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There was an uncharacteristic spring in Harry's step as he made his way down the Ministry corridor. The ancient witch who pushed the tea trolley through the fourth floor offices passed, and for the first time in his ten years as an Auror, Harry smiled at her. He gave Gawain Robards a casual salute and tipped an invisible hat to the surly intern in reception, who rolled her eyes and buried herself deeper into her copy of Witch Weekly. He was in such a good mood he felt like whistling.
Why not? Harry thought, and began to do just that.
Still whistling his jaunty tune, Harry reached the small office he shared with Draco.
It had been rough beginnings for the pair, but after almost ten years as colleagues and six as partners, Harry felt that they'd come to understand one another. And one of the many things he understood about Draco Malfoy was that the man was emphatically not a morning person.
On any other day, Harry would have taken this into consideration and tried to temper his brilliant mood, but today he just couldn't help himself. He had a love bite the size of Wales on his neck and a note from the man who'd given it to him in his pocket. Even the threat of a patented level-three Draco Malfoy temper tantrum couldn't put a damper on his mood.
Harry was surprised then, when he entered their office and Draco looked up at him over that morning's edition of The Daily Prophet with a grin.
“You seem quite chipper this morning, Harry,” Draco said, putting the paper aside. “Good night, I take it?”
Harry blushed at the private knowledge of just how good his night had been. “I suppose you could say that. You?”
Draco smiled at Harry over the top of his coffee mug. “I suppose I could say the same.”
The previous evening, the entire Auror Department and half of MLE had gone out for post-work drinks to celebrate the bust of an illegal potions ring that had taken almost two years to complete. Post-work drinks had turned into dinner-and-drinks, which had quickly become after-dinner-drinks, which then morphed into regular, no-excuse-for-it drinking.
By the time the bartender turned up the lights and ushered everyone out, Harry had consumed half the lager in Britain and had done something he hadn't done in almost two years: he had pulled.
Harry wasn't quite sure if it was appropriate talk for the workplace, but he was dying to tell someone. He expected that Draco would congratulate him with sly wink and a slap on the back, the way that mates do. They didn't talk about their love lives often, but that was because neither had much to tell. Besides being partners, they spent most of their free time together. Between ten-hour workdays, after-work trips to the pub, dinner on Fridays with Ron and Hermione, and Sunday brunch with Draco’s other best friend, Pansy Parkinson, and whatever poor wizard had caught her fancy the night before, neither Harry nor Draco had much time left over for awkward first dates and messy relationships.
“If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?” Harry asked.
Draco pretended to think for a moment. “No. But I'll try not to do it in your face.”
“Hah bloody hah,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. He ignored his partner's lame attempt at humor and continued, “I took someone home last night.”
“Oh, really?” Draco asked, though he looked more amused than surprised. “And does this lucky fellow have a name?”
“That's the thing,” Harry said, pulling the letter from his pocket. “I'm sure he does, but I have no clue what it is.”
Draco's face fell. “Come again?”
Harry read the note once more, just to confirm it was real, and thrust the letter towards his partner.
Sorry to leave like this, but I needed to go home and change before work and you looked too peaceful to wake. Thank you for last night. See you soon.
Draco glanced at the note and looked back at Harry. “You really don't remember who went home with you last night? You've honestly got no clue?”
Harry shook his head. “I was so pissed, I don't even remember going home, let alone how I got there or who came with me. I remember flashes, here and there, but I really don't know who he was. There are images, certain memories...” he trailed off, blushing as a rather explicit memory of a sweat-soaked back rushed to the front of his mind.“I'm pretty sure he was brilliant though. Merlin,” he laughed as plopped into the chair behind his desk, “I haven't picked someone up in ages. I must sound like a total tosser.”
Draco began to shuffle the papers on his desk. “No,” he said sharply, “you sound like an arsehole.”
Harry was surprised by Draco's response. What had happened to the sly grins and back slapping? “Don't act like you've never gone home with someone you met at a pub,” he said, feeling defensive. “Remember that bloke when we were undercover in Cardiff?”
“Never said I hadn't,” Draco snipped. “But at least I have the decency to remember whom I fuck. The man in Cardiff was called Wyn, by the way.”
Harry rolled his eyes and decided to change the subject. Six years of experience had taught him that anytime Draco got too prickly, you should just redirect the conversation so that it was about him. Talking about himself always perked Draco up. “You said you had a good night too?” he asked. “Did you meet someone?”
Draco's response was reticent. “In a manner of speaking...”
Harry cast his mind back and tried to remember if he'd seen anyone talking to Draco the night before, but his memories weren't proving to be very reliable. He recalled that Draco had spent much of the earlier portion of the evening chatting with a rookie who was barely out of Auror Training.
He couldn't imagine Draco being interested in someone so young and inexperienced, not to mention the huge taboo against dating within the Department. It must not have been him, but then, who?
“Anyone I know?” he asked.
Draco slammed one of his desk drawers. “No.”
Harry made a noise of surprise in his throat. Who knew that The Leaky Cauldron on a Wednesday was such a hotspot for eligible gay wizards?
“Planning to see him again?”
“No. He's an arsehole.”
“Yeah, but so are you,” Harry pointed out, trying to lighten the mood with some gentle ribbing. When Draco fixed him with an unamused expression, Harry sighed. “Well, if he's an arsehole why'd you hook up with him?”
