Chapter Text
“You’re… what?” Harry says, coffee escaping him in an unfortunate spray across Draco’s shirt. Why Draco would choose that exact moment, while Harry is taking the first generous sip of his morning coffee, to drop news like that is anyone’s guess. The stain blooming across Draco’s crisp shirt is–at least partly– his own fault.
“I’m bringing Bradley,” Malfoy repeats, frowning as he attempts to spell the shirt clean. It only works partially. The fabric seems almost thirsty for stains, soaking the coffee deep into its fibres within seconds.
“Sorry about that, but what? It sounded like you said you were bringing Bradley?”
In the six years he and Draco have been both co-workers and friends, Draco has never brought any of his boyfriends around. “Ah, they aren’t of importance,” he would say whenever Harry asked when he was going to meet one of them. “I don’t think I’m cut out for a relationship. Not like you are.”
And fair enough. Harry had been with Sophia for almost eight years when they, mostly in mutual resignation, decided to call it quits. It wasn’t dramatic so much as anticlimactic. Eight years quietly dissolving, and Harry suddenly finds himself back at square one. Which is perhaps why he is so surprised when Draco, at the age of thirty, announces he’s bringing Bradley to their next pub night.
Draco gives up on the shirt and looks at Harry. “It’s fine, and yes. It’s about time, I think.”
“So, it’s serious then? Are you sure it’s fine?” Harry says, eyeing the stain. He knows the shirt is ruined, and he has this irrational urge to go out and buy Draco a new one immediately.
“Well, I’m not sure about that. It’s… something, at least. Yes, it’s perfectly fine, Harry."
When Harry offers a noncommittal hum that convinces absolutely no one, least of all himself, Draco sighs. “I don’t know. I’m nearly thirty, right? Isn’t it time I try, at least? And Bradley is a really nice guy.”
“What a love story,” Harry says dryly. “I’ll be sure to include that in the speech at your wedding.”
“Oh, fuck off. I like him, alright?” And when Harry shoots him a sceptical look, he adds, “I do. Don’t look at me like that. You’ll like him too. I’m sure of it.”
The thing is, it turns out, Bradley is a nice guy.
He claps Harry’s hands in his, and says things like, “I’ve heard so much about you, Harry,” and, “I’ve really been wanting to meet you,” and all Harry wants to say in return is, I haven’t heard a single thing about you, Bradley, except that you’re nice. He doesn’t, however, but it’s a close thing.
Because Bradley continues the performance around the group, all bright and eager, as if he’s padding through life with the wide-eyed optimism of Alice in Wonderland, happy and unbothered. It sets Harry’s teeth instantly on edge.
The others don’t seem to notice. They’re all here to bear witness to Draco’s first real boyfriend. They’re never usually all gathered at once; it's normally just whoever happens to be free. But this Friday, suddenly, everyone is available.
“How lovely to meet you, Bradley,” Hermione says in a slightly too high-pitched voice, like she’s genuinely delighted.
Ron leans in next to catch Bradley’s outstretched hand. “We were starting to wonder if Draco was embarrassed by us,” he adds, giving Draco a short wink.
Draco scoffs and glances at Harry. As if Harry’s approval is something he needs.
Harry just smiles, what he hopes passes for a reassuring one, and watches as Bradley makes his way around the rest of the group.
“And you’re the herbologist, right? I’ve heard incredible things about you,” Bradley says to Neville, who immediately blushes and stumbles through a few incoherent words before Luna gently takes over.
“He’s marvellous, you should come over sometime. He’s built the most beautiful greenhouse in the back garden. There are so many rare species there.”
Harry zones out and watches Draco watching his boyfriend charm his way through their joint friend group, where no one seems to pick up on the fact that Bradley is nice, yes, and polite, and perfectly agreeable. Pleasantly neutral.
And entirely wrong for Draco.
When all the pleasantries finally seem to have run their course, Bradley’s true colours begin to show.
“Ahh, you probably want to sit on the end, right?” he says to Draco, and without further hesitation, he slips into the space between Harry and Draco. Harry is so startled he instinctively tries to catch Draco’s eye, a silent what the fuck?, but Draco is too occupied staring warmly into Bradley’s eyes, like Bradley is a nice, attentive guy who’s simply putting his boyfriend first.
Which, in fairness, he is. But still. Harry and Draco always sit next to each other. It’s become an unspoken rule. Even when Sophia used to tag along, she never once tried to wedge herself between them.
