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Harry grins and increases the volume of the music when the familiar chords of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” start to play. His fingers tapping on the steering wheel to the rhythm, he checks his blind spot and turns into a slip road.
It’s three in the morning on a Saturday, and he’s on his regular Uber shift. At this hour and in this area of Soho in Muggle London, his passengers are usually drunk people spilling out from the bars and clubs. He doesn’t mind; they (or the drunkard’s friend, at least) tip well, and he uses magic to clean up the mess they leave behind.
Uber is quiet for now, so Harry cruises aimlessly on the roads, keeping a cautious eye on the partygoers milling about and smoking outside the bustling neon-lit clubs. A policeman in a high-visibility yellow vest gestures in warning at a group of drunk girls when they stagger away from the pavement in their tottering high heels, almost veering into the path of a motorcyclist.
Harry stops at a red light and bops his head to Led Zeppelin, singing along while his index fingers drum out the beat on the base of the wheel. When the doors of a club called Antidote crash open, the loud thumping bass emanating from the premises is audible even to him. He raises his eyebrows at the snaking queue of people—mostly blokes—outside the club. When the light turns green, he resumes his leisurely drive.
Harry finds calm and comfort in this nocturnal experience; the city nights and bright lights are a soothing balm to him when the sleepless nights stretch for far too long and the nightmares, lurking under the trapdoor of his mind, feel far too real. The roads are more peaceful at this hour, and life is simple and straightforward when he’s working—stop at red lights, go at green lights, obey the road signs and follow the series of destinations decided for him by his passengers. Time narrows down to the smooth slide of the wheel turning under his palms, the steady clicking of the turn signal and the streetlights above casting shifting patterns of light on his hands.
Being around other people at night is good for him. Harry thinks of Stacy, his previous passenger, who was a sobbing wreck; distraught and heartbroken, crumpled tissues clasped in her fists and hastily-packed bags slung over her shoulders. She was on the way to her mum’s place, having just ended her relationship of three years.
Making small talk with passengers or hearing their stories (well, those that were willing to share) helped Harry to forget about his own. When he drives around London, it relaxes him to see people going about their daily routine. Everyone is weighed down by their own burdens and regrets, yet they trudge on with their lives, propelled forward by their own hopes and dreams.
It makes Harry feel alive, yet insignificant.
It makes him feel less alone.
A chime from Uber jolts Harry from his thoughts. A “Pansy P”, located at the nearby Club Eden, needs a ride to Knightsbridge. He whistles at the posh residential address and frowns at the name, which conjures up memories from what feels like another lifetime ago. No way it can be her. He accepts the booking and switches off his music.
It takes him five minutes to reach Eden. Harry stops his car just outside the club and stretches in his seat, working out the knots in his back. When he takes his glasses off to rub his eyes, the doors open, his car sagging with the additional weight of new passengers piling into the vehicle.
Harry puts his glasses back on. “Hey,” he greets, twisting around to face them.
His smile freezes and slides off his face when he locks eyes with Pansy Parkinson.
Parkinson is accompanied by Blaise Zabini and another man—tall and blond—at the back seat. No doubt it’s Draco Malfoy, even though Harry can’t see his features as he’s slumped over and so drunk that he can’t even sit up straight.
Right in front, seated beside Harry, is Gregory Goyle, his burly physique even bigger than he remembered.
…
There’s a long, stunned silence while everyone simply stares at him.
Her lips parted, Parkinson blinks rapidly, her fingers wrapped around Zabini’s wrist in shock. “You’re… you’re Harry P?”
Incredulous, Harry shoots back, “And you’re Pansy P?” Although his words are directed at her, he’s looking at Malfoy, who makes a sudden gagging sound and jerks forward, a hand gripping onto the car door.
“He’s going to—” Zabini warns, angling his body away from Malfoy.
At the same time, Harry lunges towards the glovebox. “I’ve got a bag—”
But it’s too late.
With a groan, Malfoy promptly throws up on Zabini’s shoes and on the floor of Harry’s car.
Harry goes very still, before sucking in a sharp breath and releasing it slowly through gritted teeth.
“Draco!” Zabini hisses, gesturing to his shoes in agitation. “They’re Italian, and fucking expensive! Why in Salazar’s name do you always drink this much?”
Unapologetic, Malfoy collapses on the seat and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are closed and his limbs are slack, as if all of his energy has been sapped from his body.
Parkinson retrieves her wand from her purse. “That’s hardly how we behave around guests,” she says, an edge to her voice. Her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, she vanishes the mess and casts a minty air-freshening charm, to Harry’s appeasement.
“What guests? I’d hardly call the driver our guest,” Malfoy slurs, stretching a hand across his forehead to rub at his temples. His eyes still closed, he waves his other hand in the air dismissively. “We get sloshed—”
“No, you get sloshed,” Zabini snaps, bending down to inspect his clean shoes.
Malfoy continues mumbling, ignoring Zabini. “We do this every Friday and Saturday night. C’mon, Blaise, getting on in your old age?” He snickers, the corner of his lips hiking up in a half-smirk. And there it is; the sight of that, paired with his familiar drawl, is enough to trigger a flush of adrenaline flooding through Harry’s nerves. He squeezes his eyes shut in disbelief because this cannot be real. It’s been fourteen years since the War; there is no way that the Slytherins are currently sitting in his car, expecting a ride home to some posh place in Muggle London after having spent the night at a Muggle club. They have Muggle phones and use Muggle apps—
“No, this isn’t a dream, Potter,” Parkinson points out, arching a brow. “Please take us home.”
Harry opens his eyes. He takes a deep breath and flashes her a close-lipped smile which doesn’t reach his eyes.
The drive to Knightsbridge is strained. Passengers usually treat Harry like he’s invisible—they talk about personal matters, share gossip and crack jokes, with some of them even discussing sensitive matters on the phone, but the Slytherins are entirely silent. Malfoy is unresponsive; the alcohol and his exertions at the clubs must have knocked him out cold.
When Harry reaches their residence, Goyle begins to direct him to the specific block, but Parkinson cuts in, choosing to have him drop them at the nearest block instead. Zabini and Goyle exit the car, and in a well-practised manoeuvre, they haul Malfoy, who can barely walk, out of the car. They lug him away, leaving Parkinson behind.
“Thank you.” She presses a few Galleons into Harry’s palm. She opens her mouth, as if to say something more, but simply nods at him, and then leaves.
Wide-eyed, Harry stares at the money, and then at their retreating figures. His old Auror instincts kicking in, he grabs his wand and slips out of the car. Concealed with a Disillusionment charm, he follows them, crouching down low and weaving through the vehicles in the carpark.
Zabini speaks first. “We’ve got to do something about Draco’s club nights and his drinking. We’re thirty-two, for Merlin’s sake. We’re older than everyone there!”
“Late nights and alcohol are not good for our health,” Goyle agrees.
Parkinson sighs and says something that Harry can’t catch. Frowning, he picks up the pace.
There’s a lull in the conversation.
“And Potter? What are the chances?” Goyle’s question ends in a grunt when Malfoy lurches to the side. They enter Block 8, and Harry manages to sneak in through the glass doors just in time, although he catches Parkinson’s curious glance at the doors.
She jabs at the button at the lift landing. They enter the lift when it arrives. “Are we going to tell Draco in the morning?” Zabini asks.
“No, you know him and Potter.” Parkinson grins, looking at the wall behind Harry. “Even now, he’s always been so—”
The lift closes, and then ascends, leaving Harry staring at the spot where the Slytherins stood.
So… so what? What was Parkinson gonna say about Malfoy and him?
He tugs at his hair in frustration, and then hurries back to his car, leftover shock still coursing through his system. Seeing them again, fourteen years after, because of some sheer coincidence on Uber… He now knows one of their addresses, and they seem to have carved out lives in Muggle London…
It’s as if this couldn’t really have happened, except for the glitter in the backseat, the indents on the cushion of the front seat, and the faint lavender scent of Parkinson’s perfume lingering in the car.
His phone chimes, indicating that Parkinson has marked the ride as completed. Her review: four stars.
Harry rubs his eyebrow, his gaze hooked on her name on his screen.
“What the fuck.”
Despite himself, he can’t stay away.
It’s two in the morning, and Harry’s lost count of the number of times he’s circled Club Eden. A week has passed, and he still can’t stop wondering about the Slytherins; the same questions gnawing away at him, wearing down his flimsy determination to leave them well alone. What are they doing in the Muggle world? What kind of jobs do they have here, or are they simply living a life of leisure and luxury in Knightsbridge, cocooned by the wealth inherited from their families? What about Malfoy? He appears to enjoy clubbing and drinking, with his friends tagging along grudgingly.
Harry cannot imagine Malfoy—pureblood, proper, straightlaced—letting loose and dancing up a storm.
His phone chimes. When the name “Pansy P” pops up, he accepts the booking at once and drives to Antidote. He switches off The Ramones and looks around. Parkinson and Malfoy are already waiting for him. Harry inches closer and peers up at them; Malfoy is hunched over and leaning on Parkinson, his face buried in the curve of her neck. Her arm circles his waist, propping him up.
“Your chariot awaits,” Harry quips when Parkinson opens the door. “With added features, now.” He waves a Tesco plastic bag at her.
“Very funny, Potter.” Parkinson drags Malfoy inside and reaches across him to close the door. “I believe meeting you again is not an accident.” Her words spiral into a yelp when Malfoy promptly face-plants into her lap, curling up his lanky body to hug his knees.
Harry shrugs and flicks his turn signal. “Just the two of you tonight?”
“Yes. Blaise and Greg don’t particularly fancy Antidote.”
Harry drives, uncertain about reviving the conversation. The silence is eventually broken by a loud, prolonged squeak of clothes rubbing against the seat—
Malfoy rolls off Parkinson’s lap and slowly slides, head-first, down onto the floor of the car.
His upper body is now tucked behind the vacant front seat, while his long legs are sprawled across the backseat.
Parkinson lets out a sigh full of fond exasperation.
“Pansy.” Malfoy’s voice is muffled. “I’m… upside down.”
Parkinson pats his knee. “Stay there, darling. It’s actually less embarrassing for you like this.”
A pause.
“Alright.”
Harry presses his lips together to hide his laughter.
There’s a rustling sound and a grunt. Malfoy pipes up, clearer now, “You have black hair.”
It’s obvious he’s talking to him, but Harry doesn’t turn back, even though he’s at a red light.
“Like Potter,” Malfoy plods on, his words slurred. “Hmm. Glasses like Potter.” He sniffs. “You don’t know him. Saint Potter.” Another pause, and then a soft sigh. “Got the most gorgeous eyes, though.”
…
What.
Speechless, Harry’s head jerks up, glancing at Parkinson in the rear-view mirror. She’s covering her mouth with a hand, looking out of the window. He shakes his head in disbelief. There is absolutely no way that Malfoy could’ve said—
“Green eyes, like a… a toad!” Malfoy declares, sounding particularly proud with himself at that comparison. “Pansy. Toads are green.”
