarely so pliant. If he wasn't flirting, turning up the charm, or trying to pull, he was prickly and snappish, which was exactly what Harry would get from him this morning.

"Stop lurking. What do you want?"

"Have any hangover potion? Or Pepper-Up?"

Malfoy scoffed. "Gods, what am I, your feel-good-juice dealer?"

"More like my stand-in Healer."

Malfoy's nose wrinkled, but Harry could tell he was pleased.

"Go buy your own," he said.

"Yours are better."

Malfoy glared at him. "Don't flatter me."

Harry smirked back. "You love it." He held out his hand. "Please?"

Malfoy grumbled even though his cheeks flushed scarlet, and he pushed to his feet. He dug around in a desk drawer, extracting a few different bottles, and squinted at them before selecting two. He had stashes of potions all over the house with cryptic labels so no one would take them without asking him first, not unless they wanted to grow daisies out of their ears instead of easing the symptoms of a headache.

He dropped the bottles into Harry's outstretched hand. "Here. Now shoo, go away. You're very distracting. Let me listen to my Muggle music in peace."

He resettled himself on the sofa and collected Harry's Walkman, arranging the headphones over his ears.

"That's my Muggle music," Harry said, oddly delighted by the look of Malfoy wearing headphones.

"Well, now it's our Muggle music. You were sleeping away like a lump and not using it anyway. Half of your CDs are shit, you know. But this one is brilliant." Harry leaned over Malfoy, popping the Walkman's lid to see what he picked.

A loud laugh burst from Harry's chest.

"Wham!? Really?" Then he grinned and pointed an accusing finger. "I fucking knew I heard you singing ‘I’m Your Man’ the other day."

"I don't know why you're laughing, Potter. It's your CD."

"No, it's great," Harry said, still giggling.

"So glad you approve. Now, off you go." Malfoy fiddled with the buttons on the CD Player. He clearly had no clue how to use the thing, but eventually got it working because Harry heard the first lines of “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” blasting out of the headphones.

Malfoy gave Harry a dismissive wave and closed his eyes.

Harry wanted to kiss him.

He had that feeling all too often around the house—the urge to crawl on top of him, pin him against a wall, lift him onto a counter and kiss him until they couldn't breathe.

He didn't, of course. But he thought about it. A lot.

Harry threw back both potions with a wince and a sigh, the headache melting away and his stomach settling. Harry wandered towards the kitchen, looking for coffee, but instead found Parkinson pinning that week's winning tabloid shot to the fridge.

"Do I even want to know?" Harry asked, Summoning his favourite chipped Chudley Cannons mug he brought from Grimmauld Place.

"Don't be so egotistical Potter. Not every photo in the paper is of you," she said, but the insult barely cut, because she was smiling as she smoothed the page against the refrigerator door.

Suspicious, Harry stepped around her to get a closer look. His eyebrows shot up.

"Hermione?" he said.

"Granger gave a brilliant speech in front of the Wizengamot last week on land protection rights for magical creatures," Parkinson said, matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I know." Harry squinted at her. "But why do you know that?"

She pointed at the page like Harry was the dumbest person on the planet. "There's an article about it. You know, all those words next to the pictures? "

Harry hummed, unconvinced. Hermione still wouldn't talk about whatever was going on with Parkinson. They acted a bit like friends, but they were both so cagey about it. Harry wouldn't care if they were friends. Hell, he and Malfoy were mates against all odds, so why not Hermione and Parkinson?

Harry shrugged and went to fill his mug from the coffee pot.

"There's post for you," Parkinson said, gesturing behind her at the kitchen table.

Harry frowned. He never got post. Owls at the Muggle flat were few and far between, and most of Harry's post was collected at Grimmauld Place, as he never bothered to inform anyone of his current address. It was just as well because the only letters Harry got were invites to stuffy galas, requests for donations, or the occasional Howler that somehow sneaked through Harry’s filtering system.

Harry picked up the envelope on the table, then froze. He glanced up at Parkinson to find her looking back at him. His eyes dropped back to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement seal with a dawning dread.

Throat dry and chest hollow, Harry tore open the envelope to find a single sheet of parchment.

"What's it say?" Parkinson asked.

Harry cleared his throat, scanning the page. "My hearing is scheduled for Monday at four."

Parkinson stared at him for a beat too long, then nodded and left the room.

Harry sank into a chair at the kitchen table. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? The appeal, Hermione's training, it was all for this. There was no reason it should feel like a kick to the gut with steel-toed boots.

Muffled shouting in the living room startled Harry from his thoughts. Curious, Harry popped his head through the door, but Malfoy and Parkinson halted their conversation, communicating only with angry glares and expressive eyebrows.

Letter still crumpled in his fist, Harry jogged up the stairs to his room. As soon as the door shut, the arguing started again.

Harry bounced on his heels, teeth grinding as a high-pitched whistle drowned out the sounds of the house. His chest constricted painfully while his heart thundered, spots dancing across his vision.

No. He wasn't going to panic.

He had to get out. Be anywhere but here. Alone.

Harry threw on a hoodie followed by his leather jacket, then shoved his feet into his trainers. He burst out of his room and down the stairs, not bothering to check if Malfoy and Parkinson were still there, though he could hear their shouting coming from the kitchen now. He grabbed his skateboard from beside the door and was on it as soon as he reached the street.

****

The rain started an hour after Harry left, but he wasn't ready to go home. He hardly remembered his route, only that the streets were quiet and the air frigid—the first bite of winter on the wind.

When Harry got tired of racing the skateboard down sidewalks with no particular destination, he tried grinding a handrail but fell on his arse. He tried it three more times to the same end, although now it wasn’t just his arse with blooming bruises, but also his right kneecap, both elbows, and his ankle wasn't quite right. It probably should have hurt, but Harry couldn't feel a thing, either too numb or too distracted to notice.

He returned to the flat hours later shivering and soaked to the skin. Leather was shit in the rain, even coated in a slip of warming and water-repelling charms. He ought to get himself a proper coat before winter hit, but the leather jacket was more than warmth for Harry, it was protection, his armour, the only thing he had left of his godfather.

Harry dropped it onto the hook by the door where it hung limply, dripping on the floor.

Harry made his way upstairs to the shower and turned the taps as hot as they would go. He stood beneath the water, skin stinging, trying to think of nothing.

It was impossible, of course. The harder he tried to clear his head, the more Harry's mind flooded with worries about the hearing, what came after the hearing, what Malfoy looked like naked, and Harry's inconvenient desire to kiss him all the time.

Frustrated, Harry shut his eyes and turned his face into the spray, wondering if it were possible to drown this way.

By the time Harry finished his shower, he was drained, limbs heavy with exhaustion and the weight of his worry. His wet clothes lay in a heap on the floor, a puddle spreading around them, and Harry sent them to the hamper with a quick drying spell.

He knotted the towel at his waist and wiped a hand through the fog on the mirror. With a sigh, he slipped on his glasses, bringing his reflection into focus. His skin was red from the hot water, his hair was dripping down the back of his neck and over his shoulders, but that wasn't why Harry stared, stunned and unblinking, into the mirror.

Malfoy left marks.

They were nothing compared to the mottled splotches from falling off the skateboard, already darkening and tender to the touch. These were red and round and the one on Harry's shoulder had a clear indentation of teeth. Malfoy probably left that while they were wanking in the pantry during a party at Krum's penthouse (Harry meant to tell Seamus that it was actually in Kensington, not Knightsbridge). Half of the London Lions descended upon the kitchen for shots of firewhisky, giving them no escape and no easy excuses, so they just… kept on. Malfoy bit into the meat of Harry's shoulder to muffle his shout as he came into Harry's fist. And also a little bit onto Krum's protein powder collection, which had Malfoy in stitches. He made some joke about adding extra protein while Harry Vanished the mess—and then the protein powder, to be safe.

Harry traced the bruise with his fingertips, pressing against it until he felt a twinge of pain.

It was probably nothing. Malfoy was often littered in marks, wore them like badges or tattoos, leaving his shirt open for everyone to see. But Harry didn't think he'd ever had marks like this.

He liked it.

Harry stepped into the hallway in a cloud of steam. He made it about three steps towards his room before he heard footsteps on the stairs and then Malfoy was there, dressed in his party clothes. He halted so abruptly it was like he hit a wall. His eyes dropped instantly to Harry's naked chest, clocking every mark, just as Harry did, as well as the darkening purple on his knee and calf from falling off the skateboard.

"Where have you been?" Malfoy asked, voice low.

"Out. Skating."

"It's raining."

"Yeah."

Malfoy studied him for a moment, but his eyes dipped once more to Harry's chest, then dropped lower, to the towel at his hips, following the trail of hair beneath his navel. He licked his lips. "I'm meeting Astoria at the pub." His eyes flicked up to meet Harry's and his voice deepened. "Do you want to come?"

Harry breathed around a sharp tug of arousal because fuck, that phrasing left absolutely no questions as to what he really meant.

He swallowed hard and cleared his throat before answering. "Yeah. Let me get dressed."

"If you must," Malfoy said and breezed past Harry to his bedroom door, but as he passed, his fingers skated across the front of Harry's towel, flicking it open and exposing him before he could curl around himself.

Malfoy chuckled as Harry scowled, and pushed past him to his own door.

"Hurry up or I'll leave without you," Malfoy called.

Harry chucked his towel at his head before slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Targets dropped from the ceiling as combat dummies weaved in unpredictable patterns across the training room floor—not that Harry could see them. The room was almost completely dark, but Harry heard them, the battered old equipment clattering and grinding as it moved.

Harry knew this room well, had spent many hours here and contributed his fair share of gouges, char marks, and spell damage to its walls. He passed his first Auror practical in this room, Robards and the Council watching from the blackened windows lining the perimeter. But this was nothing like the test given to incoming Aurors. An hour into Robards’ skills assessment and the number of targets had increased exponentially—enough to challenge even a veteran Auror.

Honestly, it was a bit ridiculous.

The Council had to know what Robards was doing, that this test was beyond reason and just short of revenge, but Harry gritted his teeth through it, knocking down a floating target as it appeared next to him, illuminated by the spellfire he shot at the targets circling overhead like vultures.

He could easily illuminate the room but decided against it as the number of targets grew, their offensive spells taking on a dangerous intensity. The darkness concealed the targets, but it also hid Harry from them, giving him the advantage so long as he never stopped moving.

Harry's shields shimmered around him, shifting and rotating to absorb the attacks at his back while he directed a Disarming Charm and Body-Bind Curse at the dummy closing in on his left flank. One wandless blast and Harry could lay them all flat and be done with it, but just like in Hermione's exercises, that wasn't the point. He had to demonstrate his control, even at the risk of leaving targets standing. Harry had to prove he could follow the rules.

Exhaustion tugged at his muscles, dulling his focus. This was the moment where Harry risked getting sloppy, and Robards knew it. He couldn't best Harry on magical endurance, but he could wear his body down until he made a mistake and then Robards would win. Harry would slip up—cast wandlessly or recklessly, forget to pull his magic and obliterate a target he was meant only to disable. Harry would be off the force for good, and all the training, stressing, fucking work would be for nothing.

Harry couldn't allow that.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, but Harry gathered the tatters of his concentration and centred himself. Sure to use his wand, Harry dropped his shields and recast his protective perimeter, not as absorptive barriers as they were trained, but as wards—solid and inflexible—like the barriers Harry used on Grimmauld Place or around his room in the Hackney flat. He pointed his wand at his wards and shot a series of spells in rapid succession. Unlike the neutralising effect of the shields, the magic rebounded off Harry's magical barriers, multiplying on impact and pinging in all directions like shooting stars. He cast again, moving the wards so they created an invisible box around him, and between the seams, Harry could target each dummy with accuracy.

Five of the targets fell from the ceiling, caught by the ricocheting spells. But as the targets attempted to dodge the scattershot of magic, Harry used the trails of light from his spells to light the room and allow him to cast precisely, dropping dummies and floating targets in rapid succession.

He wished Hermione could see this. It was just like they practised, but better.

She laughed when Harry first suggested it, accusing him of using magic like a pool shark. Forced to watch his fatal mistake in his frequent nightmares, Harry began to wonder about other applications for warding spells in battle. Hardly anyone used them in a fight, preferring the lightweight Shielding Charms over the heavy barriers. But no one cast wards like Harry. His magic deflected Hermione's most aggressive attacks, hurtling the spells into her safety barrier in a shower of sparks.

After the first training session, Hermione was already mapping out trajectories and calculating angles on a pad of graph paper that made Harry's eyes cross.

When they finally got it to work with purpose rather than chaos and a prayer, Hermione shook her head at Harry, though she was smiling.

"Only you, Harry," she said.

Harry didn't know if she meant that in reference to his wards, which were, admittedly, unlike any he'd seen before—stronger, harder, and reinforced by a lifetime of trampled boundaries. Or perhaps she meant only Harry was idiot enough to jump into the oil with the popcorn, ducking and dodging and fucking adding danger to the mix to shorten the fight.

But it worked. Harry was down to three targets, darting along the ceiling, keeping their distance and making it impossible for Harry to take them down in one shot. He needed them to get closer, but they were adapting to the wards, keeping their distance and moving in flitting, unpredictable patterns.

Harry growled because time had to be running short. The Council wouldn't sit here all day and wait for him, even with Robards' sadistic test. Harry didn't know how much longer he could last, anyway. He risked losing control the more exhausted he became, thus proving Robards right, and that was unacceptable.

With a final exhale, Harry extinguished the spells pinging across the room, plunging him into darkness. He dropped the wards next, allowing him to move beyond his self-made fortress. He shot a ball of light towards the far end of the room, where it stuck like a wad of gum, illuminating only that corner. The targets careened towards Harry's light as he ducked back into the shadows at a sprint. He halted, spun, and cast three spells in succession as the targets flew straight at him, silhouetted by Harry's enchanted light at their backs.

The spells hit. Dead on. All three targets went down one after the next.

A buzzer sounded, and the room returned to pure darkness, all of Harry's spells smothered by the training room's protective magic. Then, all at once, the space was flooded with harsh light. Harry blinked as the door flew open, banging against the wall as Robards strode through.

He stood in front of Harry in his perfectly pressed robes, barely hiding his scowl behind a cool facade of professionalism.

"That'll be all, Potter. Clean yourself up and meet in the conference room at seventeen hundred hours."

He spun on his heel and walked out, leaving Harry standing alone, surrounded by the mess of exploded dummies and shattered targets.

Did that mean he passed?

****

Harry stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back and feet spread in parade rest.

He'd thrown his Auror robes over the standard uniform he wore for the physical assessment. He had to swing by Grimmauld Place to pick them up, and it still carried the musty scent of dust and old magic that clung to everything in the house.

Harry felt odd wearing them, and not only because of the noticeably blank space at his chest where his badge was once pinned. The fabric was uncomfortable and stiff, the seams pulling as if it no longer fit, even though Harry's measurements hadn't changed and it sat snug on his shoulders and his waist as always, where the straps of his wand holster met.

Harry held his chin high, eyes levelling each of the Council members where they sat on their perches, surrounding Harry in an imposing semi-circle. The DMLE Council was made up mostly of former Aurors and Ministry officials, plus a duelling master and a professor on Dark Magic at a speciality school in greater London. Harry didn't really know their purpose beyond disciplinary hearings and voting on issues that involved the release of information to the public, but Harry found them no less intimidating than the first time he'd stood in this room and they voted with Robards to remove Harry from the DMLE indefinitely.

"That was quite a show in there, Mr Potter," said the Council President, a white-hair wizard with clever eyes behind round spectacles.

"If you say so, sir. My only intention was to complete the objective," Harry said.

"And you did, with gusto. I must admit, you are spectacular to watch."

Harry dipped his chin, unsure whether he was meant to say thank you or apologise, but thought maybe it was the former when he caught sight of Robards' sour expression out of the corner of his eye.

"The use of wards to redirect spells was interesting," said a hardened witch with blood-red hair and hollow cheekbones, made only more pronounced by the harsh one-directional light in the conference room.

Harry nodded. "I've discovered that when the single target of multiple attackers, misdirection is a great asset."

"And where did you discover this?" asked a straight-backed wizard with an air of Ministry superiority.

Harry congratulated himself for maintaining his passive expression. He answered, keeping a level voice. "It was a spell ricocheting off my wards that took me down in Hackfall Forest during the Paulson mission."

The Council President hummed. "You've demonstrated your immense skill and endurance today, Mr Potter. But more than that, you've proven your ability to adapt and learn. I maintain that the Council's decision to dismiss you from the DMLE after the incident with Henry Paulson was the correct one, but I would be pleased to consider it temporary. I see no reason to belabour this decision and move to reinstate you to the Auror Corps effective immediately. Are there any objections?" The president opened his hands, glancing at the other Council members.

"Not an objection, but I have a few questions for Mr Potter before we proceed," Robards said, sitting forward in his chair.

"Head Auror Robards, you have the floor."

Robards turned his gaze to Harry, and he bristled. There was no kindness there, no understanding. Robards wasn't impressed. He was furious.

"Potter, how do you respond to recent allegations that you've fallen in with a dangerous crowd? That your drinking is out of control and you are displaying behaviour unfit for a person of your station?"

Harry's eyebrows flew up, because bloody hell, he knew Robards wouldn't give it to him softly, but he didn't expect him to fuck him so roughly. Not in front of the Council, at least.

"I would first question the source of those allegations and second, ask for clarification as to how this relates to my hearing, sir."

"I can't have a drunk degenerate on my team," Robards said flatly. "Nor can I have one of my Aurors associating with Death Eaters."

Harry's blood ran cold. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Robards folded his hands on the podium in front of him, a smug smile tugging one corner of his mouth. "You've been photographed with known Death Eater Draco Malfoy on multiple occasions."

Harry gripped his fingers behind his back until they ached, wrestling his expression into blankness. He should have known Robards would hit below the belt, that he wasn't above using Harry's personal life or the ever-churning rumour mill to cut him down to size. Harry needed to maintain his composure, because Robards wanted him to react, wanted to see him get angry and fire back like he always did, because that would prove to the Council that Harry was nothing but a hotheaded child with more power than he knew what to do with.

"Draco Malfoy is not a Death Eater. He stood trial and was released based on majority Wizengamot decision."

"The Dark Mark on his arm would say differently."

"Are you suggesting the choices made by a scared teenager during the war will somehow affect my ability to do my job?"

"It's a matter of trust, Potter. This job requires total confidence—in your team, in your superior, and in your abilities. I'm not certain I can trust you."

"Because I spend my hours off the clock with someone you don't like."

"Someone I don't trust."

Harry ground his teeth together. "So you would remove me from the force permanently, not based on my skill or even the incident that had me removed in the first place, but because of some tabloid photographs?"

The Council President looked to Robards, awaiting an answer to what he seemed to believe was a rather good question, judging by the arc of his eyebrows and the lowered position of his glasses.

"I am simply expressing my concerns," Robards said, wilting slightly under the President's attention.

"And I'm assuring you that they are unnecessary," Harry said.

A beat of silence passed, and then the Council President straightened. "If there are no further concerns, I move to reinstate Harry Potter to the Department of Magical Law enforcement. The motion will pass with a majority vote. All those in favour say aye."

All but Robards responded with a resounding aye that echoed against the empty walls.

The Council President smacked his gavel sharply against the podium. "It is decided." He raised his wand and Harry's badge flew from his hand to hover in front of Harry.

"Welcome back, Auror Potter," he said.

Harry nodded and grabbed the badge out of the air. "Thank you, sir."

****

Harry tore off his uniform as soon as he was through the front door of the flat. By the time he reached the stairs, he was already out of the robes with his shirt halfway undone. His boots and trousers hit the floor once safely inside his bedroom, everything else ripped away and abandoned.

Harry didn't take another breath until he was back in worn joggers and his favourite Chudley Cannons t-shirt.

He dropped to the bed with a sigh.

No one was home, as far as he could tell. The hearing took over three hours and now it was dark. Malfoy was probably already out, Parkinson worked Thursday nights, and Zabini was… wherever the hell Zabini went at night.

Harry had no desire to leave the flat, and patted the bedside table, looking for his Walkman, hoping that Joy Division on full volume could bleed the tension from his muscles. But when Harry didn't find it, he raised his head to get a better look. The surface was bare save for last night's water glass and an empty vial of Malfoy's homemade Hangover Potion.

Harry sat up, frowning. Did he leave it downstairs? The last time he saw it, Malfoy had commandeered it, dancing and singing along to Prince's "Little Red Corvette" in the kitchen while burning toast and driving Harry bloody mad.

Harry pushed to his feet, intending to head back downstairs to look for it, but before he could take a step, a soft knock rattled his door.

Harry frowned.

He crossed the room and opened the door, only for his chest to seize and his stomach to swoop dangerously. Malfoy stood outside Harry's room, shirtless in those silky sleep pants, and holding Harry's Walkman.

"Looking for this?" he asked.

"Yes." Harry took it when Malfoy passed it to him, but when he didn't move away, Harry hesitated.

Malfoy's gaze dropped from Harry's, down his body, and right back up again. He glanced quickly down the hall behind him, then with a hand pressed against Harry's chest, pushed into his room and kicked the door shut behind them.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked.

"Making a huge mistake, I reckon," he said, and pushed a hand under Harry's shirt to splay across his abdomen. "But hey, we stick to what we're good at, right?"

Harry frowned, confused, but then Malfoy was crowding him towards the bed. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Harry's joggers, and his stomach jumped, arousal flooding into his bloodstream.

"What happened to the never-at-home rule?" Harry asked, a little breathless, his eyes fixed on Malfoy's mouth.

"Fuck it," Malfoy said and kissed him.

Harry's entire body lit up, and he threw an arm around Malfoy's waist, dragging him, stumbling back towards the bed. They fell to the mattress with a huff and a laugh, and then Malfoy was all over him. That was nothing new. Malfoy touched him everywhere when they hooked up, his hands hungry, gripping hard enough to bruise. But this time, Malfoy crawled on top of Harry and straddled his waist. He cradled Harry's face between his hands and kissed him slow and purposeful, so unlike the biting, frantic kisses they shared in many a bar toilet or venue back room.

Harry's hands landed on the dip in Malfoy's waist, fingertips tucked into the back of his trousers. He used the leverage to haul Malfoy against him as they kissed. Malfoy fell into him easily, rolling their hips together to the rhythmic assault of his tongue.

Harry had no idea how long they kept it up. Time lost all meaning to the thrum of desire that beat in time with Harry's pulse. He was hot all over, skin aflame from head to toe.

But soon, it wasn't enough. He needed skin and Malfoy must have felt the same because he grabbed a handful of Harry's t-shirt and yanked it over his head.

"Off. Get rid of this horrible thing. Honestly, I should walk out right now for this offence." He waved the orange fabric at Harry. "Ditch the rest of it, too." He nodded at Harry's joggers.

Harry smirked and did as Malfoy demanded. He wiggled out of his joggers without ceremony, sending them flying into the hamper with a wave, and dropped back down to bed. Encouraged, Harry reached for Malfoy's waistband, but was halted by Malfoy's hand on his bare chest. That hand dragged down his sternum, over his stomach, to the trail of dark hair beneath his bellybutton. It stopped short of where Harry really wanted it, which was his aching cock, already hard beneath where Malfoy hovered over him.

Harry stayed still while Malfoy looked and touched his fill, though he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

"Fucking finally," Malfoy said.

Harry laughed breathlessly. Yeah, he got that. All their messing about in toilets didn't offer opportunities to get fully naked and Harry could think of little else some days. Knowing he had a bed and Malfoy had a bed and they even had a shower that they shared and not once had Harry seen all of him.

Harry ran hands over the silky black trousers, up Malfoy's thighs to his arse. This time he didn't wait to tug the waistband, and slipped the trousers over his hips, letting them slither down to his ankles.

Malfoy kicked them aside and crawled back over Harry, balancing on his knees, one of his hands cradling Harry's face.

"You're going to fuck me," he said. It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded anyway.

"Yeah," he said.

Malfoy grinned at him and dove forward, kissing Harry hard, his tongue pressing between Harry's teeth to taste him.

They never had time to make out at parties, always hiding and too often interrupted, but this was fucking brilliant. Malfoy's kisses were deep and demanding, clearly practised, but there was still something almost… sweet. It was not a thought he ever expected to have about Malfoy, but there it was.

Things grew heated when Malfoy dropped the length of his body against Harry's. It was like someone turned on the lights and Harry was suddenly frantic. He found his fingers in Malfoy's hair, his grip a touch too punishing, and the hook of his thigh around the back of Malfoy's knee too tight. But Malfoy seemed as lost to it as Harry, his touches restless and constantly moving, pressing Harry into the bed as if he might slip away.

