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Chapter Text

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Angelina Johnson, ombré braids framing her face, was begrudgingly holding out a team captain badge for him to take.

“The whole thing was your idea, Harry-”

“Yes, exactly, my idea of rest and relaxation. Listen, Ange, no offense, but I'm not really here for the whole strategy and winning and sponsors thing and all that. To be honest, I've got enough gold to retire now and live comfortably until I’m Nicolas Flamel’s age.”

“Yes, Harry, you're very rich, we get it,” Demelza Robins supplied, smirking.

“What I mean to say is that I've begun to throw this team together, with your help, in order to fill my days with something less boring than helping Kreacher clean, bless his soul, and something less stressful than being an Auror. And therefore I'm not interested in the leadership part of this arrangement in the slightest. Sorry, Ange.”

He gave her an apologetic grin that most certainly wasn't necessary, as Angelina wasted no time snatching the badge back and pinning it onto her own robes with a sort of resolution.

“Fine, then. Let's see if we can't find ourselves some good fliers.”

And she walked off, whistle hanging around her neck, leaving Demelza and Harry to exchange a brief glance and quickly scramble to follow her.

There weren't a lot of people trying out, and Harry was relieved, thinking back to the trials of his one and only year as Quidditch captain of Gryffindor house. He could spot a couple of vaguely familiar faces and even sort of grinned at Cho Chang when they made eye contact. Before he could try and make out more names, though, Angelina had concluded her welcome speech and instructed the players to kick off.

Cho turned out to be a superb chaser, joining Angelina and a lively, excited young woman by the name of Lana Knight who reminded Harry very much of Tonks. Demelza, who had been a chaser during her time on Harry's team at Hogwarts, had decided that her ability for dodging bludgers translated well into slamming them in the general direction of other players and seemed to harmonize best with Bobby Malkins, a short but bulky bloke with a crooked grin.

Three chasers and two beaters down, Harry being seeker, there was only one position left. Harry couldn't suppress a sigh as he stared into the face of Cormac McLaggen, smugly saying, “Well, seeing as I'm the only one trying out for keeper, I guess that's me!”

He tried sneaking a pleading look at Angelina, who just shrugged.

“I've seen you fly, and you are pretty good. Welcome to the team, I suppose.”

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Angelina was right, of course, he was pretty good, and so was the rest of the team, under her guidance, and soon, their as of now nameless team (no one had been able to agree on a name for long enough to actually write it down) found itself playing in the third league.

Now, third league Quidditch wasn't very advanced or interesting by any standards, but they were a fairly new team rising fairly quickly, and while third league wasn't usually enough to warrant quite an audience, this team's seeker was, alas, Harry Potter.

Harry knew Angelina was exasperated by the overcrowding of the small fields they were playing at, and he was too, in a way. And yet he couldn't deny that it felt good soaring in the air, thinking of nothing but catching that tiny golden ball, being cherished and adored for something he actually enjoyed doing once again.
The team was getting along well, even McLaggen had gotten slightly less insufferable in the eight years since they'd gone to Hogwarts together, and Harry was truly and honestly happy.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“Angelina says you were really good in your last match, Harry,” Hermione smiled at him over chinese takeout in the living room of the Granger-Weasley residence as they were watching replays of old Chudley Cannons games with Ron.
“We're sorry we haven't been to see the team yet, it's just, you know…”, she added, nodding in the direction of a room where Harry knew little Rose was sleeping peacefully for the first time this week.

He returned her smile. “Don't sweat it, guys, there's still plenty of time until the World Cup.”

“Yes, right, because any team with Cormac McLaggen in it has even the slightest chance to advance out of the third league”, Ron butted in, disgruntled. “Seriously, mate, McLaggen out of all people?”

“Wasn't my choice, as you very well know, and besides, he's really not that bad anymore. I’d rather have you, of course, but since that's not possible…”
“Yes, well, someone's gotta hold the Auror office together after their most prized employee quits out of nowhere, don't they?” Ron retorted in a light tone, and Harry only shrugged, contentedly slurping his noodles and watching Gudgeon make a particularly sharp dive just to miss the snitch by inches.

Yes, Harry was truly and honestly quite happy with his life.

Sure, things with Ginny hadn't quite worked out the way he'd hoped, and quitting his job after one too many very annoying PTSD incidents hadn't really been a highlight, but things were looking up. Harry liked Quidditch, liked his team, liked visiting Ron and Hermione and little Rose, liked visiting Teddy and Andromeda, and he had even recently managed to finally remove that insufferable painting of Sirius’ mum from Grimmauld place and, with that, effectively finished the year long renovations of his house. And if he got a little bit lonely, sometimes, in the long hallways that Sirius had once roamed, he could still start an argument with the painting of Phineas Nigellus or let Kreacher win another round of Wizarding Chess.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Angelina grinned at him widely after a particularly good practice a couple weeks later, and said, directed at no one in particular: “How about we all go and grab a drink? A little teambuilding? On me, since I'm captain, I suppose.” The unconcealed pride in her voice made Harry laugh, and grimy and sweaty though they were, they all went.

Conversation was easy, with old acquaintances and new ones alike, and three beers in, Harry was leaning his head on Angelina's shoulder as she was telling the rest of the team the story of George's proposal for the second time, sneaking satisfied glances at her ring finger every once in a while.

“It’s just so romantic! I mean, I know George could pull off the dramatic flair, but a private proposal is just so much more intimate!” Cho was saying, and Lana nodded enthusiastically.

“God, that makes another beautiful Weasley”, Demelza sighed, “as if that family needed any help turning heads.”

“Which Weasley turned your head, Demelza?” Harry asked, amused. He sat up a little bit straighter when she blushed and looked away.

“Ginny, actually”, Demelza supplied after a short pause and grinned nervously. “But we did share a dorm for years, so it was really quite inevitable once we got on the Gryffindor team together.”

Harry held his arms up in response. “Hey, no judgement there.”

“Was it the Quidditch robes? Because I swear, Wood in those is the sole reason I ever even realized I was gay”, McLaggen pitched in.

Harry choked on his beer, earning a disapproving glance from Angelina, and stared at him in disbelief.

“Wood? Oliver Wood? Out of all the handsome guys at Hogwarts your gay awakening was… Oliver Wood?”

McLaggen blushed. “Like I said, it must've been the robes or something.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Anyway, who was yours then, since you seem to know so much about gay awakenings?” McLaggen retorted, and Harry took the bait gladly.

“Cedric Diggory, I suppose.”

He snuck a glance at Cho, who seemed deep in conversation with Lany and Bobby.

“Of course, he then died tragically right in front of me, but I have him to thank for being bisexual.”

Angelina flicked his forehead as Harry replaced his head on her shoulder and left McLaggen fumbling for words.

“You really have got to stop playing with Cormac like this, you know? I think he's kind of scared of you”, she mumbled, and Harry looked up at her apologetically, shrugging.

“Orrrr”, Demelza, who was sitting to the left of Angelina, said in a hushed voice, “maybe McLaggen over here has a little crush on Harry.”

Harry, his beer safely standing on the table in front of him, choked on his own spit this time and had to be resuscitated by Angelina repeatedly slapping his back as he coughed.

“What- doyoumean- by that-?” He sputtered out eventually, thanking Angelina with a piteous look.

“I can just tell. My gay-sneakoscope is totally going off. What d’ya think, eh? Harry and Cormac, Cormac and Harry?” She wiggled her eyebrows in a way that was meant to annoy Harry to bits, he just knew it, and she was oh so successful.

“Shut up, will you? Not happening. Never ever.”

“I don't know, I can kinda see it”, Angelina teased in a mock-serious tone, “two guys that think their farts smell like roses.”

“I do not think my farts smell like roses-”

“What Angelina means, Potter, is that you both think very highly of yourselves, and you'd make a good match”, Demelza added, not very helpfully.

“I know what she means by it, thank you very much, and I do not think highly of myself-”

“Well you should, anyway-”

“And me and McLaggen isn't happening even if hell freezes over!”

That last bit had come out a little bit louder than Harry had originally intended, and all of them shot a cautious look over at McLaggen, who had luckily been swallowed up into a conversation about public proposals and flowers and whether children should attend weddings.

“Relax, Harry, you know we're just taking the piss.” Angelina chuckled and allowed him to replace his head on her shoulder, gently stroking his unruly hair.

“It's just been a while since we've seen you with anyone, and we like to see you happy.”

He settled his head deeper into the nape of Angelina's neck and sighed.

“Yeah, I know. I just hope that when I next choose to date somebody, they will be less insufferable than Cormac McLaggen.”

“Amen to that!” Demelza cried out and ordered another round of drinks.

Chapter Text

The referee blew the whistle and Harry kicked off the solid earth, up into the air, far above his teammates and opponents alike. The fresh morning air was whistling in his ears, cutting across his face as he soared upwards and on, slowly starting to circle the pitch below him. The wooden broom in his hands was familiar and comfortable, and Harry tried to freeze this moment as he always did, soaking in the hesitant rays of sun and the feeling of complete and utter joy. The noises of the pitch were far away and irrelevant, his sole focus the tiny golden Snitch he would have to discover and catch.

“And lastly, still riding his Firebolt, you'd think he would've gotten a newer model by now, Potter as Seeker. There’s Johnson with the Quaffle, she passes it on to Chang, who passes it on to Robins, who scores. That's 10-0 for… Johnson's team.”

The too-familiar sound of his last name spat out like a curse by that too-familiar voice made Harry spin around on his broomstick, losing his balance and breaking his trance.

There was simply no way.

The voice went on describing the events of the game in an unbothered, almost regal sounding air, and Harry knew that he was right, but he had to see for himself. He slowly advanced towards the commentator stands, still circling for the snitch as the game went on, and had to close his eyes against the increasingly aggressive sun. Shielding his face, he glimpsed a platinum blonde head of wavy hair above sharp, distinctive cheekbones and a lazy grin.

Harry couldn't stare for long, though, as right then he was grazed in the shoulder by a badly aimed Bludger. Caught off guard, the hit made him lose his grip on his broomstick completely, and he only just managed to sling his leg around the solid wood, swaying head down dangerously. He gripped his Firebolt, tightened his core, and swung himself back up, then gave Angelina, who had concernedly flown his way, a sheepish thumbs up.

“And while Potter was apparently busy training for the ballet, Erikson has obviously seen something he hasn't! Yes, she has most definitely spotted the snitch, is diving for it now, and finally Potter’s brain seems to have caught up, but I’m not sure his Firebolt will-”

Harry was chasing Erikson, the other team's seeker, at what felt like lightspeed, his face reddening from a mixture of embarrassment and fury and the harsh air cutting across it. It was so typical, so predictable, that none other than Draco Malfoy would be the one to ruin Quidditch for him, again.

Harry was a great seeker, sure, and his Firebolt top of the line, well, some eleven years ago, but even skill couldn’t negate pure speed and lesser distance, and he knew he wasn’t going to get to the Snitch in time even before Malfoy’s booming voice told him so: “Helga Erikson with the snitch! The Bratty Bats win 160-20! Bad luck, Potter.” And Malfoy went on, concluding his commentary curtly but with an unmistakable touch of glee in his voice.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“Harry, it could have happened to anyone. Please stop being so hard on yourself,” Cho was saying, patting his back encouragingly, but she jumped up when the doorbell rang.
“Wait, let me get that, Demelza, I swear to god, you are not fit for muggle interaction!”
And she was off, accepting a huge pile of pizza cartons from a flustered looking delivery guy at the front door. “Keep the change, yeah? Thanks, Daniel.”
Harry thought he saw a light flush on her cheeks as she waved awkwardly and closed the door with one hand, supporting the pile of cartons with her chin.

Cho, who arguably had the nicest flat in central London out of everybody, had taken it upon herself to host the teams post-match dinner, which, to Harry, currently felt more like a funeral service. It was their first loss since forming the team only three months ago, and Harry had known they wouldn't be able to keep up their streak forever. Even so, he felt worse than he did that one time he had had to grow every bone in his arm back in second year, because at least, he had caught the Snitch, then.

Staring at the wall, Harry had been sitting cross legged on Cho’s very comfortable sofa without uttering as much as a word for about half an hour now. He accepted the outstretched carton from Cho sluggishly and vaguely mumbled a thanks, opening it to find a greasy looking mushroom pizza he started to devour immediately. No matter how frustrated he was, food came first.

“So you're done sulking?” Angelina had come over and let herself fall onto the sofa next to him, crossing her legs and trying not to drip the grease from her piece of pizza on the fabric.

“Mhmmm”, Harry grunted noncommittally, chewing on a mushroom.

“Listen, I'm your captain, so I'm not going to tell you that you did your best. It might not have been an important match, but we both know you're a better flier than Erikson, and had you been focused you would've ended the match even faster than she did.”

She gave a sigh.