“Yes. Green like Potter’s eyes,” Parkinson replies dutifully.
“Toad,” Malfoy mutters. He repeats the word, drawing it out. He says it again, and then muses out loud, “Why do words sound strange when I keep on saying ‘em?”
And then Malfoy laughs, a sudden, unexpected bubble of laughter so warm and genuine that Harry can’t help but smile.
Harry leans forward and waves at a couple, gesturing for them to cross the road.
Malfoy’s cute when he’s drunk.
Harry freezes in mid-wave.
Did he just think of Malfoy as… cute?
Shit, maybe I’m the one who’s drunk.
“Toads are green,” Malfoy mumbles around a yawn.
They finally reach Knightsbridge. Harry parks the car and helps Parkinson to bring Malfoy, who is half-asleep, home. “Sobering charms worsen his hangover, for some reason,” she explains. Harry simply slings an arm around Malfoy’s waist.
Glitter sparkles on his face, neck and all over his rumpled hair. A purple paper wristband with “Antidote” printed on it is almost torn, dangling loosely from his wrist; Harry tugs it off and pockets it. Malfoy sighs and wraps an arm around Harry’s neck, his head lolling on Harry’s shoulder. The top three buttons of his black shirt are undone, revealing a pale chest. He smells of vanilla and alcohol; Harry gulps at their proximity and at the heat radiating off Malfoy’s body.
Parkinson lets Harry lead as they thread their way through the carpark to Block 8. “I knew you followed us,” she says while they’re waiting for the lift, a triumphant grin on her lips. “I saw the shimmer of your Disillusionment charm. Old habits die hard, eh? You just can’t stay away when it comes to Draco.”
Harry doesn’t answer, staring hard at the changing numbers tracking the lift’s descent. They enter the lift, exiting at the tenth level. Parkinson unlocks the door to the flat. Zabini’s voice rings out, “For once, Draco didn’t go home with someone?”
“No. On the contrary, we brought someone home.” Parkinson steps over the threshold and nudges the door wider, revealing Harry.
Zabini puts his book down on the coffee table and gets to his feet. “Potter. We meet again.” With that, he takes Malfoy from Harry and, together with Parkinson, they bring him to his room.
Left alone, Harry closes the door behind him and looks around. He moves closer to the centre of the carpeted living room. At first glance, he’s surprised at how Muggle everything is. There’s a large television with a Wi-Fi setup tucked beneath it. A stack of CDs on the table catches his attention; he makes a sound of surprise at the bands: AC/DC, Queen, Sex Pistols, to name a few. He has similar music at home, too. The newspapers are Muggle—Financial Times, amongst others, but Harry notices a moving picture beneath a bundle of unopened mail. He shifts the envelopes away, revealing today’s Daily Prophet.
The place is cosier than expected; rather different from the Slytherin common room, which was imposing and grand, boasting thick velvet curtains and ornate stone walls. Even though it was such a long time ago, Harry still remembers the candelabra chandeliers lighting up the black leather sofas and carved chairs. This Knightsbridge residence is equally elegant and posh, with its high ceilings, the furniture and décor in shades of beige, cream and grey. There’s a display cabinet of expensive alcohol and spirits, and a worn Slytherin scarf tossed over an armchair.
Harry pads over to a small table at a corner facing the balcony. A popular singer winks at him from the latest edition of Witch Weekly. The magazine is surrounded by artistic paraphernalia—a sketchbook, stationery and an assortment of fabric swatches with a variety of patterns and textures. At the top of the table is a framed Muggle photograph of the Slytherins celebrating what appears to be the grand opening of a gym, with Goyle’s grin being the brightest.
Harry gazes at a beaming Malfoy, who actually has a rather nice smile.
“You were expecting more green and silver, perhaps?”
Startled, Harry jerks his head up at Parkinson’s voice. He follows her to the kitchen island, settling down on one of the high chairs around the counter. A vase of fresh roses is on the table, along with a half-eaten bag of Walkers crisps and a new box of Cauldron Cakes.
Dressed comfortably in a jumper and sweatpants, with her face bare and her silver hoop earrings gone, Parkinson rakes a hand through her short black pixie cut. They look at each other for a moment, equally uncertain about the other. Eventually, she offers, “Would you fancy a drink? Gin, Firewhisky—”
“I’m working, so tea’s good.”
With a flick of her wand, Parkinson puts the kettle on and busies herself with preparing chamomile tea. Harry nibbles on the inside of his mouth, at a loss of what to say. She pushes a mug towards him. He blinks at the Slytherin crest on the mug, and then fixes her with a flat look. “Really?”
Smirking, she rests her chin on her palm and bats her eyelashes at him. “It’s three in the morning and we’re no longer at Hogwarts. Humour me.”
Sighing, Harry lifts the mug high and grudgingly takes an exaggerated swig, suppressing his flinch when the hot tea goes down his throat. Parkinson snickers, but her smile fades when she sends him an appraising gaze. “So… Uber?”
“So… Muggle London?” Harry retorts.
Something closes up in Parkinson’s face, and she looks at her tea.
“It’s been fourteen years,” Harry presses, tilting his head to catch her eye. “Sure, it was a good idea to lay low here for the first few years after, but… for fourteen years?”
Parkinson says nothing, but her hands tighten around her cup.
Harry changes tack. He leans forward, keeping his tone casual and voice low, starting with a question designed to trigger a knee-jerk reaction. “Don’t you miss magic?”
“Of course I do,” Parkinson says at once, looking up at him. This Auror tactic works, for she continues talking. “I’d go back. I’ve actually been back for work, sometimes, but…” Her eyes dart to Malfoy’s room. “I can’t leave Draco here. We can’t leave him here.”
Harry hides his frown with another mouthful of tea. Malfoy is the only one still avoiding the wizarding world?
“Out of the four of us, Draco is the most affected by the past, understandably. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near there.” The set of her shoulders is tense when she presses a knuckle to her mouth, as if she’d revealed too much. “It’s late,” she says abruptly.
Harry gets the hint. “Thanks for the drink.” He finishes his tea and stands up, pushing his chair back.
“Before I forget, what’s your number?” With a few taps on her iPhone, Parkinson unlocks the keypad feature and gives Harry an expectant look, her thumbs hovering above the screen.
Harry stares at her.
She shrugs. “It’s always useful to have the number of an Uber driver.”
“You can Apparate. I reckon that you Uber only when someone’s drunk.”
“Yeah, and that someone is drunk a lot. Plus, there is an easier way to contact me rather than circling the clubs for hours for a lucky chance of Uber pairing us up again,” Parkinson says, flashing him a sweet smile.
At her sly expression, Harry relents. They swap numbers. Parkinson sees him out to the door, and he pauses outside the flat. Why does Malfoy drink and club so much? The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. Instead, he asks, “Does he usually talk about me when he’s drunk?”
She leans against the doorjamb, her lips curving up into a slow smile. And there it is again, that spark of amusement in her half-lidded brown eyes. “Wouldn’t you want to know,” she murmurs. “Goodnight, Potter.”
With that, she closes the door.
Intrigued, Harry heads back to his car, his mind reeling with his discovery. The Slytherins really have settled down in Muggle London, Harry has visited their flat, Malfoy refuses to return to the magical world, he knows how to have fun in clubs and gets drunk a lot, and when he’s drunk—
He thinks my eyes are gorgeous.
Something crinkles in his pocket. It’s the crumpled Antidote wristband. He smooths it out and brushes away a speck of glitter. He sits in his car, staring at the wristband for a moment.
Life really is full of surprises.
“He’s up to something.”
Harry has said these words before, a long time ago, under very different circumstances. But he no longer has that same conviction.
He just wants to talk to Ron about it.
Ron swallows his mouthful of mashed potato. “You’ve seen him twice, and the bloke was barely conscious enough for a conversation.” He puts down his fork. “Yet you’re obsessing about him again, years after everything.”
“I’m not obsessing!” Harry insists, lowering his spoon into his bowl of mushroom soup. “I’m not! It’s just… er… focused thinking.” At Ron’s snort of amusement, Harry continues. “They’re in the Muggle world, been living there at some posh place in Knightsbridge. According to Parkinson, they’d like to return, but Malfoy doesn’t want to, even after so long, as if he’s rejecting everything magical, which goes against… everything we know about him!”
Ron waits for him to be done, before saying dryly, “D’you really think they’re up to something?”
Harry blinks at him.
After a moment, he sighs and pushes away his finished plate, deflated. “Honestly? No.”
“When you first told me about this a few days ago, I pulled up their files.” Ron drops his voice, his eyes darting around the crowded canteen. Harry leans forward and lowers his head. They’re at the Ministry of Magic, finishing their lunch.
“Zabini’s gone into finance, his business dealings concentrated in the Muggle world and in wizarding Italy. Parkinson is a fashion designer, her exhibitions are mostly in Muggle UK. She uses her old family connections to involve herself in some shows that cater to the old-money pureblood families, but that’s about it.” Ron pauses to flash a polite smile at a passing colleague. “Goyle owns a Muggle gym with a business partner, while Malfoy appears to have dropped off the radar altogether, although he visits the Manor a few times a year to tend to his parents’ graves.” Ron leans back into his chair. “The way I see it, they’ve done nothing worthy of any suspicion.”
Harry frowns. “Malfoy isn’t working at all?”
“Not from the records, no.”
With a wave of their wands, they return their trays. They exit the cafeteria, going towards Ron’s office at the DMLE.
As they’re waiting for the lift, Ron raises a paper cup to his lips and takes a sip of his coffee. He slants a glance at Harry. “The offer to teach the Auror trainees is still on the table, if you’d fancy taking your mind off Malfoy.”
Harry looks at him, to which Ron quickly lifts his eyes to the moving arrow tracking the lift’s descent. “I already have a job,” he points out, keeping his tone light.
This clearly isn’t the first time they’ve spoken about this.
“Yeah. Late-night shifts at Uber,” Ron says, his words equally light.
Fortunately, Harry is saved from this thread of conversation by the clatter of the sliding golden grille. They step aside to allow others to exit the lift—Harry has to dodge when a particularly zealous paper inter-departmental memo narrowly misses his head. Ron quickly tightens the lid on his coffee cup and reaches above to hold onto a hanging golden rope in the lift. With a loud rattling of the chains, the lift judders to life, hurtling to level two, home of the Auror Headquarters.
They’ve barely taken three steps into the long corridor when someone, bearing a file, approaches Ron for his signature. Without missing a beat, Harry briefly takes Ron’s coffee from him so Ron has both hands to leaf through the paperwork and sign off on it. As they walk, Harry peeks into the different offices. He spots a few familiar faces from his short-lived Auror training, but they pay no attention to him; not because they’ve forgotten him, but because they’re so preoccupied with work.