“Because I was drunk and stupid and am a complete emotional masochist,” Draco said quickly, his voice laden with subdued anger. “Now if you'll excuse me, Harry, I've just remembered that I have a very important meeting with the Unspeakables' liaison and am running terribly late.”
Before Harry had a chance to remind Draco that the meeting had been rescheduled to next week, the office door was rattling on its hinges.
Harry cringed. It hadn't quite been a patented level-three Draco Malfoy temper tantrum, but it wasn't a great way to start the day either.
***
When Draco returned to their office forty-five minutes later, he was cold but perfectly polite. He passed each file that Harry needed without comment and answered all of Harry's questions without the tiniest hint of sarcasm.
Naturally, it made Harry miserable.
Come noon, Ron's friendly, freckled face poking around the door was a welcome sight.
“Heard about last night,” he beamed. “You lot nearly tore down the Leaky. Up for lunch?”
Harry agreed, eager for an escape from the unexpected tension of the past three hours. Draco's taciturn attitude hadn't completely killed Harry's good humor, but it was beginning to wear him down.
Unfortunately, Ron – loveable, likeable, friendly Ron – wasn't nearly as adept as Harry at reading Malfoy's nonverbal cues. “What about you, Draco? Coming?”
Draco looked up from his work. He appeared as though he was about to decline when his stomach let out a low grumble, as if to remind him that he couldn't exist on spite alone. “Fine,” he sighed as he shoved the parchment on which he was writing into a drawer.
Draco trailed a few paces behind Harry and Ron as the three of them made their way through the Ministry towards the Floos in the Atrium. As they walked, Harry told Ron a few choice stories about the previous night's festivities, but decided to leave out his big news until they were somewhere more private.
“Almost makes you wish you hadn't transferred to Magical Games and Sports, eh?”
“Almost,” Ron laughed. “But then I think about the parties we have during the World Cup, and I'm suddenly not so bothered.”
Draco groaned when they stepped out of the Floo and into the Leaky Cauldron. “Again?” he asked with a huff.
Ron shot him a puzzled look and made his way to their usual booth. “We always come here for lunch,” he said simply.
Before they'd even settled in their seats, Hannah Abbot was at their table with three pints of butterbeer and a cheeky grin. “Back already, boys?” she asked, shooting Harry and Draco a knowing look.
After taking their orders, Hannah disappeared into the kitchen and Harry began to look around the familiar barroom, hoping that something might jog his memory about the night before.
He remembered playing darts with Auror Wilkins and chatting by the bar with Auror Ripley about their respective plans for the holidays. He remembered the chugging contest between himself and Seamus Finnegan, who – while not an Auror – always seemed to always show up wherever people were gathered to drink. He remembered nipping out for a fag with the miserable intern and taking a slash in the alley next to the pub.
That was about the time his memories started to become fuzzy. He remember coming back inside and sitting at the bar with Draco, chatting amicably as their friends and colleagues began to settle their tabs and leave. He remembered Draco's slurred voice and the wild gesticulations he used as he spoke.
But what he couldn't remember was how on earth had he gone from talking with Draco to having sex with a total stranger. How much time had he lost?
Ron's voice brought him back to the present. “Oi, mate. What's that on your neck?”
Harry felt his face heat. “Nothing,” he lied, pulling up the collar of his robes.
Ron raised an expectant eyebrow. When Harry didn't reply, he turned to Draco. “What do you know about this?”
Draco, who had been in the middle of sipping his butterbeer, choked on his drink. “Nothing,” he said hastily, looking away.
“Nothing? You're supposed to be Harry's partner, to watch his back and all. You're telling me you that let someone suck on his neck like a bloody vampire last night and didn't even bother to check the guy out? What if it had been some crazed fan or a neo-Death Eater?”
“I left before Harry did,” Draco said, affecting an air of casual disinterest. “How was I supposed to know that he was going to go cruising? I'm not his keeper.”
It was Harry's turn to choke on his drink. “I did not go cruising.”
“You went in search of anonymous sex with a person whose name and face you can't even recall,” Draco replied nastily. “That is the very definition of cruising, Potter.”
“I didn't go in search of anything,” Harry insisted. “Christ, Draco.”
Draco crossed his arms and looked away.
Ron watched the exchange with a confused smile. He caught Harry's eyes and mouthed, “What's his problem?”
Not caring if he upset Draco more – because honestly, Draco was being impossible today – Harry answered loud enough for his ornery partner to hear, “Probably just jealous that the bloke he ended up with last night was a total arse, and mine was amazing.”
“Amazing?” Draco laughed, a high, hysterical sound of disbelief. “How would you even know? You can't remember anything about him.”
“That's not true,” Harry argued. “I remember...things.”
And Harry did remember things: the curve of his lover's arse, the width of his pale back, the spread of blonde, sweat-soaked hair against his pillow, the incredible rush of affection and post-orgasmic peace he felt before sleep overtook him.
“Just not his name,” Draco pointed out.
“Merlin's balls, will you give it a rest?” Harry snapped, slamming his pint against the table.
Although the details were a bit hazy, he was pretty sure he'd had a wonderful evening and didn't understand why Draco insisted on ruining the memory for him. Weren't mates supposed to be happy for each other when things like this happened?
“You act like having sex is a crime.”
Harry was taken aback by the sharp, focused anger in Draco's eyes. “The only crime I see is that hideous mark on your neck,” Draco hissed. He whipped out his wand, and with an Auror's speed and precision, healed the bruise before Harry could object. “Tell your future lovers to try not to maul you, Potter. It's tacky and offensive to those of us with taste.”
