Work Text:
Harry walks in the holding room and finds Ron and Draco seated back to back on the floor, leaning up against each other, as if sat up against a tree or a wall instead of another human.
Harry thinks: well, it will be a lot harder for them to hit each other from this position.
They’ve each got their wands gripped in their fists, which is ridiculous because they can’t use them without feeling the effect on themselves. Harry notices, though, that they’re not gripping them tightly, at least not anymore. It’s for show, then.
“I could conjure a couple of chairs,” Harry offers.
Ron looks up, just now noticing that Harry’s entered the room.
“We’re not sitting like this for lack of chairs,” Ron says, scowling.
Harry leans on the wall and frowns at the pair of them. Malfoy isn’t looking at Harry, instead sitting with his elbows propped on his knees, staring fixedly at the wall. Harry can see his jaw working just a little.
"Can I ask why, then?" Harry says, even though he's starting to get an inkling as to the answer.
"It's better like this," says Ron. "The hex wants us to…touch."
"Oh," says Harry, his suspicion confirmed. "And if you don't?"
"It hurts," says Malfoy, short and sharp, still not looking at Harry.
"Hurts how," Harry asks, concerned.
"It hurts," says Ron. "Just — everywhere."
"But you don't hurt now," Harry says, checking.
"No," says Malfoy. Then he hesitates. "Yes, but it's a moral injury, not a physical one," he revises. "You can imagine I'm not keen on leaning up against Weasley."
"A moral injury," Ron scoffs, "if anyone is morally injured–”
"Both of you stop it," Harry says, not wanting this to start up again. "I'm sorry I asked."
"Shouldn't you be off trying to figure this out," Malfoy says, not for the first time. "Is it really the best use of Ministry resources to have you in here hovering around us and commenting snidely on the only coping strategy we've worked out?"
"Hermione's working on it," Harry says. "And I’m not being snide, and last time we left the two of you alone, it didn't go well, did it."
It really hadn’t. Ron threw a punch that gave Malfoy a bloody nose, and a second later, Ron’s nose was bleeding too; none of this stopped Malfoy from firing off a stinging curse that had both their faces swollen and unrecognisable for hours. Since then, they haven’t been left unattended for more than a few minutes at a time.
Harry decides to conjure a chair for himself, at least. He sits down facing perpendicular to Ron and Malfoy, and folds his arms over his chest. Passing the time.
Ron is too angry to be talkative, and Malfoy seems to prefer glowering in silence, too. Harry cuts the occasional glance their way, though they're perfectly behaved at the moment. It's warm in the little room; they've each removed their robes and are sitting in trousers and shirts, Ron's t-shirt and Malfoy's cotton button-down shirt. Ron must be feeling the warmth of Malfoy's back through the two layers of fabric.
"Okay, that can't be comfortable," Harry says finally. "Have you tried anything else?"
"Like what," says Ron, "should I be the big spoon and Malfoy be the little spoon."
"Like sitting facing the same way," Harry says. "Like normal people." He waves his wand and conjures a sofa. "Go on, try it."
Malfoy sighs, but he does stand up and come over. It's obvious when the pain hits him, about two steps away from Ron. Malfoy clutches a hand around his middle and winces; he’s never been a stoic, Malfoy.
To be fair, Ron doesn't look much better as he stands up and hastens after Malfoy. They sit on opposite ends of the sofa, then Malfoy drags out a put-upon sigh and wriggles closer to Ron until their thighs are touching all along their length. Ron shifts his shin so their calves are touching, too, and then miserably they push their arms together as well.
"Not enough," says Ron gruffly.
"Fuck," says Malfoy, and switches his wand to his other hand, then picks up Ron’s fingers and clasps them.
They both exhale, and Harry wonders if this is really that much of an improvement, Draco's slender pale hand grasped by Ron's big freckled one.
"Well," says Harry, "at least you're off the floor."
“This is intolerable,” says Malfoy, voice clipped and disdainful. “I feel like I’m on a bad date. Weasley, your hand is sweaty.”
Ron wrests his hand free and wipes it off on his thigh before grabbing Malfoy’s hand back. “Better?” he says.
“That’s disgusting,” Malfoy says, and tightens his grip on his wand, which makes Ron pick up his wand again.
“Stop it,” Harry says, standing up. “Blimey. Can you not just pretend it’s someone else next to you?”
“I can’t think of any bloke I’d like to hold hands with,” Ron says, wide-eyed.
“So pretend Malfoy is Hermione,” Harry says.
“Please do not pretend I’m Granger,” Malfoy says immediately.
“And you’d better not pretend I’m–” Here Ron hesitates, obviously having difficulty thinking of who Malfoy would ever want to hold hands with. “Pansy Parkinson?”
“Pansy Parkinson?” Malfoy repeats. “My girlfriend from when I was fifteen?”
“Well, how would I know who you’re shagging now,” Ron says. “It’s not like I see you except when we’re raiding your manor.”
Malfoy’s countenance goes dark at this reminder of the raid; Harry can see him squeezing Ron’s hand painfully, even though it must be hurting him just as badly.
“Ow,” says Ron, “stop it, would you? It’s not like I wanted to be doing this, either.”
Malfoy huffs out a sigh. “I suppose it’s occurred to you that we wouldn’t even be in this fix if your lot didn’t go rummaging through my home and putting your idiot hands on artefacts that you have no business touching.”
“Why do you even have a music box that makes people bound together, anyway?” Ron shouts, wrenching his hand away from Malfoy’s and standing up. “Why would you keep that around?”
“It was a wedding gift to my great-grandparents!” Malfoy yells back, also standing up. “We keep it around because it’s an heirloom, and anyway nobody in my family is stupid enough to pick it up and open it like a great ginger moron!” As he finishes yelling, he seizes Ron’s hand again, his face relaxing only a little as the pain eases.
“Some fucking wedding gift!” Ron shouts back, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.
“Nobody asked you to open it,” Malfoy snaps, and hauls Ron back to sit next to him on the sofa again. In his haste to get them touching again, Malfoy fairly pulls Ron down onto his lap, and they both swear and shove at each other as they try to find the best way to be touching as much as they can without somehow touching too much.
“That’s it,” says Ron, making as though to stand up again, “I’m going to go smash that fucking music box with a hammer, that should take care of this.”
But Malfoy lets go of Ron’s hand at this and instead slings his arm around Ron’s shoulders, the movement somewhere between a hug and a headlock. “Sit bloody still,” he says. “If you break it, we’ll be stuck like this, I already explained that to you. So unless you fancy me being there for your precious wedding night…”
“Fine,” says Ron, extremely red in the face now, the shade of his skin nearly matching the tone of his hair. “Fine.” He shrugs his shoulders aggressively, trying to dislodge Malfoy’s arm. “Gerroff.”
Malfoy returns to holding Ron’s hand.
Harry breathes a sigh of relief that they’ve sorted it out without coming to blows this time. “There’s a quidditch match on,” Harry says. “Should I…?”
“Yes,” say Ron and Malfoy in unison.
Harry nods and taps the wizarding wireless he brought in with him. It’s Chudley at Holyhead, and the game’s shaping up to be a nice long one with the teams well matched this season.
Gradually, all three of them relax. Harry and Ron start arguing amiably about whose Keeper is better between the two teams. Harry’s a Holyhead supporter, having picked up the habit when he was dating Ginny and she was on the team; and of course, Ron is a Chudley fan through and through.
“Say what you want about Lopez,” says Harry, “but nobody can match him when it comes to his reach, he’s got those massive arms like an orangutan, doesn’t he?”
“He’s about as thick as an orangutan too,” Ron says, and Malfoy makes a low strangled sound, seemingly in response. Ron looks at him, surprised. “What, you think he’s not? One time I saw him defending the wrong side of the hoops for five minutes before he worked out–”
Malfoy is glaring down between him and Ron now, and Harry and Ron both look to see what his problem is: Ron’s thumb is rhythmically stroking over the back of Malfoy’s hand. Ron freezes instantly.
“Thank you,” says Malfoy tightly.
“Sorry,” says Ron, going red again. “I wasn’t thinking, it just–”
”Felt nice,” Malfoy finishes for him. “Yes, that’s the thing with the binding hex, isn’t it.”
“What feels bad for one feels bad for both,” Harry says. “And what feels good for one–”
“Well, I wasn’t trying to shag you or anything,” Ron says. “I just…fidgeted. I do it all the time, holding Hermione’s hand.”
“And I’ve already asked you not to act like I’m your fiancée,” says Malfoy between gritted teeth. “That sort of thing is the very definition of a slippery slope, Weasley. One minute you’re stroking my hand and the next we’re… the binding hex music box was a tool to ensure the success of arranged marriages, remember?”
“Don’t be stupid,” says Ron, “I’m not going to start having sex with you just because of a little hex. I hate you.”
“You think a little thing like hating each other would stand in the way of having sex?” Malfoy says, scoffing.
“And,” Ron adds, “and I’m straight, so there’s that.”
“And my great-grandfather was queer as pink ink,” says Malfoy, “and yet he produced seven children by my great-grandmother – despised daughter of an enemy house, by the way – once the binding hex had its say.”
“Oh,” says Ron, disappointed. “Really?”
“Really,” says Malfoy. “The hex doesn’t give a shit.”
“Fuck,” says Ron feelingly.
“So please be very careful,” Malfoy says, “and do remember I’m not Hermione bloody Granger.”
“He’ll be careful,” Harry says. “Can we just listen to the match, please?”
Ron and Malfoy make a visible effort to both reclaim some distance between them while somehow keeping fully in contact along their sides: legs splayed, outside arms hanging over the edge of either side of the sofa. It looks ridiculous, frankly, but they do seem to find an equilibrium point and settle back into the sofa, hands loosely clasped.
Harry returns his attention to the match, or tries to. He keeps glancing over at Malfoy and Ron, thinking of the noise Malfoy made when Ron was just stroking his thumb gently over Malfoy’s skin. It must have felt better than the simple motion would suggest. But it couldn’t have been sexual, or Ron would have noticed sooner, Harry reminds himself. And yet, Malfoy’s reaction didn’t seem like a wholly innocent sound of pleasure.
There’s a knock at the door and all three of them turn their heads to see Hermione coming in.
Ron pulls his hand out of Malfoy’s as if she’s caught Ron cheating, and Malfoy rolls his eyes and grabs it back.
“It helps with the pain,” Ron says to Hermione. “I know it’s weird.”
Hermione nods, her mouth working against an uneasy smile. “Of course,” she says. “But do be careful, it seems like shared touch can cascade out of control very quickly with this hex.”
“So I’ve been trying to tell him,” says Malfoy snottily. “Well? Have you worked it out?”
“That’s why I’m here,” says Hermione. “It looks like we’ve found a device from the same maker that can undo the hex.”
“Brilliant,” says Ron, looking at Malfoy. “I told you she’d solve it.”
“But,” says Hermione, “the device is part of a museum collection.”
“I’ll ring the museum,” says Harry, already standing up. “I can explain.” He doesn’t usually like to throw his name around, but if it means an end to this horrible situation, Harry will sign autographs and pose for photos with every member of the museum’s board of directors if need be.
“The museum is in Tonga,” says Hermione. “We’re still trying to reach the curator, but the Floo connection isn’t great. We might have to send someone by apparition but we’re having trouble locating anyone qualified who’s been, since you can’t apparate to a place you don’t know. Right now our best bet is a witch from Auckland who works in Magical Maintenance, but she can’t fly a broom and her apparition is spotty, she doesn’t fancy trying to go all the way to New Zealand–”
“Just spit it out, Hermione,” Ron says, “we’re stuck staying the night, aren’t we?”
“You’re staying the night,” says Hermione. “I’m sorry. Tonga isn’t a place where we have good Floo agreements, it’s not safe to send someone unless we can make sure it’s a secure connection. And a portkey that hasn’t been pre-arranged would be – well. Quite illegal. The sentiment in Tonga towards the United Kingdom is incredibly fraught, and honestly, quite rightly so. The British Empire never had any business—”
“Wait, we’re staying the night?” Malfoy interrupts. “Here?”
Harry holds up his hands before Hermione can start in again about the hegemony of magico-colonial structures or Ron can snipe at Malfoy about him not fancying a stay at the Death Eater HQ and how Malfoy certainly isn’t welcome at his and Hermione’s.
“There’s no need to stay here,” Harry says. “I’ve got my house, there’s loads of room.”
And now, abruptly, all the shouting is directed his way instead. Ron is yelling about how he’s not sharing a bloody bed with Draco fucking Malfoy, Malfoy is snapping that he’s not sure how Potter’s house is any better than his actual mansion when it comes to having enough room, and Hermione is loudly and pointedly asking Harry if it’s a great idea to invite Malfoy into the fid— the you know what charm.
Harry pulls out his wand and fires off three silencio charms in rapid succession. “As I was saying,” he says tightly, now that everyone’s quiet at last, “there’s loads of room at Grimmauld Place — stop with the eyes, Hermione, the house used to be in Malfoy’s family, he already bloody knows where it is, doesn’t he — and we’ll all be more comfortable than we would be jammed into this tiny hot room. And yes, Ron: Hermione can stay over too, but you know there’s no helping it, you do have to share a bed with Malfoy. Now, before I lift the silencing spells, will you all please try to stop shouting at me? Finite incantatem.”
Harry’s silencing spells seem to have least stopped the momentum of all the uproar, as the three of them stare uneasily at each other for a moment even once they can speak again.
“Right,” says Harry, “let’s go get a Floo to mine, shall we?”
***
They depart from the Ministry atrium, Hermione going first and Harry bringing up the rear so he can make sure Malfoy and Ron don’t murder each other before they take the Floo together.
“Who wants some tea,” Harry says on the other side. Hermione’s leaning against a kitchen bench frowning at Malfoy and Ron, who are still holding hands and determinedly looking to opposite ends of the kitchen, standing awkwardly.
“I guess I could use a cup,” says Hermione, sighing, and she tips her head to summon Harry closer to her as she gets the kettle filled.
Ron and Malfoy are now taking a seat on the bench at Harry’s kitchen table, knocking knees together and swearing at each other, so Harry leaves them and goes to help Hermione.
“Have you thought about where you’ll even put them?” Hermione asks in an undertone. “Like you said, they have to share a bed.”
Harry glances back at the pair, still holding hands and still staring angrily away from each other again now they’re seated. “I thought I’d put them in the big bed in the green room. They can probably sleep back to back, at least,” Harry says. “They were sitting that way earlier.”
“Were they,” says Hermione, getting down four mugs now. “I suppose you and I can take it in turns to watch them.”
“Watch them?” Harry says, taken aback. “What, watch them sleeping?”
Hermione puts a tea bag in each mug and pours out the hot water. “Well, yes,” she says. “You know Malfoy’s right about the binding hex, one wrong move and they could wind up… making a mistake they’d never otherwise make.”