“Honestly, Malfoy being commentator threw me for a loop as well, I mean, it's Malfoy-”

“It's not Malfoy! I mean, of course it's him, I saw the git, I just mean-”, Harry replied, pinching the bridge of his nose above the rim of his glasses in annoyance.

“I just had a bad day. I'll fly better next time, Ange, I swear.”

“Good. Because we only have a certain amount of matches we can blow before they start counting towards our points for the season.
Now, please enjoy your pizza, I'm going to have some words with Cormac about the goal he let in.”

Angelina got up, brushing the crumbs off of the muggle joggers she had put on, and started walking towards McLaggen decidedly.

“Be nice!”, he called after her, receiving a raised eyebrow over her shoulder in response.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

When Harry got back to Grimmauld Place that night, his mood much improved due to the teams’ continued efforts to cheer him up, Kreacher was waiting for him, ready to take his cloak.

“Master Harry, how can Kreacher be of service? Does Master require a hot beverage?”

“Thanks, Kreacher, but no thanks. I'm just gonna go to bed.”

The house elf nodded and retreated to the kitchen, quietly humming a tune.
Harry, who had grown quite fond of the elf, had discovered that the long summer before fifth year spent cleaning and renovating the house would have progressed much more smoothly had Kreacher been willing to help. Having lived there for decades, he understood the house better than anyone else, and even interacted with it as though it were alive. Though not originally fond of the idea of renovating the place entirely, Kreacher had been ecstatic with Harry's offer to reside in Regulus’ old room, keeping anything he wanted that Harry would otherwise have thrown out. At Harry's suggestion of moving the lively and outspoken portrait of Mrs Black to the upstairs bedroom, he had gotten right to work, finally succeeding in unsticking it from the wall after many months.

Overall, the place was unrecognizable from the dark, gloomy house he associated with bittersweet memories of his godfather. Harry had tried to merge the only places he had ever considered home into one: The crowded, cosy Burrow and the vast, mystical hallways of Hogwarts. Now, Grimmauld Place strongly resembled Gryffindor common room as he remembered it, with large, comfortable armchairs and a distinct color theme of red and gold.

The only room that had been left untouched was Sirius’s, the posters of muggle girls in bikinis still plastering the walls. Harry entered the room, hair still damp from his short but necessary shower and let himself plummet onto the bed that had previously belonged to his godfather.

It had been a long time since he had thought about Draco Malfoy while laying in bed, and Harry was almost tempted to pull out the Marauders Map from deep within his nightstand to stalk Malfoys’ whereabouts.

After all the years since he had last seen him, the mocking grin at Harry's expense hadn't changed.

So much else had, though. Malfoy's hair, as blindingly bright as ever, was falling freely in slight waves instead of the usual slicked back look. It suited him, Harry thought, and chastised himself immediately. He was also still a prick. A handsome one, maybe, with piercing grey eyes and full lashes, his complexion less sunken and pale than it had once been. The Draco Malfoy he had known during the war, and then after, at his trial, desperate and exhausted, appeared to have vanished, making way for a once more confident version of him.
Or was Harry simply interpreting too much into the few glances he had stolen? With a twist in his stomach, Harry realized that he longed to see him again, to find out who Draco Malfoy had become.

He turned from his side onto his back, hating the implication of that thought. What did he care about Malfoy's life? Why should he be even slightly interested in the man who had tormented him throughout his time at Hogwarts, who had been branded by the Dark Mark and joined Voldemort’s cause?

He did not, he decided.

And yet, when he finally fell asleep that night, his dreams were visited by Draco Malfoy, mocking his fear of Dementors, Draco Malfoy, breaking his nose on the Hogwarts Express, Draco Malfoy, lying on the floor, wide, bloody slashes all over his body, he hadn't meant to do that, he hadn't known, he was blinking away tears, trying to stop the bleeding, Malfoy was going to die, Harry had killed him-.

Harry woke up that morning feeling like he hadn't slept at all.

Chapter Text

Harry's desire to see Malfoy again was promptly fulfilled that following Saturday at another pre-season match of Quidditch. He had spotted the unmistakable blond mane close to the commentators booth at arrival and had not ceased complaining since, even when he and Bobby were the last ones left in the changing tent, the rest of the team off to warm-up.

“What on earth happened to that other commentator, anyway? Wilson or something?”

Harry was fumbling with his quidditch robes, trying to button them up.

“Watson. Got promoted, I think”, Bobby replied, leaning against a locker, already completely dressed.

“Listen, do you know this Malfoy guy personally or something? He seems to really get under your skin.”

“Um, yeah, vaguely. I used to, I guess. Haven't seen him in years, though.” Harry evaded eye contact.

Had he known Malfoy personally, really? Had he ever tried to? If he hadn't met Ron that day at King’s Cross, if he had shook Malfoy's hand when they were eleven, would he have known him, now?

“Bad breakup?” Bobby inquired, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

“What? No, god no, um, that's not… We used to be rivals, sort of. It's a long story”, Harry replied, spluttering.

Bobby held up his hands in surrender, smiling, as Demelza burst into the tent, panting.

“Forgot- my bat-”, she leaned against Bobby, trying to catch her breath. “Bad breakup- ha!- Thought the same- back at Hogwarts.”

“Demelza, breathe, please”, Bobby told her, seeming amused.

“I was a year below Harry. At Hogwarts. Always suspected there was something going on. The tension-”

“The only thing going on was mutual dislike, Demelza. Merlin, do you guys really think I have such awful taste in men?”

“No comment on that, and also, Angelina says to hurry up or she'll make you do drills twice.”

And with that Demelza snatched her bat and ran back onto the pitch.

“Seriously, as if I'd ever… Dating Malfoy, god, I pity anyone who has the displeasure…”, Harry mumbled to himself, finishing up his last few buttons.

“Right, then. You ready?” Bobby, still seeming amused, asked and left towards the pitch, making Harry jog to keep up with him, his Firebolt clutched tightly in his hand.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Warm-up didn't go well that day, with Angelina unable to hide her annoyance directed at Harry and Harry's mind on bad breakups with Draco Malfoy. Before he knew it, they were facing the rival team and mounting their broomsticks, Malfoy's vaguely bored voice introducing the players one by one. He kicked off the hard earth, circling the pitch routinely at an altitude that allowed him to listen to Malfoy's commentary. It wasn't ideal, and the other team’s seeker was flying at least 10 feet above him, but Harry was just so intrigued by Malfoy's presence at these seemingly unimportant low league Quidditch matches. Was he doing this for fun, to torment Harry? He wouldn't need the money, surely, his family being one of the oldest and most noble wizarding families in Great Britain. Harry didn't think that being a Quidditch commentator had been Malfoy's childhood dream, and he couldn't imagine why he had ended up here, doing a job that Harry was sure Malfoy would have considered far beneath himself, once.

Harry was ripped out of his thoughts by a familiar, metallic flapping sound from behind his head, and he whirled his broomstick around, cursing himself. The Snitch had already moved on, but Harry could still see it, he sped up, chasing after it, trying to focus on nothing but the tiny golden ball.

“And Potter seems to have spotted the snitch! I’d been beginning to wonder if those glasses of his are merely decorative”, Malfoy announced, his voice carrying the most excitement he had shown this match.

Harry held out his hand, the other teams’ seeker had only just spotted him, and he was so close, four feet, three feet, two-

He rolled out of the way of a Bludger aimed at his head just in time, flipping his Firebolt around sideways and only barely staying seated. The Snitch had vanished from sight.

“Ahhh, such a good Bludger from Williams, really close miss on Potter, pity, really…”, Malfoy proclaimed, adding, “is what any biased commentator would say, which I'm not, of course.”

Harry didn't have to look in Malfoy's direction to recognize the gleeful expression he must be wearing. Angelina, who was nearby, flew his way to check on him and mouthed a determined “Ignore him!” after he gave her a quick thumbs up.

Annoyance was tugging at Harry, and he wasn't sure whether it was directed towards Malfoy or himself. He should've anticipated that Bludger, could've avoided it if he had paid more attention to the other teams’ beaters.

He couldn't possibly ignore Malfoy, though. Old habits die hard, and paying close attention to Draco Malfoy had once been his very favorite habit.

And so Harry listened intently, noticing the smallest changes in his voice when somebody scored a really close goal or managed a risky maneuver on their broomstick, excitement shining through what Harry now recognized to be an exaggeratedly unbothered tone. Malfoy was witty, and he had obviously done his research on the players, shelling out sarcastic quips on them every once in a while, but he wasn't mean, really, which made Harry wonder.

Was the venom in Malfoy's voice purely reserved for him? Or was Harry merely imagining it, so used to a young Malfoy's taunts and jeers all throughout their adolescence?

“Decent pass between Johnson and Chang there, a bit risky, but-”, Malfoy's amplified voice suddenly sucked in a breath, but he caught himself immediately. “Knight in possession now, she gets blocked by a Bludger,-”.

Harry wasn't paying attention anymore. He had recognized the gleeful surprise in Malfoy's voice, and he was sure he knew what had caused it. He whirled around to follow Malfoy's gaze, and there it was: The tiny Snitch was flapping idly just feet below where Cho had just been.

Malfoy must have spotted it all the way from his commentator booth, faster than either of the seekers had, and Harry was impressed in spite of himself. He started towards the ball immediately, pushing his Firebolt to go as fast as it possibly could. In front of him he could see the other teams’ seeker startle at the sight of Harry and immediately copy his movement, speeding ahead of him. Harry cursed himself. He had drifted off towards the stands in his mission to investigate Malfoy and was therefore much further away from the Snitch than his opponent. He raced and raced, but he couldn't possibly keep up, and finally, Malfoy announced: “Condor catches the Snitch and turns the match around! Bad luck once again, Potter.”

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Harry felt unable to face his teammates, so he took off towards the changing tent immediately, discarding his Quidditch robes in favor of a simple outfit composed of Muggle clothing. He intended to catch Angelina alone to apologize and disapparate home as soon as possible, when he heard voices from outside the tent, one of them very familiar.

“Pitiful performance from Potter, really, I was expecting a bit more” a deep, male voice was saying.

“I was told he was highly skilled, but of course, the name might bring false praise”, a female voice agreed, sniffing in a way that was reminiscent of Petunia Dursley.

“Yes, well, I always did think he was slightly overrated as a seeker, even back at Hogwarts. He started out as a first year, you know, clearly he lacks the necessary basics”, Malfoy's voice confirmed with an air of superiority, and Harry was storming out of the tent before he could stop himself, still carrying his robes and his Firebolt, finding himself face to face with a tall, handsome black wizard he vaguely recognized, a short, middle-aged witch, and Draco Malfoy.

“Malfoy”, he announced lamely, for lack of anything else to say.

The small group all turned and stared at him blankly. Malfoy was the first to regain his voice.

“Ah, Potter. Excuse his rudeness, Agatha, Blaise. Was there something you needed?”

“Um. A word, I guess. Yeah. That.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow, but he excused himself from his companions and strolled away, clearly expecting Harry to follow.

He jogged after him to catch up, sneaking a glance back to the odd pair left behind by Malfoy.

“That's Zabini?”, he heard himself say.

“Yes.” Malfoy wasn't looking at him as he spoke, still strolling without a destination.

“Um, it's just, he grew into his looks, is all.” He felt his cheeks flush.

“You should know Blaise is taken, so if that's why you came to speak with me, your efforts are sadly futile.”

“That's not why I came to speak to you.”

“What, then?” Malfoy had stopped suddenly, causing Harry to bump into him lightly. The blonde turned around, finding himself entirely too close to Harry, and took a step back, his composed face slipping ever so slightly.

Harry had no response ready, and Malfoy, now seeming annoyed, went on.

“You're clearly not trying to catch up with an old friend, so what is it that you want, Potter?”

“What are you doing here?” The question came out entirely wrong, the harshness of it startling Harry.

Malfoy, on the other hand, only sighed.

“I did suppose this was coming at some point”, he mumbled, more to himself than anything.

Harry didn't understand, but he went on, hastily.

“Why are you doing this? What do you gain from wasting your time commentating matches?”

“Merlin.” Malfoy pinched his nose bridge, frowning.

Then, he looked Harry directly in the eyes.

“Look, I know the technicalities, I enjoy watching Quidditch, and if you keep playing as miserably as you have recently, it's truly not a lot of work for a pretty decent payroll, not that I need it. And it is most certainly a better use of my time than listening to my dear mother lamenting all her past decisions and non-decisions all day.
Also, I haven't done anything even slightly illegal concerning the Wizarding World since the day of the Battle of Hogwarts, and have no plans to do so in the future. Now, are you done investigating and I, therefore, free to go, or would you like to take my fingerprints first?”

The muggle reference made Harry stagger, and he replied, lamely: "You're, um, free to go, I suppose?"

Malfoy turned away without another word, walking back towards Zabini and the short witch, and Harry found himself calling after him.