Some days, when Harry lets his mind wander to the insidious realm of what-ifs, he wonders how different his life could be, if he didn’t fail the last part of Auror training on purpose. He could be working with his best mate, enduring dangerous missions and accomplishing tricky cases together.
He could be making such an important difference to the world.
But for once in his life, Harry is so fucking tired of doing the right thing.
They pass through the heavy oak doors. With a few more strides and through another door, they’re at Ron’s office. Harry shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the stand, just beside the heavy outer coat of Ron’s Head Auror uniform. His eyes linger on the red coat, resplendent with royal-gold trimmings lining the sleeves and collar, along with the gleaming silver buttons.
If Harry had remained in the Ministry, he’d be the one wearing this uniform, sitting in this office, even if he didn’t deserve it, even if there were other people more worthy of this title. He’d be Head Auror simply because he’s Harry Potter.
He’s done with being in the limelight.
It’s time to let Ron shine.
There it is again, that hiss of a whisper that rears up the most when he’s home alone and it’s dark outside, his head heavy with insomnia and heart thudding with regrets, loss and what-ifs; that voice piping up, murmuring don’t pretend to be so self-sacrificing, when you already didn’t want to be an Auror in the first place.
Nudging it aside, Harry pulls on a smile and looks at Ron.
“Are you free this Friday night? Late night, so late that it’s actually Saturday morning.”
Antidote is not what Harry expected.
Even though there are women around, there are too many half-naked men for it to be a regular Muggle club.
“Is this a…” Ron trails off, blinking at the sight of a scantily-clad bloke dancing on an elevated platform. As he twists his body to the thumping music, the pair of angel wings strapped across his back tremble to the beat.
“Yeah, apparently it is,” Harry says faintly. Upon spotting the bar, which appears to be an oasis of calm compared to the heaving dance floor, he wends his way to it, squeezing through the crowds with Ron behind him. Under his shoes, the floor is sticky with spilt alcohol, and there’s already glitter on his arms. Once situated at the bar, Harry turns to face the club, his gaze sweeping the surroundings.
Flickering strobe lights—which remind Harry of curselight—illuminate the writhing bodies filling the dance floor, while spinning mirror balls, suspended high up from the ceiling, throw glimmering diamonds of light across the walls. Dancers—tall, handsome and fit in different costumes—on platforms gyrate along to the pounding music; a topless blond man wearing tight jeans, a cowboy hat and boots catches Harry’s attention, but it’s not Malfoy.
The DJ kicks off a new song, setting off a raucous wave of cheers from the partygoers. Despite the throng of people, Harry grins and bops his head to the upbeat tune. The atmosphere is fun and vivacious, a perfect end to the working week. Ron taps him on the shoulder. Harry turns his head towards him, even though green eyes are still hunting for a particular blond, who will no doubt be somewhere on the dance floor. Even though they’re not near the DJ, Ron has to shout, and Harry has to move closer to catch his words.
“They’d have better luck sending these to you instead,” Ron exclaims in surprise, pointing to the two drinks in front of him. The bartender places another shot before him, and jabs a thumb at the direction of a sandy-haired man, who winks at Ron.
Harry regards his friend; tall and broad-shouldered, with red hair and blue eyes, along with a great physique and an innate confidence that shines because of his career. “Enjoy it,” he says, laughing when Ron shrugs, grabs a drink and tips it down his throat.
Harry hops on a stool, sits up straight and cranes his neck, scanning the club for Malfoy.
And then he sees him, a distance away from the middle of the dance floor.
On second glance, Malfoy is hard to miss—tall, with a shock of platinum blond hair that is momentarily tinted green by the lights. He’s dancing as if no one’s watching, or perhaps he’s dancing like this because he knows that someone’s always watching. Harry spies two nearby blokes checking Malfoy out, even though they’re already dancing with other men.
Harry can’t blame them.
It’s clear that Malfoy knows this song well—he slows down when the song slows, and throws his hands up and cheers when the beat drops, revealing the fluorescent yellow glow bands looped around his wrist. He’s dressed in a black collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, half of the buttons undone. Malfoy smooths his hair back as he dances, his elbows in the air as he tips his head back, revealing the long, elegant line of his neck. His eyes are closed, and he’s grinning, punching a fist in the air, letting out a joyful whoop, his expression wide and open and lovely.
Harry has never seen him look like this before.
He never knew Malfoy could be like this; glowing with confidence, so downright sexy, so commanding and magnetic, so—
So free.
Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Harry can only stare, spellbound, as Malfoy presses his palms to his neck and slowly runs his hands down his exposed chest and along the sides of his waist, tracing the route that Harry would very much like, at this moment, to take with his own fingertips and mouth.
Does he dance like he fucks?
At that startling thought, Harry swallows hard.
His view is briefly disrupted when one of the nearby blokes break away from his partner to dance with Malfoy. His half-lidded gaze promising and his slow, widening smile midnight sultry, Malfoy pulls the brunette close to whisper something in his ear, all the while swaying his body from side to side.
The brunette’s previous dancing partner crosses his arms and glares at Malfoy, before storming away.
He could have anyone in this club.
“Merlin, is that Malfoy?”
As if released from a spell, Harry jolts. Ron raises his eyebrows. “Think you’re gonna be obsessing, oh sorry, focused thinking, even more about him after tonight.”
“Will not,” Harry grumps, whirling back to face the bar, only to lock eyes with Pansy Parkinson, who seems like she’s been observing him for some time.
He freezes.
She’s with another group of friends that excludes Zabini and Goyle. She lifts a shot at his direction and drinks it, without breaking eye contact with him.
This is how Malfoy spends his weekends. At a gay club.
Harry looks down, fiddling with his purple paper wristband.
Malfoy likes men. And he’s a bloody great dancer, with the tightness in Harry’s jeans telling him exactly how great of a dancer he is.
Fuck.
Ron nudges a shot towards Harry, who downs it without any hesitation and slams the glass on the table.
He could have anyone here.
Harry stands up, a strange, spiky sensation similar to jealousy coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Let’s go. I’m done here.”
Ron drains his last drink, putting down the shot glass with a clatter. He looks at the scatter of empty glasses on the counter with amazement.
"Bloody hell, perhaps I’d have better luck in my love life if I fancied men.”
The door opens even before Harry could knock. He blinks up at Goyle. “Hey. I’m here to pick up Parkinson.”
Goyle wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t know Uber offers doorstep pickup now.” He’s in his workout clothes, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. “Come in. I’m heading out. Help yourself to tea and snacks, whatever you’d like.” He nods at him. “Have a good one.”
Once again, Harry is left alone in the flat. He stands there, looking around, his palms tapping on the thighs of his jeans. Everything is quiet and still, even outside. After a moment, he goes to Malfoy’s closed door. Even though his hand is on the doorknob, he hesitates. Sure, it’s early afternoon on a weekday, but Malfoy doesn’t work, so he could be home. Maybe if Harry opens it quietly, just enough to peek inside… his wrist begins to turn…
Without any warning, the door swings open, revealing a half-naked Malfoy in mid-yawn and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Startled, Harry jumps back, and the other man yelps in surprise. Harry stares at Malfoy—he’s wearing nothing but a red pair of Quidditch-themed pants patterned with dozens of tiny winged Snitches, with a large golden Snitch right at the crotch area.
Harry falls into a stunned silence at the unexpected sight of those sharp collarbones, the expanse of pale skin on display, the delectable vee of those jutting hips, and at the trail of dark blond hair leading down to his pants. Malfoy’s arm twitches, showing part of the Dark Mark burnt into his skin. Harry’s mouth goes dry, his gaze still fixed on the faded Mark.
Malfoy turns his arm away, forcing Harry to meet his eyes.
“Er. Hello,” Harry croaks out, dredging up a watery smile.
In response, Malfoy merely closes his eyes, releases a deep, fortifying sigh—a sound brimming with feeling—and promptly slams the door in Harry’s face.
In an unexpectedly childish move, Harry sticks his tongue out and pulls a face at the door. Annoyed, he shuffles to the kitchen island, plops down on a chair and places his phone on the table, glancing at the time. Should he leave, or should he stick around for Parkinson? This isn’t even an Uber call in the first place; Parkinson texted him this morning requesting a ride. He’s not supposed to be working right now, but he’s not really busy today, plus…
His gaze wanders to Malfoy’s door.
Sighing, Harry texts her. He’ll wait for five minutes, but in the meantime—he launches another app on his phone—he has a high score to beat on Angry Birds.
He’s in the middle of a level when a door clicks open. “About time,” he huffs, his eyes glued to his screen as he positions the slingshot to send the red bird sailing through the air. “Damn.” He misses the shot, probably because the image of a rumpled Malfoy in pants is shattering his concentration.
“I don’t recall making an appointment with you.”
Malfoy is standing opposite him, across the island. He’s dressed in a white, long-sleeved T-shirt and black jeans, his hair combed, looking fresher and more put-together.
Harry straightens up at once, stowing away his unruly thoughts about a half-naked Malfoy. “Thought you were Parkinson. I’m supposed to pick her up.”
“Pick her up?” Malfoy frowns in confusion. “Why—” Grey eyes widen, and his hands clench around the edge of the counter. “Are you… going out with Pansy?”
“No!” Harry hurries to explain. “We swapped numbers ‘cause she said it’s good to have an Uber driver around since you get drunk so much. So, it’s really for practical purposes.” He exits the game and puts his phone down on the table.
“Ah.” Malfoy looks away. “I have been informed that I behaved in a rather… disgraceful manner in the past few times that we ran into each other.”
“Your friends told you?”
“Oh yes, they took great relish in telling me, in great detail, how I threw up in your car the first time,” Malfoy says dryly, wincing. “I should make it up to you in some way. Wouldn’t want to owe you anything.”
A memory flashes in Harry’s mind; of Malfoy dancing in Antidote, flinging his arms around the brunette, Malfoy’s hands trailing down his body, pulling him so, so close—
“Make it up to me by…”
Malfoy gives him a strange look. “By offering you breakfast?” he asks, his voice muffled as he pokes his head into the fridge. “Would you like some?” He retrieves a few eggs and a pack of sausages, closes the fridge with his hip and looks at Harry, eyebrows raised in question.
It’s such a bizarre offer that Harry finds himself nodding. “Sure, even though it’s two in the afternoon.”
“I just woke up, so I’m breaking my fast. It counts.”
Malfoy cooks a meal of toast, fried eggs and sausages for them, without magic. He clearly knows his way around the kitchen, judging by his smooth, fluid motions when he cracks the eggs and tosses the shells in the bin, and how unfazed he is by the spluttering sizzle of the sausages. Harry leans forward to sneak a proper, leisurely look at Malfoy.