“You seriously think Ron would, what, give Malfoy a hand job?” Harry asks, snorting. “Hermione. Come on.”
“Harry,” she says, “imagine it was you in this situation. Imagine that not touching Malfoy is nearly unbearable, and imagine that the hex is rewarding you every time you do touch. Any little brush of fingers feels fantastic already, and you think you could just ignore that temptation? You could just keep your hands to yourself?”
“You make it sound like they don’t have any free will,” Harry says uncomfortably, looking back over his shoulder again. “You really think we need to chaperone them all night?”
“Yes,” says Hermione. “I do. My feelings aside, I think they’ll thank us for it, too.” She waves her wand and the mugs of tea float over to the trestle table where Malfoy and Ron are seated.
Ron picks up his mug with alacrity as Harry and Hermione return, but Malfoy has his arms folded, frowning.
“You don’t want any?” Harry asks, sipping from his own mug. “Did you want something else?”
Malfoy shakes his head. “I was thinking it might be wise to — avoid liquids.”
“Oh,” says Ron, going wide-eyed, setting his mug down in a hurry. “Wait, how will that work?”
“You’ve both been holding it this whole time?” Hermione asks, jaw dropped. “Ron, the raid was hours ago! How are you not bursting?”
“I haven’t exactly been in the mood to eat or drink,” says Ron, getting keyed up again. “Oh Merlin, we’re going to have to hold each other’s hands to take a piss.”
“Or worse,” says Harry, unable to stop himself.
Ron goes pale and Malfoy grates out a sigh. “I think we can all agree that we can choose to suffer a little pain rather than — that,” Malfoy says.
“Of course you can,” Hermione says hastily. “Right, Ron?”
Ron pushes his mug away and drops his head into his palms.
“Well, might as well give it a try,” says Malfoy, shuffling down the bench and standing up. He heads directly for the loo, which is just off the corridor leading into the kitchen, but makes it only a few steps before he stops.
“Yes, fine,” says Ron, standing up too, hastening over and taking Malfoy’s hand. “I suppose I can walk you there.”
Malfoy’s shoulders relax visibly, and the two of them continue the short journey. Harry and Hermione watch, wincing, as they pause outside the bathroom door and Malfoy goes in alone. Ron slumps against the wall and wraps his arms around his middle, his face crumpling in pain. “Hurry up!” he yells, and bangs a fist on the door.
“That bad?” Hermione asks, rising now too. “Oh, Ron.” She goes over and puts her arms around him, and though he clings to her instantly, the pain on his face doesn’t ease at all. Harry wonders how Malfoy is faring on the other side of the door.
The rush of water, the sink running, and then the door bursts open and Malfoy emerges looking even paler than usual. He pushes Hermione aside and — Harry gapes — embraces Ron as tightly as Hermione did a moment earlier. This time, the relief is obvious on both their faces, chased just as quickly by horror and regret as they break apart again.
“You fucking hugged me!” Ron yells.
“I had to!” Malfoy shouts back.
“I know!” Ron yells. “I still hated it! And I hate you!”
“Stop it!” Hermione says, holding her hands up. “Has either of you noticed that you’re not touching right now?”
Ron and Malfoy look down and then up again; of course, Hermione is right. They’re about six feet apart, having shoved each other away in disgust, and neither looks to be in any particular pain. “All we had to do was hug to end the hex?” Ron asks. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s not that,” says Malfoy tautly, “it’s a reward, isn’t it.”
“Oh,” says Hermione. “A reward.” She pushes Ron towards the toilet. “Go now, quickly, before it wears off.”
Ron looks ready to argue, but then Hermione glares and shoves him again, Malfoy staggering a little at the force of it, and finally Ron goes into the loo without further protest.
“A reward,” Harry asks, coming over to join Malfoy and Hermione. “What do you mean, a reward?”
“Well, of course the hex doesn’t literally mean that the two parties have to be physically touching all the time,” Hermione says. “What it wants is for both people to be increasingly – well, increasingly physically intimate with each other, and it rewards them for doing just that by giving them a reprieve from the pain of being apart.”
“So if Weasley and I — do that — every five minutes,” says Malfoy. “We can be apart otherwise?”
“Well,” says Hermione. “That might work for a while, yes.”
“Might it work until we get this fucking device here from Tonga?” Malfoy asks. “Until tomorrow?” He turns to the door and knocks sharply. “Don’t linger in there, Weasley, I know you feel it starting up again too.”
“It should, yes,” says Hermione. She opens her mouth as if to say more, then closes it, glancing at Harry. “I think it’s still best if we stick with the plan to have you — stay in contact overnight.”
Ron emerges from the loo and takes up Malfoy’s hand, looking extremely relieved. “Fine, yes,” he says, “but no funny business, Malfoy.”
“I shall try to restrain myself,” Malfoy says, looking heavenward.
“Let’s finish our tea,” Harry suggests, “and then we can see about sleeping arrangements.”
***
“Oh, the other way,” Harry says as they reach the landing and Malfoy turns right instead of left. “The green room, I thought.”
“Of course,” says Malfoy stiffly, and follows Harry to the left, Hermione and Ron coming in behind him.
The green room isn’t large, but it has a big bed, and there’s a chaise longue off to one side that will serve as a place for Hermione or Harry to keep watch. It’s rather formally appointed, but as Harry hasn’t had a need to redecorate it, it’s stayed stiff and starched and just a bit gloomy ever since Kreacher first aired it out and cleaned it up years ago, before Kreacher himself gave up the ghost.
“I can take the first watch, Harry,” says Hermione. “You go get some rest.”
“Are you sure?” Harry asks, looking over to where Ron and Malfoy are circling the bed warily. “I don’t mind going first, I’m used to night shifts.”
“No, it’s fine,” says Hermione, “I’ve always been better at staying up late than getting up early — and I’ve got a book with me, I’ll be okay.”
“If you’re sure,” Harry says. He glances at his watch. “It’s nearly eleven now, I’ll come to relieve you about three?”
“Sure,” says Hermione.
“And you can go up to the yellow room to sleep,” says Harry, “or even just my room across the hall if you like, it’s not like I’ll be needing it after that.”
“Thanks,” says Hermione, then she’s distracted by Ron. “Ronald Weasley, you are not putting on more clothes to sleep, that’s ridiculous.”
Harry looks over at Malfoy, who’s quietly stripped down to boxers and the undershirt he was apparently wearing under his shirt, and who’s now climbing into bed without ceremony.
“Goodnight,” Harry says.
“Not likely,” says Malfoy, facing away from Harry, back to the middle of the bed, awaiting Ron’s arrival once he stops arguing with Hermione over proper nighttime attire.
Harry leaves the room, crosses the landing, and goes into his own bedroom.
***
The waking spell Harry cast before he got into bed goes off at exactly two fifty-five. Harry groans — he only fell into a fitful sleep an hour earlier, having lain awake for a long time, on alert for any yelling or explosions in the room opposite. There was nothing.
Harry stretches and gets out of bed, donning his dressing gown and finding a pair of slippers to guard his feet against the night chill of the old house.
He meets Hermione on the landing. She looks extremely sleepy but less worried.
“Went okay?” Harry asks.
“Took forever for them to fall asleep,” she says. “First they argued about who was hogging the covers, and then it was a fight over who was facing whom.” She sighs shortly. “Turns out lying back to back wasn’t — quite enough.”
Harry’s eyebrows lift. “It was fine earlier, when they were sitting on the floor of the holding room.”
Hermione bites her lip. “I’m afraid the hex will just keep demanding — more. That hug was like adding a log to a fire — the hex was satisfied for a little while, but I’m not sure how many more times even that will suffice.”
“Fuck,” says Harry feelingly. “Should I start flying to Tonga now?”
“I’m actually about to use your Floo to try and get an update on the attempt to reach them,” says Hermione. “Keep your fingers crossed that we don’t have to watch Ron kissing Malfoy on the mouth so they can have separate showers.”
“I didn’t even think of showers,” Harry says. “Well, don’t let me keep you — but do come fetch me if you think I’m needed.”
“I will,” says Hermione, and she turns away towards the stairs.
“Are you okay?” Harry asks, stopping Hermione in her tracks for a second. “I mean — I imagine it doesn’t feel nice, seeing Ron cuddling Malfoy.”
Hermione smiles weakly and shrugs. “I know he can’t help it,” she says.
“Still pants though,” says Harry empathetically.
“Still pants,” she agrees, and heads down the stairs.
Harry opens the door to the green room quietly as he can, casting a low silent lumos to light his way. It’s hard to make out anything on the bed, but Harry can see that Ron and Malfoy are smack in the middle of the mattress, crowded close together. Harry comes around the bed to sit on the chaise, wishing he was awake enough to read a book. Instead, he settles back into the corner of the chaise, knees up in front of him, arms folded over them. A clock ticks away. Ron snores.
Harry’s pinching himself to stay awake when there’s a stirring on the bed. He sits up straight, worried that someone is making some sort of sleepy pass at someone else — maybe Ron half-dreaming that it’s Hermione pressed up against him — but then the covers flip up and Malfoy slips out, coming to his feet next to the bed.
Harry stands too, not sure what’s happening.
Malfoy gestures towards the ensuite bathroom, and Harry unthinkingly follows him, closing the door behind them and turning up the gas lights with a flick of his wand. “It doesn’t hurt?” Harry asks.
“I think the hex likes that we slept next to each other for a few hours,” says Malfoy. “I feel fine at the moment.” He’s got pillow creases on one side of his face and his hair is mussed, not at all his usual orderly neat self.
Harry doesn’t stop to ponder it, just crowds Malfoy back against a handy wall and kisses him desperately.
Malfoy pushes Harry away almost immediately. “What are you doing?” he hisses, annoyed. “We have maybe five minutes to talk in private since this whole thing began and you want to spend it snogging in the loo instead?”
“Okay, fine,” says Harry, “what did you want to talk about, then?”
Malfoy looks at Harry, opens his mouth, then hesitates. “Well,” he says.
“That’s what I thought,” Harry answers, and goes back to kissing Malfoy.
This time, Malfoy doesn’t try to stop him, just slides his arms underneath Harry’s dressing gown and runs his hands up Harry’s back, kissing Harry warmly.
They finally pull apart some minutes later, mutually coming to the unspoken conclusion that this can’t really go any further under the circumstances. “I had no idea you were the jealous type,” says Malfoy, smirking.
“I’m not,” lies Harry. “Malfoy, why the fuck wasn’t that music box up in my attic along with everything else you stowed there before the raid?”
“Shh,” says Malfoy, holding up a finger. “Shit, he’s stopped snoring. I’ll go first, hopefully he’s not awake.”
“Wait,” says Harry, and grabs Malfoy by the waist. “One more,” and ducks in to kiss him again.
Malfoy allows it, then pulls away and slips back into the bedroom, dimming the gas lights as he goes, leaving Harry in the dark again.
Harry waits for a few long moments before following, hoping that Ron isn’t sitting up and looking around for him. But when Harry emerges, he sees that Malfoy is back in bed and thankfully, Ron appears to be fast asleep still.
He reclaims his seat on the chaise and waits for the long night to end.
***
As the grey morning dawns, Harry can see how Malfoy is curled up around Ron, Malfoy’s front to Ron’s back. It looks faintly ridiculous, Ron’s long legs dangling on past where Malfoy’s end, but clearly it’s enabling them to sleep comfortably through the hex.
Ron stirs first, stretching and yawning; Harry can see the moment he remembers where he is and who he’s with, as his shoulders go stiff and he sits up straight, looking back at Malfoy.
“It’s okay,” Harry whispers. “You can get up, I think. Malfoy got up to use the loo in the middle of the night and he said it didn’t hurt.”
Ron swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, hesitant, but when he’s not overcome with pain, he grins and walks around the bed. “I’m going to shower,” he says, not bothering to moderate the volume of his voice. “Before this wears off.” He disappears into the ensuite, looking fairly cheerful to have survived the night.
Malfoy’s moving around now, too, and he props himself up on his elbows as the water for the shower starts running. “He didn’t wonder whether I might like to go first,” Malfoy says, voice morning low and sleepy.
“Go in my bathroom,” Harry says. “You know the way.”
Malfoy grunts and kicks his way out of the bed, rising and stretching with much less cheer than Ron. Malfoy is emphatically not a morning person, as Harry knows. “You look dreadful,” he tells Harry.
“Thanks,” says Harry, standing up and stretching as well. “I’ve been awake for hours, and I barely slept before that.”
“I think I’d trade, all things considered,” Malfoy says. “How any of you slept in Gryffindor tower with Weasley snoring away is beyond me. You should be buying Granger earmuffs for her wedding gift.”
“Hm,” Harry says, “we got used to it, I guess.” He yawns, unable to stop himself.
Malfoy pauses in front of Harry on his way out of the room, and starts to duck in as if to kiss him, but stops himself abruptly.
“He’s in the shower,” Harry says, going after Malfoy now, wanting that kiss in spite of how tired he is.
“He’s awake,” Malfoy replies. “He’d feel it.” His eyes go wide suddenly and he crosses the room in a few steps to pound on the bathroom door. “Weasley!” Malfoy yells. “No wanking!”
“What?” Ron hollers over the sound of the shower. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“You heard me!” Malfoy shouts back. “I felt that!”
“Oh fuck off!” Ron bellows. “I was washing!”
“Washing your cock,” Malfoy mutters, turning away. “Oh, don’t blush, Potter. As we just discussed, you spent your teen years sleeping six feet away from Weasley, you can’t tell me it’s news to you that he likes a wank.”
“Those beds had curtains around them for a reason,” Harry says, still blushing.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Well, no sex for any of us for the duration, anyway.” He strolls off towards Harry’s bathroom across the landing, and Harry watches him go with some regret. Somehow, he didn’t realise…but of course, Malfoy’s right.
***
They make it nearly two hours after waking before the pain becomes too much again, but both Malfoy and Ron are clearly quite chuffed about their extended time apart, and don’t grouse too much as they sit down at the kitchen table again: fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, showered, fed, and holding hands once again.
Hermione, by contrast, looks a wreck. Harry’s fairly sure she hasn’t slept a wink judging by the circles under her eyes and the state of her hair.
“We got Tonga on the Floo,” says Hermione, “about four o’clock, which was close to when everyone at the museum was heading home – they’re twelve hours ahead, you see – and it was a terrible connection, but I managed to explain that I needed to speak with the curator, and she said – well, quite a lot of unpleasant things about the British habit of borrowing things and not returning them – but I do think I managed to convince her this really would be a loan.”
“And?” says Malfoy. “Did you get the blasted device?”
“Not yet,” says Hermione, “but the curator is going to speak to the Floo authorities in Tonga about whether we can get a secure connection established to transfer the device to us safely. We don’t want to pass it through a Floo connection that’s unstable, it could destroy the device and it’s quite priceless and irreplaceable, the maker was a shaman who–”
“Granger,” growls Malfoy, at the same moment Ron pleads, “Hermione!”