"Lube," Malfoy grunted between kisses, and Harry nodded. He threw out a hand, pawing for the handle of the bedside table drawer, but he was a solid foot off.

Unwilling to stop kissing Malfoy long enough to ask him to move, Harry pounded his fist against the mattress and the drawer shot out of the table and flipped upside-down, dumping the entire contents onto the bed.

Malfoy flew back with a yelp, then laughed brightly, pulling a sleeve of rubber packets from his hair.

"Oops," Harry said. Then held up the bottle of lube. "But, hey!"

"Fucking ridiculous," Malfoy said, and kissed Harry. He withdrew and snatched the lube from him, only to pop the lid and dump it all over Harry's fingers.

"You know what you're doing, right? Or am I going to need to walk you through this? Because if that's the case, I might as well do it myself."

Harry rolled his eyes. He grabbed Malfoy by the arm and yanked, toppling him flat onto the bed as Malfoy cursed loudly.

"This feels like a teaching moment," Harry said, settling between Malfoy's sprawled thighs. He waved the hand not covered in lube at the door. The air shimmered as the charms settled.

"See that?" Harry said. "That's how you cast a Silencing Charm. Now you can make all the noise you want." He tipped forward to kiss him, but Malfoy stopped him with two fingers against his forehead. Harry growled.

"That is not how anyone but you casts a Silencing Charm."

Harry's jaw tightened but then eased because Malfoy wasn't taunting him. No, the dark pools of his eyes said something entirely different.

Harry noticed the way Malfoy's mouth fell slack and his eyes glazed over when Harry used his wandless magic. Harry trained himself not to read into his friends' reactions to his silent spellwork because it wasn't always positive and he rarely meant to do whatever silly magic he expelled like a sneeze—accidental and unannounced.

Harry didn't give himself too much time to dwell on it, distracted by the miles of toned, pale flesh spread out before him. He tasted him everywhere, sucking marks down his chest as Malfoy gasped, fingers dropping into Harry's hair—not to stop him, but to hold on as he struggled to keep still. Harry left an indent of his teeth between Malfoy's second and third rib and red outlines of his mouth next to his right nipple and beside his navel. He'd wanted to do that for so bloody long, and his pulse kicked up a notch, heart thundering as he examined his handiwork.

When he glanced up at Malfoy, he was half-lidded and flushed, watching Harry stake his claim with glassed-over eyes.

Harry worked his way down, spreading Malfoy's legs, nipping the insides of his thighs, before slipping slick fingers between the globes of his arse. He hitched Malfoy's knees over his shoulders for better access as he settled himself. Malfoy hissed as Harry ran the pad of a lube-soaked finger around his rim, not pushing in, but getting him wet, feeling the muscles flutter as Malfoy sucked a breath in through his teeth.

Harry dropped kisses to his thighs and taut belly as he continued his circling, Malfoy's cock bobbing in front of him, red and swollen. Malfoy was making the prettiest sounds—small breathy moans and whimpers, and though Harry knew it was only a matter of time before he got impatient, Harry delighted in the view.

"Please," Malfoy gasped, clamping his lip between his teeth as if to bite back any further begging.

Though Harry loved the sound of his desperation, he couldn't hold off much longer, and pressing one hand flat against Malfoy's stomach, he slid one finger all the way inside his body.

Malfoy groaned, attempting to roll his hips, but Harry held him down, gentle but firm. He withdrew the finger and pushed it back in, crooking it slightly.

He watched, mesmerised, as his finger dipped inside, again and again, moving slow and deliberate until Malfoy was wiggling and trembling beneath him.

"I'm not a fucking virgin, Potter. Will you hurry it up?"

"Keep complaining and I'll stop," Harry said, twisting his fingers inside his body, seeking that sensitive bundle of nerves.

He knew when he found it because Malfoy let out a groan, back arching.

"Don't stop," he said.

Harry grinned and did it again, pushing two fingers in deep, pulling them out with a come-hither gesture that had Malfoy lifting off the bed.

Harry could do this all day. He'd never met someone so responsive to sex and it was hypnotising to watch Malfoy relinquish control and give into pleasure with such ease. Harry sometimes struggled to push aside the distractions, self-consciousness, and performance anxiety, but seeing Malfoy surrender to his desires made it that much easier for Harry to submit to his own.

How long had he thought about this? How many nights had he laid awake in bed imagining drawing these desperate sounds from Malfoy, all while resisting the urge to touch himself, and inevitably failing? Harry thought maybe he'd wanted this even before he saw the love bites littered across Malfoy's chest, his thoughts spiralling into the gutter permanently. He feared he'd wanted this since that first night in the club, when he saw Malfoy wrapped around Alex on the dance floor, winking at Harry over his shoulder, even if he hadn't yet recognised it for what it was.

It was hard not to be attracted to Malfoy, the careless, unselfconscious way he lived his life. It was entirely foreign to Harry, who spent every moment second-guessing his movements, his words, in constant fear that someone was watching him without his knowledge. Harry envied him. Desired him. Wanted desperately to ruin him and please him in equal measures.

Harry dipped forward to lick a bead of moisture from the tip of Malfoy's cock, his tongue circling the crown as he sucked him into his mouth.

Malfoy groaned, curses pouring out of him in a hiss. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Harry grinned, pleased, and swallowed him down, thrusting a third finger inside.

Malfoy's hand in his hair tightened painfully, but Harry only hummed, pulling off and taking him down again, keeping a steady rhythm as he pierced his body and sucked his cock.

"How confident are you in those Silencing Charms?" Malfoy asked through gritted teeth.

Harry's eyes fluttered open, and he popped off. "Very."

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

"Oh thank Merlin," Malfoy breathed, and as Harry's fingers hooked inside his body, Malfoy shouted his next curse.

Harry grinned against the inside of his thigh. He wanted to hear that sound about ten more times and went back to work.

Malfoy tried to bat him away with a whimper before Harry even got to seven.

"Fucking hell, Harry. You have to stop or I'll come before you even get your cock in me."

Harry shrugged, swirling the tip of his tongue around Malfoy's crown. "So come. Then you can come again on my cock."

Malfoy's eyes went wide. "The mouth on you."

Harry smirked and sucked one of his bollocks into his mouth. Malfoy threw back his head with a moan. Harry shifted his fingers, once again seeking the knot of nerves that made Malfoy squirm, and when he found it, swallowed him back down.

In three strokes, Malfoy came with a shout. Harry was ready for him and caught it in his fist using the slickness of his release to ease him through the aftershocks. As Malfoy sighed and twitched, Harry Summoned the lube, adding extra to the mess in his palm and slid it over his cock with a hiss.

Harry pushed to his knees and Malfoy's legs slid around Harry's waist, still breathing heavily and twitching, that lovely pink flush burning across his skin from his thighs to his face.

"Ready?" Harry asked as he lined himself up.

"Gods, yes," he groaned. "Fuck me."

Harry took a deep breath and pushed in, just far enough for the head of his cock to pop past that tight ring of muscle. Malfoy cursed and threw out a hand, snagging Harry by the back of the neck, dragging their bodies chest to chest. He hiked his thighs up higher on Harry's waist.

"Come on," Malfoy coaxed. "What are you waiting for? I can take it."

Harry almost laughed at the familiar taunting, because of course, even in sex, Malfoy would goad him. Harry was tempted to withhold it a little longer, to give him nothing more than his cockhead, but he simply didn't have that kind of control. It seemed Malfoy would get what he wanted. This time.

In one swift move, Harry slid all the way in, bottoming out with a groan.

"Yes," Malfoy moaned, his hands finding Harry's face and kissing him, sloppy and hungry with too much tongue.

Harry kissed him back as he dragged his cock from the tight cavern of his body and slammed in again.

Malfoy groaned into the kiss, his fingers tightening around the back of Harry's neck.

Harry could hardly breathe. Malfoy swallowed each of his gasped inhales, his hips hitching up to meet Harry's as they set a slow but forceful pace.

Harry's skin was aflame, the sweat prickling at his brow, his lower back, and under his arms. Malfoy's cock, trapped between them, twitched and hardened once more, but when Harry reached down to take it in his hand, Malfoy smacked him away.

"No," he said against Harry's lips. "Like this."

Harry didn't know what that meant but released him. Malfoy sighed and whimpered—soft, satisfied sounds of pleasure that, while lovely, were not what Harry needed to hear right now. After weeks upon weeks of hearing Malfoy scream through the walls while fucked by someone else, Harry had something to prove. To himself. To Malfoy. To Alex and everyone that came after.

He pushed off his elbows to sit straight on his knees. Malfoy scowled, looking ready to scold him until Harry hooked his arms under Malfoy's thighs, pushing them towards Malfoy's body, exposing him, folding him nearly in half. Now Harry could watch his cock disappear into that tight, wet heat. And when he hiked Malfoy's hips up, just a little, thrusting into him hard, Malfoy cried out.

Harry grinned because that was more like it. The new position, while exhausting, gave him the perfect angle to drive into Malfoy's prostate with every snap of his hips.

Malfoy's hands flailed, skittering up Harry's thighs, over his chest. Unable to reach him, he threw them overhead, locking onto the slats of Harry's headboard.

Each carefully positioned thrust earned Harry new and beautiful sounds—shouts, cries, and ample curses. He never wanted it to stop, and would hear those perfect moans in his dreams for the rest of his bloody life, but the ache in his belly was growing persistent, as was the exhaustion in his thighs.

Harry wanted to come. He wanted to let go of the iron hold on his control and for once, take what he desired. But he needed Malfoy to come first. He promised him he would come on Harry's cock, and Harry kept his promises. He released his hold on one of Malfoy's thighs, ready to reach for his dick, but before he could, Malfoy's back bowed, his eyes squeezing shut as that gorgeous flush darkened, and he was coming—exploding across his belly with an animalistic groan.

Harry almost froze in awe. He hadn't even touched him. Malfoy came from Harry's cock in his arse and nothing more, and it was fucking incredible.

Harry's resolve snapped, and he drove himself into that willing body hard and fast. The heat building low in his gut exploded and Harry pulled free, spilling across the mess of Malfoy's stomach, fucking into his own fist until he crumpled, dropping to the bed.

Minutes passed while Harry caught his breath, his whole body thrumming and pulsing, his dick drooling onto his belly as the world around him came back into focus.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at Malfoy, who lay next to him, flushed and utterly debauched, hair in disarray, and covered in their shared release.

Harry Summoned his Cannons t-shirt and used it to wipe away the mess, first Malfoy then himself. Malfoy's storm-grey eyes blinked open, catching sight of the orange shirt.

"Glad to see you're using that rag as it should be used."

Harry smirked. "You okay?"

"Dead."

"Dead?"

"Fucked to death." Malfoy groaned and flipped onto his stomach with a hiss. "You're a monster."

Harry chuckled.

"And I've wanted to do that for…" Malfoy's eyes skittered away. "I wanted to do that."

"Me too," Harry admitted, and Malfoy smiled at him—not the smirk or the maniacal grin, but that pleased, warm smile Harry only saw on occasion.

Malfoy wiggled on the bed until they were pressed side by side, as Harry tugged the blankets from beneath them, his skin chilled and covered in goosebumps from the cooling sweat.

He lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, his mind satisfyingly blank.

"So, you have done that before," Malfoy said, voice cutting through the silence.

Harry snorted. "I told you I had."

Malfoy's face pinched when Harry turned his head to look at him. "Right. With Wood."

More silence.

"Was the dead Hufflepuff your first crush, then?"

Harry blinked. "Bloody hell, you sure don't pull your punches."

"No." He twisted towards Harry, clearly awaiting an answer.

"Um. No. First bloke, but not first person, I guess."

"Who was the first?"

"Cho Chang."

Malfoy huffed a disbelieving laugh. "How terribly confusing for you when they got together."

"Yeah."

"You were mine."

"What?"

"First crush."

Harry stared at him, surprised, because what?

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I had questionable taste in school, alright? And don't get a big head about it. I got over it pretty quick."

"Did you now?"

He glared at Harry. "Yes. When I found out what a twat you are. But I suppose I should thank you for the gay awakening. Pansy dumped me when I told her."

"So that's why she hates me?"

"It's one of many reasons she hates you, Potter. You're very hateable." As he said it, he ran his fingertips over Harry's chest, settling against his sternum.

"So what's all this, some kind of childhood revenge?"

Malfoy grinned. "Something like that."

Malfoy's fingers scratching against his skin, over the hair on his chest, had Harry blissed out and drifting. He let his eyes flutter shut at the gentle touch. He was pretty sure he could fall asleep like this.

"I can't believe you let me do this now."

"Do what?" Harry asked without opening his eyes.

"Touch you."

Unable to think of anything intelligent to say, Harry just hummed. Malfoy was right, he was touching him, and Harry suffered none of the usual explosive panic. In fact, all he felt was comfort. Peace.

"Can I stay here?" Malfoy asked, his voice muffled into Harry's shoulder.

"Sure," Harry said, already drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Monday morning, Harry stood in front of the mirror in his room, plucking at the lapel of his freshly laundered Auror uniform. It no longer smelled of musty old magical house, but it still didn't feel quite right. Harry shifted, adjusting the shoulder seam once more, frowning at his reflection.

The first time he donned the uniform, he was elated. It didn't even fit him, hanging loose on his slim frame, but Luna helped him with a few tailoring spells and then they had a party. Everyone was there, all of them proud of Harry for passing his entrance exams ("Can you believe they made Harry Potter take tests to join the Aurors? Bloke has 'Defeated the Dark Lord at Eighteen' at the top of his resume for fuck's sake," Seamus had said, slurring around the rim of his beer bottle). Harry wore the uniform all night—through whisky shots, drinking songs, Ron and Harry's horrible dancing, and a giant, lopsided cake with his name on it that they devoured drunkenly. The uniform had to be laundered twice to get the frosting out, and eventually, Mrs Weasley was brought in to help.

But now, wearing the uniform felt wrong, somehow. When Harry first tried it on, it had to grow into it, but now it pulled tight in all the places it once hung loose.

Thunderous footsteps on the stairs had Harry turning towards the bedroom door right as it flew open. Malfoy burst through, waving a square of parchment and talking a mile a minute.

"The esteemed house of Weasley has sent you post. How adorable! They're having a Christmas party and would like you to—oh."

He stopped dead, the hand holding the card dropping limply to his side.

Harry raised a brow at him in question.

"I'm having very conflicting feelings right now," Malfoy said, eyes raking over Harry's body.

"Okay…"

Malfoy took two steps into Harry's room. "On the one hand, I think the Aurors are a bunch of pompous, power-abusing dicks, most of whom I would invite to take the long walk off the short cliff."

"Merlin," Harry groaned, rolling his eyes.

"But on the other hand…" He drew close, smoothing the flat of his palm down the front of Harry's robe, then slipped between the fastenings to skip down the buttons of his shirt. "You look fucking edible in this uniform."

Harry smirked.

Malfoy hummed, still running his hands over scarlet wool and starched cotton. "I want to suck your cock, but I fear the moral implications of sucking the long dick of the law."

Harry barked out a laugh. "Would you prefer if I sucked yours?"

Malfoy grinned back. "A brilliant compromise. My gods, Potter, you are a diplomat."

Harry chuckled and dropped to his knees.

He really didn't have time for this. Harry ought to down his two cups of sugary coffee and head straight to the Ministry, where Robards no doubt had a stack of paperwork taller than the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower waiting for him. He wasn't naïve enough to think Robards would put him back on big cases. He'd make Harry work for it—the lost Kneazels, the minor potions dealers, the occasional domestic.

Maybe he wasn't in such a rush to get to work after all.

"Don't stain the uniform," Harry said as he parted Malfoy's dressing gown.

Malfoy whined. "But that's the best part!"

"I have to wear it!" he said, hands hesitating on the waistband of Malfoy's slippery sleep trousers.

"Fine. Then I guess that means you have to swallow." Malfoy pressed a thumb against Harry's bottom lip and Harry darted out his tongue to taste it.

"I think I can manage that," Harry said. He glanced at the bedroom door, and it slammed shut, the lock turning with a definitive click.

Malfoy sighed and sunk a hand into Harry's hair.

****

Harry was nearly late on his first day, jogging through the double doors of the DMLE, cheeks pink and breathing heavy.

His uniform made it out unscathed, but Harry looked a little ruffled. His hair was mussed from Malfoy's eager fingers, gripping a fistful of curls as he fucked Harry's throat, all the while humming pretty praises that had Harry's face burning but something buried deep in his chest glowing.

Harry didn't miss a drop when Malfoy came down his throat, but then Malfoy dropped to his knees as well, tearing open Harry's trousers and shoving him flat onto his back on the floor. He apparently got over any conflicting feelings and sucked Harry's cock like he was hungry for it. Maybe he was.

Harry wondered if breaking the no-sex-in-the-house rule was a one time thing, an act of desperation. Now, he wasn't so sure. He was fully in favour of this new development, though it wouldn't make his life any easier because Harry still had to control himself around Zabini and Parkinson (and also Hermione, who kept appearing unannounced. Or at least, unannounced to Harry). But what about behind closed doors, were all bets off?

Based on their morning activities, Harry really hoped so.

"Harry fucking Potter!" A familiar voice boomed across the DMLE bullpen, causing every eye to raise from their paperwork or their Floo calls to turn and stare at him.

Harry suppressed his wince, instead straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. This was no place to show weakness, especially not on his first day back.

The greeting came from Edgar McNeil, Harry's handler and desk-mate after he was promoted from Trainee, and Harry relaxed infinitesimally.

He liked McNeil. He was friendly and earnest and despite being with the department over ten years, seemed immune to the posturing and dick swinging the others were prone to.

"Hey, McNeil," Harry said, accepting his hearty, one-armed hug, which was thankfully brief.

"I heard rumours you were coming back."

"Oh yeah? From who?"

"Well Robards has been storming around all last week like someone pissed in his cuppa, so I knew it had to be you."

Harry laughed. "Glad to know I still have that effect."

McNeil herded Harry towards his former desk at the back of the bullpen, facing his own. It was bare save for dusty filing trays, an empty quill holder, and a bin with a few crumpled wads of parchment.

"I wanted to decorate it," he said, gesturing to the desk. "Attach a few of those exploding Whizzbangs your mate at the Wheezes sells, maybe get a cake with your reinstatement date, get Tierney in Legal to bring in his French horn, but I scrapped it. I'm not sure I'd make it out of a hearing with the DMLE Council unscathed like you."

Harry smirked, blowing the dust from his desk. "What makes you think I'm unscathed?"

"You look in one piece."

"Held together by Spellotape."

"Same as always, then," he said, elbowing Harry before dropping into the chair behind his desk. He leaned back, hands tucked behind his head, chair squeaking in protest beneath his considerable bulk. He smiled slyly at Harry, and Harry knew what was coming before he spoke. "Been seeing your pretty mug all over the papers these past few months."

"You sure that's me? No one's calling me pretty."

He laughed. "Then you clearly aren't keeping up with the press."

"You know I never do."

His smile widened. "Having a good time out there, Potter?"

"I suppose."

He sighed. "What I would give to be young again."

"You're thirty-five, McNeil."

"I know, and look at me! I look closer to fifty. This job will suck the youth out of you. You mark my words. Say, is that a grey hair you've got there?"

"What?" Harry asked, hand flying to his head, only for McNeil to howl with laughter.

Harry opened his mouth to shoot back, but before he could, the door to the Head Auror's office swung open and crashed against the wall. Robards stepped out, scowling, scanning the room. When his eyes landed on Harry, his expression darkened, and he pivoted on his heel, heading straight for him.

"Potter," Robards barked. He waved his wand and a stack of parchment nearly a foot tall whipped from his office and fell into step beside him before landing squarely on Harry's desk.

"I know you're expecting royal fanfare for your return, but this is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, not one of your bloody nightclubs. Your first assignment will be to input these incident reports."

Harry glanced at the handwritten reports in front of him, then squinted. "I can barely read them," he said. "This is written in pink ink. And this one is covered in tea." Harry lifted the report, the parchment crispy and brown.

"That's why they've piled up. Get to work." He turned and disappeared back into his office, the door closing with a bang as the shutters dropped.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"He's instructed everyone to ignore you," McNeil said, selecting a folder from the stack and flipping through its pages.

"What?"

"Said he'd be docking holiday time for anyone who helped you or gave you special treatment. Pretty sure we're not even supposed to acknowledge your existence."

"So, why are you talking to me?"

McNeil shrugged. "I'm already scheduled to work Christmas and New Year. He's got nothing left to hold over me." He grinned, crooked teeth gleaming. "Pity I can't help you with these, though. I've got to see a man about an illegal Amortentia production ring."

"That sounds more interesting than…" He squinted at the scribbles on the first page. "Does this say a sentient yule log?"

"I think it says sensitive yellow dog? No, that can't be right."

Harry groaned and dropped the page back on the stack. "Promise you'll tell me all about it?"

"Wouldn't miss that chance," he said as he stood. He gave Harry a friendly slap on the shoulder, then gathered his robes and stalked out of the DMLE.

Harry sighed and settled into his chair. He might as well get to work, because as soon as he got through Robards' inane punishment, the sooner he could get back to proper cases.

Or go the fuck home.

****

The following two weeks of work droned on while Harry remained buried in endless piles of paperwork. By the end of each day, Harry's arse felt flat and numb from sitting for so long, his eyes burning behind his glasses.

Things at home, however, had changed drastically. Harry blamed the uniform, in part, because every time Harry slipped through the door to the flat, Malfoy was shooting him heated looks.

The no-sex-at-home rule went from in question to out the fucking window. As soon as Parkinson left for work or Zabini swanned away to do Merlin knew what, Malfoy was on him, pressing him into the wall or shoving him towards the bedroom, hand already down Harry's trousers.

One evening after work, Harry went straight to the shower, desperate to wash away the stale air and burnt coffee smell of the DMLE offices. He was sighing into the hot spray as it pounded down his back, loosening the tight muscles, when he heard the soft click of the door opening and then shutting. Before Harry could think to defend himself, the curtain was thrust aside and Malfoy—completely naked—pushed his way inside. Without a word, he kissed Harry, open-mouthed and messy, like he'd been waiting all day for this. Harry returned the kiss, pressing Malfoy against the cool tile, running his hands over slick skin. Malfoy was gasping in a matter of moments. He let out an echoing groan when Harry spun him around, slicked between his legs with soap, and fucked into the tight space between his thighs. He stripped Malfoy's cock with a slippery hand until Malfoy cried out and painted the tile with his release.

Things only got more dangerous from there because now it seemed like whenever they were in the same room, Harry's brain fogged over with lust. All he could think about while Malfoy made his morning coffee was licking a stripe up that long, pale neck. Every time he caught Malfoy listening to the Walkman with his eyes shut, Harry imagined pressing him into the sofa and fucking him face-down until he came all over the cushions.

Malfoy seemed no better off, though he delighted in teasing Harry whenever possible. Consummate arsehole he was, he kept touching Harry—little brushes of his fingers over the back of Harry's neck when Parkinson had her back turned, or a swat on the arse when Zabini had his head in the fridge.

They still went out, but Harry's enthusiasm flagged early and more often than not, Malfoy followed him home, chasing Harry to his bedroom where he kept him a willing captive until morning.

It was the strangest thing because for all the nights Harry spent in bed with Malfoy, Harry had yet to catch him sleeping. Nights on the sofa became less frequent, so long as Harry stayed put in whichever bed they claimed that night.

Harry would wake to find Malfoy flipping through a book (usually something he found in Harry's room) or just laying there with his eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Harry wanted to ask him about it, but never got the chance, because as soon as Malfoy caught him awake and watching, Harry had that pale, lithe body pressed up against him, forcing away all coherent thoughts.

For all the brilliant sex Harry was having (and fuck, it was brilliant), something felt off, though he couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the domesticity of it all, fucking all night only to wake up wrapped around him before they shared breakfast or a cup of coffee until Harry ran out the door. It was a feeling Harry chose not to examine for fear that he wouldn't like what he found. Or worse, that he would like it and then where would he be?

Malfoy didn't do relationships. It was sex or nothing, and as long as Harry kept fucking him to his satisfaction, Malfoy seemed disinclined to bring anyone else home. So, Harry did exactly that.

If Parkinson and Zabini noticed anything, they didn't comment. Harry reckoned they were so thrilled to be free of sexile that they didn't want to disrupt their small sliver of newfound peace, and Harry felt much the same, even if being at home and around Malfoy was torture.

