Chapter Text
During their next shift together, Chandra tells him about another protest for trans rights.
“This one’s a march, and it’ll be even bigger than the last thing.” Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “Do you want a flyer?”
“Actually,” he says, “could I have… five?”
He sends one to Ron and Hermione via owl and then drops by Belinda’s with one for her and one to put up in the pub itself. “Is he here?” Harry asks, already looking around for Draco.
“I think he’s got his other job today,” she tells him. “He might be busy until nightfall.”
“Is Carl busy?”
She grins. “He told you about Carl?”
Harry nods.
“Come on then,” she says and leads him into the back to pet a giant snoozing dog who has draped himself over a dog bed as big as a triple-decker bus.
Ten minutes of belly rubs later, Harry takes his leave, calling, “Thanks, Belinda,” on his way out the door.
“Thank you for the info! We’ll definitely be there,” she replies. He strongly suspects she knew about the event long before he did, but she’s humouring him. He doesn’t care. He feels light. He feels energised.
He Apparates to Draco’s street just after sundown. Receiving no answer to his knock on the door, Harry sits himself on the curb to wait. Summer has successfully overtaken spring, and it’s a warm evening, the breeze only slightly cooler than the air which still feels sort of baked from the sun.
He’s been there long enough for his arse to start going numb when he spots Draco turning the corner at the end of the street, his hair blowing back from his face, a lit cigarette dangling from his hand. Harry sees the exact moment Draco notices him, because his steps falter, and he stops for a second before approaching.
Harry gets up, resisting the urge to close the distance.
Draco draws from the cigarette and, once he’s in earshot, says, “Would you believe me if I told you I’m trying to quit?”
“It can’t be an easy thing.”
Draco takes one more drag and then drops the cigarette in the street and stomps it out. “What are you doing here?”
Someday maybe Draco will understand that he has zero ulterior motives. “Wanted to see you,” Harry says, for what feels like the thousandth time. It’s fine. He’s getting used to saying it. He’ll keep saying it, as long as Draco needs to hear it. “Would it be okay if I… came in?”
Draco frowns, hesitating.
“Or I could… take you to dinner, if you’d rather.”
“You can come in.” His frown hasn’t disappeared, but he leads Harry up the rickety steps, warning him, “Skip over that middle one,” and so Harry does. He follows in Draco’s footsteps like they’re navigating a minefield.
Draco unlocks his door and pushes it in, and once inside, Harry sees that he’s used wizarding space. Not a lot. But the interior is relatively twice the size of what it looks to be outside.
It’s nice enough, not fancy by any means, but not dingy. It must be a significant amount of magical labour to keep it that way. It’s a Muggle neighbourhood, which explains why he hasn’t really touched the outside, but Harry is glad he’s not living in actual squalor.
“It’s nice,” Harry says brightly.
Draco looks at him and rolls his eyes. “Would you like a drink, Harry?”
“What do you have?”
“Well,” Draco says, “a benefit in working for Bee is that one of the few things I own is a terrifically stocked bar.”
He leads Harry into a small living room with chairs that look like they came from different Pureblood attics—posh but not at all alike, lending the room a roguish, eighteenth century brothel vibe, nearly ruined by the monstrosity of a beige sofa, though it’s comfortable enough when Harry sits on it. “Surprise me?” he says.
Draco busies himself at an impressive drinks cabinet that sits over by a little window with gingham curtains. Harry never would have thought Draco to be the gingham curtain type.
“You’re thinking about the hideous curtains, aren’t you?” Draco asks without turning toward him.
“How…?” Harry laughs and then clears his throat.
“Don’t worry. I do know how awful they are. They were a gift from Gregs. He has no taste whatsoever, but… It makes him happy to see them up.”
“Does he visit often?”
“Not since he and his wife had twins.” He turns now. “Here. Try this.”
He hands Harry a pretty drink the color of a brilliant sunset in a tall cylindrical glass, an orange garnish on the lip. Harry sips it. “Fuck, that’s good.”
“It’s a Sex on the Beach.”
Harry laughs a little. “How saucy of it.”
Draco snorts, brings his own over, and as he sits on the sofa, half-facing Harry, he clinks their glasses together. “To bad curtains and good company.”