“It’s strange that you two previously hated each other,” she’d said once, laughing. “Now you act like your bodies have signed some sort of proximity agreement, making up for all that distance.”
And Harry had laughed, said she was a bit mad, and that it wasn't like they had to actually sit next to each other. Now he realises, with an unpleasant twist in his stomach, that Sophia might have been right after all.
He doesn’t say anything, though. Draco’s eyes are glued to Bradley, like there’s nothing else worth looking at, so Harry turns to Ron instead.
“Well,” Ron says, nodding towards Bradley, “he seems nice.”
“Very,” he replies flatly, already feeling the urge for a beer coming on strong. As if summoned by Harry’s silent plea, Dean appears at the table with a tray of beers. Harry hadn’t even noticed him leave.
“I’ll start tonight,” Dean says cheerfully. “Pansy, you’ll just have to endure this one.”
Pansy scoffs, but takes the beer she’s handed and fixes Bradley with a pointed look, saying just loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Did you know you’re the first one Draco has ever brought around?”
Harry has always admired her ability to say what everyone else is thinking out loud, blunt and unapologetic. It’s the sort of honesty he’d never afford himself, always too worried he would hurt someone. This time, however, he wants to kick her hard under the table. He’s not entirely sure where the urge comes from, or why. Only that he doesn’t think someone Draco has labelled “nice enough” deserves that sort of praise.
Hell, Bradley shouldn’t be there in the first place if it were up to Harry, but he knows he has to endure this. For Draco’s sake.
“Oh? I didn’t know that,” Bradley says with a small laugh, swinging a strong arm around Draco. “I feel honoured.”
The movement shifts him sideways, Bradley’s knee knocking lightly against Harry’s under the table. Harry flinches instinctively at the contact. He hasn’t reacted to physical touch like that in years, not since he got it under control after the war, and the aftershock sends heat crawling up his neck.
Ron looks at him with a surprised expression. “What?” he asks.
“Nothing. Just static,” Harry lies, then adds, as he feels his cheeks burn red, “It just startled me.”
At least that’s partly true.
He catches the tail end of Draco’s laugh, already fading. There’s something strained in it, he thinks. He turns towards it only to find Bradley already looking at him.
“Sorry, did I just give you an electric shock?” Bradley asks.
Draco’s eyes are elsewhere, so Harry has no choice but to look into Bradley’s. They're this light brown, warm. Harry thinks he hates that colour. Then instantly remembers Hermione’s are almost identical, and his cheeks only grow hotter with shame.
“Ah, no worries,” Harry manages. “Not like it’s your fault or anything.”
Bradley smiles. “Good. Next round’s on me. What’s your poison?"
Harry’s brain stalls for a moment, and he hears Draco say lightly, “He likes whatever, Bradley.”
“No, not whatever,” Pansy cuts in. “Beer’s fine for one round, maybe two if you push it, but I, for one, require something stronger.”
“Like poison?” Blaise says, and Pansy promptly shoves him in the shoulder.
“You’re such a lightweight. Don’t listen to him, Bradley. He can’t handle spirits. Any spirits.”
“And you can’t handle…” Blaise starts, but he’s swiftly elbowed into silence by Pansy, who seems to have a blush crawling up her neck. They’re not exactly together. But they’re not exactly not together either. Harry and Draco have a standing bet on when they’ll finally admit whatever it is they’re very obviously dancing around and just get on with it.
At the moment, Harry seems to be winning, and he tries once more to catch Draco’s eyes just to gloat a little, but Bradley is in the way. Still, Harry mentally high-fives himself for being (probably) right. He’ll absolutely be insufferable about it come Monday morning. At least their shared office will be blessedly Bradley-free, and he can gloat about this in peace, without Bradley wedging himself between them.
A movement in his peripheral vision catches his eye while he savours the thought, and he realises that Bradley is tracing slow, unhurried circles across Draco’s back. The image looks so strange, so utterly out of place, that it feels like watching a train wreck. He knows he should look away, but he can’t.
Harry’s all too aware that Draco’s back still aches after he took a fall during a Quidditch match several years prior. Sitting too long makes it worse. Pain potions and physio charms can only do so much, and Harry has more than once pressed his hands into those stubborn knots after a long day at the office.
It had become a habit, sort of.
Harry would ease the tension out of Draco’s back, and in return, Draco brewed him the best sleeping potion money couldn’t buy for the restless nights Harry still has. It’s been fairly transactional and good. They quite literally had each other’s backs.
