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Malfoy’s grip was tight around Harry’s middle. So tight that air felt hard to come by. The heat of the Fiendfyre was licking up his sides. His neck was hot and Malfoy was breathing down it. “The door, Potter. Find the door.”

Malfoy held him tighter and tighter until it was all Harry could focus on. His handle on the broom was slippery thanks to his sweaty hands and his legs were stiff from urging his broom to fly faster, turn harder, but Malfoy’s arms around his waist was all Harry could feel. It made something in his stomach clench and he growled, “Let go, Malfoy,” but his voice was too low to hear over the fire below them that was consuming, consuming, consuming in roaring waves.

Whole piles of objects of personal and practical value were swallowed in the flames, toppled over and eaten as though they’d never stood tall. And Malfoy wouldn’t stop shouting about the door while Harry’s squinty gaze searched for the flash of a diamond diadem.

“The door,” Malfoy insisted, strain and fear in the syllables. His left arm squeezed reflexively over Harry’s stomach while the hand of his other dropped unknowingly onto Harry’s inner thigh.

Harry woke with his hand already in his pants. His face was hot enough that he thought he might be feverish and his cock was harder than it ever had been. Sweat was glistening on his neck as he turned his face into his pillow and bit his lip. He pumped his cock under his pants while he moaned and writhed in his bed.

He pushed off the covers hurriedly and swiped his thumb over the precome that had gathered at the slit. He sucked two fingers of his unoccupied hand into his mouth and reached down the back of his pants to shove them ungraciously into his hole. The shock from the rough action arched his back and forced his fingers in deeper. He drew in a sharp breath and groaned as he massaged his prostate, willing his orgasm to come.

Harry gave his shaft a hard stroke and pressed a third finger into his opening, pushing himself closer and closer to the edge. His hand was a sloppy blur on his cock and his wrist was sore from how rigorously he was riding his fingers. “I want to come,” he bemoaned into his pillow.

He pulled his fingers out of his arse and caressed his perineum with teasing, light touches before moving up to his sac. He pinched and rolled while he worked the head of his cock. His balls began to tighten and Harry nearly cried in relief. He shoved two fingers back inside himself, wanting to feel his hole clamp down around them when he came.

His skin felt tight and every muscle in his body clenched as he erupted into his pleasure. He collapsed, his body growing loose once again, and he panted until his chest started to rise and fall at a more normal rhythm. “Fuck,” he burst out on a puff of air while white dots jumped in and out of his vision and he blinked up at his ceiling.

He’d wanked to Malfoy. Again.

His heart was still galloping in his chest as though it meant to break free and Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead, but he could still feel it soaking the roots of his hair. He needed a cold shower but the thought of standing on his jelly legs for any real amount of time made him feel shaky all over. He didn’t particularly want to move but he could use a piss and some water.

He stumbled into the bathroom to take care of his bladder and stopped to wash his hands before pulling on the pajama bottoms that were hanging over the rim of his hamper. He walked down the stairs, his legs slightly sore from digging his feet into his sheets and flexing his arse back into his fingers. He still smelled like sweat and come and sex.

He rubbed his eyes under his glasses and yawned. When he opened them again, he jumped in shock.

“Had the dream again then?” Ron asked. His voice was scratchy and he had a cup of warm chamomile tea at his fingertips.

Harry nodded. He’d told Ron about the Fiendfyre in the Room of Hidden Things dream he’d been having for the last couple months. They were both frequent visitors of the three a.m. hour and there was nothing else to do in a dead hour like that but talk about why one was visiting it. Ron had the dead brother reality and it wasn’t conducive to restful sleep either.

Harry had not told Ron what effect the Fiendfyre nightmare had been having on him for the past few weeks.

“Tea’s still warm,” Ron told him, taking a calming sip of his own.

Harry smiled a grateful, and tired, half-smile at him. “How long have you been up tonight?” Harry said conversationally as he busied himself getting a mug down off the drying rack and pouring himself a generous cup of tea.

“Never went to sleep,” Ron said. Harry turned in time to catch his wan smile. “Didn’t want Hermione to wake up to it again. It’s not fair that not only can’t I sleep but I’m mucking up hers as well.”

“I think she’d rather have you with her than a good night’s sleep.”

Ron chuckled. “Not every night of the week, mate.”

Ron was sitting at the head of the table and Harry pulled out the chair next to him. The wood creaked as he sat. It upset the stuffy silence Grimmauld Place settled into when the sky turned from dark blue to black. That was when the shadows grew so thick that Harry felt he could reach out and touch them.

A pop interrupted their silent camaraderie. “Will Masters be needing anything else?”

Harry offered Kreacher a fond shake of his head. The elf looked older, his skin had sagged more and grown pale. Despite his affect, Harry knew he would miss the elf when time caught up to him. He was not derogatory or cruel any longer but he was still short and precise when it came to his duties, which were hardly the worst qualities a person – or elf – could have.

Kreacher gave a shallow bow and Disapparated. “Looks old,” Ron said.

Harry sighed. “Yeah. He does.”

Auror training was a mixed bag to Harry’s mind. It felt a bit like a calling, like Harry’s calling, and he was genuinely good at it. He had been pleased to find that it hadn’t really all been luck. He did have some skill at catching the bad guys. But it was draining and it took everything he had and it was so hard to get excited about it or to force his adrenaline and blood to pumping. He or someone he loved wasn’t about to be offed at any moment and he wasn’t sure he wanted to put himself back into a situation where he couldn’t boast that anymore.

“Potter, shall we stop the simulation until your daydream’s played out or can you manage to focus on your job for the next six minutes?”

Harry snapped to attention and clenched his jaw. His eyes hardened as he glared at Dawlish. “I’m prepared, sir.”

At his side, Ron’s hand tightened on his wand.

Dawlish looked as if that’d appeased him. “Then subdue your alleged attackers, men.” Before their eyes, the training room sketched together a ramshackle house. The paint on the outside of it was a happy, sunshine-y sort of yellow but it was peeling in the places where it hadn’t stripped away completely. The door was a warm red and there was a garden that was now mostly weeds on either side of the concrete stoop. An arced wire fence that barely surpassed Harry’s ankle delineated the weeds from the patchy grass. The shingles were hanging on by the skin of their teeth and the windows unsettled Harry somehow. It was like looking into the eyes of someone who was wearing glasses when the sun hits the lenses just right and it turns them full white for a moment and they look so sinister until it clears again.

He and Ron moved as one, up the path and to the door. They took a deep breath together before Harry turned the handle and stepped inside.

The house was still as a grave and the air felt thick. The furniture inside matched the peppy yellow outside in color and condition. The whole of it looked like it’d once been inviting and was now beaten down into disrepair. It left Harry feeling as though someone had gutted a Kneazle in the least intrusive way possible.

He and Ron shared a determined look and split off in opposite directions. Harry broke away to the left, through a living area. A glass coffee table sat in front of a cool, squishy blue couch that’s fluff was bursting through its seams. A brown, dried ring decorated the corner of the table. Harry noted it automatically.

A radio took prominence in the room to the left of the couch and a mirror and dresser sat opposite it. Harry passed by all of it with quiet stealth. He walked into a home office of some sort that looked as if someone had rifled through it with little care for decorum. He was just beginning to sift through the wreckage with his trainer when a squeal sounded from the direction Ron had gone.

Harry’s throat seized and, without thinking, he tore off after the noise. His heartbeat didn’t start to slow back to normal until he saw Ron standing in the kitchen, yanking a kettle off a lit burner.

“I don’t think we’re alone.” Ron smirked and the amusement in his eyes looked forced.

A red flash of light ripped through the air just above Ron’s shoulder, hitting a shelf full of spices and exploding. Harry fired a Stunner off in the direction of the kitchen door just in time to see a woman’s dark head disappear around the corner.

“Protego,” Ron bellowed, pointing his wand over Harry’s shoulder and Harry felt the vibration of the shield press against his back as a curse ricocheted off it.

Harry caught Ron’s eyes and that was all the communication they needed before they were taking off past each other, Harry after the woman and Ron after the man. Harry shot out through the kitchen entryway and into a hall with a door on both sides and one at the end. He ran for the farthest one and found himself standing in an open bedroom with sliding glass doors that led out to a backyard patio.

Harry stalked forward and barely rolled out of the way in time as the woman popped up from behind an armoire and hurled a spell at him.

“Reducto!” Harry shouted and her hiding place exploded.

She sneered viciously at him, her spiky dark hair falling into her amethyst eyes. “Crucio,” she hissed in a husky voice.

“Protego.” Harry rolled to the far side of the bed, popped up and bellowed, “Diffindo.”

The woman screamed, sharp and short as the Severing Charm caught her in the thigh. “Expulso!” The spell hit Harry square in the chest and he fell on his arse as he was propelled backwards out of the room, his head hitting the wall of the hallway with a sickening crack.

He rose to his feet, his head swimming. He tried to shake himself out of it but that only succeeded in making his vision blur. He gave himself a moment to stabilize before tearing back into the bedroom. The sliding glass door had been thrown wide. Harry’s expression darkened and he chased after her with renewed determination.

He ran out the door just as the woman yelled, “Defodio.” She had been flattened against the wall, just waiting for him to catch up to her. The curse caught him in the back and he screamed in pain as it agonizingly began gouging a hole into his spine. He fell to his knees, twisted his torso and yelled, “Stupefy.”

The pain abruptly cut off as the woman fell like a ton of bricks into the concrete. Her cheek slammed into the ground hard and Harry pointed his wand at his back as best he could and muttered, “Episkey.” He could feel blood sliding down the small of his back but the growing wound was closing.

He got to his feet just as Ron walked into the bedroom. “All right, mate?”

Harry nodded grimly.

“Hell of a firefight in the dining room,” Ron said in a gruff voice while he rubbed at his shoulder. It was bloody but the injury looked minor. “Makes me pleased the place was in such shambles before we got here,” he said lightly.

Harry grunted and cast a succinct, “Mobilicorpus,” on the woman while Ron went back to do the same with the bloke. They levitated them out to the main hall where their fellow Auror trainees and instructors were awaiting them. Harry’s eyes instantly went to the clock that had been keeping their time. He doubted they’d made it out in the six minutes allotted.

Harry looked over at Ron and grinned.

Robards was practically beaming at them. “Well done, boys,” he said warmly.

Dawlish scoffed, clipboard in hand, his quill ticking off all over the parchment in front of him. “You subdued your suspects within the allotted time,” he conceded before his lip curled unhandsomely. “However,” he drawled, “forty points are subtracted from your final score for their, and your, current appearance.”

Ron took offense to that. “Why should it matter how we got them down so long as we got them down? Sir,” he tacked on, barely managing to keep the growl out of his voice. His shoulder was still bloody and his arm was hanging limp at his side while he clutched just below the wound with his other hand.

“Things aren’t black and white in the wizarding world, Weasley,” Dawlish said. “For all you know, the husband’s been keeping the wife under Imperius the last six years and she’s really a mother of five who participates in bake sales and runs the local kiddie Quidditch league. You really want to explain to the Minister for Magic why you’ve brought her in with a fractured cheekbone and a bloody leg?

“Or maybe some sinister, wannabe criminal mastermind kidnapped their kid and was blackmailing them into service. Dragging in two caring parents who look more fit to be patients at Mungo’s than victims of a crime is not going to look stellar on your record.” Dawlish looked away from them and addressed the crowd as a whole. “What are your two standard spells in an active wandfight?”

Three hands raised and the slight, Asian girl started bouncing up and down on her toes. “Yes, you, Zhou.”

“Those would be the Incarcerous Charm, which is widely preferred, and the Stunning Spell, sir,” she answered, her tone academic and searching for approval.

“Very good, Zhou,” Dawlish commended. “And why is the Incarcerous Charm the preferred method of subduing a potential suspect?”

Mei answered before anyone else could open their mouths, obviously still thinking she had the Quaffle. “The Incarcerous Charm has the least likelihood of causing any visible or lasting damage.”

“Correct again, Zhou.”

Mei practically beamed under the praise. Harry barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He was with Ron on this. It shouldn’t matter how the job got done, just that it did. You couldn’t worry that every suspect might be a brainwashed housewife. If someone was trying to kill him then Harry intended to incapacitate that person any way he knew how.

Harry and Ron left the center of the room sourly to stand off to the side while Selvaratnam and Garrott had their turn. The unconscious man and woman on the floor flashed like a telly glitch and then disappeared as the clock started counting up again from zero. Dawlish took the time that the new simulation was being carried out to sum up his and Ron’s attempt as a lesson in proper procedure.

“I’m not sure I want to be an Auror after all,” Harry said suddenly as he and Ron sat in the parlor of Grimmauld Place. It was just before midnight and Hermione had wandered off to bed, not before encouraging Ron to join her with sad, undemanding eyes.

The fire crackled loudly in the stillness and Harry was reminded of his dream that morning. He flushed and stared down at his unfinished Ocky Rot.

“I’ve been thinking along those lines too,” Ron said, his voice soft and low. Harry started, forgetting he had even spoken. Ron swallowed, his voice going croaky. “George needs—He needs help at the shop.”

“He needs family,” Harry said.

Ron looked down at his knees. “Yeah.”

Harry nodded. “You should do that then.”

Ron’s breathing was deep and even and loud enough for Harry to hear over the spitting grate. “What will you do?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think I have to know. Not yet. Not right away.”

Ron snorted. “I don’t think you have to do anything. You really could rest on your laurels, you know. No one’s going to come to you and say you haven’t done enough.”

Harry was still thinking about what Ron had said when someone rapped on the door. The noise was sharp and it made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. Kreacher was in the front hallway before Harry had even begun to rally.

“Stay seated, Master Harry. Kreacher will get the door,” he said in that creaky voice of his.

Harry nodded lazily and Kreacher opened the door, the voice on the other side of it too soft to hear. Kreacher backed away, holding the door open with one of his shallow bows. Ginny walked into the hall, pulling off her coat.

Ron patted Harry’s knee. “Think I’ll head up then,” he said, giving Harry an understanding look. Ron hugged Ginny on his way past without putting much thought into it. They had that seamless familial love that Harry had somehow – luckily – barged his way into. Ginny took the seat next to him.

“I hoped you’d still be awake,” she said. There was an apology in her voice and Harry tried to convey that it wasn’t necessary. She reached up and carded her fingers through the hair on the side of his head. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed. He was so tired and she was so soothing. He’d always thought so. “Have you thought about it any more?”

Harry dropped his head into his hands. “I have,” he said, making himself really look at her. She was beautiful and lovely and when he imagined his future she was always the woman in his head. Long red hair fell across her freckled cheek and Harry brushed it back behind her ear. She was the only person he could just… touch like that. He pulled his hand back into his lap and sighed. “I just can’t. A relationship now would be—I feel so… lost.”

Ginny’s bow lips tightened for a long moment and then eased into relaxation. She let out a slow breath. “I suppose I can understand that, Harry.”

Harry took her hand in between his own. “I don’t want you to wait. Not on my account.” Ginny stared at him, her heart-shaped face giving nothing away. “I want you. I always will. But I don’t know when, I can’t give you a timeframe and I won’t make you put your life on hold for a time that may never come.”

Grimmauld Place was still as it awaited her answer with Harry. “All right,” she said after the quiet had lingered so long it felt cruel to break it.

“I still care about you, Ginny. That hasn’t changed,” Harry insisted, willing her to understand.

“I’d never thought it had,” Ginny said matter-of-factly.

Ginny came upstairs that night and stroked Harry’s hair until he fell asleep. They hadn’t done anything more. Harry found he wasn’t very interested in sex, even though he had women of all ages throwing themselves at him.

On his own though, well. He’d never wanked so much in his life and it was all thanks to those arousing, confusing dreams.

Harry served his notice to Kingsley directly the next morning. Ron had gone in just before him. He’d given a stumbling speech that he’d gone over perfectly in his head that morning about how he’d had enough of expecting his next breath might be his last and how he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do but calm and quiet had a nice sort of ring to it.

Kingsley surprised him by chuckling. “Honestly, Harry, I was stunned when I saw your application. The wizarding world has taken enough chunks out of your life, don’t you think? Time to let it work for you rather than you working for it.” Kingsley stood and held out his hand. Harry clasped it gratefully, smiling widely with relief. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Harry Potter.”

“Thanks, Kingsley.”

Harry’s next step wasn’t so certain. He had no idea what he wanted to do with himself now but he did know he didn’t want to go back to Grimmauld Place. He didn’t like to be there alone.

He took the lift up to level four, walked to the end of the hall to the archives room and saw a bushy head bobbing around behind stacks upon stacks of articles, leather-bound tomes, loose sheaves of parchment and old newspapers.

“So this is where the Ministry runs from then?”

Harry heard a crash and Hermione’s eyes popped up above the wall of papers. “Harry!” she said eagerly. “Don’t you have training now?” Her expression was confused and guarded somehow. It always was when his and Ron’s involvement with the Aurors was brought up.

Harry shrugged. “I quit.” Hermione’s eyes grew wide. “Ron did too. He wants to help George at the shop.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Good for him,” she said finally, her eyes wet. Harry didn’t know if she was hearing it for the first time from him or simply reacting to it again for Harry’s benefit. Either way, it didn’t seem as if she disapproved of the action. She cleared her throat. “And you?”

Harry shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just know that wasn’t it.”

“I never thought of you as an Auror. Just picturing it always made me so tired,” Hermione said gently. “I never understood why you weren’t tired too.”

“I was. I guess I just didn’t realize how much until recently.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I think it’s the right thing at least.”

Harry smiled at her fondly. “Me too.” He looked around at all the clutter. “So how’s the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures treating you?”

Hermione huffed her frizzy bangs out of her face. “Well, I’m working on getting that name changed first of all. Second, I’ve been trying to create a system for organizing all… this. There are detailed records here of every case ever tried in the Wizengamot on behalf of or brought against a magical creature. Some sort of structure would do wonders.” She asked darkly, “Do you know how they find case precedents now?”

Harry blinked owlishly at her and shook his head.

“They Accio whatever case they’re looking for, toppling everything all over again.” Hermione looked close to throwing up her hands. “It defies all logic.”

Harry made a ‘hmm’ sound in the back of his throat and tapped his fingers on a sturdy stack of books. “I was hoping I might be able to steal you away from your methodical organizing for an early lunch.”

Hermione frowned apologetically. “I would but I have a meeting with Witte in a few minutes to discuss the Department’s poorly handled Werewolf Support Services.”

Harry let out a very put upon sigh. “They should warn people that they’ll get callously tossed aside when their best friend sets out to change the world.”

Hermione’s nose wrinkled and she smiled. “You started it.”

Harry left Hermione’s office and found himself in Diagon Alley before long and entering Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes not long after that.

“Harry,” Ron called before he’d even got his bearings. The shop was as crowded as ever with bright colors, zippy movements and raucous noises trying to pull his attention every which way. He locked on Ron’s hand as it waved him over. Ron had a large box in his arms and he looked exhausted, but happier than he’d ever looked in Auror training.

“All right?”

Ron looked around the store. “It’s coming along. George was happy for the help, I think.”

At that moment, George came down from his upstairs flat. He spotted Harry and a drawn smile spread across his lips. He was thin and pale. Harry thought of him as the Azkaban-version of George. It was like watching Sirius’ transformation, only in reverse. “Hiya, Harry,” he said warmly.

Harry was touched by the genuine amiableness in his voice. It would have been so easy to blame him for Fred. Harry knew he blamed himself for it sometimes. He really had stumbled into the best family the world over. “George. Sorry I haven’t been around much, I’ve—” he said, feeling somehow guiltier saying the words aloud.

George waved it away. “Fred’s still dead. I’m still not over it. If you wanted to fix me or get condolences in while the getting’s good then you’re in time. Don’t worry about it.”

Ron swallowed. “George is kind of… blunt now.” Harry thought Ron put that rather bluntly, not to put too fine a point on it.

George’s smile had a darkness to it. “Can’t belabor it anymore or I’ll sit there waiting for him to finish my sentences for the rest of my life.”

“I’m so sorry, George,” Harry said, not knowing – even remotely – what he should say to that, or any of it really.

George looked like he was fighting off a cringe at the words and Harry felt worse. He opened his eyes, put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed. “I know you are, Harry.”

Harry’s lips twitched and he thought maybe George did understand what he was trying to say.

Harry stayed at the shop for most of the day and George tried to help him pick out a career. After his third suggestion – marketing waterproof polo tees designed specifically for merpeople, George really was an entrepreneur at heart – Harry decided maybe George wasn’t the right person for the job. The two of them were sitting on the counter in the back room and George was picking the fluff out of a stuffed Erumpent that breathed real smoke from its nostrils.

He tore a piece of stuffing apart with his fingers. “I heard you broke it off with Ginny,” he said.

Harry had thought this might be coming. Though, in truth, he’d expected it would be Ron or Molly who confronted him on it. “I don’t know when – if – I’ll be ready for something serious. I didn’t want to leave her with false hope.”

They sat in silence for a long moment while George picked at his fluff and the Erumpent in his lap gave off furious, braying huffs of smoke. “I understand,” was George’s only comment when he finally chose to make one.

Harry was surprised to find that he believed him.

Harry was having the dream again. Malfoy’s arms were squeezing his waist while he rubbed himself through his pajama bottoms with deep groans. He twisted about in his sheets while Malfoy’s breath beat against his neck, telling him to get to the door. Malfoy’s skin was hot, like a brand, and his grip was like a vice. Harry never wanted to be out of it.

He was so close. He was going to come any second. Malfoy shifted forward on the broom and Harry could feel his body pressed up against the whole of his back. He felt like he was on fire from the heat between them and he writhed, desperate for something solid to thrust against.

A jangling started up in the room and in the flames chasing them and Harry fought to stay submerged in his dreamspace. Just a few seconds longer, Harry silently pleaded, biting his lip, but sleep was flaking away under his eyelids and soon his eyes were cracking open.

Reality pushed to the forefront alarmingly quickly and Harry sat up, his pajama bottoms tented and the rumbling sound still there. He frowned and tried to listen for the origin of the noise. His gaze cut away to his bedside drawer. Something was rattling around inside it. Harry pulled open the drawer carefully, keeping his face well out of range. What he found was Malfoy’s wand. Malfoy’s vibrating wand. Harry reached in and pulled it out slowly.

He hadn’t touched the thing since he’d fixed his own and stuck it in the drawer.

Now he couldn’t imagine why he’d ever let it alone. It was positively thrumming in his hand, making his whole arm pulse with it. Harry’s cock throbbed, bringing his attention back around to his undiminished erection. He bit his lip. He wasn’t actually bold enough to do what he was thinking of. Was he?

Not leaving any more time to talk himself out of it, Harry shoved the wand down his pants and snuggled it up to his cock. He held them both in his hand and moaned when the vibrations met his skin. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His whole shaft was pulsating in time with Malfoy’s wand and that it was Malfoy’s wand was only speeding things along.

His cock shuddered as he rolled Malfoy’s wand up and down the length of it, lingering on the head and dipping down to tease his sac with it before pressing the hawthorn tip to his perineum. His thighs were quivering as he planted his feet and opened himself up, rotating the butt of Malfoy’s wand around the edges of his trembling hole. It begged for him to shove it inside but Harry held himself back. He refused to believe he was depraved enough that he would actually do… that with Malfoy’s wand.

He used the band of his pants to hold the wand against his cock, sucked three fingers in his mouth and shoved them all inside himself. He nearly howled at the intense pressure and his eyes rolled back in his head. His whole body felt shaky with his oncoming orgasm lingering at the sides of his vision.

His cock was beginning to weep and Harry rode his fingers hard, using his other hand to pinch his nipples. “Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me,” Harry muttered to himself unthinkingly, tossing his head back and forth on his pillow. “Make me come.”

He was tingling all over riding the edge of an orgasm he wanted so badly he could taste it. “Fuck, just do it already,” Harry cried out and the wand started vibrating against his cock harder and harder and harder.