Harry’s belly goes warm, and they sip. Then Draco says, “Now tell me what you’re doing here and don’t”—he speaks over Harry’s objections—“tell me it’s because you wanted to see me. Why here, Harry?”
He has no idea what to say, and what comes out after a faltering moment of vague, frustrated noises is, “Curiosity?”
Draco’s gaze goes half-flat, and Harry hurries to say, “Not… how it came out sounding. I’m… curious. About you, Draco.”
Draco looks like he’s considering this, the nuances of it. He sips his drink, and Harry decides that’s a very good idea and follows suit.
“What do you want to know?” Draco asks him.
“Well, I hadn’t imagined it would resemble an interrogation. I don’t—” He flails a bit. “—have a list of questions handy.”
Draco’s lips twitch. “Let’s just drink then. You’re here. I’m here. I suppose it doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”
Harry takes a long, cool gulp and asks, “What did you do today?”
“Hmm, let’s see. Well, I Reparo’d a cabinet full of broken china for a witch whose grandchild thought it would be a fine idea to fly their broom in the house.”
“Yikes.”
“Yes, that took a couple of hours. Then, I walked Mr Crestwood’s five crups for him.”
Harry’s heart does a little flip at that. He rests his cheek against the back of the sofa. “Go on.”
“Then I tried and failed to fix a broken pipe. Had to call in Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”
“At least you tried.”
Draco shrugs. He sips his drink, and Harry watches his lips, then his throat as he swallows.
Harry takes a healthy swig, shores up his courage, and then broaches a topic that’s been bothering him for a while.
“There was a night a few weeks back when… you seemed frightened to… to go home. Are you scared here?”
“And we’re sure this isn’t an interrogation,” Draco checks dryly.
Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry. That was too—”
“I used to be.” Draco looks at him, blinks once. “I used to try to sleep on friends’ sofas or…” He stops and looks down, then meets Harry’s gaze again. “I’ve become used to it. It’s hard finding places that will rent to… someone like me, in the magical community.” He shrugs and says again, “I’m used to it.”
“What were you afraid of then? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Draco looks at him for a long time, then his gaze moves from Harry’s, something in him faltering. “Trust you to notice that, even then.” He gives a short, caustic laugh, but it’s soft. There’s nothing of the vitriol he’d subjected Harry to after their first night together. And what’s revealed now in its place is a sweetness… a vulnerable quality that Harry feels sure he doesn’t let very many people see.
When Draco meets his eyes again, he’s open, any former veneer pulled completely back. “I was afraid of not getting to go home with you. Not because of the place. Or not only.” He swallows. “But because you were the first really good thing to happen to me in a very, very long time.”
Harry blinks. His lips part. Draco shrugs, an I-really-did-try-not-to-like-you gesture.
Unable to read a room, Harry’s stomach decides this is the best time to growl loudly. Draco raises his eyebrow.
“I might be a bit hungry,” Harry says.
“Oh, might you be?”
Harry likes the steady, bright smile on Draco’s face. He likes it so much.
He suggests takeaway, and Draco tells him about a pub with excellent fish and chips within walking distance. “I know how much you love to walk.”
Harry smiles. “Let’s go.”
They’ve travelled two streets in the sort of comfortable silence he’d never have expected to be able to share with Draco Malfoy when Harry wonders aloud, “Do you like fixing things?”
Draco puts his hands in his jeans pockets and shrugs. “I think I’m good at it.”
“But do you like it?”
He thinks about it for a moment. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. Turns out I quite enjoy using my hands. And my wand, of course, but a lot of fixing is handling things, and also thinking about what might be wrong, figuring it out.”
“You know, Quality Quidditch might be looking to add broom repair services. I could talk to the management… if that might be something you’d like?”
They’ve arrived at the pub, which saves Draco from having to answer, and Harry hopes he hasn’t put him on the spot. He also realises he’s just suggested they work together, which may not be something Draco wants, and might be deeply uncomfortable, particularly if this thing between them ever starts to go south.
It certainly hasn’t yet. It feels like it may just… not. Which is startling, heady…
Amazing.