Normally, he agreed with Draco and thought that love bites were a bit trashy. But it'd been so long since he'd had one, he hadn't been able to bring himself to magic it away that morning. The small bruise and the note on the pillow next to his were the only evidence he had that the night before had actually happened.
Harry rubbed his healed neck and scowled. “You're a real arsehole, Malfoy. You know that?”
Draco turned back to his drink. “So are you.”
Hannah brought their lunch out. Harry ate in a confused, angry silence as Ron rambled on about The Chudley Cannon's newest keeper, making more than enough conversation for the three of them.
***
When they were back at the Ministry, Harry checked to make sure Draco's attentions were otherwise occupied. His blond head was bent low over his desk, scribbling furiously on old case files that were due to be archived. Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the note, spreading it across his desk in an attempt to smooth out the folds of the parchment. He just knew the secret to the man's identity was hidden somewhere within.
His paramour had tidy, neat penmanship that looked vaguely familiar. The air of familiarity in the phrasing puzzled Harry. The lack of signature didn't seem to be an attempt to mask his identity; the author took for granted that he was already known.
The “see you soon” was the most troubling bit, indeed. Had they made plans to meet again? Or was this perfect stranger not a stranger after all? Perhaps a passing acquaintance, one of those people you know by sight, but not name.
Harry tried to cast a discreet tracing charm on the letter, hoping in vain that there would be some magical residue or signature stuck to the fibers of the parchment. It was a desperate, fruitless effort he knew, but he needed to do something to narrow down his search.
“Do not tell me you're trying a tracking charm on that letter,” came Malfoy's voice from across the office, dripping with disdain.
Harry shrugged and slipped the note back into his pocket, lest Draco decide to Incendio it. “I want to find him, but I don't know how.”
“Why bother?” Draco asked with a heavy sigh. “Maybe it's better this way. It can't have meant that much to you, if you don't even remember.”
“No,” Harry said without hesitation. He didn't do one-offs, he was certain of that.
When he'd first come out, he'd had a string of brief, unfulfilling affairs that often ended in the same loo in which they'd started. But he'd grown bored with that lifestyle, and it'd been two years since he'd been with anyone. He couldn't imagine he'd take someone home to his own bed if he hadn't felt a genuine connection with them. He'd resisted the temptation of drunken, meaningless shags for this long, why would last night have been different? He knew this man just had to be special.
“I really think you should just drop it, Harry,” Draco said, his voice considerably softer. “You may not like what you find.”
“Is there something you're not telling me?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Do you know who it is?”
“No, no, of course not,” Draco said quickly. “I just know how you tend to build things up and...” He trailed off, turning his attention back to his desk as he began to arrange his papers once more. “I just don't want to see you disappointed.”
Harry watched him for a few moments, then shook his head. Draco was wrong. The only chance for disappointment Harry had was if he never saw the man again. He pulled the parchment out with a renewed determination.
***
It was a brisk, winter night. Snow was in the forecast for the following week, and a secret, childish part of Harry desperately wished for a White Christmas.
Diagon Alley was bustling as he made his way through the crowded streets, dodging running children who were home on break from Hogwarts. The shops were done up for the season, festooned with twinkling fairy lights and boughs of holly. He stopped to admire the brooms in the window of Quality Quidditch, thinking he might want to spoil Teddy rotten this year.
He was thinking fondly of his own time playing Quidditch at Hogwarts when he spotted, through the glass window of the cafe next door, someone who his school-day memories of were slightly less than fond.
Startled by his sharp knock on the window, Pansy Parkinson spilled her tea. She looked up from her stained papers and scowled at Harry through the glass.
The air inside the cafe was warm and filled with welcoming, winter spices. Harry made his way to Pansy's table and plopped into the seat across from her, setting his bags of shopping on the floor. “Your best friend is being a real git today, just so you know,” he said as he stole a biscuit from her plate.
Pansy slapped his hand away and returned her attention to drying her yellowing papers. “Trouble in paradise already?” she asked, sounding utterly uninterested.
“Already?” Harry snorted. “Draco has been more trouble to me than he's worth for going on twenty years now.”
“Ah, yes,” Pansy said, her voice affecting the deep, slower tones of a woman much wiser and older than she. “There's seventeen years of unresolved sexual tension between the two of you, isn't there? We can't expect it to all be resolved in one evening, now can we?”
Harry didn't know what she was on about, but then again, he rarely did. Pansy always had weird theories about people. It came with her job, he supposed. He took another bite of the biscuit he'd stolen and shrugged. “Yeah, well, he's been a bloody nightmare all day.”
Pansy set her wand aside and raised a single eyebrow.
“Potter, don't think that you can finagle free therapy sessions out of me just because you're shagging Draco all of a sudden. If you want to talk about your inability to build a lasting relationship, you can make an appointment and pay like all the rest.
“The only reason Draco gets free sessions is because he's fascinatingly damaged, and I'm thinking about writing a book on him.” She shook her head and added with a laugh, “How so much self-loathing can co-exist with that sort of ego, I'll never know.”
Harry, who usually tuned Pansy out when she started in on the mind-healer psychobabble, hadn't heard half of what she'd just said, but not because he wasn't paying attention for once. He was stuck on her first sentence. “Um, sorry,” he said, “but what did you just say?”
“I said, you can make an appointment with my assistant if you'd like. Although that's probably a conflict of interest and highly unethical, but...” she took a moment to ponder this ethical quandary, before shrugging dismissively and declaring, “whatever.”