On a Thursday evening, Harry arrived home late from work. He could finally see the bottom of the piles of paperwork Robards dropped on his desk, and in a desperate attempt to finish it, Harry stayed until after dark, ambling home grumpy with his stomach growling.

Too lazy to make anything elaborate, Harry shucked his Auror robes by the door and went straight to the kitchen where he filled a pot with water for pasta. A simple spaghetti would do the trick, but as soon as Harry reemerged from the fridge, ingredients in hand, Malfoy was standing there, leaning against the wall.

Harry blinked at him, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I mean, what are you doing here now? It's after dark. Shouldn't you be off drinking, dancing, and sneaking cigarettes?"

Malfoy pouted at him and stepped closer. "I'm not sneaking cigarettes."

"Liar," Harry said. He shouldered past Malfoy towards the stove, where he opened a can of tomatoes and dumped them into a Summoned pot.

"You've not been keeping an eye on me."

Harry rolled his head to look at him. "You're joking. All I do is stare at you."

Malfoy's cheeks coloured and his eyes crinkled at the corners, smile slipping from its usual haughty angle to something genuine and charming.

Harry looked away.

"You were supposed to be home hours ago."

"I stayed late to finish paperwork."

Malfoy's expression soured. "They're making Harry Potter do the paperwork?"

"Robards enjoys torturing me."

Malfoy snorted. He spun, hopping up onto the kitchen counter next to the stove, dressing gown falling open to reveal the smooth, pale planes of his chest.

"You, apparently, also enjoy torturing me."

Malfoy laughed brightly. "In what way?"

Harry waved absently at Malfoy's naked chest, his low-slung trousers, and bare feet.

"But this is how I always dress at home."

"Exactly."

Malfoy bit his lip around a grin and Harry kept his attention on the pot of water, sending a small burst of magic that had it nearly boiling over, which made Malfoy laugh.

Malfoy said nothing, but Harry could feel his eyes on him, watching his every move until Harry was flushed and fumbling as he dumped pasta into the water.

"What," he said flatly.

"Oh nothing. I just like watching you cook."

"I dropped pasta in boiling water. It's hardly cooking," he grumbled.

Harry heard the snarky grin in Malfoy's voice, even if he refused to look at him. "It's still sexy."

Harry snorted, and Malfoy scooted a little closer.

"I told you I'm a slag for good food," he said.

Harry made the mistake of darting a glance in Malfoy's direction in time to catch Malfoy's hand drop to the front of those ridiculous silky trousers, palming his cock through the fabric.

Harry glared at him, to which Malfoy grinned back. Harry returned his eyes to his work, though his vision was already blurring.

Malfoy began to rock his hips, making small, breathy noises as his dick plumped, the silk leaving little to the imagination.

Harry's mouth flooded with saliva, his prick twitching and hardening. He shot Malfoy a nasty look, teeth bared, but instead of knocking it off, Malfoy's eyes went glassy and he gasped, squeezing his cock through his trousers as a dark spot of moisture bloomed on the fabric.

Harry glanced at the door to the kitchen. Parkinson was probably still home, but the living room was empty and he heard no other signs of life. With a growl, Harry threw a Stasis Charm at the pots on the stove and pushed between Malfoy's spread legs.

Malfoy chuckled, low and pleased, as he dragged Harry in by the collar of his shirt.

"Quiet," Harry said as he tugged down Malfoy's trousers, snapping the waistband against his bollocks just to hear him hiss.

"When am I ever quiet?" Malfoy said with a breathy moan as Harry wrapped a hand around his cock.

Harry's grip was tight but too dry to be pleasurable. Without thinking, he snagged the bottle of olive oil from beside the stove and dumped it into his hand.

"No. Don't you da—oh my god," Malfoy groaned as Harry's palm slipped over the hard, velvety flesh.

Malfoy bucked into Harry's hand, body rolling and writhing. He was always so damned responsive and it had Harry aching in his trousers, breaths coming hard and fast.

"Fuck, Harry, I'm—" Malfoy murmured, twitching, convulsing, and then he was coming with a low moan. Harry slammed a hand over his mouth to quiet him, then replaced it with his lips, kissing him through it, hard and vicious, as Malfoy clung to him, shaking from over-stimulation.

When Harry finally released him, Malfoy slumped, his head hitting the cupboards behind him as he sighed. He didn't even bother to put his cock away, simply melted into a boneless heap on the counter.

Harry stepped back and wiped his hand on a dishtowel. But before he could withdraw the Stasis Charm on the stove, Malfoy caught him by the front of his shirt.

"Where do you think you're going?" He lifted one eyebrow and glanced at the bulge in Harry's scarlet uniform trousers.

Harry didn't protest, and Malfoy slid from the counter to the floor, dragging Harry's zipper down as he went. Harry hissed as Malfoy's lips wrapped around him, sucking his dick into the hot, wet cavern of his mouth.

Maybe Harry ought to be getting used to Malfoy blowing him in barely concealed spaces—he did it all the bloody time—but, fuck, could anyone get used to that? The thrill zinged through Harry's body, igniting the constant, heady desire that flickered to life whenever Malfoy was in the same room.

Harry bit down to keep from moaning when Malfoy curled his tongue around the tip of Harry's cock before swallowing him back down. He had a clever fucking mouth, unlike Harry had ever felt. It drove Harry mad, the way he would drag him quickly to the edge, only to ease off, leaving Harry panting. As soon as he was breathing normally, Malfoy would start all over again, Harry's mind lost to a lustful haze.

Fuck, it was good.

In the living room, a door slammed. They both froze, Malfoy's slick, swollen mouth still wrapped around Harry's cock.

The slam was followed by the click of heels on the hardwood.

"Draco, are you here?" Parkinson called from the living room.

Malfoy hummed around Harry's dick loud enough for Parkinson to hear.

"No. Not again," Harry grumbled. He attempted to pull away, tugging at his trousers, but Malfoy stilled him with a hard grip on his wrist.

"Have you seen my gloves with the fur cuffs?" Parkinson asked.

Through gritted teeth, Harry whispered, "Basket next to the front door."

"Basket by the door, love," Malfoy repeated, grinning, his hot breath ghosting over Harry's cock.

There was some shuffling from the living room, and Malfoy took the opportunity to swallow Harry straight down to the hilt. His throat worked around the sensitive head and Harry curled forward, jaw clenched and fingers tightening in Malfoy's hair. But Malfoy, the bastard, liked his hair pulled and groaned around Harry's dick.

"Shit," Harry hissed.

"There they are!" Parkinson called. "I'm off to work. See you later."

Malfoy pulled off, tongue darting out to lick across Harry's slit, swiping away the welling bead of precome. "Bye, darling," he called back.

More footsteps, and then the front door banged shut.

Harry growled, gave Malfoy's hair a tug, and shoved his cock in his mouth. Malfoy made a high sound of surprise, followed by a deep groan. His body went lax except for his hands, which gripped Harry's arse as he thrust into his soft, willing mouth.

Harry slid a hand around the back of Malfoy's skull to cushion his head against the counter as Harry fucked his mouth and throat. He was thanked with a squeeze to his arsecheeks and a soft look in Malfoy's watery eyes.

Harry pulled off and came all over his face.

He collapsed against the counter, hands propping himself up as he slowed his breaths.

Malfoy, the arsehole, started laughing.

"You are such a prick," Harry said, though it lacked any real bite.

"And you're a filthy bastard," Malfoy said, pushing to his feet.

"Why does this keep happening?"

"Because you like the risk as much as I do." He grabbed the dishtowel Harry wiped his hand on earlier and rubbed it over his face.

"You missed a spot," Harry said, grimacing at the pale, sticky mess all over Malfoy's grinning face.

"Why don't you help me?" Malfoy said, then lunged at Harry, grabbing him behind the ears and dragging him into a kiss. At first, Harry struggled, trying to push him away because he was still covered in come and it was fucking gross. But his mouth was so warm, inviting, and almost familiar, though it hadn't lost a bit of the original thrill.

At last, Harry shoved him, snatching the towel from his hand and smashing it against Malfoy's face as he laughed.

"And you call me the filthy one," Harry grumbled, turning back towards the stove.

"Consider it payback for that time in the nasty loo. And it serves you right for ruining my trousers," Malfoy said. He wiped the last of the mess from his face and tossed the towel aside.

Harry glanced over to see the silky grey trousers stained with oil and semen, crumpled beyond repair.

"You ruined your own trousers," Harry replied. "Now let me be or no one gets pasta."

Malfoy hummed and hopped back up on the counter next to Harry—dirty trousers and all—to watch him stir the sauce.

"Tell me about all the exciting paperwork Robards subjected you to today," Malfoy said, leaning back against the cupboards.

Harry smirked. "Entered a report today for a bloke found tied up in fluffy pink handcuffs in a Muggle motel in Kent."

"Scandalous," Malfoy purred.

"The really scandalous part was that his wife returned after the Aurors already showed up."

Malfoy grinned and laughed through the rest of Harry's story, and the next one about the mice in the vents that were called in as a suspected poltergeist. While they ate, Malfoy told Harry of a new potion he read about in a medical journal promising to cure hiccups and the abysmal scores for the Cannons' most recent match against Ballycastle.

They didn't talk about why Malfoy didn't go out that night, or why after dinner and a Quidditch match on the wireless, Malfoy followed Harry to his room and slipped between the covers without comment. They also didn't talk about Harry waking in the night with a shout to a swirl of nightmares, or how Malfoy simply shushed him back to sleep with a hand in his hair.

Harry didn't know what he would say to that, anyway.

****

Harry hesitated outside Ron and Liz's house, the entrance adorned in holly boughs and enough Christmas lights to be seen from space.

He'd been looking forward to Ron's party ever since he received an invitation—some sense of holiday normalcy despite his life being totally upended. Anywhere Ron was normally felt like a second home, but that wasn't why Harry lingered, shifting in front of the gate.

Last week, Ron met Harry after work for a quick drink at another generic Muggle pub between the Ministry and Diagon Alley. It was fine and easy until Ron started twitching, and then asked Harry if he planned to come to the Christmas party.

"Course," Harry told him. "Wouldn't miss it for anything."

Ron chewed his lip, drumming a rhythm on the side of his pint glass. "I'm glad you said that, mate, because I've got to tell you something."

Harry waited.

"Ginny told me she'll be there. I had to invite her, Harry, she's my sister. And it's Christmas. I almost didn't expect her to accept, but she did and—"

"Ron." Harry halted him with a hand on Ron's forearm, stilling his frantic gesturing. "It's fine."

Ron's eyes darted across Harry's face, likely looking for the lie. "Is it?"

"Yeah."

"And you're still coming?"

"Absolutely."

The nervous tension leaked from Ron and he smiled, slumping in his chair. "Bloody hell. That's a relief."

Despite Harry's insistence, he didn't know how to feel. The possibility of Ginny showing up to the party occurred to him as soon as he saw the invitation. There was no way Ron would exclude his sister on Christmas, and not going to Ron's party was unfathomable to Harry. He always spent Christmas with Ron—either at The Burrow or George and Angelina's. Last year was the first without Hermione, but Hermione didn't care about Christmas the way Ron did. Ron started decorating the moment Halloween passed, and now, with the new house, he'd probably gone completely overboard. Just the thought of it made Harry smile.

What would it be like to see Ginny again? Would it hurt, or had he numbed over in the months without her? There was zero contact since Ginny moved out, and Harry worried that seeing her would tear away the scab and start the bleeding anew.

Harry turned over the possible outcomes all week, playing out each version in his mind: the one where Harry remained aloof, the one where he shouted, and the one where he cried like a baby, but none of them felt right. None of them felt like them.

Now that the moment was upon him, Harry stood frozen, unable to step forward or back.

"Are you out here looking at the stars too?" came a soft, musical voice directly behind him.

Recognising it immediately, Harry smiled as he turned.

"Too busy freaking out to even notice the stars," he said with a lopsided grin. "Hey, Luna."

"Hello, Harry," she said and dipped forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "Why are you freaking out?"

"Oh, you know." Harry shrugged. "Might be a bit weird."

Harry didn't elaborate and knew he wouldn't have to. Luna understood, nodding sagely.

"That's true. But there are also a lot of people in there who are very excited to see you. Everyone loves you and Ginny separately as much as they loved you together."

Harry chuckled softly. "Thanks, Luna."

"We can go in together if you like."

Harry nodded. "That would be nice."

She smiled at him and curled one willowy arm around Harry's elbow.

"That's a very nice jacket," Harry said, noting the plush fabric.

"Thank you for noticing. It was handmade by a Viking priestess from the beard of a Fossegrimmen. It's spelled to resist trickery. And it's also quite warm."

She patted Harry's arm and, reassured by her familiar presence, he knocked on the door. It swung open immediately, and Ron stood there, beaming. He threw his arms around them, crushing them both to his chest.

"Hello Harry, Luna," Ron said against the top of Luna's head.

Harry laughed because Ron smelled like home—wool and firewood, but also brandy because he was clearly at least three glasses of eggnog deep.

Ron released them, eyes a little shiny. "Come in, come in, give me your coats." He laughed. "Did you hear that? I sound like mum!"

He chuckled as he collected Harry's leather jacket and Luna's Fossegrimmen coat and skipped off to the closet.

Liz appeared then. She pressed a glass of whisky with a single ice cube into Harry's hand and a flute of sparkling champagne into Luna's.

"Hello, love," she said, squeezing Harry's arm, then withdrawing very purposefully. Harry bit down on his smile, certain Ron had talked to her about Harry's aversion to touch, and he loved both of them even more for it.

Liz kissed Luna, complimenting her dress. They started chatting amicably about Luna's trip, the weather, and the colour Liz selected for the living room walls, but Harry's attention was already drifting. His eyes scanned the room. Propped next to the fireplace, Seamus waved to him, sloshing his pint all over Dean's new girlfriend, while Dean looked on with fond amusement as she flailed.

Neville was there, busy chatting with Lee Jordan, looking tall and slim and impossibly grown up. Honestly, who saw that one coming? Not Harry.

Harry accepted a squeeze from George as he passed, and another from Angelina, around her massive pregnant belly.

And then he saw her.

A flash of red hair in a Weasley household shouldn't have caught Harry's attention, but it did. And then she was all he could see.

Ginny looked beautiful in trousers and a green top, clothing Harry didn't recognise from the years they shared a closet. She had curled her hair at the ends, which Harry found very pretty, and she was laughing at something Parvati said. She turned, her eyes catching on Harry. She smiled softly.

It wasn't the reaction Harry imagined. He braced himself for discomfort, anger, disappointment, but received none of those. Ginny placed her hand against Parvati's shoulder and excused herself, beelining for Harry while he stood there like a lump, holding his whisky and waiting.

Ginny's smile widened as she stood in front of him, causing the creases at the corners of her mouth that Harry loved so much. She reached out a hand and brushed it against Harry's arm—a gentle touch, and not unwelcome. Ginny was endlessly patient with Harry's squeamishness around touch, and as a result, hers became a comfort, a balm for his frazzled nerves. Even now, the effect was the same.

"Harry," she said. "It's good to see you."

All the snarky, witty remarks he rehearsed in his mind melted away and Harry smiled back. "You too, Gin."

"Ron told you I was coming, right?" she asked, her posture tightening slightly.

Harry nodded and she relaxed.

"Thank Merlin. Wouldn't put it past my brother, you know."

Harry hummed in response, unable to form words, while she studied him with soft eyes.

"How are you? You look good."

"I'm—" Harry thought about it for a moment. "I'm alright. Getting better."

"Yeah?" She laughed but it sounded all wrong, small and sad. "It's been shit for me."

Harry's heart lurched, his throat constricting painfully.

"What?" he choked out.

She cast her eyes up at the ceiling, as if looking at him was too painful.

"I miss you. Fuck, we were friends forever before we were—" She gestured at the space between them. "I'm having a horrible time trying to figure out how to live my life without you."

Harry's chest ached because he knew exactly what she meant. "Me too," he admitted.

"I promised myself I wouldn't do this. I don't want you to think…" She sighed. "It was the right choice, wasn't it? I know you didn't think so at the time, but now?"

Harry didn't expect her to come out and say it like that, though he should have known better. Ginny never shied away from a damn thing. So, Harry thought hard about that one, and not for the first time. He'd turned that question over and over in his mind like a well-worn Sickle in his pocket.

Things were different. Harry's life was different. It wasn't better, or worse, and some days he hardly recognised it as his own, but he liked it. There was relief he hadn't felt in years, a release of tension he didn't know he was holding. He still struggled, but when he remembered to let go, what went with it was his fears and apprehensions about what people thought of him, about doing the right thing to a standard he barely understood.

Would he have lived his life with Ginny fulfilled and happy? Probably. But Ginny deserved more from him—something authentic Harry wasn't ready to give. And now that he'd reclaimed it, she'd moved on. Maybe so had he.

Ginny was looking at him with shiny eyes but squared shoulders. She never faltered, every decision made with intent and precision. Ginny didn't want him back, and he hadn't even thought to hope.

"Yeah," Harry said at last. "It was the right choice. I miss you like crazy. I had to move out of Grimmauld Place or I'd lose my mind. But you were right. I was just following with everyone else's plan for me."

"Are you still?"

Harry laughed. "Honestly, Gin? I have no fucking idea where I'm going. Honestly, just along for the ride. See where I end up."

"I think that's exactly what you need." Her smile went a little crooked. "You certainly look like you've been having fun."

Harry's smile fell away. "Ginny, no. Tell me you aren't still reading that shite."

She grinned now. "Not intentionally! Mum sends the newspaper clippings to me sometimes. You know she's still scrapbooking your entire life? She thinks we'll patch things up once I see that you're out clubbing with a bunch of celebrities and wasted youths. They're calling you the bad-boy Auror now. It's hilarious."

Harry swiped a hand across his face under his glasses. "That's so embarrassing. And totally untrue."

"So you aren't clubbing, smoking cigarettes, and drinking yourself silly with Krum and bloody Malfoy?" She was teasing him now, something familiar and easy that outlasted friendship and relationship alike.

"Might have."

She cackled. "God, Harry, are you dancing?"

"Maybe." He smirked at her.

"I would kill to see that."

"Come along sometime."

She laughed and shook her head. "Wish I could. Not yet. Maybe someday."

Harry's smile shrunk, but he nodded. "That's what Hermione said."

"Yeah. I wish she was here."

Ginny felt the Hermione-shaped hole in their lives as much as anyone did. The lot of them—Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Harry, even George—spent so much time together that Hermione removing herself after Ron broke up with her was a bit like losing a limb. They all still suffered the phantom ache of her absence.

"She said maybe next year."

Ginny looked at him. "Are we going to be like that Harry?"

Harry's heart squeezed. "I hope not. I mean, we're here, right? Talking, being civilised, only crying a little."

"I am not crying. Don't you dare spread that rumour," she said, batting him lightly on the shoulder with one fist while wiping her eye with the other.

Harry held up his hands, but he smiled at her. "We'll be alright. Maybe we won't jump right into clubbing, but coffee when you're in town for a match?"

She smiled back. "Make it a beer and a shot of Ogden's and you've got yourself a deal."

"Sounds perfect."

****

It was nearly one in the morning by the time Harry stumbled out of the comfort of Ron's house. Luna left lipstick on his face when she kissed him goodbye. Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville all hugged him so hard and for so long Harry thought he might pop, but it was a gentle squeeze of his hand from Ginny as he put on his coat that had his heart in his throat.

Harry left feeling warm inside and out, with leftover Christmas pudding tucked under his arm.

Some part of him had healed over. Though still tender to the touch, Harry was whole again. He would likely be returning to a dark and empty flat that Christmas Eve, but Harry thought he could survive on the warmth in his chest for days.

Harry was still grinning when he pushed open the door to the flat, whistling some obnoxious Christmas tune. He sent the pudding to the kitchen with a wave, then turned to remove his jacket.

Movement on the dark staircase in his peripheral made Harry jump, and he was surprised to find Malfoy standing there.

Malfoy made a big show about going out that night, announcing to Harry that he didn't give a fuck about Christmas and that he and Jack were going to get sloshed and go dancing. He acted weird all afternoon, glowering at Harry as he dressed for Ron's party, then flat-out ignoring him when Harry attempted to say goodbye.

Now that Harry was looking at him, Malfoy wasn't dressed for the club. He was hardly dressed at all, in his usual dressing gown. There was a worrisome wildness in his eyes, his hair unstyled and fluffy.

Harry halted, arm half out of his jacket. Malfoy jogged the rest of the way down the stairs to stand directly in front of Harry.

"Erm, hi," Harry said. But that was all he got because Malfoy pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

Harry startled for a moment, then promptly forgot to wonder what the fuck was going on because Malfoy was kissing him and that was all that mattered.

There was an intensity to this kiss that Harry didn't recognise. The desperation was always there, but this almost seemed frightened, or perhaps even angry. Malfoy clutched Harry’s shirt and his hair, his shoulders bunched at his ears and his mouth hungry.

Harry had to hold him at a distance to get a breath in.

"Hang on," he said, one hand on Malfoy's chest and the other at his jaw. "What's wrong?"

Malfoy's gaze flicked up from Harry's mouth to his eyes. "It's Christmas."

Harry nodded, lost.

"I fucking hate Christmas." Malfoy licked his lips. "You saw her, didn't you. Weasley."

Harry's eyebrows twitched up, but he nodded. "Yeah. I saw her."

Malfoy's cheeks flushed, visible even in the low light, and he shook his head sharply. "It doesn't matter. I don't care," he said, and then Harry was being kissed into the wall again.

Any additional protests were forgotten when Malfoy got a hand under Harry's shirt, pinching his nipples and scratching nails down his back hard enough to leave marks.

Things escalated quickly after that.

They barely made it to Malfoy's bedroom before they were both completely naked and Harry was pushing spit-slick fingers into Malfoy's arse while he attempted to ruffle through the drawer for lube.

It was hurried and rough. Harry took him on all fours, face pressed into the pillow, which was a pity because Malfoy was gorgeous when he came. But apparently, Malfoy needed it like this because whenever Harry tried to slow it down, tried to gentle his touch or soften the kiss, Malfoy was clawing at him, begging for "more" and "harder." So, Harry obliged.

Malfoy came with a sob, his body wracked with tremors, clenching almost painfully around Harry's cock. It was enough to push Harry to the edge, and he grabbed the base of his dick, ready to pull out and paint Malfoy's long, pale back with his come, but Malfoy stopped him. He shot out an arm and grabbed Harry by the wrist, pink face turned to one side on the pillow.

"Come inside me," he said, voice rumbling and hoarse.

Harry gripped his hip and in three more strokes he came deep inside Malfoy's body. Harry's vision whited out and he likely made a sound like he was dying because Malfoy's arse was so hot and tight and slick from the mess of lube Harry dumped all over in desperation to get inside of him.

Harry rolled off to avoid crushing him as they collapsed.

Malfoy turned his face on the pillow to look at Harry, and Harry looked back. Malfoy reached out a hand and pushed an errant curl from Harry's face, fingers brushing lightly against the scar on his forehead before combing over his scalp.

"I'm going to smoke," Malfoy said.

"Not allowed."

"Weed."

"Questionable."

"It's Christmas."

Harry huffed. "Fine."

"Are you coming?"

"Sure."

Malfoy rolled from bed with a sigh. He grabbed a hoodie Harry thought he'd lost last week and pulled it on while Harry Summoned joggers and a warm shirt from his room.

Malfoy paused next to the open window and turned to Harry. "I don't want to hear about your party," he said. "I don't want to know that you had a good time, or what you said to your ex."

"Okay," Harry said, not understanding why but agreeing anyway because it felt weird to talk to Malfoy about all the friends from school he used to hate.

"Okay," Malfoy repeated with a nod and crawled out the window.

At the last moment, Harry Summoned the comforter from his room and dragged it out onto the roof with him. He tossed it to Malfoy as his Warming Charms slipped around them like a cloak.

They sat in silence while Malfoy rolled a joint and Harry stared at the lights of the city beyond.

"I didn't always hate Christmas," Malfoy said as he placed the joint between his lips. Harry lit it for him with a snap of his fingers.

"Used to love it." Malfoy exhaled smoke. "Presents, food, decorations, everyone collectively pretending to be happy for twenty-four hours. Christmas was the best day of the year growing up. The Manor transformed, it glowed gold and smelled of pine and cinnamon instead of dusty old magic. We all loved it. But now?" He shook his head and took another hit on the joint. "I wonder if they even know it's Christmas."

Harry looked at him.

"My parents," he said, answering the question in Harry's eyes. "Time moves differently there. It drags so unbelievably slow you think you'll go mad before you reach the next minute. But the days turn to night and eventually, the seasons change, all while you sit there rotting."