They get their fish and chips, and Harry puts a stasis on the bag for the walk home. They could have simply eaten at the pub, but Harry enjoys his walks with Draco, and Draco doesn’t seem to mind. So they start the trek back to Draco’s house, the night air alive with a sweet breeze, the sounds of insects from a park across the way.
“I think it might be difficult,” Draco starts. “... being around brooms, but not flying.” He looks at Harry as they stroll. “I would think it would be difficult for you.”
“I…” Harry’s not sure how to answer, or if what Draco’s said even requires a reply. “I think I just wanted to stop everything.” It’s not what he’d expected to say. It’s an unexplored thought, dangerous to set loose without examination. And yet Draco stays quiet, waiting to hear what Harry means, and it feels somehow safer with him. What a barmy thing, that Draco is the one to make him feel safe finally. “It didn’t matter that I still loved to fly. Everybody was watching to see what I’d do next. It made me want to hide. Want to do nothing. To just… be by myself and… float or something.”
“Mm.” The expression on Draco’s face is gentle, maybe knowing. He says, “You’re so beautiful on a broom,” and Harry barely suppresses a gasp, but Draco goes on, “Part of me wants to call it a shame… you on the ground, you not doing the next extraordinary thing.” He smiles at Harry. “But it’s not really. If anybody deserves time to float, Harry, it’s you.”
“Are you angling to get your dick sucked?” Harry asks with a wry smile which Draco returns.
Draco waggles his eyebrows, and Harry laughs. Then he looks around them, takes Draco’s hand. “In here,” he says, nodding at the smoky shadows between two closed storefronts.
Draco blinks at him in disbelief, but he allows himself to be pulled, and once Harry has him off the street, he cups his crotch, giving Draco’s cock an encouraging massage.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Draco sighs.
Harry smiles at him, and sinks to his knees.
***
Back in Draco’s living room, their dinner demolished, and two pints of beer each drained, Harry groans, “Merlin, that was good.”
“Which part?”
Harry looks at him from across their improvised picnic blanket on the floor and says, “All of it.”
Draco blushes, the same sexy pink he’d turned with his cock in Harry’s mouth. When he tries to clean up their dinner mess, Harry says, “Let me,” and pulls his wand. A few flicks later, it’s just the two of them on a clean, soft blanket.
Draco drags two bulbous pillows off his equally bulbous sofa, and, wordlessly, they come to lie side by side, Draco’s Lumos waning just enough in the corner to make the room soft and glowy.
Harry turns on his side, lays his hand over Draco’s middle, bunching his t-shirt between his fingers.
“Mm,” Draco hums, his eyes closed.
Harry slips his hand under the cotton. Draco’s lips part. Harry finds a nipple and touches it. Draco gasps. He turns his head, looks at Harry, and when Harry pinches softly, repeatedly, Draco gasps again. Harry pushes the shirt up, moves to apply his mouth and gets a gorgeous strangled sound.
“You like that?” Harry asks, flicking the hard nub with his tongue and then sucking on it.
Draco arches helplessly toward his mouth.
“Fuck, you like that.”
And Harry feels invincible… that when he reaches into Draco’s pants, it’s to find him rock hard again. Harry might be addicted. This might be a new obsession coming on. He strips the t-shirt completely off, dishevelling Draco’s hair in the process. He ducks his head back down and sucks on one nipple, then the other. He tugs on Draco’s cock, and Draco clutches at the pillow under his head, panting now, thrusting into it.
“Harry, fuck, I’m—” he gets out, and then he’s coming. Harry flicks at his tits with the point of his tongue, hand quick and tight between his legs. “Oh my God… Oh my God… “ Draco pants, finishing.
Harry’s hand slows, strokes. He cups Draco’s balls and rolls them gently.
“Twice in an hour?” Draco says, still out of breath. “Careful, Potter, I might fall in love with you.”
After he’s said it, he tenses. He seems on the verge of pulling away. Harry doesn’t let him. He draws Draco into his arms, kisses his lips. “Go on then,” he says, knowing he’s already there.
***
“What’s this?” Draco asks the next morning, unfolding the flyer that fell out of Harry’s back jeans pocket the night before.
Harry had forgotten that part of his objective in finding Draco last night. “I thought you might be interested. In going,” he adds. “With me.” Harry sips his tea, his beans on toast already reduced to a few crumbs on a plate.