Now, watching Bradley’s hand move in slow, familiar strokes, Harry isn’t sure he can accept those potions anymore if he’s no longer returning the favour.
“Harry,” Ron says, a touch too loudly, and Harry realises he must have said it more than once to resort to that tone.
“Hmm?” he replies, forcing his eyes away from the sight of Bradley’s hand at the small of Draco’s back and turns unwillingly to Ron.
***
The evening moves in a slow, irritating crawl, and Harry finds himself on a low, steady boil. He’s not entirely sure why he’s so irritated by Bradley’s presence, but he is.
It makes him think of the start of his and Draco’s friendship. How strange and jarring it had felt when Draco was transferred from the French to the British Curse-Breaking Division and simply appeared at a morning briefing one day, as though he had always belonged there. Harry had experienced an entirely disproportionate urge to reach across the table and wring the smugness out of him.
Instead, to Harry's irritation, they had been partnered up, largely due to the small, inconvenient fact that Harry had always struggled to keep his field partners around. He had a tendency to act first and only sometimes think later, and very little patience for people who couldn’t arrive at the same conclusions he had already reached. He’d gone through partners at the rate of Defence professors at Hogwarts, and he’d fully expected this new partnership to end the same way, leaving him, once again, partnerless. Which was, perhaps, for the best.
Instead, they’d been an unexpectedly good match, which seemed to have surprised no one except him and Draco.
As he sits there, simmering, Harry wonders if he’s making the same mistake with Bradley that he once made with Draco. The thought irritates him beyond reason, and he excuses himself to go to the loo, where he delivers himself a brisk mental pep talk as the fourth unit works its way through his system. Staring sternly at his reflection in the mirror, he decides that he needs to give Bradley a chance. After all, that’s what people expect of him. And he does like to live up to expectations.
Ron walks in the middle of Harry’s deep, silent projection of decency and bursts out laughing.
“What the fuck, mate?” he says, nudging him with his shoulder. “You alright?”
“Yeah, sure. Of course. Just a bit drunk,” Harry replies, quickly washing his hands again, although he’s already washed them.
“Right…,” Ron says, in a tone that suggests he does not, in fact, believe him. Ron knows him too well, after all.
Harry sighs. “Okay. I might not think that Bradley is such a catch.”
Ron laughs at first as if he's in on the joke, but it fades when he realises Harry’s seriousness. “Wait, hold on. You actually mean that?”
“Well, yeah? He’s a bit… boring, isn’t he? I mean…” He falters, unsure how to articulate just how fundamentally wrong Bradley feels. “I’ve been friends with Draco for a while now, and I just don’t think Bradley is it, you know? I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s like one of those cursed artefacts we sometimes get at work. They look perfectly harmless right up until they try to fucking kill you.”
Ron stares at him. “So you’re saying Bradley’s, what? Dangerous?”
“No, what? No. I just mean…”
“Mate, I know what you mean. I’m only fucking with you. But Bradley seems properly into Draco. And he's never brought anyone around before, so he must be serious about this bloke.”
That twists something in him, and he falters like a house of cards. He knows Ron’s right. He’s being a bit of a dick.
He feels a bit ashamed as he scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe it’s just one of those overactive instincts. Occupational hazard, you know?”
Ron claps him on the back. “I get it. You’ve just come out of a long relationship that didn’t work out. Makes sense, you wouldn’t want that for him. But he seems happy, mate. That’s what matters.”
Harry nods. “Yeah. Fuck. You’re right. I’ll give that–uh, boring sod a chance.”
“There he is,” Ron says, “The Hero of the wizarding world, ready to sacrifice himself.”
He dodges Harry’s half-hearted punch. “Now, let’s get out and try not to hate Bradley.”
“I don’t…”
But Ron only laughs as he walks to the door. “Sure you don’t.”
He does feel marginally better as they make their way back to their booth. Ron is half-blocking his view, so it takes him a second to make sense of what he’s seeing. But when he does, something cold and violent floods through him. It hits him so fast that he actually takes a step back.
Bradley’s hand is threaded into Draco’s hair, fingers stroking slowly as he kisses him.
For a second, Harry genuinely thinks he might be ill. There’s a sharp, insistent urge to retch. It takes him a few stunned seconds to understand what he’s feeling. And when the realisation finally takes shape, it steals the air from his lungs. Of all the things he thought he was–impatient, stubborn, temperamental–this was not one of them.
But as he stands there watching Bradley kiss Draco, nausea rolling hot and relentless through him, he knows.
He’s a full-blown homophobe.