Harry went cross-eyed for a second before his vision went white and his toes curled in on themselves. He fell back, panting, and Malfoy’s wand went back to a low purr rather than the roar it’d been when he came. He was mortified by what he’d done once he regained his head. He snatched the wand out of his pants and threw it back into the drawer, slamming it closed. He vowed never to touch it again.

The next day, Harry visited Hagrid and asked if he needed any help keeping the grounds at Hogwarts. Harry wasn’t sure Hogwarts was where he wanted to be either, but he did know he’d rather be there than sitting around Grimmauld Place and letting it suck the life out of him.

Hagrid’s eyes were still watering a bit from when Harry’d first shown up and he’d enfolded him in a bone-crushing embrace. He leaned over the table now, bushy beard first, while Harry valiantly tried to take a bite of his rock cake. He hoped the piece he’d swallowed had been some of the cake and not a chip from his tooth. “I could think of summat fer yeh, Harry,” he said with a frown, “but I don’ need the help. Won’ say no ter it though.”

Harry resisted tonguing his front teeth and sighed. “That’s all right, Hagrid. I don’t want to get underfoot. I’m just looking for something to keep me busy while I figure some stuff out.”

Hagrid’s beetle black eyes looked thoughtful. “There’s always teachin’. McGonagall’d love ter have yeh.”

Harry smiled. “I’ll think about it,” he lied. Teaching wasn’t a way to pass the time while he figured things out; it was a career path and it wasn’t one Harry wanted.

He went back to Grimmauld, momentarily defeated.

Hermione brought home Greek take-away that night and Harry told her and Ron about his failed visit with Hagrid. Hermione chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe you wouldn’t need to rush it so much if you cleaned out Grimmauld Place of all the things that make you not want to be in it.” Hermione pointed her fork at him. A piece of lettuce waggled on the end of it. “You could make that your interim project.”

That actually wasn’t a half-bad idea and Harry told her as much through bites of his spanakopita.

Cleaning out the rooms of Grimmauld Place felt like sifting through the ruins of a lost and archaic world. Layers of dust, fraying lace cuffs and yellowed photographs were in the first drawer Harry opened. He pulled out the photos and sat on the floor, watching each loop as it played out. He paused on one of Sirius’ mother.

She was looking straight into the camera lens without flinching, looking stiff and wearing that haughty, superior expression most purebloods had. Regulus and Sirius were at either elbow. Sirius looked just old enough to be starting Hogwarts and he had a smug, eager expression on his face. Regulus seemed to be pouting, no doubt from whatever had put that smug grin on Sirius’ face, and he crossed and recrossed his arms over and over again.

Sometimes Harry forgot what type of background Sirius had come from in the face of his boyish enthusiasm and amiableness. He supposed that proved that a person’s upbringing didn’t necessarily dictate who they’d turn out to be. Harry thought he might be living proof of that.

Harry looked at the picture for a long moment. They didn’t look like a conventional family as Harry thought of it. But they did look like a family of a sort. And Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. He’d never imagined Walburga Black and the people like her having families.

He didn’t get any further in his clearing away efforts that day as he sat with a pile of photos in between his legs and smiled into the highborn faces of Sirius’ relatives. He and Ron and Hermione had great fun picking through them together, making up back-stories for them and speculating on who they might be in the Black family tree. At least until Kreacher wandered in and told them the truth of it.

Kreacher was a font of knowledge and soon Harry knew as much about Alphard and Orion Black as he did about Sirius. He and Ron and Hermione sat and ate the roast Kreacher had prepared while the old elf told them all about Arcturus Black’s unfortunate penchant for cross-dressing.

That was how most of Harry’s days went. He would start in a room, inevitably get sidetracked by what he found and then share his discovery with Ron and Hermione and Kreacher over the delicious meals Kreacher prepared. Kreacher would tell them its significance and then Harry would hand the item off to a beaming Kreacher if the elf wished.

Some of the heirlooms he found looked more suited to be torture devices and the doxies had eaten into some things so badly that they were no longer recognizable, so not everything was squirreled away by his aging elf. “Ow,” Harry hissed, sucking his bloodied finger into his mouth. He pulled out a hatpin and Kreacher made a wretched mewling sound next to him. “Mistress’?”

The elf nodded fervently, his sagging skin flapping with the motion.

Harry handed it to him and Kreacher clutched it to his chest with wide, shining eyes. He popped away, likely to hide it in his cubby in the kitchen.

“I was thinking you could come out and have lunch with George and me. Stop sifting through the remnants of other people’s lives and live your own.”

“Shit!” Harry said, trying to catch his breath. “When the hell did you get there?” he demanded, turning around to see Ron standing in the doorway, arms folded over his chest.

Ron shrugged. “Few minutes ago.” He straightened up. “How ‘bout it then?”

“Course,” Harry answered without hesitation, picking himself up off the floor and shimmying out from under the weight of all he’d found that day.

After that, a new tradition was started. Most nights, Harry would wake up around three after dreaming about the Room, wank himself until he nearly lost consciousness, join Ron for tea, spend his morning on a random room in Grimmauld and then have lunch with Ron and George at the shop. After, he would stop by Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour – now run by Florean’s brother, Fabian Fortescue.

“You’ll have to take all of it to a cursebreaker first,” Fabian was saying as Harry sat at the counter and busily consumed his ice cream. He was the only customer that time of day and he enjoyed having the place to himself.

Harry nodded and smacked his lips. “Well, after that. Do you know of a place that would take it all?”

Fabian dropped his chin into his hand and stared at him with warm, brown eyes. Harry was becoming increasingly fond of the man. “You know Borgin and Burkes would be glad to have it.”

Harry’s expression soured. “They don’t have the best reputation, do they?”

Fabian’s brows perked and he said ominously, “Neither do the Blacks,” before sweeping away to the back room.

“Fabian offered me a job,” Harry told Hermione as they sat in the drawing room. Harry was lying on the couch languidly and Hermione was sitting on the floor near his feet preparing a brief on proper goblin protocol, three books open around her. Ron was at the shop with George doing inventory.

Hermione looked up for the first time in hours. “Did you take it?”

Harry stared up at the ceiling sedately. “I told him I’d think about it.”

“And, have you?”

“I’m thinking I will. I know most the customers by now and I like them. I like Fabian too and it’s—there’s no death in it. Just ice cream.”

A laugh caught Hermione by surprise and she said, “There is that, I suppose. I hope it works out for you, Harry.” Harry hummed in agreement while Hermione tapped her quill at the top of her paper. “I never asked if you made a decision about you and Ginny?”

Harry’s eyebrows raised. “You didn’t hear already? From Ginny?” Hermione pursed her lips. She and Ginny weren’t as close as they’d been during sixth year, what with Hermione working full time and Ginny still in school. “I told her not to wait,” he said. Hermione wore a sympathetic frown and they sat in silence together.

Hermione was watching the tapestry without really seeing it and Harry was staring at the ceiling again. His vision was beginning to blur. “I’ve been dreaming of Malfoy—and the Room of Requirement a lot recently.”

Hermione came to at the abrupt words. She blinked up at him. She didn’t seem thrown as much by the comment as she was by the break in the silence. Her quill started tapping again. “You have a life debt between you. Saving someone’s life, it’s an intimate thing. Some people can start to feel responsible for that life.”

Harry smiled but didn’t look away from the ceiling. “And by ‘some people’ you mean me?” Harry hazarded.

Hermione’s lips quirked. “It’s like you, isn’t it? You feel responsible for the whole world, what’s Malfoy’s life on top of all that? I’m not saying it’s a poor quality to have,” she was quick to add.

Harry’s brow furrowed, making him squint up at the off-white paint. “You think the life debt has something to do with why I’m—thinking about him?”

Hermione looked to the side doubtfully. “A life debt is only as important as the people involved deem it,” she said slowly. “You do still have his wand, don’t you?”

Harry’s face flushed red thinking of Malfoy’s wand and he nodded, biting his lip slightly.

“Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you to return it,” Hermione guessed. “To conclude your business with Malfoy, so to speak. You have your own back now. There’s no need to hang onto his.”

Harry thought about the wand locked away upstairs in the nightstand next to his bed. He’d kept his promise to himself and hadn’t touched it since that night but it didn’t mean he’d stopped obsessing about it, or that it had stopped vibrating on occasion. Just thinking about it made his skin quiver. He may not be touching it but he also wasn’t sure he was ready to give it up. His lips twisted to the side and he said doubtfully, “I suppose not.”

Harry put it off another two weeks. He worked at Fortescue’s and he hoed out Grimmauld Place and he pushed the wand and Hermione’s words to the back of his mind.

“Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Harry said gratefully as Bill stepped through the door, still shaking his hand. He looked just as Harry remembered him, his long red hair tied back and his dragon-fang earring dangling dangerously. Fatherhood had put a permanent smile on his face too.

Bill looked around nostalgically. “Strange being back here. I expect Moody to walk out and growl at me to put down my make-up and stop pussyfooting about.”

Harry swallowed at the thought of Moody and it drew his eyes to the scars on Bill’s face and neck. There was so much he could have done better, maybe then Mad-Eye would still be alive and Bill wouldn’t request his steaks bloody.

Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “I know Mum had us remove the nastier hexes the last time we were here but we hardly got through all of it.”

Harry nodded. “I’ve only run into some more benign annoyances.” He pointed to an ornate picture frame that was lying in the middle of the floor with the other jinxed objects. “I spent the whole day speaking in dirty limericks thanks to that.”

Bill’s laughter was deep and punched up from his diaphragm. “I think I would have paid to see that.”

“I’ll just say thank Merlin I managed to avoid the press that day.”

Bill doubled over at the thought of that and Harry grinned. Harry went into the kitchen and brought out the sandwiches and tea Kreacher had prepared. Bill helped himself while he worked through the cursed objects, explaining the charms each item had on it and how to remove them. Harry asked after Victoire and Fleur and Bill’s face lit up. Harry felt a twinge of jealousy but he beat it down.

Bill was just standing to leave, looking full and hearty due to both the food and the pleasant afternoon, when Harry stood up with him and decided suddenly, “Do you know anything about wands?”

“Er,” Bill shrugged, “that’s hardly my forte.”

“I have this wand and it’s been acting… oddly.”

Bill frowned. “Odd how?”

Harry wiped his suddenly sweaty palms down the front of his jeans. “Vibrating. It’s been vibrating.”

Bill’s face scrunched up thoughtfully and he asked, “You haven’t been using it?”

Harry’s face colored but he stammered out, “Not really, no.”

“Well there’s your problem then,” Bill said brightly. “Wands don’t like to be shut up and ignored. They’re magical objects and a bit more sentient than I’ve ever been totally comfortable with so I’m thinking it wants to be useful. Having two wands, it’s hard to find the proper balance.”

“It’s not exactly mine,” Harry admitted. At Bill’s raised eyebrows, Harry clarified, “I mean, I won it away from someone else.”

“Hmm.” Bill tilted his head to the side. “Do you mean to keep it?”

Harry shrugged, trying hard to believe that he hadn’t given the idea much thought. “I don’t know.”

Bill nodded and said, “The longer it goes without use, the more ornery it’s going to get. It might even stop answering you entirely. You might think about returning it if you can.”

“How do I do that?” Harry asked, sounding invested. “Do I have to let him win it back?”

Bill snorted. “Nothing so complicated as that. Just hand it back to him and say you no longer retain any claim to it. It’s not easy to steal a wand’s allegiance. It wants to be with the wizard that’s nurtured it. All you can do is subvert it for a while.”

It wants to be with the wizard that’s nurtured it.

Something clicked in Harry’s head and his hands curled into fists. It was the wand! He’d been keeping it right next to his bed and it’d been reminding him of Malfoy over and over in an effort to get him to return it to its proper owner. First with the memory and then with the embellishments. He wasn’t going spare. It was the wand that’d been giving him the dreams and that had been making him think of its owner that way.

Harry beamed at Bill and stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Bill. This has been such a help.” Harry barely saw Bill to the door before he was racing up the stairs to grab parchment and a quill. He couldn’t wait for his life to get back to normal. Well, as normal as his life ever got anyway. Pig was, thankfully, in his cage and Harry all but thrust the letter on him.

Malfoy,

I’ve just realized I’ve still got your wand. I’d like to return it to you if possible. Please owl me back a time you’d be able to meet.

Harry Potter

Malfoy’s owl came back in under an hour.

Potter,

How nice it must be to forget how you’ve stolen my wand. I’m sure you have so many lying about that claiming one more hardly makes a difference. I’ll be in Diagon Alley tomorrow around four if you’re able to meet then.

Draco Malfoy

Malfoy,

You write like a ponce. I didn’t steal your stupid wand, I won it. It’s not my fault you couldn’t hang on to it. I work at Fortescue’s now so we could meet there.

Potter

Hermione was right, it was time to conclude his business with Malfoy and move on with his life. As far as Harry was concerned, tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Harry had his head in the tub of Billywig Brittle when Malfoy strolled in. He cleared his throat and the back of Harry’s head hit the sneeze guard. “Ow!” Harry rubbed the bump and scowled at Malfoy.

The little girl whose ice cream Harry was holding started giggling. Harry offered her a pained smile and Malfoy snatched the ice cream cone out of his hand while Harry gaped at him. Surely he wouldn’t steal a little girl’s ice cream?

Malfoy bent down and handed it to her. She took it eagerly, licking it, and stared up at Malfoy with wide, interested eyes. “He’s funny, isn’t he?” he asked the little girl. She nodded vehemently. Malfoy grinned approvingly and whispered in a stage voice, “Funny-looking too.”

The girl shrieked with laughter and Harry’s scowl deepened even as he blinked through his amazement that Malfoy was apparently good with children. Her mother bustled over at that point and Malfoy straightened. She shot him a dark look, muttered, “Come along, Eloise,” and grabbed her sticky hand to lead her away.

Malfoy sneered after them before thrusting his hand out over the counter and demanding imperiously, “My wand, Potter.” It was as pale as the rest of him and looked as if it would be exquisitely soft to the touch.

Harry’s face darkened at his own thoughts. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the stupid thing. He rolled his eyes, wiping his hands on his apron. “You could pretend to be cordial at least.”

Malfoy’s mobile face twisted into dislike. Harry thought it might have been something to watch if it wasn’t directed at him. “Why should I?” Malfoy asked petulantly. “It’s not as if you’re doing me some grand favor.” Harry opened his mouth and Malfoy growled. “It’s my wand, Potter, that you stole. Forgive me if I’m not falling to my knees in gratitude.”

Harry’s face went beet red at the image of Malfoy ‘falling to his knees.’ He dug the thing out of his pocket, fumbling it in his haste to be rid of it. “I didn’t have to,” Harry still muttered contrarily as he held the wand out to Malfoy.

“Yes, you did,” Malfoy said smartly, snatching it out of his hand. “You’re a Gryffindor. It would have insulted your sense of fair play to keep it.” He pointed the hawthorn wand at him threateningly and commanded, “Now tell it you hold no claim to it any longer.”

Harry tried to shove it out of his face, snarling, “If you’d just stop acting like a prat about it maybe I would have already.” He ended up grabbing on to Malfoy’s hand in an attempt to push the wand tip away. Their skin met and something like a spark traveled up Harry’s arm and jolted his shoulder. Harry dropped his hand in surprise and took an involuntary step back. His arm was still tingling as he touched his fingers together curiously.

Malfoy didn’t seem to have felt what he had and he stared at Harry, his gaze gauging and suspicious.

Harry swallowed. “Uh, I no longer hold any claim to you,” he told Malfoy’s wand firmly.

Malfoy positively preened. “Excellent,” he said happily. He swished the wand and a stream of silver sparks shot from the end. “Well, our nasty business is finished. I hope you have a spectacularly menial life in food service, Potter.” With that, Malfoy practically skipped out of Fortescue’s, humming all the way out.

Harry’s arm was still shaking and he decided to take a break in the back room. He sat glumly on the freezer and dug into a tub of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor ice cream, his head too much of a mess to even bother to notice that he was tasting sardines.

Harry was staring at the mantle above the fireplace. The midday sun was glinting off the picture frames turning the glass silver. They reminded Harry of Malfoy’s eyes. “Kreacher?” he said suddenly while the wizened elf shuffled about, shoving the items Harry had hoed out that he had no interest in into a trash bag.

“Master Harry?” he responded curiously. That was as close as he had got to calling him ‘Harry.’

Harry dampened his lips and shifted onto his back on the sofa. He closed his eyes. “Did you ever meet Draco Malfoy?”

If the question threw Kreacher, he didn’t show it in his answer. He paused in his picking up and thought for a moment. “Master Malfoy was here as a child,” he said. “Master Malfoy is coming with Mistress Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Harry said, not knowing what he’d expected to hear. Or why he’d really asked to begin with. He rolled over to look at Kreacher properly. “How old was he? I mean, do you think he’d remember it?”

Kreacher frowned. “Master Malfoy was young, Master Harry,” he decided. “Four, Kreacher thinks. Master Malfoy did not enjoy Mistress’ home.”

Harry took a moment to process that before asking, “What didn’t he like about it?”

Kreacher dropped the bag completely and scrunched up his face. “Kreacher knows the troll leg upset Master Malfoy but then Kreacher was cooking in the kitchen and saw no more.”

“Okay,” Harry said. He rolled onto his back a second time with a perfunctory, “Thanks, Kreacher.”

“Master Harry is very welcome,” Kreacher said in a simpering tone. The crinkle of the trash bag told Harry that Kreacher had grabbed it up again. The sound slithered across the floor as Kreacher went about tossing things into it. Harry breathed in deeply, thinking he might do with a nap when the sound cut off again. “Might Kreacher ask why Master Harry is wondering about Master Malfoy? Does Master Harry wish Master Malfoy to stay?” Kreacher couldn’t quite keep the toadying hope out of his voice.

“What?” Harry squawked, popping up on the couch. He choked on his own breath and hurriedly added, his voice still winded, “No. I was just… thinking out loud that’s all.”

The next day, Kreacher said nothing when Harry started his trash bag off with the troll’s leg umbrella stand already in it.

Harry malingered in Hermione’s office, just generally being underfoot and sighing loudly. Thankfully, Hermione’s exasperation seemed fond. Harry looked around the archives room and was amazed at what she’d managed in only a few short weeks. A good portion had been organized, cross-referenced and collated before being put away in self-filing cabinets. Hermione had even cleared enough of it out that there was now a place for a desk and a few personal objects.

Harry sniffed and held up his hand. “Organizational high-five.” Hermione rolled her eyes but obliged him. “The packrats before us would be appalled.” Hermione snorted and kept looking through her files, being all work-like. Harry grumbled. He plucked up the Sneakoscope Ron had given her and twirled it. “Hermione,” he said absently after he’d done this a few times.

“Hmm?” Her bushy hair was still buried in her folder.

Harry sat back in his seat and stared at his hands, his fingers laced together. “Remember I told you I’d been dreaming of Malfoy?” Hermione made another encouraging noise. “I didn’t tell you what those dreams have been doing to me.”

Hermione’s head shot up, worry in the lines of her face. It slowly began to recede as she realized he didn’t mean any physical injury. “You can tell me, Harry.” There was no hesitation or uncertainty in her voice.

Harry took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he was doing the smart thing by telling her but he did know he needed someone else’s brain on this and Hermione’s was the best he knew of. Her eyes were showing gentle anticipation. “I thought it was his wand,” Harry said, “wanting me to return it and that was the reason I—that he was in my head but they haven’t stopped and I still…”

“You still?”

Harry breathed out harshly. “I think I—It’s not platonic.”

Hermione’s face screwed up in confusion. “What isn’t?”

Harry’s embarrassment was turning his ears red and making his neck hot. “How I react to… the dreams.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed and it took her a minute to perk up. “Oh!” she said in sudden understanding. And then as it sank deeper, she said more lowly, “Oh.” She clarified carefully, “You’re… attracted to Malfoy.”

Harry dropped his head and nodded, unwilling to give voice to it. “I thought the dreams were just… dreams,” he defended himself. He sighed. “But then I saw him. To return his wand and I—I don’t know. I don’t think they’re just dreams.” He didn’t say, ‘I can’t stop thinking of him’ or ‘he looked unfairly fit for a pointy, should-be unattractive bloke’ but he thought Hermione heard it anyway.

“Okay,” Hermione started guardedly.

“No!” Harry insisted vehemently. Hermione’s eyes widened and Harry said more calmly, “No. That’s exactly what it isn’t. He’s—He’s a bad person, Hermione. What does that say about me that I can be attracted to someone like him? He’s a bigot and he’s cruel.”

Hermione was quiet for a lull before she put in softly, “And he saved your life.”

“So that excuses the first six years I knew him?” Harry growled defensively.

Hermione held up her hands. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying there’s more to him than the bigoted and cruel parts to do something like that. There’s bravery and a deeper sense of right and wrong. I don’t think you can say he’s a bad person. I don’t think you can limit him like that. He’s complex and cold and there’s more that we don’t know about him than what we do.” Hermione suddenly let out an amused huff and her lips curved into a smile. “And you’ve got me defending Malfoy. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Harry offered her a cringing, apologetic grin. “I’m not exactly thinking with my head. I can’t be impartial. I needed someone who could. I needed to know if there was anything else there.” He didn’t mention that he chose Hermione over Ron because she seemed more likely to side with his libido, considering she could find the good in even the worst creatures. “He’s the worst person I know. What he’s said about you. About Ron. I don’t know I can ever reconcile that.” Harry rubbed his forehead roughly.

“You’re wrong,” Hermione said succinctly.

Harry’s head shot up in surprise.

She smiled. “He’s not the worst person you know. You don’t know him. None of us do.”

Harry dropped his head to the back of his chair and bent his neck over the arch of it. “Forget that it’s Malfoy for a minute. It’s a bloke. I never wanted that. Never.”

“Maybe it’s not men in general,” Hermione said. There was such sympathy in her face that Harry couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for her. She understood better than most how desperately Harry wanted to be normal. For once, he didn’t want people to stop and whisper when he walked by.

Harry could feel his eyes starting to water as he allowed himself to really think about what wanking over another bloke meant for the first time and he wanted to kick his own arse for it. “I can’t be gay. I just can’t. I want Ginny and a family. I hate this.”

“Oh Harry.” Hermione was at his side in an instant, hugging him tightly. Later, she would tell him it would all be all right, that he had his friends no matter what he decided, but now she knew to just let him mourn the life he’d wanted so badly he burned with it. He loved her for that more than words could say.

The sky outside was overcast and the back room of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes didn’t look much better. All the most recent flop inventions and broken products littered every shelf and most the floor. Harry sat on a tabletop with Ron and George, picking at his tuna cress. He poked a finger into it and the sandwich made a squelching noise. “I think I’m interested in Malfoy.”

Ron’s mouth paused, his food half chewed. “I didn’t think he had any more legal troubles to worry over,” he said curiously.

Harry’s breath caught on a laugh. Of course it was so unbelievable and he was so intent on saving those people that least deserved to be saved – as Ron put it – that Ron had made sense of it the only way he knew how. “No, Ron. I—” he started but George cut him off.

“He’s interested,” George clarified, looking a bit shell-shocked but still managing to waggle his eyebrows.

Ron choked on his sandwich. His face was red and his eyes were watering when he finally righted himself. “You’re queer?” he blurted.

Harry could feel his cheeks heat up. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s just him or just blokes or if it’s birds and blokes with a Malfoy concentration.” He offered Ron a weak smile.

Ron didn’t seem to notice it. “He’s Malfoy,” he said blankly.

Harry swallowed with a short nod. “I know.”

“How could you—” Ron’s face was screwed up with something like disgust and maybe even hatred, for Harry, but it was gone a moment later. He stared hard into Harry’s eyes and something in him seemed to calm. “How can you be sure?” he asked quietly.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “The dreams about the Room of Requirement—They’re still awful but my reaction to them is not exactly the reaction of someone who’s had a nightmare.”