Draco reads the flyer, frowning a little. He nods. “I’m, er… not really that much of a do-gooder.”
“Yes, you are,” Harry blurts, and Draco looks at him. “I mean… you walked an old man’s crups.”
“I got paid for that.”
“So?”
Draco reads the flyer again. “This is a good thing.”
“I know.”
“Have you done something like this before?”
“A protest?” Harry asks. He shakes his head. “Not unless Dumbledore’s Army could be considered a protest.”
“I think it was,” Draco says, and their gazes meet, the two of them momentarily sharing that painful past, a past made more painful by Draco himself.
And it’s all right. It feels… survivable. Like something they’ve already, mostly, survived.
“I want…” Harry starts.
“Yes?”
“I want to go with you.”
Draco frowns a little, his gaze dropping to the leaves swimming around in the bottom of his teacup. He stands, brushing his hands down the shiny track shorts that he slept in. His chest is distractingly bare, and for the first time, Harry notices the faint lines, only two of them, the rest healed. They cross the left side of his belly, X marks the spot. He wears one of Harry’s worst moments on his body.
Draco doesn’t seem to register Harry’s turbulent thoughts, caught up in his own. He pads back over to the blanket they slept on. He sits, drawing a fat pillow into his lap and hugging it.
“Do you… not want to go?” Harry asks.
“I’m afraid to go; there’s a difference.”
Harry plops down next to him, grabs his own emotional support pillow. “Would it help to know that I’m fucking terrified?”
Draco startles, looks at him.
Harry nods. “I couldn’t tell you why. I just am.” It feels like there are a million reasons and he could choke on them. A million reasons and none at all. Maybe he’s just afraid to stop floating. “It feels huge. It is huge. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything important that, I don’t know… requires something of me.”
Draco nods, thinks, then he says, “You don’t have to arrive on the scene and be your hero self, though. Maybe it’s enough to simply… show up. As you are. As we are.”
That would be something, wouldn’t it? Not all, not nothing. A start. Harry’s pulse pounds under his wrists, at his throat. Draco had said ‘we’.
Draco scoots closer. “I have an idea,” he says.
Harry turns his head so they’re looking at one another, close. “Yeah?”
“It might be a bad one.”
“I’m fielding bad ideas at this time,” Harry tells him.
“Well…” Draco starts, nudging Harry’s shoulder with his own. Their feet touch, and Harry hooks their ankles together, crossing his other leg to toss it over Draco’s as well, pretzel-like, comfortable. “What if… we could do it selfishly?” He swallows, maybe nervous, maybe excited, maybe both. “What if we did a good thing… to make ourselves feel good? Would that be wrong, Harry?”
He’s really asking. He doesn’t want to do something wrong. And Harry loves him.
“I love you,” he says.
Draco inhales softly, his eyes going a bit wide. Harry rubs his socked foot up and down Draco’s calf and says it again, relief, a madness, his own resolute joy overtaking him.
“I love you.”
Draco gapes.
“That’s a no, by the way… to it being wrong. And it’s also a yes. I’ll be a selfishly happy do-gooder with you, Draco.”
“I…”
“How about you just kiss me, instead of trying to speak?”
Draco grabs him hard, all tangled up with him, and does.
***
The day dawns bright and hard, the sun streaking quickly toward a blinding zenith. It’s the kind of day that makes you want to stretch your arms, to take up space, to shout.
It’s a good day for shouting.
When he and Draco arrive, there is already a rippling crowd. Chandra’s friends have organised the event well, and there’s a Sonorus’d coordinator calling out to them as volunteers walk amongst everyone, making sure they know the route, have water, etcetera.
There are queers everywhere, and it’s exhilarating.
“Are you sure I’ve spelled ‘transphobia’ right?” Draco asks.
Harry turns the sign more toward himself, and though he’s checked it ten times, he does it an eleventh. “‘Fuck your t-r-a-n-s-p-h-o-b-i-a.’ Yep, you’re good.”
Draco’s sweating a little, and Harry’s not sure if it’s the heat coming off the asphalt and bearing down on their heads or if it’s nerves. He takes Draco’s hand and squeezes it, and Draco turns a worried smile his way.