Harry thought Grimmauld Place and Azkaban might have something in common.

Malfoy passed the joint to Harry but kept his gaze fixed ahead of him.

"In the winter, the nights were so long. And it's dark as a dungeon in those cells. So dark you can hardly tell if your eyes are open or shut. Don’t know if you’re awake or asleep. Or dead.”

Harry took a long inhale on the joint, then placed it in Malfoy's outstretched fingers.

"I didn't even have it as bad as some. There are levels, you know."

Harry didn't, but he kept his mouth shut. It was embarrassing how little he knew about the prison he made it his job to fill.

"They sort you based on how bad your crimes are. Minimum to maximum security. They put me somewhere in the middle. Not even because I was a threat, but because they wanted to keep me in isolation." He snorted and hit the joint, the smoke trailing from his nostrils as he spoke.

"Do you know what extended isolation will do to a person? Do to their mind? Fuck, Harry, you wouldn't believe the silence. It was like sitting in my own bloody crypt." Malfoy shook his head, staring out at nothing. "Fucking hate the silence."

Harry found himself nodding. "Yeah. Me too."

Malfoy paused and looked at him, then turned away. "Maybe it's best they don't know it's Christmas."

Harry said nothing. He learned sometimes that was better. Harry couldn't fix what happened to him, couldn't save his parents. No one could. So Harry did what was in the realm of his capabilities, which was to sit a little closer. Malfoy cut him a glance, then sighed as he slumped against Harry's side.

It wasn't much, but it was what Harry could offer.

"I didn't expect you back," Malfoy said as Harry tugged the joint from between his fingers and placed it between his own lips, inhaling deeply.

"Why? I live here."

"Yeah, you live here now. But… it's Christmas."

Harry shrugged. "Everyone goes home at the end of the night. Why wouldn't I?"

Malfoy blinked at him. "I just didn't expect you to think of this as home."

"Don't you?"

"Of course," he said, voice soft. "Of course I do."

Harry shook his head. Sometimes he felt like he was missing something, a vital piece of the puzzle that Malfoy didn't want him to have. But now didn't seem like the right time to push, to ask for things that Malfoy wasn't ready to offer. So, instead, Harry remained quiet, smoking the joint and then just sitting.

"Would you look at that?" Malfoy said lifting a hand to catch a snowflake out of the air before it burned up in Harry's Warming Charm. "It's a bloody Christmas miracle. Take it down," he said, patting Harry's thigh until Harry withdrew the bubble of spells.

They both shivered as the cold air hit them, but now there were snowflakes collecting on the blanket, the roof tiles, and in Malfoy's hair.

"We're going to be cold and miserable in a few minutes," Harry said.

"Yeah, but that's in a few minutes."

Harry grumbled but held out a hand to capture a snowflake and watched it melt in his palm.

Malfoy grabbed that hand and tugged it to his chest, then he wilted back onto the roof so he could look up at the sky. "Stay here for now."

Harry dropped down next to him, wiggling until he settled close enough that they could share body heat under the blanket.

It was dizzying, staring up into the pale grey sky as the tiny flakes floated down onto them, catching in Harry's eyelashes and melting on his cheeks.

"I still hate Christmas," Malfoy said, then squeezed the hand Harry hadn't realised he was still holding. "But this isn't the absolute worst."

"Would it make it better if I told you there was pudding in the fridge?"

Malfoy turned to him and grinned, wide and toothy.

"Food will always make it better." He twisted to lean over Harry, took his face in his hands, and kissed him. Not one of the fast, hard, hungry kisses Harry was used to. This one was softer, slower, and sweet enough to make his heart ache.

Malfoy pulled away and dropped back to the roof with a huff.

"The pudding can wait a few more minutes," he said.

Chapter Text

On Christmas morning, Harry shuffled into the kitchen and was surprised to find Hermione hunched over a mug of coffee and wearing Parkinson's floral dressing gown.

Harry raised his eyebrows as he entered the room, but she levelled him with a glare that Harry knew meant not to speak until she'd consumed her first dose of caffeine. Without a word, she filled Harry's Cannons mug and pushed it towards him along with the sugar bowl, and they stood there, side by side, drinking coffee and staring out the window.

Eventually, Hermione sighed, and Harry knew that was all the permission he'd get.

"I have questions," he said.

"It was just drinks at Ginger's with all the other lonely people."

"Ginger's? Where Parkinson works."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, Harry."

"Which is… a bar?"

"Yes, Harry."

"How come I wasn't invited?"

She glanced at him. "Not sure you'd fit in."

"Why? I'm adaptable."

She huffed a small laugh and sipped her coffee. "Not that adaptable."

Harry continued staring at her, waiting, and she huffed, placing her coffee on the counter to face Harry with her arms crossed. "It's a bar for women."

Harry nodded.

"Who like the company of other women."

Harry grinned and nodded again.

"Is that all you're going to do, Harry? Nod like a bobblehead while smiling like you've uncovered some kind of great bloody secret?"

"Haven't I?"

She scoffed. "It was never a secret. You're just not paying attention."

Harry's glee soured a little as the guilt crept in, but Hermione halted him with a hand on his shoulder. "And because I wasn't ready to talk about it yet. It’s very… new. "

"You don't have to talk about it if you don’t want."

"I know. But I suppose I might as well. You of all people might understand."

Harry smiled softly at her and put an arm around her shoulders. She reclaimed her coffee, and they went on drinking until Hermione broke the silence.

"How was Ron's Christmas party?"

Harry tightened the arm around her instinctively as he shrugged. "It was nice. You were missed."

"He sent me an invitation."

Harry hummed, surprised but also not. Ron could be pigheaded, but he held no grudge against Hermione. Harry knew Ron hoped they could be friends again, but it seemed a touch idealistic. Ron gutted Hermione when he broke it off. Nasty words were shared: she accused Ron of being codependent, he called Hermione a single-minded workaholic, and Harry was trapped in the middle, head spinning and heart aching because there was nothing he could do.

Ron was better off, Harry saw that right away. After the breakup he was free, no longer forced to live the serious, driven life Hermione wanted, but to have his own. Ron travelled—went to visit Charlie in Romania and Bill in France. He focused on product development at the Wheezes and joined a pickup Quidditch league where he met Liz and from there, everything came up roses for Ron. Harry was happy for him. Ron deserved all the good things, but Hermione took it hard.

She became withdrawn and angry, lashing out like a wounded animal. Harry worried she would work herself to death and took it upon himself to drag her out of the office for lunch, or demand she go home before eight on a Saturday night.

A year and a half later, things were only marginally better. Ron and Hermione still shared a lot of friends, though they saw them separately. Neither of them forced Harry in any one direction, which Harry appreciated though he wouldn't have blamed them if it happened.

But now, standing in the kitchen, drinking coffee in their pyjamas, Harry felt like some small part of his friend had returned.

Even if she was wearing Parkinson's dressing gown.

Harry wanted to ask but kept his questions to himself. This felt fragile, and the last thing Harry wanted to do was shatter the tenuous moment.

"Ginny misses you," Harry said.

Hermione glanced up at him, concerned, but he smiled.

"It was fine," he reassured her. "Weird, but fine."

She nodded. "I miss her too."

Harry dropped the arm from around her shoulder and pushed away from the counter. "Breakfast?" he asked.

She grinned. "I hear you're the resident chef around here."

Harry lifted an eyebrow. "Who told you that?"

"If I said Zabini, would you believe me?"

Harry snorted. "Not a chance."

She sighed. "Want help?"

"Course."

****

Harry and Hermione made a full English, the scent rousing Parkinson and Zabini from their rooms. Malfoy appeared soon later, looking rumpled and exhausted, causing Harry's heart to tug painfully and unexpectedly in his chest.

Harry had awoken alone in the early hours, no proof that Malfoy had stayed in his bed beyond an indent in the second pillow and the lingering scent of his cologne. Harry didn't say anything when he appeared in the kitchen doorway, unable to ask the questions he wanted to with company, and certain Malfoy wouldn't answer them anyway. Questions like why did you leave, are you alright, and was last night different or was Harry delusional?

After breakfast, Harry sent Hermione home with her Christmas presents—a pound of fancy coffee, a stack of books, and a new quill—and with a peck to Harry's cheek and a loaded look at Parkinson, she was off into the snowy morning.

Harry had already sent off the rest of his gifts and received a few of his own—small things exchanged between him and Ron, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and Luna. Harry had one more gift, but he hesitated.

He saw the book while shopping for Hermione one day after work. A Healer's Guide to Alternative Potions. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would normally catch his eye, but the author's name demanded his attention.

Finneus Forester.

Harry met Forester on a case a couple of years back after he was accused of selling illegal potions in Cornwall. A Mungo's trained Healer, Forester had turned in his greens to open his own shop, and eventually his own school, where he treated all sorts of ailments and trained others to bring those skills back to their communities. The Mungo's Board of Directors sent the Aurors after him and it was Harry who arrested him at his shop. The place was nothing like Mungo's described. There were no underground potions labs or cages of test subjects. The place was tidy and organised, filled with young witches and wizards working together on complex potions or pouring over books in the cosy lounge. The horror on their faces when Harry fucking Potter arrested their teacher made Harry want to squirm, even now, but Forester went willingly and without fuss.

He sat in magical handcuffs at Harry's desk for hours before Robards would see him, and in that time, they got to talking. Forester was highly intelligent but dissatisfied by the messy bureaucracy of the medical system and the supremacy of its singular hospital. The more they talked, the more Harry realised he might be onto something, because Forester turned no one away. His potions business funded his practice and he was able to treat all sorts of people, even Muggles on occasion.

Robards placed Forester in Azkaban for the two months it took to schedule his trial, though his case was eventually thrown out due to lack of evidence and he returned to Cornwall and his school.

And since then, he'd apparently published a book.

Harry bought it. Back home, he opened the front cover and wrote the address of Forester's Healing school and the words, tell him I sent you. HJP. Then he slapped a bow on it and placed it in the small pile of gifts for friends.

But on that Christmas morning, Harry hesitated.

He and Malfoy hadn't discussed exchanging gifts. Would Malfoy think it was too much? It was something Harry could comfortably give a friend, someone he cared about in a completely platonic sense and wanted the best for, but Malfoy might not take it that way. He might think it was too personal for a fuck buddy, because that's all they really were—two blokes in need of a convenient release.

Harry placed the book in his trunk, deciding to think on it. If Malfoy turned up with a gift, Harry could judge whether he'd taken it a step too far. And if, in a more likely universe, Malfoy got him nothing, then the book would remain forgotten at the bottom of Harry's trunk and no one would be any the wiser.

****

Before Harry knew it, the New Year was upon them.

Malfoy insisted they all go to some big party at a museum in Belgravia.

"It's going to be fabulous," he said. "The party of the year."

"Suppose it's easy to be the party of the year when you're only a few hours in," Harry grumbled.

Malfoy scowled at him as Harry smirked back. "None of your cheek, Potter. You're going to put on a nice shirt, comb that nest you call hair, and horrify everyone by being the most famous person in the room."

Harry groaned. "None of those things make me want to go."

Malfoy glanced left and right, checking to be sure they were alone, then stepped in close.

"Then do it for me or else I'm finding someone else to snog at midnight."

Harry grinned. "Who says I'd even let you snog me?"

"You let me do far worse things than snog you. Like last night, for example, when I stuck my tongue in your ar—"

Harry slapped a hand over his mouth just in time for the front door to slam, Zabini's familiar grumbling coming from the foyer.

Malfoy tugged the hand away from his mouth and he grinned, all teeth. "Come to this party and I'll do it again."

****

Harry went to the fucking party.

Zabini and Parkinson also agreed to come, and Harry invited Hermione, though she declined, claiming she had work to do and, "wouldn't be caught dead at some gluttonous social circle jerk."

Harry would have preferred a rowdy night at a packed pub himself, something that actually felt joyous, rather than an overblown soiree designed only to impress. Harry was sick of trying to impress people; he just wanted to have fun.

Malfoy bullied him into a shirt with buttons, declaring Harry's t-shirt-with-overshirt-and-leather-jacket combo "hot but too informal" and invited himself to raid Harry's closet. The shirt he selected was a gift from Ginny that Harry reckoned he'd only worn once, but Malfoy swooned over it. Harry had no sooner slipped it on, and Malfoy was muttering curses mixed with praises for his own genius as he shoved Harry to the floor, tore off his trousers, and sank down on his cock, riding him until they both came with a shout.

Harry wore the shirt, even though he didn't get the appeal. It was just a shirt.

The cameras were out in full force when they arrived, lining the street outside the imposing, square building, their flashbulbs lighting up the night. Many people chose to stand and pose—Malfoy included—while Harry used the distraction to slip inside unnoticed.

The building was predictably grand: marble floors polished until they shined, high ceilings, and stately white columns lining a wide atrium. The decor had Harry blinking away spots for how much glitter and tinsel they managed to spray across the room. The vast windows lining the ceiling only served to make it more blinding, reflecting the lights back at Harry until he saw stars.

Harry followed the queue of sparkling party dresses and empty hands to the bar at the back of the room where he ordered himself a whisky—make that a double—and Malfoy's vodka, more out of habit than anything. Malfoy seemed delighted when Harry handed it over, treating Harry to a wink and the seductive slide of his tongue across his incisor.

Harry smirked back even though he knew he should tell him to leave off. They were out in public after all—highly visible public with cameras and gossips and people who lived for a scandal. Malfoy licking his chops and looking at Harry like he wanted to eat him would definitely start tongues wagging, even if it made Harry's heart beat double time and an effervescent happiness bubble up from deep inside of him.

Things got livelier as the hour drew closer to midnight. Krum, Jack, Astoria, and Emma made their grand entrance near eleven, dressed like the celebrities they were. Malfoy darted off to greet them, abandoning Harry at the bar while they compared outfits and took photos.

Harry already wanted to go home. Maybe he could convince Malfoy to bunk off with him, lure him back to the flat with promises of sex and cake stolen from the dessert table on the way out the door.

Harry turned to the bartender to order another whisky while he waited, only to find Oliver Wood, dressed in perfectly tailored trousers and a white shirt, standing next to him. Oliver looked as surprised as Harry, though that surprise morphed into genuine happiness, and Harry grinned back.

"Should have known I'd find you haunting the bar," Oliver said.

"Better that than the dance floor," Harry replied.

Oliver laughed. "Whisky?"

Harry nodded and Oliver ordered his drink for him, passing it over, their hands brushing.

"Having any fun?" Oliver asked.

Harry grimaced. "Not really my scene. It's all too… shiny. Would much prefer a nice dark pub where I can brood in peace."

Oliver chuckled and shook his head, turning to look out at the party. "Well done, you. You found the darkest corner in this explosion of glitter."

Harry shifted, turning towards him. "Listen, Oliver, I'm sorry for—erm. I couldn't—"

Oliver stopped him with a smile and held up his hand. "It's okay. No hard feelings. I figured I had a fifty-fifty shot anyway."

"That all?"

"If that." Oliver’s gaze flicked to something over Harry’s right shoulder and he hummed, taking a sip of his drink. "I have to admit, it kind of makes sense."

"What?"

"You and Malfoy."

Harry's eyebrows flew up and he reeled back, panic clawing in his chest. "What? No. You have the wrong idea."

Oliver tilted his head, one eye squinted. He hooked a finger into Harry's collar and tugged it away from his neck. "No, I don't think I do."

Harry coloured, hand flying to the spot where he knew Malfoy had left his mark, very purposefully visible in this shirt, which he selected.

"He never lets you out of his sight." Oliver jerked his chin towards the centre of the room.

Harry turned, catching Malfoy watching them with narrowed eyes. Bloody hell, if looks could kill.

Harry swallowed hard, glancing right and left, half expecting the paparazzi to jump out of the corner and ask him for a statement. "It's nothing serious. No one knows."

"Sure, whatever you say."

Harry frowned. "And what do you mean, it makes sense?"

Oliver shrugged, still smiling at Harry. "Two sides of the same coin, right?"

Harry shook his head, confused.

"Think about it, Harry."

"Yeah, I actively try not to," Harry admitted.

Oliver laughed, a bright musical sound that carried across the room. Malfoy's glower darkened.

"Okay, then let me do it for you," Oliver said. "For all that you are complete fucking opposites, you've shared a lot of the same experiences. Outcomes were different. Intentions were different. But I reckon he understands you in a way no one else does."

"Fucking hell, Wood. When did you get so bloody insightful?"

Oliver raised and dropped one shoulder. He smiled crookedly at Harry, those honey-coloured eyes warm and amused. "I'm just saying it makes sense, is all. Once you get past the horrifying shock of it."

Harry chuckled in disbelief. "I'm not sure I'm past the shock of it."

"I'm sure you'll get there. Hey, my team is playing in London next month. You should come to the match."

"I'd love to."

"Bring him."

"Only if you're looking to be heckled. He's for Kenmare."

"I'm sure you'll keep him in check." Oliver grinned and patted Harry's shoulder with an open palm. "It's always good to see you, Harry. But it's getting late, and I'm going to have to find someone to kiss. Because it sure as hell won't be you."

Harry rolled his eyes and waved him off. He was still grinning into his drink when Malfoy pulled up next to him.

"My gods, Wood is shameless."

"Oh, come off it."

"Come off it? He wants back in your trousers, Potter. He's so obvious, it's pathetic."

"Why is it pathetic? What's wrong with my trousers?"

He glanced at Harry's arse. "I wouldn't mind them a little tighter."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Oliver is a nice bloke."

Malfoy sneered. "Is he a nice bloke? Please. The last thing you want is a nice bloke."

"No?"

"Are you serious? You'd eat a nice bloke for breakfast. He wouldn't know where to start with you. He'd be rocking himself in tears by the end of the week."

Harry's laugh startled out of him. "You make me sound like a monster."

Malfoy snorted into his glass. "Takes one to know one."

Harry couldn't explain it, but Malfoy's prickliness was turning him on. He was clearly jealous of Wood and attempting to insult Harry to get a rise out of him. But Harry didn't want to fight. He wanted to get the hell out of there so he could peel Malfoy's tarty clothes off his body and fuck him until he screamed.

He grinned slyly at Malfoy. "I bet this place has a really posh coat closet."

Malfoy turned to him, frowning, then catching Harry's meaning, his expression shifted, melting into barely guarded hunger.

He drained his drink and dropped the empty glass on the bar. "A brilliant plan. What better way to ring in the new year than to cause some irreparable damage to the property of someone famous."

"You read my mind," Harry said with a grin.

He straightened, knocking his shoulder against Malfoy's and jerking his head towards the back corridor before he started walking. It would be easier if they looped around to the front, rather than sauntering straight towards the door—less eyes on them this way. Harry might even be able to convince Malfoy to put the damn coat on and just go home where they could enjoy the new year properly. Someplace with a bed, and lube, and a lot less people.

Malfoy nipped at his heels the whole way out and as soon as they reached the corridor, dragged him behind one of the stately white pillars and licked a stripe up his neck.

"Coat closet," Harry groaned, fingers already tangled in Malfoy's hair.

But Malfoy wasn't listening, growling into Harry's throat and tugging his shirt free from his trousers to get a hand underneath. "You look so fucking fit tonight."

Harry gasped as Malfoy bit into the bruise already marring his neck.

"And you keep leaving marks where people can see them," Harry said.

"Call it accessorising," he said, lifting his head with a wicked smirk.

Harry did the only thing he could do, which was to drag him in by the back of the neck and kiss it off him.

Harry knew they should find someplace more secluded, but he was already lost, mind clouded over in a fog of lust, Malfoy’s kiss chasing away the last shred of his common sense. Malfoy tasted fantastic, smelled fantastic, felt fantastic and Harry was already bloody hard in his trousers.

"Oliver Wood would never let you fuck him in a coat closet," Malfoy murmured, flicking Harry's lip with his tongue. "But I will."

Harry wanted to tell him that he didn't want to fuck Oliver in the closet, or anywhere. The only person Harry wanted to fuck was him and he was only settling for the closet, but Malfoy was back to kissing him and maybe it was for the best.

That whisky must have hit Harry harder than he realised because he had to be drunk to think such things.

Malfoy pushed both hands under Harry's shirt, fingernails running trails down his ribs and his back as Harry flattened him against the cool marble of the pillar. It was silent save for Malfoy's occasional sharp intake of breath, which Harry hurried to smother with a kiss. They needed to take cover soon, but then Harry slipped a thigh between Malfoy's legs and Malfoy started grinding against him, riding the taut muscle with twitchy little jerks of his hips.

A flash of light followed by a click.

Malfoy gasped out of the kiss, shoving Harry back as the second flashbulb lit.

And then it was an explosion of light. Harry spun, forearm thrown over his eyes as the paparazzo standing behind them began taking photo after photo, the glee visible on his face even as spots danced across Harry's vision.

They'd been caught.

"Shit," Harry hissed, his blood running cold. He shoved Malfoy behind him as the panic swelled.

"Merlin's bollocks, I'm going to be a fucking millionaire," the photographer said triumphantly. "Want to make a statement? Or shall I make my own?"

Harry took a step towards him, the horrible magic already rising—something wicked to smash the camera and pummel this man, to wipe away that smug fucking smile because Harry's privacy wasn't a joke! His life wasn't a story to play out like a drama for strangers to judge and dissect—nothing more than a headline to amuse them.

Harry had enough.

Before the man could say another word, Harry lashed forward with aggressive Silencio. The man's hands flew to his mouth, now sealed shut, as his eyes grew wide, darting to Harry's empty hands, his face draining of colour.

"Potter," Malfoy warned, but Harry wasn't listening.

Harry cast the camera aside with a wave of his hand, sending it skidding across the marble floor.

The paparazzo stumbled back, losing his footing and falling on his arse, scuttling on all fours like a crab to get away as Harry advanced on him.

"Why can't you lot just leave me the fuck alone?" Harry shouted. Behind him, a vase holding a grand floral arrangement exploded, sending glass and flower petals flying across the corridor.

Malfoy cursed.

"Do you get off on it? Ruining my life? Do you find it funny?"

The man shook his head, still scooting away, fear etched across every line in his face.

"Harry!" Malfoy snapped, a hand closing around his wrist. "Leave him."

It was already too late. The corridor began to fill with party guests drawn by the shouting and the crash of broken glass.

Harry fell back, eyes sweeping across the growing crowd, who all stood agape, likely reading the situation and deciding the worst: Harry had attacked some poor photographer just doing his job.

It was a bullshite fucking job anyway.

"What's going on here?" A voice cut through the murmurs and just when Harry thought his heart couldn't sink any lower, it dropped straight into his shoes.

Malfoy must have felt him tense because his grip on Harry's wrist tightened, but he dropped it, just as Auror Edwards, clad in his New Year's Eve best, stepped free of the crowd.

Harry hadn't seen Edwards since he slapped handcuffs on Harry's wrists in Hackfall Forest. He hoped he'd never have to see him again, but of all the times for Edwards to appear, this was the worst. Harry wondered, not for the first time, if the universe had a score to settle with him.

"Harry Potter, colour me not surprised at all. It's always you at the centre of the shit, isn't it?"

Harry growled, hands balling into fists. He did not fucking need this right now, already on the edge, angry, frightened, as the magic burned too close the surface. And now everyone was staring at him in time for fucking Edwards to start taunting him?

It was the perfect recipe for Harry to lose control.

Edwards stooped to pick up the paparazzo's camera, then handed it back to the quivering man. He dismissed Harry's silencing spell with a wave of his wand, and the man scrambled to his feet.

"He's fucking crazy!" he said, pointing at Harry.

Edwards smiled coldly. "Don't I know it. Now, you get out of here. Get somewhere safe. I'll take care of this."

"Thank you, Auror Edwards," the photographer said, and darted for the exit.

"I'm not even on duty and here I am, in time to clean up another one of your messes."

Harry gritted his teeth.

"You look tense, Potter. How come?" He tilted his head benignly. "What did that poor photographer catch you doing with a filthy Death Eater in a dark corridor?"

Harry snapped. "There are no Death Eaters in this corridor and the only filth I see is you."

A murmur rose amongst the party guests and the smile slipped from Edwards' face. "I beg your pardon," he said, tone icy.

"I think you heard me just fine."

"You best watch your mouth when talking to me, Potter. They may have given you your badge back, but I'm still your superior."

"In what fucking way? You're everything that's wrong with the department, Edwards. Soft, pliable, prejudiced."

"Better than a fucking murderer."

A collective gasp rippled across the crowd. Parkinson and Zabini emerged at one end, drinks forgotten in their hands as their eyes flicked from Harry, to Malfoy, to Edwards.