Ron’s eyebrows drew down. “Meaning?”

Again, it was George that answered. “Meaning you could sail ships in his sheets,” George said, affecting the act of masturbating with his hand. He no longer seemed struck dumb and had gone back to happily munching on his lunch.

“Oh,” Ron said dumbly.

“Yeah,” Harry said back, just for something to say back.

Ron shook himself out of it and he said firmly, “You can’t put stock in dreams, Harry. I had a dream I took Eloise Midgen to the Yule ball in fourth year.”

Harry sighed, wishing that was all it was. He stared off at a tie-dyed Pygmy Puff that was curled up inside a pair of Omnioculars that had one of the lenses missing. “I saw him. To return his wand. They’re not just dreams.”

The Pygmy Puff was making a low purring sound that could only be heard now that things had gone so still between them. The windows rattled slightly with sudden thunder and Harry stared at the rims of his glasses under his eyes, silently counting the seconds.

“You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” Ron broke the silence decidedly, his face set. “Poor taste aside, I’m behind you. You’re family, Harry. You don’t drop family because they make bad decisions, you support them through it.”

Harry gave him an uncertain half-smile. “Bad decisions?”

Ron took a deep breath in and nodded. “He’s not a nice bloke, Harry.” He placed a supportive hand on Harry’s shoulder. “If you can tame him, then good on you but somehow I don’t see that happening.”

George perked up and said eagerly, “Bet he’d be fantastic in bed.” Ron and Harry looked at him agog. “What?” he blustered defensively. “Think of how hot and bothered he could get you in school, then imagine that in a different setting.” Ron looked like he might be ill while Harry’s face had gone tomato red. “Besides, you can’t be that much of an arse unless you’re, A: fantastic in bed or, B: hung like a hippogriff.”

“Or both,” Harry said boldly. “A bloke can dream, right?” He felt a bit uncomfortable with his own daring. He’d never really thought along those lines or even allowed himself to consciously fantasize about what having sex with another bloke might consist of. Nor was he ready to be thinking along those lines. He could barely even handle the idea of kissing another man, let alone anything more. But he’d wanted to lighten the mood, even if he now felt closer to hyperventilating.

He should have left it up to George anyway who said, as though he’d been holding it in for ages, “Can we get back to the torch little Ronnie’s been carrying for poor Eloise now? How are you going to break it to Hermione?” The tension broke as Ron and Harry yucked it up and Ron managed to get George over the head with a busted Fanged Frisbee.

Harry was strangling his napkin between twitchy fingers when Cho walked in. She was still beauty queen pretty with her sleek, dark hair and exotic good looks. And they still had the effect of plopping Harry right back into the shoes of an awkward teenager who hadn’t quite figured out the brain-mouth connection. Then he remembered the way she’d cried into his mouth and he found solid ground again. Just the memory of it left a huge grin on his face.

After the war, he and Cho had run into each other in Diagon and spent a whopping thirteen hours together drinking in the Leaky. Not only had Harry found out that her drink was Blishen’s – which didn’t just put hair on a chest but an entire pelt – but he also learned that her mental maturation had caught up to her looks and she was intimidatingly beautiful inside and out. He had teased her mercilessly about his wet first kiss while she ducked her head and blushed.

The fact that she could laugh at herself only made her more attractive and when she started working for Luna at The Quibbler, Harry knew the tentative amity that began that night would blossom into a true friendship.

Cho flopped into the seat across from him and huffed her bangs out of her face. Harry liked that she no longer clung to that ‘pretty girl’ persona around him. A waiter glued himself to her side only a moment later. Harry had had to wait ten minutes to get noticed the way fancy restaurants sometimes did – just to prove how fancy they really were. Harry had a feeling Cho had never experienced anything like that.

“A Tom Collins please,” she said with a beatific smile.

Harry felt a bit hot under the collar just seeing it. He cleared his throat, staring down into his own Ocky Rot. Cho twirled around in her seat, hooked her purse’s straps on the back of her chair, stripped off her coat and faced him.

Harry smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m sorry to owl you out of the blue like this.”

Cho rolled her eyes and propped up her menu. “What’s to be sorry for?” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “You act as though I’m not happy to see you.” She pushed her hair back behind her ear and pinched her earlobe. Harry really liked her ears, they were petite and perfectly formed.

Harry tapped his glass, admitting indelicately, “I may have had, ah, ulterior motives in asking you here.”

“You’re not here to catch up, hear about my fabulous, prolific writing skills for The Quibbler, ask about my summer romance with Phillippe Toulane, beg me to be the woman hanging off your arm this week?” Cho asked with faux surprise. The waiter came over and placed her drink down in front of her. She managed to give him an acknowledging nod even as she said mordantly, “Really, and that’s all so your style.”

“I care about other people’s lives, your life,” Harry blustered defensively.

Cho looked up at the ceiling and said, “I’m teasing you, Harry. Honestly.”

“Oh.” Harry settled into his seat, mollified after stiffening in offense. He stared around at the restaurant, stalling for time. He looked back at Cho as she sipped her Tom Collins through a pink straw. Harry was obviously still attracted to her and not in a purely aesthetic way either. He just didn’t know that that transferred into the physical realm of things too.

“Earth to Harry,” Cho called.

Harry steeled himself. “There’s a guy.” Somehow it was easier to tell Cho this than it had been Hermione. Harry supposed it was because he and Hermione had been through so much that really mattered, that had meant life or death, and something like being attracted to a bloke seemed rather trivial in the grand scheme of things. And Harry could only think of it as the most important thing that had ever happened to him. He didn’t want to feel like he was exaggerating things. At least not yet.

Cho blinked at him, her drink paused on the way to her mouth. “A guy?”

“Yeah, a guy,” Harry rubbed at his forehead, “that I think I might—there might be something. But it’s… complicated. We’re complicated and if I could not be with this guy then I think that might be the best thing. If I could, say, be with a woman.”

Cho put her drink down altogether and perked a dark brow. “So you asked me here to tell me about a guy you’re interested in that may not be a guy of any interest after all?”

Harry leaned forward on the table, pulling the tablecloth taut in his direction as he did. He swished his wine glass about by the base, roving it over the white cloth with his fingers. “I called you here because I wanted to know if I’m off women altogether now,” he said with as much delicacy as he could muster.

Shock was not a strong enough word for what was bandying across Cho’s face in that moment. She leaned back in her seat and almost seemed to decompress.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you, Cho,” Harry said hurriedly, trying to explain the reasoning that had led him here. It had seemed so solid then. “But Ginny – there’s history and she’d expect… and I can’t trust any random woman not to run off to the Prophet with the story. It’s a mad and borderline sleaze-ridden thing to ask, I know, but I—”

“I’ll do it,” Cho cut him off, looking determined. She sucked down the rest of her Tom Collins in record time and Harry tired not to cringe.

He swallowed and said somewhat blankly, “What?”

Cho brightened up, warming to the idea more and more. Now she was the one leaning across the table, and looking far more eager than Harry had to do it. “No, this is great,” she argued as though she was trying to sell him on something. She held her hands up, fingers spread. “I cried through our first kiss – your first kiss overall. I’ve always felt a bit… well, pathetic is the word I suppose. This is fantastic. I can finally make it up to you now.”

Harry felt a bit gobsmacked and when the waiter came over to ask for their orders, Cho waved him away distractedly. She had glued her brown eyes on Harry and they weren’t budging. “You’re sure about this?” Harry made himself say.

Cho grinned at him and it was the grin people used when what they were suggesting was bound to get someone into trouble. “What else are friends for?” she asked slyly. Harry wasn’t sure he liked the glittering look in her eyes. “Your place then?” she said, her eyelashes lowered coyly.

“It’s different than I remember it,” Cho noted as they stepped inside Grimmauld Place.

Harry shrugged. “I’ve been working at it.”

“It’s better,” Cho said approvingly.

Harry poked his head around the parlor entrance, then the kitchen door. Thankfully Ron and Hermione didn’t seem to be about. “Upstairs?” he tried, feeling wholly uncomfortable. It may not have carried the same weight a regular date might’ve but Harry still felt nervous. After all, the outcome was going to turn up the same, wasn’t it?

Cho noticed. “Take a deep breath, Potter,” she said sympathetically. And the ‘Potter’ was not helping matters. Only one person called him Potter. “And belt up,” she finished, entirely unsympathetic. She pressed him up against the wall between the kitchen and the stairs and placed her hands just under his shoulders. She wasted no time before she leaned in and kissed him.

It was nice. Her lips were soft and her palms were warm through his shirt. Harry looped his hands loosely around her waist and pulled her a bit closer. Her lips opened and Harry closed his eyes as her tongue pushed its way into his mouth. It was pleasant and arousing and Harry wanted her straddling him. He pulled away. “Upstairs,” he said more firmly.

Cho looked a bit dazed and nodded devilishly.

Harry didn’t even have to ask before she was sitting on his bed. He took the spot next to her and she infiltrated his mouth a second time. Cho pushed him back and crawled atop him and Harry wondered at her Legilimancy skills. Her hand slid down his chest and settled on the catch of his trousers. Harry swallowed but nodded gamely.

He looked up at her. She was even more breathtaking now but Harry couldn’t help but feel there was something wrong with the picture. He slid his hands up her sides and cupped her breasts but her breathy little moan did nothing for him. He pulled back, looking at his hands as if he’d broke them somehow.

Cho didn’t seem to notice. She pulled his trousers down and slipped her knickers off from under her pleated skirt while she was standing. It was suddenly achingly real and Harry felt a bit nauseous. He flipped them when she climbed back on top of him and slid his thigh between her legs.

He reared back off of her and sat on the edge of the bed with his trousers around his ankles and his half-hard erection rapidly deflating. He couldn’t believe how badly he’d wanted to find a cock there – Malfoy’s cock if he was going to be brutally honest with himself.

He dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck, I—I’m sorry,” he muttered through his fingers. He felt disgusted with himself but he made himself admit, “I’m thinking of him.”

Cho looked disappointed but she didn’t say it. She scooted down the bed and sat next to him. They were silent for a long moment and Harry could hear every creak Grimmauld Place made when it thought no one was listening. “Will you tell me who he is?” Cho asked quietly and Harry started.

“I honestly think you’d rather not know.”

Cho didn’t even think to question him and Harry felt a warm smile spread across his face at the implicit trust she held for him. She straightened out her rucked up blouse and smoothed a hand down her hair. She popped off the bed and snatched up her knickers. “So… gay?” she hazarded as she stepped back into them.

Harry fell back on the bed. “Gay,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure it was true. He did know that his mind was too occupied with Draco Malfoy to even entertain the idea of anything else, no matter how much more beautiful.

Or how much simpler.

“I’m Patrick,” yelled the blond bloke over the music.

“I’m going to call you Malfoy,” Harry called back to him, his Glamoured brown hair falling into his face. Patrick – his Malfoy wannabe – smiled back widely that smile that people gave when they didn’t hear what you’d said but neither did they want to ask. He was a vapid-looking bloke whose head seemed mostly vacant. Harry thought the former might help him to pretend.

Harry motioned to the freight door and turned around. He set his drink on the bar and tried to steady his nerves. He didn’t know if the man – his shade of Malfoy – would follow. He didn’t know what proper protocol was when it came to seducing another bloke. He almost hoped he’d never have to find out.

He wasn’t cut out for all that and, when it came to Malfoy, he certainly didn’t want to be the one doing the chasing. He would much rather Malfoy came to him, stuck his hand down Harry’s pants and asked if Harry wanted to fuck him – and then told him how to do just that.

Harry shortened his strides as he bore down on the door. Well, at least he was ready for something to happen should the bloke actually have followed.

He opened the door and faced the opening as soon as he reached the alley behind the club. His blond bloke was right behind him, shutting out the noise and staring at him with dumb, hungry eyes. Harry liked the glittering look of them. They were attractive and awaiting instruction.

“Er, come here,” Harry told him.

He was a grand follower and he pushed Harry up against the alley wall and shoved his tongue into Harry’s mouth without ceremony. Harry could feel the other bloke’s hard cock up against his thigh and the wetness of their open mouths pressing together.

And it was all wrong because, yes, he was blond and, yes, he was svelte but he wasn’t pointy and unattractively attractive and he didn’t make Harry feral with anger and passion and what Harry was just beginning to realize was arousal. But he was a bloke and doing this with a bloke seemed like more of an insult to himself – and to Malfoy – than Cho had been. Because if he’d already gone this far then why not go after the man he really wanted?

He pushed the bloke off, walked one alley over without looking back and Disapparated, still feeling slightly ill and rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Harry couldn’t believe his luck. He dropped the new tub of Butterscotch Brickle and ran outside without even a word to Fabian. “Malfoy!” he called as he ran through the crowd after the bobbing blond head.

Malfoy turned around regally and his face fell when he saw it was Harry chasing him. Harry fought off a pang. He couldn’t believe Malfoy hadn’t recognized his voice. Harry knew if the situation were reversed he would have had no trouble identifying Malfoy. “Potter.” Malfoy sneered. “Twice in as many months.” He crossed his arms over his chest and it was unfair how every movement made Harry want to drool. Godric, he wasn’t even attractive. He just… did something to Harry. “We do have to stop meeting like this,” he said snidely.

Harry ignored him. He felt charged for something and he leaned forward on the balls of his feet. “Are you free now?”

“Oh yes,” Malfoy sang in exaggerated fashion, “I always walk around Diagon because I have absolutely nothing to do.”

“God, you are such an arse,” Harry growled, and he really was. “Come to the Leaky with me for a pint,” he commanded.

Malfoy took a step back and perked a brow. “Do you have more insults that you can’t fit in to this chance meet?”

“No.” Harry ground his teeth. “I’d like to talk to you is all.”

Malfoy spread out his hands. “We’re talking fine here.” He frowned. “Unfortunate as I may find that.”

“Malfoy,” Harry gritted out, trying to keep his head. “I have something I would like to discuss with you in a more… private setting.”

Malfoy reared back before leaning in and bluffing with feigned menace, “Is this a threat of some kind? I’ll have you know I won’t respond to threats.”

Harry rolled his eyes and was only a second or two away from stamping his foot. Why did Malfoy have to make everything so bloody difficult? “I’m not threatening you,” Harry told him, jaw still clenched. “I want to ask you something.”

Malfoy looked a bit uneasy but he jutted out his chin defiantly. “So ask.”

If Harry hadn’t wanted to fuck him so badly, he would have killed him right there in the middle of Diagon just for being so bloody frustrating. “Bloody hell!” he burst out, tugging at his own hair. “I give up. You are impossible.”

Harry turned on his heel angrily and was a good distance away when Malfoy called after him with an uncertain, “Thank you?”

Harry put his frustration – of the mental and sexual variety – into painting Grimmauld Place. The moldy beige walls were covered over with a pale green that caught what little light came in through the windows. The downstairs immediately looked more inviting and Harry could even see the curtains in front of Walburga Black’s portrait swaying, no doubt so its subject could get a peek. Harry thought she might even approve, after all it was in keeping with the Slytherin theme.

He and Hermione had managed to get the elves’ heads off the wall within his first week of moving and he would have done the same with her portrait but he was waiting until she made a nuisance of herself. And, amazingly, the curtains had been drawn and hadn’t shifted since he’d first stepped inside Grimmauld Place on his own. He suspected this was because she knew what shaky ground she was on.

He took the green all the way up the stairs, painting around her ornate frame and then switched to an equally pale yellow on the second floor. He rolled over one side while his magic did the other. He wouldn’t have done it by hand at all only he needed something to keep them occupied and away from his crotch.

He hadn’t even attempted to be with anyone since the blond bloke at the club and before that there was only Cho which meant he’d had two aborted opportunities for shagging in recent memory. It hadn’t left Harry the happiest bloke about town and he was snippy with Ron and Hermione and short with Kreacher – though Harry suspected the old elf preferred it. No doubt it reminded him of Mistress.

And at night, oh Godric, at night, Harry would dream of nothing but Malfoy. Sometimes the Fiendfyre was even still present and they would find an alcove where it couldn’t touch them but it would get so hot and Malfoy would strip off his clothes and urge Harry to do the same and their glistening, sweat-slicked bodies would come together—

“Holy hell, Harry!” Ron called out from right behind him.

Harry jumped and, with two hands, held out his paint roller like a weapon.

Ron grinned and held up his hands. “Are you calling me yellow, mate?” he asked with a laugh.

Harry smiled back sheepishly and lowered his instrument. He shifted on his feet, hoping Ron wouldn’t notice his predicament. “Er, what are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing here?” he asked as though it was obvious. He motioned to the plastic box under his arm with fish and chips inside. “You missed lunch.”

Harry hadn’t even realized the time. “Crap, I—”

Ron waved him off. “I can see what kept you. The place looks brilliant.”

Harry gave him a relieved grin. He knew it was a bit presumptive to paint without even asking what Ron and Hermione thought of it – they did live there too after all – but he had needed to do something and painting seemed like as good a thing as any.

He joined Ron downstairs for lunch once his… problem had subsided and they whiled away a pleasant afternoon talking about the shop and Harry’s future plans for Grimmauld.

Harry woke up with his headspace cluttered and disorganized as though someone had gone in and started moving the furniture about. He could still feel Malfoy’s phantom grip around his cock and it throbbed accordingly. Harry didn’t even bother with himself and rubbed a tired hand over his face. He checked the clock on his bedside table. Half three. His gaze lowered to the empty drawer beneath it. He couldn’t bring himself to keep anything there any longer.

He knocked the wood twice as he stood up.

He contemplated a cold shower but thankfully his cock had the good grace to quit. He shuffled down the stairs, dragging his feet and scratching his happy trail. He yawned as he entered the kitchen. The kettle was on but Ron, his regular half three companion, was nowhere near it. Harry poured himself a cuppa and wandered into the parlor. Ron was lying on the couch, staring blankly at the picture frames on the mantle.

Some of them were their own and some of them were Black family members that they had no real connection to. Still others were of Sirius and his brother. Harry liked those best.

Harry sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the middle of the sofa. Ron grunted his acknowledgement. He let his tea warm his fingertips as he tipped his cup up to his mouth. He smacked his lips and sighed. Ron’s tea was growing cold on the side table next to his head.

Harry picked up Ron’s wand off that same table and pointed it at the grate, saying a soft, “Incendio.” The fire crackled and twisted and Harry’s eyes felt blurry.

“I saw Malfoy the other day,” he found himself saying. He drew his knees up closer to his chest just in case his cock got any ideas.

Ron rolled lazily onto his side. “How’d it go then?” he asked, sounding more than a little exhausted.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He stared into the grate, the orange and yellow becoming his whole world. “He mentioned how truly unfortunate it was seeing me,” Harry said self-deprecatingly. “A few times. I called him an arse. He accused me of threatening him. And I stormed off so as not to hex him.”

Ron chuckled, the sound muffled a bit by the cushion his face was squashed against. “So you didn’t even get to the whole wanting to shag his brains out bit then?”

“Didn’t even come close to it,” Harry said agreeably.

Ron shifted onto his back and said winningly, “Nice.” He was tearing at his fingernails rather than biting them.

Harry shrugged again. “Maybe that’s a sign, you know.” He looked up at Ron for some confirmation but his blue eyes were lost someplace else. He pushed his thumb down hard on the rim of his teacup. “Something in the universe is trying to stop me from making what could easily be the worst mistake of my life.”

Harry didn’t expect Ron would answer so he was surprised when he said, rather insightfully for him and for the hour, “That’s you and Malfoy. Did you really ever think it would be as easy as all that?”

“Master Harry does not like his kippers and toast?”

“Hmm?” Harry’s head shot up from where he was staring blankly into the Prophet. He covered the center story with his elbow just to be sure the old elf wouldn’t get any ideas. “Of course I do. They’re fantastic as always, I’m… distracted is all.”

Kreacher seemed to be eyeing him skeptically, though perhaps Harry was projecting there. “As long as Kreacher’s talents in the kitchen have not diminished.”

“Not at all,” Harry was quick to assure him. He waited for Kreacher to shuffle back into the kitchen before he moved his arm. Malfoy was just below it, wearing what were no doubt the finest robes and a smug expression. Harry’s eyes flew across the article. Apparently Malfoy and his family – Lucius and Narcissa were standing behind Malfoy in the photo, looking just as entitled and superior – were making a large donation to a war orphan memorial fund. They would be attending a fundraiser for the cause that weekend.

Harry finished breakfast – enough to please Kreacher leastways, headed upstairs and drafted a sizeable donation from his Gringotts’ vault.

It was for a good cause after all.

Ron and Hermione had proved entirely uninterested in the ball, though they had both wished him luck. Harry suspected, surprisingly, that they meant it. Harry actually would have loved to take Ginny to something like this – he liked nothing more than having her dress up. She was the only person he knew who felt as uncomfortable in formal wear as he did – but she was in Wales training for the Holyhead Harpies. Harry didn’t quite know how to feel about the fact that he’d had to hear it secondhand from Molly rather than Ginny herself. He did know he didn’t feel good about it.

In lieu of Ginny, he’d brought Cho, who was so suited to her fancy dress that she made Harry look a shambles despite how far he’d gone to look like he belonged. There was no question that Cho was more beautiful than Ginny but she would also never have Ginny’s easy personality. Still, she’d gotten better in recent years and Harry was hardly unhappy to be bringing her.

“So he’ll be here then, yeah?” Cho asked lowly, leaning into Harry and darting her eyes around the ballroom in the worst approximation of stealth Harry had ever seen.

Harry shook his head at her antics and said, “He should be here, yeah.” He looked around the main room himself. It was white and gold and Harry felt sure there was tar or something on his heel that he would dirty up all the shiny surfaces with. There were three huge chandeliers spanning the vaulted ceiling and Harry guessed that a Quidditch pitch would easily fit inside the place with room left over.

He and Cho walked across the brown and gold tiled floor, Harry standing up straighter than he usually did. Cho was wearing some white sequined number that hugged her curves while Harry had opted for designer black robes that the proprietor of Twilfit and Tattings had insisted upon when he finally gave up on trying to get him into some mauve monstrosity.

“You look like a stuffed version of yourself,” Cho said with her nose wrinkled. She poked him in the stomach and Harry let out the breath he’d been using to pop out his chest. “You’re trying too hard. He knows you already, doesn’t he?”

Harry nodded slowly. Just as Harry didn’t really know Malfoy, he suspected Malfoy didn’t really know him. But they weren’t strangers. Were they?

“Then just be yourself,” was Cho’s sage advice.

She turned away to get herself a glass of champagne while Harry muttered under his breath, “And if he already doesn’t like myself?”

For the next two hours, Harry stood to the side of the dance floor feeling painfully awkward. Cho had a number of suitors and she danced with them all. Harry had a fair few offers himself but he was so nervous he felt sure he’d either vomit on his partner or be sweating so badly he’d create a puddle beneath them and they’d slip and crack their heads’ open. Harry was fairly certain those were the best-case scenarios.

Harry went into the bathroom to hyperventilate in peace and even that could manage the entire floor level of Grimmauld without breaking a sweat. He didn’t really understand why everything had to be the size of a small nation. He couldn’t deny that it was well outfitted though. The sinks were marble with gray veins twisting through it and the faucets were gold in keeping with the theme. Harry turned the cold on full blast, pushed up his glasses, cupped his hands under the spray and patted his face.

He looked into the mirror. What he saw was a soggy version of himself that looked trussed up in his father’s robes. Merlin, he would never impress Malfoy like this. Malfoy was a born aristocrat and Harry was just playing at it. He was a half-blood, raised by Muggles, who would never know which fork to use for the salad.

He’d spent all this time coming to terms with the fact that the man he wanted was Malfoy and now that Harry was here – all his excuses and concerns finally pushed to the wayside – all he wanted to do was run away. He wished he could have come to Malfoy on his own terms rather than tried to meet him on his. Well, if he ever showed up that was. And maybe it was best that he didn’t.