“Wait!” He paused, wanting to say so many things, but he could only form the least important question out of them all.

“What do you mean, you haven't done anything illegal concerning the Wizarding World since the war?”

Malfoy turned halfway, still frowning.

“Well, I did accidentally steal a yacht once, but since the Muggle law enforcement already arrested me for that, I don't think you Aurors can consider it probable cause to send me to Azkaban. Goodbye.”

Harry was left standing for a long time until he finally apparated home, considering the things he hadn't said, like how he had quit being an Auror months ago, and how he hadn't been trying to send Malfoy to Azkaban at all.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up that Sunday morning to a loud, rhythmic knocking on his door and he stood up, feeling as disheveled as he probably looked, to open the door for Hermione.

“Morning”, he mumbled, rubbing his eyes as his friend walked into the room, waving her wand to make his strewn around laundry disappear and flatten his crumpled bedsheets.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Good morning, if you can call it that. I've been up for hours, of course, and I just had a very pleasant conversation with Kreacher about SPEW, he made you breakfast, by the way.”

The thought of food animated Harry and he let himself be led down the stairs into the kitchen, where Kreacher was cleaning and humming contentedly, and a plate with beans on toast and a runny looking fried egg was waiting for him. He thanked the house elf and sat down, stuffing his mouth immediately.

“So, mhmm, why are you here?”, he got out, eventually, while Hermione slightly wrinkled her nose.

“You're just as bad as Ron. Well, Angelina was considering sending a Howler, but since she's a good friend, she sent me instead.” She gave Harry a meaningful look that he took to mean 'Don't make her make me do it again.’

“She says that as miserably as you might play, you can't just run off without talking to anyone and sulk about it all day. And that she expects you at practice tomorrow at 8am sharp.”

Having delivered her message, her stern face relaxed into a smile.

“So, what's up? Did you really suck that badly?”

Harry grimaced, shoving his plate away from him.

“Well, not really. Connors is an idiot, and he wouldn't have spotted that Snitch if it had been right in front of his face if he hadn't seen me going for it. He was just in a better position, is all. I didn't even spot it first, either, though. Malfoy did.”

He frowned at the thought of that, resenting what it meant. If he had been playing against Malfoy, he would have still lost.

“Angelina says you claim Malfoy isn't the problem, but he is, isn't he?” Hermione prompted, her expression a bit too knowing for Harry's taste.

“So what if he sets me off a little bit? He used to be a Death Eater, I used to be their biggest target, it makes sense, doesn't it?” he retorted, crossing his arms.

“Harry, you're not scared of Malfoy, please”, Hermione rolled her eyes, “he just gets under your skin.”

Harry was about to retort once again, but she simply pointed at him and said, “See! Even claiming he gets under your skin gets under your skin, dummy. Which is alright, I'm not here to scold you for being distracted at Quidditch, God knows I couldn't care less, no offense, I just… Angelina's right when she says you shouldn't be sulking alone all day. Especially not because of something Malfoy caused.”

“You're right”, Harry admitted, now smiling weakly.

“Of course I am. Now, take a shower, go on a walk, and come over in a bit. I have work to do, but Ron’s off today and Rose would love to have someone she can force to play Junior Wizarding Chess with her. Also, Molly claims she accidentally made too much curry and is bringing some over, so feel free to stay for dinner.”

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Harry obeyed without question, and so he found himself across from Ron and Hermione at their dinner table that night, discussing a possible future of professional Wizarding Chess for Rose, who was sound asleep on the sofa.

“She's a natural, I'm telling you, Mione, we need to start getting her into junior tournaments”, Ron was rambling on, excitedly.

“Ron, we are not making our three year old daughter go to chess tournaments. She can decide that as soon as she understands the concept of a tournament in the first place”, Hermione tutted, grabbing a piece of naan.

“Well, alright, but we should at least get her a tutor or something, we can't let her get out of practice!”

“Hey, I play with her for hours on end almost every weekend!” Harry put in, reasonably.

“Yes, thanks mate, but beating you really isn't much of a feat, even for a three year old.”

Harry decided to let that slide, shaking his head and taking another bite of his curry. Then, he decided to ask the question he'd been working up to all day.

“Listen, this might seem random, but do either of you know anything about what Malfoy has been doing these past few years? It's just, I don't think I've seen him since his trial, and now he shows up out of nowhere at my matches, and, um, I was just wondering.”

Harry had started staring at his lap as he was talking, and he looked up just in time to see his friends exchange a quick glance.

“Well, not since his trial”, Ron started, and Harry looked away again, the memory of that day making him cringe.

“No one saw him, really, with him being on house arrest and everything, but you know that already.”

“What about after? It was lifted over five years ago, wasn't it? What has he been up to?” Harry pushed, ignoring Ron's grimace.

“Nothing illegal, according to our records, but that's all I can tell you, really. Me and Malfoy weren't exactly mates, he didn't send me postcards from wherever he went”, Ron chuckled, obviously imagining this absurdity.

“But he did go somewhere?”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn't it?” Hermione put in, fidgeting with her wedding band.

“I'd leave too, if all of Wizarding Britain despised me for things I did as a teenager. I'm not defending him”, she added quickly, “but it does make sense. Abroad, no one would know him as a Death Eater, and if he disappeared from Britain for a couple of years, well… ”

Ron snorted. “Yeah. As if anyone could forget him being a Death Eater.”

“But Ron, they are! They're not forgetting it, per se, but… Don't you at least read the sports column in the Daily Prophet?”

“Do you?” Ron replied, baffled.

“I read the whole thing front to back, every morning, just in case there's anything interesting”, Hermione explained, shrugging the question off. “And the public seems to be receiving him well. Sure, there's some sarcasm about how he really jumped up the career ladder, but they think he's charming enough.”

Both Harry and Ron snorted at that, exchanging an incredulous look.

“Charming isn't quite the word I’d use”, Ron said, and Harry added, flatly: “I think the word I’d use is bloody insufferable.”

But he couldn't help but think that Malfoy had been charming, in a way. He could see how an audience would enjoy his quick-witted, bored sarcasm, how along with his handsome face and regal air, he could charm anyone.

Harry shook his head quickly, trying to exile that thought. Malfoy was a git, he reminded himself, a stuck up snob, and an egocentric bully.

He kept repeating those words to himself, trying to rid himself of any curiosity about Malfoy, but even when he bid Ron and Hermione goodbye hours later, he couldn't help but turn over every single word Malfoy had said during their conversation, trying to interpret what they had meant for him. He kept getting stuck on the yacht, which he had to have said to annoy Harry, surely, but then, if it wasn’t true, how on earth did Malfoy know about yachts and being arrested and getting your fingerprints taken?

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

In his dreams that night, he found himself at a fancy port in Italy, his hair being blown by a pleasant breeze. There was Draco, holding his hand and leading him on, his smile unfamiliar but so very real, his breath revealing a hint of alcohol when he leaned in to whisper about Muggles and inefficient travel methods.
Then they were on the sea, the sun going down, and they could hear the harbor police behind them, yelling incomprehensible words, but they just laughed, on and on.

Then they were sharing a bed, Draco topless, Harry tracing his faint scars, pressing his lips to them, pressing his lips to Draco's.
A woman stormed in, suddenly, and Harry wasn't sure who she was, her face twisting between features, but settling on Rita Skeeter as he heard camera shutters and the scratching of quills on pergament, and there was an audience, yelling and booing, and suddenly he was back at Hogwarts, everyone wearing a ‘Potter Stinks’ badge, Malfoy flashing his at him viciously. He directed a curse at him, and there he was, laying on the floor of the bathroom once again, blood spraying from his chest, and Harry remembered tracing those same wounds, kissing them, and he waited for Snape, knowing he would come, but he didn't, and Malfoy bled out, only Harry at his side.

When Harry showed up to practice late that next morning, Angelina didn't seem to have it in her to give his miserable, tired face a proper telling-off.

Chapter Text

The next time he saw Malfoy, Harry had decided that he hated him. It wasn't fair, of course, hating Malfoy for haunting his dreams and for otherwise being utterly distracting, but he did, and it satisfied the small part of Harry that didn't know what he was feeling to settle into hatred.

Hating Malfoy was easy, familiar, and Harry found that he excelled at it. He started reading the Prophet, scoffing over the teensiest little comments on Malfoy’s ‘refreshing commentary’ in the Quidditch column, mumbling snide remarks to himself. When he burned his tongue on his tea, he could only blame Malfoy, the stupid article having distracted him.
When Harry stubbed his toe on his armchair, grabbing another Prophet, he started cursing Malfoy out loud, much to the distress of Kreacher.

“Master mustn't say such horrible things about the Malfoy heir! He simply mustn't! Mr. Malfoy is of very good breeding, very noble, yes, he ought to be respected!”

“Kreacher, with all the love in the world, if the git wants to be respected, he’ll have to earn it”, Harry replied, helping Kreacher clear away his mugs, the elf mumbling under his breath.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what exactly had triggered this descent into hatred, because when he really thought about it, he hadn’t hated Malfoy since they had been sixteen, not since their silly teenage rivalry had turned into opposite sides of an actual war. Yes, he had resented Malfoy, but the overwhelming feeling when he thought back to those years was pity.
Now, with no more pity left in him, the feeling had turned into annoyance, old resentment, and anger.
He was overreacting, he knew, but it had been a long time since Harry had felt as passionately about anything besides Quidditch, and he was hanging on to the feeling as tightly as he could.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“It's just so rude, you know? He never even looked me in the eyes once, and the way he kept dismissing me, like he wasn't actively insulting me seconds before? Not so brave face to face now, is he?”

“Mate, as much as I appreciate any sort of slander towards Malfoy deeply, it's a bit much, innit?” Ron interrupted, waving his wand to make a grape float into his mouth. “It's your turn.”

“Is it really? Already?” Harry replied, looking at his friends.

Neville, Ginny, Luna, Ron, Hermione, Dean, Seamus and Demelza were all sitting together in Ron and Hermione’s living room, forming a circle of pillows with a game of Wizarding Scrabble in between them, their faces varying between amused and slightly annoyed.

“Has been for around five minutes, actually”, Ginny said, grinning at him. “We just didn't think it wise to interrupt your obsessive rant.”

“Shit, sorry, um”, Harry replied, scrambling to add a ‘Y’ to the end of ‘BUGGER’ with a flick of his wand.

Hermione gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Seamus, Dean, and Demelza burst out laughing (as did Neville, belatedly, after exchanging a few whispered words with Ginny).

“Harry, gross!” Hermione finally got out, and Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

“Very educated about sexual jargon, are you?” he teased, causing Hermione’s face to assume a deep shade of pink and Ron to quickly take his turn to add another word, effectively making everyone argue about the validity of ‘NARGLE’, Luna only advocating against it because “They rarely come alone, really, tiny as they are”.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Hours later, their group had split into different parts of the room, their game of Scrabble left abandoned after Hermione had won with a decisive lead. Harry found himself squeezed together on a sofa with Ginny and Luna, all of them tipsy on dandelion wine.

“Isn't it just so great to pursue your hobby professionally? I mean, our team is probably a bit more competitive than yours, Harry, no offense, but I don't mind spending the entire day on the field, really”, Ginny was saying, shooting a quick glance to Luna, who was watching her docilely. “I just hope I can get a couple of weeks off in the summer.”

“What's then?” Harry inquired, noting her sudden shift in tone.

Ginny exchanged another glance with Luna, who nodded encouragingly, then held out her left hand towards Harry, showing off a beautiful, if a bit odd, ring that closely resembled a radish. Harry gasped, his eyes flicking from Ginny to Luna back to Ginny and frantically scrambling for words.

“Shush, you, we haven't told anyone else yet”, Ginny laughed, accepting an excited hug from Harry and moving over to let him hug Luna as well.

“That's, blimey, it's brilliant! When-, Who-, er, details, please!”

“I proposed last weekend”, Luna confided, her gaze shifting. “Do excuse me, I think I've just seen a pixie-pygmy-puff hybrid.” And she wandered off towards the kitchen, leaving Harry and Ginny behind, both of them smiling after her fondly.

“It was so beautiful, Harry, I can't even describe it. We're telling the others next week.” Ginny looked up at his face nervously. “Just figured it might be nice for you to know first and not be caught off guard.”

“Ginny, it's, really, you…”, he started off, unable to gather his thoughts and opting to give her another hug instead, really trying to make her understand. She relaxed into his arms, their embrace encompassing all of the unsaid things between them. When they broke apart, Harry was embarrassed to find Ginny's face slightly red and puffy.

“I never wanted to hurt you”, she gasped, wiping a tear away.

“Two of my best friends in the world being happy together is the furthest thing away from hurting me that I can imagine”, Harry replied, squeezing her hands and giving her a smile, finding this statement to be entirely truthful.