“And they’re going to get back to us,” Hermione finishes hastily. “First thing tomorrow.”
“First thing tomorrow?” Harry repeats, because Malfoy and Ron both look too stricken to speak, which is quite a phenomenon considering the two parties afflicted.
“Which is just later on this evening for us,” Hermione adds triumphantly. “Because of the time difference!”
“That’s all day,” Ron says, going paler yet.
“What time is it now?” Malfoy asks. “nine? That’s not too early for firewhisky, is it?”
“Hermione,” says Harry, “isn’t there anything else we could try? Could we give them a potion to let them sleep it off? Or is there something that might fool the hex? Polyjuice?”
“Polyjuice won’t work, no,” says Hermione. “But it’s not a bad idea to let them sleep the day away. I could pop back to the Ministry and requisition a phial of Draught of Living Death, that ought to do it.”
“No,” says Malfoy, folding his arms over his chest. “I already spent eight hours pressed up against Weasley, I don’t fancy doing it any longer than that.”
“Well,” says Harry, “it’s not like sleeping, is it? The Draught puts you in a sort of suspended animation, like being petrified.”
Malfoy meets Harry’s gaze squarely, which he hasn’t done in the company of others since this whole thing started. “I have a social engagement today,” he says, “and I would like to be fully conscious for it.”
“A social engagement?” Ron asks. “What, like a date?”
“I’m not sure it’s any of your business,” says Malfoy. “Suffice it to say, I will be attending.”
“Surely you can reschedule,” says Hermione. “Unless you want Ron coming along?”
“I can’t reschedule,” says Malfoy, “nor do I want Weasley coming along.”
They all stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse.
Harry speaks first, sure that Malfoy meant him to intervene with that single pointed look. “Malfoy’s not being detained, is he, we can’t require him to stay here. If he wants to leave, he can. And it’s true that it’s none of our business why.”
“That still leaves the question of how he’ll do it without both of them being in horrible pain,” says Hermione. “Unless…”
“No,” says Harry, looking to Malfoy, who shrugs.
“No,” repeats Hermione. “Malfoy.”
“No what?” says Ron, looking among the three of them, baffled. “No what?”
“A hug gave us, what, five minutes?” Malfoy says. “And sleeping next to each other, that was much longer.”
“Wait,” says Ron.
“I don’t need three hours,” says Malfoy. “An hour and a half will do it.”
“Malfoy,” says Harry. “Are you suggesting—”
“Well, we’d need to try it out to ensure it earns us enough time,” says Malfoy. He turns to look at Ron. “Shall we?”
“I’m not having sex with you,” says Ron, wide-eyed. “I don’t care who you have a date with.”
“Not sex, Weasley,” Malfoy says, exasperated. “I can’t think of any social engagement worth that.”
“Well, what then?” Ron says, frowning, looking at Harry and Hermione.
“So you can’t imagine any level of physical intimacy between a hug and sex,” says Malfoy. “Granger, I do pity you.”
“Ron, I think Malfoy means a little…snogging,” Hermione says.
“Snogging?” says Ron. “Him?”
“If it means an hour and a half apart,” Hermione says, spreading her hands wide. “Maybe?”
Ron looks at Harry now. “Would you snog Malfoy for that?”
Harry opens his mouth, determinedly not looking at Malfoy because he can practically feel his smirk. “I suppose I might,” he says, trying to sound reluctant.
Ron huffs out a disbelieving breath. “Easy for you to say, it’s all just theoretical to you, isn’t it.”
“How about a test,” says Hermione. “Not a full snog, just a kiss?” She holds her left wrist out in front of her, ready to time. “Malfoy, can you… maybe on the cheek?”
Malfoy sighs and turns towards Ron, poised and ready.
Ron doesn’t object, but he does squeeze his eyes tight shut like he’s expecting to be doused in stinksap instead of kissed on the cheek.
“Go,” says Hermione, and Malfoy ducks in and drops a wholly platonic closed-mouth kiss on Ron’s cheek. He then immediately lets Ron’s hand go and stands up, breaking the connection between them.
Ron opens his eyes, blinking, and shuffles a little way down the bench, away from Malfoy.
They all stand in silent anticipation for a minute, two… Malfoy walks over to the fireplace and straightens some crockery that’s sitting on the mantelpiece. Ron slowly slouches down out of his tense posture as the pain doesn’t appear.
Then, what feels like an eternity later, Malfoy claps an arm around his middle and winces, coming back to sit next to Ron.
“Eleven minutes,” says Hermione. “Not bad, really!”
“Not long enough, though,” says Ron. “Damn.”
“You hardly thought that would get us an hour and a half,” says Malfoy, picking Ron’s hand up off the table. “Right, stand up, let’s have a proper go.”
Ron stands, looking as though he’s been asked to kiss Aragog. He steps over the bench and faces Malfoy, still holding his hand, then closes his eyes again and puckers his lips, leaning in towards Malfoy looking thoroughly revolted.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” says Malfoy, dropping Ron’s hand and cupping his fingers around the back of Ron’s neck instead, taking Ron by the waist with his other hand and pulling him in close. Malfoy takes advantage of Ron’s startlement to tip his head and press lip to lip, holding Ron steady as Malfoy kisses the absolute shit out of him.
Ron makes a muffled sound of protest, but then it’s clear that the hex takes over, because his hands fly up to Malfoy’s shoulders and grab them, and abruptly he’s kissing Malfoy back with alacrity. There is definitely tongue involved, Harry thinks as he watches, horror-stricken.
“I think that’s enough,” Hermione squeaks, standing up clumsily, her wand out as if she’s going to blast them apart if necessary.
Ron yanks himself away and then stumbles back a further six feet or so, mouth red and wet, eyes wide and startled but no longer revolted, not even a little bit. He honestly looks like he’s trying to resist the urge to go back in for a little more.
“Well,” says Malfoy, “that probably earned us a bit more time,” and he turns on his heel and heads for the stairwell. “Start counting, Granger.”
And Malfoy’s gone.
Hermione glances unhappily at her watch to note the time, then back up at Ron.
“Hermione,” Ron says, “it was the hex.”
“I know,” she says, but she won’t quite make eye contact. “It’s fine. I should – I have some work I should be doing. Just let me know when the pain starts up again, please.” And she gathers her papers and goes up the stairs after Malfoy, probably headed for the drawing room.
“Fuck, she’s upset, isn’t she,” Ron says, giving his head a literal shake. “I need to go after her.”
“She didn’t look too chuffed,” Harry agrees. “But it might not be a bad idea to give her a little longer to cool down, mate.”
Ron looks at Harry and leans up against the fireplace, hectic red in a spot on each of his cheeks, his breath still coming fast. “That was fucking bizarre,” he says. “Harry, I think I – I can imagine how Malfoy’s gay grandpa could do it.”
“Let’s just hope it was worth any resulting sexual confusion on your side,” Harry says, trying to sound jokey and amused, instead of… Harry’s not sure what to label the swirling sick feeling in his middle, but it’s nothing funny.
“Do you think he’s really that good at snogging,” Ron says, touching his mouth. “Or was that just the hex making me think he was? Did he look like he was doing a good job? Merlin, his mouth.” And Ron almost looks like he’s going to forget Hermione, go find Malfoy, and have another go with him instead.
“I think he looked a bit like he knows what he’s doing,” Harry says awkwardly, hoping it doesn’t sound to Ron like it sounds to Harry, like there’s a hidden I know what you fucking mean underneath the words.
“Right,” says Ron, pushing off the wall. He sits down a little awkwardly, then catches Harry watching and winces. “It was the hex,” he says, reaching down to readjust his jeans. “Blimey.”
Harry nods, trying to look at least a little understanding instead of completely freaked out as he feels. “I might just go have a lie-down,” Harry says, pushing himself up to his feet, “I’m knackered. I barely slept.”
“Go,” says Ron, “you do look done in.”
Harry nods again and makes a break for the stairs.
He finds Malfoy back in the green room, sitting on the chaise, paging through a book that he must have found lying around somewhere. The curtains have been flung open and there’s gorgeous sunlight puddled over Malfoy, illuminating his hair until it’s almost too bright to behold.
“I hope you’re happy,” says Harry, deciding not to be dazzled by any of this.
“Ecstatic,” says Malfoy, looking up. “I’ve always dreamed of snogging Ronald Weasley in front of his fiancee and — in front of you.”
And that’s when Harry realises that Malfoy is rattled as Ron, just hiding it much better. “It was the hex, I know,” says Harry, more conciliatory now. “It must be…uncomfortable.”
“Too bad it wasn’t you who opened the music box,” says Malfoy, “we could have just spent today shagging, couldn’t we.”
Harry sighs; it’s not the first time he’s had the same thought. He glances behind him, then closes the door to the room quietly, and comes over to Malfoy. They can’t touch, they can’t kiss. Harry just bumps his knees against Malfoy’s, and they look at each other.
“Is it your mum,” Harry asks. “This social engagement?”
“Yeah,” says Malfoy. “She worries. Since my father – you know he was ill for a long time. If I cancel plans, she… I can’t cancel plans.”
“I know,” says Harry. He reaches down and brushes the back of his hand over Malfoy’s forearm. It could be the brush of anything up against him. It’s roundly unsatisfying, and yet Malfoy’s answering gaze is a little too heated, like he’s still a bit worked up from kissing Ron.
“Sorry,” Harry says, and takes a step back.
“You should go sleep for a while,” says Malfoy, his tone quite calm and rational. “Weasley and I aren’t in any danger of shagging at the moment, no need to chaperone us.”
“I might lie down, yeah,” says Harry. “Thanks.”
Back in his own room, Harry crawls onto the bed and pulls the far pillow into his arms, spying a silver-blond hair on it as he does. The pillow smells a little of Malfoy.
Harry supposes there’s nothing preventing him from… well. He can’t stop thinking of what Malfoy said, about what if it were Harry who opened the music box near Malfoy. What if it were Harry that Malfoy had to touch and kiss and sleep curled around, Harry that Malfoy couldn’t leave alone.
Harry thumbs open his jeans and unzips the fly, pulls out his cock, and lets himself think about what it would be like: to have Malfoy like that. To kiss Malfoy where anyone could see.
***
When Harry wakes, it’s nearly noon. He gets up and goes into his bathroom to splash water on his face; Malfoy’s soap and shampoo and some potion he uses on his face are all lined up in Harry’s shower. Harry suddenly realises it was probably a stupid idea to have Ron and Hermione here without tidying these things away first. He should do it now, he supposes.
“Harry?”
Hermione’s voice, calling into his room.
Harry hastily straightens his clothes, zips his jeans, and comes out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. “Yeah,” he says, “I’m awake, what do you need?”
“Nothing,” says Hermione. “Well, I wanted to tell you that the pain is back, they’re in the drawing room now.”
It’s clear to Harry that Hermione still hasn’t slept a wink, and she looks somehow smaller than usual framed against the doorway, arms folded around her middle like she’s feeling the pain from the binding spell, too. “Oh, Hermione,” says Harry, and holds out his arms to her.
She comes into his embrace gratefully, and Harry holds her tight and kisses her hair while she pretends she’s not crying. “I know it’s stupid,” she says, “but Harry, do you think he’s ever kissed me like that?”
“He absolutely has,” says Harry, “trust me, I’ve seen it. I know, it’s weird watching them. But I promise, it’s you he loves, it’s you he wants, Hermione.”
Hermione pushes back and looks up at Harry. “I can’t explain how awful it is,” she says. “And it’s not that it’s Malfoy, though that doesn’t help. It’s that he needs him in a way he’ll never need me.”
“It sounds terrible,” says Harry. “I can’t imagine.” He reaches up and thumbs away one of the fat tears snaking down Hermione’s cheek. “Why don’t you go upstairs and sleep now,” he says. “You must be shattered too. I’ll go sit with them. Promise I’ll wake you if anything comes for you by owl or Floo.”
“Malfoy’s got his – whatever it is – at one thirty,” says Hermione. “The kiss gave them just over two and a half hours but I wouldn’t count on it being as generous a second time, so don’t let them do it again until right before Malfoy goes through the Floo.”
“I won’t,” says Harry. “And maybe it’s best if you aren’t there to see it anyway. I promise, I won’t let anything get out of hand.”
“Thank you,” says Hermione, “though I do wonder if my imagination is worse than the real thing.” She swipes at her eyes again. “Oh, I’m exhausted, no wonder I’m a wreck. I’ll go and sleep for a little while, but wake me when Malfoy’s back, will you?”
“I will,” Harry says. “Go on.”
Hermione heads up the stairs and Harry goes down to the drawing room.
Ron and Malfoy are sitting on the sofa; Hermione might be right about the hex being ever more demanding, because they’ve twisted their forearms together as well as clasping hands now, and there’s still some faint discomfort on each of their faces. “Hermione’s having a rest,” Harry says, taking a seat in a wing chair facing them. “How are you feeling, both of you?”
Ron shrugs eloquently and Malfoy just grimaces slightly and stares off into a corner of the room.
“Game of chess, Ron?” Harry asks, looking at the mantel clock. “We have over an hour before Malfoy has to leave.”
“Sure,” says Ron. “I could use the distraction.” He looks down at Malfoy’s hand in his and says, quietly, “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry,” says Malfoy, embarrassed, and his hand stills suddenly; Harry realises Malfoy was stroking Ron’s thigh ever so slightly with the sides of their joined hands. “It’s difficult not to.”
“I know,” says Ron. “Same here.” He looks up at Harry. “Where’s the chess set?”
Harry waves his wand to call the set over to a small table between them, deciding not to comment on what’s just transpired. It’s one thing to worry about Malfoy’s hand automatically stroking up Ron’s thigh; it’s quite another to wonder when Ron and Malfoy stopped sniping at each other.
Ron’s off his game, as evidenced by Harry nearly taking his queen in the first game, and actually taking his queen in the second.
Malfoy gets interested in spite of himself, but at least doesn’t go as far as giving either player any advice. He just watches avidly. Once, he reaches over and scratches the side of Ron’s nose with his free hand.
“Thanks,” says Ron.
“It won’t stop itching,” says Malfoy.
“Allergies, this dusty old place,” says Ron.
Harry clears his throat and moves his bishop with a nudge of his wand.
Finally, it’s nearly one thirty. They rise and go down to the kitchen so Malfoy can use the Floo connection there, and then they all stand awkwardly in front of the fire for a minute.
“Well,” says Harry, and gestures between them.
“Well,” says Malfoy, exhaling through his nose, not looking keen.
Ron surprises everyone by being the one to initiate the kiss this time, putting his hand on Malfoy’s back and cupping his jaw; suddenly Harry is very aware that Ron is taller than Malfoy, and in Ron’s long arms, Malfoy looks strangely slender and delicate. Their lips touch gently at first, then with a little sigh, Ron tips his head and–
Harry looks at the ceiling, at the copper pots hanging from the rack, at the bowl of bananas on the worktop. Anything but Ron and Malfoy, though of course he can hear everything and wishes he couldn’t. Remembering what Hermione said about the hex being ever more demanding, Harry lets the kiss go on a bit longer than the one earlier in the day; it’s about a minute but it feels like an age.