Edwards sneered at Harry. "You're a disgrace to the DMLE, Potter. I can't believe they let you back in."

"You're right. They did let me back in. No matter how hard you and Robards twisted the story to keep me out."

"I didn't have to twist the story, Potter. You're a fucking monster. And now you're showing everyone who you really are."

Harry glanced around the room, taking in the varying looks of fear, worry, and distaste. The panic swelled larger, so big Harry could hardly contain it, could hardly breathe around it.

A hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"Let's go," Malfoy said, close to Harry's ear.

Harry stayed rooted in place.

"Go with him, Potter," Edwards said, simpering. "You know if you lash out, I'll have to put you in handcuffs again, right? And wouldn't that make a lovely photo for the front page of the Prophet?"

The rage was practically pouring out of Harry's ears, but he let Malfoy drag him off balance. As soon as he turned, catching a similar fire in Malfoy's eyes, Harry let himself be moved.

"It's not worth it," Malfoy assured him.

Zabini and Parkinson crossed the floor to join them. Zabini even pressed a hand between Harry's shoulder blades, guiding him towards the door, preventing him from turning around.

"I'll see you at the office, Potter. I'll be sure to tell Robards all about this. The great Harry Potter is nothing but a pathetic, turncoat fairy. Tell me Potter, do you let all the Death Eaters bum you? Or just the really bad ones?"

And with that, Harry bloody lost it.

Fuck magic. Fuck using spells. He didn't need them.

He tore himself away and lunged at Edwards, his fist catching his jaw before Edwards even saw him coming. Harry landed on top of him, getting in another good punch before the crowd closed in around him. There were hands on Harry's shoulders and his vision blanked out. People were touching him, trapping him, bearing down like a mob. Someone was holding his arms behind his back, and coward that he was, Edwards took his opportunity. He clocked Harry in the nose and once on each cheekbone. Colours exploded across Harry's vision as his head snapped back. There was more shouting and then the hands holding him back fell away. An arm looped around his chest and dragged him free as Malfoy hissed into his ear.

"Bloody hell, Harry! Fucking leave it."

And then Harry was on his feet again. Zabini, Malfoy, and Parkinson on each side of him as they forced him down the hallway and out the doors, as the angry, horrified shouts and the flash of cameras followed them.

Harry wiped the blood spilling from his nose and over his lip with the back of his hand.

"Should have known going out with you lot would be eventful," Zabini said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Parkinson nodded, clinging to Zabini's elbow.

Zabini held out a hand to Harry, which Harry stared at dumbly.

"Need a ride home, Potter?"

"I've got him," Malfoy said.

Zabini shot him a look, but Malfoy snapped back, "I said I've got him."

"Fine. C'mon, Pans."

Parkinson gave them one last worried glance, then turned, sneering back at the entrance to the building as the photographers poured out of the doors to catch them leaving.

"Fucking vultures," she grumbled and took Zabini's hand. In a blink, they were gone.

Harry glowered at the flashing lights, then he grabbed Malfoy by the arm and Apparated them home.

****

Malfoy grunted when Harry's Side-Along dropped them into the floyer of the flat a touch too hard. He gripped Harry's arm to keep his balance, then withdrew carefully.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Five second breath in. Five second breath out.

When he opened his eyes again, Malfoy was watching him, his gaze flitting across Harry's face. He raised a hand, hovering near Harry's cheek, which he belatedly realised was throbbing painfully in time with the beat of his heart.

Malfoy dropped the hand and stepped away.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get you cleaned up." Then he started for the stairs.

Harry trailed after him into the loo where Malfoy pushed him down onto the closed toilet seat and began digging around in the drawers.

Harry sighed. The bright lights as well as the familiar comfort of home had his panic settling to something more manageable, allowing the guilt and fear to seep back in and fill the void left by his rage.

They’d been photographed. This was far worse than any chummy paparazzi shot of he and Malfoy taken thus far. They were kissing, practically on top of each other right out in the open, and now everyone would know. Harry had never told anyone besides his friends that he liked blokes as well as girls, but it was worse than all that. The cameraman didn’t simply catch Harry with a man, they caught Auror Harry Potter with Draco Malfoy, an acquitted war criminal.

Only half of Harry’s concern was for himself. He was used to being dragged in the papers and though it made him sick to his stomach to think what they would say about him, it made him even sicker to think what they would say about Malfoy. Any hopes Malfoy might have harboured about controlling his own press, limiting it to superficial reports of drunken nights out and the occasionally sloppy photo, evaporated the moment that flashbulb lit.

It wasn’t only that. Harry remembered the night on the roof when Malfoy asked him if he had reason to worry about Harry’s wild magic, and Harry assured him he could control it. Now what had he gone and done? Thrown a magical tantrum at a party and then punched his superior in the face. Malfoy probably thought he really was a monster now.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, voice barely audible.

Malfoy turned to him, surprised, holding a roll of gauze and one of his many cryptically labelled potions bottles. "What?"

Harry cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm sorry."

"No, I heard you. I want to know what on earth you think you have to be sorry for?"

"They’re going to write about us.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“It won’t be nice.”

He sighed, “No, I’m afraid not. No matter, you don’t read it anyway, right?”

“But what about you?”

He shook his head. “It’s been years since cruel words from strangers were enough to wound me.”

Harry stared at his hands, knotted in front of him, knuckles sticky with blood. "I lost my temper."

"Bloody hell, did you. Fucking spectacular. Never seen anything like it."

Harry's eyes flicked up, confused.

Malfoy tugged Harry's hand from his lap and began dabbing at the blood. He shook his head, a smile playing at his lips that Harry didn't understand in the slightest.

"I think everyone forgot for a moment who you are. You certainly reminded them you aren't someone to be trifled with. I'm not sure if my cock was hard from the fear or desire." He smirked at Harry, but Harry just shook his head.

"You're mad," he said.

Malfoy hummed. "Maybe. But so are you." He dropped Harry's hand and pushed into his lap, straddling him over the toilet seat. He took Harry's face in his hands, inspecting the damage.

"That excuse for an Auror must have noodles for arms. Barely left a mark for me to heal. No matter. Do you mind?" He held up his wand and Harry nodded.

Malfoy waved his wand and the throbbing at Harry's temples eased as the swelling around his eyes deflated.

"I shouldn’t have let that photographer get away with his camera."

Malfoy sighed. "Don't think about that now."

"Not sure I can help it."

"No? Not to worry. I can think of about a million and one ways to take your mind off it. I'll start at the top of the list." He ducked forward and flicked his tongue over Harry's lips, which Harry parted with a surprised gasp.

Malfoy kissed him, slow languid swipes of his tongue across Harry's that had sparks exploding behind his eyes.

Harry pulled back, confused.

"Why aren't you more freaked out?"

"Why should I be?"

"Did you hear what he said?"

"Which part, where he called you a fairy and got a fist to the face for it?" Malfoy said with a laugh. "Or the part where you defended me against some windbag Auror not worth his scarlet?" He spoke the last words against Harry's mouth.

Harry placed a hand against each side of Malfoy's jaw, holding him still.

Malfoy sighed, frustrated. "You mean the part where he called you a murderer?"

Harry nodded. Because even if Malfoy wasn't freaking out, Harry was. He was mortified that he was about to be outed by the papers, but even worse, Edwards called him a murderer in front of a crowd of gossips and photographers. The DMLE could try their hardest to sweep what happened under the rug, but all it would take is one set of loose lips—Edwards' most likely—to blow the whole thing open. And then Harry kissing Draco Malfoy as a headline wouldn't hold a candle to Harry Potter: Cold-Blooded Murderer.

"He's full of shit," Malfoy said, eyes still fixed on Harry's mouth.

"He's not. Not about that, at least."

Malfoy met his eyes, but he didn't reel back like Harry expected him to. Instead, he traced the curve of Harry's cheekbones with his long elegant fingers, then the scar across his forehead, settling at the crease between his brows, smoothing it with a press of his thumb.

"Then I reckon you had your reasons."

"You'd make it that easy. No explanation."

"Yes, Potter. I'd make it that easy. You don't need to explain yourself to me. But if you feel you must, then—" He waved a hand.

Harry swallowed hard and made up his mind. "I killed a man during a mission. Not a good man. A dark wizard. He killed fucking kids. Sucked their magic out of them like a mosquito drawing blood, then drained their lives, all to feed his own power."

"And you stopped him."

"I was supposed to arrest him."

"So why didn't you?"

Harry grimaced. "The team was ordered to hold back, but one of the kids—he wasn't going to make it, so I jumped in. But the wizard was strong. Got a hold of me. Pinned me down and—"

"He was going to kill you."

"Yes."

"So you killed him first."

"Yes."

"They sent you in there alone?"

Harry shook his head. "No. My team was on standby. Edwards was my leader."

Now Malfoy looked angry, his brows drawing down and mouth pulling at the corners. "They let it happen?"

"They had their orders and they followed them," Harry said, repeating the explanation drilled into him over and over since that horrible night.

"Lives were in danger. Lives they swore to protect."

Harry huffed humorlessly. "There's no swearing to protect lives as Aurors, only to close cases and follow orders."

"So what the fuck do you have to feel guilty about?" he snapped. "All I'm hearing is that the system designed to stop dangerous people failed to do a bloody thing and forced you to shoulder the burden. Why do you let them use you like that? Let them control you?"

"Because I can't control myself."

"Bollocks," Malfoy scoffed.

"You saw what happened tonight."

"I did, and I thought it was brilliant. I have a feeling that Auror—Edwards?—has been begging for a fist to the eye socket most of his pathetic little life." Malfoy sighed noisily, tugging at Harry's open collar. "You're clenched so tight it's painful to look at you sometimes. Why do you think I'm always trying to convince you to loosen up? I'm honestly surprised it took you this long to snap."

Harry frowned and looked away.

"As far as I'm concerned, the photographer and that excuse for an Auror deserved what they got. Bloody hell, you wear your guilt and responsibility like a fucking cloak. You don't have to carry it around with you all the time. Trust me, I would know. I tried it. For years, I grovelled and begged and tried to do exactly what everyone wanted of me. Thought if I did, they’d have a kind word for me, maybe even someday accept me. But no one cared. What have I told you? People are thinking only of themselves.

"I'm not saying I didn't deserve their mistrust or even their hatred. I had plenty of time to think about every wrong turn I took during eighteen months staring at the cracks in my cell walls. But it doesn't matter what I do or how much I beg for forgiveness, the same as it doesn't matter what you do. People will never stop talking about you, will never stop looking for a story. They will always watch you with fear or awe or jealousy.

"You have to decide when to flip them the bird and say fuck it all. It's unreasonable to expect you to carry all your own troubles along with everyone else's. The DMLE fucked up. Edwards fucked up. You don't have to keep taking responsibility for them. You don't have to carry the world's expectations on your shoulders."

Harry swallowed around the stone in his throat. "I don't have any other choice."

Malfoy held his face. "That's exactly what they want you to think. You're not completely dim. I know you can make your own decisions. So do it. Trust yourself, for fucks sake."

Harry stared at him. He'd heard it all before—that he carried guilt that didn't belong to him, that he ought to decide for himself, that he deserved to decide for himself what was right. Until now, those words fell short, felt pandering somehow, like the sort of thing you said to someone to make them feel better because you couldn't bear to watch them fall apart. But Malfoy didn't say it because he was trying to keep Harry in one piece. Malfoy said it because he understood it, lived it. Every choice he ever made damned his future. It wasn't until Malfoy decided to stop giving a fuck and gave the papers a reason to talk that had nothing to do with his failures or his fears, that the weight was lifted. Perhaps he'd never be fully free, and neither would Harry, but maybe they could get close?

Malfoy, still propped in Harry's lap, wiped the last of the blood from Harry's face with the gauze. And because Harry didn't know what else to do, he did exactly what he wanted.

He kissed him.

Malfoy made a sound of surprise, but melted against him as Harry's tongue pushed past his lips. He tossed the bloodied gauze aside and wrapped both arms around Harry's neck, laughing when Harry gripped his arse and stood, dragging him out of the toilet and into Malfoy's bedroom.

Harry kicked the door shut behind them and tossed Malfoy to the bed, ripping away his clothing to get to skin, devouring every inch as it was revealed. Malfoy moaned and bucked beneath his touch, eyes already glassed over, lips parted, swollen and panting.

Harry Summoned the lube with barely a thought, dumping it over his fingers, too eager to care about the mess.

"Fuck, yes. Been waiting for this all night," Malfoy groaned as Harry pushed two fingers in.

Harry cursed, his cock throbbing as he tried to slow his ministrations to keep from causing pain, but Malfoy stopped him with a tug to his hair.

"Don't you dare be gentle," he said. "You're angry, so fuck me like you're angry. I can take it. I want to."

Harry swallowed hard, studying his face, but when he saw no reason for Malfoy to lie, Harry nodded.

The prep was quick and messy, Malfoy rolling onto his stomach and growling into the pillow he clutched between white-knuckled fists while Harry worked him open. But Harry didn't want to fuck him like that. He wanted to watch him fall apart, so despite Malfoy's protests, Harry flipped him over, gathering him into his lap. Malfoy sank down on his cock with a deep groan, head thrown back and that gorgeous neck on display, just begging Harry to bury his teeth in it.

Malfoy rode him as Harry bucked up, setting a punishing pace that was so hard and deep it had Harry's eyes rolling back in his skull. All the while, Malfoy whispered in his ear, horrible, gut-wrenching words, assuring Harry he was perfect, and beautiful, and fucked him so well.

Harry could feel his orgasm building, the tug of desperation in his belly paired with the static building in his brain, but to his surprise, Malfoy tumbled over the edge first, before Harry could even get a hand on him. He released a long, low groan as he spilled between them, his body shaking and hips twitching as his arsehole clamped down hard enough to thrust Harry over the edge right along with him.

Everything that came next got lost in a haze. Harry didn't recall anything after he fell back to the mattress, withdrawing from Malfoy's body with a hiss. He thought Malfoy must have cleaned them up and pulled the covers over them. Perhaps Harry imagined Malfoy curling around him, purring into his ear, "Never mind. Don't worry. I have you."

Because there was no way that could be anything but a figment of Harry's imagination.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Harry woke alone, though he could hear the clank of the pipes and the shower running through the wall.

He stumbled from bed with a wince, feeling worse than hungover—strung-out and tense, exhausted despite sleeping like a log. He tugged on some joggers and reclaimed his stolen hoodie from Malfoy's wardrobe before venturing downstairs.

The kitchen table was noticeably missing Parkinson's usual stack of gossip magazines. There was, however, a letter from the DMLE placed in front of Harry's chair. He sat, staring blankly at it, inhaling the steam from his coffee until Zabini walked in.

Harry shot him a glance, to which Zabini nodded, then went about making himself tea. Harry expected him to take it and leave, but instead, Zabini dropped down into the chair across from Harry, hands folded in front of him, tea untouched at his elbow.

Harry braced himself for a scolding.

"I've got to hand it to you, Potter. You certainly keep things interesting around here."

Harry stared at a watermark on the table to keep from rolling his eyes.

"I used to go out with Draco and Pans all the time, to parties and clubs and the like. You could usually leave it to Draco to make a scene. He did it on purpose, of course. Decided it was better to draw attention to himself for acting like a drunken slag rather than…" Zabini waved a hand. "Everything else."

He sighed. "You'd think we'd be used to it by now, being called Death Eaters. Probably foolish of us to hope that people would quit so soon. It's only been, what? Six years since the war?"

"Almost seven."

"Almost seven," he said with a nod. "That's not really all that long. I expect it will take more than a lifetime for people to forget what Draco did and who his parents are." He studied Harry for a moment, dark eyes moving across his face. "There aren't a lot of people willing to defend him. Nor us, but especially him."

Harry shifted, rotating his coffee cup, staring into its black depths. It made him a bit sad to hear Zabini say that, though he had no doubt it was true.

"I hope you realise he's going to read pretty heavily into that."

Harry's eyes snapped up. "What?"

Zabini drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm sure you two thought you were fooling us—Pans and I—but the only person less subtle than you, Potter, is Draco. Knew right away when he was skipping around so soon after Alex fucked off." He narrowed his eyes at Harry. "You know why Alex hated you so much, don't you?"

"So he did hate me? I wasn't just imagining it?"

Zabini snorted. "No, Potter. He fucking despised you. Thought the top of his head would blow off when he found out you were moving in."

"Yeah, well, he was an arsehole."

"Definitely. But he didn't hate you just because he was a dick. He hated you because Draco was arse over tits for you."

Harry blinked. "No."

"Yes. The second you walked in the room, Alex was number two, and a bloke like that doesn't deal with second place."

Zabini stared at him, weight in his gaze, but when Harry didn't respond beyond a helpless shake of his head, Zabini sighed.

"Draco's liked you for ages. He talked about you constantly, even before he ran into you at the pub. Always commenting on your picture in this paper or that magazine. And then after that first night when he saw you in person? You wouldn't believe the ridiculous plans he concocted to get you to come around. Staking out a restaurant, that ludicrous dinner, digging up every party invitation he could find just to convince you to tag along. Thought the two of you could be friends."

"We are friends."

"Yeah, I reckon you are. Among other things. But you stood up for him last night. And that's going to mean something to him."

"I'd do it for anyone," Harry said.

Zabini raised a brow. "You should probably tell him that. He tends to leap to conclusions. Pansy and I have tried to talk sense into him but he won't listen. He never bloody listens."

Harry nodded even though he didn't understand. Harry knew Draco liked him, wanted him—hell, they'd been fucking for weeks, and were even something approaching good friends before that.

Harry knew what it meant to be desired, someone other people wanted to possess. It didn't mean Malfoy had feelings for him beyond sex. It didn't mean Harry did either.

Malfoy had a crush on Harry in school; he admitted as much. Given the chance to hook up with his school crush, Harry would do the same. He had done the same, falling into Oliver's bed more than once with little coaxing. But he didn't love Oliver, didn't want to be with him, even though he cared for him. He reckoned Malfoy was no different because Malfoy didn't want a relationship. And Harry didn't know what the fuck he wanted.

"I'm not telling you what to do. But I'd appreciate it if you were a bit more careful."

"Alright," Harry said, still unsure what he was agreeing to.

Zabini nodded once then waved at the DMLE letter in front of Harry. "Are you going to open that?"

Harry sighed. "Don't really want to. No way it's good news."

"Should be used to it by now, right, Potter?" Zabini said, then stood, collecting his tea. "I'll leave you to it."

Harry didn't break the wax seal on the envelope until he heard Zabini's door click shut. He tore away the paper in a rush, inspecting the tersely worded letter inside.

It was exactly what he expected. Due to the incident on New Year's Eve, Harry was expected to meet with Head Auror Robards and the Council President first thing Monday morning for a disciplinary review.

Harry sighed and dropped the letter to the table, then with a swipe of his hand, reduced it to ash.

When Harry jogged back upstairs, the door to the bathroom was still shut, so Harry grabbed his jacket, snagged the skateboard from next to the door, and left.

He spent the next few hours riding aimlessly around the neighbourhood. The light dusting of snow from Christmas had since melted to filthy lumps in gutters and on sidewalks, awaiting the rain to wash it away entirely. There was still a wicked bite to the air, the cold cutting into Harry's skin as the wind whipped past him. He didn't bother with a Warming Charm, instead allowing himself to feel it.

Eventually, face numb and aching, Harry ducked into a Muggle pub where he nursed a couple of beers and watched a football match on the telly until dark.

He didn't intend to stay out all day, but everything in his mind was so jumbled and confused, a knotted mess of yarn and Harry couldn't find the beginning or the end no matter how much he tugged.

When he finally returned home, he didn't see Malfoy. His bedroom door remained closed, so Harry shuffled off to his own room, dropping to the mattress with a huff.

That night, Harry dreamed of a heavy weight atop him, pressing him into the ground, smothering him, and he woke in the predawn light with tear tracks down his face.

****

Harry was back in Robards' office, back in that same chair, trying not to shift uncomfortably. Except this time, Robards stood behind his desk while the Council President occupied his seat.

Robards dropped the front page of The Prophet to the desk and pushed it towards Harry.

Harry Potter's forbidden tryst with former Death Eater results in eruption of violence at New Year soiree.

Two photographs topped the page. On the left, was the photograph of Harry and Malfoy kissing and it took everything in him not to shy away, because bloody hell. Fortunately, and likely for the sake of sensitive readers, the bottom halves of their bodies were cut off in the picture, hiding Malfoy riding Harry's thigh, but their faces said plenty. Malfoy looked exactly like he always did when lost in pleasure—fucking gorgeous. But Harry had never seen himself like that. His eyebrows bunched together, his posture tight as a compressed spring, his hands clutching Malfoy's face in desperation, their tangled tongues visible between parted lips.

The second photo was about what he expected. Harry stood over Edwards, wild-eyed with his shirt untucked and half his buttons undone—likely pulled open by Malfoy's fingers. There was blood smeared across Harry's face, and he had one fist raised while Edwards scowled back. Malfoy stood at his elbow, reaching for him, eyes fixed not on the Auror spewing filth, or the surging crowd, but on Harry.

Harry sat back in his chair, meeting the Council President's gaze, then Robards'. "I was off duty."

The President sighed. "That might be a passable excuse for someone else, but not for you. Your celebrity means you are more visible than the average member of this department, and you are therefore held to a higher standard."

Harry sniffed. "I can see that, considering it's just me here and not Edwards."

"Edwards is your senior Auror," Robards snapped.

"Yeah, and he punched me," Harry replied. "While my hands were held behind my back, I might add."

Robards leaned in, brow furrowed and angry, clearly ready to argue, which Harry happily invited, but the Council President interjected, his frail hand slashing through the air between them.

"Maybe so, but what you do in public affects this department more than what he does."

"That's a fucking double standard!" Harry exclaimed.

"Watch your language, Potter," Robards hissed.

Harry grunted, nodding sharply, even as frustrated anger burned through his veins. He knew running his mouth in front of the Council President wouldn't do him any favours.

"It is an issue of optics, Auror Potter," the President said evenly. "This isn't your first run-in with the press. It appears that so long as you remain in the city, you pose a liability to this department. Particularly since you continue to associate with undesirable members of society."

"You mean Malfoy," Harry bit back. "He didn't do anything."

"Aside from your… intimate relations, he aided you in the assault of another Auror. It would be within our jurisdiction to bring Mr Malfoy in as well, and I'm not sure the Wizengamot would be so forgiving if they find Mr Malfoy on trial a second time."

Harry frowned, because that sounded like a threat.

"I acted of my own will. He had nothing to do with it."

The Council President nodded. "We'll keep Mr Malfoy out of it for now, but as a result, the Council has decided that allowing you to remain in London is a risk we cannot take. You are a value to us as an Auror, Potter. We believe in your skills. And although we have grounds to dismiss you permanently, we've decided to give you another chance to prove your dedication to this department.” He paused and next to him, Robards’ lips curled slightly. “We're sending you into the field."

Harry's thoughts devolved into static, a deafening, toneless roar because he couldn't be serious.

"What?"

The Council President passed Harry a folder. "Your new assignment."

Harry blinked at him before snatching the folder and flipping it open.

"Where exactly is…" Harry squinted. "Toska?"

"It is a small Russian village off the coast of the Laptev Sea. Northeastern Siberia."

Harry's mouth fell open, his eyes growing wide. "Siberia?"

"Thought you'd be happy to get off desk duty," Robards said, barely concealing his smirk.

The Council President cut a glance at Robards, but then returned his unflinching pale eyes to Harry. "This mission is a top priority and will be well-suited to your abilities. A dark wizard has kidnapped the family of one of our Council Members. We have intel that he may have fled to the village in which he was born. Your assignment will be to join the surveillance team already on site, and when given the word, arrest him."

"You're hiding me away," Harry said.

The Council President pursed his lips. "Until this blows over."

The admission almost made it worse, but Harry tamped down on his anger. He had to hold it together a little longer. At least until he got back to the flat and could properly explode.

"And what about Edwards? Is he being sent to Antarctica or something?" Harry asked.

"Auror Edwards will remain on his current assignment."

Of fucking course. Edwards wouldn't face a single repercussion. Harry nodded sharply, teeth creaking as he ground them together. "Is that all?"

The President folded his hands in front of him. "That's all. You're dismissed."

Harry stood, spun on his heel, and walked straight out of Robards’ office.

McNeil was standing with his hip propped against Harry's desk when he stopped to collect his things.

He shook his head slowly. "It's a load of bollocks.”

"Yeah well, I guess I don't have a choice."