Even though he’s put on some weight, he wears it well, making him look less… pointy. His hair is short, like sixth year. Harry is drawn to Malfoy’s legs, his jeans accentuating the long lines of his thighs and calves, paired with the curve of his arse—
Heat floods Harry’s cheeks, warming even further at the sight of Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers wrapped around the handle of the frying pan. “You’re not using magic,” he blurts out, his mind clamping on something to say, as a distraction.
Malfoy pauses in sprinkling pepper on the eggs, his tone evasive. “Nothing wrong with that, although I use magic to wash up because no one likes washing the dishes.” He wipes down the edges of the plates, adding, “My wand is in my room.”
“And you can cook.”
Malfoy arches a brow and places a fork and knife in front of Harry. “Is this point-out-the-obvious day, Potter? There are clearly no house elves around, so yes, I have developed some life skills along the way. I also shop for groceries at Tesco, if you’d like more examples.”
He plates up, pulls up a chair opposite Harry and tucks in. Harry follows suit, feeling bloody surreal that he’s eating breakfast cooked by Malfoy. Late-night tea with Parkinson last week, homecooked breakfast with Malfoy today. What’s next, Zabini inviting him to move in with them?
Malfoy sips his tea and regards Harry with an even gaze over his mug. “Potter, an Uber driver.” Even though his words bear no malice or mockery, Harry’s shoulders rise with tension.
“It’s a weekday. No gainful employment?” Harry shoots back, his tone sharper than he’d intended.
Although Malfoy shrugs and avoids the question, his jaw tightens. He spears his sausage harder than necessary, the metal scraping against the plate.
Harry looks at his eggs, which are delicious and coincidentally cooked just how he likes them.
We’re not eighteen anymore.
Injecting a conciliatory note, he says, “I’ve been driving for Uber for a while, but I’ve never seen you.”
Malfoy nods. “We frequent clubs across London, not just at Soho. Besides, I’m certain Uber takes you all over London, so I’m not surprised that our paths didn’t cross earlier. I’ve heard a lot about Antidote, which just opened, so I wanted to visit. Turns out I really like it.” He puts his cutlery down and looks hard at Harry. His lips quirk up in a dismissive half-smile. “Doubt it’s your type of club, though,” he says lightly.
Green eyes sharpen.
Harry instantly knows the veiled context behind that remark.
“It’s exactly my type of club.” He brushes his lower lip with a thumb, and Malfoy’s gaze catches on his mouth.
They lock eyes for a long, loaded moment.
“Really? Hmmm. Colour me surprised.” Malfoy looks at him with renewed interest through half-lidded eyes, a fingertip circling slowly along the rim of his mug. A slow smirk builds on his lips, his gaze taking a blatant tour of Harry’s body, lingering on his shoulders, chest and arms.
Harry gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
The tension churning between them—which has always been present, whether they were hurtling spells at each other or trading barbs—shifts, morphing to include something else; something more intimate, suggestive, more… sexual.
Harry’s stomach clenches, his toes curling in his trainers.
“That’s—” Malfoy starts, but is cut off by Parkinson.
Her head poking out from a room at the end of the corridor, she chirps, “You’re finally sober enough to hold a conversation with Potter.” She cranes her neck. “With breakfast, even! Hello Potter, I don’t need that ride anymore. I found my wand,” she brandishes said wand, “So I can Apparate now! See you around.”
With that, she grins at them and retreats to her room, closing the door behind her.
Malfoy’s confusion clears up quickly enough, to be replaced by annoyance and… embarrassment? Harry polishes off his toast and stands up, waving his wand to send the dishes floating to the sink. “Thanks for the food.” He’s tempted to ask Malfoy about his self-imposed exile from the wizarding world, but he knows he won’t get any satisfactory answers.
Not now.
“See you around,” Harry says, pocketing his phone.
“Will I?”
“Only if you want to.”
Harry smiles, a small one, which Malfoy returns, surprisingly.
Without another backwards glance, Harry leaves the flat. While he’s waiting for the lift, he avoids looking at Malfoy’s direction. It’s only when he’s inside the descending lift, then he sags against the wall, the back of his head thudding against the surface. He closes his eyes. The simmering tension, held tight and jittery in his core, loosens immediately.
Slowly, he releases a breath that he didn’t know he was holding.
“Potter.”
A text from an unknown number pops up on Harry’s phone. Impatient, he speeds up on his way to Heathrow—for some reason he’s itching to reply the text, which probably came from Malfoy. Another right turn, two more red lights, and he’s there. He gets out to help Chloe with her bags, and with a polite smile, wishes her a safe trip. He hops back into his car and pounces on his phone.
Harry can practically hear Malfoy’s voice from that text. He saves his number, and then replies with a “Malfoy.”
He doesn’t have to wait long.
"Are you working?”
"Yeah. It’s a weekday, and since it’s not Parkinson that’s texting, I reckon you’re not at the clubs.”
"No, I’m at home.”
Exhaling, he leans back on his seat, gazing at the passing cars reflected on his side mirror as he thinks of a reply. His phone chimes with another message.
"I can’t sleep.”
Harry reads it three times, his hand clenching around his phone.
He understands that feeling completely.
"If you’re not too busy,” Malfoy continues, “Could you come and pick me up? You know where.”
Harry’s gaze loops over the implied familiarity of the last sentence. His thumbs hover over the screen in uncertainty, before he taps out an “Okay. On my way.”
He logs out of Uber, drives to Knightsbridge Block 8, where Malfoy is already waiting. When he approaches, Malfoy quickly rolls the sleeves of his black jumper down to his wrists. It’s bloody strange when he climbs into the backseat, because he’s not a regular passenger—far from it, in fact. Harry twists around to face him. “Where to?”
Instead of meeting his eyes, Malfoy looks out of the window. “Anywhere, everywhere.” He lifts his hands, palms up, holds them there, and then drops them on his thighs. His whisper is strained, “I can’t sleep. Could do with some fresh air and a spin around the city. You could pick up other people too, if you’d like.”
Harry shakes his head. “It’s alright.” He hits the accelerator. “Anywhere it is.”
They spend a full ten minutes in silence before Harry speaks. “You could Apparate and walk around.”
A pause.
“I could. But I’m here. With you. In your car, at one in the morning.”
Harry can’t see Malfoy’s expression, but there’s something unexpectedly soft in his voice.
Harry bites back a smile.
When he stops at a red light, he turns back. Grey eyes quickly dart away, confirming his suspicions—Malfoy has been staring at him from the back. Self-conscious and feeling exposed, he pulls up next to the pavement in front of a Boots pharmacy.
Malfoy asks in disbelief, “Kicking me out already?”
“No. Come and sit in front. You’re not just anyone that I’ve picked up from Uber.” Harry snatches up the CDs littered on the front seat when Malfoy exits the car. “Sorry, it’s a mess.”
“You like these bands too?” Malfoy picks up Guns N' Roses’ Appetite for Destruction—one of Harry’s favourite albums.
“Too? Hang on, those CDs at your place… they’re yours?”
“I’m glad that I’m still able to surprise you, even at the ripe old age of thirty-two,” Malfoy replies dryly, helping Harry to stow away some of the CDs in the glovebox. “Yes, those are mine.”
“Well, since we fancy the same bands…”
Nirvana’s “Come As You Are” begins to play when Harry resumes the drive. The song turns the silence into something more comfortable, and as the minutes tick by, smoothened out by good music and the distracting scenery of late-night London, Malfoy relaxes. His rigid posture eases, and he stretches an arm out on the door panel below the window, tapping his fingers to the beat. The two silver rings on his fingers reflect the streetlights above them.
He's not wearing his family ring.
With Seeker reflexes, Harry abruptly jams on the brakes. “Bloody wanker!” he snaps at a jaywalker. He flips two fingers at the man, who looks up from his phone and does the same to Harry.
Malfoy laughs, a sudden shot of laughter as bright as summer sunshine. He covers his mouth at once, although his eyes are still crinkled in amusement. “Merlin, you really sound like an Uber driver.”
Harry blinks.
I want to make him laugh like that again.
He gestures to the glovebox, his eyes flickering to the rear-view mirror. “Choose something you like and play it.”
Malfoy hesitates, and then selects a My Chemical Romance album. When the first track fades out, Harry takes a deep breath. “I like rock music because of Sirius. My godfather. We bonded through music.” He smiles, something small and sad that creaks at the corners of his lips. “Before he died.”
Malfoy doesn’t say anything for a long time. When he speaks—Harry lowers the volume of “Thank You for the Venom”—his words emerge clear and slow, as if he’s choosing them carefully. “I like punk and rock because of the… energy. The rebellious anger, the absolute power of the guitars, the lyrics. It’s all so… cathartic. When it takes over you, consumes you, and you forget about everything. It’s just you and the music.”
“That’s why I like it, too.”
They share a smile.
Time passes, bracketed by songs and sprinkled with comments about specific bands.
When Malfoy is busy ferreting around in the glovebox for another CD, Harry clears his throat and murmurs, “I can’t sleep, too.”
Malfoy freezes, and then replaces Led Zeppelin into the compartment. He turns his body to face Harry, and brings his legs up, curling them on the seat. The side of his face pressed against the headrest, he regards Harry under half-lidded eyes. “You drive late at night, while I drink and dance the night away.”
Harry wrinkles his nose, hunching his back and resting his forearms on the steering wheel as he looks at a couple crossing the road. “I’d go down the dancing and drinking route too, but I’m absolutely pants at dancing and I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. Better not.”
Malfoy snickers and gazes at him, triggering a jolt of heat rushing through Harry’s body. Eventually, he unfolds his long, lean frame and stares out of the window, at the people on the streets.
“Anonymity. That’s what we’re after.”
The neon-bright lights of the towering billboards at Piccadilly Circus shine in Malfoy’s eyes.
“You’re anonymous as an Uber driver. I’m just a dancer in a crowded club. No one knows us, our past. No one knows what we’ve done.” His shoulders slump, and he crosses his arms, his palms rubbing the tops of his arms, as if he’s cold. His words are so quiet that Harry has to lean over. “It’s been so long, but I still can’t sleep.”
Is this why you’re running from the wizarding world?
Malfoy understands why Harry chooses to drive the midnight shift even though it’s hell on his body clock, even though his late nights are the reason for his sheer exhaustion on some days. He understands the reality behind the sleepless nights, the frustration of tossing and turning in between twisted sheets, the cold sweat gathering on his lower back when he wakes up shivering and alone, his dreams dressed in regrets, pain and loss—
Ron and Hermione don’t completely understand it because they have each other, but Malfoy does.
Malfoy gets it.
Harry finds it strangely comforting, as if he’s not alone, after all.
“Could we stop here?” Malfoy asks when they approach a pastry shop called Marjorie, surprisingly open at this hour. “Their biscuits are delicious.”
He’s always had a sweet tooth, since Hogwarts.