Harry left the bathroom, smoothing down his robes, his nerves feeling slightly more steady when he caught sight of him.

Malfoy was holding court in the middle of the ballroom. His silver head was thrown back and his musical laughter echoed back to Harry in the room’s acoustics. Harry didn’t recognize all the people gathered around him but he thought the chubby man with the walrus mustache almost directly across from Malfoy might be the director for St. Mungo’s and Harry definitely recognized the man at his elbow.

Zacharias Smith touched Malfoy’s forearm in a way that looked familiar and handed him a glass of champagne. Malfoy smirked at him before turning back to his powerful companions.

Harry felt like the breath had been sucked out of his lungs as he watched him. It was so unfair. There was nothing special about him – nothing. He had a pointy face and certain, common expressions of his even made it look rat-like. In those moments he reminded Harry of Dudley’s friend, Piers Polkiss. And his personality just reminded Harry of Dudley. There was nothing in him that should make Harry feel weak at the knees.

But still Harry wobbled.

He wasn’t handsome, he wasn’t good, he wasn’t anything Harry ever thought he’d want.

It took ages for Malfoy to break off from his groupies and even then he brought Smith with him as he walked out onto the balcony. There was something in the way he walked too, straight-backed and noble. Outwardly, Harry felt it was more than a bit much but, inwardly, it made something in him go haywire with want.

Smith leaned forward on his elbows and stared out at the garden. A smirk lifted the left side of his mouth. Harry resisted throwing off his Disillusionment Charm and strangling him. “They’re eating out of the palm of your hand. It’s almost… cute.”

Malfoy snorted. The way he was staring at the back of Smith’s neck made Harry feel ill. “Death Eater means nothing in the face of fortune. It’s good to know the petty and the greedy never change.”

“Aren’t you a member of one, if not both?” Smith quipped. Malfoy didn’t even bother to answer, just leaned down, smoothing his hands over Smith’s shoulder blades and nipping just under his ear.

Smith gasped and shouldered him off hard. “I’ve told you,” Smith was blushing red and breathing like a Nundu, “I’m not a pervert, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyes glittered and he pressed himself up against Smith. “Your cock says otherwise, Smith,” Malfoy cooed mockingly.

Smith turned redder and pursed his thin lips. His hair was scraggly, yellow and didn’t look as silk soft as Malfoy’s. He was almost as thin as Malfoy but not quite as tall and his eyes were a boring blue whereas Malfoy’s were silver. His facial features were overly defined just as Malfoy’s were but they didn’t have the allure Malfoy’s did. He was a waste of space and Harry hoped Malfoy had figured it out by now too.

“I’m not queer,” Smith finally bit out, fists clenched at his sides.

Malfoy leaned into him and breathed against his cheek while his hand traveled down Smith’s front, “Your mouth says no…” Smith closed his eyes and moaned, spreading his legs slightly.

The lights in the hall exploded, one after another.

Smith jumped back, his eyes darting around wildly. “I suggest you stay away from me until you get your sick urges under control, Malfoy,” he growled fiercely.

Malfoy waved his hand lazily, looking utterly unconcerned and took to staring off towards the garden. “Be a lamb and bring me a chardonnay, won’t you?”

Smith hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and looking as if there was something more he wanted to say. He let his eyes wander over Malfoy in his entirety while Malfoy stared out over the lawns. Smith’s cheeks infused with red a third time and he cleared his throat. “All right,” was all he said as he turned on his heel and walked dazedly back into the main room.

Harry shook off his Disillusionment Charm. Malfoy hadn’t noticed him yet and, even though he’d had time, Harry hadn’t figured the best way to approach him. He decided the top thing to do would be to be himself and not try to meet Malfoy on his level, but instead try to force him down to Harry’s.

“Malfoy,” he greeted with feigned surprise, as though he’d only just noticed he wasn’t alone. “I thought I’d seen you earlier.”

A sly smirk started to curve Malfoy’s mouth. “Potter,” he said silkily.

His mouth opened again and Harry cut off what was sure to be an insult. “How’s the wand working out for you, by the way? Having any trouble with it?”

There was a dangerous glimmer to Malfoy’s mercurial eyes. He slowly pulled his wand from his inside robe pocket and asked, “Shall we test it out then?” He waggled it from side to side menacingly.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I was being pleasant,” he gritted out. “You don’t have to take every opportunity presented you to be an arse.”

“Oh but I do,” Malfoy disagreed. “Otherwise you might feel compelled to keep seeking me out.” Malfoy purposefully turned away from him and Harry growled.

He yanked Malfoy around by his shoulder and demanded through gritted teeth, “What exactly is going on between you and Smith?”

Malfoy’s expression darkened and turned furious as he realized Harry must’ve been eavesdropping on them. “And what makes you think that’s any business of yours, Potter?”

Harry felt tangled up inside and his anger was boiling up and over and was about to come out his ears. Only Malfoy could do this to him. Make him this angry and this jealous and this unbalanced and this out of control. And only he could do that to Malfoy, he realized suddenly. He pushed Malfoy’s chest and the man stumbled back. “Because I want you, you arsehat!” he snarled as Malfoy regained his footing.

Malfoy paused in his retaliation the instant the words were out of Harry’s mouth. He took a step forward, thought better of it, and stepped back again. He took another step back and tilted his head to the side. He squinted. “Excuse me?”

Harry took a step forward, pleased when Malfoy didn’t counter it by stepping back. He reached out a hand but let it fall to his side before he got anywhere with it. This was all so awkward. Still, Harry swallowed and made himself say, “I’m attracted to you.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed even further. “And you want to what?” he barked. “Fuck me?”

Harry clenched his hands into fists and nodded his head. His eyes were wide and dry from not blinking. “Merlin help me,” he said, his throat feeling like sandpaper, “—and I don’t know why—I do want that but I also want to… date you.” He’d only realized it now, facing Malfoy and the possibility of him and Smith, that he wanted more than just that particular body in his bed. “I want to go out with you and get to know you and be seen with you.” It didn’t make any sense to him but Harry thought he just might like a life with Malfoy.

Malfoy’s face had gone ashen and Harry thought maybe he should try to explain himself. He reached blindly for the words but his brain seemed empty of everything he’d ever learned. His mouth opened and it seemed to know what it wanted to say without any help from him. “Your personality is—it rubs people, pretty much everyone you meet, the wrong way. It’s unlovable and unkind and almost terrorizing at times and, when it comes to me, it’s brutal and insulting and it’s unashamedly you.” It was harsh maybe but it was honest. It was who Malfoy was and Harry saw no reason to hide from that. More than that, he didn’t want to. And he didn’t think Malfoy did either. “And I shouldn’t like it, you—not for exactly who you are but I do. I wouldn’t change a thing if I could. I want all of it.”

It still didn’t make sense to him, the way he felt when it came to Malfoy but at least he wasn’t running from it anymore.

Malfoy looked as dazed as Smith had. He stared at Harry for a long moment as though he meant to see something deeper and then he slowly started to shake his head. He blinked. “No,” he said calmly.

Harry felt the bottom drop out of his world. “What?”

And now Malfoy was back to himself and that cruel smile curved his mouth. He couldn’t look more pleased with himself if he tried. “I cannot tell you how much I revel in denying the man who has everything the one thing he seems to want.” Malfoy patted him on the shoulder as he passed, leaning in to hiss in his ear, “I hope you feel a bit less Golden today, Potter.”

Harry felt like he’d been frozen solid, all the agonizing he’d done over finding himself attracted to Malfoy – a Death Eater, the bane of his friends’ existence and his own personal bully, all the better people he’d tried to find to replace him, the difficulty of coming to terms with the weight of what he felt for that horrid, spoilt man and it had never even occurred to him. Not even once. He had been so wrapped up in his own handling of it that it hadn’t crossed his mind.

He had never even considered that Malfoy might not want him.

Hermione cleared her throat and gestured with her elbow around the dining room. “The new furniture’s done wonders for the mood in here. I hardly even recognize it anymore.”

Harry let his chin rest more heavily on his hand as he slumped further over the table, his fingers blocking his third sigh of the afternoon. Hermione looked down at him with sympathetic chocolate-brown eyes but Harry couldn’t even manage a reassuring gesture. He felt boneless, hapless and without reason. If not for refusing to let down Fabian, Harry wouldn’t have even bothered with getting out of bed.

Hermione reached across the distance and squeezed his hand. Harry squeezed back. He may not have Malfoy but he did have the best friends anyone could ask for. Hermione jabbered on about her work and drank her tea one-handed and Harry felt himself lulled into a dozy state as the slats of afternoon sun warmed his side.

“Harry,” Hermione said carefully. Harry blinked owlishly up at her, feeling as if he might have closed his eyes for a minute or two there. She looked anguished and Harry frowned back at her. Her voice was strained. “Would you hate Ron and I terribly if I told you we’d been thinking of finding a place of our own?”

Harry rolled the idea around in his head. He couldn’t pretend not to be taken aback by it – he’d seen no signs that they’d wanted to move – but he wasn’t immediately against it. He mulled it over for a long moment while Hermione’s grip on his hand bordered on painful. “No,” he decided finally. “I think being alone is more conducive to moping.”

“We weren’t thinking now, of course, not when you’re in such a state,” Hermione said, seeming a bit offended by Harry’s suggestion that they would leave while he was still so miserable. “We just wanted to broach the subject as soon as we’d come to it. We didn’t want you to feel as if we were hiding things, not when it’s your decision to make too.”

Harry shook his head. He thought it might be high time that Ron and Hermione started making those types of decisions without him. “I’m all right, really. I think this might be good.” He waved his hand at her. “You doing coupley things and me doing adulty things.”

Hermione’s smile was a bit watery and she enfolded Harry’s hand in both of her own. “We don’t have to do couple things or adult things,” she said defiantly, her chin wobbling. “We’ve never exactly been conventional.”

“It scares the shit out of me too,” Harry told her.

Hermione’s laugh had tears in it. “Oh, thank god.” She leaned back in her seat and took one of her hands away to swipe under her nose. “How do you know when you’re ready, do you think?”

“I think that’s the big secret,” Harry said, smiling crookedly at her, “I don’t think you ever really know.”

“Well that’s terrifying,” Hermione determined succinctly.

Harry nodded his agreement. He looked at her for a moment, her tears were still streaming silently down her cheeks and it didn’t seem as if she had any control over them. She was smiling all the same. “Kreacher?”

The wizened elf materialized at his elbow. “Yes, Master Harry?”

“Our biggest bottle of Blishen’s if you would.”

Kreacher popped away with a low bow and Hermione smiled even wider.

They drank well into the evening and Harry didn’t remember much besides Hermione patting his hand and saying hopefully, “Maybe he’ll come around?”

Harry snorted. “He sounded pretty sure of himself, Hermione.” Harry tipped his glass back to get the last of his drink and nearly toppled over. They’d moved into the parlor and Harry was sitting on the floor, Hermione lying down at his side. “You know what the weird thing is?” Harry asked, looking down into the face he loved so well. Hermione shook her head gravely. “I want all of him, even the part of him that doesn’t want me I want.” Hermione looked aggrieved all of a sudden and Harry laughed at himself and his stupid luck. “I should be used to it by now, huh?” he said grimly. “This is just one more thing I don’t get.”

Harry worked at Fabian’s and he ate lunch with Ron and George at the shop and he tried not to let on how wretched he felt. He had a feeling he was failing miserably at it. He supposed the only remedy was to wait for someone else to come along and knock Malfoy and his cruel smile out of his head. As far as Harry was concerned that day couldn’t come soon enough.

He still dreamt about Malfoy, most often in situations that led to him having to change his sheets. But sometimes he would find himself back on that balcony, standing there, unable to move, while he was rejected over and over again. Those days he would call in sick, curl up around his pillow and fall in and out of a restless sleep. It was pathetic to be sure but Harry didn’t see much of a way around it. He couldn’t look into the happy faces of children and hand them treats when his insides felt so black.

Ron and Hermione had found a place the week before and Harry had been helping them to pack up and move. He had mixed feelings about them leaving. He wanted to be able to feel sorry for himself without feeling like he was being melodramatic but he also wanted his friends about. He supposed it was time that he started living on his own though.

He’d gotten most of their things out to their new flat in East London and he decided to finally cart off what Kreacher hadn’t wanted and Harry had no need for. Borgin still had that Ollivander-esque quality that made Harry’s hair stand on end but their business was finished without too much fuss. Harry left with his pockets considerably heavier and Borgin got to purr over the Blacks’ ugly and no doubt dangerous heirlooms.

Harry waved hello to Fabian as he passed – it was Sunday, which meant he didn’t work – and then stopped off at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. George was manning the counter and he seemed to be explaining to a five-year-old girl why it wouldn’t be proper to sell her a love potion.

“So you do have some standards then,” Harry said happily as he approached him.

“Not many.” George leaned further over the counter to stare down his nose at the pig-tailed girl and said, “But that is one of them.” He snatched the vial out of her hand and the girl pouted all the way out the door. George affected a frown. “Shame, I don’t think she’ll be back.”

“One of your best customers I’d imagine,” Harry answered in a similarly solemn tone.

“Right you are there. So,” George brightened, “what brings you to the shop on this fine Sunday afternoon?”

“Dealing with Borgin in Knockturn,” Harry said with a shiver, “thought I could do with a bit of cheer.”

George reached along the counter and slapped a bar of chocolate down in front of him. “Has the added bonus of clearing your head too.”

Harry stared down at the wrapper. The Empty-Headed Chocolate Bar, Clear your mind of the dirt and grime. “Not very inventive, is it?” Harry asked with a raised brow.

George shrugged. “Makes school-aged kids giggle and considering they’re the target audience...”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, pulling off the wrapper and biting off a corner. It had the regular, curative effect of a chocolate bar as well as the novel effect of emptying his head out of every stupid pinprick of discontent he’d ever felt. “Oh my god. This is—how much are these? You could sell these for a cartload of Galleons.”

“Only two Sickles,” George said smugly.

The more Harry ate of it, the less coherent his thoughts felt. Not only were his old issues filled with anger, frustration, joy, discontent, jealousy and anything else he’d ever had inside his head slipping away but his new thoughts were falling away too.

George patted his hand. “You’re welcome.” His eyes turned sad and he said lowly, “Kind of good not to have to think for a while, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded his head. At least he was still capable of that. He couldn’t help but wonder how long the effects would last. He looked up at George.

“If you’d stop eating the chocolate, they’d have gone already. As soon as you stop chewing, the feeling dissipates.” Harry’s eyes widened and he blinked at George, wondering if he was some sort of accomplished Legilimens and Harry had somehow missed it. George rolled his eyes. “Sometimes you can be terribly obvious about what you’re thinking, Harry.”

“Excuse you,” said a voice Harry would recognize anywhere.

George grinned at him. “Like now.” He turned away from Harry and addressed the someone in question across the counter right next to him. Harry turned to look. “Malfoy, and what brings you to this fine establishment?”

Harry could hardly believe his eyes and he choked down the chocolate in his mouth as hastily as he could, the still-squared edges scraping his throat all the way down.

“This would be Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, yes?” Malfoy asked, looking around the shop with squinty eyes. He turned to look at George and his eyes darted across his face, taking in the red hair and freckles. His lip curled. “Ah, right, yes. Then this is Theodore’s favorite shop.”

“Teddy,” Harry mumbled next to him just in case Malfoy hadn’t seen him yet.

Malfoy ignored him entirely. George shot him a sympathetic look before turning his attention back to Malfoy. “He wanted something for his birthday – a Flying Terrorfist or something or other.”

George pulled something up from behind the counter and corrected, “A Floating Jellyfish.” They all watched as the jellyfish in question began to float in midair, changing colors each time its tentacles flexed and it rose higher.

Malfoy was still looking at it when he confirmed, “Yes, that’s it.”

George’s eyes narrowed. “And why should I sell it to you?”

Malfoy stiffened and brought his gaze back down to meet George’s. “I can think of three reasons just off the top of my head, Weasley,” he said coldly. George motioned for him to proceed. “One, this is a shop.” He wrinkled his nose as though he was using the loosest definition of the word. “Two, I am a paying customer whose gold is just as good as anybody’s. Three, you’re a Weasley – comparable to a Niffler in that way, aren’t you? You’d crawl along on your stomach if it’d get you and your shambles of a family a Knut.”

George looked ready to hex Malfoy on the spot while Harry could barely believe that’d just come out of a mouth he wanted so badly to feel beneath his own. He ground his teeth together so hard he was afraid he might do serious damage. “You really are the worst, you know that?” he said, scowling all the while.

Malfoy leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I thought you wouldn’t change me?”

Harry paled, unable to believe that Malfoy would use that against him. Not only had he humiliated him that night but now he had to throw the words back in his face? Harry felt like he might be sick.

“Have a lozenge, Malfoy,” George barked, indicating the bowl of candies in front of the register.

Malfoy straightened up and rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, I’m sure to do that. Right after I pin a badge to my lapel that says, ‘Most Gullible Prat Ever.’”

“It’s out for customers, Malfoy,” George gritted out, “not a trap for you.” Malfoy looked skeptical and George continued exasperatedly, “We tend not to poison them. Don’t get much repeat business that way.” Now Malfoy just looked annoyed. George pushed the bowl of candies towards him. “It’s butterscotch. Diabolical, no?”

Malfoy snatched one up. “Fine, I’ll eat your bloody candy if it’ll stop you going on about it.” He popped it into his mouth without hesitation.

Harry turned to George as soon as Malfoy’s mouth was closed. “Okay, so what the hell are those really?”

“They’re new,” George said eagerly. He looked as if he might start bouncing up and down on his toes any second.

Harry turned back to Malfoy and poked him in the shoulder. “Er, Malfoy?” He was mostly just staring off into space but when Harry touched him his eyes refocused.

“Potter,” he said throatily.

Merlin, that voice did things to him. He tightened his legs around his rising erection. “Malf—” was as much as he got out before Malfoy positively attacked his mouth. Harry’s own opened automatically as Malfoy’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. He used the rest of his body to shove Harry’s up against the counter.

Harry moaned into his mouth and he heard George’s voice say from somewhere very far away, “Lee and I call ‘em Lust Lozenges.”

Harry closed his eyes, grabbed the front of Malfoy’s robes and pulled the man further onto his mouth. “I want you,” he gasped against Malfoy’s lips as he pulled back just enough to tilt his head slightly. Harry’s hands moved from Malfoy’s robes to the small of his back and the crown of his hair. He fisted both in an effort to pull him closer.

Harry spread his legs further so Malfoy could fit between them and then their cocks were pressed up against each other while Malfoy’s tongue plundered his mouth. Harry’s heart was beating like mad and he sincerely thought he might die of this, having Malfoy – finally – in his arms and their lips devouring one another’s. He wanted to live in this moment for the rest of his life.

He lifted his legs up around Malfoy’s waist with the other man’s help and Malfoy ground against him. Harry threw his head back and pleaded, “Don’t stop.” Malfoy thrust harder and Harry’s throat felt like it might close up as he kept up the litany. “Gah, Malfoy, don’t stop, don’t stop.” Malfoy was sucking on his neck in a way that was sure to leave thunderclouds behind and Harry wanted that too.

Malfoy was grabbing him by the back of his hair so hard that Harry could feel his scalp tightening but he didn’t care because he was so bloody close. Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s neck and gasped breathily in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

Harry’s arse hit the floor hard and his head slammed back into the counter. “Ow,” he cried out, tears welling in his eyes from the pain. He looked up to find a furious Malfoy staring down at him, huffing so hard that his chest looked three times its normal size, same with his flaring nostrils. Harry almost expected to see smoke coming out of them like one of George’s stuffed Erumpents.

Malfoy was shaking all over and he stiltedly shifted his gaze up to George’s shocked face. “I expect that Floating Jellypaste to be free of charge,” he said icily, his eyes burning with something like murder. Not even Malfoy’s flub was amusing in the face of eyes like those. George blinked once and then fumbled around behind the counter, handing Malfoy one of the jellyfish without a word. Malfoy stormed out of the shop, not making eye contact with any of the other patrons that had been watching them since that first kiss.

All eyes turned to Harry and he lost the fight with his tears. He only hoped everyone else would think it was from the fall.

George shooed them all out angrily once he regained himself and joined Harry on the floor, apologizing profusely. Harry barely registered he was speaking. His head was throbbing, his arse was sore and his cock was harder than it had ever been. Harry was sure his balls were turning blue and he was also sure that there was nothing and no one in the world that could satisfy that aside from Draco Malfoy.

Harry hadn’t been able to get Malfoy out of his head since then. Ron and Hermione had come over that night, let him drop his head in his hands and ignored his telltale sniffs. They’d sat with him on the couch until he’d drank and cried himself into an exhaustion-induced sleep. They made him breakfast that morning and told him the couch at their place was lumpy but his.

The trouble was that Harry couldn’t forget any of it. He could still feel Malfoy’s hand on the back of his head, in the small of his back, his mobile mouth twisting against Harry’s, his tongue running over his tonsils, his lips on Harry’s neck – and the bruises were still there, thank god, his hair beneath Harry’s fingers, his cock – Merlin, his cock. Harry had never wanted anything so much as he did Malfoy.

But Malfoy still didn’t seem to want him.

“I went with you,” Cho was whinging at him from across the tiny table at Madam Puddifoot’s. She seemed to get some sick enjoyment out of making him come here. Harry had to admit he found it funny more often than not but, now, with all the couples it just made him feel…

“Cho, I just don’t want to—”

“You had your chance to go after your boy crush, it’s not my fault it blew up in your face.” Cho was not exactly known for her delicacy. “I’m only asking for that same opportunity,” she begged. She affected a great pout, twisting her face into something that made her look quite a bit more like Pansy Parkinson than a fashion model.

Even Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, I’ll go. But I shan’t be any fun.”

Cho pulled out her compact and touched up her make-up. She lowered it enough to look at him as she said, “Just like all the other times then?”

Harry threw his napkin at her head.

The gala he was being dragged to was a small event hosted by the Mienfang Gallery where Cho’s prey, a Mr. Charles Puttyroot, was sure to be. Harry had made her promise that he only had to be there a half hour after Puttyroot arrived and then he could slink home and brood. No one had expected Draco Malfoy would attend. Everyone supposed that’s why he had.

Harry could barely catch his breath it was coming so fast and he accidentally made eye contact with Malfoy as he entered. He looked gorgeous and perfect in dark green robes, and untouchable of course. Harry stole out the side door and leaned against the wall of the terrace. Why had he ever agreed to come here?

He closed his eyes. “So you just intend to run away every time you see me now?” Malfoy asked snottily. Harry peeked open an eye and saw that Malfoy wasn’t looking at him but instead down at his own robes while he adjusted the way they fell.

“Did you want me to jump all over you in front of everyone?” Harry retorted. There was no point in trying to hide anything from him any longer. Malfoy knew exactly how pathetic he was thanks to George and his Lust Lozenges.

“Oh yes, pout. That’s endearing,” Malfoy said sarcastically.

“Fuck you,” Harry growled back at him, turning away, “I just want to be alone.”

“Too damn bad,” Malfoy said. “The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so angry in his life. Why couldn’t Malfoy just leave him alone? He already wouldn’t let Harry anywhere near him and now he had to rub his presence in his face too? Harry’s eyes were red-rimmed and his wand was in his hand. He couldn’t remember doing that. He advanced on Malfoy and Malfoy actually had the good grace to look scared. Harry gritted his teeth and ground out, “You stupid, small, bloody infuriating—Imperio.”

Malfoy stopped looking scared and his whole affect went blank and anticipatory, as though just awaiting his instruction.

Harry pried open his hand and stared down at the wand balanced precariously atop it, unable to believe what he’d just done. He couldn’t remember so much as thinking the curse before it had burst its way out of his mouth. He blinked up at Malfoy. “God, Malfoy, I’m so sorry,” he said in an anguished voice.