“No, before that,” Harry leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You said that I'm – I'm shagging Draco?”
Pansy gave him a confused look that said she very much thought he was in desperate need of a mind-healer. “Yes. You,” she pointed at Harry, “are shagging,” she illustrated by making a circle with the fingers of one hand and penetrating it with the index finger of the other, “Draco Malfoy,” she sat back in her seat and schooled her features into a very convincing impression of Draco's long faced scowl.
Harry's stomach dropped like a lead weight as the realization hit.
Pansy snorted and took a sip of her tea. “I was leaving for work when he dragged himself back to the flat this morning. Impressive work, by the way. I had to spell away at least three love bites from his neck, though he kept the ones in the more intimate locations,” she added with a wink. “About time, too. If I had had to sit through one more Sunday with Draco making cow eyes at you over his eggs, I would have had to swear off brunch forever.”
Harry couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't listen to whatever inanity she was nattering on about. His mind replayed the fragmented images he had of the previous night, filling in the blanks.
He had shagged Draco, he realized with a start. Draco, his partner and friend, was his mystery lover! Suddenly, Draco's irritated reactions to Harry all day made much more sense.
“Oh my god,” he repeated, the harsh reality of his monumental cock-up hitting him full in the face. “Oh my fucking god.”
“Harry, what the hell's wrong with you? Why do you keep – ” Pansy stopped. Her eyes narrowed. “Please don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me.” When Harry winced, she picked up the stack of papers she'd been reading and hit him with them. “You complete fucking idiot!” she yelled. “I know you two were pissed off your arses, but Merlin's bloody ball sac!”
Harry dodged her next blow and cradled his head in his hands, feeling utterly daft. Beside the overwhelming feeling of nausea and guilt, Harry felt terribly, terribly cruel. “He's going to hate me,” he said.
“Going to?” Pansy asked with a bitter laugh. “Understatement of the century, Potter. Quite honestly, I'm surprised you're still walking around with all your bits in place.” She began to collect her things, shoving her papers into her smart leather briefcase without care. “I'd better go and check on him, make sure he hasn't destroyed the flat. He does love to smash things when he's in a temper.”
Harry called as she stood to leave. “Wait, Pansy! Don't tell him I’ve figured it out, all right? Not yet. Just, give me time to fix this?”
“Fix this?” she asked, a bitter humor in her voice. She shifted on her feet, her eyes narrowing to shrewd, accusing daggers. “You know what, Potter, I've changed my mind. Draco's sessions are no longer free; I'm charging them to you.”
She turned and stormed through the door, muttering something about “emotionally immature men” under her breath as she went.
***
The rest of the week was the worst of Harry's life. Draco was at the office first every morning and greeted Harry courteously when he arrived. They’d settled into an uncomfortable silence as the morning wore on, the unacknowledged tension hanging thickly in the air.
In department meetings, Draco was cool and professional, giving no hint to the others that a deep, unspeakable chasm had formed between them. But Harry could feel that it had and he had no clue how to bridge the gap.
He missed Draco. Overcoming their differences had been difficult at first. It had been tiresome at the beginning, the constant arguing and frequent hexes, but it had been worth it. Now, he felt as close to Draco as he ever had with Ron or Hermione. Maybe closer even, considering how deep their history took them.
He'd seen Draco at his worst and at his best. He knew his every flaw, but also every charm. In the course of their work together had seen him naked, not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
He had seen Draco stripped down, reduced to nothing by the war. And then he had watched with admiration as Draco rose and rebuilt, defying those who doubted him, to become one of the most talented Aurors in the department.
He missed their friendly banter, the challenge that a simple conversation with Draco always posed. He missed their post-work trips to the pub and the cups of tea that Draco fixed for him throughout the day. He missed the fond smiles and the casual touches, the air of familiarity and friendship that had slowly grown between them in the past decade.
Draco sat only a few feet away, yet it felt like there were miles between them. It wasn't until he could feel Draco slipping away that Harry realized just how integral Draco had become to his life.
Harry remembered the first day they were partnered together. He'd been suspicious of Malfoy and asked, rather accusingly, why he'd wanted to join the Aurors to begin with. Malfoy had just laughed, a cheeky, Cheshire grin spreading across his face. “Because everyone loves irony, Potter. Even former Death Eaters.”
Harry cursed himself; he should never be allowed near alcohol again. Why else would he have taken one of his best mates to bed? It wasn't that Harry was repulsed by the idea; in fact, he was acutely aware of his physical attraction to Draco. There had been moments over the years when Harry had caught himself looking at his partner with an interest that was more than friendly.
In those moments, he’d often wondered what it would be like to know Draco in another, less complicated context. But whenever those silly, fluttering thoughts had invaded his mind, he'd promptly shut them down. There was no way he was willing to risk their friendship and his career on an unrequited crush.
With each passing day, Harry could feel Draco pulling away from him further. If Robards noticed the strain in and they were assigned new partners, any chance to regain Draco's trust and friendship would be lost forever. The idea that they would pass through the same halls and sit in the same meetings, yet be nothing more to each other than co-workers hurt Harry just to think about.
He didn't want to imagine his life without Draco Malfoy as a central figure. He couldn't believe he'd thrown all that over for a quick shag that he couldn't even remember. He was never drinking again.
Sighing, Harry cast a Tempus Charm. Fifteen minutes until the end of the day and the beginning of the holidays. He looked over at Draco, who was bent over his workspace, a line of concentration furrowing his brow as he absently sucked on the tip of his quill. A terribly forbidden and wonderfully erotic image flashed in Harry's mind.