“You look fucking fit when you’re marching for trans rights,” Harry tells him and watches the smile broaden, his shoulders relaxing.
Draco wore the high bun. Not for Harry, presumably, but… maybe a little bit for Harry. They’d fucked in the shower—Harry taking out his own nervous energy on Draco’s body hard from behind—and then Harry had been treated to an unimpeded view of Draco’s beauty process, which took an enviably short amount of time and products. He’d let his hair air dry while he dressed and then run a brush through it a few times, pulling it up, twisting it around, and then piercing his wand through it while casting a sticking charm at the same time.
They might have been late, had Harry let his instincts to then ruin him completely take control. He’d settled for a deep, long kiss, Draco pliant and lovely in his arms.
Now here they are, and there is a veritable sea of blue, pink, white, pink, and blue. Trans women, trans men, nonbinary folx, the spectrum of gender like a map of galaxies before them, filling the street to overflowing. It’s one of the most beautiful and affecting things Harry has ever seen.
“Dee-Dee!” someone calls, and Harry turns to see Belinda waving, Giordano following in her wake.
“Dee-Dee?” Harry asks Draco, who rolls his eyes and says, vehemently, “Never, Potter, if you know what’s good for you.”
Belinda and Draco air kiss while Giordano and Harry shake hands.
“No Carl today?” Harry asks. (He might have already started scouring bulletin boards for adoptable strays.)
“Oh please,” Belinda says. “That dog is much too lazy for this kind of walk.”
“Harry! Harry!” Chandra comes squeezing through the crowd toward them. “I’m so glad you could make it.” She turns her bright smile on Draco. “Hi!”
“Oh Chandra, this is Draco, my…” Harry stalls, all the air in the immediate vicinity seeming to have been sucked into some kind of vacuum.
“Hello,” Draco says, shaking her hand.
“Love your sign!” she exclaims and then turns to greet the others.
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, heart a fluttering, confused mess.
But Draco gives him a look that is both arch and impossibly affectionate. “I’ll be your…” He trails off in gentle mockery. “...whatever it was that sent you into a stupor of abject terror, Harry.”
“You will?”
Draco nods. “I wouldn’t face my own sizeable fear of showing my face at a trans wix rights march for just anyone, you know.”
“Are you here for me?” Harry asks.
Draco looks at him, into him, his eyes the softest, brightest grey. “I’m here because of you.”
Just then, the person with the Sonorus gets Sonorusier and the crowd begins milling with an earnestness that precedes actual marching.
“Here we go,” Harry says, and he, Draco, Belinda, and Giordano form a line, behind which Chandra and her friends join, hundreds of others surrounding them. It’s hard to see, hard to conceptualise.
Harry leans over to ask Belinda how many she thinks have come out for this—the droves of them all, families and couples and groups, their faces painted, little flags and big flags waving, their shouts and cheers adding to the propulsion of the march—when Harry hears one voice threading through the others with his name.
“Harry!” he hears and tries to follow the sound. “Harry!” He squints, lifts his glasses up, which only makes the crowd blurrier. But then he sees her—sees them.
Hermione is waving one arm high above her head; Ron’s waving both of his. They’re smiling at him, beaming even. He lifts his hand to wave too, a choked sound coming out of him, and then they’re breaking through the other marchers to get to him.
“You came!” Harry exclaims, taking Hermione into his arms and lifting her, twirling her, setting her down to see Ron’s face, the huge smile there and yet also something like fear or uncertainty. Harry throws his arms around his friend and hugs him tight.
Ron’s arms wrap around Harry too. “Hello, mate.”
“The baby’s with Bill and Fleur,” Hermione explains. “They knew how important it was to us, to be here.”
Harry looks at his two friends. “I’m so bloody happy right now.”
Hermione’s eyes are glistening and damp through her own joy. Then she turns to the man standing quietly next to Harry. “Draco,” she says with a nod. Ron nods at Draco as well, and Draco nods back. It’s a lot of civil nodding, to be sure.
Ron clears his throat. “Good sign,” he says.
“Thank you,” Draco replies.