Malfoy didn’t react aside from a benign smile.

Harry swallowed and stepped up to him curiously. “You made me do that,” he told him angrily. “If you had just left me alone—” Malfoy tilted his head to the side in the same way that Harry had done with his. He was mimicking him. Harry swallowed harder. He stowed his wand away. Malfoy imitated the hand movements even though he had no wand to put away. Harry reached out and grabbed Malfoy’s wrists to stop him moving. “Malfoy?”

Malfoy didn’t react at all. He only stood like an empty doll in front of Harry.

Harry moved in closer and stroked the insides of Malfoy’s wrists with his thumbs. He dampened his lips and said croakily, “Kiss me.”

Malfoy didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harry’s. He pulled back after pecking them once. Harry grabbed him by the back of his neck before he could retreat the full way and pulled him back in. Harry pressed his tongue to the crease of Malfoy’s lips and Malfoy opened his mouth obligingly. They kissed for a long moment before Harry pulled away.

Malfoy would – or could? – only mimic him. He initiated nothing on his own. It was nothing like really kissing him. It was nothing like George’s shop.

Harry drifted closer and moved his hands up to stroke the skin below the crease of Malfoy’s elbows. Harry closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against Malfoy’s. “Kiss me like you would kiss me, understand?”

Malfoy’s blank eyes glittered back at him.

Harry let out a frustrated breath. “Kiss me like you would if you loved me, Malfoy,” Harry said. He felt a bit sick putting it like that but he couldn’t think of any other way to get the point across.

Malfoy’s fingers curled around Harry’s neck and he pushed their bodies together and then he was tearing into Harry’s mouth just as he had before. Harry kissed him back with all the pent-up passion that had been brewing inside him since they’d last seen each other. “Don’t stop,” Harry said as Malfoy bit along his jaw, and this time he was sure he wouldn’t.

Malfoy shoved a leg between Harry’s own and he grabbed Harry by the waist and made him ride his thigh, fast and hard. Harry’s cock was already hot and heavy between his legs and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he made a mess of himself. “Touch me,” Harry moaned out, desperate to feel more of him – of Malfoy, to finally have what he’d been denied for so long.

Malfoy’s hand pushed inside Harry’s trousers and Harry bucked dangerously. He was more sitting on Malfoy’s thigh now and it was more rubbing against his balls than his cock. It felt like bliss. “Tell me you want me,” Harry hissed.

Malfoy’s blank eyes looked into Harry’s. “I want you,” he said.

Harry nearly sobbed with how violently his dick throbbed. “Don’t, ah—just, don’t stop doing that,” he pleaded as Malfoy began twisting his hand up and down his shaft. “Am I the only man you’ve ever been with?”

Malfoy paused for a minute as he tried to suss out the answer Harry wanted from his face. After a moment, the glittering, vacant stare was back. “Only you. I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Tear tracks were dirtying up Harry’s cheeks as the sensation of both the words Harry had longed to hear and Malfoy’s actions overtook him. Harry leaned back so Malfoy’s thigh was rubbing the crack of his arse and his world exploded with white. His orgasm was so intense he almost feared he might pass out from it.

Malfoy held him through it.

When Harry could stand again, Malfoy broke away. Something shifted in his empty eyes and suddenly they weren’t so empty anymore. “Malfoy?” Harry started uneasily. But it was gone as soon as it’d come and Malfoy only stared at him, waiting for Harry’s next command.

His pants were tacky and Malfoy hadn’t come and he felt like a monster. It was stupid to think a kiss was the proper apology to give a man who had no desire to be kissed by him. But Harry did it anyway. He lingered with his lips on Malfoy’s for a long moment before saying against them, “I’m so sorry.”

He pulled back and looked into the face of the man he would never have again, dragged out his wand and said, “Obliviate.”

Harry was wracked with guilt in his waking hours. He thought about nothing but the fact that he had taken away Malfoy’s mind for what amounted to a cheap thrill. He’d used an Unforgiveable on the one person in the world he felt close enough to to want more. In some ways, he felt worse than Voldemort. He’d never cared for any of the people he hurt, they were unfeeling soldiers to him. But Malfoy. Malfoy meant more to Harry than he would likely ever understand. To do what he’d done… he felt sick to his stomach and he spent most nights retching up everything he’d got down.

When he was asleep, however, there was nothing in his head but how perfectly Malfoy had fit him, how exquisite the feel of Malfoy’s skin was, the smell of him, the taste, how he’d made Harry’s body sing the way nothing and no one else could. He’d make himself so hard in his dreams that it hurt and then he’d wake and remember that he’d never touch Malfoy again. He’d be devastated anew each morning until the cycle began again.

Guilt followed by obsession followed by guilt and nothing but Malfoy in his head and on his tongue and in his gut until he was inevitably driven mad because no matter how guilty he felt, he never stopped wanting what he couldn’t have.

Harry supposed the day would have to come when his guilt would outweigh his desire.

Or his desire would outweigh his guilt.

Harry could hardly believe it when three weeks had passed and he hadn’t given in to that desire that regularly made his body ache all through the night. He wasn’t evil. He wasn’t the type of person who used Unforgivables to get men into his bed, no matter how great the temptation. He would move on. He would start dating. He would forget all about Malfoy and the way he’d made Harry feel.

Malfoy seemed ahead of him on that curve. The Prophet’s gossip column took great zeal in reporting that Zacharias – just Zach now apparently –and Malfoy had been seen out on the town together a whopping six days last week and had looked ‘awfully close to this reporter.’

When approached, Mr. Smith had this to say: “**** off, you lowly turd.” An inside source close to the couple says Mr. Smith admitted he and Mr. Malfoy were lovers when an unnamed male began flirting with Mr. Malfoy at Corazón’s bar. Smith, allegedly quick to jealousy, confronted the two and pulled Mr. Malfoy away, claiming the man was ‘his' for all to hear.

His, Harry thought acidly. His? Malfoy is mine. A hole started to burn where Smith’s head was and Harry dropped the paper before it could become a fire hazard.

He let his head fall into his hands and breathed in deeply. Except Malfoy wasn’t his. Because Malfoy didn’t want him. He wanted Smith. Harry’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened on his hair until his eyes watered in pain. And what the fuck did it matter anyway? He barely knew Malfoy and the only times he’d been with him Malfoy hadn’t been in his right head. It was time to put this behind him and act like an adult about it.

Or that had been the plan at least.

Mostly he just sat in the parlor, rolled his wand between his fingers and thought about what he could but must not do with it. He bit the inside of his cheek. It didn’t have to be an Imperius. He could get a bit of Smith’s hair and…

Harry doubled over. Just the idea that Malfoy might call him Zach while they were… Harry couldn’t handle that. He leaned back in his chair. Of course he wouldn’t actually do any of it but there was nothing wrong with the fantasy.

“That’s it, the moping has gone on long enough,” Ron said after he’d barged into Grimmauld. Harry had never taken back his and Hermione’s keys. He wondered why now. Ron wandered into the kitchen before finding him in the parlor. Harry looked up morosely when Ron entered. “Ay, you’re a mess.”

Harry glumly nodded his agreement.

“And you’ve seen the paper, I’m betting.” Ron grinned. “It’s still smoking.” Harry grimaced. “On your feet, Harry.”

“What for?” Harry was pouting, he knew it. And he didn’t care. Mostly.

“We’re going out, to celebrate,” Ron said happily. “You, me, Hermione and George.”

Harry let out a monstrous sigh. “What are we celebrating?”

“Hermione’s preggers!” Ron burst out, a shit-eating grin spread from ear to ear. He was almost bouncing. “But you don’t know that. Gah, Hermione will kill me if she knows I’ve spoiled it.”

Harry’s own grin nearly matched Ron’s. “You’re kidding me. That’s—that’s brilliant!”

“I know!” Ron said with the same eagerness. They met halfway and grabbed each other up in a bear hug. “I’m going to be a dad, Harry!” He sounded as if he meant to hold a parade over it. He crushed Harry tighter to him and said more shell-shocked now, “Fuck, I’m going to be a dad.”

Harry patted him on the back as Ron released him. “Don’t worry so much, you’ve got grand examples leading you.”

Ron’s unbeatable grin was back. “Too right you are. Now shower because, cor, you smell something awful.”

Harry tossed back a two-fingered salute on his way up the stairs.

Merlin, but it was good to see Ron and George and Hermione again. He didn’t know why it’d taken him so long to realize that the best way to get over Malfoy was to surround himself with people who loved him unconditionally. Ron and Hermione spent the whole night faintly glowing while George made jokes and Harry laughed harder and smiled wider than he had in ages. For the first time since the charity ball he thought things might turn out all right, Malfoy or no.

At lunch the next day with Ron and George, a tradition he couldn’t believe he’d ever let taper off, Ron presented him with Cannons v. Magpies tickets. Harry snatched them out from in front of his face. “You’re taking the piss.”

Ron shook his head. “One of the regulars, Mrs. Totterheim,” Ron pulled a face, “she overheard us talking about Hermione and she offered this as an engagement present.”

Harry couldn’t quite hide his confusion. “But you and Hermione aren’t engaged.”

Ron snatched the tickets back. “Well Mrs. Totterheim doesn’t need to know that,” he said smugly.

Hermione begged off the game as her body was continuously waging war against her and the things she put inside it, which meant Ron had invited Ginny along. Things were awkward between them until Harry got her on the subject of her own tryouts. Harry figured so long as they could keep the conversation on Quidditch – which shouldn’t be too much of a feat considering they were at a Quidditch match – they’d be all right.

It made him sad more than anything else. He figured she was simply a casualty of growing up – and growing apart as sometimes happened. He was just pleased he could still genuinely wish her well. He hoped she could do the same for him but would more than understand if that wasn’t the case.

Within the first half hour, the Cannons were down by seventy and Ron sent Harry off for a rousing round of Butterbeers in the hopes it would lift his spirits. Harry then realized that Ron had actually come here expecting the Cannons wouldn’t get thrashed by the Magpies. Harry took pity on him and obliged.

“I don’t want it now your grimy fingers have touched it. Where have they been anyway, dragging around through chimney flues and coalmines?”

Harry closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, feeling his body sway. No, not now, not when he was finally feeling all right about things.

“In all seriousness, you work in the service industry. At the very least you should be able to maintain a standard level of hygiene.”

Harry wanted to sob. His cock was already standing to attention and his fists were clenched at his sides to keep himself from doing something stupid. He opened his eyes and moaned aloud at the sight. Malfoy was clad in a Magpies jersey and tight black slacks but it had nothing to do with what he was wearing and everything to with who he was. One glance and Harry was desperate with the need to have him.

He didn’t think about what he was doing as he stomped over, grabbed Malfoy by the wrist and bodily dragged him away into one of the hallways that led into the stands.

“Potter, what in Salazar’s name do you think you’re—”

“Imperio,” Harry said huskily.

Harry’s intentions must have been obvious because Malfoy didn’t even need an instruction before they were all over each other. Harry shoved Malfoy up against the wall and ruined the zip of his trousers in an effort to get them off. Harry had no doubt that if Malfoy had really been Malfoy he would have shouted him down about how expensive they were and demanded Harry buy him a new pair. Harry fought off a pang when Malfoy didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“I want to suck you off,” Harry told him. He wasn’t sure why he bothered; it wasn’t like he was going to meet any resistance. He sank to his knees and pulled Malfoy’s pants down to meet his trousers.

Malfoy’s cock was perfect.

Harry found that so unbelievably unfair. It wasn’t too big or too small, it was flushed pink, nestled in a bed of blond curls with a slight curve to the left and Harry loved it. Along with the rest of Malfoy, he wouldn’t change one measly thing about it. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” he said, kissing the head of Malfoy’s cock and resting the side of his face against it.

He imagined Malfoy said something like, ‘Of course I know that, now get on with it, you stupid prat,’ rather than stared down at him with vacant silver eyes.

Harry impaled his mouth on Malfoy’s shaft and groaned at the feel of it hitting the back of his throat. He’d never given head before and, despite fantasizing about it almost nonstop, he had no idea what he was doing. It took a few tries to figure out how far he could go without gagging and even longer to figure out what Malfoy liked and what to do with his tongue.

When he’d finally found a good rhythm, he looked up at Malfoy through dark lashes and nearly spent it in his pants. Malfoy’s head was thrown back, his sharp chin throwing shadows over his neck, his legs were spread and solid, one hand was hovering above Harry’s head and the other was bunched up in his jersey, holding it up above his navel. Harry was sure he’d never seen anything so erotic.

He pulled off enough to say, “Fuck yes, touch me,” and Malfoy’s hand obediently fisted his hair, before he threw himself back on Malfoy’s cock, determined to feel his come coating his mouth.

He didn’t have long to wait, which was good because he had the irrational fear that he would turn Malfoy’s cock pruny having it in his mouth so long. He’d hollowed out his cheeks a third time and sucked when Malfoy shouted out and came deep inside his mouth.

Harry had never felt so close to another person in all his life.

He stood on wobbly legs and all but fell into Malfoy who obediently gathered him closer. Malfoy’s hand found the front of his jeans and smoothed over the outline of his cock. Harry spread his legs unintentionally. “I missed you,” he said on a sigh. It was true and he couldn’t believe how much.

Malfoy stroked him through his clothes. “I missed you too,” he said gruffly.

Harry felt relief flood through him even as some smothered voice inside him reminded him that it wasn’t real. He fell even more bonelessly against Malfoy as the man dragged his orgasm from him. Harry felt sated and sleepy and he wanted nothing more than to take Malfoy back to Grimmauld, climb into bed with him and fall asleep.

“Draco!” Harry froze. Malfoy’s arms were still wrapped around his waist and back as Harry leaned against him. “Where in the hell did he get to?” Harry peeked his head out around the corner of their hallway. “Oy, have you seen a blond bloke around here? He was meant to be back with my pretzel ages ago.” Smith recoiled from something Harry couldn’t see and pointed. “Ew, tell me you don’t actually serve food with those hands?” Smith brightened up. “Well that solves it, doesn’t it? He obviously came down here for my pretzel, saw you and your filth-encrusted fingernails and set off to find me a non-contaminated pretzel. Oh he is the best boyfriend ever.” Smith seemed utterly oblivious to the man who was no doubt plotting out the best curse to use against him and instead looked to be deep in thought. “I’ll have to think up a grand reward for him, won’t I? Edible underwear? Oh, but it’s been done to death. Think, Zach, think.” Smith actually didn’t seem to remember there was anyone else around until the man behind the counter growled. “Oh right,” Smith said with an expression of deepest disgust, “I’ll be off. Ta then.”

Smith turned on his heel and practically skipped away.

Harry pushed himself off Malfoy and looked him square in the eye. Malfoy returned his hard gaze with a blank one of his own. “You won’t be seeing Zacharias Smith ever again, all right? You can break things off with him if you want but then I don’t want you ever going near him after that.”

Malfoy nodded agreeably.

Harry knew what he was doing was disgusting but he also knew he wasn’t about to let Malfoy go a second time.

“Hi,” Harry said timidly, opening the door and letting Malfoy in. He lowered the hood of his robes and Harry stood up taller to kiss him full on the mouth. This was only the second time he’d been inside Grimmauld Place and Harry knew it wasn’t anywhere close to the last.

“Master Malfoy is back again,” Kreacher said gleefully, materializing out of the ether – or so it seemed. He was always right there when Malfoy visited, though Harry had gone out of his way to keep them apart. “Should Kreacher be preparing dinner for the Masters?”

“No, we—” Harry paused to look at Malfoy. And why shouldn’t they have dinner together? It’s not like Malfoy was going to run out on him any time soon. He didn’t have to rush straight to the shagging. “Actually, Kreacher, dinner would be great.”

Harry slid his hand into Malfoy’s and led him into the dining room. He didn’t let go when they sat down next to each other. “Is this all right?” he asked uncertainly. At some point he had decided to play along with the idea that Malfoy was here because he wanted to be and not because Harry had forced him to be.

Malfoy smiled a blank and beatific smile back at him. “It’s perfect.”

Some of the tension in Harry’s shoulder eased, despite the irrationality of it. “Good.”

Kreacher cooked them a six-course meal. Harry supposed if there was one thing you could always count on, it was that house-elves would go overboard at the slightest opportunity. After the barbecued duck, Kreacher asked to consult with him on the dessert. Harry followed him into the kitchen and the elf looked up at him with round eyes. “Kreacher sees what Master Harry is doing to Master Malfoy.” Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. “It will not end well for Master Harry.”

“Please, Kreacher,” Harry begged, “you can’t tell anyone.”

“Kreacher keeps his Master’s secrets,” the elf said but Harry could feel the judgment in his gaze.

Harry told Malfoy they were skipping dessert, grabbed him by the hand and led him up the stairs. This was the first time they’d made it to Harry’s bedroom. “Do you like it?” Harry asked as he unbuttoned his shirt.

Malfoy gave it a cursory glance before saying what he expected Harry would want to hear. “I love it.”

Harry cringed as he toed off his shoes. He pushed them under his bed with his foot and then picked up his shirt to hang it up in his closet. It was one of the few dressy things he owned and he didn’t want it getting wrinkled. He looked up to find Malfoy watching him.

“I love you,” he said.

Harry swallowed, pulled back his arm and struck him as hard as he could across the face. Malfoy fell back on the mattress; hitting it so hard that he bounced a little. Harry clambered on top of him before he could get his bearings. “I never asked for that,” he snarled. “Don’t you ever say that to me again, do you understand?”

“I understand, Harry,” Malfoy said back calmly. A bruise was already beginning to form on his jaw but he didn’t seem to notice.

Harry smoothed Malfoy’s soft hair back from his too sharp face in an effort to apologize. “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said.

Malfoy blinked back at him, seeming confused. “You used to hit me a lot.”

Harry swallowed. “But I don’t want to hit you anymore. I just got… mad.” Harry ran a hand through his own hair. “I guess I do that a lot too.” Malfoy didn’t answer. “But you don’t really love me, do you?” Malfoy shook his head and Harry nodded. “So I don’t want you to say it, especially not now, especially not like this.”

Malfoy looked confused again. “What is ‘now’ and ‘this’?” he asked.

Harry sighed and stroked Malfoy’s hair again. “You’re not yourself, if you were then you would never let me touch you like this. You would never be here with me.”

“Yes, I would,” Malfoy argued like the perfect little doll he was.

“You don’t need to lie to me, Malfoy,” Harry told him, then realized the position they were in. “Well, I guess you do but you don’t have to say you love me. You don’t have to tell me lies if you don’t want.” Harry rubbed a thumb over his sharp cheekbone. “I don’t like to hear that you love me.”

“Why?” Malfoy asked. “You like to hear that I want you.”

“I didn’t know Imperiused people could ask so many questions,” Harry snapped back, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t like to hear how his contradictions piled up.

“You want me to,” was Malfoy’s simple answer.

“I do?” Harry asked before realizing that, yes, he did. Right now, Malfoy was basically just an extension of himself and, when Malfoy asked questions, Harry’s answers were him justifying to himself what he was doing. His shoulders slumped and he pressed his palms flat against Malfoy’s chest. “I don’t want you to tell me you love me because if you were yourself right now you would hate me. I don’t want you to tell me you love me because I know you never could.”

Malfoy’s hands closed around his shoulders and pulled him down into a hug. Harry buried his face in Malfoy’s neck and whispered against his skin, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Malfoy stroked his hair until Harry’s eyes started to close.

When Harry awoke, Malfoy’s hand was still moving through his hair – albeit much more slowly. “What time is it?” he asked in a voice caked with sleep. He struggled away from Malfoy’s neck and saw the indentations his glasses had left behind. He pulled them off and placed them on his bedside table. He pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s neck in the spots where they’d dug in.

“Half three,” Malfoy answered.

Harry didn’t even bother to laugh about that. “Do you want to go home?”

“I am home,” Malfoy answered readily.

Harry smiled sleepily at him, a warm, melty feeling unfurling inside him, and he kissed Malfoy on the mouth. He meant it to be short and sweet but instead he found himself lingering longer and longer each time he dove back in for Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy matched his every kiss. Harry pulled away and stared down into Malfoy’s obedient eyes. He stroked a hand down his cheek. “I still can’t believe I get to touch you like this. I get to kiss you,” he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Malfoy’s mouth, “I get to be with you whenever I want.” He tucked a lock of hair behind Malfoy’s ear. “I didn’t deserve you, not even then.”

Malfoy pulled him back down onto his lips and even Harry lost track of how long they buried themselves in the heat of one another’s mouths. He didn’t know anything more until Malfoy’s leg slipped between his thighs and Harry said, “I want to be inside you.”

Malfoy’s only answer was, “Yes.”

Harry rolled them over and reached into the second drawer of his nightstand, pulling out lube and a condom. He paused and set them down on top of his alarm clock for a moment. He yanked open the first drawer and guided Malfoy’s wand inside it and thought, yes, that’s just as it should be, before he closed it.

Harry brought over the condom and lube and sat on Malfoy’s hips. “I’ve never done this before,” he told him, biting his lip. Malfoy stared back at him. “I’ve read up on it a lot though,” Harry added quickly. “I just—if I hurt you, you have to tell me, okay?”

Malfoy gripped Harry’s forearm reassuringly. “I’ll tell you.”

Harry popped open the little bottle of lube when Malfoy’s hand reached up and grabbed his wrist.

“You’re not going to be able to open the condom wrapper if you spread the lube around first.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You’ve done this before?” he said, something burning though him.

Malfoy let him go. “Not if you don’t want me to’ve,” he answered uncertainly.

Harry looked away. “You haven’t,” he growled firmly.

Malfoy nodded. “I haven’t.” Harry liked that it didn’t seem as if Malfoy was lying to him but more like Harry was reminding him of some truth he’d forgot.

Harry shimmied out of his trousers and pants, unable to deny that Malfoy’s point had merit and he got out the condom first and rolled it on – at least he’d know how to do that, then he fiddled with the lube. “How much do you think?” he asked, looking to Malfoy for help.

“There’s no such thing as too much,” was Malfoy’s answer.

Harry spread some over his fingers and said, “You should undress.” Malfoy nodded obligingly, kicking off his sliders, his trousers, his pants and his shirt. He was absolutely gorgeous. Harry was most fascinated by his hipbones. He didn’t have hipbones like that. He rubbed together his slicked fingers while Malfoy pulled up his long legs. Harry spread it over his latex-clad cock and then over Malfoy’s arsehole.

He still felt a bit like he’d read this part wrong even though he’d gone over and over it. Despite his own affinity for having his fingers up there, he still didn’t really believe blokes could want to have a cock pushed up there of all places. “Remember what you promised,” Harry said as he pressed his thumb against Malfoy’s hole until he felt resistance. He pulled back a little but, at Malfoy’s whimper, he pressed with his first finger this time and he didn’t stop when Malfoy started to open up to him.

He was past the first knuckle, quickly realizing nothing as big as a cock was ever going to get inside when Malfoy shifted his hips forward. “You don’t have to go so slow, I’m not a—”

Virgin.

Harry could feel sweat matting the hair at his temples and he looked into Malfoy’s face, hoping his didn’t look as scared as it felt. “Yes, you are,” he said. “And so am I. We’re figuring this out together.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said agreeably.

“I’m—” Harry cursed himself, “I’m doing this all right, aren’t I?”

Malfoy smiled at him. He reached up and smoothed his hands down Harry’s arms, from shoulders to wrists. “You’re doing wonderfully.”

Harry pushed his whole finger inside Malfoy and watched as Malfoy’s hole contracted around it. Harry swallowed, thinking only how badly he wanted his cock inside there. In fact, it throbbed with that desire. Harry crooked his finger, searching for what the book and his own wanking experiences had promised was there to be found. After a while, he felt like a prospector panning for gold in a puddle. His erection hadn’t diminished any but his confidence had. Harry pulled his finger out altogether and Malfoy whined. “I knew it, I’m doing it wrong.”

