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Harry's horrible week started with a hoodie that he got off sale on his way to some random beach.
It was nothing special. Just a grey zip-up hooded jacket that he had charmed for warmth, softness, and basic protection; in that order.
Hogwarts was maddeningly freezing in the aftermath of the battle – which made sense, considering it now stood as a crumbling castle with weakened shields and wobbly magical latency.
At least, that's how Hermione had described it to him when he had asked her, unintentionally listening with only half an ear.
He had needed a jacket that could withstand long periods in the cold while he saved his magic for more important things – rebuilding Hogwarts, reheating his tea, recounting all his tasks with that organisational charm Hermione had taught him recently.
All very time-consuming and magically exhausting, as everyone loved reminding him.
Enter the hoodie.
He didn't need to travel all the way to America to get a hoodie -- it had simply been convenient at the time.
He had woken up one morning, inexplicably with the urge to see the beach.
“The beach.”
Hermione had given him her usual look of fond exasperation, which he suspected had finally tipped into genuine concern.
“Yeah, I've never been.”
The Dursleys had never been inclined to take him and, even if they had, he would have refused on the suspicion that they would drown him upon arrival.
“Which beach?”
Hermione had sat up from her usual position by the warmest spot in the common room, fire blazing in the blackened fireplace. She had looked ready to begin preparing an itinerary if Harry hadn't stopped her.
“Dunno, I'll pick it off a map.”
The point wasn't the location so much as the urge to address the crawling sensation in his skin.
Hogwarts was suffocating in the aftermath, that was all.
Grimmauld and The Burrow were not much better – for reasons no one needed him to spell out.
All of which meant he needed somewhere as far from the United Kingdom as possible.
Just for a short bit – a day or two was all he would take before he was needed back for Auror training.
He hadn't even had a towel. But that was alright, he only needed something to sit on since he would not be learning how to swim any time soon. The curtain from the Gryffindor dormitory would do just fine.
Hermione had, bizarrely, protested this the most – insisting on, at the very least, charming it to dry faster and keep its shape better than usual silk.
Halfway through, Harry had a vivid premonition of muggles pointing and laughing, and very nearly had her transfigure it entirely into a towel instead, but she had seemed so proud of her workmanship that he hadn't the heart to change his mind.
So that was that.
Before anyone could stop him – and many did try with varying levels of failure – he had been on a plane to New York with nothing but a knapsack filled with two days of clothing, a book he had nicked from the library, the curtain obviously, and his most prized possessions occupying their usual spot in his moleskin pouch.
Ron had, predictably, been loudly baffled by his choice of muggle travel instead of the very convenient options the wizarding world had on offer. Floo, portkey, Apparition.
Hermione's long-suffering explanation about the implications of Apparating to a location he'd never been to had, mercifully, cut Ron's venting short.
Harry hadn't corrected her, just nodded grimly behind her back to the badly suppressed humour from Ron.
He had told them it was because the Dursleys had never taken him on a plane either. Truthfully, it had been because his first thought had been to go by way of broomstick and an aeroplane was just the obvious alternative.
But no one had to know that so he kept it to himself.
The trip itself had been fine, if a bit more turbulent than he was comfortable with. He had a very real, and slightly irrational, urge to enter the cockpit so he could see for himself what the hold up was but had manfully resisted and they arrived perfectly intact.
It was a very different experience from flying on a broomstick, he would say that much.
He had even bought himself a souvenir – the hoodie he desperately needed, marked down and shoved on a rack by the door – and charmed it immediately before setting off for his main objective, following a Point-Me charm with single-minded determination.
He should have known it would only be downhill from there.
—
The thing nobody had told him about the beach – and perhaps he should have inquired before heading off with his usual impulsivity – was that it was boiling hot.
This was both brilliant and terrible news to him.
Brilliant for the fact that he had been slowly and painfully perishing at Hogwarts and had long suspected the castle was unnaturally cold. Here was simply the proof.
It was also terrible because it called into question his entire wardrobe choices: Dudley's castoff jeans, his only pair of trainers, and a newly charmed hoodie.
He wished for a small moment that he had bought the swim shorts instead, then quickly dismissed that idea. He was a wizard, after all.
He could simply dismantle the warming charm and place a cooling one in its place.
And Harry was well on his way to do so when some annoying American muggle appeared from nowhere.
He was, irritatingly, the kind of good-looking that seemed effortless – tanned, dark-haired, and with the sort of broad build that Harry, as a seeker, had never quite managed.
This muggle would fucking kill as a chaser, that was for sure.
The white streak in his hair was the only thing that didn't fit, but somehow that made it even worse.
Not that any of this was relevant, because the muggle immediately opened his mouth and started pestering him for no discernible reason.
Yes, thank you, he knew his choices were shit, he didn't need some random bloke spelling it out for him. That's what Hermione was for.