Finally, Harry looks back over and sees that Ron’s hands are slipping down to Malfoy’s arse. “Okay!” Harry says. “That should do it.”
This time it’s Malfoy who wrests himself back; Ron makes a small longing noise as he goes. “Fuck,” Ron says feelingly, and turns away, walks across the kitchen. Doesn’t bother hiding it when he reaches down to readjust himself this time.
Harry takes advantage of this tiny moment of privacy to meet Malfoy’s gaze, and it’s just so fucking disconcerting to see Malfoy looking like that when Harry’s had nothing to do with it. “You okay,” Harry mouths.
Malfoy nods tightly. “I’m off,” he says in a normal tone of voice. “I should be back before three.”
“Bye,” says Harry, wishing he could squeeze Malfoy’s hand, pat his shoulder, just any small contact at all to reassure himself…to reassure Malfoy, maybe? Harry hardly knows.
Malfoy throws a handful of Floo powder into the fire, steps in, says “Malfoy Manor”, and is gone.
Harry looks over at Ron, who’s still facing away, shoulders hunched. “Can you feel what he’s feeling even now?” Harry asks, curious and trying to distract Ron. “Did you feel the Floo?”
“Yes,” says Ron, raising his head up and looking back at Harry. “He just kissed someone on the cheek. Oh, he’s hungry. Maybe I’m hungry? I don’t know, it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
“Well, let’s make a sandwich or something,” says Harry. “Come on.”
***
They talk quidditch while they eat lunch, then change over to office politics, then somehow they’re on wedding planning.
“Getting Hermione’s family to the Burrow is the problem,” says Ron. “It’s unplottable, and then there are loads of old anti-muggle protections around the place, just generations of them. We’re thinking of having Hermione drive her parents out at the weekend just to see if they can even set foot on the property or if we’ve missed a few.”
“I can come by and have a look too,” Harry offers. “I think I saw every variety of anti-muggle charm when I worked on the muggle protection squad last year.”
“That would be helpful, thanks,” Ron says. “I mean, this is all assuming we get this hex sorted out before I cheat on Hermione with fucking Draco Malfoy; if not, the wedding’s probably off.”
“Have the two of you talked about that?” Harry asks, a little awkwardly. “What she’d count as cheating, under the circumstances?”
“Yes,” says Ron wearily. “This morning while you were sleeping, I went and found her. We chatted.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Snogging and touching is okay. Nothing that involves touching below the belt, you know what I mean.”
“You should inform your hands,” Harry says, a little more irritably than he means to. “You were within an inch of taking two fistfuls of Malfoy’s arse back there.”
“I know,” says Ron, sighing. “Harry, it’s difficult to think, I can’t explain it.” He shakes his head. “Do you think Malfoy’s gay? Or is it just the hex for him, too? He just seems more comfortable with everything, somehow.”
Harry pauses before answering. “Well, first off,” he says, “I’m fairly sure he’s just better at hiding how weird this is for him. And secondly, he might be, but it doesn’t mean he’s keen on kissing someone who isn’t. I wouldn’t be.”
Ron flicks a look Harry’s way, startled. He knows Harry’s gay, of course; it was a big part of his breakup with Ginny, so everyone close to him knows. But Harry doesn’t bring it up or talk about it, really. At first it was out of deference for hurt feelings on Ginny’s side, and then it was just habit, and now…now it’s more complicated yet.
“Do you think I’m making him feel bad?” Ron asks. “Like I think he’s – I don’t know – deviant or something. I don’t think that! Well, not about him being gay, anyway.”
“Since when are you worried about Malfoy’s feelings,” Harry asks, frowning slightly at Ron.
“He’s been all right about all of this, hasn’t he,” says Ron defensively. “Not any worse than me, I guess. Maybe a bit better than me? It can’t be nice, being around all of us; nobody here is his friend. At least I have you and Hermione.”
“That’s true,” says Harry. “Well, hopefully it’ll all be over by the end of the day and we can put it well behind us.”
“Merlin, I hope you’re right,” says Ron earnestly.
***
Malfoy strolls back through the Floo about half past three; Ron is waiting for him, pulling him into an embrace immediately, and they both sigh with some relief. Barely two hours, Harry thinks; that’s all they got in exchange for a minute of snogging. The hex is getting greedier.
“You’re late,” says Ron, pulling away and taking Malfoy’s hand.
“I know,” says Malfoy, “it couldn’t be helped.” He hesitates, then spits out an apology like it’s a bad taste in his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s both of us suffering, isn’t it,” says Ron. “You didn’t eat enough, you’re still starved.”
“I thought it was you,” says Malfoy.
“No, Harry and I ate,” says Ron.
“There are some custard creams in the pantry,” Harry offers, feeling weirdly like he’s intruding on the conversation. “If you want something.” He doesn’t add that he knows custard creams are Malfoy’s favourite, even though he’s seized by a weird impulse to do just that.
“Thanks,” says Malfoy, and makes a brief move before stopping himself. “Which cupboard?” he asks.
Harry glances at Ron, but thankfully Ron doesn’t seem to have noticed that Malfoy almost helped himself like he knew where to go. “This one,” says Harry, and opens the pantry. “Here.”
“I’m going to go wake Hermione,” says Ron, giving Malfoy a perfunctory second embrace so he can leave comfortably. “Eat.”
Malfoy takes the packet of custard creams and grabs a few, watching to make sure Ron is up the staircase before he looks at Harry. “Mother had marzipan served with the tea. I hate marzipan.” Then he blinks and touches his lips. “Hurry,” he says, and ducks in to kiss Harry twice in quick succession.
“What,” Harry says, too startled to enjoy the kisses. “Ron–”
“Was kissing Granger hello,” Malfoy says. “I wanted to take advantage while he was distracted.”
“This is so fucking weird,” says Harry.
“I’m seriously considering the benefits of obliviating all four of us after this is over,” says Malfoy. “I didn’t need to know what it feels like to kiss Granger.”
“It’s not a bad idea, obliviating all of us,” says Harry. “Hermione is miserable.”
“Is she,” says Malfoy, his tone mild. He looks at Harry. “And you?”
Harry feels caught out, not quick enough to hide the unhappiness that flashes over his own face. “I know it’s not like you want any of this,” Harry says.
“It’s definitely not what I want,” Malfoy says, voice dropping low as he steps just a little closer. “Do you know what I want, Potter?”
“I have some idea,” says Harry, trying to sound amused but missing by a mile. For a moment, Harry feels like he’s the one bound to Malfoy, because he can feel so vividly what Malfoy wants: Harry naked under him, Harry on forearms and knees, Harry cursing and encouraging Malfoy as Malfoy fucks him.
“Tonight,” says Malfoy, closer yet, almost sharing air with Harry now.
“Okay,” says Harry, aching to kiss Malfoy, because tonight feels too far off, impossibly far off.
There are footsteps on the stairs then; Hermione and Ron are descending to the kitchen. Harry hastily takes the custard creams from Malfoy and sets a few of them out on a plate. “Tea for anyone?” he asks, hoping he sounds at least a little normal.
“Yes, please,” says Hermione.
***
Somehow they all make it through until dinner — Harry running out for takeaway — and then at last, it’s seven o’clock in Tonga and Hermione is pacing back and forth in the kitchen, biting her nails. Finally, a note comes through the Floo from the Ministry’s International Magical Cooperation, confirming that the artefact is due to be transferred from the museum in Tonga to a secure location inside the Ministry at exactly eight thirty that evening.
“We might as well go back,” says Hermione. “At least I can sit at my desk and do a little work.”
“I’m not walking around the Ministry like this,” says Ron, nodding down at his and Malfoy’s joined hands. They’ve got their feet hooked around each other too, now. “It looks like we’re the only competitors in a bloody three-legged race.”
“Oh,” says Hermione, frustrated, “have another snog, then. What difference does it make, you’re nearly free!” She’s already grabbing a handful of Floo powder. “I’ll see you there. The artefact will come through in the Department of Magical Transportation, meet me there in about an hour.” She gives Harry a quick apologetic look — clearly, Hermione’s still not keen to bear witness to Ron kissing Malfoy — and then she’s gone.
“Stop us in a minute,” Ron tells Harry as he and Malfoy stand up. “Sooner if needed.” And before Harry can even nod a reply, Ron is kissing Malfoy again, no preamble or hesitation this time, just — hungry open-mouthed kissing, Malfoy’s long fingers gripping Ron around the waist, Ron making soft hungry sounds into Malfoy’s mouth.
Harry looks away instinctively, feeling himself blush with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment, but then he forces himself to look back because it seems like things might escalate quickly this time. Sure enough, Malfoy’s given up on kissing Ron’s mouth and is now kissing his neck instead, and Ron has his eyes closed like it’s ecstatic for him, both of them pressing hips together, grinding — “Stop,” Harry says abruptly. “Ron, below the belt.”
But they don’t stop. They hardly seem to hear Harry, Ron now untucking Malfoy’s shirt at the back like he means to push a hand up under it.
“Oi,” Harry says, louder now. “That’s enough!”
When they still don’t respond, Harry pulls his wand out and blasts Malfoy with a stunning spell, which instantly seems to knock Ron back to his senses. “Thanks,” he gasps, struggling to keep Malfoy upright now, “can you take him?”
Harry comes over and grabs Malfoy under the armpits, gently lowering him to the floor.
“Why do you think it didn’t knock me out along with him?” Ron asks. “When he threw that stinging hex at me, it hit him too, and when I punched him, my nose bled.”
Harry looks up, frowning. “I think maybe it’s because the hex is about physical sensations?” he suggests. “Being awake or unconscious isn’t exactly a feeling, is it. He did get up to use the loo last night and you stayed asleep through it.”
“Glad there are some limits to the hex,” Ron says, “or I might have pissed the bed.”
“And you woke before him this morning, too,” Harry points out.
“I suppose so,” Ron says. “Yeah, I did feel that stunning spell, now I think of it. But I guess it only affected him.”
Harry nods, then casts a reviving spell on Malfoy. “I’m sorry,” Harry says, watching Malfoy’s grey eyes flutter open again. “You weren’t listening when I said to stop.”
“Why did you blast me and not Weasley,” Malfoy complains, sitting up. “He was the one trying to go up my shirt.”
“I don’t know,” says Harry, “I just — reacted.”
“I’ll bet,” mutters Malfoy, clambering back to his feet. “That should see us through to eight thirty, at least. Merlin.” He glances down at the front of his trousers and scowls. “Feels like being a fourth year again, but without the benefit of school robes to hide everything.”
“Think of quidditch,” advises Ron from his spot halfway across the room. “No, don’t look at me, that — makes it worse.”
“You’re right, yes,” says Malfoy, turning away. “Why don’t you carry on to the Ministry,” he says. “Potter and I can follow.”
“Give me about two minutes,” says Ron, strained, “but yes, otherwise — excellent plan.” He closes his eyes and starts muttering the starting lineup of every Chudley side since 1990.
Eventually Ron seems to calm himself enough to travel, coming over to the fireplace and throwing a handful of Floo powder into the fire. “See you there,” he says to Harry, and he’s gone as well.
“Well,” says Harry, “it’s just the three of us now: you and me and your massive hard-on for Ron.”
“At least at school you could sneak off to the loo and have a wank,” Draco grouses. “This is torture.”
“You never did,” says Harry. “The loo?”
“You didn’t?” Malfoy rejoins, raising an eyebrow. “You might be the only one, then.”
“What on earth could have got you that worked up in Double Herbology,” Harry says, baffled. “Or History of Magic? Have you got a secret yearning for goblins?”
Malfoy throws Harry a small amused smile. “It was you, you idiot, I could never decide if I wanted fuck you or murder you. If I wasn’t picturing you getting your head taken off by a hippogriff, I was thinking about cornering you by the potions store cupboard and sucking you off right there.”
“Really?” Harry says, stunned. “You’re joking.”
“Wouldn’t you have liked that,” Malfoy asks, smirking. “Me on my knees in front of my house and yours, everyone watching?”
“I mean,” Harry says, “I probably would have cursed my cock off trying to get away.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “It’s a fantasy, Potter.”
“Oh,” says Harry. “Is this really helping with your — situation?”
“No,” says Malfoy, “but I like seeing you blush, it’s just how I imagined it.”
Harry makes a small sound, though he’s not sure if it’s of pleasure or impatience or frustration. Suddenly, Harry’s picturing it vividly: not young Malfoy on his knees in front of Harry, but young Malfoy watching Harry in Potions, fantasising about him, getting himself so worked up over it that he had to sneak off to the loo, take himself in hand, and — “This isn’t helping me, either, come to that,” Harry grates out. “You’d better stop or Ron will be wondering why he’s getting hard again, sat at his desk doing paperwork.”
“You’re right,” says Malfoy, sighing.
***
It’s close to eight by the time Harry and Malfoy leave. Malfoy can’t Floo directly to the atrium since he doesn’t work for the Ministry, so instead they apparate and use the visitors’ entrance.
They head directly to the Department of Magical Transportation, where they find the head of the department waiting for them; Harry imagines that Philippa Plum doesn’t often have an exciting reason to stay late in her line of work.
“Auror Potter,” she greets him, “Mr Malfoy. Follow me, Ms Granger and Auror Weasley are already here.”
She leads them to a central office with a dozen fireplaces; however, it’s quite obvious from how Ron and Hermione are seated that the central and most ornate hearth is the one they’re expecting to activate.
“Thank you, Ms Plum,” Harry says, hoping against hope that she’ll take her cue to leave.
“Our pleasure to be of assistance to the Aurors,” she says, taking a seat — no such luck.
Hermione and Ron are holding hands as they wait, Harry notices; it’s not like them to be demonstrative at work, but he supposes they’re just as eager as Malfoy and Harry to see this thing done. Harry checks his watch and takes a seat too, as does Malfoy, across the room from him.
Eight twelve.
At eight seventeen, the Head of International Magical Cooperation comes in. Two minutes later, it’s someone from the Improper Use of Magic Office, and then, five minutes to go, it’s two Unspeakables who nod their greetings and stand waiting against the wall. Finally, with a minute to spare, Robards strolls in.
Harry glances at Hermione, but he can see that at least she isn’t surprised by the coterie. This whole thing seems to have been a much bigger deal than Harry realised, sequestered as they’ve been in his house.
Eight thirty. Eight thirty-four.
The Head of International Magical Cooperation snorts and mutters something about punctuality.
Eight thirty-six.
Harry is jiggling his knee now and trying not to bite his nails, more nervous than he’s been in ages. He glances over at Ron and Hermione — Hermione pulled her hand away from Ron’s around when the Unspeakables arrived — and then at Malfoy, who seems perfectly composed, the tosser.