Malfoy sat up and looked close to beating him about the head. “You were not doing it wrong, Harry. That actually felt quite brilliant.”

Harry didn’t know if Malfoy was being honest or telling him what he wanted to hear. Harry hung his head. “I’m horrible at this. I didn’t come anywhere near your prostate.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “You’d only got one finger in,” he said as though Harry was being thick. “I wasn’t exactly stretched open enough for you to get there.”

“Oh.”

“Now start with two this time around if you don’t mind.”

Harry nodded and Malfoy laid back while Harry pressed two fingers inside him. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Malfoy confirmed, spreading his legs wider.

Harry thrust and crooked and twisted his fingers around inside Malfoy, letting Malfoy tell him when he was being too aggressive and when he wasn’t being aggressive enough. He was up to three fingers when he finally grazed Malfoy’s prostate and the wait was well worth it. Malfoy arched his back, dug his neck into the mattress and closed his eyes but it was the noise he made that nearly had Harry coming too soon. It was something between a moan and a gasp and it was the purest expression of pleasure Harry had ever heard.

“Inside me, Harry, now,” Malfoy said, eyes still closed.

Harry rose up onto his knees, spread Malfoy’s thighs further apart and agonizingly slid into him. As inch-by-inch of him sunk inside Malfoy it got harder and harder to breathe. He was panting by the time he was bumping up against Malfoy’s arse. “Don’t move, please don’t move,” Harry pleaded as he blinked away the wetness from his eyes. He would come if Malfoy so much as breathed too deeply. He pulled back slightly but even that was too much. “You’re so hot and tight and perfect inside.”

He looked down at Malfoy and could see that his entire body was trembling with the effort not to urge him to move.

Harry leaned into him as much as he could allow himself and pressed a hand to the side of his neck. “Outside too.”

Malfoy groaned and Harry grabbed onto his hips and thrust all the way in a second time. Malfoy’s toes curled and his hips shifted up to meet Harry’s thrust. Harry pulled back and pushed in again. When he felt sure he wouldn’t embarrass himself, he found a rhythm and eased his cock in and out of Malfoy with less and less gentility.

Malfoy rocked his hips with every plunge of Harry’s and Harry knew he wasn’t going to last long, no matter how many times he slowed. He gave into the inevitable and let his thrusts become frenetic and boyish in their desperation. He came deep inside Malfoy only three minutes after he’d entered him.

He made it up to Malfoy by going down on him seconds after coming himself.

“I’m sorry for, you know,” Harry said, his head resting on Malfoy’s shoulder and his mouth tasting of his come, “coming too soon.” He couldn’t feel too sorry though because he was still heady with the knowledge that he’d been inside Malfoy.

Malfoy gave a one-armed shrug since his other was occupied. “It means you’ll last longer the next time we shag.”

Harry’s head popped up. “The next time?”

Malfoy brushed the sweaty fringe out of Harry’s face and his lips smoothed into a slight smile.

Harry sighed and let his head fall back down onto Malfoy’s shoulder. He spread his arm out across his chest and fell into one of the most restful sleeps he’d ever experienced. He woke to find Malfoy dressing. “Morning,” he croaked.

Malfoy walked over to the bed – it was nothing like his usual, regal walk. Harry told himself he didn’t miss it. Malfoy leaned in and kissed him. “Good morning.”

Harry rubbed at his eyes and said tentatively, “You’ll stay for breakfast, won’t you?”

Malfoy’s smile was so brilliant Harry could see it even without his glasses.

They didn’t talk much as they breakfasted, in fact they didn’t talk at all until Harry was seeing Malfoy to the door and he barked out before he could walk through it, “Malfoy.” Malfoy turned and watched him patiently. Harry swallowed and said quickly, “Don’t date anyone else. And don’t—don’t tell anyone else about this, about us.”

Malfoy frowned and said as though it was obvious, “Of course.”

The next time Malfoy came over, Harry met him at the door with a request. “Be you. Or, well, be as much you as you can while still wanting me. Can you do that?”

Malfoy looked uncertain. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Harry confirmed. He looked up into Malfoy’s blank eyes and saw some of the life coming back into them. “I want you, as much as I can have of you at least.”

Malfoy sneered. “You realize how pathetic you sound, don’t you?” Something in his face twisted and he frowned. “I didn’t mean that.”

Harry bounced up onto his toes eagerly. “Yes, you did. What happened, what’s wrong?”

Malfoy looked pained and he said through gritted teeth, “You can’t have both.”

“Then stop this,” Harry exclaimed, realizing that Malfoy was still trying to give him everything he wanted and that the effort was tearing him up inside. “Just go back to wanting me.”

Malfoy’s docile eyes returned and he nodded almost lazily.

Harry rubbed his thumb over Malfoy’s cheekbone the way he loved to do. “Why don’t you try to sleep on the couch? I’ll be back in a little while.”

Again, Malfoy was the picture of agreeableness.

“I need access to all you have on the Imperius Curse,” Harry told the woman who sat behind a desk in the round room in the Department of Mysteries during work hours. He mostly suspected – well, hoped – she was a hologram of some sort. No woman could be that ugly. Her curly blond hair was short and plastered around the sides of her drawn and gigantic face. Her mouth looked like it could swallow someone whole and she had a huge mole just above her top lip that had one long hair growing out of it.

Her piggy little eyes narrowed through her half-moon glasses and she learned over her desk to stare down at him. “And why should I give you access to the Unspeakables’ restricted library?”

Harry brushed his fringe aside and said, “Er, because I’m Harry Potter?”

The woman snatched up something on her desk, slammed it down on a piece of parchment and handed it to him. On it was printed:

Underneath that, one word had been stamped in blood red ink and, below that, followed more printed instruction:

Well that had gone smoother than expected. Harry walked down to the door that awful woman was indicating and turned the knob. He pushed it forward and immediately felt out of his league. He made a mental note never to show Hermione this place if he ever intended to see her again.

It was a library fit for giants and dragons and other things of huge statures. The walls stretched higher than any Harry had ever seen and there was a shelf everywhere a shelf could be – and some where a shelf couldn’t be. Harry tilted his head to the side. It reminded him a bit of that M.C. Escher painting everyone talked about, he thought, as he stared up at an upside down shelf that should have been dropping books on his head but for some reason wasn’t.

All along the walls of books were rolling ladders of huge and tiny size. There were books everywhere, Harry realized, as he stepped over a random pile of them. “Ah, Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked around for the source of the squeaky voice. The voice cleared its throat and Harry stared down at his feet. The man couldn’t be more than two feet tall and Harry suddenly understood the purpose of the tiny ladders. “My name is Mr. Smythe,” the squeaky little man said. “Right this way please.”

Harry followed the pointy wizard hat Mr. Smythe was wearing through the rows, slowing his pace so he wouldn’t run up on the man due to his short strides. Smythe’s long mustache and beard were tucked into the waistband of his pants – though Harry wasn’t entirely certain that was purposeful – which were visible due to the opening in his deeply purple robes. He had a fidgety sort of walk and Harry had to stop himself from reaching out to steady him more than once.

“Here we are, Mr. Potter,” Smythe said proudly, throwing out his rail thin little chest. He’d led Harry to a table about midway down an aisle that had a stack of maybe thirteen books piled atop it. “There are the most comprehensive books we have on the subject of the Imperius Curse.”

Harry nodded in Smythe’s direction as he plucked out the journal and quill from his pocket and resized them. “Thank you, Mr. Smythe.”

Smythe hummed agreeably. He had already turned away when he called back over his shoulder in his squeak of a voice, “Do be sure to send up red sparks should you need anything more.”

Harry’s notebook was about a fourth full of his own messy handwriting when he found something that might actually be the answer he was looking for. He tried to ignore that all the examples he came across were of sleazy men forcing unwilling and often underage women into marriage. He supposed history would look at him as a sleazy man too. He supposed it would be right to.

Harry copied everything in the chapter on Somnolent Spells and Potions down in his notebook, waved goodbye to Mr. Smythe and left the Department of Mysteries. Malfoy was still asleep on the sofa when he came home.

Harry stroked his hair back from his face and Malfoy shifted in his sleep. He was warm from the mid-afternoon sun and he had shucked off his robes to accommodate it. They were now balled up at the foot of the couch and Harry realized he had been gone far longer than he’d thought. He fell asleep waiting for Malfoy to wake up.

“Harry?”

Harry’s head popped up and the crick in his neck protested the sudden movement. “Ow. You sleep all right?” he asked as he blinked owlishly up at Malfoy who was propped up on his elbow.

“Better than you from the looks of it.”

Harry twisted his neck about by pushing on his jaw and said, “I don’t doubt that.” He stood up too fast and felt a bit dizzy. Malfoy watched him with concern that wasn’t his own. “Would you be willing to help me with a potion?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said as Harry’d known he would. He waited until Harry had got it all set up in the kitchen, ingredients and instruments, to ask, “What will we be brewing?”

Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit excited. “It’s a targeted sleep potion.”

Malfoy’s head tilted to the side. “Targeted to what?”

Harry looked into his beautiful, blank eyes and hoped this would be the last time he ever saw them that way. “Targeted to make the part of you that isn’t interested in me sleep.” Harry only regretted that he’d still have to use the Imperius curse, but it wasn’t as though removing Malfoy’s bias against him was the same as planting the idea to date him. But without that piece of Malfoy in play, it meant Malfoy could be himself around Harry without having two direct commands conflict.

It took less than an hour to brew with Malfoy’s potion skills and Harry didn’t even have to ask before Malfoy plucked up the cup and drank it.

“Malfoy?” Harry started slowly.

“Potter,” Malfoy said snottily, mocking the concern in Harry’s tone. Harry let out a bright laugh and tossed his arms around Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy tilted his head away. “I’ve one hell of a headache from the potion, Potter, and you immediately cackle in my ear.”

Harry pulled away with an obnoxious grin. “Sorry,” he said, not really looking all that sorry.

Malfoy cocked a blond brow at him. “I don’t doubt that. Gryffindors excel at being sorry after the fact, as though it’s a fix for the world’s worst ills.” He rubbed at his forehead a moment before stopping to glare at Harry. “Well,” he demanded.

Harry looked at him askance. “Well?” he repeated.

“A headache draught, a hangover potion, Muggle medicine, something, anything.” He stormed off toward the far cabinet, whinging, “Or must I do everything myself?”

“No, sorry, I’ve something upstairs. Just—” Harry held out his hands, “don’t go anywhere.”

“As if I could,” Malfoy snapped.

Harry froze on his way out of the kitchen. Did the potion mean that Malfoy was now aware of the curse on him?

“This damn headache.”

Relief flooded Harry and he continued on his trek up to the second floor landing.

Harry’s body felt both loose and tight and Harry was sure he’d never felt anything like that before. But, then, he’d never been fucked before. He rolled over to look at Malfoy, who was sleeping with a snarl on his unattractive face. Harry thought he might just be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He traced the curve of Malfoy’s top lip with his finger before resting that same hand on his breast and placing his chin atop it. He stared into Malfoy’s lax face until a hand whipped out and cuffed him over the ear. “Stop watching me sleep,” Malfoy grunted out. “It’s stalkerish.”

“You’re beautiful when you sleep,” Harry countered.

“I’m beautiful all the while,” Malfoy said. “When you make me breakfast tomorrow I’ll let you stare at me all you like.”

Harry smiled. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” Malfoy agreed with a grin, his eyes still closed.

Harry kissed his teeth. “My bum’s still sore, you know?” he told him. “You fuck like you’re wild for it.”

Malfoy’s grin deepened. “That’s because I am, Potter.”

Harry rested his cheek on Malfoy’s sternum and he waited until the rise of Malfoy’s chest became deep and even to speak again. “You know,” he said softly, “when I was a kid, I used to imagine that somewhere in the world there was this girl waiting for me, like she was made for me or something.” Harry smoothed his hand down Malfoy’s side and felt him shiver in response. “And when I found her, she would look at me and she wouldn’t see a single flaw.” Harry rested his chin right above Malfoy’s nipple and stared up into his face. “My relatives spent so long pointing them out that I thought to find someone who couldn’t see them would be the ultimate impossible task.” He looked away and pressed a kiss to the skin beneath his mouth. “But in my fantasy, I always found her.” He rubbed his thumb over Malfoy’s nipple. “Then I got to the wizarding world and there was a whole horde of people who thought Harry Potter was without flaw, and I realized that hadn’t been what I wanted after all. What I really wanted was for someone to see me for exactly who I was.”

Harry sat up so that most of his weight was on his elbow and he pressed a kiss to Malfoy’s jaw. “When things were really awful between us in school, I would imagine how different it could have gone if I’d taken your hand,” he laced his fingers through Malfoy’s carefully, “because some days I wanted you on my side so badly I could scream. And if not on my side then at least not actively against me.” He curled Malfoy’s arm around himself and leaned back into him. “But, I think, even if I knew then that what you said about Ron was you sticking up for yourself and I could change your mind about a lot of the stuff you’d been raised to believe just by shaking your hand – I still don’t think I would do it. Because that day, on the train, you didn’t want to know me, you wanted to befriend Harry Potter.” Harry glanced up at Malfoy almost as if he expected him to deny it. “Only after that did you pay any attention to Harry. Granted, you usually twisted it to the negative but you still started out with the truth of it. I don’t know that anyone else has ever really seen that truth.”

Harry let out a deep breath. “I never wanted to have you like this but I’m not all that sorry,” he admitted, feeling worst about the fact that it was true. He rolled into Malfoy’s side. “I think even you know that there’s something there. I think you just wanted to hurt me more than you wanted to explore it.”

Malfoy’s hand tightened around Harry’s and he said in a scratchy, still sleep-heavy voice, “I was on the right side of it this time and you have no idea how good it felt to reject you.”

Harry looked up at him and asked, genuinely curious, “You don’t regret it?”

“Not in the least,” Malfoy admitted. He shrugged. “Not yet anyway.”

Harry grabbed onto that. “You think you would have?”

“I don’t know,” Malfoy said slowly. “I’ll admit there’s something between us, passion and anger and desire. I don’t mean sexual desire either. You admitted you wanted me on your side whereas I wanted… I wanted you to acknowledge me.”

Harry rolled over and pressed a deep, meaningful kiss to Malfoy’s mouth. “I’m acknowledging you now,” he said when they broke apart.

“Don’t leave,” Harry whined, trying to pull Malfoy back into bed by his captured wrist.

“Don’t you have a job, Potter?” Malfoy grumbled.

Harry grinned at him. “I make my own schedule.”

“I’ve been in your bed for fifty-three hours straight,” Malfoy groused, buttoning up his shirt. “Trust me, you do not want my parents sending out a search party. It consists of Pansy, a house-elf and a full bottle of Knotgrass Mead.”

Harry made a face. “Who drinks Knotgrass Mead?”

“Anyone whose taste buds aren’t irreparably damaged,” Malfoy answered snappily. “No one dislikes Knotgrass Mead, Potter, people simply say they do. And do you know what those people are? Either liars or brain-damaged.”

Harry snorted, still trying to tug Malfoy back into bed. “You’re such an accepting bloke, you know that?”

Malfoy leered at him. “An accepting bloke who’s owed breakfast if I remember correctly.”

Harry blushed, that’s right, he’d promised breakfast if Malfoy sucked him off. Malfoy had certainly kept up his end. Harry went downstairs to prepare toast, eggs and kippers while Kreacher hobbled around behind him, backseat cooking. Malfoy had been careful to say that Harry owed him a hand-cooked meal and Harry knew better than to try his luck by now.

He was remembering a few of those lessons he’d been taught with a dreamy smile on his face when he realized the toast was burning. He placed the two slices on Malfoy’s plate, burnt side down and piled eggs and kippers on top of it.

Of course, burying it didn’t make the problem disappear.

Malfoy took his first bite of burnt toast and pointed a shaking finger at Harry, shouting, “Perfidy!”

Harry jumped up and ran around the table, trying to get to the parlor when Malfoy caught him with a Trip Jinx and sat on Harry’s bum. He tapped his wand against his chin. “What shall I do, what shall I do? A lesson has to be taught, Potter,” Malfoy said regretfully, as though it was out of his hands.

Harry wriggled around underneath him until he was lying on his back rather than his stomach. He looked up at the devious grin on Malfoy’s face and blurted out, “I—” His brain hastily shoved the words back in.

“You?” Malfoy said insistently, rolling his eyes when Harry didn’t answer. He popped up off Harry’s lap and said with grand annoyance, “Love to make me waste my time? Salazar, Potter, you are a headache in and of yourself.”

He rubbed at his forehead as he swept out of the dining room and then Grimmauld Place, slamming the door behind him.

Harry stayed on the floor for a long while after he’d left. When it had just been the Imperius curse, when it had just been the sex, he’d never tried to steal a little extra time with Malfoy, he’d never almost said what he could never say. Harry blinked up at the ceiling, beginning to realize exactly how fucked he truly was.

Harry heard the door to Grimmauld Place bang open but he couldn’t worry about that, not now, now when he was balls deep inside Malfoy. His brain shut out the noise as it chased his climax, ignoring the voice that rang through the empty rooms, chastising him. “All right, that’s enough. You’ve avoided us since the Quidditch match and I’m not sure what’s gone on, though I am sure Malfoy’s somehow involved and we’ve given you space but you haven’t even asked after the baby and Hermione’s a wreck and you haven’t been coming by the shop or going by Fortescue’s and, oh right, it’s a girl, you selfish pri—” The door to his room crashed open and Ron finished the word with a broken, “Ah.”

“Ron!” Harry cried out, his face turning beet red but he couldn’t stop now, not when he was just on the edge. Ron backed out of the room, grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. Harry bucked into Malfoy a last time and came like he never meant to come again. Harry peppered kisses all over Malfoy’s back as the man collapsed beneath him.

He sounded winded but far too pleased with himself. “We do put on quite a show, don’t we, Potter?”

Harry sprung upright. Oh fuck, Ron. It had already fallen out of his head in the wake of his orgasm. He hobbled around out of bed trying to pull on his trousers. He struggled into his shirt and growled at Malfoy, “Stay here.” Harry sincerely doubted he would listen. Malfoy – the real Malfoy – didn’t take orders. In fact, he tended to do the exact opposite of what Harry said. Unless Harry explicitly stated that Malfoy was required to do something, Malfoy generally ignored him. And Harry had to admit he rather liked that. It made it easier to pretend.

Harry found Ron downstairs in the kitchen. He’d forgone the tea on the burner and instead found Malfoy’s Knotgrass Mead and was sucking it down like there was no tomorrow. “You all right?” Harry asked carefully as he took up his regular seat at Ron’s side. It’d been so long since they’d sat together like this, since Harry’d had someone to meet him at half three, since Harry had been awake at half three.

Ron’s throat seemed sticky somehow. “You’ve been—” he started, “that’s, ah—you and Malfoy then—and you were just buggering—” He doubled over and put his head between his knees. “Oh Merlin, I think I’m going to be sick.”

As Harry predicted, Malfoy had followed him downstairs in some of Harry’s drawstring trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. “You’re not in your filthy hovel, Weasel,” Malfoy said almost amiably as he busied himself getting a cup out of the cabinet, “do watch the floors.”

Ron’s face resurfaced above the edge of the table and he said, sucking in air through his gritted teeth, “He’s a right gem, Harry.”

Harry smiled a bit uncertainly. “A bit rough around the edges there.” He ducked his face under the table when Ron’s disappeared. He found Ron’s eyes so he could try to impart how serious he was. “I’m sorry, Ron, I should’ve owled or Flooed, I’ve just got caught up in—”

“Shagging Malfoy,” Ron said dully.

“Well, yeah,” Harry admitted. “Could you maybe bring Ron some of those crackers?” Harry asked, looking at Malfoy imploringly. “I think they’re out in the parlor.”

Malfoy barely held back his sneer as he nodded. “So long as I don’t have to touch him to give them to him,” he qualified like the prince he was.

Ron stared after him in disbelief. “It can’t be all that serious then if you’ve still not told anyone.” Ron looked back at Harry and he seemed almost frightened. “I mean, you haven’t? Told anyone?”

“Not yet,” Harry told him. He stared after Malfoy too. “But I was thinking maybe it was about time.” Truthfully, Harry had been thinking nothing of the sort but that was only because he’d been encased in his Malfoy and Harry bubble where no one and nothing else existed outside of the two of them.

Ron blinked owlishly at him and turned a little greener. “You really are serious about him then?”

Harry’s heart was in his throat and he said, “Yeah, I think I am.”

He stared at himself in the mirror after Ron left and repeated over and over that he was doing the right thing. Malfoy was a menace. He was better off with someone like Harry, who could use his status to get him out of trouble when it inevitably came to it and who could take the sting out of some of his more venomous comments. Malfoy was happier with him and it’s not like Harry was hurting anyone. He was only making Malfoy’s life easier.

Harry still had trouble keeping food down, even knowing he was only doing what was best for Malfoy.

Harry liked the way Malfoy ate, he decided. He never took unruly bites or used his fingers or dribbled anything down his chin. Harry thought he could sit across from Malfoy and watch him eat for the rest of forever. Which is likely what prompted him to say, “Move in with me.”

He liked that altering the curse with the potion allowed Malfoy some fight. He perked a condescending brow, used his knife to spear a piece of meat with his fork and said slowly, “Your house is only fit for rainbow children rejects.” He looked pointedly around at the green walls and the red kitchen table.

Harry could admit that he may have gone a bit mad with the colors after having everything the same drab shade for months. “You can do anything you like to it,” Harry enticed.

Malfoy’s interest piqued. “Including setting up torture dungeons and a Dark Arts laboratory?”

Harry shrugged and locked onto Malfoy ravenously. “If you want.”

Malfoy looked as if his sensibilities had been ruffled. “Circe, Potter, I was only taking the piss. I’m not about to build a torture dungeon.”

The fact that the Dark Arts laboratory was left out of that declaration did not escape Harry’s notice.

Malfoy moved in slowly and it seemed as if each piece of furniture he brought in needed to have a corresponding piece of furniture tossed out. Harry didn’t mind if it meant Malfoy would be leaving quite a bit less. In fact, the only downside that Harry could foresee in Malfoy living with him was that they would have to become far more involved in one another’s lives. That meant having Malfoy spend time with his friends.

And, worse, Harry spending time with Malfoy’s.

Malfoy walked him over to one of the small patio tables outside Salsa e Spezie in Diagon and said formally, “Harry, you remember Pansy.” Parkinson was wearing a hat with a wide brim and huge, dark sunglasses. Harry assumed it was because she wanted to hide as much of her pug face as possible. When Harry didn’t respond right away, Malfoy refreshed his memory brightly. “She wanted to hand you over to the Dark Lord in our seventh year.”

Harry offered him a pained smile and said with a nod at Parkinson, “The memory’s still stark in my mind.”

Malfoy seemed pleased with that and Harry pulled out his chair for him. He sat down happily as though he couldn’t imagine a better luncheon party. “Well, it’s not as though you can blame her,” Malfoy told Harry promptly. “Self-preservation is a noble quality.”

Pansy’s head was still buried in her menu but she managed an agreeable sound and a polite, “Thank you, Draco, dear.”

Harry snorted. “That’s what counts for noble in Slytherin?”

Parkinson scowled at him. “I think this is a Slytherin-only conversation as a matter of fact.”

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy patted his hand, “you’ll have to wait your turn. Ah,” he breathed out in relief and waved his arm above his head and Harry saw Goyle lumbering over. Malfoy waited until he’d got close to the table to say blithely, “Gregory, there you are, you old so and so.” Parkinson tittered. “I thought you’d got lost.”

Goyle shrugged. “Only a little.”

Parkinson looked appalled. “You worked three doors down from it for two summers, Greg.”

Goyle opened his mouth but Malfoy waved a dismissive hand at Parkinson. “Logic is lost on the beast, Pans.” Malfoy reached across the table to grab onto Goyle’s robes and drag him down into his seat. “Nice to see you again, Gregory,” Malfoy greeted him properly. “You’re looking spry as a new sapling.”