“Well, enough about me, or I’ll have to ask Mione to de-puff my face later”, Ginny laughed, taking a second to blow her nose. “What's happening with you?”

“I'm great”, he replied, and, at Ginny's raised eyebrow, started elaborating: “No really, I am. I have great friends, a great team, a great house elf, and I'm not risking my life for the Ministry every single day anymore, so…”

“Quidditch? How's that going?”

“Great.”

“Harry, I do have my sources, you know.”

Harry gave a sigh. “Well, I've played better, but… I'm just having a bad streak.”

“Nothing to do with your very passionate and continuous rants about Malfoy junior, eh?”

“‘Passionate’ is an overstatement. I don't care about that bellend.”

“Liar”, Ginny grinned, giving a returning Luna a small kiss.

“Who, Harry? Yes, I've noticed that. I'm very good at discerning the truth, you know”, Luna added, sliding back onto the sofa. “Sadly, the Pygmypixie, as I've named it, escaped.”

“You'll get ‘em next time, Luna”, Harry grinned at her before turning back to Ginny, spotting the hint of a challenge in her eyes.

“I know what you're implying, and you're wrong. But if it amuses you, you're welcome to come see my next game. I'm ending my bad streak.”

“Deal”, Ginny agreed, the sparkle not leaving her eyes.

Chapter Text

And so it was that a week later, Harry spotted not only Ginny and Luna, but also Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ron, Hermione, and even Rose on the spectator stands before he went to change into his Quidditch robes, screaming encouragement and waving magical slogans that made him blush.

“Ginny, hi, er... Wasn't it just gonna be you and Luna?”

“Well, anyone can buy tickets for these games on Diagon Alley, and when we heard about the kind of promises you're making…”, Seamus explained, winking at Harry.

“No pressure, then, great”, he replied, giving everyone a wave and running towards the dressing tents, where Angelina was already giving her pre match speech.

“McLaggen, remember the thing I told you about getting tunnel vision. Cho, Lana, don't let yourselves be intimidated. Demelza, Bobby, aim for the big guy on the other team, he doesn't look fast, but don't let that fool you.”

“Couldn’t hurt if you sent a Bludger flying towards the commentator booth as well”, Harry mumbled under his breath, earning himself Demelza’s elbow between his ribs and a scathing look from Angelina, who went on.

“Most importantly, we need to be focused. I want no petty fouls or personal quarrels on the pitch today. Now go warm up, I want a word with Harry.”

Harry gulped and hastily pulled his robes over his head, delaying facing Angelina for a second. When he resurfaced, her face displayed a mixture of affection and annoyance.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Just… fly like you did in your first year at Hogwarts. Enjoy it.”

“Good luck winning if you're telling all of your players to disregard fourteen years of flying practice”, he joked, but at the sight of her face, he added: “Merlin, Angelina, sure, I will.”

“You better.”

They joined the rest of the team for warm-up on the ground, soon kicking off it into the chilly air, where they were greeted by none other than Draco Malfoy's voice, once again. He introduced them, one by one, a notable shift at Harry's name that Harry couldn't quite interpret. That he wouldn't interpret, rather, as he was set on ignoring Malfoy completely.

It was quite easy, at first. Harry was circling the pitch dutifully, his attention fully concentrated on anything glittery and golden, the wind in his ears obscuring any possible snarky commentary, when he first felt the drift.

He tried correcting it, slightly urging his Firebolt to the left, but as he came to the end of the pitch and turned, he suddenly felt that he was overcorrecting, veering off to the left completely and once again struggling to keep his balance, a feeling he had grown way too used to.
Harry couldn't help but think back to what Angelina had said to him, that he should fly like he used to back when he was eleven, but she couldn't have meant this, and he couldn't imagine that the rebirth of Lord Voldemort was sitting in the stands below him, trying to curse him off his broom.

Malfoy's voice floated up towards him, commenting on ‘Potter’s broom issues’, his amusement barely concealed, and Harry felt his Firebolt twitch under his grip, seemingly reacting to the sound. Harry suddenly felt a strong desire to end the match as quickly as possible, to touch ground and-

There it was. Barely twenty feet above the commentator booth, the Snitch was flapping, and Harry went into a dive immediately, adrenaline and rage and, finally, his Firebolt giving him the speed he needed to catch it precisely in less than ten seconds, before the other team’s seeker could even whirl their broomstick around.

What followed consisted of tumultuous cheers and screams, the crowd finally catching up with what had just occurred. Malfoy, who had seemingly been caught off guard, but quickly regaining his composure, was saying: “Potter catches the Snitch and wins his team the game! Well, I suppose anyone can get lucky every once in a while.”

That was the exact moment Harry crashed into the open booth, trapping Malfoy's chest underneath his broom and demanding: “What the fuck is your issue, Malfoy?”

Malfoy's features shifted from shock into a grimace, and Harry thought he caught a hint of amusement in the twinkle of his eyes.

“Think this is funny, do you?”

“Merlin, Potter, we're in public”, Malfoy scoffed, looking around and giving a pained smile to a nearby reporter.

“Did you jinx my Firebolt?” Harry snarled, his voice low enough for only Malfoy to hear.

The other’s features seemed to settle into something newer still, and Harry thought that he recognized it as the same annoyance he had seen when they had spoken before.

“Must I remind you that I'm no petty criminal? Now get off me, Potter, or did you want this to go front page?” Malfoy hissed, indicating a couple of reporters to their side already taking pictures with a flick of his eyes.

Harry paused, then shook his head, taking a step back and dusting off his robes. In an attempt to seem collegial, he offered Malfoy his hand to pull him up, which he accepted with a painfully false smile.

“Sorry, er, mate, bit of a miscalculation there”, Harry almost shouted, trying to imitate Ron's casual tone and failing miserably.

“Mate?” Malfoy mouthed, incredulously, then added, loudly, “Yes, I can see that. I suppose accidents do happen, especially to you.”

Then, he turned around without another word, vanishing behind a ‘Staff Only’ door into the stands.

“Harry, that was incredible, I didn't even-”

“Good catch, mate, really nice-”

“Finally, Merlin, took you long enough-”

The rest of Harry's team had arrived on the stands, crowding and hugging him, saving him from the embarrassment of having been left standing by Draco Malfoy. The anger that he had barely managed to conceal was rising again, threatening to burst out.

“Yeah, thanks guys. Er…. bathroom?” Harry mumbled and pushed through the crowd and into the staff door.

As he slammed the door shut behind him, Harry found himself blinking repeatedly, the contrast of the bright sun outside and the dimly lit room he had just entered startling him.

“Potter, what the hell?” came a bemused sounding voice from below him, and Harry took a step back, recognizing Malfoy on the floor, rubbing his head.

“I was bloody standing there, you idiot!”

“Leaning against the door? How on earth is it my fault you don't know how doors work?” Harry replied, holding out his hand to help Malfoy up without conscious thought.

Malfoy, quite pointedly, didn't take it and instead got up on his own, brushing dirt from his robes.

“Any more force and you would've broken that door down, you brute.”

Malfoy, for some reason, seemed to be blushing.

“Where are we, anyway?” Harry asked to escape the awkward moment, looking around him and seeing stacks on stacks of old looking broomsticks.

“Referees’ broomstick shed. Staff only, which, you're not, by the way”, Malfoy said flatly.

“I am staff! Star Seeker, mind you! Who's staff if not me?”

“Me, for one,” Malfoy interjected, sighing, “so we'll just assume I granted you permission to be here. Now, whatever it is you want from me, Potter, I'd really prefer for you to ask it here instead of crashing into me in front of a crowd and ten reporters. I'll have you know, though, that my criminal record is clean and has been proven to be so regularly through the use of Veritaserum, which you might have known if it wasn't for your incompetence.”

Harry simply stared for a moment.

“Veritaserum? That's not what they're supposed to… Wait, will you stop talking to me like I'm a cop? I quit being an Auror months ago! I'll have to have a word with Kingsley about the Veritaserum though, they can't… I mean, you were let off years ago…” Harry finished, his resolve slowly shrinking.

It was Malfoy's turn to stare.

“You quit?”

Harry nodded.

“Huh.” He blinked. “What on earth do you want, then?”

Harry noted the way Malfoy's shoulders slightly dropped, the way his features relaxed into a familiar taunt and felt himself tense up again.

“My firebolt!” He gestured wildly to his left, where his broomstick was hovering beside him vertically and giving off a low humming sound.

“I did not hex your firebolt.”

“Why's it… Well, what's wrong with it then?” Harry demanded.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“Have you considered the problem might be you?”

“I know when there's something wrong with my own broomstick, thank you very much.”

“In that case, you might consider visiting an expert in broomstick repair, which I'm not. Isn't the thing more than a decade old, anyway?” Malfoy inclined his head toward the strips of spello tape that decorated the tail end of the Firebolt.

“That's- well- that's nothing!” Harry shifted a bit, trying to shield the broomstick from sight.

“It's been in perfect condition up until now!”

Harry did not think mentioning the tragic fall the broomstick had suffered merely days before his seventeenth birthday, and the ensuing rescue missions and broomstick surgeries after the war would help his case, so he held his tongue.

“It… It drifted towards you”, he added, realizing how stupid that must sound as he said it.

“I mean- Well- It's you! You're the one messing me up! I don't know how you're doing it, but you are, I know it!”

“You're insane.” Malfoy was looking at him as if he had just declared a deep hatred for Chocolate Frogs.

“No, I'm right. And I'm leaving.” Harry gave a spin, fully intending to apparate, but when he opened his eyes, he once again came face to face with Malfoy.

“What the-”

“They've got Anti-Apparition protection around this place, Potter. To prevent cheating. As ‘Star Seeker’, shouldn't you know this?” Malfoy asked innocently, a smile curling around his lips.

“‘Course I knew that”, Harry muttered, turning once again to grab the door handle and get away from Malfoy as fast as he could, slamming the door behind him.

Chapter Text

“HARRY POTTER AND DRACO MALFOY: FORCED ALLIANCE, PUBLICITY STUNT, OR MORE?

Dearest Coven of Veiled Whispers,
I'm sure we've all been following the delicious Quidditch rivalry between The Boy Who Lived Twice, Harry Potter, and former Death Eater turned commentator, Draco Malfoy, that's been unfolding over recent weeks closely, but it's just reached an unprecedented level!

Here's a recap for everybody new to the events:
Potter and Malfoy's relationship has always been rocky, as insight from former classmates of the two reveals: Hatred at first sight ensuing into six years of rivalry, prompting multiple physical altercations and countless detentions on either part. Then, opposite sides of the war. Nobody expected Potter to even be present at Draco Malfoy's trial before the Wizengamot, but he showed, not to speak out against Malfoy, but in his favour. The beginning of an unlikely friendship?
Well, not really. With Malfoy's disappearance from the public eye and Potter’s seemingly endless obligations to Wizarding Society, there likely wasn't much time for friendly chit chat between the two. Then, Potter takes a step back, leaving the Ministry and dedicating himself to Quidditch instead. A controversial decision, but Malfoy follows his lead: After years of evading being seen, he rejoins Wizarding Society commenting on Potter’s Quidditch games. If this move is calculated in order to influence public opinion, it certainly works. Malfoy's witty commentary and the hilarious chemistry between the two receives good feedback, allowing the former Death Eater to reintegrate smoothly into public.

Now, this begs the question, if this was in fact a publicity stunt, is Potter in on it? Or is he just the means to an end for Malfoy, who has never seemed to care much about Potter before?

Well, this is where it gets interesting. Potter’s most recent Quidditch game had quite the explosive end. While Potter broke his losing streak and caught the snitch in a stunning maneuver, he crashed directly into Malfoy as a result. Rita Skeeter, who was present at the scene, reports this as ‘an honest mistake between colleagues’ and claims to have heard Potter call Malfoy ‘mate’, which this author interprets as a way of deescalating rather than a genuine showcase of friendship. Looking at the situation in full and taking into account Skeeter’s history of being bought by sources close to Potter, this suggests a discord between the pair. Additionally, eye witnesses claim to have seen Malfoy and Potter enter a private broom shed right after each other, both looking flushed and a little disheveled as they left separately a couple of minutes later.

This is where it might start to seem a little far fetched, but what's a gossip column without a bit of speculation?

What business do two supposed rivals have all alone in a broom shed? Is it possible there's more to this rocky relationship than what the eye can see?

Do with that what you will, but as always, letters addressed to Nada Natter will find me-

Yes, well, and so on.” Hermione grinned at Harry.

“What do you think?”

“What do I think?” he demanded, looking incredulously from Hermione to Ginny to Ron, the latter two recovering from one fit of laughter and descending right into the next one.

“Are you seriously- Stop laughing!” Harry stood up from his armchair in Grimmauld Place with some difficulty, having sunk into it so deeply while Hermione had been reading the excerpt she had ripped out of her Witch Weekly magazine this morning.