Harry watches through the shop windows as Malfoy bends over and jabs a finger at the display counter. The shopkeeper engages him in conversation—he must be a regular—and Harry notices the easy smiles exchanged between Malfoy and a Muggle.
Malfoy returns, bearing two paper bags. “What’s your policy on eating in your car?”
“There’s always magic to clean up.” Harry accepts the proffered bag, his mouth watering at the delightful scent of freshly baked goods. Malfoy is surprisingly thoughtful; he’s bought a selection of biscuits with different flavours for him.
“Nothing treacle-tart flavoured, I’m afraid,” Malfoy says, biting into a Jammie Dodger.
Harry laughs. “You remembered that I love treacle tart.”
Malfoy gives him a flat look. “Potter, everyone and their grandmother knew that.”
“Not a fan of coconut, d’you want it?” Harry fishes out a coconut biscuit. At Malfoy’s nod, he places it into his bag and peers into it, which contains only Jammie Dodgers. “Why d’you like them so much?”
Malfoy hesitates. “My mother… she used to bake them. They remind me of her.”
“Oh.” Harry doesn’t know what to say at the sudden thought of Narcissa Malfoy wearing oven mitts and pulling out a tray of piping hot biscuits from an oven, so he simply munches on a biscuit.
It’s two-thirty in the morning when Harry returns to Knightsbridge. He clicks off the music. “Think you can sleep now?”
“Yes, I hope so.” Malfoy pauses. “How much do I owe you for the ride?”
“Er, nothing?” Harry hitches a shoulder in a casual shrug, his words light. “Maybe I’ll see you next time?”
“Next time?”
“You’ve got my number now. Goodnight.”
Malfoy steps outside, one foot planted on the ground. He turns back, the look in his eyes intense and his words a mere whisper, tinged with gratitude and disbelief. “Thank you.”
They look at each other, their gaze snagging and hanging in the air.
Harry’s heartbeat slows down, before beating in double-quick time.
The moment unfolds and stretches; delicate and gentle, intimate and soft.
Harry watches, his eyes drawn to Malfoy’s legs as he walks away, his own nerve endings fluttering in desire.
Even though Harry tells himself not to get his hopes up—because this might be the end of it, it’s bloody Malfoy, after all—his lips curve up into a giddy smile.
He doesn’t know what’s happening, only that he likes it.
He fucking likes it.
Malfoy’s next text arrives a week later.
Harry isn’t working this time—he’s splayed out on his sofa watching telly, a bag of crisps on his stomach. He sits up, sweeps the crumbs from his T-shirt and opens the message.
"Potter.”
Harry smiles. “Malfoy.” He pauses, a finger tapping on the side of his phone. “Can’t sleep again?”
Malfoy takes such a long time to reply that his attention has already wandered back to the telly, when his phone chimes.
“I’d like to see you, if you’re not too busy now.”
Harry’s heart leaps. Even though he was looking forward to spending the night away from his car, he doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah sure, give me a while. I’ll text when I’m on the way.”
He switches off the telly, hauls himself off the sofa and gets ready to head out; he tries to comb his hair, but ends up huffing in frustration and patting it down instead. He sighs at his reflection in the mirror, pulls on a jacket, and leaves Grimmauld Place, car keys clinking in his hand. He drives to Marjorie first, and then to Malfoy’s flat.
Harry offers the bag of Jammie Dodgers to Malfoy when he enters the car. “I was near the bakery when you texted,” he lies, ducking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “So…”
Malfoy tilts his head at Harry’s sheepish behaviour. “Sure,” he says, dragging that word out as if he didn’t fully believe him. Malfoy’s voice drops to a murmur, a playful glint in his eye and the beginnings of a smirk building on his lips. “I’m flattered that you think of me so much.”
His cheeks warm, Harry nudges his glasses up his nose and turns the steering wheel, gravel crunching on the tires as he turns out of the building complex.
They cruise on the roads with no destination in mind. The atmosphere feels easier, more familiar, and Harry exhales, his shoulders relaxing. When he turns to the left to check his blind spot, he notices Malfoy eyeing him up—his arms and hands, in particular. Malfoy bites his lower lip and looks away. He inches up his sleeve to scratch absently at his skin, and Harry glimpses the Dark Mark. Immediately, he’s assaulted by memories of the Mark staining the night sky; foreboding and grim, the ghostly apparition of a skull, and a snake surging from its gaping maw—
To calm himself down, Harry sucks in a shaky breath and counts the passing headlights on the road.
“Fancy something more substantial than cookies?”
His jaw tight, Harry nods to Malfoy’s question.
Malfoy recommends a nearby late-night chippy, while Harry suggests eating their take-away supper near the Thames, so that’s where they’re soon situated, on a bench beneath a tree. Harry opens his box of fish and chips, grinning at the delectable aroma of freshly-fried food. The scent of good cooking always reminds him of Mrs Weasley.
They tuck in, and it strikes Harry that even though the passage of time has led to drastic changes, some things still remain the same about Malfoy. He still has the habit of eating his food in a balanced way; taking a few bites of his fish, and then eating a few chips in turn. His small containers of sides and sauces are arranged neatly in front of him. Yet, he’s eating with his hands, something Harry has never seen before. He’s dressed more casually tonight—a white T-shirt, black jeans ripped at the knees and Converse high-tops trainers, shoes that Harry would buy.
Their conversation, which revolved around their shared love of music, comes to a lull.
When Malfoy’s tongue darts out to lick tartar sauce off his thumb, Harry stares. The silver cuff bracelet just below Malfoy’s hand slips down, highlighting the elegant taper of his wrist. His thoughts scampering away to what other things Malfoy could lick, Harry gulps.
Oh, his reaction to Malfoy is now a big change.
“When was the last time you returned to the wizarding world?” Harry asks, wary.
Malfoy stops in the middle of dunking a chip into ketchup, taken aback. “I returned to the Manor a few months ago, to visit my parents’ graves.” A quick, terse shrug of his lips momentarily eases his apprehension. “Why do you ask?”
“Because… I’d like to know why you’re still here.” Harry gestures to their surroundings. “It’s been a long time after… everything.”
“Ah.” Malfoy buys for time by fiddling with his sauces; he fishes around for a ketchup packet and tears it open. “Anonymity, like what I said previously.” He fixes Harry with a cool gaze, his words precise. “That was an old phase of my life, my past, containing things that I’d rather much forget. It’s a different life here.”
But there’s no magic here, as if you’re in denial—
The words wilt on Harry’s lips when Malfoy tenses up all over again, the beginnings of something alert and cautious, reminding him of their times at Hogwarts. He doesn’t want this fleeting truce to melt away, chased away by difficult conversations and allusions to their tumultuous past.
He wants to see where this could really, truly, lead to.
“Okay.”
Grey eyes sharpen. “What about you? Aren’t you supposed to be an Auror with Weasley?”
Harry doesn’t answer right away; instead, he looks at the people milling about. It’s too late for tourists, but just in time for the partygoers to come crawling out of the woodwork—there’s a clique of girls shrieking with laughter, their revealing dresses, tiny handbags and heels clearly meant for the clubs. His eyes track another group of blokes, talking as they stroll along the Thames.
Across the river, there's the London Eye, lit up in purple and flanked by rows of buildings. The lamp-posts in front of them are decorated with glowing string lights, connecting the posts. Green eyes follow the path of a moth flittering around a lamp.
“I just…” Harry starts, but falls silent when the reel of memories plays—of him submitting a blank test paper, skipping trainee missions, messing up spell-work on purpose in his practical tests, finally culminating in the anger and disappointment flashing in Ron’s eyes when, on their last day, they were all gathered in the Auror Office to learn about their postings to the different sub-divisions, and Harry’s name wasn’t there at all.
Gawain Robards spoke to him, of course, offered him another shot at training even though Harry knew that he was bending the rules just for him. If anyone else had failed, they wouldn’t be receiving second chances in the office of the Head Auror.
“Yes, I trained with Ron, but everyone’s attention was on me again.” Harry shakes his head, unwilling to reveal the truth. “I reckon it’s his turn in the spotlight. He’s Head Auror now. He deserves it.” He smiles, proud of his friend’s achievements.
“Hmm.” Malfoy looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.
The waves of the river lap on the walls of the riverbank, and Harry gazes at the ebb and flow of the ripples of the water. A few small boats, tied to small pillars near the bank, float on the Thames, bobbing in a hypnotising manner.
Both Malfoy and him are drifting in life, like these boats.
Even though they’re moving, going to places and doing things in the routine humdrum of their daily lives, they’re not really going anywhere.
It’s as if they’ve lost their way somehow; that the stars and prophecies, familial expectations and heroic burdens that had dictated the trajectories of their lives, have finally faded, leaving them unanchored and cast away.
Now what?
Harry closes his takeaway box and stretches his legs, crossing his ankles.
“Oh, I got this for you.” Malfoy withdraws a CD from his jacket. It’s music from a band called The Struts; the cover is a side view of a bloke with choppy black hair and a nose ring. “I saw this at a music store and thought of you. Even though they’re a new band, they’re good,” he adds. “Maybe you’d like them too.”
Harry turns the album over, glancing at the track list. He grins at Malfoy. “Think of me too, d’you?”
At Malfoy’s smile, Harry’s stomach twists in a squirm of excitement, his heart flipping over in a shiver of disbelief.
They meet only at night.
Short texts deepen into conversations, paired with links to music videos on YouTube.
Harry is now the Slytherins’ regular Uber driver, although they only need him for club nights, which are now less frequent. Malfoy drinks less now; he’s usually sober enough to hold a conversation with Harry, although his words are slurred at times.
On other nights, they spend hours in Harry’s car; Malfoy rifling through his CDs and listening to music together. Harry loves Malfoy’s delightful, snarky humour when they dissolve into good-natured arguments about influential songs and bands in the history of punk and rock music.
They map out places for suppers (Harry is pleasantly surprised at Malfoy’s spice tolerance when they visit a curry shop) and explore new areas in Muggle London.
Time passes, marked by longing looks that turn into intimate murmurs and the flustered brushing of hands. They take long drives that circle and wind around the streets of London, the car their private little snowglobe of a world. It’s different at night, because night is quieter, softer and more vulnerable, when whispers turn into sighs and brief, careful touches, and when the best-kept secrets and lurking insecurities are revealed.
One night, Malfoy turns to him, his eyes wide and his words heavy with uncertainty.
"Do people still stare at you when you visit Diagon Alley?”
They meet only at night.
It’s clear that Malfoy isn’t in the greatest of moods, going by the slam of the car door.
“You alright?”
He softens at Harry’s question. He sighs, a resigned and defeated sound. “Just argued with Pansy.”
What would cheer him up? Harry perks up. “Wanna head to Marjorie?”
Malfoy shakes his head, his chin dipping towards his chest. “My parents passed away ten years ago on this date, so… maybe not tonight.”