Goyle’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“As fresh as a spring chicken,” Malfoy tried.

The waitress chose that moment to meander over and ask them if they’d made their choices. Goyle blinked up at the laconic woman. “The chicken then.”

Malfoy and Parkinson burst out in guffaws. Malfoy wiped his eyes and patted Goyle’s shoulder. “Ah, Gregory, I really have missed you.”

Slytherins were weird.

Malfoy declared the whole thing a rousing success and complimented Harry on his strategy of making as little noise as possible so as to confuse them into thinking he wasn’t there. “And we did forget, I think. Pansy certainly did, which is grand because her skin looked like she’d jumped into a vat of poor. I mean, really, the girl could do with some color. When you can’t afford those trips out to the Mediterranean, that’s when you know you’ve lost too much. I’m sure she would have lashed out at you rather than that oafish waitress if you hadn’t kept up your ‘quiet as a mouse’ routine. Brilliant, that was.” Malfoy stopped mid-tirade and turned around suspiciously. “You are Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

“I love you,” Harry said.

Malfoy froze.

Harry couldn’t believe the words had finally got out, not when he’d kept them locked up so long. “I, ah, I didn’t mean to say that,” he said weakly.

Malfoy’s lips barely moved as he asked, “Did you mean it?”

Harry plopped himself down hard on a bench and groaned. “I can’t have, can I?” He looked up at Malfoy imploringly. Malfoy’s brow was furrowed and he looked genuinely concerned. Harry stared down at his own knees. Loving someone meant respecting their wishes and placing their happiness above your own, didn’t it? If Harry had meant it then his next step was clear. He looked up into Malfoy’s silver-grey eyes, unable to believe he’d never noticed how much of him they gave away.

He would have to let Malfoy go. Just the thought of it made Harry’s stomach cramp up. “I don’t know what I mean,” Harry told him truthfully. What could he really say? I love you so much I have to keep you caged up inside your own head?

Malfoy squatted down in front of him and placed his hands over Harry’s. “You don’t have to know right now.”

Malfoy started to stand and Harry grabbed onto his retreating hand. “I know I don’t what to hurt you. I’m not, am I?” Harry was almost afraid to hear the answer.

Malfoy’s face was shadowed. “Not that I know of,” he said ambiguously.

Harry hung his head and followed him home like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

They’d already invited the Weasleys and Hermione over that night to see their new place, which was really more like a museum of Malfoy’s stuff that no one should touch or sit on too much. Which meant Harry took great relish in doing exactly those things.

He offered to cancel but Malfoy seemed to have forgot all about that afternoon’s incident. Harry tried to do the same. Malfoy greeted them all at the door when they arrived and said, “While I realize this is quite the climb up the social ladder for you all, I’ll have to ask that you refrain from flash photography or thievery of any kind.”

Harry expected a riot right then and there but thankfully George slung an arm around Malfoy’s neck, squeezed a little harder than strictly necessary and dragged him off into the parlor while Malfoy whinged about something that sounded distinctly like, “Weasley germs.” Harry smiled sheepishly at all of them.

He was amazed that they’d all shown up, with the glaring exception of Fred. His absence was like a presence of its own, making the party just that tiny bit more subdued. Harry spent the first part of the night talking with Charlie about his dragons until Ginny pulled him aside. She had a look of disdain on her face and Harry followed her gaze over to Malfoy, who seemed to be berating Hermione for something or other. Hermione’s response was to roll her eyes and eat pigs in a blanket off the plate that was balancing on her stomach.

Ginny’s nose wrinkled and she asked harshly, “How do you explain him, Harry?”

Harry smiled, shaking his head as he watched Malfoy’s antics. He hadn’t noticed Ginny’s tone yet. “Oh I don’t,” he told her brightly.

She frowned. “How long do you think it will be before he stops acting like that?”

Harry snorted. “Aside from a lobotomy, I don’t think he’ll ever stop acting like that.” And Harry realized, all of a sudden, that they expected he was with Malfoy because he meant to change him somehow. There was nothing Harry wanted less. “At least I hope he doesn’t,” he put in stoutly.

Ginny looked gobsmacked.

Harry shrugged and scratched absently at the label of his Ogden’s bottle with his thumbnail. “He’s abrasive and anything less than insulting makes him feel ‘flowery’ but I don’t want him to be anything other than what he is.” Harry’s lips pursed defensively. “I can’t explain it but he’s imperfectly perfect.”

Ginny scoffed and she shot at him over her shoulder as she stormed away, “How on earth did you ever fall in love with that?”

Harry didn’t bother to correct her, mostly because he didn’t know how. He didn’t feel much like celebrating anymore.

He sank into the rocking bench on the patio and stared up at the yellow-purple sky. He’d barely been alone five minutes before Malfoy plopped down mostly on top of him, grabbed Harry’s Ogden’s, took a long drink and said, “Granger got fat, didn’t she?”

Harry grinned. “She’s pregnant.”

Malfoy smiled back at him slyly. “It’s Weasley’s, isn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

Malfoy affected a gasp. “Color me utterly shocked.” Harry wrapped his arm around Malfoy’s shoulders and pulled him down so his head rested in the crook of Harry’s neck. “The Weaslette’s a bitch,” he said.

“She’s not,” Harry said with a crooked smile.

“I’m sorry if I’m making things more difficult.”

Harry’s smile widened. “No, you’re not.”

Malfoy sat up with a huff. “All right, so I’m not. It seemed like the thing to say.”

Harry grabbed onto Malfoy’s pointy chin and dragged him in for a kiss. “I don’t need you to say the right thing. I just need you to be here.”

Malfoy looked back at him smugly. “I suppose even I can manage that.”

Malfoy sat with him until he started whinging about being parched after having downed his own drink in addition to Harry’s Ogden’s. He skipped back inside to remedy his near-death thirst – as Harry was assured it was – and George took his place.

Harry sighed and repeated the standard line at this party, “I’m sorry for whatever Malfoy’s said to you tonight.”

George laughed and shook his head. “I’ve got used to him,” he said fondly and Harry’s eyes snapped open. No one – aside from himself – talked about Malfoy with any sort of fondness. George fumbled his Knotgrass Mead between his freckly fingers and Harry had to wonder if that wasn’t Malfoy’s influence. He cleared his throat and didn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes as he admitted, “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him since the shop.”

He used one hand as a shelf to hold up the bottom of his bottle and his mouth tilted to the side uncertainly. “I might’ve told him off for being such a prick to you.” Harry’s eyes widened and George smiled a bit. “Didn’t help much, I know, but we’ve spent a bit of time together since then.”

“Why?” Harry croaked in disbelief.

George couldn’t quite contain his grin. “He’s a terror, I know, and he says exactly all the awful things that pop into his head that people aren’t meant to say. And, against all reason, I actually enjoy being around him.” He shrugged his shoulders and seemed to be struggling to face Harry as he said all this. “I don’t know, even being so horrible, he’s still a good man.” He looked back inside at what Harry assumed must be Malfoy. George’s voice was soft when he asked,” Don’t you sometimes wonder if he knows it?”

Harry didn’t doubt that Malfoy had no idea how good he actually was. Harry hadn’t figured it out himself until a few weeks ago.

“He seems himself then?” George looked back at him curiously. Harry swallowed. “I mean, he doesn’t seem any… different?”

George still seemed confused but he said gamely, “Same as ever I’d imagine.”

There, Harry wasn’t doing anything wrong. Malfoy was exactly the same as he had been, just as Harry wanted.

“I’m not doing this,” Harry begged more than told.

“You are absolutely doing this,” Malfoy said resolutely without sparing him so much as a glance. He reached up and knocked on the door and Harry somehow managed not to whimper.

A house-elf opened the door with a deep bow and greeted squeakily, “Master Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Flopsy,” Malfoy told it as he strolled past.

Harry rushed to keep up with him, muttering out of the side of his mouth, “Its name is Flopsy?”

Malfoy looked at him askance. “How on earth should I know? They’re house-elves, Potter. I haven’t exactly taken the time to learn their lineages. Their names are whatever I say they are.”

“My god, you are a sensitive soul, Malfoy,” Harry said, laughing. He supposed he should feel outraged but he couldn’t find it in him.

Malfoy pushed open a pair of double doors and said drolly, “Why thank you, Potter.”

Harry tried to back out but Malfoy must have expected it because his knee came up to push against the backs of Harry’s thighs and force him in.

“Er, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry greeted awkwardly.

Lucius Malfoy looked entirely unimpressed with the sight that greeted him. He placed his copy of the Prophet down, set aside his drink and said with endless patience – as though Malfoy was nothing more than a child who had done the right thing at the wrong time, “Well he can hardly be of any use now, can he, Draco? The Dark Lord isn’t lurking around the corner looking for the boy.”

Harry bit the insides of his cheeks hard. “He’s not here to hand me over to Voldemort,” he spat out sourly.

Both Malfoys flinched and Malfoy turned to look at him as though trying to remember something. Harry swallowed nervously, wondering if being inside his real home might have triggered something, when Malfoy brightened up with sudden recollection. “That’s right, I’m not!”

Harry elbowed him in the stomach. “Arse.”

Malfoy stuck his tongue out at him and addressed his father. “Ye of little faith, Father.” He slapped Harry on the back. “Potter is a paragon of good. He could do wonders for our name.” He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and moved in front of him. He stepped back a bit and squinted. He stepped back again and added uncertainly, “Not to mention in certain low lights and if one has poor vision and a non-socially constructed view of beauty, he’s… not so terrible to look at.”

“Thanks,” Harry said dryly.

“Lucius, could you—” Narcissa Malfoy wandered into the study with a pearl necklace in her hands. She paused when she saw Lucius wasn’t alone. She turned to Harry and glanced back at Malfoy. “Draco, who’s your friend?”

Malfoy pushed him forward. “You remember Harry Potter, don’t you, Mama? You saved his life.”

“Did I?” Narcissa seemed genuinely impressed by the news. “One meets so many people these days.” Merlin, Slytherins! They were utterly barmy. She looked at Harry curiously. “How kind of me,” she decided. “I suppose I received something in return?”

“I assured you Malfoy was all right,” Harry mumbled.

Narcissa frowned and waved a hand at him while Malfoy did up his mother’s necklace. “Now, that’s bound to get confusing,” she said reprovingly. “Call him Draco please.”

“Er,” Harry rolled it around on his tongue and said awkwardly, “Draco.”

Narcissa beamed at him. “Ah, much better.” She turned around to get Malfoy’s vote on the matter. “Don’t you think, dear?”

“I feel ill,” was Malfoy’s only response.

Harry stuck out his tongue like it’d left a bad taste in his mouth. “Me too.”

Lucius made himself known and boomed out to the house-elf that had appeared to top off his brandy, “Tonight we’ll be serving Potter’s head on a spike.” The elf cowered a little and Lucius looked down at it with a frown and corrected, “My apologies, that’s next Tuesday.”

The elf seemed relieved and nodded so eagerly its ears flapped – Harry suspected this was because it had done nothing to prepare for serving Harry’s head on a spike. A week should be plenty of time to get the spices right however.

“Aw, look, Father’s teasing you,” Malfoy cooed in his ear. “I think he likes you,” he said seriously.

Harry’s face was strained and he closed his eyes and chanted, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.”

Malfoy declared dinner with his parents a rousing success too. Harry was beginning to think he just liked using the phrase ‘rousing success’ regardless of its meaning. He was on one of those non-stop diatribes he got on when Harry grabbed him by the hand, led him upstairs and fucked him into incoherency. Harry hadn’t even bothered with lube before losing himself inside Malfoy’s body.

Harry kissed the back of his neck as he pulled out of him but he didn’t manage to roll off of Malfoy’s back before he fell asleep. He woke to the feel of the ground shifting beneath him. In fact, a volcano seemed to be springing up right below his armpit. Malfoy thrust his shoulder in harder and demanded, his voice muffled by the pillow, “Gerroff.”

Harry obliged with a yawn.

Malfoy got to his feet and looked down at himself with a pout. “I’m all sweaty.” He glared at Harry in accusatory fashion. “That’s the last time you fall asleep on me.”

Harry shrugged. “Fair enough.” He heard the shower going and he called over the spray, “I’m going to visit Ron and Hermione today if you want to come along.”

“That sounds hideous,” Malfoy answered back brightly and Harry grinned. “If you’d like to tell Granger to stop ingesting lard and do some squat thrusts, that’d be much appreciated.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “She’s pregnant!”

“So she says,” Malfoy said skeptically.

Harry didn’t even bother with trying to convince him otherwise and instead pulled on his jeans with a smile on his face.

Ron and Hermione were mostly the same, which was terribly reassuring. Ron still forgot things – only now it was hospital dates (“Well we go all the while”) and whether or not he’d already packed up the delivery bag. He still got overly excited about things – only now it wasn’t to do with the Cannons’ chances in the fall but what color his little girl’s hair might be. And Hermione was still a bookworm – only now she could use her seven-month belly as a desk and all her books had to do with gestating a teeny life form. She still mothered everyone – only now not so much Ron and Harry as she did her unborn daughter.

Hermione was bemoaning the fact that she couldn’t see her feet but they felt huge while Ron ran to the store to get her flounder and pickled eggs. Harry sincerely hoped she didn’t intend to eat them together.

“You’ve done it now,” Harry said as he looked into her puffy face. He was tempted to take as many pictures of her as he could but he suspected Hermione might kill him and bury him in the backyard herself if he did.

“What have I done?” she asked curiously.

Harry grinned. “You’ve gone and done coupley things.”

Hermione’s feet wiggled back and forth and she puffed back at him, “You’ve gone and done adulty and coupley things. You’ve a job and you’re living with a boy,” she accused, her nose scrunched up.

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry said wonderingly, even as he cringed over how long it’d been since he’d worked at Fortescue’s. True, Fabian had said he could make his own hours but Harry still felt like a prat.

The next day, Harry went to make that up. Fabian shut down the ice cream shop for three hours while Harry told him the dirty details – leaving some rather pertinent ones out of the retelling. “That’s cold,” Fabian said as he stood over the freezer.

Harry nodded his head. “But he’s living with me now and he’s come around on the whole thing.”

Fabian let out a deep sigh and placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Any lesser man would have run for the hills after a telling off like that.” He tromped back up the stairs with his new tub of Bugglegum Beetles. “You should sell your story,” he panted back at him. “I mean, stuff like that doesn’t happen every day, does it? People need to know that if they fight for it, they might sometimes get what they’re after.”

Harry tried to grin but he had a feeling it seemed more like he was caught in the throes of rigor mortis.

Around four that afternoon, Malfoy surprised him by strolling into the shop.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, no doubt sounding exactly as delighted as he was despite his efforts to tamp down on it.

“I wanted your cock and you were nowhere to be found,” Malfoy accused with a great, grand pout.

Harry reached over and slapped a hand over Malfoy’s mouth. “Don’t worry, not at all a place children frequent,” Harry squawked, feeling exhausted after only a moment in Malfoy’s company.

Malfoy nibbled his finger and Harry pulled away with a squeak. He looked fairly pleased with himself. “I’ve decided an ice cream will have to do for now.” Harry couldn’t help but sigh his relief. At least until Malfoy pointed at no less than eight different flavors and commanded, “Make it.”

Harry shook his head and tried to feel as annoyed as he should but he was still too busy being pleased that Malfoy was there at all. In the end, he had an ice cream cone that was piled so high with different scoops that he had to use magic to keep it from toppling over. Harry expected it would be like everything else exorbitant that Malfoy ordered and he would eat a third of it and then throw the rest out.

To Harry’s amazement, he finished all of it – not a crumb left to be found. Then he pressed his sticky, ice cream-covered mouth to Harry’s cheek and made a loud smacking sound. Harry pushed his face away, blushing furiously.

Malfoy stayed even after he’d finished to berate the customers – asking if a large woman really needed that extra scoop and mocking parents who gave their children what amounted to sugary milk and then told the energized little beasts to calm down. Harry ended up leaving an hour earlier than he’d intended at Fabian’s pleading.

“I don’t think my boss likes you very much,” Harry told Malfoy affectionately as he laced their fingers together.

“He’s too plebian to understand how truly brilliant I am,” Malfoy said with a sniff, seeming distracted while he led them the back way out of Diagon. Finally his features cleared and he tugged on Harry’s hand, stopping them right in front of one of the stores. Harry stared up at the dark shop he hadn’t been inside since he was thirteen. The face of it seemed to lean down into the street and hang over them and the sign was the same as ever: Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Malfoy shot Harry a sideways glance and shook their linked hands. “You haven’t got an owl,” Malfoy told him delicately as though Harry might not know it.

Harry fought not to roll his eyes. He lost. “Your point being?” He could hear the massive amounts of rustling going on inside.

Malfoy flexed his fingers around Harry’s. “I’ve had a marvelous ice cream today, courtesy of you. It’s only fair I get you something in return, isn’t it?”

Harry’s mouth slowly started to curve into a smile and he looked over at Malfoy, digging his nails into the back of Malfoy’s hand inadvertently. “You want to get me an owl,” he said. He blurted it out almost sing-song as though he was teasing Malfoy with it. And Harry supposed he somewhat was. This was a nice thing Malfoy was doing and Malfoys didn’t do nice things. Probably because they got teased when they did. Harry tried to stop grinning at him but he couldn’t.

Malfoy pursed his lips and, with a jut of his chin, clarified, “I want to get me an owl. However, I know if I say I want to get you an owl then you’ll be all stuffed up with gratitude and I’ll get as much sex as I please.”

Harry snorted. “You don’t have to get me an owl to get as much sex as you please,” he drawled. “And you know it.” He dragged Malfoy inside by their linked hands and teased, “You’re getting me an owl because you love me.” His eyes burned a little but Harry told himself it was the smell of the shop that did it.

“I’ll not stand here and listen to this blasphemy,” Malfoy told him stoutly. His nose scrunched up and he amended, “I’ll not stand here and inhale this smell either.” He tried to pull away back to the door but Harry kept his grip on Malfoy’s hand.

“Don’t you want to help me pick it out?” he asked knowingly.

Malfoy looked agonized in his indecision. “All right,” he said finally, throwing up his hands and taking one of Harry’s with him. Malfoy followed him around the shop while Harry looked at all the owls and he calmly vetoed every single choice Harry made.

“Well which do you like then?” Harry asked finally, realizing he should have started with that.

Malfoy led him over to the back left corner and pointed between the bars at a small barn owl. To Harry’s surprise, it wasn’t the youngest and sleekest-looking one there. Far from it, in fact. She was older and some of her feathers were arranged at odd angles and one of her yellow eyes was damaged somehow. She hopped over to the bars and tilted her head to look at Malfoy’s invading finger. She brought her neck back as though she meant to strike and then nibbled on it affectionately.

Harry watched the childlike joy on Malfoy’s face with something akin to adoration. “You really are my favorite person, you know?” he whispered in his ear.

For the first time, Harry saw Malfoy blush.

They kept their hands clasped together even as they walked home and Harry looked into the cage at the barn owl that was dancing around on her branch, waving her wings. “I think she’s happy to be with us.” She chose that moment to squawk at him.

“Of course she is, Potter,” Malfoy said imperiously as though there had never been any other option.

“I think I’ll name her Ariadne,” Harry decided.

He expected Malfoy would scoff and change it to something undoubtedly better but instead Malfoy bumped Harry’s shoulder with his own and said, “That’s a really good name, Harry.”

“Malfoy!”

Harry was still fishing sprinkles out of his hair as he half-heartedly searched the rooms for Malfoy. He’d been back to work at Fortescue’s a few weeks now and he’d been restocking the toppings when he’d dropped the bag of sprinkles and they’d exploded everywhere, including all over him. “Malfoy,” Harry called again and clapped a hand over his mouth as he spotted him. Ariadne floated down to settle on his shoulder and starting digging around in his hair the way she did her feathers.

Harry scowled and waved her off.

Malfoy was sprawled out on the couch fast asleep, the edge of a crocheted blanket slung over his stomach and an arm thrown over his eyes. Harry moved it aside and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He leaned down to pick the blanket up off the floor and placed it more firmly around Malfoy.

Malfoy squirmed and pushed it back down, moaning, “’s too hot.”

Harry had actually thought it was rather cool today. He smoothed a hand over Malfoy’s forehead. He felt warm. “Maybe you’ve got a fever,” Harry guessed.

Malfoy pushed his hand off angrily. “Maybe you should stop touching me,” he growled as he rolled onto his side so his back was facing Harry.

Harry recoiled and stood up as quickly as he could. He went upstairs to change his clothes when he felt arms slide around his neck and down his front. “I’m sorry,” Malfoy said against his shoulder.

Harry placed his hands over Malfoy’s and said, “I know.” And he found he had really.

Malfoy’s face twisted into a sneer as he pushed his plate of lamb to the floor while Kreacher bobbed around at his ankles with screechy apologies, clearing away the mess. Harry waited until Kreacher had Disapparated into the kitchen to let go of his death grip on his fork. He slammed it down on the table and pursed his lips. “You know how Kreacher worships you. That isn’t fair, Malfoy.”

“Salazar forbid I do anything that doesn’t square with your sense of right and wrong,” Malfoy taunted.

Harry threw up his hands. “Holy hell, you’ve been in a mood.”

Malfoy stood up and snarled at him from across the table. “Well, I’ve every right to be when you’re serving me poisoned rubbish.”

Harry made a squawking sound in his indignation. He stood as well, his chair scraping against the floor. “What are you on about?” he demanded. Malfoy opened his mouth but he doubled over before he could get it out. Harry thought he was going to be sick. “Malfoy?” he choked out in concern.

Malfoy’s body twisted to the side and he gritted his teeth. He threw his head down like he was having a seizure and it slammed into the tabletop. It should have incapacitated him but instead he stood up straight and looked right at Harry with clear grey eyes, the left side of his face bright red. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared in his life. “What am I doing here?” he said and hissed air through his teeth as though the question caused him pain.

Harry swallowed, unsure if he should move to Malfoy’s side or not. “What?” he said stupidly.

Malfoy’s breaths were coming faster and he gritted out more urgently, “Where am I?” His face twisted up into the most intense dislike Harry had ever seen. “Potter?” he forced out, looking confused and almost frightened.

Harry snatched his wand off the table and shouted, “Imperio.” He ran over to Malfoy’s side and tilted his face up. “Malfoy?” Harry stared into his eyes, trying to glean from them if it had worked or not.

Malfoy pushed him back and snapped, “What? I’ve told you I don’t want you touching me, haven’t I? And I’m sick every night thanks to you and that elf!”

Relief made Harry feel weak in the knees and he sat down in Malfoy’s chair while his limbs shook and he held his head in his hands. “Malfoy,” he croaked, “I think you’ve got a bug or something.”

“I hate being sick,” Malfoy bemoaned.

“You hate everything,” Harry reminded him with a shaky grin.

“That too,” Malfoy agreed.

Harry looked up at him and said determinedly, “I’m taking you to Mungo’s tomorrow.”

Malfoy scowled. “I can go myself, thank you very much,” he bit out.

Harry managed to keep his temper, though he still felt on edge from what had just happened. And he sounded nasty when he said, “Well I’ll make the appointment now, shall I?”

He had started on his way out to Ariadne’s cage when Malfoy grabbed his arm and said softly, “Yes, thank you.” Harry knew it was the best apology he would get but it was also the only one he needed.

Malfoy didn’t sleep with him that night, citing Harry as too hot. Instead he slept next door in Regulus’ old room while Harry lay awake panicking. This was the beginning of the end for them. It had to be. And Harry didn’t know he could survive it.

He didn’t go into work the next morning, instead choosing to sit at home and wait for Malfoy to come back from his appointment. He bit his fingernails so far down that they started to bleed. He hadn’t done that since he was seven and his Aunt Petunia had called him vile for it.