McNeil tipped his head, staring at something behind Harry. "I'm sure that's what they'd like you to think."

Harry paused, those words echoing in his mind—a memory from last night—but he shook it off when he caught Robards looming outside his office, watching him.

"Portkey leaves tomorrow at o-seven hundred, Potter."

Harry clenched his jaw until the muscle jumped. He wanted to blow something up, wanted to send his desk flying against the wall and shatter it into a million splinters, but instead, he nodded and said, "Yes, sir."

Robards' smile had a cruel, satisfied edge that made Harry's stomach twist. Harry forced himself to look away.

"You watch yourself, Potter," McNeil warned.

Harry nodded curtly and strode straight out the door.

****

Harry burst into the flat, thundering up the stairs to his bedroom, where he tore his Auror issue rucksack from the back of his closet and started stuffing it full of clothes.

Spare uniforms, jumpers, gloves, scarves, a parka he never wore—all of it went into the bag. There would be no point in bringing the leather jacket to Siberia. Even with Harry's magic woven into the seams, it wouldn't stand up to a Russian winter.

Harry was in the midst of dumping his entire sock drawer into the rucksack when Malfoy appeared in his doorway.

"You're packing," he said, voice strained and face drained of colour.

Harry grunted, shoving more items into the bag, expanding the space with a huff of magic.

Suddenly Malfoy was at his side, clutching his sleeve. "I swear, I didn't intend for any of this to happen, no matter what the papers said about me. It's not true. You have to know it's not true. You of all people."

Harry paused, turning towards Malfoy to find his eyes wide and frantic.

"We can stop. The fucking in public, the kissing, all of it. I won't touch you again, but you can't leave just because of what some rag said." His eyes darted across Harry's face, desperation creeping in. "Or are you all talk—saying you don't read the papers and are above all that? Was that just nonsense and all it takes is one shitty report and you're going to walk out on—"

Harry raised a hand, and Malfoy's mouth snapped shut. "I’m not leaving because of the papers. I didn't read them, and I don't care."

Malfoy's shoulders slumped, defeated.

"Why then?"

"I've been reassigned."

"What?"

"The DMLE has decided I'm a liability and is sending me to fucking Siberia."

"Siberia?" Malfoy exclaimed, voice shrill. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"And you're going?"

“What do you mean? Of course I'm going. It's my assignment."

"So reject it."

"I can't," Harry said slowly. Malfoy had to know that Aurors didn't get to just reject their assignments. They didn’t get to choose them either. Their Head Auror handed them over and then that case was theirs until they closed it or they died.

"Have you tried?" he asked, then straightened, glaring down his nose at Harry. "Unless you want to leave."

"Oh yeah, I'm dying to be sent out into a fucking frozen wasteland chasing after a dark wizard with another team instructed to sacrifice me like the goose on Christmas. Again." Harry's voice cracked, and Malfoy's face fell, the panic and anger draining away.

Malfoy stepped up to him, his hand hesitating near Harry's chest before dropping over his heart. His eyes met Harry's. "I think we both know you'd be the Christmas ham, if anything."

Harry wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

"Don't go," Malfoy said.

"I have to."

"You don't."

Harry sighed. He tugged Malfoy's hand from his chest and let it drop because he still couldn't think straight with Malfoy touching him.

"Why are they so important to you? The Aurors?"

"Because I can help people."

"Fuck people," Malfoy snapped.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"No, I'm serious. What have people ever done for you?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Tell me, Harry. Do you believe you are only worth something if you're helping someone else?"

Harry paused, stomach swooping. His mouth worked, though no words came out.

Malfoy pushed into his space again, hand curling around Harry's neck but Harry didn't have the strength to push him away this time.

"You are invaluable even if all you do is sit down in that chair and never get up again. If you never cast another spell, save another person, prepare another breakfast in this kitchen—or any kitchen! You still have worth."

A lump formed in Harry's throat, but he swallowed it down, even though it hurt.

"I know for certain I'm not the first person to tell you this because your friends adore you and not one of them knows how to hold their tongue. But maybe you haven't heard it in a while, or maybe you need to hear it from me, someone who has spent the last however many years feeling worthless. You don't have to do as they tell you. You don't have to go to Russia because they told you to. You don't even have to be an Auror. You can give it all up and take up Flobberworm farming or dragon wrangling. You can sit around this flat in your pants for the rest of your life, but you should get to pick."

Harry lifted his eyes to meet Malfoy's. "And if I choose the Aurors?"

"Then you should ask yourself why you need to."

"Why do you even fucking care?"

"Don't be dense, Harry."

Harry shook his head. He hated when Malfoy offered him nothing but non-answers or told him to figure it out on his own. He didn't understand why he couldn't just be clear and say what he fucking meant. Why did Harry always have to guess?

"You truly don't see anything you don't want to," Malfoy said with a shaky sigh. "What a privilege that must be."

"Don't talk to me about privilege," Harry snapped in frustration.

"Oh, no. Mustn't talk about anything that might make you uncomfortable, right?"

"Why are you so invested in what I do with my job, hm? Don't want me to leave because then you can't get into all the parties you want? Can't use me for headlines?"

"That's really what you think I want from you?"

"Honestly, I have no bloody idea what you want from me!" Harry said, volume escalating.

Malfoy's face pinched into a pained scowl. He leaned in close enough that Harry could see the flecks of blue in his storm-coloured eyes. "You're so fucking blind," he said and stepped away. "All I want from you, Harry, is to make a fucking choice. All by yourself." He straightened. "I'm going out. Are you coming?"

Harry frowned and shook his head.

Malfoy's expression tightened. "Fine," he said. He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

Harry sighed, sinking to the foot of the bed, his head in his hands.

Harry felt as if the walls were closing in around him, the air too thin to draw in a full breath.

He threw open the window with a wave and crawled out onto the roof. He dropped his arse onto the tiles, glaring out at the view that had become something of a comfort over the months living there.

He didn't understand what Malfoy wanted him to do. He couldn't just leave the Aurors. He'd been trying to get back for months now. Was he meant to surrender after nothing more than a couple weeks of paperwork?

As much as Harry wanted to stay in London, they were putting him back into the field again. It was a real case, and even if the location sucked, it was still an improvement on deskwork. It was a chance to do something worthwhile, something more than hanging around London, going to clubs, getting drunk, and running from the paparazzi with Malfoy, wasn't it? He only did those things to fill the nights until he could get back to work. Because Harry's work was everything to him—his only constant, the anchor in a life that too often felt unmoored.

Harry lived and breathed his job from the day he started. Joining the Aurors after the war was a natural transition for him. He and Ginny were still casual back then, both of them seeing other people so Harry felt no real ties, no need to pack it in early or skip on overtime.

He sailed through training: defensive magic, Dark Arts knowledge, minor curse breaking, potion identification. It beat the hell out of half the subjects at Hogwarts. Harry didn't miss History of Magic or Astronomy in the slightest.

To his own surprise, he took to the physical training like a duck to water. Harry liked to run long distances, dodge spells, mix magic and hand-to-hand combat when duelling. And he was good at it.

Harry excelled on missions. He held his own in a fight and even the older Aurors liked working with him. McNeil was the best. He taught Harry to combine magical stealth and brute force spells for maximum impact with the lowest chance of casualties. Harry willingly followed McNeil's lead during those early missions.

McNeil was also the first one to find out Harry could cast wandlessly. It just sort of happened. Harry panicked when a Colossal Acromantula snatched McNeil during a mission, breaking his arm while Harry struggled from within the creature's webs. Hands bound and wand unreachable, Harry Conjured a burst of blinding light, enough to have the beast hissing away, allowing Harry to cut his bindings with a Severing Spell.

McNeil didn't tell anyone, even tried to bury it in the paperwork, but when Harry worked with larger teams, sometimes he slipped. Some Aurors chalked it up to an illusion, or that Harry had some clever trick for concealing his wand when he cast. Harry never answered their questions outright, always demurring with a shrug.

The more Harry worked, the more dark magic he fought, and the stronger he grew. He needed his wand less and less until he reached a point where he didn't need it all.

It wasn't a problem, until it was.

Harry struggled with sleep. His proficiency in the field resulted in Harry receiving an unending string of the worst kind of cases. Every night, Harry's dreams were plagued with pain and suffering, his failures compounding, only intensifying his drive to do more, and do it better. But the exhaustion made him sloppy, and that was when the accusations started. The rumours. That Harry was cursed or dangerous, tainted somehow. Touched by Voldemort and corrupted.

At some point, Harry started to believe them. The nightmares got worse as his hours in the field stretched longer, but Harry kept pressing through because what the hell else was he supposed to do? The Council was already watching him, the whispered half-truths reaching their ears. An wizard who didn't need a wand was dangerous, Auror or not. 

And then the Paulson case happened, and it all fell apart.

Harry didn't realise how little life he had outside of the DMLE until they took away his badge. Harry fought the instinct to put on his uniform and Apparate to the Ministry every morning for weeks. He lived alone with Ginny at Grimmauld Place, but she was as busy as he was, travelling all over the UK and Europe for tournaments or training.

Harry didn't know who the hell he was without the Aurors. And then Ginny left, and Harry really didn't know who he was, because if he wasn't Ginny's boyfriend or an Auror, who the hell was he?

What did Harry like? Was he good at anything that didn't include fighting dark magic? He didn't know how to start over or move on so he just… stayed.

Until he met Malfoy in a pub in Knockturn Alley.

Harry wouldn't say he'd figured out who he was in the months away from the Aurors, but he'd learned some things. Things such as smoking weed after too much liquor made the world spin, that he was a half decent cook, dancing was easier when he was high, and that dawn was the most melancholy time of day.

But he also learned that this was home. London. This flat. Maybe even these people. 

Harry didn't want to go to Siberia. He didn't want to leave this version of his life, but Harry still had a job to do. Harry had gifts—abilities that he had the responsibility to use, and the Aurors were the best way to use them.

Maybe the mission wouldn't be too long. Maybe he'd return in a few days and he'd be back to parties with Malfoy and a bunch of random but amusing celebrities on weekends while suffering through his paperwork punishment during the week. He'd take the occasional mission, but he could have both lives. It could work. It might not be so bad.

Harry returned to his room and finished packing. He was digging through the bottom of his trunk to find his long underwear when he saw it. The book he got Malfoy for Christmas: A Healer's Guide to Alternative Potions by Finneus Forester. He pulled it free and dropped it onto his desk. He tore a scrap of parchment from a notebook he never used and scribbled out a note.

Meant to give this to you for Christmas.

See you soon.

He hesitated over how to sign in, then wrote Harry before he could overthink it, and stuck the note to the cover of the book with a charm.

Harry finished packing and tucked himself into bed, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged him under.

He awoke to a nightmare just before dawn, gasping as he shot up in bed, clutching his hands to his burning throat, trying to quell the panic.

Five second breath in. Five second breath out.

He slipped into his uniform, laced his boots, and threw his rucksack over his shoulder even though the moon was still peeking from behind the clouds. When he exited his room, he made sure to shut the door quietly so as not to wake anyone.

Before he left, he set the book and the note in front of Malfoy's door. He hadn't heard him come home, but he reckoned he'd find it when he did.

With one last look around, Harry jogged down the stairs, out the front door, and into the predawn darkness.

Chapter Text

Three weeks in Toska and it had yet to stop snowing.

Three bloody weeks.

Harry used to like the snow, thought it charming and beautiful as it frosted London white or piled up on the windowsills outside the Gryffindor dormitory. Snow meant Christmas holidays, warm fires, and food that stuck to his ribs.

But now? Harry didn't think he ever wanted to see snow again. It was a hell of a lot less charming piling atop his foxhole and coating the barren landscape Harry was assigned to watch until first light, dusting the blank and endless swathe of nothing. And that wasn't even mentioning the fucking cold.

Harry always had the two until dawn watch, when the air was the most bitter and the winds wildest. He passed every night huddled beneath a tarp in the inconspicuous dugout while the rest of his team stayed warm back at camp on the other side of the skeletal tree line.

Harry blinked icy flakes from his eyelashes and peered through the slit in the canvas concealing the foxhole. He scanned the tundra, lit only by the sliver of moon that peeked between the clouds. Still not a single sign of movement from the isolated fishing hut next to the frozen lake where Adrik Morozov, the dark wizard Harry and his team were tracking, was rumoured to be hiding. No smoke from the crumbling chimney, no lights in the windows, no footprints in the snow.

Nothing.

Harry sighed, his breath crystallising in the air.

Three weeks on the night watch left Harry alone with his thoughts for far too long. Maybe those strange, unsettling hours between the darkest night and the watery light of dawn were to blame when Harry's thoughts inevitably turned to Malfoy. He'd begun to refer to it as their time, because if Harry were in London, the wee hours usually found the two of them huddled on the roof, smoking joints and staring out at the sleeping city.

Maybe it was the loneliness of the frozen tundra that made Harry think of him and long for the warmth of skin and the sound of his moans instead of the suffocating silence or the never-ending snowscape. It might also have been because the other Aurors on Harry's team took to leaving tabloids around camp to tease him. Harry laughed when they tossed him yet another article featuring him and Malfoy tangled together and kissing passionately, or Malfoy dragging Harry away from Edwards with an arm looped around his chest. What else was he meant to do but fake a laugh? He'd never admit how long he spent looking at those pictures in his bunk and beneath the tarp in the foxhole, or how he didn't find them funny at all. Mostly they made his heart ache.

Those were all fair reasons for Harry's thoughts to return to Malfoy over and over, but after three weeks between camp and nights alone in the foxhole, Harry began to think that he didn't need to be reminded of Malfoy to find him starring in his thoughts. He was just… there. All the time. Had been for months now.

Were Harry being totally honest with himself—which he was, because three weeks alone in the snow left a man with nought but honesty—he would go so far as to say that he missed Malfoy. Not in the way he missed Hermione and Ron, though he missed them too, nor in the way he missed London, the comfort of his own bed, or real coffee with sugar instead of black and made from powder.

Perhaps 'missed' wasn't even the right word, because missing Hermione or London or bloody coffee didn't cause him to rub at his chest to ease the persistent tightness tugging behind his ribcage since he left Hackney. It didn't leave him staring up at the ceiling of his tent when he was meant to be sleeping, the canvas shuddering beneath the wind, as Harry tried to remember the exact colour of Malfoy's eyes or catalogue all the times he heard that mad giggle, while devising new and clever ways to hear it more often. This wasn't simply 'missing' Malfoy. This was fucking longing.

That, or Harry was going bloody mad—an equally plausible conclusion.

A particularly nasty gust of wind rattled the tarp overhead, the snow, dry and dusty, rustling across the fabric, reminding him of sand in the desert, and Harry curled in on himself.

He didn't know how he found himself here all over again. Alone in his prison of silence with nothing but his thoughts. He left Grimmauld Place to avoid it and he’d returned to the Aurors to escape it, and yet here he was. Right back where he started.

The creeping worry that Harry had made a grave mistake manifested the second week of night watches in the foxhole. He was a little embarrassed it took him that long, really, but Harry could be extraordinarily single-minded when it suited him. That, and he just didn't want to think about it. But by the second week, even the thoughts he avoided pushed their way to the front of the queue and as Harry stared at that empty hut, exactly as he did now, Harry began to wonder who the fuck he was helping?

That was the point, right? Harry's magic, though it felt like a curse some days, was a gift, and one he had a responsibility to use to help people. If he could save a life, prevent pain, fear, devastation, then all of Harry's frustration and angst would be worth it. Harry would be doing good and therefore Harry would be good.

Harry wasn't helping anyone sitting in a snowy ditch freezing his bollocks off.

He entertained the possibility that the assignment was a diversion. The intel placing Morozov in Toska—in the very house of his birth—was shaky at best, based on the word of a Muggle child from town claiming they saw mysterious smoke rising from an abandoned hut in the vast nothing. It was certainly secluded enough for Morozov's purposes, but after this many weeks, shouldn't they have seen something?

Harry wanted to catch Morozov—needed to catch him. Harry read his file a dozen times since the Council President handed it to him and every time it made him just as sick as the first.

Morozov was a wandmaker, and a rather brilliant one at that, although brilliant in the way so many horrible people are. Harry supposed innovation knew no bounds when one was without morals. Morozov began his training in wandmaking in his native Russia, leaving behind the small town of Toska to seek his fortune. He married and had children, though he and his family never remained in one place for any extended amount of time. Things must not have worked out as he planned, or the money in wandmaking didn't offer the life he hoped for, because Morozov began dabbling in the Dark Arts, creating corrupted wands made with inhumane ingredients and crafted with dark magic. He built wands capable of increasing magical power, capable of unbreakable curses, and widespread devastation.

Wands capable of siphoning the life and magic from another person to strengthen its master.

Harry had to drop the file and pace the camp after he read that bit. He hated the irony of it all, the way things always came full circle.

It turned out that Morozov created wands for some of the worst Dark Wizards and aided in wars all over the world. He was wanted by a dozen different governments and managed to evade them for a full ten years. Until six months ago, when he was discovered to be living comfortably on a vast plot of land in the Cotswold. A team of Dark Magic experts was organised to take him down, surrounding him at his beautiful estate. But they miscalculated. They attacked when Morozov was away, levelling the house with his family inside. An atrocity Harry noticed they quickly buried in misfiled paperwork and convoluted statements.

Morozov never returned to the estate or if he did, he left before the Aurors could find him and had been on the run ever since. But shortly after the loss of his wife and children, the families of the hit squad responsible for his family's death began to go missing. First, the husband and daughter of an Egyptian Curse-breaker. Next, the parents and brother of the American duelling expert. One by one they disappeared until the wife and three children of former Auror and DMLE council member Allan Scotsman were reported missing three weeks ago.

The other families were presumed dead, but Harry and his team held out hope that the Scotsmans were still alive, and that Morozov could be stopped before anyone else went missing.

Harry shifted, adjusting his pinched position to ease the tingling in his right foot. A casually cast Tempus informed him that it was nearing six in the morning. The sun wouldn't rise for another two hours, and Harry tried to find a comfortable position to settle in for the remainder of his watch, when a light flicked on in the cabin.

Harry sat straighter, leaning towards the slit in the canvas, blowing away a few snowflakes that had piled up since his last check. And then, smoke from the chimney.

"Fuck," Harry muttered. He pawed his pockets, unwilling to take his eyes away from the cabin as he searched for the communication device. Shaped much like a Muggle lighter and functioning like a miniature Floo, when Harry flicked the switch, his team leader's voice filtered into the hideout.

"Potter, I was just going to call you." Auror Stevenson's words came out crackling and tinny but audible.

"I've got lights on in the cabin," Harry said.

"What? Listen, we found the Scotsmans. Stashed in an inn just outside the Toska Portkey point. Fucker was paying off the innkeeper but he ratted. Call came in not fifteen minutes ago."

Harry frowned. "And you secured Morozov? You have him?"

"Not yet. Checked his room and found Portkeys by the dozen so he could be anywhere, but the innkeeper expects him back by morning. I'm assembling the team. We'll take him down there. Hell of a lot easier than fighting in the snow and ice."

The door to the cabin swung open and a man in a long, dark cloak with a fur collar stepped out into the snow. He was tall, unfurling from the doorway with shoulders back and chin lifted. When he turned his face towards the moonlight, Harry could see his pointed beard and angular eyebrows.

Harry's pulse doubled. "I've got eyes on Morozov."

"Just get back here Potter. We need to regroup."

Morozov turned and raised his hand, beckoning, as he walked backwards onto the thick ice of the lake. And then, trailing from inside the house, was a small boy—terribly under-dressed for the weather and shivering, followed by a woman clutching a toddler. They slipped as soon as their shoes hit the ice, catching themselves on hands and knees as they obeyed the tug of Morozov's summons.

"He's got another family," Harry said, voice strained, alarms ringing in his head because that definitely wasn't Council member Scotsman's wife and three children. These kids were far too young, and the woman looked nothing like the photos he'd seen, her hair pale and curly instead of sleek and dark.

A pause from Auror Stevenson. And then, "Not according to our intel."

"Well, I'm staring straight fucking at them, so how about we consider this new intel," Harry snapped.

Harry couldn't hear anything, their voices muted by the snow, but Harry could see Morozov's mouth moving. From her knees, the woman clutched the children, tears streaming down her face.

"I think—I think he's going to hurt them. Kill them. We need to move. Now," Harry hissed.

"Hold your position, Potter. Our orders are to take Morozov at the inn. Came straight from Robards."

"Shit has changed, Stevenson!" Harry watched in horror as the woman lowered her head, face crumpled in grief, pressing her children's to her breast. "We have to stop him."

"That's a negative. Our targets are secure. You need to hold your fucking position until I get there and can reassess the situation and report back to Robards."

Morozov raised his wand, a black, gnarled piece of wood silhouetted against the pale snow.

Harry held his breath, his heart thundering in his chest.

Morozov was going to kill these people and Robards was going to allow it to happen while the rest of his team stood by. Nothing had changed. Harry was right back in Hackfall forest, staring through that dirty cabin window at Henry Paulson, forced to decide between going against orders and risking his own life or watching as another was extinguished.

"Fuck that."

Harry tossed the lighter aside, cutting communication as he threw back the tarp, launching himself out of the foxhole and towards the snowbank.

The snow was loose and powdery, and Harry sank all the way to his calves with every step. He shot forth a fiery Heating Charm that cut through the snow, melting it to the frozen ground to create a pathway as he sprinted towards the cabin and the family huddling on the frozen lake.

Harry lost any element of surprise or subtlety the second he burned away the snow, and Morozov spun towards him. Harry cast immediately, not caring about the distance—Expelliarmus, Stupefy, Impedimenta.

Morozov dodged every spell, flicking them away like gnats, but it was enough of a distraction to allow Harry to throw a Protego towards the woman and her children. It burst from the ice, arching around them in a globe, the gossamer veil of magic sealing shut just as Morozov spun with a shout.

Harry's boots skidded when he hit the ice and he went down, sliding hard and fast on his arse, but he never stopped casting, spell after spell, which Morozov deflected with increasing annoyance.

He roared back at Harry, and with a vicious sweep of that horrible wand, the snow at the edge of the lake whipped into a frenzy, hurtling towards Harry in a wave of white. Harry threw up his hands to shield his face as it whirled around him, the ice biting his skin and ripping his wand from his hand. And then it was gone, the snow shooting skyward to coalesce above Morozov, where it dissolved with a hiss. Harry's wand dropped into his hand.

He smiled. "A powerful wand," he shouted to Harry, though instead of echoing, his words were muffled into silence by the blanket of snow in every direction. "It has seen more battle than most. I almost feel guilty."

With a twist of his hand, he snapped Harry's wand in half and cast it aside. "I expected a wand with this many battle scars to be possessed by a wizard who would put up more of a fight."

Harry remained still, waiting.

Morozov was powerful, bolstered by his corrupted wands. Harry would exhaust himself in a back-and-forth duel and he had no hope that backup would arrive before Morozov took advantage of Harry's fatigue and hurt the woman or one of the kids. Harry needed him closer. He needed to keep him off his guard.

Morozov thought he maintained the upper hand. He had no idea Harry didn't need his wand, though Harry still suffered a throb of unbelievable grief at the cruel and thoughtless destruction of his wand—an old friend with whom he was no longer connected, but a friend all the same.

Morozov glanced at his captives, sealed safely within Harry's magic like a snow globe. He stepped up to it, flicking the surface with his knuckle and it rang out like metal striking crystal.

He hummed. "Very interesting wards."

He raised his arm and slashed his wand through the air. The family flinched as the spell made impact—a thunderous crash without resonance, but the magic held as Harry knew it would.

Nobody cast wards like Harry.

"Take them down," Morozov demanded.

"No."

He pointed his wand at Harry. "Take them down or you die."

Harry shook his head. "Still. No."

Morozov smiled, displaying a row of crooked, blackened teeth, huffing an irritated little laugh. "I know who you are."

Harry tensed, because there was no bloody way.

"I knew the English would send their Aurors. Your Ministry took grave offence to my residence in your country." He drew a step closer to Harry. "But I think they are just angry they didn't catch me sooner. It's almost embarrassing how easy it was. With enough money and pressure applied to the right nerve, your Ministry was all too easy to fool."

Harry's exhale stuttered out of his lungs, freezing in the air in front of him. Morozov knew he was English, but nothing more. For all he was aware, Harry was like any other Auror.

"Have you been hiding in the snow all this time? I'm sorry it was all for nothing," he said with a cold smile, then gestured to the shivering mother and her children. "Now take it down or you can die along with them."

"No."

Morozov's face twisted into a snarl and he lurched towards Harry, raising his wand overhead as a flash of green hurtled straight at him.