Harry is tempted to turn on some music, but perhaps it isn’t the right moment. He passes a green light and merges into another lane. “What did you argue about? Might help to talk about it.”
Malfoy rests an elbow on the door panel below the window and lowers his head to his arm. “About my life here, about…” His stare is empty and distant, the passing streetlights illuminating his furrowed brow and the troubled look in downcast grey eyes. “About how I haven’t moved on, like them.” His voice hardens. “Even though they know that I’m the most affected by… everything.”
“Ah.” Harry presses his lips together, looking straight at the road ahead.
A loaded pause ensues, to which Malfoy lifts his head and fixes him with an even stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“I know you, Potter. I know what you look like when you’re trying not to say something.” Malfoy sits up straight, pulling his shoulders back. “Do you agree with her? That I’m just hiding out here because I’m running away from something?”
Harry licks his lips. “I mean…” He shrugs. “Is this what you expected your life to be, at thirty-two?”
“Salazar, did you and Pansy exchange discussion points before I met you tonight?”
“No, of course not,” Harry says quickly, hoping that he sounds reassuring. He risks a look at Malfoy, whose lips are pinched, his gaze flinty and cold.
Harry could drop the topic, but he’s so bloody tired of ignoring the Erumpent in the room. He gives in to his instincts, forging on. “By avoiding the magical world, it’s like you’re denying your life, your heritage—”
“What heritage?” Malfoy lashes out with the force of an Exploding Charm, and Harry winces at the anger building around his words. “My family affiliations of dark magic, blood purity, bribery and political power, our role in the War and our history with the Dark Lord?” He thumps a hand to his chest, his fingers clenching around his shirt. “When I return home, I still feel his presence staining my ancestral home, where I’m supposed to be safe, with my family, my parents who I wish were still alive!”
“Your parents wouldn’t want to see you like this. Aimless, numbing things with alcohol and the clubs—”
“They’re dead, Potter! They’re fucking dead! Murdered in cold blood by their own kind!”
Mine are dead too. Killed by Voldemort. The insidious, intrusive thought barges into Harry’s mind, but he shoves it away. His heart is pounding, his hands clutched so tight around the wheel in a white-knuckled grip. He should stop somewhere safe, where they can talk about this properly.
Malfoy draws in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m here because my friends are here. Pansy might think I’m better off back there, but Greg and Blaise, they’d rather stay here—"
Harry shakes his head. “They’re all here because of you. Parkinson and Zabini’s jobs bring them to the magical world, so I’d reckon they—”
Malfoy goes very still. “How would you know that? I never told you about Blaise’s career.”
Harry thinks fast. “I spoke to him when I sent you home after a club night,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You’re lying.” Malfoy hisses, as fast and sharp as a whip. “You do that,” he mimics Harry touching his neck, “When you’re lying.” Through narrowed eyes, he fastens Harry with a look rich with dark suspicion. “I know Blaise, he won’t tell you about himself so flippantly. How would you find out…” Realisation dawns on him, and Harry’s heart sinks. “Weasley.” The heat in Malfoy’s voice doubles, his lips twisting into a familiar sneer. “Do you think we’re up to something again? Look at you two do-gooders, keeping tabs on the Death Eater and his friends—”
“Malfoy, that’s not—”
“Stop. Stop the car.”
“Please—”
“I’m getting out, just stop.”
“Look, I’ll drive somewhere, a carpark or something, and we can—”
“Stop!”
The vehemence of that single word forces Harry to change lanes and pull up next to a pavement. The car hasn’t even rolled to a complete stop, and Malfoy is exiting the vehicle, leaving a whiff of burning anger in his wake. With adrenaline coursing in his blood, frustration and determination propelling his actions, Harry taps on the accelerator lightly. His car inches forward on the road, at a walking speed, beside Malfoy, who is brisk-walking on the pavement. Harry rolls down the closest window.
“Stop following me! People are staring,” Malfoy bites out with a snarl. His arms are folded tightly across his chest, his posture stiff as he moves.
“Let them stare,” Harry says, raising his voice. When Malfoy speeds up, he presses harder on the accelerator, dividing his attention between the road, Malfoy and the nearby people. “I was curious, so I asked Ron, when I first picked you up from the clubs, months ago—”
“Are you seriously arguing with me like this?” Malfoy snaps, gesturing to the distance between them heatedly.
“That’s all, I asked him about you only once, I swear! C’mon, get back in, I don’t want us to— oh shit!” Harry yelps at the stray dog bounding across Malfoy’s path, towards the car. He hits the brakes at once. When the dog trots away, unscathed, Harry kills the engine, a hand moving to the door handle, but Malfoy has stopped walking and is talking to him through the open window.
“What about you, Potter?” he retorts with a glare. Harry steels himself because he knows where this is going; this is Malfoy on the offensive, like a wounded animal lashing out when there’s no escape, his words slicing through Harry’s defenses and hitting him where it’d hurt the most.
“Quitting Auror training for Weasley is absolute rubbish. You know that, everyone knows that. The great Harry Potter, a future so bright that it’d hurt anyone’s eyes, is now an Uber driver.” Malfoy’s words emerge in a low growl, his teeth bared for a moment. “Is this how you’d envision your life to be at thirty-two, hmm?”
This is what Harry’s friends think of him too, although they, with the exception of Ron and Hermione, would never say it out loud to him. Hell, this is what Harry himself wonders, when the nights stretch for far too long, too cold and dark.
“All of those fucking expectations! You’d know all about expectations, wouldn’t you?” Harry yells, filled with a noxious cocktail of indignation, disappointment and resignation. “At least I have a damn job!” And then he says it, his words trembling with scorn, he finally says what he’s never said out loud to anyone before, not even Ron, even though he’s thought of this so many times—
“I got tired, so fucking tired of saving the world when it’s not my responsibility to save it anymore!”
Their chests are heaving, arms limp and eyes wild, as they stare at each other.
Malfoy recovers first, wrapping his coat tightly around himself. “I’ll Apparate. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten how to do that, even though I’ve gone Muggle.” He storms off, clearly done with Harry.
Harry doesn’t move; his anger and adrenaline fading away to exhaustion and shock. He bangs the heel of his palm on the steering wheel in frustration, focusing on the red glow of the lights of the cars in front of him in the distance, counting them to calm himself down.
He jabs at the stereo, and when The Struts—who is now one of his favourite bands—begin to play, Harry rests his forehead on the wheel in despair.
Days pass, bleeding through Harry’s lonely, tired and sleepless nights, fuelled by caffeine, hours on the road, cycles of perfunctory greetings and meaningless small talk with passengers.
Whenever a text lights up Harry’s screen, he grabs his phone, his heart dropping down to his shoes when it’s not Malfoy.
Some nights, he scrolls through their message history, his eyes lingering on Malfoy’s name. He drafts text after text, but ends up deleting everything. If only he could delete that disastrous night as easily.
He brings The Struts’ CD back home, where he listens to it while lying on his bed alone, draped in the darkness of the night, eating cookies from Marjorie, his thoughts consumed by Malfoy.
So, when Malfoy finally texts him one evening, Harry finds himself at Knightsbridge, having run a red light in his haste. He wipes his palms on the thighs of his jeans, apprehensive, yet anticipatory.
Malfoy approaches, his head bowed and the hood of his hoodie pulled up.
It’s drizzling outside.
“Hi,” Harry says when Malfoy is settled in the front seat.
“Good evening.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence, when their eyes meet.
I miss you.
Harry might be fooling himself, but maybe, just maybe, he glimpsed the same sentiment reflected in grey eyes.
Malfoy looks away, tugs down his hood and runs a hand through his hair.
Harry stares at a raindrop winding its way down the windscreen.
The silence between them stretches, heavy and uncertain.
“Maybe you’re right,” Harry murmurs. “What you said that night. You’re not the first one to say that. I dunno, I might start teaching practical defence, somewhere, somehow. I liked doing that, when I was part of Dumbledore’s Army in fifth year.”
At the mention of Dumbledore’s Army, Malfoy stiffens, no doubt remembering his own role in the Inquisitorial Squad, amongst other things. “Where would you go?”
“The Ministry, the DMLE, work with the Aurors. Ron’s mentioned it to me before. Quite a few times, actually.” Two days ago, Harry broached the subject to Ron during their Sunday lunch at the Burrow, who responded enthusiastically at having him on board. “Or I could go to Hogwarts. Defence Against the Dark Arts. I’d have to write to McGonagall and all, but that’s possible. Hogwarts was my first home, after all.”
“That’s… far.”
Harry shrugs, and says with a self-deprecating grin, “There’s nothing keeping me here. Ron and Hermione are alright without me, and I can always visit during school hols.” He looks straight at Malfoy. “Unless there’s another reason for me to stay.”
Malfoy freezes.
After a moment, he looks away, his eyes trained on another car turning into the carpark. “Regardless of whatever happens, wherever you go, I want us to be… friends.”
It’s now or never.
“Funny,” Harry whispers, his tone indicating anything but that. “That’s the last thing I want us to be.”
At Malfoy’s stricken look, Harry backtracks. “Look, Malfoy, I…” He flounders, tugging at his hair in mounting frustration. “I want us to be more than friends, because I fucking fancy you, alright?”
He’s always had the subtlety of a Bludger to the head.
Very slowly, Malfoy turns to face him, his eyes wide.
“I like being with you, I like spending time with you, I like talking about music with you, I like how happy you are when you’re eating biscuits and sweet things. I like you, Draco, in a… a more than friends way.”
Malfoy stares.
The rain outside is getting heavier.
Bashful, Harry’s cheeks are flush with heat, and he’s sure he’s as red as a tomato, which is bloody embarrassing. His toes curling in his trainers, he nudges his glasses up his nose and winces, hoping the ground would swallow him whole. This could end terribly, but at least he tried.
Well, Malfoy’s still here; he didn’t run out screaming into the rain, so Harry takes it as a good sign.
Malfoy frowns. “Do you mean… in the Muggle world? You want to go out with me only when we’re here?”
“No, I don’t want to hide you in any world, in any lifetime, not at all!”
“But…”
Malfoy is still looking adorably confused, and Harry’s never been good with words, so he simply lunges forward impulsively, grabs the back of Malfoy’s neck and kisses him on the mouth, short and sweet. “I’d kiss you anywhere, anytime, however you’d like it. Here, or in Diagon Alley. I don’t care, I really don’t.”
“Oh.” Malfoy touches his own lips. “Oh,” he whispers again, the uncertainty in his eyes fading, replaced by something so sharp and intense that Harry gulps. Malfoy pulls him closer and kisses him again; their teeth clack together at the sudden movement and the awkward angle, but Harry doesn’t care, all he wants is more of this, for as long as he’ll have him—
Malfoy sighs, a sound rich with absolute longing, and Harry deepens the kiss, hoping that Malfoy can feel how much he wants this. His tongue traces the delectable cupid’s bow of Malfoy’s upper lip.