It wasn't even the hoodie that offended him – which Harry could have understood, given the “I Love New York” stitched obnoxiously onto the breast that he'd done his best to hide behind his book.
But no, the bloke – Percy, apparently – was most offended by his jeans and then the curtain, which he kept calling a bed sheet.
Harry felt this was completely uncalled for. It wasn't like he wore a woman's nightgown like that one clueless bloke at the Quidditch World Cup. And anyway, it was his business.
Thankfully, Harry's short answers were enough to chase Percy back off into the ocean and away from him, where he was trying his hardest to sit and enjoy reading a book for once.
Without his distraction though, it quickly became apparent that said book was actually rather dull and not at all what he had been expecting based on its cover.
His attention kept going back to the water, which was only slightly more interesting to look at than the book.
After a while though, he noted, with some concern, that Percy hadn't surfaced for quite some time. He had no clue how long a muggle could hold their breath for – without a bubble-head charm, even ten minutes seemed like a stretch in his limited estimation.
He really hoped he would not be forced to drag the ocean for an impulsive, idiotic muggle when he was just trying to enjoy a short reprieve from being the hero.
When Percy did finally emerge, Harry had a brief, horrifying, and unexpected appreciation for back muscles that had him burying his burning face back into the stupid book.
He had already firmly moved on when the sudden crash of the water had him dealing with an entirely different sort of problem. Namely, that he had somehow cast an accidental bubble charm – on both of them – upon impact.
All the more alarming was that he didn't notice this at first.
There he was, eyes opened blearily and glasses obliterated somewhere he couldn't see, with Percy hovering over him – close enough that, even without them, Harry could make out the white streak falling across his forehead and the concerned furrow between his brows.
Without his glasses, the rest of his face was softer at the edges, more colour than detail – tanned skin, dark hair, the blur of those bluish-greenish eyes focused entirely on him.
It was a lot, considering he had just been hit by an unexpected and unwelcome blast of water.
Fucking hell, this had not been what he meant when he said he wanted to see the beach.
He slowly became aware of the sound of the ocean – or was that the blood rushing in his ears – and a warm, calloused hand crushing his fingers.
Shit–
He sat up abruptly, narrowly missing Percy's head, and stood up just as quickly – realising belatedly that he had completely dismissed the offer of a hand-up.
He hadn't meant to, but he also certainly did not need help.
He was vaguely aware of thanking Percy for saving him, which was true enough considering he had shielded him with his own body during the crash.
He also, unintentionally, shared the fact that he could not swim to save his life – literally – before he could stop himself. The resulting look of horror on Percy's face had him berating himself internally.
Stupid, he told himself, So what if you can't swim? You still did the Second Task–
His glasses were definitely gone. That hurt more than expected, even if Ginny would help procure new ones, he supposed.
The book was beyond fucked, which was excellent because now he had a reason not to finish it.
The worst of the damage was sustained to his curtain, which he was also saddened by even if it had only come into his possession recently. Hermione had worked hard on it.
It was only then, mid-assessment, that he registered what was wrong with this picture.
Percy was dry.
Harry looked down at himself.
He was also dry.
They should both have been drenched.
They were not.
Percy had not figured this out, he realised, which was actually hilarious if Harry let himself notice
amidst all the panic of potential Wizengamot charges and missing spectacles.
“Do I have something on my face?” Percy asked at one point.
Besides the fact that Harry could barely see, the most obvious thing was that no, he did not have anything on his face. That was the exact problem – and it astounded Harry that he had to point this out.
Perhaps Percy was concussed?
“The opposite, actually,” he told Percy, because this situation was not normal and he should catch up to that fact.
Miraculously, the charm had even been strong enough to remove all traces from Percy's body entirely – this should not have been possible, considering he had been frolicking in the water just moments before.
He kept his face very still while Percy talked at him, not really taking much in besides to check whether he should prepare himself for a second summoning before the Wizengamot.
But wait, he thought, trying desperately to recall, would it count if it was magic performed in front of an American– what did they call muggles over here… No-Maj, or something equally ridiculous...
When he looked back up, Percy was eyeing him strangely, as though he had asked him a question. Bollocks – he'd have to say something else to gauge how much Percy had actually noticed.
“Is the ocean always like that here?”
Great, excellent question, Potter, he thought to himself furiously. It's the ocean, you complete prat.
Percy answered anyway, which was nice of him.
“–a wave totally knocked us both out. The ocean's a dick sometimes.”
Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering what on earth that meant. They hadn't been knocked out at all, had they? Although, he considered, his mind was all over the place these days – it wasn't entirely off the table.
Best of all, it gave him an unexpected excuse that he didn't even have to improvise for.
He took it, obviously.
Percy, to his credit, didn't even need a response – already chattering at him a mile a minute as though Harry's participation was entirely optional.