Ron looked up at him, evidently trying his very hardest to keep a straight face. “Mate, you've gotta admit, it's…,” but he couldn't finish his sentence, Ginny picking it up instead. “It's perfect, that's what it is! Comedic genius, god, how I wish I had thought to write it,” she said, taking the excerpt out of Hermione’s hand. “What's their name again, Nada Natter? Hats off.”

“It's a pen name, I'm pretty sure,” Hermione said, frowning. “I always keep an eye on these kinds of columns, just in case, and I've tried researching that name before.”

“Who gives a damn who it is, look at what they're implying!” Harry moaned, snatching the paper from Ginny and scanning through it.

“‘More to this rocky relationship’... I'll give you rocky…,” he mumbled, scowling at the letters in front of him.

“Harry, it's nothing to get upset about,” Hermione said, frowning. “I would've thought you would be perfectly used to reporters writing lies about you by now.”

She caught Ginny's eye, who took up the conversation.

“Well, unless… there's some truth to it?” she prodded, giving Harry a meaningful look.

Harry sank back into his armchair, shaking his head and staring at his feet.

“Why does everybody keep saying that? I wouldn't date Malfoy”- he pronounced his name with as much disgust as he could muster -“even if we were the last two people on earth!”

Harry looked up in time to see Hermione and Ginny exchange another look and turned to Ron, hoping to find an ally in this.

“Wait, you guys seriously think…? I thought we were just taking the piss!” Ron exclaimed, having followed the shared glance between the two as well.

“We are!” Ginny reassured him, grinning. “We're just also noticing things.”

“Like what?” Harry demanded, flailing his arms in exasperation.

“Like the fact that you've been a complete mess on the pitch ever since he turned up to distract you,” she said.

Quidditch! Harry's brain gave a jolt as he remembered.

“It's my Firebolt! Hermione, I've been wanting to ask- Do you know anybody researching broom lore?”

“Broom lore?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Didn't you say you weren't going to let anyone else touch your Firebolt ever again?”

Relieved to have rerouted the conversation onto safer ground, Harry shuddered as he thought back to the atrocities that had been committed against his broomstick in attempts to fix it years before.

“Well, yes, but I've been deconstructing it for days, and I can't find anything wrong with it… But something's off, I know it!”

“Have you considered that you might be the problem?” Ginny put in.

Harry frowned. “That's what Malfoy said, too.”

“Maybe he isn't as much of an idiot as we thought, then.”

“Yeah, thanks, Gin. Real helpful.”

“Sorry. I might know somebody, though.”

Harry perked up.

“Michael mentioned opening a shop the last time we talked.”

“Michael?” Ron exclaimed. “Not Michael Corner?”

“That's the one.”

“What are you doing talking to Michael Corner?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, ignoring Ron.

“It's on Diagon Alley, Harry, I'm sure he'd be delighted if you came by,” she said, grabbing a nearby piece of paper and producing a gel pen out of thin air to write down the address.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Hours later, his scar not discernible, his hair and scruffy beard a shade of auburn and his glasses left behind, Harry stumbled out of the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace, dusting himself off and giving Tom, the barkeeper, a quick nod. As he strolled through Diagon Alley, he recognized some of the faces passing by, but none of them paid him any attention.
Diagon Alley N°58 Unit B, he confirmed with a quick glance at the paper in his hand, and stepped into the shop, the chime of a bell greeting him.

“Coming!” a voice rang from a room in the back, and soon, Michael Corner was coming towards him, smoothly navigating the stacks of boxes in the crowded room. “What can I do for you?”

Harry returned Michael's smile a little awkwardly and held out his Firebolt. “I heard you fix stuff?”

Michael took a quick look at the broom, then turned around, gesturing for Harry to follow.

“You want a cuppa?” he called over his shoulder, already paces ahead of Harry.

“Sure!” Harry called back, trying his very hardest not to trip and fall as he followed into the back room, which seemed much more organized, with tools stacked neatly on shelves and a workbench donning a shiny broomstick.

“I'm Michael, by the way,” Michael said, already holding out a cup to Harry.

“Yeah. I got your address from Ginny,” Harry replied, scratching his head.

“You know Ginny?” Michael gestured for Harry to place his Firebolt on the workbench, floating the other broom onto a nearby shelf and starting to observe the Firebolt from all angles.

“We're… distant relatives. Barney Weasley.”

Michael gave him a barely visible nod, his eyes still fixated on the broom. “Nice to meet you, Barney.”

Harry wasn't quite sure why he was lying to Michael, the disguise he was hiding behind not necessary now that he wasn't out in the open. Michael had been nice-ish, the times they had spoken, and he certainly seemed nice now, but for some reason, Harry wanted to keep this anonymous. Then, with a tiny jolt in his stomach, he realized that in Ginny and Cho, they also shared not one, but two ex girlfriends, and his resolve hardened.

“So, Barney, what have we got here? Overall, your Firebolt seems fine, if a bit worn, but if it was purchased at the time of release and has been used frequently, that's to be expected. Quidditch player?” he asked, and Harry jumped a little, but gave a nod.

“Some rough falls, then, probably, yeah, that explains a lot… Well, I can fix this tail end for you if it's bothering you, even though the Spello tape seems to be doing its job pretty well, but it's of course not the prettiest solution…” Michael murmured, now inspecting the broom with a seemingly magical magnifying glass.

“The tail end’s fine as it is, thanks, my problem is more… more of an internal thing, I reckon.”

Michael looked up at Harry, his features reflecting curiosity.

“It's only happened once, so maybe it's a fluke, but… At my last game, it felt like my broom was… sort of drifting towards someone?”

Harry felt stupid as soon as he said it aloud, but he went on.

“There's this guy who's been a commentator at my games, and it kind of felt like my Firebolt kept taking me in his direction. It even seemed a bit faster than usual when I flew towards him, and it slowed me down when I was flying away.”

“Ah. And what is your relationship with this guy like?”

Harry felt color rise to his cheeks as he spluttered: “What relationship? We're not- It's not like that, er, there is no relationship, you know?”

“Sorry,” Michael grinned, “I just meant: Are you on friendly terms? Or is the nature of your relationship more uncongenial?”

“Oh.” Harry felt himself blush even harder, and was instantly glad to be Barney Weasley instead of himself.

“It's a bit complicated.”

“I can see that,” Michael replied as he raised an eyebrow.

Harry struggled to see how to get the point across without stripping his identity bare, but he started an attempt.

“We kind of used to hate each other, back in school, then he broke my nose, and then I accidentally almost killed him? He was fine!” he added, seeing the confused grimace on Michael's face. “Well, after that, he sort of… saved my life, and then I saved his twice, and… we haven't really spoken much since then,” he finished.

“I see. And you've been flying this broom for how long?”

“Around ten years.”

“And has this broomstick been in contact with the ‘guy’ you mentioned before now?”

“I suppose so? We used to play seeker against each other in school,” Harry shrugged.

“Would you say you feel a strong connection to it? An emotional bond?”

Harry caught Michael's eye, slightly confused.

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Well then. I'm guessing your Firebolt here has what we call a crush.”

“A crush? No, I told you, it's not like that!” Harry protested, reaching out to snatch back his broom instinctively and holding himself back just in time.

“A crush, to those of us passionate about broommaking, is when a wizard’s broomstick gets close enough to its owner to pick up on their feelings and desires, however positive or negative. To me, it sounds like this beauty here,” he gave the Firebolt a couple of light taps, “is trying to act on your behalf. Now, I'm no expert when it comes to feelings, but it seems like you're wanting to get close to this guy. If it's to break his nose, to bury the hatchet, maybe even explore some underlying… feelings, I can't tell you.”

At Harry's look, he held up his hands, protesting, “Hey, don't jinx the messenger! I'm just saying, whatever it is, I'm afraid you're going to need to work it out in order to solve this issue you're having.”

Harry gave a sigh, mulling this over.

“Great, well, thanks. How much do I owe you, then?”

“Nothing, if the next time you come in you bring the scar and the glasses,” Michael replied, his smile mischievous.

“A bit of publicity can't hurt.”

Chapter Text

Harry spent the next week thoroughly annoying Kreacher. He followed the elf everywhere whenever he could, forcing his help onto him until Kreacher finally snapped, demanding: “Master is to stop helping Kreacher, Master is only making things more difficult!”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly scrubbing a toilet seat for the third consecutive time, looked up.

“What? Oh, sorry, Kreacher, er, you go ahead,” he said and stood up, waiting right outside the bathroom door and watching the elf work his magic within minutes.

“So, what do you think I should do?”

Kreacher gave an audible sigh, wiping his tiny hands on the towel he was wearing.

“Kreacher cannot tell Master how to act in regards to Draco Malfoy, though if he really does wish to break the young Malfoy’s nose, Kreacher laments the waste of a perfectly noble face.”

As said face flashed before Harry’s eyes, he scowled. It really would be a shame to go for the face, but maybe a kick in the shins would do the job…

“Nevermind, Kreacher, I don't need to hear about how you're obsessed with Malfoy.”

The elf took a deep bow and started walking away from Harry along the hallway, muttering to himself.

“Kreacher is the one who's obsessed, is he now? Maybe Kreacher shall present Master with a mirror…”

Harry decided to take a walk.

His hands in his jean pockets, Harry strolled around the neighborhood, still kicking a rock he had spotted just as he had stepped out his front door. He’d never been much of a planner, but it seemed unwise to just confront Malfoy without a single idea of what to do, especially because Harry wasn't sure whether he would end up punching or kissing him. Not that he desired either very much. Or maybe he desired both very much.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the thought.

Punching Malfoy wasn't entirely absurd, just stupid and probably ill-advised. Kissing him was idiotic. Harry shook his head again. Kissing Malfoy wasn't an option, full stop. He kicked the rock once more, misjudging his own strength, and it hit a car, leaving a dent.

“Shit!” he cursed, already digging into his hoodie pocket to grab his wand when an amused voice behind him called out.

“Reparo! Did you mean to do that?” Angelina asked as she stopped by his side.

“Of course not. What are you doing here?”

“I stopped by your place and Kreacher told me you were out on a walk, which is never a good sign.”

“It helps me calm down!”

“Obviously,” Angelina replied, eyeing the now nonexistent dent in the car.

“Did I miss another practice?” Harry mused, though he thought this unlikely, considering how harmless Angelina's expression seemed now in comparison to that one time he had missed a practice.

“Relax, I’m here as your friend, not your Captain.” Angelina’s smile suddenly seemed sheepish, which was entirely wrong.

“O…kay? Who sent you? Harry asked, and Angelina's smile falling told him he had struck gold.

“Fine, Hermione did, but I have been wanting to hang out anyway, I swear!”

Harry started walking, his pace inviting Angelina to trod along.

“What does Hermione think I need, then?” he asked, finding another rock to kick.

“Some tough love. Funny how it’s always me handing that out, isn't it?”

“Well, you're good at it. Go on, then.”

Angelina sighed.

“Well, to be honest, she only really said you needed to get your shit together, and I've been saying that for ages, so you tell me.”

“I got my Firebolt looked at by Michael Corner,” Harry admitted.

“And?”

“Apparently it's an ungrateful little bundle of sticks.”

And he told her what Michael had told him.

“So… you need to either make up with Malfoy or, what, punch him in the face?” Angelina asked, incredulous.

“Pretty much. Either way, apparently I need to ‘figure it out’, or whatever.”

“I could've told you that.”

They had circled back to 12 Grimmauld Place and Harry held the door open for Angelina, who allowed Kreacher to take her overcoat with a deep bow.

“The issue is holding a civil conversation with Draco Malfoy.” Harry gave a sigh.

“That, thanks, Kreacher, I can empathise with. You should hear George going on about him, he still reckons he should've gotten in a few more punches that year Umbridge was teaching.”

“A desire I apparently share, if we believe the advice of a broomstick.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Angelina flopped down on Harry's armchair, while Harry took the sofa.

“No punching Malfoy. That's a command from your Captain.”

“I thought you were here as my friend?”

“Doesn't mean my team isn't still my priority. If my ‘Star Seeker’ punches the announcer, we'll have to sub in Hermione or something, god forbid.”

“What if I punch him in private?” Harry suggested.

“None of that, either. We need your hands intact.”

“Fine, then.” Harry crossed his arms. “What do you suggest?”

“Isn't there anybody who could mediate between you two?”

“Like a mutual friend? No chance, I'm afraid.”

Angelina frowned. “Maybe a group setting… If I could get Parkinson and Zabini to come…,” she mumbled, more talking to herself than to Harry, who was busy imagining Ron trying to navigate a conversation between him and Malfoy.

“Harry? What do you think?”

“Mhm?” Harry snapped out of his thoughts, facing an expectant Angelina.

“Nevermind,” she said, grinning slightly, “you wanna watch some Love Island?”