Harry's shields flew up at the last moment and the Killing Curse exploded against them and disintegrated in a rain of sparks.

Morozov fell back a step in shock, but Harry was already moving, casting a windfall of offensive spells, one after the next, in a wide arc. Morozov was forced to block indiscriminately or else rely on shields—a wholly defensive stance that gave Harry the offensive advantage.

Morozov summoned another blinding whip of snow that overtook Harry like a tornado. It fucking hurt, the tiny ice crystals cutting into his skin and forcing his eyes shut. Instinctively, Harry wanted to call for fire and burn it all fucking down, melting the magical storm to a harmless puddle. But he risked melting the ice beneath him and plunging all of them into the freezing waters of the lake.

Harry pulled his magic, releasing warmth like a breath instead of a shout. He channelled the magic the way he had trained with his wand, filtering it through a smaller hole in a way that once felt impossible.

The snow flurry dissolved around him, and Morozov was right there. With no more than a half second advantage, Harry flattened his binding spells and released them, plowing towards Morozov like wall.

Morozov cast a desperate shield but it threw him off balance. Another curse lit the end of his wand as he fell, and the entire world went into slow motion. Harry leapt forward, ducking the spell as it careened towards him and he crashed into Morozov, landing on top of him as they hit the ground.

Morozov's wand slipped from his hand and clattered to the ice a few metres away.

Morozov had at least a foot on Harry, and though a good fifteen years Harry’s senior, he fought with the viciousness and purpose of a killer; each attack aimed to cripple. Harry met every punch with one of his own, absorbing the precisely targeted elbow to the kidney and agile swipe of a knee. The ice beneath them was hard and unforgiving, and they slipped as they fought, unable to gain enough purchase to either get to their feet or overtake the other.

Harry's fingers ached, so numb that each impact felt like slamming his fist into concrete instead of flesh. Blood dripped into his eye, obscuring his vision, and his face stung everywhere from the cold, from the wind, and from Morozov's relentless attacks.

And then Morozov flung himself backwards, arm outstretched for his wand which skittered towards him across the frozen surface of the lake.

With a growl, Harry gained his footing and landed on top of Morozov's chest, his head smacking against the ice as Harry crashed into him, knocking the wand from his fingers once more. Harry locked both of his hands around Morozov's neck as his magic welled inside of him, simmering beneath the surface of his skin until it burst free.

Morozov's eyes bulged, mouth agape, fingers splayed wide and twitching as Harry's magic flattened him.

Everything fell silent. There was nothing but the snow falling around them as Harry pressed Morozov into the ice with his body and his magic.

Harry could end this. End the fight, end Morozov's cruelty, end his life. And it would be so easy. Could Harry trust the Ministry not to fuck this up? Could they protect the rest of the world from Morozov and people like him? Because Harry could. All he had to do was will it so.

Five second breath in. Five second breath out.

"Incarcerous," Harry whispered, then released his hold on Morozov's neck.

The fallen wizard gasped in a breath—the only sound in the muffled silence as red ropes curled from beneath his body, twining around him, pinning his wrists together, coiling between his lips and gagging his mouth.

Harry withdrew, pushing to his feet. Morozov's wand glowed eerily against the ice and Harry approached it. With a glance back at Morozov, who watched with wild, black eyes, Harry crushed it beneath his boot. It released a wheeze and went dark.

Morozov let out a cry, muffled by the ropes between his teeth.

Harry turned and released the wards from around the huddled woman and her children. He approached her slowly, palms open.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

She shook her head violently, speaking rapidly in Russian.

Harry could only assume she was associated with someone on Morozov's hit squad. It didn't surprise Harry that they'd have someone from his native country who wanted him stopped. Perhaps even someone from this very town.

"Sorry, I don't understand," Harry said, and her words petered out. Next to her, the little boy shivered.

Harry dug around in his pockets, removing the contents, then slipped his robes from his shoulders and handed them to her. They were spelled against the cold and would protect them from exposure. Harry didn't need them anyway. He was fucking done with the snow.

From the pocket of his robe, Harry had extracted two items: a wristwatch and a battered matchbook. He passed the watch to the woman, then turned to Morozov and dragged him closer with a sharp yank on the rope. He handed the end of the rope to the woman, which she took with wide eyes. Harry pointed to the watch.

"Toska," he said.

She nodded. He twisted the dial, activating the Portkey, and held up five fingers to her, then four, counting down.

She muttered in Russian to her children, and they huddled close, grabbing her skirt.

Two fingers.

She gave Harry a watery smile, then glanced down at Morozov. Her expression contorted and she spit into his face as the Portkey activated and they disappeared.

Harry stood alone on the frozen lake in the middle of endless snowfields.

He exhaled, his breath curling in the air. A few paces ahead, in two pieces, lay Harry's wand. He Summoned it to him and tucked the pieces into his trouser pocket.

He glanced down at the matchbook in his hand. An emergency Portkey and one-way ticket back to the Ministry. It was a fail-safe all Aurors carried, though rarely ever used. Harry certainly hadn't.

Now seemed as good a time as any.

Harry opened the matchbook, engaging the magic, and took one last look at the scenery as the Portkey counted down. He shook his head at the irony, because the snow looked beautiful at dawn.

Chapter Text

The Portkey dropped Harry at the Ministry of Magic’s north entrance, which was, unfortunately, the gent's toilet inside a Tube station. Harry dropped the matchbook into the toilet and stepped out of the stall, nodding to the Ministry's night-time janitorial staff lined up and awaiting their turn. Their eyes went round as saucers as a bloodied and battered Harry Potter offered them a salute and walked right out the door.

Outside, the air was chilly and damp, but blessedly free of snow. Harry inhaled deeply all that was London—petrol, wood smoke, rubbish, wet concrete, tobacco—and Disapparated away.

He landed on a rooftop overlooking Hackney with a view of the River Lea.

Harry knelt beside the window, not to his own room, but to Malfoy's, hesitating with fingers on the sash as he peered inside.

At nearly eleven thirty on a Friday night, there was no reason for Malfoy to be home, but he was there, stretched out on the bed, his hands pillowed behind his head and bare feet crossed at the ankles. His eyes were shut, angular face placid, and the headphones curved around his ears, the Walkman resting on his chest.

Fear and relief warred inside of Harry, fluttering inside his lungs and swelling beneath his ribcage.

He considered the possibility that this could all go horribly wrong. There was no guarantee that Malfoy would be happy to see him. In all likelihood, he'd be furious and toss Harry out on his arse. Harry wouldn't blame him.

Harry left without a goodbye, abandoning Malfoy in the middle of a media storm with no forwarding address, no way to contact him, right when Harry was sure they were on the precipice of… something.

Or maybe it was just Harry, falling all alone.

But it didn't matter. Malfoy told him not to go, to bloody stand up for himself and make his own choices for his future. Harry didn't listen but he should have, because Malfoy was right. Harry tried to do what everyone wanted of him. He let the Aurors hide him away rather than weathering the fallout with Malfoy, thinking that it was somehow protecting him. That if Harry didn't do as he was told, the Aurors would come after Malfoy instead. And who knows, maybe they weren't bluffing, but Harry didn't even try to stand his ground. He crumpled to a kneel as soon as they barked the order.

Harry always followed orders—and not only those delivered by Robards and the Aurors, but everyone, the whole damn magical world. They told him to stand straight, smile, don't talk back, shake hands, obey your government, temper your power, use your wand, bend the knee, be bloody grateful. Harry did everything they asked of him.

Until he couldn't.

Now Harry had no wand, no Auror badge, no boots left to kiss. The only allegiances remaining were those he'd forged all on his own. And instead of feeling as though he'd lost everything like the first time he found himself without a plan, now all he saw was a wide-open world of possibilities. An opportunity for Harry to make his very first decision all on his own. As it turned out, it wasn't as hard as he expected. In fact, he didn't really have to think about it at all.

Harry tapped on the glass.

Malfoy didn't move or shift, just carried on listening to Harry's Walkman, his mouth forming words, maybe even singing along, though Harry couldn't hear him. He wanted to hear him.

With one last glance back at the view, the city lights winking in the distance, Harry threw up the windowsill. He peered downwards, noting the usual potion ingredients littering Malfoy's desk, his cauldron bubbling away, a viscous green liquid shimmering in its depths.

Harry leapt carefully over the desk and landed softly on the floor, right as Malfoy's eyes snapped open.

Malfoy shrieked like an uprooted Mandrake and flung himself from the bed, landing on the floor with a thunk, the Walkman sailing through the air. Harry caught it with a spell, congratulating himself for keeping his reflexes even after spending all night freezing and fighting.

Malfoy peered over the far edge of the mattress as Harry returned the Walkman to the nightstand.

"Harry?!"

"Hi." Harry smiled, sheepish.

Malfoy scrambled to his feet and launched himself across the bed on hands and knees to stand in front of him, his eyes wide and cheeks pink. Harry ached to kiss him, but he didn't know how well that would be received, so he waited.

"Are you real?" Malfoy asked, tilting his head as he surveyed Harry from head to toe.

Harry winced. He probably looked a mess and reconsidered his decision not to clean up before he came home because Malfoy looked fucking perfect, his hair soft and unstyled, falling across his forehead in pale waves. He wore jeans—comfortable, light-coloured ones, not the ridiculous tight denim he wore clubbing—and a deep blue jumper that was a little stretched out at the throat and exposed his collarbones. He looked soft, and real, and fucking gobsmacked.

Harry shrugged and tried on a small smile. "I think so."

Malfoy squinted at him and raised a hand, which hovered a few inches from Harry's face. "Are you sure? Because Blaise and I consumed an awful lot of absinthe earlier so the likelihood that I'm hallucinating this is… definitely within the realm of possibility."

Harry chuckled and shrugged. "Was real the last time I checked."

Malfoy's hand landed on his cheek—so light, barely a graze, but Harry felt it like an electric shock.

"Fucking hell, Harry" Malfoy said, blinking once, then pressing his hand fully against Harry's face, crowding against him. "What are you doing here?" His expression contorted from awe to horror. "Why are you all bloody? What happened?"

Harry sighed and slumped into the palm against his cheek. "It's a long story."

"A long story," he whispered back, mostly to himself. Then, louder, "Are you hurt?"

Harry shook his head. "A little bruised and battered, but no."

"You're certain?"

"Yeah."

"Good. So I won't feel bad for doing this." Malfoy stepped away, cranked back his arm and socked Harry straight in the gut.

Harry's breath punched out of him and he doubled over, clutching his stomach in pained surprise.

"What the fuck!" he wheezed.

"You ask me 'what the fuck?' What the fuck to you, arsehole! You left! You just packed your bags and fucking left without a word! Who fucking does that?" he shouted, voice shrill and hands waving.

"Arseholes?" Harry guessed.

"Arseholes," Malfoy confirmed. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Harry straightened with a wince, hand still at his belly in case Malfoy went in for another punch. Not that Harry would blame him but it kind of hurt.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" he asked.

Harry smirked. "You've called me Harry like three times in a row."

He flinched back a little when Malfoy took a step towards him and fisted a hand in the front of his shirt.

"I also called you an arsehole, so I think that evens it out, don't you?" He was close enough now that Harry could see the pink flush darkening his cheeks and smell the cologne and cigarette smoke on his skin. He'd scold him for the smoking later if Malfoy let him hang around that long. For now, Harry was just happy to see him, even though he looked both furious and on the verge of hysterics.

"What happened to Siberia? And the Aurors? Will you please answer a single one of my questions before I decide you really are a hallucination and swear off absinthe forever because if this isn't real then you are just about the cruellest figment of my imagination ever."

Harry's growing smile wavered, softening into something that he was sure looked a little too sad to be called a smile at all. "Siberia is finished. And I—" He swallowed. "I don't think I want to be an Auror anymore."

Malfoy's gaze flicked rapidly across Harry's face. "I reckon that's just fine."

"And I'm here because I wanted to come home."

"To this flat," Malfoy said carefully.

Harry rolled his eyes, his face flushing hot because god. Maybe he was about to ruin fucking everything, but it was now or never. "Draco, I came straight from bloody Siberia, still in uniform and covered in blood and bruises to crawl through your window in the middle of the night. I'm pretty sure it's not about the flat."

Malfoy pressed his lips together, stifling his smile, but it shone out his eyes anyway. "I'm going to ignore how fucking creepy that all sounds because that is the absolute first time you have ever said my name."

"Yeah."

"Was that weird for you?"

Harry chuckled. "So weird. But I think I liked it."

"Don't worry, it gets easier with practice. Try it again."

Harry smiled. "Draco, I'm sorry. You were right and I was an idiot."

He groaned. "Oh my god, I think I just came."

A laugh, high and bright, startled out of Harry and Malfoy grinned back.

Harry wanted to kiss him so bad. He thought about it all the bloody time while sitting in that stupid snowy hole in the ground and could admit that it was just about the only thing that got him through until dawn some days.

But Malfoy—Draco?—still held him back with a fist bunched into the front of his shirt.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked with a sigh.

Harry bit his lip. "That's kind of what I'm standing here waiting to find out."

Draco considered that for a moment. "I've been so angry with you. For weeks."

"I really am sorry," Harry said. "I've been fucked up."

"And now?"

"Still pretty fucked up, just in a different way. Fucked up about… I don't know, the world, my place in it, what the hell I'm supposed to do now. But not about this, or you, any of the choices I made tonight."

The corner of Draco's lips twitched. "And how does that feel."

"Honestly? Fantastic."

Draco studied Harry a moment more, but then he rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Fuck it."

He kissed Harry and somehow it was better than all of his fantasies and memories combined, because it was real, and Harry thought maybe he'd earned this. That maybe he deserved to feel good and get everything he wanted exactly the way he wanted it.

Harry tugged him close, one hand on his neck and the other at his waist until they were pressed together from nose to knees. Draco made a soft sound beneath his lips, something between a sigh and a moan, and the warmth licking Harry's insides fanned into flames.

Harry deepened the kiss, tilting his head to slot their mouths together, plunging his tongue past parted teeth to brush against Draco's, hot and wet. Draco was a bloody brilliant kisser and Harry found it all too easy to lose himself to the slick slide of his tongue.

Draco let Harry have control for all of thirty seconds before the hands curled around Harry's face dropped to his chest. With open palms, he shoved Harry backwards towards the bed.

Harry collapsed as soon as the backs of his knees hit the mattress, and Draco followed him down, clambering on top of him to straddle Harry's hips.

Harry tucked his hands into the back pockets of Draco's jeans, dragging his body down against his. He gasped as Harry ground up against him, cock already half hard in his trousers.

Draco's hands tugged at his shirt, freeing it from his trousers so he could push underneath, his palms hot as irons against Harry's still-chilled skin. Harry shivered but at the same time, something in him settled, going all melty and soft. To be touched this way, handled with care, affection, and desire, soothed his frayed nerves. It had been quite some time since Draco's touch resulted in that icy shock of panic. Now, it was a healing touch, one that made Harry believe he'd be okay, that there was nothing wrong with him after all. He would probably never be able to tolerate touch from just anyone, but he didn't have to go completely without either. Maybe he didn't have to be lonely, and maybe, if this could be enough for him, Draco didn't have to be either.

Harry wanted to ask. He wanted to know in no uncertain terms if it was enough, if he could be enough because Harry didn't know if he could go back to glowering at Malfoy across the bar, praying to any god listening that Malfoy wouldn't take someone else home. But how long had it been since Draco even tried? As soon as they crashed together, the string of one-night stands halted, and then it was just the two of them—not every night, but nearly.

Draco drew away long enough to tear his jumper over his head and divest Harry of his top, his fingers cataloguing the cuts and scrapes left behind by the fight Harry finished mere hours ago, though it felt a lifetime away already. And for the first time ever, Harry allowed himself to see Draco, to watch him as he touched him, to note the way his eyes never left him, devouring every visible inch while clawing away fabric to get to more.

"What?" he said when he caught Harry staring, but Harry just shook his head, sat up, and kissed him.

Draco curled into him, his legs wrapping around Harry's waist and arms twining around his neck, holding him so close and so hard Harry felt like the world's biggest fucking idiot for not noticing it before, because Draco always held him like this, always kissed him like this, always looked at him like this, since the very first day. Harry simply hadn't wanted to see; selective obliviousness in action.

And why? Because it would be too complicated? Too messy? Too risky? It was a ridiculous excuse because Harry had never once shied away from any of those things.

As if Harry needed any more proof that he was loved, Draco trailed kisses across Harry's jaw and said, "You're hurt. Let me heal these cuts and hose off some of this blood before we completely lose control."

Harry hummed. "Don't care."

"I do."

He smiled. "Yeah, I know."

Harry was loath to stop kissing him, but he let Draco tip away from him and grab his wand. He Summoned a flannel and used it to wipe the dried blood from Harry's wounds, none too gently but Harry didn't really mind. He Healed the worst of them first, and then lay Harry flat to survey his body and eliminate every last cut and scrape.

"Alright, Healer? Satisfied?" Harry sighed as Draco pushed him face-first onto the mattress so he could check his back, running his hands over his arse and down his thighs.

"Me? Satisfied? Never," he growled into Harry's ear and flattened himself against his back.

"Do you—" Harry cleared his throat, turning his head to the side. "Do you think you could be?"

Draco stilled and he sat up a little, just enough to see Harry's face, he guessed, though Harry kept his eyes shut tight for now.

"I don't think I understand your meaning," Draco said, but there was a hesitancy to his words that made Harry think he understood Harry’s meaning just fine, he simply needed to hear Harry spell it out. Harry decided that the time to mince words was long past.

"I mean with me. Could this—could I be enough?"

He heard Draco's sharp intake of breath and Harry dared to open his eyes. Draco sat, straddling his lower back, curved over him, his face out of view, but Harry felt as he pressed his forehead between Harry's shoulder blades, then lifted his head to kiss the back of his neck.

"Yeah, Harry. You're enough. More than enough."

Harry exhaled a sigh of relief. "Okay good. Or else I was going to have to crawl right back out that window."

Draco laughed, though it sounded a little wet. "Don't you fucking dare." And then Harry was being flipped and kissed into the mattress.

The rest of their clothing didn't last much longer. Draco's jeans and Harry’s trousers hit the floor, and then it was just skin on skin as their bodies slotted together like puzzle pieces.

Not everything was fixed, not even close. Harry still didn't know what Draco did over the three weeks they spent apart, if he brought someone home to try and ease the hurt, or if he spent every night in this bed alone, thinking of Harry while Harry was thousands of miles away thinking of him. He didn't know what tomorrow would look like, what to say to their friends, or how to navigate the world with someone like Draco Malfoy at his side. But he decided that, at least for now, it didn't matter. Not every question needed an answer, and not every problem had to be solved. Not tonight, at least. Maybe not ever.

They didn't wind up tangled together, approaching something that felt a lot like happiness and almost like freedom by having the answers or knowing the path. Instead, they went out and got a little bit drunk, danced a little too late, kissed and fucked a little too hard. They chased away the daylight while fearing the dark because it was a hell of a lot easier to do when you weren't alone.

As Harry pushed inside Draco's body and kissed the moans from his lips he thought yeah, he made the right choice. No doubt about it. Never mind what anyone else thought, never mind what would happen tomorrow. Because to love and be loved? What could be wrong about that?

****

For the first time in ages, Harry was happy to see daylight. Normally, mornings came with a pit in his stomach; another day of work, a hangover as payback for a night of uninhibited freedom, or even the loneliness of the hours stretching long and empty in front of him.

But not this morning. No, this morning, Harry was warm and sated—and okay, also maybe a little sticky because Draco roused him an hour after he dozed off to fuck again and then he definitely passed out without cleaning up. Harry couldn't find it in himself to give a single fuck, because everything else felt fantastic.

He stretched until his bones cracked then sighed in satisfaction. He turned his head on the pillow and nearly fell out of bed in shock because next to him, Draco was sleeping. Or at least he was, until Harry started shifting.

Draco groaned. "What time is it?"

Harry cast a Tempus. "Almost eight. Were you sleeping?"

Draco blinked open his eyes to frown at him. "Yes. That's what people do at night."

"Not you."

He huffed and buried his face in Harry's shoulder, nipping sharply with his teeth. "I sleep, Potter."

"Back to Potter, are we?" Harry asked with a grin.

"Only when you're being an arsehole."

"Sorry, I've never seen you do it. I feel like I just saw a unicorn in the wild."

"Oh, come on, it's not that rare. I simply don't sleep often. Or for very long."

"Or alone."

Draco blinked up at him, eyes searching. "Or alone. It's been a long three weeks."

Harry nodded, taking that small admission and tucking it away deep inside for later examination. “You're telling me,” he agreed.

Draco shifted to prop himself up on his elbow, long fingers tugging at Harry's curls, which felt so bloody good Harry's eyes fluttered shut.

"Sleep and sex aren't the only things I've gone without in your absence, I'll have you know."

Harry snorted. "There's a pack of cigarettes sitting on your nightstand, Draco. So don't say smoking."

"I'm trying, okay? It's not that easy to just… stop. And I meant food, Harry. I'm practically starving to death. Blaise started hiding his posh marmalade and Pansy only cooks for Granger now. Says she’s sick of my moping and refusal to sit through yet another of her 'I told you Potter was a bastard but you never fucking listen' lectures."

"So that's a thing, is it? Hermione and Parkinson?"

"Eugh. Yes. They've not been particularly discreet lately, either. I've had to wash my eyes out with soap and I still can’t unsee some of the things I've witnessed."

"I'm sure Parkinson considers that payback," Harry said.

The fingers scraping deliciously across Harry's scalp halted, and Harry opened his eyes. "That's exactly what she said. Or, rather, she said, 'welcome to sexile, motherfucker,' and then slammed the door in my face."

Harry snorted and threw an arm around Draco's waist, dragging him closer. "I'm sorry you were moping and hungry and that it was my fault. Parkinson's right. I'm a bastard."

"Quite right, but I'm going to allow you to make it up to me." He shifted, pressing his stiff cock into Harry's hip. "You can start here. And then I'd like breakfast."

Harry laughed and said, "I can do that," before sliding under the covers and between Draco's legs.

****

An hour later, they stood in the kitchen—Draco in his dressing gown and Harry in joggers and his Cannons t-shirt, shower-damp hair dripping down the backs of their necks while Harry made breakfast.

Draco leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping his coffee and watching Harry fry eggs.

"Have you told Granger you're back yet?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "I haven't told anyone I'm back yet. I'll call her after breakfast."

Harry shivered as a water droplet slipped down the back of his shirt. "Fuck. I swear, after three weeks in the snow, I'll never be warm again. Watch this for me, will you? I'm going to grab my hoodie."

Draco reeled back, pulling a face. "You want me to watch the eggs? You're putting far too much faith in me, Potter."

"You don't have to do anything. Just look at it, poke the bacon with the spatula if you're feeling frisky," Harry said with a smirk, passing off the spatula while Malfoy glowered at him.

"Look at you, a regular Julia Child," he said as he backed out of the kitchen.

"I don't know who the fuck that is, Potter. Now hurry up before I find a way to light the kitchen on fire."

Harry laughed and jogged up the stairs to their rooms.

On a hunch, he went to Draco's room and opened his wardrobe, releasing a hah! of triumph when he found his favourite and often missing hoodie folded amongst Draco's posh jumpers.

Harry tugged it over his head and smiled because it smelled like Draco's cologne, the sentimental tosser. He headed back towards the door, only to pause beside Draco's desk. Next to a leather-bound notebook and an encyclopaedia of restorative herbs, he caught sight of a familiar book—A Healer's Guide to Alternative Potions by Finneus Forester—dog-eared and filled with colourful tabs. Harry glanced at the door, then flipped open the cover to his inscription, where he found not only his sad parting note, but a second square of parchment, From the Desk of Draco L Malfoy. And on it was written Finneus meeting, Leaky Cauldron, 3^rd March, 4 o'clock, with the time circled twice.

Harry smiled and closed the book. Draco would like Forester, Harry was sure of it.

He was halfway down the stairs when there came a knock on the front door. Harry hesitated on the landing, watching as Zabini shuffled from his room to answer it.

"What in the—" he heard Zabini say, and then "Oh, very funny. Clever glamours, you two. Bit early for Halloween costumes, don't you think?"

The visitors coughed politely. "We're here to see Harry Potter."

"Not here," Zabini said, shrugging. "Shipped to Siberia."

Harry cursed and trotted the rest of the way down the stairs, halting when he saw the DMLE Council President and Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt standing outside the door.

"Minister," Harry said, shocked.