The fire suddenly roars green and Hermione leaps to her feet, hurrying to stand in front of the hearth. A package appears in the flames, held out by a pair of disembodied hands, and Hermione takes it, her own hands trembling. “Got it,” she says. “Could someone please send a confirmation?”
Plum hastens to write a note and pass it back through the Floo while Hermione carries the package to a table like it’s made of erumpent horn. The flames turn yellow again, and everyone comes to stand around the table and stare.
“Right,” says Hermione, “I’ll — open it, shall I?”
Nobody stops her, so Hermione gingerly slits the package open and opens the box. A wooden statue is nestled inside, small and unassuming and rather ugly. The statue is a carving of two figures standing back to back as Ron and Malfoy were yesterday, but not touching.
“The music box was metal,” says Ron. “Are you sure”—
“Yes,” says Hermione. “This is it.” She lifts the statue up carefully and flips it over to show the maker’s mark carved into the base. “See?”
Malfoy comes in close to look at it, then nods. “And how does it work?” he asks.
“I…I don’t really know,” Hermione says, flustered. “Maybe you and Ron should both hold it?”
“Perhaps a little more investigation is warranted,” says one of the Unspeakables, reaching out.
Ron and Malfoy beat him to it, each taking hold of a figure and lifting the statue up a little, out of the Unspeakable’s reach.
Nothing happens.
They set the statue down and Ron reaches over to poke Malfoy in the shoulder, hard.
“Ow,” they both say, then “shit.”
Hermione’s reclaimed the statue now, and is busily putting it back in its box. “You’re quite right that it bears some investigation,” she says, “but of course our agreement with the museum is that I should be the only one to have custody of the device during its stay here, so perhaps it’s best if I begin straight away.”
There’s a tense moment where it seems like Hermione might not get away with it. Harry brings himself up to his full height — such as it is — in case anyone needs reminding that he’s on Hermione’s side; he sees Ron doing the same, then Malfoy squares his shoulders too.
“Very well,” says Plum tightly, “it’s likely best if you stay on-site to work, however?”
“No,” says Harry, “we’ll be moving back to mine, it’s under Fidelius so it’s perfectly safe.” He steps towards the fireplace from which Hermione received the device. “We’ll be going.”
“Do keep us apprised,” says Robards. “I hope we won’t be missing two of my aurors for too much longer?”
“Not if we can help it,” Ron says. “Trust me, nobody wants this over with more than me, sir.”
“Nobody?” Malfoy mutters, but he leads the way, going through the Floo first; Hermione’s next, clutching the box with the device close to her, and then Ron, and last of all Harry.
***
“Why didn’t you say you didn’t know how the bloody thing works?” Ron is shouting as Harry tumbles out of the Floo into his kitchen. “Hermione, you made it sound like it was getting the device that was the challenge, and now — what? We don’t know what to do with it?”
“These things don’t come with instruction manuals,” Hermione shoots back hotly, setting the box down on the table. “It’s nearly two hundred years old and it was created by a wizard whose methods are preserved through oral history, not written in a book I can read.” She opens the box again and lifts the statue out carefully. “I’m sorry it’s not as easy as you hoped,” she says. “But I also brought back a selection of sleeping potions for the pair of you if you want to skip this next part.”
“Yes, please,” says Ron grumpily. “The sooner, the better.”
Harry looks to Malfoy to see if his objections from earlier will hold, but he looks like he’s at least thinking it over this time. “Do you think it will really work, Granger?” he asks. “Having us magically asleep?”
“It would be worth a try, I think,” she says. “But it’s early yet, why don’t I see what I can learn from this device before we tuck you in with a sedative potion.”
“Fine,” says Ron, wincing. “The pain is back, though.”
“I brought some pain muffling potions, too,” she says, producing a bag from her cloak. “Harry, will you?” She’s already busy casting a series of spells around the statue, trying to convince it to give up its secrets.
Harry gamely opens the bag and pulls out an assortment of labelled phials, lining them up on the kitchen table next to Hermione and her statue device. He recognises most of them from his work, and so must Ron, because he’s snaking a hand out and plucking up one of them.
“This one,” Ron says, “this is good, I had this when that mad Lithuanian blasted me in the ribs. Makes you feel all fuzzy and light.” He pops the cork and makes as though to take a few drops, but Malfoy grabs him by the forearm and stops him. “What?” Ron says.
“If you take that,” says Malfoy, “I feel it. Don’t you think we should reach some consensus here?”
Ron’s eyes widen as he realises what he nearly did. “Right,” he says. “I forgot, it just… it’s hurting more.”
Malfoy slings an arm around Ron’s shoulders and squeezes him tight. “That should help,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Which of these would keep me as lucid as possible?”
Harry nudges one of the bottles towards Malfoy. “That one,” he says. “I broke my collarbone when I was on a stakeout once, and there wasn’t any Skele-Gro. This got me through twelve hours and I wasn’t a bit drowsy.”
Malfoy meets Harry’s gaze and nods. “That sounds more like it.”
Ron reluctantly lets go of the phial in his hand and picks up the bottle Harry chose. “It’s not as strong,” he says. “It might not do much.”
“Worth a try?” Harry says. “You only need a few drops.”
Ron uncorks the phial and takes a few drops on his tongue. “Ugh,” he says, “tastes of mouldy strawberries.” But some of the discomfort on his face eases almost immediately. “That – that is better.”
Malfoy nods, feeling it too even before he’s taken any. “Granger, what spells are those?” he asks, taking a seat and dragging Ron down to sit next to him.
“They’re variations on revelio,” says Hermione distractedly. “It’s rather advanced but we use them regularly at work.”
“Have you cast anything to have a look at the elemental sympathies,” Malfoy asks. “If you can see what alignments the device has, it could give you a clue as to how it’s meant to function. Or, speaking of that, you might try something as simple as a functionario, sometimes asking the thing to do what it’s meant to do is all it takes.”
Hermione is staring, gape-jawed, at Malfoy. “You – you’ve done this sort of thing before?”
Malfoy looks grim for a minute. “Sixth year,” he says. “The Vanishing Cabinet.”
“Of course,” she says, looking away. “But you really learned all of this on your own? I’m impressed.”
“I did,” says Malfoy, simply. “Ah, I see you did cast a water sympathy spell. Could I try fire?”
Harry glances between Hermione and Malfoy as they dive deeper into highly technical discussion; Malfoy seems perfectly comfortable with Ron snuggled up against him. Either the pain muffling potion in Ron’s system is sufficient for both of them, or Malfoy is distracted enough by the task at hand.
Ron sighs and summons a quidditch magazine to him, obviously settling in for a bit of a wait before bedtime.
Harry decides he’s not needed at the moment, and takes himself up to the drawing room for some much-needed peace.
***
“Did you crack it,” Harry asks blearily when Hermione wakes him in his armchair, some hours later.
“No,” she says, “but we made some headway. It seems like Malfoy’s music box is needed for the statue device to work.”
Harry sits up straight. “Hermione, you need to be dead careful with that thing, we don’t need you bound to Malfoy too, or to me.”
“I know,” says Hermione soothingly. “The only thing for it is for me to work alone. I’m going to take both devices back to our flat. Do you think you’ll be okay playing chaperone overnight? Ron and Malfoy are just getting ready for bed now, I’ve set them up with a whopper of a sleeping draught for a first try.”
“Yeah,” says Harry, still stuck on his worry over Hermione having anything to do with the music box. “Cast a lot of protego spells, we don’t know what the effective range of that fucking binding hex might be. Once you open the music box–”
“I know,” says Hermione, “I’ll be very careful. So you’re sure you don’t mind? I brought some wakefulness potion for you, too.” She passes him a small bottle. “Just a teaspoon will do it, if you take much more you won’t sleep for days. Trust me, I’ve made that mistake.”
“I’ll be fine,” says Harry. “Was Malfoy helpful?”
Hermione sits down on the arm of Harry’s chair. “You know, he really was. I think he must have studied other devices since sixth year, his knowledge is quite impressive.”
“He’s made a bit of a hobby of it,” Harry says without thinking.
“When did he tell you that?” Hermione asks, surprised.
“He didn’t,” Harry answers hastily. “It’s in his file. At work.”
Hermione seems satisfied with this answer, sagging into Harry for a moment. Harry’s reminded of their time on the run, when Ron had scarpered and it was just the two of them for a while, both of them settling for each other for this kind of simple physical comfort, both of them denied the person they needed at the time. “So you’ll keep a close watch,” she says.
“I will,” promises Harry, reaching around Hermione’s waist to hug her. “Don’t worry.”
***
By the time Harry gets to the green room, Ron and Malfoy are both dressed for bed. Ron’s opted for proper pyjamas borrowed off Harry this time, which means of course that his wrists and ankles are sticking out the pyjama cuffs. Malfoy’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt again, though he must have changed clothes while back at the Manor because they’re different from last night.
“Here he is,” says Ron with some relief, seeing Harry. The pain muffling potion must have worn off by now; being separated from Malfoy just to get changed seems to be taking its toll.
But then Ron looks to the bed with trepidation, and Harry can tell that he’s weighing the pain of ignoring the binding hex against the discomfort of being spooned by Malfoy. “We’d better get in before we take the draught, Hermione said it’s like getting knocked over the head.”
“Yes, fine,” says Malfoy; it’s not as easy to read on his face, but Harry knows he’s fighting the same battle internally. Malfoy looks at Harry. “Try not to stun me if we need it this time?”
“I promise nothing,” says Harry quietly, daring a tiny grin, because Ron is busy throwing back the covers and getting into the bed, back to them.
Malfoy smiles back, a little strained, and goes around the bed to get in on his side.
They resume their positioning from last night, Malfoy’s front to Ron’s back, and then Harry hands each of them their sleeping draughts. Ron swigs his first, and Harry has to hasten to catch the phial as it falls from his fingers, Ron’s eyes slamming shut and his whole body going leaden.
“That’s not the kind we made in first year,” says Malfoy, impressed, propped up on his elbow to watch.
“I’d wager not,” says Harry, coming around the bed now so he’ll be ready to take Malfoy’s phial away. He glances over at Ron, who’s snoring already, then kneels up onto the bed and ducks down to kiss Malfoy. They’re both too stressed and tired to make much of it, but it’s extremely nice to just… kiss Malfoy. To know Malfoy’s kissing Harry back because he wants to, not because of some mouldy nasty hex, even as Malfoy stays pressed tight up against Ron’s back, only his head turned towards Harry.
“We’d better stop,” says Malfoy breathlessly after a while, pulling back. “He won’t wake but he might… rouse.”
“Right,” says Harry. He should go over to his chaise, let Malfoy take his own draught, and start whiling the night away. But instead, Harry settles down on the bed, curled up around Malfoy, his arm around his waist. If it weren’t for Ron’s steady snoring, Harry could almost pretend it was any other night.
Harry tucks his nose up against the familiar warm nape of Malfoy’s neck and breathes for a little while. He’s expecting Malfoy to make some smart comment, or to direct Harry to get up, but Malfoy is uncharacteristically still and relaxed. Finally, he sighs and says, “Don’t fall asleep.”
Harry nods. “I won’t, I already took the wakefulness potion.” He tightens his fingers on Malfoy’s waist, a little fond squeeze. “Did you want to take your sleeping draught now too?”
“No,” says Malfoy. “Not yet.”
Harry’s belly fills with warmth at this, and he dares a little kiss to the back of Malfoy’s shoulder. “You impressed Hermione, you know.”
“I could tell,” Malfoy says, his voice low and tired, buzzing through his chest and into Harry’s. “It was a little insulting, to be honest.”
“Spoken like someone who has no idea how hard it is to impress Hermione,” Harry answers, smiling. “How are you holding up with all this, anyway?”
There’s a long enough pause that Harry lifts his head to check that Malfoy hasn’t fallen asleep himself. “I feel like my body isn’t my own,” Malfoy says, flicking a glance up at Harry. “It’s almost the opposite of having a girlfriend when I was a teenager. Back then, I knew I was supposed to be attracted to her but couldn’t seem to muster it up, and now, I know I’m not supposed to be, don’t want to be, but… well.” He settles his head more firmly into his pillow and ticks his chin towards Ron. “I can only imagine it’s worse for him.”
“Because he’s straight,” Harry surmises.
“Because he hates me so much,” says Malfoy.
“He doesn’t,” says Harry. “Well, not any more than you hate him, I suppose.”
“I don’t hate him,” says Malfoy. “I don’t particularly like him, I admit. But I gave up hating him years ago.”
Harry feels a pang at this; only yesterday Ron was shouting that he hated Malfoy, so it’s not like he can say it’s probably the same for Ron. “For what it’s worth,” Harry says, “I don’t hate you even a little bit.”
Malfoy’s back goes tense with surprise, but he doesn’t speak.
“I think I rather like you, honestly,” says Harry.
“I’m not sure you could have picked a weirder moment for this little confession,” Malfoy says, nodding towards snoring Ron, but then he slings an arm back around Harry, rolling away from Ron long enough for a long fond kiss.
“So you’re not hate-fucking me anymore,” Harry checks, pulling away.
“No, you arsehole,” says Malfoy. “Haven’t been for ages.”
“Take your draught,” says Harry, kissing him one last time, “get some sleep.”
“Okay,” says Malfoy. “I’m serious, stun him first, not me.”
“I stun because I care,” says Harry, backing off the bed now. “Go on, bottoms up.”
“Filthy,” says Malfoy appreciatively, but he does finally down the potion, and Harry nips in to kiss his cheek and grab the empty phial as Malfoy drops into deep instantaneous sleep.
***
The sleeping potion wears off about three o’clock, and Harry’s only aware of it when he looks up from his book and sees that there’s some motion on the bed. He stands up and directs the lumos at the tip of his wand towards the mattress.
Ron’s turned over in his sleep; it’s not clear if either of them is truly awake, but they’re definitely not quite unconscious anymore. Malfoy’s got one hand under Ron’s pyjama shirt and Ron’s nuzzling Malfoy’s neck, his own hand drifting down Malfoy’s belly, because Malfoy’s t-shirt is hiked up, and– “Stop,” Harry says, but it doesn’t have any effect, and Ron’s definitely below the belt now. “Impedimenta,” Harry barks, flicking his wand at Ron. “Stupefy.”
As Ron slumps into unconsciousness again, Malfoy blinks out of whatever hex-induced trance he was in. He scrambles back over the mattress when he realises what he’s been doing. “Fuck,” he says, panting, “what the fuck.”
“It’s just the hex,” says Harry, “it’s okay, I knocked Ron out.”
“It was the pyjamas,” says Malfoy, “he smells like you, I think I was dreaming at first.” He’s getting up now, able to be away from Ron for a little while. “Fuck,” Malfoy says again, looking down at his tented boxers. “Harry, this is intolerable, Granger needs to sort this out.”
“She is,” Harry says, reaching out a hand to console Malfoy, but Malfoy knocks it away with irritation.