He quickly pushed the thought away and chided himself. Even if they had slept together, he couldn't allow himself to start thinking about Draco that way. It would ruin what was already so fragile.
Harry cradled his head in his hands. Those last fifteen minutes stretched out like an eternity.
***
Harry felt, more than saw, Pansy sidle up to him. He could make out the dark shine of her black hair in his peripheral vision, but couldn't tear his gaze away from the nauseating sight across the ballroom.
Draco was posed artfully, leaning against the wall with his hips canted forward, while Blaise Zabini towered over him, one hand against the wall behind Draco and the other playing with the top buttons of Draco's robes.
“Look what you've done,” Pansy sighed. “Well done, Potter. He only goes to Blaise when he's feeling particularly rotten.”
At that, Harry looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“Blaise is terrible for him, and he knows it, but Draco's a self-destructive masochist and keeps going back,” she explained, shaking her head and taking a sip of her champagne. “He goes to Blaise when he hates himself most, because he knows Blaise will treat him like shit. He thinks he deserves it, or maybe he thinks he doesn't deserve any better.Either way, it's always painful to watch.”
Draco had dated Zabini on-and-off for almost as long as Harry had worked with him. They’d been more off than on for the past few years, but Draco had sworn off the handsome, dark-skinned man entirely after their last break up.
Draco had shown up at Zabini's flat one night and caught his wayward boyfriend in bed with a beater from Puddlemere United. Draco had been so livid that his magic had gone wild and caught the bed on fire. Harry remembered that night clearly, Draco Flooing into his flat unannounced at half past one in the morning and raving for nearly twenty minutes straight before Harry could decipher through his incoherent rants what had happened.
There was something about seeing Zabini now – in his elegant dress robes, with his condescending smile – that enraged Harry. Zabini had had his chance with Draco. Hell, he'd had more than his fair share of chances, and he had fucked them all up. He had no right to be looking at Draco like that anymore.
Harry wanted to storm over there and rip him away from the wall, to hear the satisfying crunch of his fist against the smooth, dark planes of the cheating bastard's face. He didn't care if he made a scene. Let them throw him out; he hadn't wanted to come the Ministry's Christmas Eve Ball anyway.
All he cared about was protecting Draco, keeping him safe, making sure he was happy. He didn't want that twat Zabini anywhere near him.
“What do you mean 'treat him like shit'?” Harry asked, his fingers clenching automatically. “He doesn't hurt him, does he?”
“Oh, gods no!” Pansy laughed. “Nothing like that. Blaise isn't a monster, he's just... how do I explain it?” she asked herself quietly. “He cares for Draco, I believe that, but he's not the sort to commit. And trust me, Harry, if you knew his mother, you'd understand. And even if Draco knows that Blaise will never be faithful, he always fools himself into thinking that this time it might be different. But it never is, and it never will be. Same story, different day, another broken heart.”
“Do you think he...” Harry trailed off. “Is he in love with Zabini then?” he asked as casually as he could.
He could see Pansy's head turn slightly and knew she was looking at him from the corner of her eye. “Would that bother you?” she asked.
“No,” Harry lied through clenched teeth. The truth was that it would; it would bother him very much.
“Shame,” Pansy said lightly. A house elf carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed, and she exchanged her empty glass for a fresh one. She handed a drink to Harry. “He's not, to answer your question. He's just lonely and Zabini is an easy distraction.”
“A distraction from what?” Harry asked. He was only listening with one ear, his limited attention focused on monitoring the precise location of Zabini’s hands.
“From the person he really wants, but thinks he can never have.”
“And who is that?” Harry asked around the growing lump in his throat, although he wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer.
The idea of Draco being in love with someone else hurt him, even if he knew it wasn't fair. They'd had one drunken encounter that he couldn't even remember properly. They'd made no commitments, exchanged no vows. Yet, he couldn't deny the pit he felt in his stomach at the thought of Draco giving his heart to another.
“You really are thick aren't you?” Pansy asked, sounding both bemused and exasperated. She shook her head and added, “You should ask Draco that, not me.”
“He's not really talking to me right now,” he reminded her glumly.
Pansy's tone was light, the kind that Harry imagined she used with her patients. “And why is that, do you think?”
Harry gave her a flat look. “Because we slept together, and I don't remember it.”
“And how do you think he feels about that?”
Bloody hell, sometimes he really hated talking to Parkinson; she was always going on about feelings. In lieu of answering, Harry just frowned.
“Oh, Merlin, Potter,” she sighed, her impatience beginning to show. “You don't have clue, do you?”
“About what?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let me try to put this into words someone of your intelligence can understand. Imagine all you've ever wanted was this specific broom. Let's assume its a Firebolt. You've had other brooms before and they've been all right, but you've had your heart set on this Firebolt for a long time. It's Christmas morning and lo and behold, at the foot of your bed is your coveted broom. You go out for a fly and it's everything you'd ever dreamed and so much more.
“But once you land someone tells you that you can't keep it. You've had your go, and now it's over. But you've still got to see that broom every day and watch as other people take that broom out for a fly. And the worst thing? The broom doesn't even care that you're arse over tits for it, it can't even be bothered to remember that you flew together.” The breakneck pace of her speech stopped abruptly and she wrinkled her up-turned nose. “Well, it's not a perfect analogy, but I'm sure you follow.”