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Harry just barely dodged a Bludger, giving an apologetic looking Bobby a quick thumbs-up. Underneath him, he saw Cho score a tricky goal, and heard the excited voice of a commentator he didn't know the name of.

Malfoy wasn't there.

Was he sick? Injured? Had he decided he had had enough and quit?

Harry scanned the pitch for the Snitch without success and kept circling it, switching directions every once in a while as the game continued to play out beneath him.

The lack of distraction by Malfoy was… odd. For one, Harry still couldn't get the git out of his mind, his unexplained absence maybe even worse than his awful commentary. On top of that, his Firebolt was working just fine. It had been during every single practice, but Harry had thought that the stress of a game was the last possible non-Malfoy related explanation for his broom’s weird behavior.

Harry took a deep breath, returning his attention to the game. McLaggen was still showing off for a group of enthusiastic fans at the other side of the pitch, having just made a pretty spectacular save shortly before. Harry shook his head, but couldn't suppress a smile. His team was in the lead by 60 points, no, 70, as Lana scored. Malfoy's absence seemed to have taken the edge off for everybody else on the team as well, and they were performing better than they had at any point during the season.

Following the red Quaffle falling beneath the goal hoops with his eyes, Harry saw something gleaming in the sun. Was it Cho's golden hairpin as she caught the ball and passed it on to Angelina, avoiding the other team’s chasers?

No, it was the Snitch, Harry realized, and as he jolted forward, he turned around for just a second to catch sight of the other team’s seeker. She was a long way away from him, having just realized Harry had seen something she hadn't, and Harry smiled gleefully, rushing forward, thinking about how even Malfoy couldn't have said anything snarky about this moment, and his Firebolt went on, still faster, until he firmly closed his hand around the tiny golden ball and shot up, jubilant.

The crowd exploded in cheers around him and Harry only saw flashes of purple as his team zoomed toward him, almost sweeping him clean off his broom in excitement.

Minutes later, safe on the ground, Harry's cheeks still hurt from grinning as his team headed towards the dressing tent, still discussing the match.

“All of you played beautifully, so I wasn't worried, but when I saw that look in Harry's eyes that means he's seen the snitch, I kind of started feeling bad for the other team!”

“Angelina, how on earth did you see the look in Harry's eyes? We were all zooming around the pitch!” Demelza laughed, punching Angelina's shoulder.

“Ouch! It's metaphorical! Oh, whatever, I'm just saying, we deserve to celebrate ourselves a bit.”

“We could order pizza to my place again,” Cho piped up, looking hopeful.

Angelina gave a noncommittal hum. “I was thinking… I'm more in the mood to go out and have a drink or two.”

“Or three,” Demelza added. “Maybe four.”

Lana, who was now holding open the entrance to the dressing tent, raised her eyebrows.

“Stop acting like you won't be near comatose two drinks in, you're the worst lightweight I've ever met.”

Harry wasn't paying attention to Demelza’s retort. As he changed into his muggle clothes, his mind was on Malfoy, wondering what he was up to.

He ought not to wonder. Malfoy wasn't up to anything. He wasn't sixteen, actively participating in a war effort under orders of the Dark Lord. Harry wasn't sixteen either, dedicated to protecting his friends at all costs and trying to thwart Malfoy's plans in any way possible.

Harry wasn't an Auror, trying to thwart anyone's plans. He had left that past behind. He had made a different choice. So had Malfoy, he realized.

Malfoy wasn't up to anything, and neither was Harry.

They were in their mid twenties, trying to lead their lives free from scars of the past.

Harry ought not to wonder.

Then, Harry thought of Malfoy's scars, the ones he had left, the ones he had glimpsed when he had pushed Malfoy over, his lifted satin blouse displaying the edges of scars Harry knew must reach all across his torso.

Harry ought not to wonder if he would feel the impurities on his skin if he touched them, if he lifted the blouse further upwards, tracing the lines.

He ought not to wonder how Malfoy's hands would feel on his body in turn, if his touch would be gentle or rough, his hands calloused like Harry's were from flying. He wondered whether Malfoy still flew. He ought to ask.

As Harry left the field and apparated home, having promised Angelina to pick her up at eight, his head was swimming with images of Malfoy in various states of undress.

His mind followed the scars on his torso up to his collarbone, followed his jawline to his neck, where the waves of his blonde hair coiled into tighter curls, and Harry imagined passing his hand through them, imagined caressing the nape of Draco's neck, pulling him closer, pressing his own lips against the other’s.

Kissing Malfoy wasn't an option.

Why did he keep imagining it?

Chapter Text

“You're late,” was the first thing Angelina said when she opened the door to her flat, and Harry shifted his stance uncomfortably.

“You look great,” he replied, and it was partial flattery, but also true: Angelina had put her braids up in a bun, her eyelids shimmering golden, matching the hoops in her earlobes and a necklace whose pendant looked like the sun and moon at the same time. She was wearing a short, fitted dress that sparkled silver, contrasting the golden accents.

Angelina gave him a once-over as she let him inside, indicating a chair in the kitchen.

“Well, someone's got to. Is that what you're wearing?”

Harry looked down at himself and the red flannel he had hastily picked off the floor and done a quick Scourgify on, frowning.

“What's wrong with this?”

“You're a lost cause,” Angelina said, finishing the last touches on her makeup in her mirror.

“Come, let's see if we can't steal something from George.”

And she put away her eyeliner and strolled ahead into their shared bedroom, thrusting open a closet that seemed to be able to hold much more than you'd expect from the outside.

“Won't he mind?” Harry asked, looking around to see if George was around.

“He's in the shop until late tonight, and anyway, Harry, you're family,” she said casually, flipping through an assortment of colorful blouses. Harry blushed, glad Angelina wasn't looking at him.

“Here, try this,” she said, holding a deep green silky blouse with mahogany buttons, “It'll match your eyes.” Harry, who didn't wear green on principle, obliged, not willing to naysay her.

Once buttoned all the way up (manually, Harry still hadn't quite mastered that spell), Angelina gave him a grin and a thumbs up, and when he looked in the mirror, he quite agreed. It did match his eyes.

Gripping Harry's arm, Angelina gave him a tiny shove, and he obliged, spinning on the spot and opening his eyes only when he heard the bustle of a London street on a Saturday evening.

“This way,” Angelina said, and soon, they found themselves in the upstairs lounge of a dark bar, squeezing themselves in between their teammates and friends, who were already a couple drinks deep. Ginny and Luna were there, sitting by Demelza and Lana, as well as Ron and Hermione.

“I didn't know you two were coming!” Harry exclaimed, allowing Hermione to kiss his cheek and Ron to give him a clap on the back.

“The more, the merrier, right?” Angelina said, giving both a hug. “I invited a couple of people.”

Harry gave her a suspicious look. “Did I miss my birthday or something? What is this?”

He had missed his birthday, once, so caught up in his Auror duties that he hadn't gotten home until past midnight, where a very tired looking group of surprise party attendants had been waiting for him.

“Not yet, mate,” Ron replied, “I think.”

“Can’t a group of friends hang out every once in a while? You've got to stop being suspicious of anything anyone does,” Angelina reprimanded, helping herself to Hermione's drink on a nearby high table.

“Habit,” Harry mumbled in response, but dropped the topic, allowing himself to order his own drink and mingle.

His first beer in hand, he sat down next to Ginny, who was retelling the counts of her most recent match for the other girls, grinning confidently with every goal she described. Not long after, Harry somehow found himself roped into a conversation with Cormac McLaggen and one of his friends, mainly consisting of Cormac’s personal accomplishments, and Harry only managed to get away when an amused Angelina took him by the arm, leading him away to dance.

“Having fun?” she asked, moving to a Muggle song Harry didn't recognize.

“Sure,” he replied, trying to mimic her, “but I think I'm gonna need a couple more drinks until I can take another conversation like that with McLaggen.”

Angelina obliged, conjuring a glass of whiskey on the rocks out of seemingly thin air and passing it to him, and he frowned, sure that this wasn't a Wizarding pub.

“Oh loosen up, everyone else is already too drunk to notice anything. Also, I booked the lounge for a reason,” she said and winked, disappearing to start a conversation with Hermione.

Harry sighed, now standing alone, and downed his glass of whiskey in one go. Maybe he really should loosen up a little.

Four drinks later, Harry found himself in the midst of a most interesting exchange between Cormac and Luna.

“So you're dating the Ginny Weasley and yet you believe Quidditch is some kind of conspiracy theory?”

“Engaged, actually,” Luna said calmly, “and it's not a theory, just a conspiracy.”

Cormac caught Harry's eye, trying to share an incredulous look, but Harry was actually quite interested.

“You know what? I'm not sure that there isn't some rigging going on,” he said, thinking back to Ludo Bagman. “Lots of gold to be had, I guess.”

“Harry, how could you even say that? We play on the same team!” came from an enraged Cormac, but Luna had taken up the thread of thought and was already elaborating on the intersectionality of capitalism and goblin rights. Harry spotted Ron, waving him towards him with two shots in his left hand, and left Luna and Cormac to it.

“Cheers,” Ron said and downed his shot, pulling a face and handing Harry the other.

Harry copied him, pulling a face for a different reason.

“Don't these usually come with salt and a lemon slice?” he asked, tasting the remains of Tequila on his lips.

“Must've left them at the bar,” Ron said, shrugging, and both of them burst into laughter, too drunk to know why. Everytime they came close to regaining their composure, they locked eyes and started laughing even harder, and Harry had to support himself on Ron's shoulder in order to not literally fall on the floor. He missed this, he thought, being with Ron. He missed Auror training, their joint cases, them asking each other questions, one more stupid than the other. Encouraged by the alcohol in his system, he slung his arms around a still giggling Ron, hugging him as hard as he could, and Ron returned the hug with enthusiasm, until his muscles suddenly stiffened up and Harry stepped back quickly.

“You okay?” he asked, but Ron was staring right past his left ear, unresponsive, and Harry followed his gaze, turning his head around.

He locked eyes with Malfoy, and the surprise of it kept him frozen there, staring just like Ron was, even when Malfoy had already turned away, turning to his companion and making both her purse and his coat disappear into thin air with one quick move of the wand in his pocket.

Malfoy was wearing a dress shirt patterned with blue florals and a tight pair of dark pants, and Harry had to refocus his eyes multiple times, taking it all in. His hair must've been trimmed recently, the sides shorter than Harry remembered them, but the top and back of his head still covered in light blonde waves. As Malfoy's eyes found their way back to his and he raised an eyebrow in mockery, Harry suddenly became conscious of himself again and realized Ron had been tugging on his sleeve with increasing ferocity.

“Stop staring, you twat!” Ron hissed as he pulled Harry away into a corner of the room. “He's gonna think… Well, you look stupid!”

“What is he doing here?” Harry asked, swatting Ron's hand away from his arm.

“Ask Cho,” mumbled Ron, and Harry followed his gaze once again to where Cho was greeting Malfoy and exchanging a hug with his companion, who Harry now recognized as Pansy Parkinson.

Before Harry could, though, Angelina had joined him and Ron, her face impossible to interpret.

“Okay, don't be mad,” she said, “but I invited Malfoy. Actually, I asked Cho to invite Parkinson who would then bring Malfoy, but you get my point.”

“Angelina. Why?” Harry groaned.

“For you, of course! No, hear me out, you can't hold a civil one-on-one conversation with Malfoy for the life of you, and a conversation needs to be had. Don't interrupt me! You're around people you trust, you've had a few drinks, and if you really want to, there's plenty of ways for you to avoid him all night. I can't think of better conditions.”

“Might've been nice to clue me in,” Harry mumbled, and Angelina gave a dry laugh.

“So you could chicken out or cling to the wall all night? I don't think so. Now, whether you speak to Malfoy or not is your decision, I'm just saying, there's plenty of people with functioning broomsticks and zero personal grudges out there willing to replace you as seeker.”

Harry gaped at her, open mouthed. “You're cruel!”

“I get things done,” she replied, winking. “Now, you two are the last people on my list I'm telling to be civil, because if anyone is hexed tonight, I'll be in serious trouble with the owner. Everyone else has agreed, so please, will you be nice?”

Harry nodded and gave Ron a light shove before he nodded as well.

“Just one question,” Ron put in before Angelina could turn back around. “Why on earth is Chang friends with Parkinson?”

He was watching the two of them sharing a joke on the other side of the room, his expression one of disgust.

“I don't like her much either,” Angelina admitted, her expression similar to Ron's. “But Cho swears she's not as bad as she used to be, and I'm the one who initiated this whole thing, so I have to be nice.” She sighed. “I'll need another drink before I say hi, though.”

Once Angelina was gone, Ron turned to Harry, his face still contorted into a slight grimace.

“So you reckon you're gonna go talk to him?”

Harry shrugged and said nothing, and Ron didn't press him.