“I just need to not be touched, for a moment,” Malfoy says. “Fuck.”
“Okay,” says Harry, “sorry, I didn’t… sorry.” He looks at Ron. “I should revive him, but I can go and get more sleeping draught first if you want.”
“Not yet,” says Malfoy. “I mean, revive him if you want, I need to… I need to go and smash something, I don’t even know what I need.”
“Go into my room,” says Harry, “smash whatever you like, I don’t give a shit.”
Malfoy grinds the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, groaning. “I don’t know if I can take that fucking potion again if it means waking up feeling like this.”
“Feeling like,” Harry repeats delicately, not sure exactly what Malfoy means.
“Like I’ll die if I don’t fuck him,” Malfoy snaps. “It’s like a clawing empty feeling, it’s like starving, but worse. And you just keep thinking, what’s one shag if it makes this feeling stop? As if that were any justification for what would amount to – to rape.” He looks up at Harry. “Ron had it right, I should have smashed the fucking box long ago. I didn’t know how awful it was.” He shakes his head. “I won’t do it, Harry. I won’t do what it wants.”
“I know you won’t,” says Harry. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” says Malfoy, jaw tense, staring over at Ron.
“It would be the hex,” says Harry. “Not you.”
“Tell me what difference that would make if it were you,” Malfoy says, and stalks out of the room without a glance at Harry.
Harry resists the urge to follow, knowing Malfoy wants to be alone; instead, he goes over and revives Ron, who scrabbles around looking for Malfoy before he realises that he’s gone. “Jesus,” Ron says, flopping onto his back, “what I wouldn’t give for just a regular old wank.”
“I’m standing right here, Ron,” says Harry.
Ron grimaces. “Sorry. But honestly, it’s just about all I can think of. Just a nice traditional heterosexual wank, thinking about boobs.”
Harry internally wonders a little at the contrast between Malfoy’s existential angst and Ron’s generalised horniness. “Did you want more sleeping draught?” Harry asks. “Malfoy just needed some space, he’ll be back.”
“I actually need to piss,” says Ron, looking down ruefully, “so it’ll be a few minutes before that’s an easy task.”
“I’ll leave you alone,” says Harry. “Just come knock on my bedroom door when you need me.”
Malfoy’s in Harry’s bedroom, sat on the bed with his head resting on his palms. He doesn’t look up at Harry’s entrance. “You woke him?” he asks.
“Yes,” says Harry. “For what it’s worth, he’s fine.”
Malfoy sighs and drops his hands to his lap. “It might be time for the Draught of Living Death, honestly. Just leave us until Granger’s ready for us to do whatever we need to do.”
“Why don’t we let Ron take the regular draught,” Harry suggests, approaching widdershins, in case Malfoy is still feeling prickly. “You can just sleep. But keep your wits about you, more. And I’ll keep better watch.”
Malfoy closes his eyes, exhausted, but he nods. “That might be better,” he says. “It’s three? Even two more hours and I’d be fine to get on with the day.”
“Okay, it’s a plan,” says Harry. He sits carefully next to Malfoy on his bed, not letting their thighs or shoulders touch, but feeling a comfort just from being near him. “You never told me why you didn’t stash that music box in the attic with your other shit,” Harry reminds him.
Malfoy shakes his head. “I forgot,” he says.
“No, you didn’t,” Harry answers simply. “Draco.”
Malfoy twists his mouth in frustration. “I guess,” he says, “I guess I thought it would be good enough for a couple of your aurors to get hexed while conducting a raid for no fucking reason. I didn’t know… I didn’t think it would be so hard to reverse. And I definitely didn’t think Weasley would be stupid enough to open the music box right then and there, standing six feet from me.”
“Well, that was idiotic of you,” Harry says. “And of Ron, I’ll grant you.”
“I know,” says Malfoy. “That’s why I didn’t admit to it before.”
“Next time, leave a crystal goblet that makes you shit your pants or something,” Harry says.
“Why would I have a crystal goblet that,” Malfoy begins, aggrieved, and then he starts laughing in spite of himself. “You’re such an arse, Harry.”
“Hm,” says Harry, “but I have it on good authority that you don’t hate me, at least.”
Draco chuckles more and then nudges an elbow carefully into Harry’s ribs. “More than not hate,” he says.
“As much as like?” Harry prompts, grinning. “Or am I getting carried away now?”
Malfoy looks over at him, grey gaze bright in the dimly lit room. “Well past like,” he says, “if I’m being honest.”
Harry’s whole being surges with the mad desire to kiss Malfoy then and there, sod the hex and Ron feeling it, who cares, but Malfoy must know it too, because he stands up abruptly.
“I’ll apparate to the drawing room,” Malfoy says, “so Ron doesn’t catch me in here with you.”
“Okay,” says Harry stupidly. “Draco, I–”
But Malfoy’s gone.
***
They stick with the plan, Ron agreeing that it’s better if one of them remains potion-free; it’s quarter to four when Ron downs another dose of the sleeping draught and Malfoy carefully tucks himself around him to attempt to sleep as well. Harry keeps away, knowing that it wouldn’t be conducive to sleepiness for Malfoy if Harry comes over to kiss him, much as he’d like to do just that.
Harry himself has trouble relaxing into his chaise, can’t focus on his book. Malfoy is moving around a lot more now that he’s not drugged, and though it seems like he’s mostly just restless and unable to sleep, Harry’s on high alert for the hex taking over again.
Finally, Malfoy seems to settle into slumber, and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again. The wakefulness potion is still working; though Harry can feel his own bone-tired exhaustion, his mind refuses to settle and his body feels equally restless.
There’s a light tap at the window about five o’clock, and Harry looks up to see an owl standing on the sill. He stands up and quietly pulls up the sash. It’s a note from Hermione.
Breakthrough, it reads. I’m going to sleep for an hour or two but then I’ll be over. The end is in sight!
“Oh, thank Merlin,” Harry sighs, slumping back down into his chaise.
“Good news?” murmurs Malfoy sleepily from the bed.
“Good news,” Harry affirms. “But it’ll be a little longer, go back to sleep.”
Malfoy grunts and settles down again.
***
Harry slips into the bathroom for a pee as dawn is breaking, and when he comes out, all hell has broken loose again. This time, Ron’s on top of Malfoy, and shirts are off – fuck, the hex is working fast and furious now – and Harry panics and throws an aguamenti on Ron.
“You arsehole,” Ron shouts, but it seems to have worked, even if the hex is making Ron angry. He leaps off the bed and rounds on Harry, water dripping off his hair. “You couldn’t have chosen something else?” he asks.
“You’re welcome,” says Harry, annoyed. “Are you okay, Malfoy?”
“I’m okay,” says Malfoy, scrubbing his hands through his hair before pulling his t-shirt back on. “I think he started it this time.”
“Fuck off,” says Ron nastily, “I didn’t ask for any of this, it’s your fucking torture device that–”
“Stop,” Harry says, hearing himself sounding extremely stern and sharp. “Ron. He didn’t want this, either.”
“I’m going mad,” Ron yells. “I can’t stop thinking about…I can’t stop!”
“Get some air,” Harry says. “Hermione should be here any minute if she hasn’t already arrived. Just go.” He waves a drying charm over Ron and tosses him his shirt. “This is nearly over.”
“It fucking better be,” says Ron bitterly, but he pulls on the shirt and walks out, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, Harry can hear his footsteps as he runs down the stairs.
“Did I dream it or has Granger figured it out?” Malfoy asks, kicking the covers off his legs, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“She thinks she has,” Harry says. “I don’t know any details.” He glances back at the closed bedroom door. “I’m sorry about him. He said he needs a wank.”
“Merlin, so do I,” says Malfoy feelingly. “I mean, I’d rather shag you, but failing that, just anything to relieve a little pressure would be incredible.”
“Well,” says Harry, “if you both did it.”
Malfoy looks up, surprised. “I’m not wanking off Weasley, you know that.”
“No, alone, separately,” says Harry. “Maybe it would be worth the weirdness if you also got the relief.”
“Not if Granger’s about to fix everything,” says Malfoy. “I’ll just wait it out.” He looks down at himself. “You can’t literally die of having an erection, right?”
“Probably not,” says Harry. “I think your cock can fall off, though.”
“I almost wish it would,” says Malfoy, sighing. “Almost.”
***
Hermione’s in the kitchen with the music box (closed, with a book on the lid for good measure) and the statue. Now that Harry sees them side by side, he can recognise the similarities of form even if one is wooden and the other silver. Hermione’s done something to the statue, though: the two figures on it are now facing inwards, looking at each other.
“It did that as soon as I opened the music box,” she says. “I think the melody of the music box is different once the hex has been cast, and the figures moved to show it.”
“How do we get them to face away again,” Ron asks eagerly.
“I’ve worked it out,” says Hermione, “but the bad news is that it takes a little time.”
“No,” says Ron. “Fuck. How long?”
“About two more hours,” says Hermione. “There’s one rite to tell the statue that we want the hex lifted, but then there’s a sort of cooling-off period, in case you change your minds, I guess? But after the time has passed, so long as we haven’t interfered, it ought to automatically activate the hex-lifting mechanism of the statue. That should go very quickly.”
“By quickly, I presume you mean fewer than two hours,” Malfoy says darkly.
“I mean less than a minute,” says Hermione. “I’m sorry for the wait, but honestly – the devices were, as you said, intended for arranged marriages. It’s still much quicker than a divorce, isn’t it.”
“So what do we do,” Malfoy asks. “For the first rite?”
Hermione gently lifts the book off the music box. “Harry and I will have to leave the room,” she says. “Then you open this up, and you learn the new melody.”
“Learn it?” Ron repeats, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“We have to sing it back, don’t we,” says Malfoy. “Makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t! I’m a rotten singer,” Ron protests, “what sort of stupid device requires you to sing?”
“Loads of them, honestly,” says Hermione. “Before we had wands, we had singing, didn’t we?”
Malfoy nods in agreement like Hermione’s just declared that water is wet, though this is all news to Harry. “It doesn’t have to be pitch perfect,” Malfoy tells Ron, “it just has to be close enough that your meaning is understood.”
“Are there words to the song?” Ron asks, still looking anxious.
“No,” says Hermione, “it might more properly be called a chant, but the tradition is for you to add words if you think they’ll help get your wishes expressed, same as an incantation does for casting a spell.”
“I’m going to sing ‘please stop me from wanting to shag Malfoy’, then,” says Ron earnestly, and Malfoy rolls his eyes in response.
“You sing it together seven times,” Hermione says, “and you’ll know it’s done when the lid snaps shut. And then the two hours begin. The music box won’t open again until the statues turn facing out. And that’s when I recommend blasting the thing to bits, honestly.”
“It would be my pleasure,” says Malfoy with enthusiasm. “Right, shall we?”
“I really can’t sing,” says Ron.
“Would you rather stay as we are,” Malfoy says sensibly. “Come on, I promise, I don’t give a shit if you croak like a frog.”
Hermione stands up, nearly staggering with fatigue as she does, and Ron gives up arguing with Malfoy to steady her by the elbow. “You need to sleep,” he says. “Go sleep.”
“I will once the rite is done,” she promises, and Ron leans up and kisses her. “Come on, Harry,” she says.
Harry stands up as well and follows Hermione up the stairs, throwing Malfoy a quick look of support as he goes.
***
From the drawing room, it’s difficult to hear much of what’s transpiring in the kitchen two floors below, but eventually there’s a distant sound of chanting — one voice quite loud and off-key, and the other tracing something more like a tune — and then more silence.
“It’s done,” Hermione says quietly, glancing at her watch. “Seven o’clock.”
“How will we know if it worked,” Harry asks, and then both Ron and Malfoy apparate next to them.
“Did it close?” Hermione asks. “The music box?”
“Yes,” says Ron, looking incredibly tense. “Hermione, is there any chance that the hex changes tactics when it thinks it might be reversed soon?”
“Oh,” she says, blinking. “Maybe. Why? What’s happened?”
“Well,” says Malfoy, “we don’t need to touch anymore. The pain is gone.”
“But the — hunger,” Ron grates out. “It’s a lot worse suddenly.”
“Quick, let’s separate you,” says Hermione, springing up from her chair. “Ron?”
“Harry,” says Malfoy, voice taut, “I think we need to implement your plan.”
“My plan,” Harry repeats, not understanding, looking sidelong at Hermione to see if she noticed Malfoy using Harry’s first name.
“The plan to get a little relief,” Malfoy says, voice grating and low.
“Oh,” says Harry. “That plan. Yes.” He looks to Ron. “I thought if you each separately — but at the same time? It might be less weird and invasive.”
“I honestly don’t care, so long as it means I don’t keep feeling like this,” says Ron, but Hermione has him by the hand now and is towing him from the drawing room and up the stairs.
“Only your hand,” Malfoy calls after him. “Weasley! No touching each other!”
“Fine, yes, fine!” Ron bellows back.
Harry’s left staring at Malfoy, who in turn is breathing hard, colour high on his cheeks. “You can use my room,” Harry offers, not sure what —
“Of course you’re coming with me,” says Malfoy, and he’s got Harry by the arm now, and he’s disapparating both of them. “Colloportus, muffliato,” Malfoy says, then, “Get undressed.”
“You can’t,” Harry says, frozen.
“I can’t touch, but I can look,” Malfoy says, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Come on, I doubt Weasley’s going to be waiting. Harry!”
Harry hastily whips his jumper over his head and wriggles out of his jeans and pants, toeing off socks and shoes as he kicks them away from him. Malfoy’s naked now too, and Harry can see that he’s painfully hard. “Get the lube,” Harry suggests.
Malfoy shakes his head. “Weasley might wonder where it came from,” and he’s getting onto the bed, almost shaking with need. “Fuck this hex, I — oh, he’s started.”
Harry categorically doesn’t want to think about how Malfoy knows this, so instead he kneels up on the bed and says, “What do you need?”
“Not fucking much,” says Malfoy, “but — can you touch yourself, maybe?” He’s already got his cock in hand, fucking into his fist with frantic little curls of his hips. “I want to see you.”
Harry’s not caught up with Malfoy yet, still a little shocked that they’re here, doing this, but it helps to see the way Malfoy’s touching himself, and the way Malfoy’s watching Harry. Harry wraps a hand around his own cock and pulls on it, and between that and the sight of Malfoy, Harry gets hard within a few tugs.
Malfoy is still watching intently. Whatever the hex is making him feel, it’s easy at least for Harry to forget about it, swept away on a wave of lust for the sight Malfoy presents: desperate and straining and watching Harry’s every little move, as Harry is watching his.
“Can you talk,” says Malfoy now. “I need to be with you here.”
“Yeah,” Harry says, “What about — what about that first time?”
“Tell me,” says Malfoy, nodding. “Tell me about it.”
“I drew the short straw,” says Harry, “bodyguard duty, some nutter making threats against you. I don’t know which of us was angrier when I showed up to the Manor.”