“Wait,” Harry said as he tried to process Pansy's near incoherent ramble. “In this analogy... am I supposed to be a broom?”
Pansy threw her hands up, causing her champagne to slosh from the glass, and made a frustrated noise. “Yes, Potter, you are a fucking broom. I was trying to be discreet as possible while still being perfectly obvious, but if you need it spelled out for you: Draco's practically in love with you, you great idiot. He's had a bloody obvious and annoying crush on you for going on three years and thought that something was finally going to happen between the two of you. But then you made it perfectly clear that all he's worth to you is a down and dirty shag. So now he's heartbroken, Potter. Absolutely crushed. And of course, he hates himself because he keeps falling into bed with men like you and Blaise. All pretty, empty words and nothing behind them.”
When she finally stopped ranting, her pale face had gone quite pink.
Harry could do nothing but stare at her helplessly. “Wait, he, what? No, no, you're – you can't be serious. I'm nothing anything like Zabini!” He took a breath to calm himself and dropped his voice discreetly,“And he's not – Draco's worth more to me than a down and dirty shag. He knows that.”
“Is he really?” Pansy asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Have you ever told him that? Because he's noticed that you've stopped searching for the identity of the man you went home with. He knows you know it was him. But you haven't said anything about it to him, have you? No. In fact, you've shut him out. He says you haven't looked him in the eye all week. He thinks you're ashamed and disgusted with yourself for sleeping with him, and that, in turn, makes him feel ashamed and disgusting. Hence, here he is, throwing himself at Blaise for some quick validation that is only going to blow up in his face and make him feel even more rotten in the long run..”
Harry cast a desperate look back at Draco and Zabini, who were leaning close and whispering. Draco's cheeks were pink and Zabini's hand was now resting on his belt.
“I haven't said anything because I don't know what to say! I feel like I've fucked it all up, and I don't know how to fix it.” Harry ran his hands through his hair, pulling on the ends. “It's not like that. It's not how you say it is. I like Draco; I care for him.”
Pansy looked unimpressed and Harry felt like crying with frustration. Instead, he sighed with defeat. “I don't want to lose him,” he added quietly.
“Harry Potter, you are a coward,” she said fiercely.
Harry looked up in surprise; no one had ever called him a coward. In fact, everyone was quite insistent that he was the opposite. But how else could his avoidance of Draco this past week be described but cowardly? “What do I do?” he asked, hoping that Parkinson could give him advice, either as one of Draco’s oldest friends or as a professional who was used to dealing with other people’s drama.
“Go and talk to him, you enormous prat,” Pansy said, though not unkindly. “Be honest about how you feel, tell him the truth. It's not advanced Arithmancy. I swear to Morgana, you men.”
Harry drank his champagne in one long gulp and handed her the empty glass. He could do this. He just had to go over there and tell Draco how he felt. He wasn't exactly sure what it was he felt, but he knew that he was feeling it rather strongly. “Right. I'm off then,” he said, nodding decisively.
He didn't move, his feet felt rooted to their place on the floor.
A small Stinging Hex hit his legs. He jumped and turned to glare at Pansy, who was smirking and twirling her wand in her hand.
She shooed him away. “Go on. I better not see either of you for the rest of the evening. And have a Happy Christmas,” she added with a wink.
***
Harry couldn't see Draco, hidden from view behind the broad expanse of Zabini's back. He cleared his throat. “Um, excuse me, Draco, can I have a word?”
Zabini pulled back to reveal Draco, who was wearing an unreadable expression. “It's Christmas Eve and I'm off the clock. Ministry business can wait until after the holidays,” he said tersely. “Now if you don't mind, I'm a bit busy.”
“It's not about work,” Harry blurted, feeling incredibly unsure of himself. “It's, uh... it's something personal.”
“I have zero interest in your personal life. If you need a wingman to help you cruise, go find your Weasel.”
“I'm not – ” Harry made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I don't cruise. Please, Draco. Just five minutes.”
Zabini turned and scrutinized Harry with sharp, inquisitive eyes. “Perhaps you should go with him, Draco, hear what he has to say.” Draco moved to argue, but Zabini held a hand up to stop him. “I'll be right here when you come back.”
Draco looked as though he were going to object, but then pushed himself from the wall. “Fine,” he spat. “You can have five minutes.”
The air outside was bitter cold, but Harry didn't bother to cast a Warming Charm as he followed Draco out of the Minister's estate and down to the gardens. When they were a good distance from the house, Draco stopped abruptly and turned. “What did you want to tell me?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.
“I, uh,” Harry stammered. He knew he had to talk to Draco, but now found himself at a loss for words. “I know it was you. Last week, at the Leaky. I figured it out.”
Draco's face was set in a stone mask that revealed nothing, but his gaze was fixed pointedly at a spot beyond Harry's shoulder. “I –” he began, but cut himself off. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I'm sorry.”
Harry stared at him dumbly. “What are you sorry for?”
“I told you to drop it, Harry. I told you that you would be disappointed.”
Oh god, how could he think that? “You've got the wrong impression. It's not – I'm not –”
Before Harry could finish his sentence, Draco interrupted. “I've already put in a request for a new partner,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. “It will take a few days for the paperwork to be processed because of the holidays, but you should be rid of me come New Year's.”
“No!” Harry cried, that was exactly what he hadn't wanted to happen. “Draco, don't do this. Please.”
“I've got to go back inside,” Draco said woodenly, his eyes still fixed on a point in the distance. “Have a happy Christmas, Harry.”