That wasn't enough for him to avoid the topic of Malfoy altogether, though.

“Ginny, come on!”

“What? I said I'd be civil, I never promised to be nice! Doesn't he feel weird, being here with us? A bunch of Muggleborns and blood traitors?” Ginny was saying, her voice slightly bitter.

“He's a rich pureblood, I don't reckon he's ever felt out of place in his life,” Demelza considered, but she was smiling. “I like that he's here.”

“You just like drama,” Harry reminded her.

“And what if I do?” She stuck out her tongue, and, apparently struck by inspiration, yelled out, “Draco! Hey!” and waved Malfoy over.

It was all Harry could do to excuse himself for the bathroom as quickly as possible before Malfoy had a chance to sit down around the low table with Ginny, Luna, and most of Harry's team.

Harry escaped not to the bathroom, but behind a long curtain, where he bumped into Hermione.

“Avoiding Malfoy?” she asked, and Harry grimaced.

“You too?”

“Oh, not him, no. We actually just had a nice chat. No, I'm avoiding Cormac. He's nice and all, now, but god is he unbearable when he's drunk.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He keeps trying to get me and Ron to introduce him as ‘Uncle Cormac’ to Rosie! Because he ‘played a significant role in the path to her existence!’” Hermione was shaking her head, giggling, and Harry couldn't help but join in.

“Uncle Cormac,” he got out, shaking his head incredulously, “I'm already the gay uncle!”

“Speaking of,” Hermione put in, and Harry groaned before she could even say anything.

“Are you gonna talk to him or are you just going to let all of Angelina's efforts come to nothing?”

“What does me being gay have to do with Malfoy?” Harry exclaimed, crossing his arms.

Hermione just fixed him with a look in response.

“Fine, I might! I will,” he added, seeing Hermione’s eyebrows creasing. “You're manipulative.”

She broke out in a grin. “It's working, isn't it?”

Chapter Text

Harry would talk to Malfoy. Eventually. He just needed a couple more drinks.

As he sat by the bar, giving out rounds to anybody who might appreciate them, his eyes were glued to Malfoy's side profile. He was lounging on the same couch Harry had vacated earlier, his left arm slung around Pansy as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Ginny, who had looked like a tabby cat with her fur standing on end when Malfoy had first approached, still looked sceptical in the armchair opposite him, but she had relaxed into Luna’s shoulder and didn't seem like she was about to pounce on him any second.

Malfoy made a joke, and everybody laughed, and Harry watched his features closely, a smirk playing on his lips. He would've thought this smirk cocky, once, conceited, and maybe it was, but Harry couldn't help but think that it was covering up some anxiety, some uncertainty about belonging. No, maybe Malfoy actually was as self-satisfied as he looked. Harry shook his head hard, noting his brain lagging behind the movement, and stood up hastily, only just managing to keep his stool from tipping over by catching it with his knee and bouncing it back up. Disoriented, he faced towards the group of people he had been watching, determined to join them, casually, coolly, composed, only to find Malfoy’s seat vacant once he got there.

“Where is he?”

“Good evening to you too,” replied Pansy, looking up at him with poorly hidden disdain. “Draco’s gone out for a fag.”

“He’s done what?” Harry asked. His brain still felt like it was wobbling around within his skull.

“He went outside to smoke a cigarette,” Demelza added, helpfully. “Not as in-”

“Yeah, I got that, thanks,” Harry cut her off, following Ginny’s lazily put up finger pointing towards a balcony door with his eyes and excusing himself.

When he slid the door open, the night air felt comfortable against his warm skin as he looked around. The balcony was narrow, following the walls of the building closely, and Harry turned multiple corners until he found Malfoy, sitting on the floor, his back against a brick wall.

"Those are bad for you, you know," Harry said, indicating the cigarette in Malfoy's hand and clumsily sitting down on the floor next to him.

"Oh yeah? What do you care?" Malfoy replied, his eyebrow raised.

"I don't."

They sat in silence.

Harry's head was still spinning ever so slightly as he followed the cars driving on the street below them with his eyes, and he was sort of starting to regret that last shot he had taken.

“Well, I'll be going-”

“Where were you today?”

They had spoken at the same time, Malfoy having just put out his cigarette on the floor, ready to stand up. He relaxed back into the wall, slowly, and Harry was glad he wasn't leaving, yet.

“Not that it's any of your business, but I do have a life, you know.”

“Oh.”

That made sense, Harry thought. He nodded.

“It's my mother’s birthday,” Malfoy added after a little pause. “Pansy and I went to the Manor for tea, but Mother has taken to going to bed around seven, so Pansy dragged me along here.”

“Ah,” Harry responded.

“Ah,” Malfoy replied, looking at him sideways, his expression quizzical. “So now I'm here.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded again. He watched five black cars pass, then a red one, then two silver ones.

“Do you still fly?”

Malfoy looked startled, obviously not having expected the question.

“Sometimes,” he replied after a while. “Not as much as I used to, though.”

“Quidditch? Do you ever play?”

Malfoy laughed, and it sounded more bitter than Harry had expected it to.

“No. Both Pansy and Blaise are too fancy to get their hands dirty, and Gregory has always sucked at it.”

Malfoy looked down at his feet.

“I do have a snitch. It cost me a good amount, and I let it go sometimes, but it's not as much fun without…” His eyes flickered over to Harry. “Well, without competition.”

“Mhm,” Harry said, nothing else coming to his lips, and Malfoy huffed, pushing off the wall once again to stand up.

“We could play sometime, if you'd like,” Harry said without thinking, desperate to make Malfoy stay. He did.

“I know what it's like to miss it.”

“The Magical Law Enforcement Department doesn't give you time off to pursue riding a broomstick?”

“Not really, no. So I quit.”

“You quit your destined Ministry career to play Quidditch?” Malfoy asked, his look scathing. “Typical.”

“I quit my Ministry career because the Ministry is corrupt and awful and I thought I could single handedly change it, but I couldn't, and being its tool made me feel sick to my stomach.”

“Ah,” Malfoy replied. “So you're leaving the whole combating corruption thing to Granger?”

“Who do you think has better chances?” Harry asked, and Malfoy gave a small laugh.

“Touché.”

“We really could play, you know. Quidditch. I have a yard.”

“I have a Manor and about a thousand acres of land.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.

“No. I moved in with Pansy when I got the job. But I don't think Mother would mind.”

“Well, just let me know.”

They collapsed back into silence, but this time, it seemed alright. Harry counted more cars, and a couple of motorcycles, and it was Malfoy who spoke first.

“So, is there any reason why me and Pansy were avidly invited to a gathering where we’re obviously not welcome?”

His voice was light, though his teeth were slightly gritted, and Harry decided to go with half the truth.

“I just didn't want anything to be between us, now that we're working together so closely.”

“That sounds nothing like you.”

“Fine. I've been flying like shit and Angelina is kicking me off the team if I don't get it together.”

“That sounds more accurate,” Malfoy replied, smiling a little. “So, you think if you make friends with me, you'll be less distracted?”

“Something like that,” Harry mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

“Call me Draco, then.”

“What?”

“Draco. It's my name.”

“I know that,” Harry said, annoyed, and he turned his face towards Malfoy fully for the first time.

They were sitting closer together than Harry had realized, and as Draco looked back at him, Harry had to fight hard not to look away. He had studied his face from afar, the sharp angles and scathing expressions, but he had never realized the depth of those grey eyes, how they changed color in the light, hiding a hint of blue, how the light brown lashes framed them like the frame of a painting. He had never noticed the rosy tint in his skin, how it concentrated just below his cheeks, giving him a natural hint of blush, the Draco of his memories always rather pale and dead looking.

There was no hint of stubble above his lips, and Harry wondered whether there wasn't some magic involved to stop it from growing at all, and then his gaze shifted to his lips entirely, and the thought faded into nothing. They were thin but defined, parts of them unnaturally red while others were pale, and Harry thought that Draco must have a habit of biting them, must have been biting them today, tonight, for them to shimmer as brightly red as they were.

He looked back up into the grey eyes to find their expression unreadable.

“I'm not saying I'll be your friend,” Draco said, his voice almost a whisper, and Harry had to remind himself what they were talking about.

“That's a high honor only select people get to earn,” he added.

“Oh, I'm sure,” Harry replied, his voice just as low. “What are the qualifications, then?”

“A certain sense of fashion, for one. Now, Greg needed some help with that, especially after school uniforms weren’t an option, but…,” he trailed off, their faces still close together.

Harry looked down at his green blouse and Draco’s gaze followed his.

“Is this yours?” he asked, looking begrudgingly impressed.

Harry nodded, hoping very much that George wouldn't mind this intellectual theft.

“Mhm. Well, then. All my friends are also queer in one way or another.”

“Really? Even Goyle?” Harry asked.

“I won't be divulging every detail of my friends' private lives. That’s another factor. No blabbermouths,” Draco chided.

“I might be able to make that work,” Harry replied, not breaking eye contact. “The queer part I've got down.”

“Yes, Potter, and what a surprise that is,” Draco said, his mouth twitching.

“Harry,” Harry replied.

“Right.” Draco paused, glancing to the side for a second. “My friends also need to be at least somewhat attractive. I don't really do ugly people.”

Harry gave an incredulous laugh, then, he sucked in air through his teeth as though considering.

“You think that might become an issue?”

Draco looked back at him, smiling slightly.

“You might just barely make the cut.”

Within half a second, Harry's mouth was on Draco’s, kissing him, hard, and Draco was kissing him back, and Harry was running his fingers through the curls in the nape of his neck. Draco’s touch was gentle, so gentle. Harry shivered as fingers traced along his back and up underneath his blouse, the intensity of the kiss so at odds with Draco’s soft, delicate movements. His mouth tasted of tobacco, and tequila, or maybe that was Harry’s, he couldn’t tell anymore, and Harry wanted all of it, all of Draco. When he winced at one of Harry’s teeth digging into his lip, Harry kissed it softly in apology, and in return, Draco deepened the kiss, pulled Harry closer, intensifying his touch.

Kissing Malfoy was absurd, and perfect, and Harry didn't want to do anything else ever again.

They were pressing against a corner of the wall now, and Harry pushed himself up onto his knees and into Draco’s lap, knocking over bottles with mysterious contents, but neither of them was paying attention to the sound of breaking glass, too engrossed in their own want.

Harry wanted, and took, and gave, and Draco wanted, gave, and took in return. They shifted around in an unspoken rhythm, their bodies slowly merging into one collective movement, and Harry ought to feel surprised at how easily this came to them, how innately right it felt, but he didn’t.

Kissing Malfoy was ridiculous, and foolish, and so easy, so deliberate, so inevitable.

They broke apart, each gasping for breath, their hands still grasping at each others limbs. When their eyes found each other, Harry couldn’t help but laugh, so drunk, so giddy, in such disbelief, that he didn’t notice Draco’s features fall, didn’t notice him shifting away and up.

“Right,” he was mumbling, shaking off Harry’s hands and stuffing his pockets with his scattered belongings as he got up. “Right. This is stupid. This is ridiculous.”

“Draco, what-” Harry started, but Draco waved his words away.

“Forget it, Potter. Forget everything about this, actually. Tell Pansy I left, will you?”

And with one turn, Draco was gone, and the noise of the cars and the music bumping around him was the only thing Harry had left.

Chapter Text

“You did what?”

“I kissed Draco Malfoy”, Harry mumbled, his head buried in his hands, sitting in his favorite armchair in Grimmauld Place. His eyes were burning, the long hours of laying awake finally catching up with him.

Ron was looking at him in utter disbelief, while Hermione and Ginny just seemed exasperated.

“Let me get this straight. You actually manage to hold a civil conversation, you offer to play Quidditch with him, he tells you to call him Draco, and you, what, kiss him? Right then and there?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded.

“Harry! Why?” Hermione groaned, and Ginny patted her arm sympathetically.

“That's just the way he is, Mione, we should've seen it coming.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, looking up.

“Just that you go and kiss people without thinking,” Ginny replied, smirking.

“Not fair!”

“Kind of fair,” Ron mumbled, and Harry gave up.

“Isn't this what you guys wanted? Me and Malfoy?”

Hermione and Ginny exchanged a look.

“Well, we thought there might be something there,” Hermione explained, and Ginny added, “Wanting is an exaggeration.”

“Didn't you say he left abruptly?” Ron asked. “Did it suck majorly?” he added, sounding entirely too hopeful.

“Oh, come on, Ron, look at the poor guy! He is smitten!”

Harry blushed and shot Ginny an annoyed look.

“I'm not smitten! It was… a good kiss. Great, actually. But then I laughed, and he started being weird, saying this was ridiculous, and he disapparated before I could even say anything!”

“Maybe you just suck at kissing and you don't know it,” Ron supplied, and Hermione slapped his arm.