“Me,” says Malfoy, slowing down his fist a little, catching his breath. “I was angrier. I wasn’t sure you’d do your job, thought you might let me get hurt.”
“I never would,” Harry says, slowing his hand in dismay. “Draco.”
“Skip ahead,” says Malfoy impatiently. “Get to the good part, I don’t think I have long.”
“Everything I did was wrong,” says Harry, speeding up again, trying to catch up, “and you were so particular and demanding, you treated me like the hired help and I was going mad with frustration, wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself but couldn’t while I was on duty.”
“Harry,” says Malfoy. “Skip. Ahead.” He swallows hard, breath moving in and out like a bellows now.
“When that nutter finally showed himself, when he tried to hurt you,” Harry says, seeing that Malfoy is getting closer, faster strokes of his cock, his hips juddering now, “I pulled you out of harm’s way and made you wait in the pantry while I disarmed him.”
“And you came back for me,” says Malfoy, licking his lips, shaking. “You came in all worked up and gorgeous, do you know how you looked? And you shouted at me that you hoped I was finally satisfied.”
“And you said you weren’t at all satisfied, and you grabbed me by the robes and pushed me into a corner,” says Harry, realising he’s close, too. “I didn’t know if you were going to sock me in the jaw or — or kiss me.”
“The fact that you let me push you into a corner told me you were hoping for the latter,” says Malfoy, barely stringing together a few words per gasp now. “Star auror, pinned in place by some fucking civilian, my arse.”
“And you kissed me,” Harry says, lit up with the memory of it, “and then I, I put my hand on your cock, I could feel how hard you were, and I unzipped you, and I jerked you off, Draco, you were so beautiful and angry and you wanted me, I — I had to have you.”
Malfoy’s hand stills suddenly and he groans, come slicking over his fist. It seems to last a long time, and Harry wonders if it’s from Malfoy being teased and restrained over and over for the last few days, or if it’s the intensity of feeling twice as much, him and — Harry doesn’t want to think about that, though.
“Now you,” says Malfoy, catching his breath at long last. “Do you remember what happened next?”
“Tell me,” says Harry, close just from watching Malfoy come.
“I got on my knees for you, didn’t I,” says Malfoy, lazy now, relaxed like he hasn’t been even in sleep since this all began. “Just like I imagined all those years ago, taking your cock in my mouth.”
“It was so good,” Harry says, remembering. “Fuck, I want it again.”
“Soon,” says Malfoy. “Harry, I want to see you come now.”
Harry makes a soft choking sound, and then obeys, Draco watching him avidly as Harry’s come slips between his fingers, as Harry’s hips cant forward, seeking…well, nothing they can have, right now.
It’s torture and it’s good at the same time; Harry wants so badly to fall forward onto Draco and to kiss him, to hold him and feel his heart pounding. But it’s also fucking amazing to be coming with him nearby, and to see Draco wholly focused on Harry again.
Harry settles for flopping down over the foot of the bed, exhausted and happy and frustrated all at once. “How do you feel,” he asks Malfoy. “Did it help?”
“Yes,” says Malfoy, also settling down onto the bed, his foot nudging Harry’s shin. “It’s not gone, but I think I can make it to the end now.”
“Good,” says Harry. “I might just sleep a bit.” The wakefulness potion has started to wear off, and Harry suddenly feels exactly like he should, given that he’s been awake for nearly twenty-four hours.
“I’ll shower,” says Malfoy, “in a minute.”
***
Malfoy awakens Harry by nudging him with his fist, fingers carefully tucked in to minimise the chances that Ron would know what Malfoy’s touching, which is of course Harry’s bare warm skin.
Harry opens his eyes blearily and rolls onto his back. Malfoy covered him up with a blanket at some point, he notes, and must have taken his glasses off too, as they’re also missing. Malfoy, who’s now standing over Harry wearing trousers but no shirt.
“Can I borrow something,” he says, “I didn’t bring a change of clothes from the Manor, I didn’t know we’d be staying over again.”
Harry nods, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Help yourself,” he says. “I’m going to shower. What time is it? How much longer?”
“It’s just gone eight thirty,” says Malfoy. “Less than an hour left to go.”
“Okay,” says Harry, trying to muster the will to stand up. “Okay.”
“I hope you’re planning to spend the rest of today in bed after this,” says Malfoy, now searching through Harry’s open wardrobe.
“Draco, that’s so naughty,” says Harry, unable to resist.
“Sleeping, you shameless minx,” says Malfoy, not dignifying Harry’s attempt at humour with even a token laugh. He looks back over his shoulder at Harry, who’s kicking the blanket off, lying naked on the bed now. “Though maybe I’ll join you if you stop looking like something dragged through the keyhole backwards.”
“Hm,” says Harry, half-tumbling off the bed. “No promises.”
When Harry comes out of the shower, Malfoy’s gone, presumably back down to the kitchen to await the end of the hex. Harry dresses quickly and heads downstairs to join him.
He seems to be the last to arrive, Ron and Hermione already seated at the table with Malfoy. Everyone looks exhausted, but it’s clear that both Ron and Malfoy are also filled with a nervous restless energy; Ron is chewing his nails and Malfoy is fiddling with his mug of tea.
Malfoy is wearing a green plaid flannel shirt from Harry’s wardrobe, which isn’t what Harry expected him to select, but he looks thoroughly gorgeous in it somehow, the bastard.
The shirt is also rather obviously not something belonging to Malfoy, but Harry supposes it’s plausible that he borrowed a shirt from Harry without it seeming too odd, under the circumstances.
Anyway, Hermione and Ron might have noticed but are more focused on the music box and the figures of the statue, which are still facing each other.
Harry pours himself a cup of tea and comes over to the table, taking a seat on Malfoy’s side. “How much longer, do we think?” he asks.
Hermione doesn’t even glance at her watch. “Seven minutes,” she says.
“And you’re both feeling okay,” Harry checks, looking between Ron and Malfoy.
“Yeah,” says Ron. “The, er… it helped, I think.”
“Definitely helped,” agrees Malfoy, knee jiggling. “It’s still there, the feeling… but it’s okay, isn’t it.”
“Yeah,” agrees Ron. “How long now?”
“Still seven minutes,” says Hermione, meeting Harry’s gaze to share her exasperation.
“I wonder why the hex doesn’t care if we touch, now,” Ron wonders, looking around at everyone. “If it really wants us to reconsider, shouldn’t it be forcing us together? Not that I’m complaining! But it’s weird.”
“Maybe it’s got to be a choice, now,” says Harry. “Instead of a compulsion. Like, it gives you the…the desire. But you’re free to go off with someone else to take care of it, if you want.” He adds, hastily, darting a glance sidelong at Malfoy, “Or off by yourself, I guess.”
“It’s just weird,” says Ron, “but then, everything about this is weird. Do you know, I had these recurring dreams of kissing Harry? Like, full kissing on the mouth, eugh. Sorry, Harry, but you’re really not my type.” Ron grimances at the memory. “Why do you think the hex would make me dream that? Was it just activating some hidden gay part of my brain?”
“I don’t think you have a hidden gay part of your brain,” says Malfoy drily; if he feels caught out by Ron’s little disclosure, he’s not showing it one bit. “Every synapse in there is straight as a fucking arrow.”
“Maybe it was just a dream,” Harry suggests, hoping to change the subject. “How much longer, Hermione?”
“Six minutes,” says Hermione, but it’s too late. Her eyes have already gone wide with comprehension, and Harry can see the gears of her tired brain whirring into action again as she looks between Harry – who is probably fucking blushing again – and Malfoy, wearing Harry’s shirt.
“Harry,” she says, frowning.
“Would anyone like some toast,” Harry says, pushing up from the table.
“I’ll help you with that,” says Hermione, not taking his hint at all.
“No, I don’t really need help with toast,” Harry protests, “it’s fine, stay.”
But Hermione is already following Harry across the kitchen, waving her wand to get a plate out, another wave to get the butter dish down.
Harry glances back over at Ron and Malfoy; the former is still wholly focused on the unmoving statue, and the latter is suddenly sitting ramrod straight, the tips of his ears faintly red, even as he refuses to look over at Harry and Hermione.
“Hermione,” Harry mutters, coming close to her, “please don’t.”
“This whole time?” she hisses, getting out a loaf of bread now. “Harry James Potter.”
“It’s not – it wasn’t anything,” and Harry wants to say it was just shagging or it’s not some big secret romance except – it’s not just shagging, and Harry thinks maybe it has been some big secret romance.
“Oh, sod it,” Harry says, not whispering now, just speaking normally. “Yes, fine, you’re right.”
Hermione makes a furious face and picks up the loaf of bread still in its bag so she can hit Harry with it. “You arsehole,” she says, also dropping the whisper, “why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell us what?” Ron asks, clueing into the conversation now. “What did you do, Harry?”
Malfoy looks over at Harry, giving up on pretending that he’s oblivious to everything happening. He doesn’t say anything, but it’s clear from his expression that he’s looking to Harry for a cue as to how to respond.
Harry, unfortunately, has no idea. He’s just standing there, feeling a mixture of dread and relief.
“Harry and Malfoy,” says Hermione to Ron, meaningfully.
“Harry and Malfoy what,” says Ron, looking around at everyone. “Harry and Malfoy what?”
“We’ve been seeing each other,” says Harry in a rush. “For… for a while.”
Ron’s mouth drops open and his eyes go wide as saucers.
“So how many people want toast, then,” Harry tries.
“I’ll have some,” says Malfoy. Says Draco, Harry supposes he should get used to calling him Draco.
“You weren’t dreaming about kissing Harry,” says Hermione to Ron. “Malfoy was kissing Harry, and you could feel it.”
“If we’d known,” Harry hastens to say, “we wouldn’t have, we just thought if you were asleep then you wouldn’t feel it, or not really notice anyway. Sorry.”
“Wait,” says Ron, “I don’t understand. Harry, did you open the music box first?”
“It’s not a hex, Ron,” says Harry, exasperated now, “it’s a relationship.”
“Is it,” says Draco, but to his credit, he looks rather pleased at this.
“Is it?” Hermione repeats, shocked. “So you’re not just… you’re really seeing each other?”
“Yeah,” says Harry, checking again with Draco. “I guess so.”
“And, you’re — you’re happy?” Hermione asks, as if she doesn’t quite believe it.
“Hermione,” says Harry, not really feeling like defending himself to her any longer, “can you just leave it alone for now? We’re kind of in the middle of a whole thing here. Now, who wants some fucking toast?”
Hermione glares at him sternly for a few seconds, then sighs and shakes her head. “Fine. Just make toast for everyone,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Four minutes.”
Harry makes toast for everyone and brings the plate over to the table; nobody will eat a bite anyway, not waiting for the figures to move, not after Harry’s little confession.
He sits down next to Draco, who looks over at him almost shyly.
“You couldn’t have picked a plain t-shirt,” says Harry quietly.
“I was cold,” says Draco, and the faintest smile appears on his lips.
“Arse,” says Harry.
“So you’re, like–” says Ron, still catching up. He waves a finger between Harry and Draco. “And it wasn’t a hex?”
“Not a hex,” says Harry. “Really.”
“One minute left,” says Hermione. She reaches across the tabletop and takes Ron’s hand in her own, and after a moment feeling torn between self-consciousness and the need for connection, Harry reaches over and takes Draco’s hand too.
Then, suddenly, there’s a soft whirring noise and the figures shiver as some hidden mechanism activates in the statue’s base. They rotate, a little jerkily, and then stop facing away from each other with a soft clicking noise.
“That’s it?” says Ron.
“I think so,” says Hermione nervously. “We should test it.”
Draco half-stands up so he can reach across the table and poke Ron in the shoulder, hard.
“Ow,” says Ron, and they all look at Draco.
“Didn’t hurt,” says Draco, and grins.
“Oh thank Merlin,” Hermione says shakily, “I wasn’t sure it would work.”
“You weren’t sure it would work?” Ron repeats, annoyed, but then Hermione’s hugging him tightly with tears in her eyes. “Oh, fine,” he says, and kisses her on the cheek, the ear. “Of course you solved it, you always do.”
Harry looks over at Draco, not quite ready to embrace him and kiss him in front of Ron and Hermione, but at least comfortable enough to squeeze his hand gladly and grin at him.
“Hang on,” says Draco, pulling his hand out of Harry’s grip and getting his wand out, aiming it at the music box.
“Wait,” says Hermione, pushing Ron away, “wait, I think maybe there’s a better way.”
“A better way than blasting it to hell?” Draco asks, annoyed.
“It would be safe in the museum in Tonga,” says Hermione. “They can keep it in a case with warning labels, and it would be right next to the statue if anyone ever accidentally opened it, and really it belongs to the people of Tonga, it was their shaman who–”
“Fine,” says Draco, giving in. “Just get it out of my sight and be careful with it until it’s gone.”
“I will,” says Hermione. She slumps back, leaning into Ron. “I haven’t been this tired since I was revising for my NEWTs,” she says. “Should we go home, Ron?”
Ron is looking between Harry and Draco again now, frowning faintly. “What? Oh, yeah, let’s go.” He stands up, grabbing a piece of toast as he goes. But then he pauses, looking over at Draco again. “This was… well, horrible. But you could have been a lot worse about it, so thanks.”
“Same to you,” says Draco, a little stiffly. “I can recommend a good allergy potion, by the way.”
“Yeah, thanks,” says Ron. “The dust bothers me here.”
“I know,” says Draco. “I’m the same with our horses, at home.”
Ron nods and comes around the table with Hermione. “Well,” he says, “see you at work tomorrow, Harry?”
“Yeah,” says Harry, standing up as well. “Rest up, Hermione.”
“You too,” she says, gently gathering up the statue, now safely back in its packing box, and the music box too, lid held tightly shut in her hand.
Ron goes through the Floo first.
Hermione lingers for just a moment after he goes, still juggling the two devices in her arms. She looks at Draco, and sighs a little. “Ron’s right, you could have made it a lot worse, and you didn’t. And you really did help me with the statue, thank you.”
“I was highly motivated,” says Draco.
“I suppose you were,” says Hermione. “Anyway, I’m still thankful.”
“Well,” says Draco, his voice tight but determined, “it’s because of you that we’re safely on the other side of this. Thank you.”
Hermione smiles wearily. “I was also highly motivated.” She turns to Harry. “And I’m sorry I spent all that time moaning to you about how awful it’s been for me. I suppose it’s been worse for you, with me leaving you alone to do the minding. You had to – to watch, I guess.”
“You didn’t know,” says Harry. “It’s okay.” He glances over at Draco and sees that he’s looking a little stricken at the idea that Harry’s been suffering quietly this whole time.
Hermione still has a slight line between her brows, but she looks to Draco and then back at Harry. “Well,” she says, “I guess I’m headed home.”
Harry throws a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace for her, and Hermione steps in, then is gone.