Draco tried to sidestep him, but Harry couldn't just let him go like that. He grabbed Draco's arm to stop him from leaving, to stop him from walking back to Zabini and out of his life.. He could feel the muscles in Draco’s arm tense at the contact.
“Please, don't do this,” Harry pleaded. He didn't care if it sounded like he was begging, he'd get down on his knees if he had to. “I don't want to lose you, Draco.”
It was dark in the garden, with only cool moonlight to help him see. Draco's face was cast in shadow, but his mask was gone.
“You can’t lose what you never had,” Draco said, so softly that Harry almost didn't hear him. “I would have given you everything, Harry.” He snatched his arm out of Harry's grip and turned.
Too dumbstruck to respond, Harry let him go, his hand falling uselessly by his side.
He stood in the barren garden and watched Draco make his way back to the party, just as the first flakes of winter's inaugural snow began to fall.
***
Pansy found him an hour later, sitting on a stone bench not far from where Draco had departed. Harry still hadn't bothered with the Warming Charm and there was now snow stuck to his robes and hair. She settled next to him and squeezed his knee.
“I've been summoned,” she said finally, holding up a small envelope with the ripped wax of the Malfoy family seal. “It's just arrived by owl. I take it your little talk didn't go so well?”
Harry's laugh was humorless. “You could say that.”
“Did you tell him how you feel?”
“He didn't give me the chance, just said he already put in the request for a new partner and stormed off.”
“Oh, Draco.” Pansy sighed and shook her head. “That man’s pride will be the death of him.”
Harry didn't respond, just ground the sole of his boot into the freshly fallen snow.
“Go home, Harry,” she said kindly, patting him on the shoulder. “Get some rest. I have to go back to the flat and console the drama queen, but at least one of us should get some sleep tonight.”
Although he was bone tired, Harry wasn't sure he'd be getting much sleep either way.
“What will you say to him?” he asked.
Pansy looked out into the garden and sighed. “That you’re obviously mad for him and that he’s an idiot. I'll tell him that due to your complete lack of proper socialization during childhood, you're rubbish at expressing your feelings. And then, I'll remind him that because of his father's callous habit of withholding love during his childhood he's terrible at recognizing the affection of others. I'll tell him that if he doesn't come to you and apologize for being a stubborn, uncommunicative prat within the fortnight, I'll hex his prick off.” She pursed her lips, and Harry saw a hint of a tight smile.
“Or something along those lines.”
“Do you think he'll listen to you?”
Pansy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I can give him advice until I'm blue in the face, but it's down to him in the end.”
Draco was stubborn and proud. Harry feared he'd already wounded Draco too deeply to ever be forgiven. He followed Pansy's gaze and looked out over the bleak winter garden.
He didn’t feel very hopeful.
***
The grey light of morning spread through Harry's room, diffused by the thin curtains hanging from his window. There was a quiet, but insistent knocking at his front door.
“Hang on,” he yelled as he threw back the covers and felt blindly on his nightstand for his glasses.
The clock on the micro told him it was only half eight. He wasn't due at The Burrow until noon. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and hurried to the door, curious to see who would be calling so early on Christmas morning.
Draco stood, looking awkward in the hallway outside of Harry's flat. He'd been there countless times before, but had never looked so out of place. There was a deep, unhappy scowl on his face and his pale eyes was fixed on the floor.
“Draco? I – what are you doing here?” Harry asked.
“I needed to talk to you.” Draco shifted uncomfortably and kept his gaze averted. “May I come in?”
Harry stood back and let Draco enter. He shut the door behind him as quietly as he could, worried that any loud noise or sudden movement might scare his soon-to-be ex-partner away.
“Can I get you some tea?” he offered, not quite sure what else to do or say.
“Thank you, but no. I can't stay long. Mother's expecting me at the Manor. I just came to apologize.” He continued to avoid Harry's gaze and traced his fingers along the carved woodwork of the mantle over the fireplace. He paused when he reached a framed photograph in the middle.
Harry knew which photograph Draco was looking at. It had been taken two years earlier, when he and Draco had gone on holiday to Greece with Ron and Hermione. Harry was stood between Ron and Draco, one arm around each of their shoulders. They were all smiling, squinting against the bright glare of the sun. The breeze from the sea whipped their hair above their heads and Harry knew that in that photograph, his photo-self turned to smooth back Draco's downy blond strands, tucking a stray piece behind his ear. He didn't need to watch the photo to remember the smile that Draco had given him then, brighter even than the Grecian sun.
Harry cleared his throat and Draco jumped slightly. “That was a good holiday,” he commented.
Draco blinked in surprise, as if he'd forgotten anyone else was in the room with him. “Yes,” he agreed, turning to face Harry slowly. “Look, I shouldn't have put in that request without talking to you first, or at least telling you about it. It wasn't fair and after six years as partners, I owed you that much.”
“Can't you cancel it?” Harry asked, hearing the whinging quality in his own voice. “I really don't want another partner.”
Draco looked up and smiled sadly. “I can, but I'm not going to. I don't think I can work with you anymore.”
“Draco, please,” Harry pleaded. “Please, tell me what I can do to make it up to you. We can't throw everything we have away because of this.”
Draco's small laugh was the saddest thing Harry had ever heard. “You talk as though we have something together to throw away, but we don't. Not really. We're colleagues and friends, yes, but...” he trailed off, his eyes wandering back to the photograph.