“Stop being ridiculous. Draco obviously just doesn't know what to think.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Harry, you can't honestly tell me you don't understand his feelings in the slightest.” At his blank look, Hermione continued. “Men… How am I always the one explaining this stuff to you? Look at it like this. First, you almost punch him in the face in public, then, you propose friendship and then you kiss him within two minutes of that? Even without your… history, it's confusing. Now, add seven years of being enemies and another seven of total estrangement, and the whole thing is just a massive web of unresolved feelings.”

“So what do I do?”

“You untangle it, of course.”

Ron gave an appreciative nod, saying, “You're so good with your words, Hermione,” but she ignored him and went on, suppressing a grin.

“You need to figure out what you want.”

“I've been trying to do that for weeks!”

“And you think fourteen years of animosity are gonna be resolved in a couple of weeks?” Ginny put in, and Harry buried his face in his hands again.

“Right. I'll figure out what I want.”

But as he bade his three friends goodbye, each of them disappearing from his fireplace, the only thing he knew he truly wanted was to kiss Draco again, and he didn't think that very likely at all.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

That week, during his next game, the only time Draco mentioned him was when he was reading off the names of each player, as miserably as Harry played to warrant any insult.

He just couldn't seem to get his Firebolt under control, whatever he did, and he cursed himself and his stupid lips that just had to kiss the git. It had been so much easier to just go about his days slightly annoyed about Malfoy, his Quidditch issues a nuisance but not the end of the world.

Harry and Draco had always been the thorn in each other's side. Anything but maintaining a healthy distance between them had been stupid, so stupid, just like kissing him, and back he was. Back on the balcony, the taste of tobacco filling his mouth, the smell of car exhaust filling his nose, his hands entangled in Draco's hair, and- Wham.

A bludger made contact with his nose, and Harry felt blood tickle up into his brain, because he was upside down, and that didn't seem right.

“Somebody help Potter, use your eyes, you imbeciles-” Draco was half yelling, and somewhere in Harry's mind something clicked into place. He swung himself upward on his Firebolt that was trying hard to hold still for the first time in weeks and wiped the blood off his Quidditch goggles, trying to regain his vision. Angelina had called for timeout, but Harry waved away the Healers flying up and towards him, pointing his wand at his nose and performing a quick Episkey on himself.

“You okay?” Angelina had drawn level with him, her tone worried, but her gaze annoyed. “Focus, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry replied and gave the ref a thumbs up, not quite able to keep a smile from his face. Somebody help Potter, indeed.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“‘Malfoy and Potter spotted leaving party together’? That one’s just not even true.”

“Well, you did both leave for the balcony, and you didn't come back for quite a while.”

“That doesn't mean- Oh, whatever, nothing about him yelling out for me?”

“Yes, Harry, your knight in shining armor, we know. Give them a day and they'll be all over it,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes and snatching the newspaper away from Harry.

“Come on, a little support here?” Harry looked over to Angelina, who was reading a sports magazine.

“Start catching Snitches, then we'll talk,” she replied.

Harry hadn't been very successful that game, his head spinning too much from not only the Bludger, but also Draco's concerned voice and his own unruly broomstick.

“Cut me some slack, will you?” Harry sighed dramatically, slouching down in his armchair. “I'm concussed!”

“You were concussed, yes, but I fixed that five hours ago,” Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. “How did you let that Bludger hit you, anyway?”

“He was distracted,” Angelina replied sulkily. “Looking all dreamy.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

“What do you know?” Angelina asked her, putting down her magazine and looking from Hermione to Harry.

“You haven't told her?”

“I don't really like to gloat about being left standing,” Harry replied, avoiding Hermione's gaze.

“Oh, fine, I will, then! Harry here managed to make out with Draco Malfoy during their little friendly chat we organized,” Hermione told Angelina unceremoniously.

“Harry!”

“Hey, you only said I couldn't punch him! You didn't say anything about kissing him!”

“I didn't think I needed to!” Angelina replied, looking between him and Hermione incredulously. “Hermione, this wasn't supposed to happen!”

“Yeah, we underestimated him a little.”

“I hate when Demelza’s right.”

Both of them started contemplating Harry, exchanging significant looks.

“Use your words, will you?” Harry said, starting to get annoyed. “Stop looking at me like I'm a zoo animal.”

Angelina sighed, crossing her legs and clasping her hands together.

“You kissed Malfoy.”

Harry nodded.

“Then what?”

Harry told her, and was silently relieved when she didn't laugh out loud at his stupidity.

“Okay, so you jumped the gun a little, what of it? We can work with that.”

“We? How is my love life your problem?”

“It is when you're getting knocked off your broom by Bludgers because you're busy fantasizing about some blonde git!”

“I wasn't-”

“Listen to him calling it his love life, too, Angelina, he's besotted-”

“I'm not-”

“Aren't you?” Hermione asked, piercing him with her gaze, and Harry fell silent.

He couldn't honestly answer with ‘No’.

Hermione sighed, and her gaze softened.

“That answers that question. Now, what do we do about it?”

Chapter Text

Harry's birthday was coming up.

Harry wasn't big on birthdays, anymore. He had been, once, when birthdays meant owl post and cakes and celebrations with the Weasleys. He had stopped once birthdays meant attending celebratory dinners, mingling with high standing Ministry employees, being clapped on the back by people he had never met until he felt he was choking.

Harry would throw a party of his own accord this year. No Ministry obligations, no big speeches, no stupid jokes about The Boy Who Lived Another Year. Hermione had suggested this, and Harry had only agreed because she had promised to organize it herself. Now, he was sitting next to her at her kitchen table, being tortured about a guest list, because Hermione “couldn't possibly decide who comes to your party, Harry!”

“Just invite whoever, really,” he groaned, turning his attention back to Rose, who he was feeding neatly cut strawberries.

“Alright, I've got the team, all Weasleys sans Molly and Arthur, who we'll be having dinner with, most DA members, and a couple of Auror friends Ron told me to invite. Anyone I’m missing?”

“Oh, don't act like that. Go on, invite him, isn't that your whole plan?”

Hermione hesitated and looked over at Ron, who was trying out a plethora of fancy spells to wash some dishes, and she lowered her voice when she spoke.

“Well, yes, but… It would be so terribly rude to invite just him. Shouldn't we invite Pansy as well? Just so he doesn't feel out of place?”

“If you're inviting Parkinson, you might as well invite Zabini, too. And Goyle, while we're at it,” Harry replied, neglecting to lower his voice in turn.

“You're inviting who?” Ron got out, turning around from the sink rapidly with a beard of bubbles, which made Rose giggle and hiccup and spit out her strawberry. “Invite the whole house of Slytherin, why don't you? Should I start handing out invitations to every ex Death Eater I arrest?” he went on, vanishing the strawberry mush and picking Rose up to spin her around in the air.

“Oh, shush, you,” Hermione said, scribbling down names on a piece of paper. “It's Harry’s birthday, and he can invite whoever he wants!”

“That's not what I-,” Harry tried, but knew not to argue with the look on Hermione’s face.

“I just think it might be nice to make Malfoy feel comfortable and invite his friends!”

“Yeah, but imagine he actually hates my guts now, and Goyle shows up all by himself.”

“That might be a laugh, honestly,” Ron said in between spins, and Hermione gave him a disapproving look.

“I’ll extend the invite to Malfoy and any chosen companions, how does that sound?

“Fine,” Harry mumbled, plopping a tiny strawberry in his mouth and eating it in one bite.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

Kreacher was ecstatic at the chance of hosting a large group of people, and he got to work immediately, preparing little bites of food on trays that he bewitched not to go bad, cleaning away every last cobweb he could find, and having long, pleading discussions with Grimmauld Place in order to multiply the guest bathroom and expand the living room significantly.

Harry was silently grateful Kreacher didn't share Dobby’s taste in party decorations, though he did transfigure some girlands into less Slytherin-ish colours whenever Kreacher wasn't paying attention.

He was both excited and anxious for the party, torn between looking forward to hanging out with his friends and worrying about whether Draco would show up. If he didn't come, it would be one thing, but what if he did? Would he be there out of politeness, ready to vaguely congratulate Harry and leave? Would he act like nothing had ever happened between them?
Then, he thought of how Draco had acted when he still thought Harry was an Auror, and he wondered whether he should have a talk with some of his ex colleagues, making sure there wouldn't be any assumptions about, well, anything.

A loud knock interrupted his musings, and then another, and Harry looked up at his window to see a beautiful barn owl sitting on the sill, looking expectant. He stood up and opened the window, and the owl held out its leg, a sealed note attached to it. Harry removed it and the owl immediately got to work on the bowl of nuts on his couch table, cracking open shells with its beak. Harry unrolled the note.

Potter,

I received your invitation. I assume you had Granger send it for you, since the handwriting is entirely too nice to be yours, but I am disappointed in her intelligence. How am I expected to attend a gathering at “your place” when your address is not included in the envelope?
Rectify your mistake and I'll consider attending,

Draco Malfoy

Harry shook his head, picking up a pen and writing on the back of the note.

Draco,

please come.

Grimmauld Place 12

Harry

He considered scratching out the ‘Draco’, but stopped himself, rolling the paper back up before he could think twice about it.

“Come here, you,” he said to the owl, waving the roll of paper, and it obeyed, holding out its leg proudly to allow him to attach it once again.

As he watched the owls’ silhouette vanish into the evening sky, he couldn't help but smile to himself.

Maybe all wasn't lost.

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

“You told him to please come?” Angelina was looking at him sideways, struggling to keep multiple Quaffles in her grip.

“What's wrong with that?” Harry retorted.

“Right, what if Malfoy likes pathetic losers, Ange, have you thought about that?”

Demelza earned herself an elbow in the rib from Harry, which she tried to return, but Harry was already taking long strides towards the practice pitch, sticking out his tongue over his shoulder.

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Come if you must’?”

“Exactly that! You have to play it cool a little,” Demelza said, and Harry slowed his pace.

“I want him there! I'm not gonna lie about it,” he replied, his eyebrows creasing.

“I think it's sweet,” Cho put in, catching up to them with Lana beside her. “I like honesty in a guy.”

“Thanks, Cho,” Harry said, and he turned his face away from the group, unable to stop himself from blushing a little. Things weren't awkward between them, anymore, but Harry still felt a familiar heat of embarrassment rise to his face whenever he thought back to the brief time of their romantic entanglement.

“Do you, now?” he heard Lana say to Cho, and the women descended into low giggles, the sound of the name David finding its way to Harry's ears, a fact he sorted away for later to ponder on.

When the team kicked off into the air minutes later, passing around Quaffles in groups of two and three, Harry's mind was solely on the summer air blowing around his face, the lack of ground just below his feet, and the wholly encompassing feeling of freedom he felt on the pitch.

Later, he thought back to his conversation with Draco, how obviously he still longed to fly. He remembered the feeling well, himself. He hadn't even considered buying a new broomstick after he lost his Firebolt leaving Privet Drive forever, and he had felt uneasy about trying to look for it, remembering how the Order had tried and failed to recover Mad-Eye’s body along the same path. Finally, the Weasley siblings had taken it upon themselves in an attempt to cheer him up, swarming out and locating it with the help of lots of magic and a good amount of luck.

Harry had been more depressed than excited when he first saw the broom, something he only admitted to Ron and Ginny months later. It reminded him of loss - that of Hedwig and Mad-Eye the very same night, but also of Sirius. Losing his Firebolt, to him, had marked the end of his adolescence, the start to a long and winding road ahead. He had put the thought away, refusing to acknowledge the loss of something material over that of his living companions, and yet, he didn't realize how much the loss had hurt until it had been reversed.

He didn't fly for a long time after the war unless he needed to for a mission, where he used the Ministry-supplied Cleansweeps, stowing the broken Firebolt away in a corner he subconsciously avoided looking at everytime his eyes swept his living room. It was Ginny, saving up for the newest Nimbus, complaining about the broom laying around unused, and Hermione, very fiercely telling him he needed a hobby, who finally got him to pick the broom back up. Harry spent months and months tinkering with it, researching magical restoration and consulting multiple professionals until he deemed it fit to fly, and it wasn't until then that he realized he was dreading going to work every day, longing to get back to his Firebolt and the fresh air hundreds of feet above the ground, and he quit being an Auror.

Now, Harry wondered what Draco had been up to all this time, and, with a tiny jolt in his chest, whether he had felt similarly when Harry had returned his hawthorn wand at his trial a couple of months after the war. Wands were different to broomsticks, Harry knew that, but he couldn't help but compare, trying to draw parallels between him and Draco.

He shook his head. They had both faced loss, both material and immaterial, and there was no point in comparing it. The difference was obvious, the mark on Draco's arm proved that.

Harry shook his head again, trying to rid himself of that thought, but he couldn't help but linger on Draco’s expression when he spoke of flying. Did the difference matter, really, even now?