There are wandering hands squeezing his shoulders, trailing up and down his biceps and forearms, Malfoy’s fingers twisting the hem of his T-shirt in desperation. When he touches Harry’s bare skin, Harry gasps and surges closer, ignoring the gear stick poking him as he rakes a hand through Malfoy’s hair—oh, it’s as soft as he’d thought it’d be—before cradling his face in a protective gesture, his thumb stroking Malfoy’s jawline gently, delicately.
Harry pauses, remembering his night at Antidote, where he saw Malfoy dancing with a random bloke. He withdraws. “I want something real, something that’s meant to last. I’m not into clubs and drinking and having flings with blokes whose names I’ll forget in the morning.”
“I know.” Malfoy turns his body towards him. He leans his cheek on the headrest and gives Harry a fond look. He lifts a hand, trailing a fingertip down Harry’s arm. “I’d very much like to have something real with you, too.”
At Malfoy’s touch, and his words brimming with hope and tenderness, Harry shivers with desire and longing.
“You’re so hot when you drive. Your arms, your hands when you turn the wheel,” Malfoy whispers.
“I know.” Harry grins. “I’ve seen you looking.”
“And you’ve got the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.”
Malfoy blinks. “How would you know that?”
“You said that, the second time when you were drunk in my car. Said it rather loudly, in fact. Shocked me, y’know, hearing that from you.” Harry’s smile widens, mischief twinkling in his eyes at Malfoy’s mortified expression. “Parkinson was there.”
Harry chuckles, and Malfoy smiles.
They gaze at each other, enamoured, Malfoy’s hand curling around Harry’s wrist.
The soft pitter-patter of the rain fills the car.
“I’ve been thinking… what you and Pansy said that night,” Malfoy whispers. “Perhaps it’s time for me to go home.”
Harry holds his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I could go with you, if you’d like,” he offers, his thumb stroking the web of skin between Malfoy’s thumb and index finger.
“Really? Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy together, strolling through Diagon? The Prophet would have a field day.”
“Everyone else can fuck right off.”
Malfoy laughs.
“Look, other people, they’re not…” Harry trails off, trying to piece his words together. “A lot of them aren’t thinking about you the way that you think they are. The way that you think about you.” He wrinkles his nose. “Er, am I making sense?”
Malfoy nods, although he looks vaguely unconvinced. He rolls up his sleeve to scratch at his arm, but at the sight of his Mark, he pushes his sleeve down.
“No.” Harry yanks it back up. “You only wear long sleeves around me, and I know why, but I don’t want you to hide anymore.” The same grim thoughts and bleak memories come rushing back when he glances at the Mark, but Harry ignores them, focusing on the softness of Malfoy’s eyes, the paleness of his skin in contrast to his own when their hands are entwined.
“You mentioned your family, what they stood for,” Harry says. “But at least your parents were around, and they loved you so much. I mean, I’m not trying to make this about me, but I…” He swallows, dropping his gaze to the empty coffee cup beside the gear stick. “I never met mine. Not really. That’s why part of me was jealous of you when we were younger.”
“You were?” Malfoy exclaims, surprised. “I was jealous of you!”
His smile is almost as sad as Harry’s.
If they really want to make this work, they have so many things to unpack, to wade through their explosive history.
But Harry wants to try.
A stray thought strikes him, and he blurts out, “Are you single?”
Malfoy bursts out in laughter, a bright and beautiful sound.
“What? Thought I’d make sure, since we never really talked about that,” Harry explains.
“Yes, I’m single. I couldn’t date a Muggle; I wouldn’t be able to hide magic from him.”
“Hmm. So you’d go out with a wizard, then.” An impish grin lifts Harry’s lips.
“Yes. Maybe an annoying, hot-tempered brunette with gorgeous eyes and sexy arms.” Malfoy tilts his head, sending Harry a slow, appraising gaze. “Oh yes, I could definitely go out with someone like that.”
Harry laughs and kisses Malfoy’s smile all over again.
“Parkinson,” Harry greets when she climbs into the backseat.
“Potter.”
He’s picking her up from the Victoria and Albert Museum; judging by the sketchbook peeking out from her bag, she’s probably there for their fashion collection. He drives along Cromwell Road, heading towards Knightsbridge.
She can Apparate, so this is clearly an excuse to talk to him.
Minutes tick by, punctuated by the soft drumming of Parkinson’s red nails on the handle of her bag.
“Something curious happened last week.” She places her bag beside her. “Draco came home, with gifts from Diagon Alley. A tub of Greg’s favourite Fortescue’s ice-cream, a silk tie from Twilfitt for Blaise, and a self-erasing sketchbook and drawing supplies for me from Scribbulus.” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “Did you have something to do with it?”
Harry twists around, flashing her a grin. “Yeah, I was with him at Diagon.”
They went on an afternoon in the middle of the week, when it was the least crowded. When Malfoy first stepped on the cobblestone streets, his shoulders were squared, arms rigid, fists held tight and tense, his distinctive blond hair hidden by his hoodie.
Harry held his hand, his own heart lifting when Malfoy relaxed under his touch.
As they moved through the thin crowds, Harry pointed out the differences in Diagon through the years—the fresh décor, the changing shopkeepers for some stores, and the Muggle inspirations, such as fashion and technology, seeping into the newer shops.
They did attract some attention, with some older shoppers stopping in their tracks to stare, but Harry simply tugged Malfoy forward. Otherwise, he let Malfoy lead, weaving in and out of his favourite shops; familiar places that they frequented during Hogwarts. The experience was nostalgic, even for Harry. They ended the visit at Fortescue’s, where Harry got his usual, while Malfoy—in higher spirits and with the hood of his jacket pulled down—bought a chocolate cone.
Parkinson leans back. A genuine smile blossoms on her lips, lighting up her features.
“I’m glad. I’m very glad.”
It’s Saturday night at Antidote.
Harry raises a hand to touch his glasses out of habit, but they’re not there. Ah, I’m wearing contacts. He rubs the scratchy material of his tight white top; he doesn’t wear this often, but Draco loves this shirt on him, saying that it hugs his muscles in all the right ways.
With cold drink in hand, Harry hovers around the bar, his eyes locked on Draco, as usual. He could go on and on about how good Draco looks on the dance floor, but he’s seen a different, more intimate side of him now; Draco in his red Snitch pants slouching in bed, groggy and bleary-eyed in the early mornings; how he doesn’t cap the toothpaste lid properly; his allergy to the Pepperup Potion, but not to the Grand Pepperup Potion.
“Hey, how are you tonight?”
There’s a sandy-haired man standing in front of him. “Hello,” Harry replies, shaking his hand.
“I’m Daniel.”
“Harry.”
They engage in small talk for a while, but it’s not long before an arm snakes around Harry’s waist. He looks down, and then to his right; Draco has appeared.
“Good evening. I’m Draco,” he greets, punctuating his words with a hard squeeze of Harry’s hip. Daniel’s glance darts to the movement. He gives them another friendly smile and wishes them goodbye.
“I can’t even leave you alone for five minutes,” Draco remarks, dropping a kiss on the top of Harry’s head.
“I’m not the one getting eyed up by half of the blokes on the dance floor.”
“But only you can take me home tonight.” With a wink, Draco grabs Harry’s drink from his hand, downs it in one gulp and slams the glass on the counter. “Come on.” He tugs on the purple glow band around Harry’s wrist, leading him to the side of the dance floor, away from the crowds clustered in the middle. It’s just the two of them tonight, but Parkinson joins them sometimes, and they’ll all dance together.
Well, they’ll dance, while Harry will shuffle from side to side.
Draco tried to teach him. Feel the beat, let it move through your body, is what he likes to say, but Harry doesn’t really get it. He still feels awkward when dancing, but Draco doesn’t seem to mind; he only has eyes for Harry, on and off the dance floor. They sway to the music, Draco’s silver stud earrings glinting under the lights. Grinning, Harry spins around, his back facing Draco’s front. Being the taller one, Draco leans forward to rest his elbows on Harry’s shoulders, while Harry wraps his hands around Draco’s forearms.
Harry rolls his hips in lazy circles and pushes them back, slowly dragging his arse up Draco’s erection.
When Draco’s breath hitches, Harry’s smile widens.
“I’ve been half-hard the whole night. I love it when you watch.” Draco lowers his head, kissing the words into Harry’s neck, his breaths hot and heavy.
He could have anyone in this club.
Harry’s pulse races.
Yet he wants only me.
With another hard grind on Draco’s cock, Harry drags him off the dance floor, towards the back door, out of the club, and into a dark and deserted alleyway. The music fades away to a muffled boom-boom-boom, and bracing cool air hits Harry’s skin, chasing away the humidity of the club. Draco crowds him up against the wall, the roughness of the stone pressing into Harry’s back.
“So hot, you in contacts and that shirt.” Draco gazes into his eyes. “Hot that you’re wearing it all for me.” He slides a hand under Harry’s shirt.
“You’ve been teasing me all night,” Harry whispers, and nips at Draco’s earlobe.
They kiss, fiery, desperate and messy, all tongues and teeth and growls, with Draco’s palms slamming on the wall either side of Harry’s head and Harry’s arms wrapped tight around Draco’s shoulders. There’s not an inch of space between their bodies, and when Draco shoves a thigh between Harry’s legs, Harry grinds against it, drawing moans from them.
Draco tastes of alcohol and lust, and he smells of vanilla and sweat, and Harry can’t get enough. He makes quick work of Draco’s belt buckle and his zipper, his hand slipping underneath his pants to stroke him. “Oh fuck,” Draco sighs in pleasure, tipping his head back, exposing his gulping throat and a particularly stubborn love bite that Harry left a few days ago. His body sags under Harry’s touch, shoulders slumping and eyes closing.
“Could suck you off again,” Harry offers, the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his teeth, swirling a thumb around the head of Draco’s cock. Draco swears again, his hand tightening around Harry’s hip, no doubt recalling the carnal memory of Harry sinking to his knees right here and taking Draco into his mouth. “What d’you want? Tell me.”
“Take me home and fuck me.”
The words go straight to Harry’s cock. “Yeah, okay. Hang on, I need my wand—”
“Use mine, it’s already out,” Draco quips, nodding at his own crotch.
Normally, Harry would laugh at his bad puns, but he’s way too turned on. “Merlin, Draco,” he mutters when Draco is still clinging onto him, touching him all over, capturing his lips into another breathless kiss. He fumbles around his back pocket, pulling out his wand. “Gotta focus, don’t wanna splinch our dicks.”
Draco withdraws, his rosebud lips forming a pout. “Yes, wouldn’t want that. I’d be sorely disappointed since you have a very nice dick.”