“I thought we could be something more;” he continued. ”I wanted us to be something more. And like a fool, I believed you when you said you wanted that too.” He looked at Harry for the first time since he'd entered the flat, his sad eyes searching. “But you didn't mean it, did you, Harry? You were drunk and talking shit, and I was so unbelievably stupid to have thought that you meant what you said.”
Harry's heart threatened to pound through his chest. He felt the urge to rush to Draco, but his feet stayed firmly planted on the floor as he waited for Draco to finish.
“It should be quite apparent by now that I have been harboring certain feelings for you,” Draco said lightly, struggling to keep his shaky voice even. He picked nervously at an invisible piece of lint on his robes. “They were easy to ignore before, but I don't think I can do it any longer. Not after admitting them out loud and hearing them parroted back to me as though they were your secret longings as well. But it just hurts too much, Harry. It hurts to even look at you right now.”
Draco attempted a small, watery laugh, but his voice cracked and his tight smile broke. He turned away quickly, but not before Harry saw a bright glistening in his eyes that betrayed tears.
Harry thought that Draco was going to push him away when he went to him, but Draco's fingers dug into his shoulders as he wrapped his arms around him.
“Please, don't cry,” Harry whispered into Draco's hair. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I'd never want to hurt you.”
“I know,” Draco said, his voice muffled because his face was pressed against Harry's shoulder. “I know that, Harry. But it happened anyway.”
“Look at me, Draco. Please,” he begged, “look at me.”
Harry had never allowed his feelings for Draco to grow beyond what was strictly appropriate. He'd never allowed himself to indulge in the idle fantasy of what-could-be that sometimes popped into his mind unsolicited. But that didn't mean the seeds weren't planted, that those thoughts weren't there, lingering just beneath the surface, just waiting to be coaxed out of darkness and into the sun.
Harry took Draco's face in his hands, tilting his chin and making him look. “Just because I don't remember what I said, doesn't mean they were lies. Just because I don't remember everything that happened, doesn't mean I regret it. I regret that it happened like that, that I was so pissed I can't remember, and I regret that I hurt you. But I don't regret that it was you. I am not disappointed it was you.”
Draco made a choked, sobbing sound and tried to pull away, but Harry held him tight. He rested his forehead against Draco's. He needed him to listen, to know the truth behind his words. “I know this has changed everything,” he said thickly, “but it doesn't have to be the end for us.”
“I can't go back,” Draco said, shaking his head and making their noses bump. “I can't go back to just being your friend.”
“Then don't,” Harry said softly. “Be something more than that.”
“Harry, don't,” Draco protested weakly. He made a feeble attempt to pull away, but Harry strengthened his grip around Draco's waist.
He could feel the warmth of Draco's shallow breath against his lips, and god, his blood was boiling and his gut was yelling, screaming at him to close the distance, but he held back and waited. “Pansy thinks I'm mad for you,” he said instead, his lips brushing Draco's as he spoke.
Draco gave a tiny snort. “Pansy says a lot of things.”
“She's usually right about this kind of stuff, though, isn't she?”
Draco pulled his head back and looked at Harry. His eyes were alive, riddled with confusion and wariness, but edged with a sliver of hope. He nodded slowly. “Yes, usually. It’s her job to be.”
Harry leaned in and pressed his lips against Draco's in a soft whisper of a kiss. He could barely feel Draco's lips against his own, yet it felt as though his senses had gone into overdrive. His heart pounded in his throat and his lungs ached for fresh air, but he'd completely forgotten how to breath. Time drew out, each passing second felt like infinity as he held still, fighting between his desire to claim Draco in a brutal kiss and his fear that one wrong move would destroy this delicate moment.
But then the most miraculous thing happened. Draco returned the kiss. Time came unfrozen as Draco's lips slid slowly over his. Harry opened his mouth to the timid intrusion of Draco's tongue and felt the world bottom out beneath him. He held onto Draco desperately as he drank down his kiss.
Harry knew in that moment that he couldn't let this go either. He'd only just found it; he hadn't even known he was looking for it either, but now that it was there, now that he knew Draco could be his like this, he couldn't go back to just friends either.
When they pulled apart a few moments later they were both breathless, and rested their foreheads together. Draco relaxed his death grip on Harry's shoulders, no longer clinging to Harry like a lifeline, but he didn't move away.
“Mother is expecting me,” Draco said quietly. “She gets very cross when I'm tardy.”
Harry sighed. He didn't want Draco to leave already, not when everything was still so unsure. That kiss, intoxicating as it may have been, was merely a question, a prelude to a larger conversation.
But it was Christmas Day, and they both had obligations to attend. He didn't know how he'd manage an afternoon with the Weasley's with the heat of Draco's lips on his mind, but he didn't have a choice.
“Will you come back?” he asked in a whisper.
Draco released his hold on Harry's shoulders and dropped his arms, lacing their fingers together. “If you'll have me,” he answered, an embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks.
The lingering guilt and anxiety that had plagued Harry for the past week melted and was replaced by the light, bubbly sensation of giddiness. He pressed forward and caught Draco's lips with his own again, swallowing Draco's happy sigh and reaching up to cup his cheek.
“I want this,” Harry said firmly, so there would be no room for doubt. “I want you.”
“You can have me,” Draco whispered as he stole another kiss. “You can have all of me, Harry.”
***
When Draco left a few minutes later, Harry leaned back against the door to his apartment for support. He smiled to himself, content with the knowledge that he and Draco had something: something real, something more.