Ordinarily he would have been massively irritated. As it was, he was more concerned with gathering his possessions and getting the fuck out.
Who ever said the beach was supposed to be fun?
At least his wand and miniaturised knapsack were safe and sound in his pocket.
“And dude,” Percy was saying, “I'm sorry, but I don't think your silk sheets are going to make it.”
Okay, Harry thought, enough with the silk sheet comparison. It makes me seem like some posh git.
He was not Malfoy; he was just, apparently, a complete muppet who had a vision of this exact sequence and, still, had ignored his own instincts.
“S'alright,” said Harry, lying through his teeth as he pulled the curtain down from the branch it had caught on. “And it's not a bedsheet. It's, er, curtains.”
He had to set the record straight, even if it had his face burning with mortification.
“Oh,” said Percy. Then said, with a blinding white grin that reminded him of Ginny when she was about to mercilessly tease him, “Wait, what?”
Harry groaned internally, unwilling to let him even so much as look at the curtain if he was going to hound him for it.
“Okay, dude, you can't just drop that bomb and not explain,” said Percy.
Didn't he tell this bloke not to call him dude? And he would do what he wanted, thank you very much.
“Shut up,” Harry told him, rather spectacularly composed if he did say so himself.
It seemed the curtain would live though – it would only need a few repair charms since Hermione's wandwork did a lot of the initial saving.
Percy came up beside him to get a closer look at the curtain. Harry even graciously allowed him to inspect the exact seam where the curtain rod would go in – clearly a curtain and not a sheet.
“Wow,” said Percy, and it sounded like he really meant it.
Harry glanced at him and had to look away quickly. The genuine appreciation there was doing something uncomfortable to his chest. It was just a curtain.
“I'm really sorry it got ruined, man.”
Harry wondered why Percy sounded so remorseful, almost as though he was used to taking on burdens that weren't his own.
Harry cleared his throat and said, “Don't worry about it, mate. I know it looks fucked but I can fix it myself.”
The word ‘mate’ slipped out without his permission – somewhat undermining his earlier stance on Percy's choice of address, he was aware.
To be fair though, his version was both less obnoxious and a lot more consistent.
Percy frowned at him, so there went that hope. He waited with bated breath for the ribbing sure to follow which, thankfully, never came.
At least he was not Ginny or Ron and let it go.
Harry appreciated that.
“It seems pretty important to you though,” Percy said, rather insistently for something he had nicked from the ruins of Hogwarts. “Seriously, I have connections. Trust me, they owe me big time.”
Harry did not dignify this with a response, which had nothing to do with the fact that he was, privately, a little amused.
Harry had, without invitation, envisioned Percy's muggle seamstress connections as a flash mob on the beach. He couldn't exactly share this out loud, because it would be completely ridiculous.
Percy still didn't seem to get that it was fine, so Harry laid the curtain out and sat on it. It held up well – because it was fine.
What was less fine was the book that McGonagall was absolutely going to slaughter him for. He hoped Hermione had a charm to fix it before he got hung up by Filch in the dungeons or something equally fitting.
Percy sat beside him then, startling him for a moment. He at least had some good sense not to immediately start bombarding him with inane questions again.
It was nice.
It was also, and this came hurtling back in full force once he noticed, really fucking hot.
The only reason he noticed in the first place was because Percy started shivering next to him as though he, too, had forgotten what he was wearing.
Harry rolled his eyes – Percy was clearly such a typical surfer boy, forgetting to bring anything but himself to the beach.
Luckily, Harry came prepared.
Before he could think better of it, he was zipping off the hoodie and placing it around Percy's shoulders.
Percy looked at him, all judging. It made something defensive crawl in his chest – what, he could be nice sometimes.
“If you're going to sit here, you may as well not chatter in my ears like that,” Harry told him, matter of fact.
Percy drew himself up like Harry had personally offended him, which, out of everything, seemed to be the line.
“Excuse me, Prince Harry,” said Percy, as if a bloke bringing a silk curtain to the beach one time set his apparent poshness into stone.
Then he shoved Harry with familiarity and – okay, ow.
Harry took it without flinching because he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction, but fucking hell.
The hoodie, which had hung loose on Harry the way everything he owned did, was stretched taut across Percy's shoulders in a way that made the source of that shove pretty fucking obvious.
What the hell did Percy do in his spare time to be so fucking ripped?
He might have to reassess his assumption of Percy potentially being a chaser – imagine that arm with a beater's bat in hand…
He only held himself back from ogling through sheer force of will.
Well – no one else had to know. It was just him and the privacy of his own mind.
He momentarily considered the option that Percy could be a wizard with potential Legilimency ability and the thought filled him with horror. But Harry couldn't spy a wand, only something that appeared to be a bronze-coloured pen of all things peeking out of his pocket–
Clearly not one to let a moment pass without comment, Percy declared, with far more grand posture than was necessary, “I do what I want.”