Zabini spun around and blinked at Harry. "I knew I shouldn't have tried the fucking absinthe," he grumbled, then called towards the kitchen without taking his eyes from Harry. "Draco, did you put something in my drink last night? Because I've hallucinated Harry Potter and the Minister of Magic in our foyer."

Harry heard a crash and a curse from the kitchen and then Draco came flying out, tying his dressing gown hastily as he grabbed Zabini by the arm and dragged him into the kitchen.

"Oh, bacon!" Harry heard Zabini say. "Either I'm still hallucinating, or Potter really is back." A pause, and then, "Oh fuck."

Draco shot Harry a horrified look as the kitchen door swung shut behind him.

Harry turned to the Minister and Council President with an attempt at a polite smile.

"Can I help you?"

They shifted at the door, sharing a look.

"May we come in? We'd like a word," Shacklebolt said, already stepping over the threshold. Harry waved them towards the living room with a shrug that he hoped looked a lot more casual and at ease than he felt, because inside, Harry's nerves were churning like the ocean in a storm.

"This isn't the residence you have on file, but your house-elf informed us of your forwarding address," Shacklebolt said, selecting an overstuffed chair next to the Council President while Harry dropped onto the sofa.

Harry cursed inwardly. He fucking knew Kreacher would sneak back as soon as Harry left. No matter, the elf could have the house if he loved it so bloody much.

"I hope you don't mind us visiting you at home, Harry," he finished.

"I kind of do," Harry replied.

Shacklebolt blinked at him, then cleared his throat and arranged his robes, folding his hands on his lap in front of him. The Council President did the same, all while glancing around the living room.

"Then I apologise, but you weren't answering your summons."

"Oh, yeah. I left my badge in Russia. I didn't get them."

"I see," he said. "We'll see about getting you a new one then."

"Don't bother."

The Minister chuckled and dipped his chin. "Don't be silly. It's no trouble."

The Council President sat a little straighter, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Minister Shacklebolt thought it best if we do this together, without Head Auror Robards. We have been briefed on the events in Toska, though I'll admit the word of a traumatised Russian woman, an annoyed lead Auror, and a bound and gagged criminal are not exactly the best sources. But from what we can gather, the mission was completed successfully despite your—" He paused, glancing towards the kitchen, where Draco and Zabini peeked through a crack in the door. Their eyes went wide, Draco cursed, and the door snicked shut.

"Despite your breach of orders," the Council President finished. "Protocol states that there will need to be another hearing and you will need to give a statement. But Minister Shacklebolt has given nothing but glowing endorsements for your character, which will help lessen or eliminate the need for disciplinary action in the eyes of the rest of the Council."

"I won't be attending any hearings," Harry said flatly.

"It is procedure to—"

"I don't care about your procedures, either." Harry turned to Shacklebolt. "I didn't join the Aurors to take some stand against authority. And I didn't do it to be a pain in the arse or make any waves, but I won't work for a Head Auror who can't trust his team to make the right choices in the field, because if that's the case, maybe he isn't the picking the right team, or maybe he ought to be training them—us—to make hard choices on our own. I won’t sit there and be scolded and bullied like a schoolchild for doing my job."

Shacklebolt sat back a little in his chair, but it was the Council President who responded.

"Auror Potter, you understand we can't reinstate you just because. It would look as if you've received special treatment."

Harry twisted towards him, frowning. "The only special treatment I've received from you is being put deliberately in harm's way, used as a scapegoat, sacrificed to the press, and then paraded around like it was all part of your brilliant plan."

"So what do you want?" Shacklebolt asked.

"I don't want anything."

"But what about your job?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not my job anymore."

Just then, the door swung open with a gust of cold air. Parkinson and Hermione stumbled in, bundled in their winter coats, cheeks pink and grinning at each other, hands clasped.

"Potter?" Parkinson said, halting in the doorway.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, excited, but then her expression hardened, assessing what probably looked like a very dire situation from her perspective. "Minister," she said tersely.

Harry waved.

Parkinson's eyes widened, and although Hermione evened her stance and crossed her arms, looking as though she meant to stay or perhaps start throwing punches, Parkinson tugged her away, and they too disappeared behind the kitchen door.

Kingsley smiled tightly then turned back to Harry. "Perhaps we can have this discussion back at my office?"

"No thanks," Harry said. "Here is good. I quit."

A shout and a thump echoed from the kitchen and Harry had to bite down on his smile.

"Auror Potter, I urge you to reconsider," The Council President said, but Harry shook his head.

"Just Harry is fine. Not an Auror anymore." He stood, already considering this meeting finished.

"Harry, please think about this before you make any rash decisions," Kingsley urged, getting to his feet.

Harry huffed. "I've made a lot of rash decisions, but this is the opposite of that. I should have done this years ago."

"And what do you plan to do instead?" Kinglsey asked.

Harry shrugged. "Whatever I want."

That was definitely Draco's mad giggle ringing out from the kitchen.

The Council President gathered himself as well, looking shocked and horrified as Harry bustled them towards the door.

"Shall I issue a press release announcing your departure then?" he asked.

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. All the Aurors played the same game of chicken. He was hoping Harry would back down, leave room for indecision, but there was none left. Harry shrugged.

"If you like. In fact, maybe I'll do one of my own. Finally give the Prophet that interview they've been begging for all these years."

Harry opened the door with a wave of his hand and they ambled towards it, more than a little confused.

"Have a lovely day," Harry said, and slammed the door as soon as they were on the other side of the threshold. "Or don't. I really don't give a fuck."

With a sharp exhale and a definitive nod, Harry returned to the kitchen to confront the peanut gallery. At the stove, Draco poked breakfast with the spatula while Zabini stared blankly into the fridge. Hermione sipped coffee, and Parkinson pretended to read a magazine, which was upside down.

"So, I gather you all heard that."

They nodded.

"And? How did I do?"

"Honestly," Draco said. “I'm rock fucking hard right now."

Everyone groaned.

"Oh, like I'm the only one?"

Blaise scoffed. "You better bloody hope so. Such a slag, Draco."

"Shut up and steal another slice of bacon, Blaise."

Hermione tipped forward to kiss Harry's cheek. "This is what you want?" she asked, then her expression twitched. "I mean leaving the Aurors, not Malfoy and—" She waved a hand rather than finishing that sentence.

Harry nodded.

She smiled. "I'm proud of you."

"Hey, fuck off, Granger. Getting awfully handsy," Draco grumbled, shoving the spatula at Hermione as he grabbed Harry by the front of his hoodie.

"I, for one, thought it was brilliant. Could have used a few more middle fingers to the wind and perhaps an invitation to kiss your arse, but still. Brilliant. We should celebrate. Go out and do something fun."

Harry grinned. "Okay. Like what?"

"There's going to be a very posh party in Brixton."

Harry groaned. "No posh parties. Are we celebrating me or you? Because I don't want to go anywhere I can't wear jeans and trainers."

Draco pouted.

"There's a Muggle movie theatre down the way that's playing a foreign film," Hermione offered.

"Oh goodness, no, darling. That sounds dreadful," Parkinson said, patting Hermione's arm as Hermione rolled her eyes. "Let's go dancing. Hex Hole?"

Draco tilted his chin in consideration, Hermione shrugged, and Harry grinned.

"Dancing it is."

Zabini shut the fridge with a slam. "Not that anyone fucking cares, but I'd still like breakfast."

Chapter Text

Nine months later…

"Potter, go put the champagne in the fridge," Parkinson barked from the living room. "And did you hang the balloons outside? People will be here in less than two hours!"

Harry scowled at no less than twenty champagne bottles lining the kitchen counter. "Don't think there's room," he grumbled. "What the hell were you thinking? That everyone needed their own bottle? And you know we can just use magic to hang decorations? I can literally snap my fingers and it's done."

"And let Mrs Easton call the coppers on us again?" Draco shouted from the other side of the wall.

"That wasn't my fault," Harry called back.

"Well, it certainly wasn't my fault you were up on the roof in your pants trying to break into the flat."

"It was too! You locked me out."

"That's what you get for calling me melodramatic and spoilt."

Harry shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

He turned back to the fridge and started to load in the champagne. As soon as he filled the first shelf, he gave up and blew a Cooling Charm at the rest of the bottles, smirking as they frosted over.

Harry bumped the door to the fridge shut with his hip, then leaned in, noticing a new addition to the collage of newspaper and magazine clippings Spellotaped atop the others: Hermione's official Wizengamot campaign photo. Harry grinned, because even her photo looked ready to deliver Harry a lecture.

He smoothed the taped corners flat.

The paparazzi fridge door of fame had expanded in recent months. Draco and Parkinson no longer took down old articles, instead adding more and more until it created a chaotic patchwork of their lives.

At the very centre was his own scowling face—the added dragon wings and smoke pouring out of his nose drawn in pen courtesy of Parkinson—with the headline: Harry Potter Has Left the Department of Magical Law Enforcement: First Official Interview with The Boy Who Lived Since the War.

Next to it was the announcement that Harry had joined Hermione at Better Universal Magic as a consultant, and the declaration of his investigation into DMLE procedural reform. Above that was Draco's acceptance letter to Forester's Healing school, and a flattering paparazzi shot of Harry and Draco outside The Briar and Toad. On the other side of the door was a lengthy article about a business merger between a magical investment firm and a Muggle green energy company, with a photograph of Zabini, the company CEO, looking stoic and shaking hands with a Muggle wearing a hard hat. There was also an editorial spread from Witch Weekly of Parkinson and Hermione, looking sleek and posh—all Parkinson's doing of course. There were more buried beneath them, some beginning to yellow with age.

Harry turned as Draco swanned in and deposited the packaging for at least twenty Fizzing Whizbangs into the bin.

"Do I even want to know what you're doing with those?" Harry asked.

"No," Draco said and sidled up to him, his eyes dragging up and down Harry's body. "Fuck, you look fit, love." He planted a kiss on Harry's cheek, and another beneath his ear.

"I look like a tosser in a suit that's way too tight. What the hell were you thinking picking this, Draco?"

"That I'm a bloody genius."

Zabini sauntered in next, whistling. "Sharp suit, Potter. Since when did you get a shred of style?"

Malfoy looked to Harry in triumph, but Harry shook it off.

"It’s just Zabini," he said. "His opinion doesn't count."

"You wound me," Zabini said, rolling his eyes and stealing one of the tiny sandwiches from an arranged serving tray.

As if sensing her workers slacking, Parkinson bustled in. She slapped the sandwich from Zabini's hand and it dropped back to the tray as he scowled.

Harry's amused chuckle turned to a gasp as Draco squeezed his arse and dragged his tongue up the side of his neck. Harry reconsidered his dislike of the suit and turned his head to kiss him, but before he got the chance, Parkinson wrenched him away and smacked Harry with a roll of Hermione's campaign posters.

"Stop that," she scolded. "There's too much work to do."

Harry smirked as Draco hissed at her but let her drag him back into the living room with a last forlorn look at Harry.

Zabini returned to his sandwich. "I'm not going to grab your arse over it, but it is a good suit."

"Thank you, I'm miserable," Harry grumbled.

"That's how you know it's good."

Harry snorted. "What are you even doing here?"

"Uh, the party. Election night. Granger running for Wizengamot. Obviously."

"Yeah, in like two hours. I mean what are you doing here now? You don't even live here anymore."

After Zabini’s company signed the paperwork for the merger, he announced he had bought a flat in Mayfair and would be moving out. On his first night in the new flat, he invited Draco, Harry, Parkinson, and Hermione to dinner, which would have been nice if he hadn’t also expected Harry to cook. Harry spit in Zabini’s coq au vin when he wasn’t looking and snickered to himself as Zabini declared it ‘not bad, Potter.’

Zabini hummed around his sandwich and stepped up to Harry with a smirk. He reached a hand inside his jacket and withdrew a small brown envelope that he handed to Harry. "Neither do you." He winked.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest, and he resisted punching the air. He grinned and tucked the envelope into his trouser pocket as Zabini slapped his shoulder, grabbed a cupcake from the tower, and wandered out of the kitchen.

As Harry returned to the living room, the front door flew open and Hermione spilled in, carrying about a hundred flyers, her briefcase, her coat, and what looked like Parkinson's dry cleaning.

"I'm here!" she called breathlessly. "Polls just closed and we'll have our answer in…" She glanced at her watch. "Three hours and fifty-one minutes."

"Fab," Parkinson said, kissing her cheek and relieving her of a few of her burdens (even though she dropped most of it onto the floor for Zabini to sort). "Everyone will be here at four and we'll listen to the results on the wireless together."

Hermione stopped dead in the centre of the living room, gazing around in horror. "Bloody hell, Pansy. You've overdone it."

Harry snorted because she wasn't wrong. Hermione's serious face from the official photo was plastered on every wall, quotes from her debates, speeches, and published articles were cut out and displayed next to them like ransom notes. Anywhere uncovered by Hermione’s face was adorned in balloons and streamers. Parkinson even demanded Harry put Hermione's face on the cake he baked for the party, but as a favour to Hermione, he refused.

"Shut up," Parkinson said, slapping Hermione’s shoulder lightly. "This is big, okay? My girl is going to be a member of the Wizengamot and wear purple robes and stick it to all those stuffy old bastards."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry could tell she was pleased by the way her cheeks flushed and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. "Your girl might be on the Wizengamot. We won't know until later."

Harry threw an arm around Hermione's shoulder. "You've got this. I paid off the whole third floor of the Ministry. Plus Games and Sports."

She elbowed him. “If that's actually true, I don't want to know.” Then she turned towards him and raised an eyebrow. "Nice suit."

"Hah! I told you," Draco said.

Harry threw up his hands. "I didn't disagree! I just said it's a little tight. Do you expect me to be able to sit down at any point?"

"No, I expect you to stand there and look pretty. Preferably somewhere I can see you."

Harry crossed his arms. “You're objectifying me.”

“At the moment, looking pretty is all you’re good for,” Parkinson said. “Because I still don't see any balloons above that door.”

Harry rolled his eyes and gave a little salute. He should have known Parkinson would be a bigger hardarse than the bloody Head Auror.

****

Parkinson invited everyone to the party. Fucking everyone. The squad of exhausted and over-caffeinated lawyers from BUM were the first to arrive, followed by half the staff and patrons from Ginger's carrying enough liquor to put down a herd of Erumpents. Luna showed up with a nervous Ron and an ecstatic Ginny in tow. Ron and Hermione clasped hands while Ron whispered something in her ear that made her eyes go all shiny while Ginny hugged Harry long enough that Draco started subtly breaking champagne flutes.

Astoria, Jack, and Krum arrived last, all of them extremely overdressed—or perhaps properly dressed for whatever party they would wander off to next.

Ron and Jack commandeered the music selection, subjecting everyone to some horrible, grating nonsense, while Krum trailed Hermione around like a Crup until Parkinson threatened to cut off his bollocks with the cake knife.

When it was time for the election results, they all settled around the wireless to listen. They twittered through the announcements of the poll results for new the Head of Transportation and the Muggle Emissary for Surrey.

And then it was Hermione's turn.

They all leaned in, holding their collective breath as the voice on the wireless said, "And the results for Wizengamot Seat twenty-two, with a majority vote of eight-three percent goes to Hermione Granger."

The room erupted.

Champagne corks hit the ceiling as Fizzing Whizzbangs exploded from every corner, all while Hermione sat there on the sofa, staring at the wireless with a small smile on her face as everyone pounded her shoulders and burst confetti over her head.

She reached out and clasped Harry's hand and he squeezed back. He Summoned her a glass of champagne and handed it to her with a wide grin.

“Everything we’ve ever wanted, exactly the way we want it,” he said, clinking his whisky glass against her flute.

She laughed with her head thrown back and gave a little howl of joy and triumph that was echoed across the room.

Someone changed the station on the wireless to something with a beat, and they all danced in the living room, drunk and happy and even a little bit hopeful.

****

Later, feeling overwhelmed and punch drunk, Harry slipped away and snuck upstairs. He crossed the room he and Draco now shared, shoving potion ingredients to the side of the desk, then tossing Draco's pale blue Healer Trainee uniform to the bed and out of the way. They weren't the Healer greens from Mungo's he once wished for, but Harry actually liked the clinic in South London where he worked better. It was comfortable and friendly, and they all politely agreed not to stare at Harry when he stopped by to see Draco.

Path cleared, Harry hefted himself out the window and onto the roof. He'd long since abandoned the suit jacket and he shivered, the first bite of autumn in the air.

Harry dropped down to the spot between the eaves with a sigh, ears ringing in the comparative silence. He had only a moment to get in a few breaths before he heard a clatter followed by a curse. Two plates of cake landed on the roof and Draco followed them out, grinning. He passed one to Harry before dropping down next to him and crossing his legs.

"Wait," he said, and held up one finger. He waved his hand like a Muggle magician then pulled a joint from behind his ear. He waggled his eyebrows at Harry.

Harry laughed and nodded, lighting the joint with a snap when Draco placed it between his lips.

They smoked for a while, eating cake while Draco moaned over the frosting and the jam filling. "Fuck charity work. If you really want to make the world a better place, you need to become a baker."

Harry blew pot smoke in his face, and Draco batted it away. "Still plotting ways to lock me in the kitchen?"

"You're darling in an apron, what can I say," Draco said with a wink, then jumped, setting his cake on the roof to pat his pockets. "I forgot! I found something while I was going through some stuff in my old room."

He handed Harry a small package wrapped in glittery red and green paper with trees stamped across the elaborate bow.

"It's a little early," Harry said, turning the box over in his hands.

"Yeah, well, I bought it last year, so actually it's very late."

Harry stilled and stared at Draco with wide eyes. "You got me a Christmas present last year?

"Don't look so shocked. You got me one and changed my bloody life," he said with a dismissive wave that in no way matched the gravity of his words. "I make no such promises about mine."

"Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I forgot."

Harry narrowed his eyes and Draco sighed.

"Alright I didn't. But things got complicated and I decided to wait. Then you fucked off to Siberia and I decided you didn't deserve it."

"Uh huh."

"By the time I changed my mind about you, I really did forget. So, you get it now."

Harry snorted and tore open the paper to find a white box with grey lettering. Inside that box was another white box, this one made of metal with a circular button at the centre.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"It's a Muggle device that plays music," Draco said, swiping some of the cake frosting off his plate with his finger, and sucking it into his mouth. "An ipid."

"It says iPod," Harry said.

"Yes, that's what I meant. You can put hundreds of songs on there, and not have to lug around all your CDs."

"That's… surprisingly thoughtful," Harry said, and meant it. Honestly, he was a little shocked. There he was all those months ago, angsting endlessly over getting Draco a gift while Draco was doing the exact same thing one room over.

"That's not all." Draco leaned over and flicked a switch on the box to light up the screen. "I put music on it for you."

"What?" Harry said, twisting towards him.

"Rather, I had a Muggle at the store do it for me."

Harry chuckled though his heart was doing silly little flip-flops in his chest. "You made me a mix tape?"

"What? Is that some sort of Muggle tradition? Sharing tape?"

Harry huffed. "It's when you put songs together for a person to tell them how you feel."

"Oh! Then yes. This is mixed tape. Here."

He pressed the button on the box and pointed.

Harry quirked a brow. "It's just Wham!, ‘I’m Your Man.’”

Draco nodded with a smirk. "Only song you need."

Harry burst out laughing. He kissed Draco's temple and then his mouth because he tasted like buttercream and raspberry jam, but withdrew before Draco could start plucking at his buttons.

"Actually, I have a gift for you too."

"Oh, Merry Christmas to me, indeed," Draco muttered against Harry's throat, reaching for his fly. "Can I open it now?"

"Not that, you slag," Harry said, batting away Draco's eager hands to tug free the small envelope from his pocket. "You can grope me after you open this."

Draco drew back, looking pink-faced and delighted. He tore open the top of the envelope and tipped the contents into his palm.

A single silver key.

His eyes went wide. "The flat in Soho? We closed?"

Harry nodded with a grin.

Draco whooped and smacked a sticky frosting kiss to the side of Harry's face.

"Thank Merlin, because Pansy was threatening to increase our arsehole tax if we didn't move out soon. It's bordering on extortion at this point." Then he sighed. "I'll miss this bit." He nodded towards the view.

"We've got a new roof."

"Do we?"

"You didn't notice?"

He snorted. "No."

"Well, I did. Access from the bedroom window. View is mostly trees and the park, but it might be a nice change."

They sat in silence for a short while, Draco eating Harry's cake as Harry stared out at the view, smoking the joint.

He would miss this view too. He would miss meeting the dawn with Draco, a joint, and that last desperate shot of liquor from the bottle, foolishly thinking they could keep the day at bay a little longer. Harry was certain he fell for Draco sitting right in this very spot. He didn’t realise what was happening at the time, wouldn’t allow himself to see it. But sometime during the dozens of rumpled, unguarded conversations about life and loss and the impossible weight of the world, Harry fell in love.

Love didn’t make the world any easier to carry, but it did teach Harry how to put it down for a little while. Harry was still himself, he would probably never shake the need to be helpful, to fight something. The same way Draco still got snappish when cornered, snuck down to the sofa on the nights that he couldn’t sleep—though they were less now—or smoked cigarettes when he thought Harry wasn’t watching.

The problems weren’t solved, the world was still heavy, but Harry’s heart felt a hell of a lot lighter than it did the first night he looked out on this view.

Draco's fork clattered to his plate. He brushed the crumbs from his fingers, turned to Harry and said, "Well, this party is officially dead. Want to get out of here?"

Harry looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "And go where?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't know. Anywhere. Wherever you want."

Harry thought about it for a second. He still heard laughter and music from inside, but Harry couldn't imagine himself going back to join them. The fresh air felt too good. Plus, they ran out of whisky an hour ago and all that was left to drink was fifteen bottles of champagne.

"Pub?" Harry said.

Draco laughed high in his throat. "I say go anywhere and you want to go to the pub?"

Harry nodded towards the key resting on Draco's knee. "Maybe swing by the new place after? Check out the roof?"

Now, Draco grinned. "Deal."

"I'm too pissed to Apparate," Harry said. He swayed as he pushed to his feet but offered Draco a hand to yank him to his.

"Tube?"

"Tube," Harry agreed.

They tumbled through the window into the bedroom, only knocking over a couple of the potions Draco needed for work, all while laughing uncontrollably and shushing each other even though everyone had long since stopped listening to anything that went on upstairs in the Hackney flat.

They snuck down the stairs, peeking into the living room to see who still lingered. Luna sat on the sofa with Krum, who was inexplicably holding both of her small hands in his while she smiled serenely. Astoria and Jack slow-danced to The Pixies while a joint still burned between Jack’s fingers. And other than a few sloshed lawyers, that was it. Parkinson and Hermione were long gone, probably already locked behind the bedroom door, and Zabini fled back to Mayfair hours ago. Ginny and Ron slipped out with a wave and a kiss blown across the room.

“See? Dead,” Draco said, and shoved Harry towards the door.

Harry snagged his leather jacket from the peg as Draco went ahead, jogging into the street. Then because he didn't have any reason not to, Harry grabbed the skateboard.

Harry trotted to catch up with Draco on the sidewalk. He threw down the skateboard and hopped on, sailing past him and smacking his arse as he passed.

"Hey!" Draco shouted, making a mad grab for him but missing by a mile.

"Come on," Harry called from two metres ahead. "Keep up."

"I'm not running in dragonhide boots, Potter. It’ll be agony."

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I'm wearing these lovely comfortable trainers."

Draco scowled at him. He glanced right and left, then dropped his wand from his sleeve.

"I don't recommend that," Harry said, smirking.

"I don't think I give a fuck," Draco replied, and with barely a twitch of his wrist, Harry's shoelace came undone and caught in the wheel of his skateboard. Harry went down with a shouted curse, sprawling onto his arse on the sidewalk.

Draco laughed brightly with his head thrown back and his eyes closed in the way that always made Harry’s heart flutter.

"God, you're such a prick," Harry grumbled as he picked himself up and dusted off the back of his jeans.

"And you're an arsehole,” Malfoy called behind him as he sauntered down the sidewalk, adding an obvious sway to his hips.

"Yeah," Harry said, sprinting to catch up and throwing an arm around Draco's shoulders. "But you love me."

"And you love me, so what does that say about you?"

"Guess that makes us both idiots." Harry kissed the side of his face as Draco tucked his hand into the back pocket of Harry’s jeans.

They walked the rest of the way to the Tube station where they rode the train to The Briar and Toad. Harry ordered a whisky, Draco ordered a vodka and they sat at the back table staring at each other while the world moved around them.

And after that, who knew? They could go anywhere. Wherever they wanted.