Harry stood up so quick he toppled his chair when he finally heard the door open. He raced out to meet Malfoy in the foyer. “How was it? How’d it go? Are you all right?” Harry’s words nearly stumbled over themselves in his haste to get them out.

“You,” Malfoy said menacingly, stripping off his cloak. He handed it to Kreacher on his way in. He paused to shake his finger in Harry’s face. “I should have known better than to get involved with you.”

Harry backed up and tried to keep his voice steady. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “They can’t explain it, you know,” he said, as though Harry should know. “It defies science and magic,” he went on, stomping his way into the kitchen.

Harry followed him, piping up, “What does?”

Malfoy pointed at his stomach. “This little parasitic larvae I’ve got growing inside me.”

Harry paused. That hadn’t been what he’d been expecting at all. “What?” he said thickly.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “A baby, Potter,” he said, finding the orange juice in the refrigerator and drinking straight from the carton. “A stupid, speccy baby,” he clarified.

Harry sat down on the floor hard. He’d been aiming for a chair but it hadn’t been close enough. He pressed his palm to his forehead. “You’re—you—” he looked up at Malfoy beseechingly, “but how?”

Malfoy pointed down at him. “Now see there, I was hoping you could tell me.”

“Me?” Harry repeated, feeling rather flustered. “How should I know?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and looked at him warily. “You haven’t done any weird spells on me or anything like that?” Harry stiffened but Malfoy was looking down at himself, or more accurately his stomach. “They said I was drenched in your magical signature – got it from the baby, they did.” He was doing his rambling thing again, Harry could tell. “Of course they don’t know if it’s just because of it or if there’s something more behind it. This doesn’t happen very often you know,” he added a bit hysterically. He made himself stop and stare at Harry. “So what, Beauty Sharpening Spells then? Really, Harry, I’m pretty enough.”

The real horror of what Harry might’ve done was catching up to him and Harry jumped to his feet. He kissed Malfoy on the cheek and said, “I’ve got to go.”

Malfoy blinked at him. “What?”

Harry squeezed his arm. “I’ve got to—I’ll be back, all right?”

“I hope this isn’t indicative of how you intend to approach fatherhood!” Malfoy called after him as he raced out the door.

Harry got to the round room in the Department of Mysteries in record time and bit out, “I need access to all you’ve got on the Imperius curse.”

“And why should I—”

“Because I’m Harry Potter and you will do this now.”

The hologram/ugly woman looked shell-shocked and she stamped her parchment and handed it down to Harry. Harry snatched it from her and tore through the door. This time Smythe was waiting just inside it. “Tell me how to get there,” Harry barked down at him, suspecting the man’s parentage might be human and house-elf as Smythe stared up at him with preternaturally round eyes. Harry shivered, that was foul to even consider.

Smythe looked a bit ruffled but he did as he was told. Harry ran all the way to his former table and pushed the books off the desk until he found the one he was looking for. He flipped to the chapter on Somnolent Potions but he didn’t see anything on it causing pregnancy. He made himself slow down and read it properly.

Harry was right. There was nothing.

He flipped to the Table of Contents and his face fell. “No, no, no, no, no.”

There, listed as a subchapter was ‘Somnolent Spells and Potions.’ The heading of the original section was ‘Fertility in Imperiused Persons.’

Harry fell into the chair and twisted his hands up through his hair. He’d done this. He’d got Malfoy pregnant, for fuck’s sake. Tears slipped down his nose unnoticed as Harry stared unseeingly at the incriminating page. He slammed the book closed and dropped his forehead down on top of it while his shoulders shook.

He’d never be able to forgive himself for this.

He dragged himself through the door of Grimmauld and hung his keys on the hook robotically. He shrugged out of his robes and left them on the floor by the door. He trekked up the stairs and found Malfoy already asleep in their bed. Harry snorted at just the thought of anything being theirs. He supposed this baby really was though.

He collapsed into bed and curled up around Malfoy’s back. He pulled Malfoy to him with his hand curled backwards around his shoulder. He brushed the ticklish strands of hair off Malfoy’s neck and ear. He pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s earlobe, his eyes glistening in the dark. “God, I—I’ve messed it all up with you, haven’t I?” he said. Malfoy barely even stirred. Harry let the backs of his fingers rest against the pulse of Malfoy’s throat. “I never should’ve touched you. But I just—I didn’t know how to leave you alone.”

Despite feeling like the world’s worst bastard, there were moments when Harry looked over at Malfoy and he could feel nothing but joy knowing the man was carrying his child. In fact, Harry might’ve called his and Malfoy’s relationship the best it’d ever been if the real Malfoy didn’t keep breaking through.

He’d stand there, agonized and furious and sometimes terrified until he faded while Harry stared at him with his heart in his throat, wondering if this was the time that he wouldn’t go away. Harry guessed that the pregnancy, the introduction of a new magical signature, had destabilized the curse and, as it grew stronger, it would eventually lay waste to it in its entirety.

Harry knew when that day came and Malfoy looked at him without any potion or spell compelling his gaze, Harry would shatter into a million different pieces.

Harry rolled over and watched Malfoy’s sleepy breaths drag in and out. “Please don’t leave me,” he begged and he was shocked to hear how hoarse his voice sounded. He ghosted his thumb over Malfoy’s cheekbone. “Even if all this—if all this goes away, don’t leave. I need you. I’ve never needed anything so much.”

He curled up at Malfoy’s side but he couldn’t find sleep no matter how desperately he chased it. He dragged a shirt on over his head and Apparated to East London.

Hermione opened the door in her nightgown, her large tummy pointing accusingly at him. Harry forced a swallow down his dry throat. “Hermione,” he said and his voice cracked. He looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I’ve done a bad thing.”

Hermione swallowed down her worry and stood back to let him in.

Harry fisted his hair and then it was pouring out of him like a terribly incomprehensive tidal wave. “He’s pregnant and it’s all my fault and he’s not even mine to get pregnant. He can’t just forget about it now, you know. I’ve stuck him with a baby and he doesn’t even like me.”

Hermione rubbed his shoulder, looking caught in a whirlwind, and she said soothingly, “Harry, slow down, take a deep breath and tell me all of it.”

So Harry did.

Harry trudged up Grimmauld’s steps. Hermione’s prudent advice had been to break the curse, beg Malfoy’s forgiveness and take whatever he offered. She hadn’t met his eyes as she’d said it. In fact, she didn’t look at him again until she walked him to the door. What was in her eyes didn’t resemble anything like what’d used to be there when she looked at him. There was still love in them but the admiration was gone. Harry felt lucky to still have the former.

He found Malfoy in the kitchen. He was sitting in the dark as if he’d been waiting for him. “Malfoy—” Harry started, rubbing at his eyes under his glasses.

“It’s a bit hard to separate the days, to pull together the thoughts into time at all,” Malfoy said and his voice was eerie in its tranquility. He glanced at a splintered piece of wood on the tabletop before his silver eyes flashed up at Harry. “I suppose I should just ask you. How long?”

Harry’s heart sank into his shoes and he hoped they weren’t discussing what he thought they were discussing. “How long what?” he asked and his voice trembled.

Malfoy stood and slapped his open palm down on the table. The sharp sound invaded Harry’s eardrums and made him cringe. “How long?” Malfoy demanded.

Harry shivered and he wondered if he might lose control of himself altogether. He answered slowly, “Eight months, thirteen days, one hour and maybe twenty-seven minutes, give or take a few.”

Malfoy gave an open-mouthed gasp and his eyes welled. It was obvious he had not expected anything even approaching those numbers. He fell into his seat as though his legs couldn’t support him. He stared back at Harry like he’d never seen him before. “You’re supposed to be… noble.”

Harry took in a deep, shuddering breath and stared down at his fingers. “I know,” he said, voice strained. “Malfoy, I—”

Malfoy didn’t even seem to notice he was speaking. His breaths were coming in sharp and shallow. “You kidnapped me to what? Make me play house?” His chin quivered and he looked sickened by the very idea of it.

Harry opened his mouth. “I—”

“You what? “ Malfoy demanded, his mobile mouth opening wide around sobs he wouldn’t let come. “You loved me?” he said softly, mocking the idea. “Tell me you’re not sick enough to call raping me love.”

Harry ripped the hangnail off his thumb. It stung and started bleeding like mad. He stared down at it while that awful word pulsed inside his head. He chewed his lip and his nostrils flared. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“You never even thought of me,” Malfoy corrected. His whole face trembled as it scrunched up in revulsion. “It was about you and what you wanted and what you could make me do.” The last of it raised an octave as Malfoy fought to hang on to his composure.

“No,” Harry said quickly, looking imploringly up at Malfoy, “I just wanted you to give us a chance.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened in disbelief and he parroted back, “ Us? Us?” He shook his head like a lost child. “There is no us.”

Harry looked away, clenching his jaw.

Malfoy tilted his head and leaned down, trying to steal Harry’s gaze. “I rejected you,” he said as though Harry was misremembering it or had forgot somehow. “I—I got to decide not to want you.” Malfoy’s lower lip trembled. “Are you really so fucked in the head that you don’t understand what that means? Or are you just so unused to hearing it?”

Harry shook his head, still not meeting Malfoy’s eyes. He thrust out his chin and said, “I thought I was owed you, after everything. I know that isn’t fair, that isn’t true, but you were the only thing I’d ever wanted for myself and I was owed something.”

Malfoy laughed a breathless, shuddering sort of laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. “I was your prize?” he said.

Harry sniffed and told him, “You were my world.”

Malfoy moved out, took all his things – all the things really – and placed a well-worn photo in the center of the bed. It was the photo from the Prophet announcing the Malfoys’ donation to the war orphan fund. Harry had cut it out and kept it in that first drawer with Malfoy’s wand.

He sat on the edge of the mattress and stared into Malfoy’s smug and smiling face. He crushed it in his hand when he fell asleep with it, wearing it down in familiar places.

Harry didn’t want to send Ariadne with a letter, he didn’t want to remind Malfoy of his presence or make Malfoy ever have to speak to him again but the baby. He didn’t expect Malfoy would answer, and Malfoy lived up to that. He just wanted to remind him that one day, someday soon even, they would have to decide what to do.

Malfoy put that day off for two months. They met in a park that Malfoy knew and Harry didn’t. There was an impressive bump where flat stomach used to be but Malfoy could still disguise it well with layers. They sat down on a bench together under a tree with red leaves, Malfoy putting as much space between them as possible. Harry obligingly stuck to his side.

“Are you all right?” he said, feeling like a prat as soon as the words were out.

As expected, Malfoy made him feel every inch of it. He scowled and snapped, “No, Potter, I am not all right.”

Harry bit his lip and turned away. “Sorry,” he said defenselessly, “I meant with the baby and all.”

Malfoy leaned back against the bench, apparently satisfied with that answer. “It’s fine,” he said without inflection.

They sat in awkward silence and Harry wondered how horrible this must all be for Malfoy. Harry’s family had rallied around him as best they could but Ron and Hermione had a new daughter to think of, Rose, and they were all thinking the same thing besides. Did we really not know him as well as we thought we did? Did our distance push him to this? They all blamed themselves for how far gone Harry had got, and that left him feeling even more wretched than he already did. But Malfoy.

Malfoy must have felt not only violated but betrayed. His family and friends had sold him down the river. Not one of them had noticed that there was someone else inside his head working the controls. And they must feel terrible for missing it too. In one fell swoop, Harry had wrecked the life of this man who meant so much to him.

Malfoy breathed deeply next to him and squinted up at the too-white clouds loafing across the sky. “I tried to get rid of it, you know,” he said conversationally.

Harry choked on some broken sound in his throat and nodded his head morosely, staring down at his gloved fingers..

“They couldn’t,” Malfoy told him. Harry’s head shot up and he stared into Malfoy’s face as he talked. “It’s too wrapped up inside me, twisted through everything. The way you were,” Malfoy said solemnly. Harry swallowed and crushed a brittle leaf beneath his heel. “Why did you try so hard to keep my mind?” Malfoy asked suddenly as though he’d been holding the question in for ages.

Harry looked up into the overlapping branches and shrugged. “I wanted you,” he said, squinting one eye in the glare of the sun, “exactly as you were. I even wanted you not to want me in a way because that was a part of you, too.” Malfoy didn’t look as if that’d answered his question and Harry thought now was as good a time as any to explain himself if Malfoy would let him. He breathed in deeply and the air tasted like winter even though it was a few months off. “I was handling it,” Harry told him, admitting, “not well, but I wasn’t handling it.” He flexed his stubby fingers. “Then in George’s shop with the candies. I didn’t know any more than you did what they would do.” Harry looked up at Malfoy as he said that, hoping Malfoy would believe him. “You kissed me and I didn’t know how to live without that anymore.”

Malfoy’s mouth was tight and he was staring down at his knees. “But we didn’t see each other again until the Magpies match,” he said as though he was fact checking.

Harry shook his head and his chest felt tight. “We saw each other at the Mienfang Gallery.” He hung his head. “I don’t know what happened. I saw you and I tried to hide out on the terrace but you found me. You wouldn’t leave me alone. I think you wanted to force me to deal with how I felt about you but I couldn’t, not then. You were making me so angry and my wand was in my hand and I cursed you. I don’t even remember thinking it before I said it.” Harry was hiding his face in his hands and his glasses were getting all smudgy. “You were standing there, like you were waiting for me to do something more. So I told you to kiss me.” Harry blushed up to his ears. “I got off while you touched me and I swore to myself that it would be the first and last time it ever happened. I Obliviated you and I tried to forget it myself.” He sighed into his fingers. “I failed obviously.”

Malfoy was watching him and it was making Harry’s neck hot. He’d twisted on the bench and rested his elbow on the back edge, propping his head up in his hand. “When did you stop hating me?” he asked and he seemed genuinely curious as to when it could have happened.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and said honestly, “I have no idea.”

Malfoy sighed and righted himself on the bench. He laced his hands together and hung them down between his knees. “I don’t know I want you involved with any of this,” he said calmly. He thought a moment and then amended. “No, I know I don’t want you involved with any of this. But I think if I choose that now, when I’m feeling bitter and I want nothing more than to hurt you, I think then I might regret it someday. I don’t think you’re meant to make decisions, not ones that really matter, feeling like that.”

Harry tried not to press his luck and told Malfoy sincerely, “I’ll try to accept whatever you ask of me but I don’t know I can never see my baby.”

Malfoy stiffened a moment and then offered him a sharp nod. He stood and was already a few paces away when he turned back and said, “It’s a boy, by the way.”

Malfoy didn’t owl, despite the fact that Ariadne sometimes left for days at a time. Harry didn’t have to guess where she might be. He didn’t answer Harry’s Floo calls. He didn’t communicate at all. He had to be in his third trimester by now and Harry hadn’t spoken to him since his first. He had no way of knowing if the two people he loved more dearly than anything in the world were even still alive. Harry curled up on Malfoy’s side of the bed, his picture under the pillow and he stayed that way for days, even when Ariadne would dance on his shoulder and nip at his ear.

Kreacher tried to entice him downstairs with all of Harry’s favorite foods but even when he caved and brought the loaded trays up to him, Harry only picked at them half-heartedly. He was losing weight rapidly and his robes sagged on his bony shoulders but it was not as if Harry was trying to impress anyone.

His skin had gone ashen and drawn and Harry wondered if he shouldn’t plan a trip to the Mediterranean then. Malfoy wasn’t there to enjoy the joke.

Harry wondered if Malfoy had told the press yet, or if they’d got hold of the fact that he was up the duff and were trying to guess the parentage. He wondered if Zacharias Smith was a frontrunner. For all Harry knew, he and Malfoy had got back together. After all, it was only because of Harry that they’d split up at all.

When his front door opened Harry’s thoughts were of nothing but Malfoy and his baby, his son, but he couldn’t rally himself enough to get down the stairs. It would have been a wasted effort besides, he realized as a red mop of hair popped up around the edge of his door.

George snorted. “This looks healthy then.” Harry didn’t bother to react. George strode into Harry’s room, looking around absentmindedly at all the furniture-shaped places where the carpet looked brighter. “Budge up,” he said as he sat down on the mattress on Harry’s old side of the bed. “I have tried talking to him, you know,” George told him with a hum.

Harry’s head popped up. “You’ve seen him?” His voice was rough and it scraped his throat on its way out.

George nodded. “He’s as stubborn as you are.”

Harry sat up and he felt achy all over. “Did he look all right? Is the baby okay?”

George held up his hands in a quiet plea for calm. “They’re both fine.” Harry’s whole body went limp with relief. He thought it might’ve felt good just to know one way or the other. The uncertainty had been eating away at him. “I’ve been trying to convince him to meet with you,” George said with a frown, “but it was an effort just to get him to that park.”

Harry felt a wave of affection for George and it must have shown on his face.

George’s jaw clenched and he looked as serious as Harry had ever seen him. “I didn’t do that for you.” Harry pinched at the corner of his pillowcase. “I know Draco. He would never forgive himself if he didn’t do the best he could for that kid.” George rubbed at his eyes. He looked as tired as Harry felt. “I should have know when you asked if he was different,” George said scornfully. He shook the thought away. “Was the baby on purpose too?” George asked tightly in a voice that was seeking truth and not judgment.

Harry lowered his gaze and shook his head. “I had no idea it would happen. I never meant it to.”

George nodded and said, “I’ll keep trying,” before he stood to leave.

“I won’t hurt him,” Harry said quickly.

George’s mouth tightened and he responded stiffly, “I believe you.” He paused on his way out and added, his eyes shadowed, “But if you’d said it a year ago, I would have believed you then too.”

George’s efforts didn’t seem to have borne any fruit. Malfoy still didn’t want anything to do with him.

Harry tried to make reparations but he had no idea what Malfoy wanted. He tried apologies and expensive gifts and he even sent Malfoy a letter saying he would explain things to Smith if Malfoy wanted. Everything came back to him unheard, untouched and unopened. There was no way around it, Malfoy was finished with him.

Harry gave into the inevitable. He resigned himself to never seeing his son or his—or Malfoy ever again. He dragged his knees up under his chin on the couch in the parlor and he stopped doing much of anything besides wishing as hard as he could.

Ron and Hermione and Kreacher and George and Cho and the rest of the Weasleys and even Rose tried, but Harry was dead to the world and they were better off without him around bringing down the mood.

Around mid-winter, Harry heard a knock on the door that he would recognize anywhere. He struggled upright on his sofa bed and stumbled into the foyer. He took a steadying breath, gripped onto the handle and wrenched open the door.

Malfoy was very pregnant now.

His face was rounder and some of the pointiness had become soft edges. Harry hoped it wouldn’t stay like that after their son was born. He had got used to Malfoy’s too sharp face. He liked the way it reflected the man himself, abrasive but beautiful and softened in the right light. His stomach was as big as a medicine ball and his blond hair was longer than Harry had last seen it. Malfoy had tied it at the nape of his neck like Bill did with his. Harry wondered if Bill was the inspiration for it.

He thought he saw a flicker of concern in Malfoy’s eyes when he noted Harry’s skin and bones appearance but he couldn’t be sure.

Harry stood back far enough for Malfoy to come in without bumping his belly into anything and Harry felt a smile break out over his lips for the first time in a long time. “You’ve gotten so big,” he crowed, his eyes crinkling up at the corners.

Malfoy placed a hand on the ridge of his stomach with a huffing breath and Harry nodded him into the kitchen.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, twisting his hands together almost painfully. He paced in front of the counter until Malfoy looked up at him uneasily.

“Tea would be nice,” Malfoy answered and his voice sounded much better than Harry’s, robust and fine. Harry busied himself with the kettle and nearly burned himself twice on the stove with his fidgety fingers. He held them in his hand and tried to steady his nerves. “I’ve made a decision,” Malfoy said behind him.

Harry knocked a cup off the counter as he hastily turned. He swore and dragged out his wand to cast a Reparo, noticing Malfoy’s flinch from his periphery. “Oh shit,” Harry profaned, tossing his wand in the sink without thought. “I wasn’t thinking,” he said, fisting his hair.

“No, it’s fine,” Malfoy put in quickly. “Of course you’re going to use your wand, I just—”

“You’re fucking traumatized is what you are,” Harry finished and his eyes started to water. He leaned back against the counter and put his hand out to steady himself. It landed directly on the kettle. “Fuck.” Harry jumped up and shook it. “I never know what to do for these,” he said, angry with himself.

“Run it under the tap,” Malfoy ordered. “Don’t make it too cold though.”

After a moment or two, the pain started to subside and Harry mumbled, “Thank you.” He cleared his throat and said, “You’d made a decision?”

Malfoy nodded as the kettle boiled. Harry wrapped a flannel around his hand and poured himself and Malfoy a cup of tea. He set Malfoy’s down in front of him and then took the seat beside him at the head of the table. Malfoy let his fingertips rest on the rim of his cup. “I want you to be part of Clancy’s life,” he said determinedly. He tugged on the sleeve of his robe and added, “I don’t ever want you to be part of mine again but I don’t see much of a way around that now.”

Harry stared into the murky surface of his tea and nodded desolately.

Malfoy was staring at him in disbelief. He picked up his cup and set it down so that it made a hollow sound where the air trapped under the bottom base met the tabletop to get Harry’s attention. “Okay, seriously, Potter,” he said, exaggerating the syllables, “you’re going to let me name our son Clancy?” Harry blinked at him. “Do you want him to spend the rest of his life getting his arse kicked on playgrounds? You’ve failed Parenting 101.”

Harry’s laugh was loud and he caught himself totally off guard with it. “Well, you’re scorned, aren’t you? I have no choice but to cede to you, all good judgment aside. You could name him Jellypaste and I’d have to take it in stride.” Harry couldn’t help but notice that that sounded terribly Malfoy-like. He supposed all that time spent around him was bound to have its effects.

Malfoy stared down at his tummy and poked. “Jellypaste,” he said solemnly as though he was carrying out a ritual, “that is your name now.”

Harry grinned. “Not even as a joke, Malfoy.”

“Jellypaste,” Malfoy said, talking to his belly, “your father is teasing you about your name.” Malfoy’s back straightened up and he smiled a soft, warm smile that Harry had never seen on him before. “Oh, I think he likes it,” he said quietly and Harry wasn’t sure Malfoy was really talking to him anymore. “That was a giddy kick, wasn’t it, Jellypaste?”

Harry gasped in awe and without thinking he reached out a hand for Malfoy’s stomach. As soon as his brain kicked in, he pulled it back, flexing his fingers, and saying a hasty, “Sorry, I—”

Malfoy grabbed his hand before it could retreat the full way and moved it up from where he’d been reaching. “Not there. Here,” he said instructively.

It took a moment but Harry felt the tiny kick beneath his fingers while Malfoy’s palm was warm against the back of his hand. Harry let out a slow breath. “Wow,” he said, his fingers sandwiched between his two fiercest loves.

Malfoy smiled at him. “Yeah, wow.”

He and Jellypaste and Malfoy, they make a nontraditional little bunch. Harry hangs the picture of Walburga Black with her children on the wall of the house he and Malfoy share. He comes to terms with the fact that though they may not look like a conventional family, that doesn’t mean there’s any less love between them.

Malfoy tells him, one night when dawn is fast approaching and the birds are singing their cacophonous operas outside their window and Ariadne is flying around in tireless circles above their heads, that he’s not angry anymore. “Without you,” he says, rocking the crib with his foot and sitting closer to Harry than he’s dared to in ages, “we could never have had him.” He sits up a little and stares through the slats of the crib as the small bundle rolls over. When JP settles back into sleep Malfoy relaxes into his seat again, his shoulder resting against Harry’s now. “The way I see it,” he whispers, “whatever else came before it, it’s well worth it now.”

Harry feels the same. He can only hope that if he’s patient, if he bides his time, if he shows Malfoy that he can be an honorable man again then maybe, someday, the house they’ve bought together might actually blossom into a home.