“Ginny’s sorry she couldn’t be here,” Ron tells Harry. “If it weren’t for the final match of the season and all…”
“Of course,” Harry says and cannot help but be touched that Ron chose to be here instead of cheering on his sister. But Harry knows what Ginny would say to that… that she doesn’t need the cheering section to beat the other team’s arses.
Draco steps in and executes some quick introductions between Ron and Hermione and Belinda and Giordano (who has said all of two words the entire time, one of which was actually just an affirmative grunt; Belinda must like the strong, silent type).
“Belinda,” Hermione says, the dawning of recognition on her face. They shake. “So good to see you.”
“Belinda?” Ron asks. Then, “Oh, you’re—!” And Hermione stamps on his foot. “Fuck! I mean… It’s good to… meet you?”
Belinda smiles, shakes Ron’s hand. “It is,” she says. “It’s good to meet you as well.”
Ron looks relieved or scared or a little sick, but in a happy way. Harry pats him on the back. “Well done.”
“Oh sod off, I very nearly made a fool of myself at my first Pride parade.”
“It’s not a parade, it’s a march,” Hermione tells him as she takes her husband’s hand in her own, their fingers interlacing.
“But we can be proud, right?” Ron checks. “I mean, I’m proud of you.”
Hermione’s reprimand is tender, loving. “But the march isn’t about me, dear.”
“I’m guessing plenty of trans people are queer too, though, right?”
She told him, Harry realises. Harry tries to conceal his happy gasp, though he doubts anyone would have been able to hear it over the noise of the crowd anyway. He watches them together, Ron’s devotion to her, her adoration of him, and Harry knows enough to understand that things aren’t magically fixed between them, between any of them. But maybe they’re at a new starting place, a fork in their road and them deciding to tromp straight through the field instead.
“I’m sure some are, yes?” she replies.
“Well, I’m proud of everyone,” Ron declares, throwing up his hands. “That’s all right, right?”
“Yes, love,” she says, pulling him closer. “That’s more than all right.”
“Oi!” comes from behind him, and they turn to see Seamus, dragging Dean along, the two of them in matching Trans Lives Matter t-shirts and gay rainbow tiaras. With them are Luna and Neville… and then… Pansy Parkinson trotting along behind them in terribly tall platform shoes and a very short skirt.
Harry looks at Hermione, and she meets his gaze briefly, something complicated flitting over her face at Parkinson’s arrival.
“Hello, darling,” Pansy is saying to Draco as they kiss cheeks three times.
“We made copies of your flyer to put up at work,” Seamus says, and Harry only now remembers why this motley bunch might’ve come together, seeing that they all work at the Ministry. “Loads of us wanted to come,” Seamus tells them.
“The higher-ups kept pulling the flyers down,” Pansy says and continues with a wink, “and we just kept putting up more, didn’t we, Finnigan?”
“I added butterfly stickers,” Luna says pleasantly, and Neville gives her a look like it’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for trans rights—which pretty much verifies that they’re dating.
“Great sign,” Dean tells Draco and then pats him on the back.
Draco looks at Harry, and Harry slips his arm around Draco’s waist, pulling him up against his side with a proud smile.
And then the woman with the Sonorus calls out, “Are we ready to march for transgender rights?”
The crowd roars.
“For intersex and nonbinary rights?”
Another roar.
“For drag queens and kings?” she yells, and the crowd erupts.
Harry lets go of Draco to cup his hands around his mouth and shout.
“Are we ready to march for our rights?” she shouts louder.
Once again, they roar. Harry glances at Draco, his shining face as he pumps his sign up and down.
Harry looks at Hermione. She smiles at him, something shared between only the two of them, and she gives him a little nod: ‘I’m okay.’ He nods back: ‘I’m okay too.’ He’s okay, and he’s more than okay. He’s both okay and brilliant, two things he hasn’t been in a long time, maybe not ever. Not all at once anyway.
Harry takes Draco’s hand and grips it.
“Whose rights?”
“Trans rights!”
“Whose rights?”
“Our rights!”
“Whose rights?”
“TRANS RIGHTS!”
“Whose rights?”
“OUR RIGHTS!”
The crowd surges forward, a steady, inexorable wave. He and Draco look at one another. Harry raises their clenched hands high over their heads.
Together—all of them, together—they stride out into the streets.
~the end