He doesn’t even think it through or seem to decide, Harry is just suddenly embracing Draco as tightly as he can, flooded with relief that it’s really just the two of them at last. “Sorry they found out,” Harry says. “We did pretty well until today, hiding it.”
“We weren’t trying that hard to hide it,” says Draco, “between my forgetting I wasn’t supposed to know my way around the house, and all my shit in your shower, and the kissing and everything.”
“I guess we weren’t,” Harry agrees, pulling back now. “Did you realise you called me Harry, earlier?”
“Did I?” says Draco, reaching up to fondly tug at Harry’s hair. “Whoops.”
Harry snorts. “Usually it’s only during sex,” he says, “it surprised me too.” He searches Draco’s face. “So, you don’t mind?”
“As you pointed out,” says Draco, glancing down at himself, “I picked the bloody shirt, didn’t I.”
Harry grins and pulls Draco in for a kiss, delighting in the fact that nobody feels Harry’s lips but Draco. “I really am so tired,” Harry murmurs, not wanting to let go of Draco now.
“I could probably be persuaded to lie down with you,” says Draco.
“Nowhere to be?” Harry says. “Not tired of my house yet?”
“I suppose I’m not,” says Draco. “But why don’t we go through to the Manor for a change of scenery?”
Harry thinks of the Manor, which was once so forbidding and grim to him, but which now just makes Harry think of crisp white sheets, and sunlight, and soft boiled eggs in china egg cups on silver trays, and of Draco – Draco sleeping next to Harry, Draco kissing Harry in the pantry, Draco trying not to smile when he sees Harry coming through the Floo.
“Yeah,” says Harry, “let’s go.”
***
Harry doesn’t really want to sleep the day away, as he’s back to the day shift tomorrow and his sleep is already a mess. But it’s difficult not to fall deep into slumber on Draco’s vast cool bed, even better with Draco under the covers next to him. Harry barely has time to enjoy any of it before sleep drags him under like he took one of Hermione’s sleeping draughts, deep and heavy and dark.
When he wakes, Draco is still curled up behind him, warm and weighted with slumber. Harry rolls over as gently as he can and sees that Draco is still wearing Harry’s old flannel shirt, unbuttoned now. It’s too difficult to resist that peek of pale smooth chest, Harry reaches out and strokes his hand over it because he can, now.
“Mm,” says Draco, stirring.
Harry leans in and kisses Draco’s neck, and then Draco goes stiff and knocks Harry away as he sits up all at once, looking wild.
“Fuck, sorry,” says Draco, gasping. “For a second I thought–”
“Do I look anything at all like Ron,” Harry says, provoked.
“Of course not,” says Draco, catching his breath. “But given how I woke up twice last night, you can forgive me for being thrown, can’t you?”
“Make it up to me?” Harry says, rolling onto his back and letting his arms splay at his sides. Harry himself is shirtless, having stripped down to his pants before climbing into bed that morning.
“Hmm,” says Draco, surveying him.
“You can’t play that game anymore,” Harry says, teasing, “you confessed how much you like me, remember.”
Draco frowns and throws back the covers so he can see Harry properly, and also apparently so he can throw one leg over Harry’s hips, settling his weight over Harry’s upper thighs, straddling him. He runs his hands up over Harry’s chest and then curls his fingers around Harry’s ribs. His expression remains serious, though Harry knows he’s not; it’s clear Draco is quite enjoying taking his time after being forbidden any of this for more than two days, and after being driven into a mad hunger over someone he didn’t want.
Draco wants to be in control for a little while, and Harry can be patient.
Draco leans down and sets his teeth in a patch of skin just under Harry’s collarbone, then closes his lips and sucks a love bite into the spot. Harry exhales appreciatively and rolls his hips, but Draco’s pinning Harry’s hands to the mattress, so he doesn’t touch Draco yet. Draco lifts his head and drops another mark a little higher on Harry’s shoulder, where it might possibly peek out of his robes at work tomorrow.
“I thought I was the jealous one,” Harry says, not trying to stop Draco though of course he could, just a quick twist of his forearms and Harry could have his hands free.
“This isn’t jealousy,” says Draco, lifting his head to admire his work. “It’s possessiveness, learn the difference, Harry.”
“I like it,” Harry says, “whatever it is.”
“I could hardly tell,” says Draco, grinding his hips down into Harry’s rather obvious erection now, sighing with approval. “Say it again,” he says very quietly.
“I like it?” Harry repeats, uncertain.
“No,” says Draco, tucking his face into the spot between Harry’s neck and shoulder, “say that you like me.”
“Oh,” says Harry, surprised; but then, on consideration, not surprised at all, because wasn’t Draco just saying how it felt, thinking Ron hated him, and– “I like you,” Harry hastens to say, because Draco’s gone a bit still with waiting. “I like you very much.”
Draco makes a happy hungry sound at this, and finally releases Harry’s hands, sitting up again. “Show me,” he says, “show me how much you like me.”
Harry grins and reaches up to stroke down the open sides of Draco’s – Harry’s – flannel shirt, which is soft and worn and just so absolutely not anything Harry would have pictured on Draco. “Off,” Harry says, pushing the shirt down onto Draco’s shoulders and arms.
Charming as it is to see Draco in plaid, Harry would much rather see this: Draco’s bare chest, lovely and long arms, his pale skin nearly glowing in the sunlight from the windows. Harry curls up to kiss and lick at Draco’s chest, grabbing onto Draco’s shoulder blades for support, then subsiding back to the mattress and skating his hands down lower, tucking his fingertips into the elastic at the top of Draco’s boxers.
“How should I show you,” Harry says. “My mouth?”
“Tempting,” says Draco, reaching down to run a thumb over Harry’s lower lip. “But I think that’s what you wanted from me, or at least that’s what you said earlier.”
“I’m fairly sure there’s not a limit of one blowjob per transaction,” Harry says. “We could take turns, or you could turn around, we could lie on our sides…”
“Or,” says Draco, “I could fuck you and then suck you off afterwards?”
“That,” says Harry, mouth suddenly dry, “yes, that, please.”
Draco sits back a little and palms Harry’s cock through his pants. “Can you wait a while?” he says. “I don’t plan to hurry.”
“Yes,” says Harry, though he’s arching into Draco’s touch helplessly already. “I can wait, fuck.”
Draco smirks. “We’ll see.” He rises up on his knees and moves back down the bed, pulling Harry’s pants down with him as he goes after carefully hooking the elastic over Harry’s cock so it can spring free. “Hm,” says Draco, getting distracted before he can take off his own boxers, apparently caught on the sight of Harry’s hard cock kissing his belly, the tip already wet. “Maybe just for a minute,” he says, almost to himself, and Harry doesn’t even have time to brace himself before Draco’s taking Harry in his mouth.
Harry drops a hand onto Draco’s head, gasping, grasping at Draco’s fine blond hair. Here’s the hunger Harry’s seen on Draco’s face the last few days, and at last it’s directed Harry’s way as it’s supposed to be, Draco sucking and bobbing messily on Harry’s cock with blond lashes fluttering against his cheeks with the pleasure of want and satiation mixed together.
“Fuck,” says Harry, throwing his head back, unable to stand the sight of it if he hopes to last. But in a moment, even looking away isn’t enough, and Harry tugs at Draco’s hair urgently. “Stop, stop,” he says, “please.”
Draco comes up gasping and clambers up Harry’s body, landing heavy on him and kissing his mouth with the same desperation he was using lower down, and Harry clings to him gladly in answer. “You taste so good,” Draco murmurs as he pulls away. “Fuck, Harry, I need to fuck you.”
Harry has to pull him down for more kisses at this declaration, but soon releases him and urges him back up onto his knees so Harry can pull off Draco’s boxers finally. And then, because there really isn’t a limit on these things, Harry pauses for a moment to suck Draco too. “Okay,” Harry says, pulling off wetly, “okay, accio lube.”
Learning wandless magic in auror training has its definite advantages, Harry reflects as he catches the bottle soaring over from Draco’s nightstand. He drops back down onto his back and grins up at Draco before pouring some lube onto his fingers and reaching down between his legs. Draco’s watching with heavy-lidded eyes and a slightly open mouth, gone a little stupid with lust, so Harry takes his time circling his hole before pushing a finger in slowly, canting his hips into the intrusion.
After a little while, two fingers, and Harry makes a pleased sound at the stretch of it, eyeing Draco’s heavy cock and anticipating the feeling of it splitting into Harry. Draco isn’t touching himself yet, but now and then he rolls his hips just a little, as if he’s trying to feel what Harry’s fingers are feeling: the heat and the grip and the slick.
“On your back?” Harry suggests when he thinks he’s ready, and it’s a sign of Draco’s state of mind that he goes without arguing or bargaining, just goes over onto his back and reaches his hands up, ready to take Harry by the waist and–
Harry pauses to lube up Draco’s cock, but then he lets Draco grab him and pull him down. It’s been a few days at most, but Harry’s suddenly wondering if he’s gone this long without Draco inside him since this whole thing began – which is stupid, of course he has, Harry’s been away on jobs, Draco went on holiday for a week once, of course they’ve been apart, but fuck, Harry feels like Draco’s new to his body again, the stretch and the hardness of him. Harry has to slow Draco down, and he does, hands over Draco’s to let him know, and then Harry rocks his hips gently and exhales, shaky, as he sinks down onto Draco’s cock.
“Okay?” Draco asks when Harry’s finally seated fully. His hands are trembling where he’s holding Harry gently, like he’s holding himself back at considerable effort maybe.
“Okay,” Harry says, “just let me,” and Harry rolls his hips in a little circle now, feeling his body grow accustomed again. Back the other way, and Draco makes a low appreciative sound in answer. “Fuck,” Harry says, eyes closing briefly, “you feel big.”
“I know you can take it,” Draco says, the smile audible in his voice. “One could even say you can take it with some panache, based on past experiences.”
“Getting there,” says Harry, sweating, his thigh muscles jumping; he dares to try a more showy move with his hips, and oh – Harry drops his chin to his chest and starts riding Draco properly. Draco grips Harry’s hips, taking his cue, and fucks up into Harry to match his rhythm, speeding up together.
“Come here,” says Draco, pulling Harry down against him, “come here,” and kisses Harry, the angle changing like this, and Harry tries to keep kissing Draco back but it’s intense, it’s good, and Harry gives it up as a bad job, resting his cheek against Draco’s hot cheek and just rolling his hips into Draco’s thrusts.
Gradually, Draco gets faster again, but pulls himself back from the brink; he was serious about taking his time.
Harry clambers off him, grinning, but doesn’t make it very far on all fours before Draco’s up on his knees behind Harry, pinning him and then fucking into him from behind. It’s not as tender this way, it’s just the slap of skin on skin and Draco fucking working Harry as they both groan. No words now, just needful movement, and Harry starts reaching for his cock without thinking but Draco pushes his hand away, reminding Harry: there’s more, they planned it.
And like that little push inspired Draco, his hand comes down heavy between Harry’s shoulder blades, urging him down onto his elbows and forearms, holding him there, Draco knocking Harry’s knees even further apart with his own knees so Draco can – fuck – just fuck Harry steady and deep and fast. No stopping this time, Harry can tell Draco’s close, and then Draco lifts up the hand pushing Harry down so he can take Harry’s hips again, pull Harry’s arse to him as he comes with a little shout, and then long ecstatic hip curls afterwards, exhaling and moaning, Harry rolling his hips back and up into each of Draco’s aftershocks.
Finally, Draco pulls out, giving Harry’s arse a fond squeeze and then a slap on one cheek. “Over,” Draco orders.
Harry goes over onto his back, glad of the opportunity to sprawl out after all that exertion even if he’s still aching for release.
Draco’s flushed to his hairline, skin speckled with droplets of sweat, but he looks happier than Harry’s seen him in days. He grins at Harry and drops down onto his belly alongside him, taking Harry’s cock into his mouth with no preamble, and then reaching down with his fingers and pushing them into Harry with an equally matter-of-fact movement.
Harry’s instantly on the brink, much as he wants this to last. He stares up at the canopy over Draco’s bed, seeking some sort of inspiration or distraction to help him have any stamina at all, but it’s no use. Draco’s fingers are clever and curling into the exact spot that makes Harry’s vision go sparkly, and Draco’s mouth is wet and hot, tongue working around the head of Harry’s cock on every upstroke. Harry could urge him to slow down, but that’s a level of self-control that Harry doesn’t really possess at the moment.
“Draco,” Harry warns him, “I’m going to —“
Draco only makes a warm sound of approval before taking Harry deep and stroking from the other side with his fingers, and Harry comes like that, clutching at the sheets, gasping for air.
Draco doesn’t let Harry go until Harry’s pushing Draco away, laughing, too sensitive. Draco moves up the bed to lie down next to Harry, looking very pleased with himself indeed.
They lie separately for a minute, each catching his breath, and then Harry flings out an arm to reestablish contact, albeit clumsily, the back of his hand landing squarely on Draco’s sweaty chest. “That was fun,” Harry says.
“Fun?” Draco repeats, sounding mildly insulted.
“Fun and good?” Harry revises.
“Relationally transformative and life-changingly amazing is what I was aiming for,” Draco says.
“Oh,” says Harry, “well, yeah — it was that too, of course.”
Draco picks up Harry’s hand off his chest and pretends to crush it between his own. “Brat.” But then he’s kissing Harry’s hand where he playfully squeezed it a moment earlier.
“I’m glad it wasn’t us, you know,” Harry says, rolling over to face Malfoy. “I’m sorry it happened at all, and I’m sorry it happened to you, but — I am glad it wasn’t us, the two of us under the binding hex.”
“Why’s that?” Draco asks, turning his head on his pillow to look at Harry.
“First off,” says Harry, “we’d have had to act like we hated it, even if we didn’t.”
“Dreadful,” says Draco. “You’re a terrible actor.”
“I’m not,” Harry says, “but second, nobody would believe us after if we told them we were already — we already had —“
“Feelings,” provides Draco.
“Right, feelings,” Harry says, “they’d all want to chalk it up to the hex, wouldn’t they.”
“You’re probably right there,” Draco sighs. “What else?”
“Third,” says Harry, ticking this reason off on his fingers, “third is that I wouldn’t ever know for sure if it was the hex, after all. How you feel. I would always wonder if you would — if you weren’t forced to, would you still feel the same.”
Draco reaches over and strokes Harry’s upper arm, squinting up at the canopy above, lost in thought for a moment. “I suppose,” he says. “I would wonder the same.”
“So really, it’s for the best,” says Harry. “That it wasn’t me who opened the box near you.”
“I guess it is,” Draco says. “The sex would have been great though.”
“Maybe,” says Harry. “We’ll have to settle for just — what was it?”
“Relationally transformative and life-changingly amazing,” Draco supplies.
“Yeah, that,” Harry says, wriggling in close now, head resting on Draco’s chest. He can hear Draco’s heart beating, the soft tide of his breath.
Harry thinks: they are bound, anyway.