So do I, Harry thought, and briefly entertained the thought of presenting someone like Percy before Snape's portrait. Now, imagine this was me, sir… You should thank me for being so humble…
Unable to help it, Harry laughed softly, flicking up the hood over Percy's head. Just to make him shut up.
Percy raised his eyebrow at him from under the hood, cheeks flushing slightly – Harry figured it was probably in response to the heat of the charm. The sight of it made him look away in something like embarrassment.
“You have no clue how bloody hot it is here compared to England, I swear,” Harry said, to get the strange feeling out of his chest. “You're doing me a favour actually.”
It was true; the breeze on his exposed arms was a welcome reprieve after he had sat boiling for Merlin knows how long.
It brought with it the smell of the salt in the ocean and something else – heavier, like ozone after a downpour, or the charged air in the middle of a thunderstorm. It didn't belong on a summer's day breeze, but it wasn't entirely unwelcome either.
“What brings you here then?”
Harry blinked.
Wasn't that just the big question of the hour? He didn't really have a response to that besides maybe, ‘Dunno, just felt like it for no reason.’
“Sorry,” said Percy, almost a reflexive gesture.
“I dunno,” Harry said then, because it was the best answer he had at the moment.
They both went silent for a while longer after that. Harry found he didn't mind the silence – the sun was setting beyond the horizon, bleeding colour across the water. It was awe-inspiring for the fact that he had never seen anything quite like it before.
Percy, for his part, sat beside him with barely suppressed energy the entire time. Harry appreciated the effort it clearly took him to remain still for more than five minutes.
Of course, he had to go and ruin it the next moment.
“Take your shoes off, man,” said Percy, which was apparently all he could think about while Harry was over here appreciating the sunset. “You're distracting me.”
Harry couldn't believe this. What was wrong with him, honestly.
Harry gave him the withering look this comment deserved while keeping most of his baffled irritation to himself. He didn't want to be rude about Percy's personality flaw.
Percy smiled back at him cheekily like the little shit he clearly was.
Well, two could play that game.
“Where I come from,” Harry said, feeling the grin already tugging at his lips.
He almost stopped himself here, that same ball of embarrassment in his chest making itself known, but he was nothing if not committed.
“You have to at least ask a bloke out first before asking to see their feet.”
Apparently, this was all it took to get Percy to shut up.
Harry blinked back innocently, but Percy's look of pure dumbfounded surprise had him breaking.
Harry laughed and laughed, the kind of loud, embarrassing snort-laugh he'd never been able to fix, and for far longer than he had in quite a while.
When he finally looked up, Percy was wiggling his bare toes and both eyebrows at him.
Harry snorted, which set them both off laughing hysterically.
It was completely stupid.
The tide came in and lapped at their feet and Harry was forced to abandon his trainers anyway – which were promptly swallowed by the sea.
“Uh– I can get those back for you, dude,” said Percy, already moving toward the water.
Harry waved him off. “Nah, mate. It's fine.”
Percy sat back down, ears tinged pink from laughter -- and both of them watched and wheezed as the ocean stole his only pair of trainers.
So stupid.
–
“You said what to him, Harry?” was Ron's response to him regaling his friends on the turn his holiday took.
Which, as it turned out, was not quite the holiday he had initially envisioned.
Still, he supposed, Ron and Hermione deserved to get at least the bare minimum highlights as they had transpired.
“I said,” said Harry, snorting involuntarily as he pictured it again,“‘You have to ask someone out before you ask to see their feet.’ Oh Merlin, you should have seen his face–”
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look over his head as though he couldn't see the both of them.
“What?” said Harry, sobering quickly as he looked between them rapidly. “Wasn't that funny?”
“‘Course it was. Bloody hilarious,” said Ron, flapping his hand all dismissively. “A bit of a bold choice though, even for you.”
Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, feeling inexplicably cold again.
What was their problem? he thought furiously.
He'd made plenty of off-colour jokes in the past, and they'd always at least given him the obligatory pity smile – even Percy had eventually laughed along with him.
Granted, they had both laughed for far longer than the joke strictly warranted – but still. These two were supposed to be his best mates and a stranger had done better by him.
“Wait, hang on–” said Harry then, sitting up straight, suddenly remembering something that he had quite forgotten.
“Realised, have you?” said Hermione, looking at him in her careful way that suggested she was withholding judgement.
“Yes!” said Harry, with feeling, because how could he be so stupid?
He made eye contact with Ron, who clearly came to the same realisation as him, and they spoke at the same time:
“That American idiot still has my hoodie!”
“Harry, you fancy this Percy bloke.”
Harry stopped and gaped at Ron.
Ron stared back, equally as aghast as him.
Hermione sighed.
And that, Harry thought with the dim realisation that his horrible week was only just beginning, was how it started.