Two loud cracks, and they land at Grimmauld Place, in Harry’s bedroom. Harry takes a step back to steady himself, but Draco wastes no time, his nimble fingers unbuttoning Harry’s jeans. Their clothes come off in a flurry in between frantic kisses; Harry throws his left trainer so carelessly that it thuds, hard, on the wall. He pushes Draco down on the bed and sinks his teeth into his luscious neck, sucking yet another love bite onto his skin, drawing a hiss of approval from Draco.
Draco lifts his hips, yanking Harry’s discarded shirt from beneath him and tossing it on the floor.
“Enough foreplay for tonight. Lube, c’mon, I’m done waiting,” he demands, and Harry gives his neck a last lick before reaching for the bedside drawer and retrieving the lube and a small towel. He tucks a pillow under Draco’s hips, his lust spiking when Draco’s thighs fall apart in invitation. His pulse rocketing, anticipation crashing through his system, Harry lubes up his fingers. He shuffles forward on his knees, sinks down on all fours and covers Draco’s body with his own, tucking his left arm under the back of Draco’s neck and kissing him deeply.
“Wrap your legs around me, you know how much I love that,” Harry whispers. Draco does so, and Harry looks down, running his right palm up and down Draco’s thigh and leg. He moves lower, skimming the curve of Draco’s arse, fingertip circling his rim. He nips at Draco’s lower lip, his own mouth curving up into a smile of satisfaction when he pushes in. Draco gasps Harry’s name, pulling him even closer, his hand fondling Harry’s cock as Harry prepares him slowly, gently.
Soon, Draco’s hips are rolling in encouragement, nails digging into Harry’s back, desperate for something more. His mouth dry, Harry licks his lips and withdraws. He grabs the lube and coats his cock, noticing half-lidded grey eyes glazed over with desire, Draco’s shallow breaths of excitement as he watches Harry drip lube on his erection and rub it all over, stroking every inch, the head of his cock appearing and disappearing into the circle of his fist.
“Please…” Draco bites his lower lip, looking deep into Harry’s eyes. He adjusts the pillow under his hips and spreads his thighs just that little bit more. “Need you, please, Harry, I need…”
Propelled by the lust thundering through him, Harry eases into Draco, one long, slow slide of exquisite, addictive pleasure. Draco nods once, gasps out a yes, and nods again. “Yes, yes, please—"
His self-control shattering and his cock throbbing; fuck, he loves it, absolutely loses it whenever Draco begs, he’s so ready, fuck, he’s so ready—
“Draco, fuck—” is all that Harry can manage. He fucks him proper, his thrusts steady, even and full, just the way Draco likes it. His muscles tense with the effort, there’s sweat gathering on his lower back, but he can’t stop, won’t stop, how can he, when Draco is a fucking treat for the senses—
He loves how Draco falls apart during sex; the blush starting from his chest, moving higher towards his cheeks the closer he is to orgasm, that rumpled hair and handsome face, crumpled with pleasure that only Harry can give, and those long legs clinging to Harry, fuck, Draco has the sexiest legs he's ever seen. Draco’s touching him all over, leaving molten trails of longing on Harry’s shoulders and arms, his hands clenching when Harry hits that sweet spot inside him—
And his sounds, fuck, those moans and whines and gasps and sighs of encouragement and pleasure and Harry’s name falling from his lips… Draco’s loud in bed, and Harry loves that; he could come just from those sounds.
“Kiss me,” Draco says raggedly.
Harry pulls out and holds the base of his cock, desperate to keep the jagged edge of his orgasm at bay, because he won’t be able to last a moment longer if he’s kissing and fucking Draco at the same time; Draco’s such a full-bodied kisser, he’s grabbing Harry, pulling him closer on top of him until their chests are pressed together, sliding his tongue into Harry’s mouth, kissing him deeply, passionately, swept away under the waves of lust and sex, until Harry can barely hold on, kissing back with the same intensity and ferocity—
Draco rolls over, so that Harry is lying down on the bed. Exhaling, Harry wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and looks up at Draco. “Maybe it’s time for me to give you a ride instead,” Draco purrs, a devilish tilt to his eyebrows and a smirk playing on his lips.
Harry groans at the pun, but he’s soon groaning for another reason altogether when Draco straddles him and begins to move his hips up and down, rubbing Harry’s cock on his crease lazily, hypnotically. Harry moves a hand to Draco’s cock, but Draco bats his wrist away. “You know what I want,” he says, his voice husky.
Nodding, Harry holds his own cock steady, swallowing hard when Draco lowers his hips, easing Harry inside him.
“Oh, fuck.” Harry’s whisper floats in a haze of lust and pleasure, every inch of him wrapped in the intoxicating warmth of Draco again. Draco answers with a similar sigh of satisfaction as he rides him, taking charge. Harry can only stare at Draco’s undulating hips, his thighs that flex with each dip and rise. His hands braced on Harry’s chest, Draco speeds up, using Harry’s body for his own pleasure. He throws his head back and cries out Harry’s name, his breaths turning into pants with each heated slide of Harry’s cock.
Harry closes his eyes and presses the heel of his palm on his right eye. Fuck, he’s not gonna last, he never lasts long on club nights. His hair matted with sweat, and his heels digging into the bed, he begins to thrust, short, erratic, shallow thrusts—
“Wanna fuck up into you, c’mon,” he slurs, grabbing Draco’s hips.
“Mmhmm, oh yes.” Draco’s upper body sinks, he pushes his arse out and yes, there is it, finally enough space for Harry to spread his own thighs, sink his fingertips into Draco’s arse-cheeks and fuck him again, as fast and hard as possible, primal and desperate, carnal and hungry. He’s chasing his own orgasm, there’s no holding it back this time—
His fists bunching around the sheets, Draco bites hard on Harry’s shoulder and shouts his name, and that’s all he needs. Another strangled cry, a loud smack on Draco’s arse, and Harry’s coming, starbursts of white-hot, overwhelming pleasure flooding his nerves.
“You look so good when you come. So fuckin’ good.” Draco straightens up, his cheeks and chest flushed as he gropes his own cock, swirling his hips. “Stay there, Harry, don’t move, you look so good, fuck, so good, your eyes—”
Harry can’t move, even if he wanted to. Dazed, he can only blink up at Draco.
Another pull and a tug, Draco gazing deep into glassy green eyes, and he comes with a gasp. He surges forward, his fringe falling into his eyes, his hands planted on the pillow either side of Harry’s head. After a moment, he lifts his hips slowly. With a long exhale and a wince, he rolls away, landing on his back beside Harry.
They bask in the afterglow, staring up at the ceiling and catching their breaths.
“Hey.” Harry turns to face Draco.
“Hello.” Draco does the same.
They smile at each other. “I need a shower. Come with?” Draco asks.
In the en-suite, Harry washes his hands and removes his contacts, while Draco pops back into the bedroom to retrieve his glasses, placing them beside the sink. They return to bed, the scent of Harry’s shampoo and soap wafting around them. He plumps up their pillows, and slots himself into Draco’s waiting arms.
“The contract arrived today,” Harry says, recalling another highlight of his day. An owl swooped into Grimmauld Place this morning, bearing a manila envelope sealed with the Ministry crest.
“Finally, after all the pesky paperwork. I expected Robards and Shacklebolt to see your name and sign it immediately.”
“They have to approve my lesson plans and everything. Background checks, stuff like that. I start in two weeks.”
“Background checks?” Draco inhales sharply. “Do they know we’re seeing each other?”
Harry blinks. “Er, I don’t think so?” Even though the room is lit up only by the city lights outside, it’s clear that Draco isn’t happy. “Even if they know that, it doesn’t matter, alright?”
“No. It’s going to affect everything, because you’re associated with me, a De—” Draco insists, a note of panic seeping into his voice.
“No.” Harry finds Draco’s hand and holds it tight. “Hey,” he reassures, because it’s so very important that Draco understands this entirely, completely. “I don’t care if they know. I don’t care if the entire Ministry knows, because I’m not giving you up. If I have to choose between the Ministry and you, I’ll always choose you,” Harry says. He means it, every word, because he’s come to care so much for Draco that he can’t imagine not having him by his side.
Draco is still quiet, his worry palpable in his touch.
“Besides, the sex is too good,” Harry jokes, squeezing his wrist.
When Draco lets out an unexpected peal of laughter, Harry smiles. He grabs Draco’s arms and wraps them around himself.
“Tosser,” Draco whispers. After a moment, he says, “Okay.”
A long pause, and he says it again, softly, as if to convince himself.
His eyelids fluttering, Harry yawns and presses a kiss on Draco’s arm. “Night.”
“Goodnight.”
Even though Harry falls asleep soon after, Draco stays awake, staring up at the ceiling. When Harry’s breaths turn slow and even, Draco shifts away from him. He pads to the window and gazes out to the night sky, deep in thought. The moonlight shines into the bedroom, illuminating his Dark Mark. His eyes downcast and his head hanging, he covers it with a shaky hand, wondering how his arm would look like—no, how his life would look like if it was never burned on his skin, blemishing his entire life.
Despite Harry’s staunch words of comfort, everything could still crumble around them like a fragile house of cards, because how could… how could he ever have a happy ending with Harry Potter?
What did I do to deserve something as wonderful as him?
Draco doesn’t know the answer to that, so he returns to bed and holds Harry as close as he can—carefully, gently, lovingly—without waking him. His heart expanding with affection, he commits this scene to memory; Harry’s scent, his warmth, his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest…
Draco’s midnights were often bleak with sadness, self-doubt and regrets, but Harry is like a shard of sunlight—cheery, intense and hopeful.
Harry makes it all better.
Red pen whizzing through the pages, Harry mutters the correct answers as he marks the tests submitted by the newest batch of Auror trainees. Led Zeppelin blasts through the car stereo.
The front car door opens, and Draco waves at him. Harry stows the papers away in a folder and greets him with a grin, lowering the volume of the music. Draco twists around to place his electric guitar in the backseat, beside Harry’s own guitar. They’re at Charing Cross Road, a short distance away from Carkitt Market, where Draco works at the apothecary.
He pecks Harry on the lips. “How is it this time?” He fishes out a test paper and snickers with amusement at an incorrect answer. He rolls up his sleeves, exposing his Mark, but Harry doesn’t bat an eyelid.
Harry is sleeping much better now, with Draco curled up beside him on most nights. He doesn’t drive the midnight shifts anymore, although he does drive on some evenings, after his work at the DMLE. Driving still helps him to decompress, and calm his surging magic, especially after a long day of intricate and draining defensive spell-work.
Plus, he still has a soft spot for the stories.
It’s Friday evening tonight, which means dinner, and then guitar class with Draco.
“Where to?” Harry asks, starting the engine.
Draco puts the paper down and beams at him. “Anywhere, everywhere,” he says, echoing the words that he said to him all those months ago, when Harry first picked him up from Knightsbridge.
I’d drive anywhere, everywhere.
Harry matches Draco’s smile as he presses on the accelerator and turns the wheel.
As long as it’s with you.
/end