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Hermione tells Harry to only use it sparingly, occasionally, when the situation calls for it. But when has he ever been good at doing what he’s told?
At first, he only brings it with him for emergencies. It had saved him from a horde of misguided admirers in Diagon Alley two weeks ago, and just last Thursday, he’d been able to escape Rita Skeeter when leaving yet another disastrous job interview at the Ministry of Magic, without so much as a scratch from her Quick Quotes Quill. At Gryffindor pub night yesterday, when he’d been too tired to deal with the “stay for a bit longer” and “just have one more”, it had been almost a reflex.
He is, in his opinion, doing pretty well at following Hermione’s advice. So it’s with very little hesitation that he pulls the invisibility cloak out of his dress robes and settles it over himself, before returning to the party. He’ll only use it for a few minutes. Half an hour at most. He just needs a bit of a break.
The Zabini Estate ballroom in the evening is a sight to behold. The moonlight shines through the arched windows, reflecting off the crystal chandeliers onto the mahogany floor in dizzying patterns. Hundreds upon hundreds of white roses line the room, and swarms of faeries float above their heads, shimmering like stars against the deep crimson drapery.
Ginny and Blaise look happy—radiant even, and Harry is pleased. Ginny deserves this. She certainly deserves more than what Harry had given her. If someone had asked Harry a few years ago, what he pictured his life would be like, he would not have said this. Once he’d gotten past the whole ‘destined to kill or be killed’ hiccup, Harry had thought his future looked reasonably bright. In fact, everyone had thought Harry’s future looked bright.
“I’m eager to see what you do next, Mr Potter,” McGonagall had told him at their eighth year graduation.
“You’ll blow them all away, I’m sure,” Kingsley had said at the Auror initiation ceremony, gripping Harry’s hand in a rough shake.
“You and Ginny will make a wonderful family of your own one day,” Molly had whispered, tears dripping onto his shoulder, while they stood together in the cramped hospital room, watching Hermione and Ron coo over their new daughter.
He hasn’t done anything of note since graduating with two measly NEWTS a few years back. He hasn’t blown anyone in the Auror department away. In fact, he’d quit only six months into training, and has spent the last few months floating between jobs, never making anything stick. And he doesn’t have a family with Ginny. She’s gone and gotten one with someone else.
Harry moves between the wedding guests with practised ease, catching snippets of conversations and avoiding interacting with anyone. He sidesteps Ron and Hermione as they spin around the dancefloor, holding hands. He notices Luna heralding several faeries to sit on her outstretched palm, much to the joy of three-year-old Rose. He watches Ginny, head thrown back in apparent glee at something her new mother-in-law said, and Molly, cheeks flushed, dancing with her new son-in-law. Arthur, Bill and Neville chase baby Hugo through the mess of limbs and swishing robes.
It’s some sort of unfathomable thing, their easy joy. He’s tried to grasp it. To reach out and take some of it for himself. To be happy. He thought he’d succeeded, once or twice. Things had seemed easier, brighter; the days weren’t so hard to get through. But it’d slipped from his grip faster than it’d come. It seems unfair in a way—if he lets the shadowed parts of himself into the light for a while—that they can have this. This contentment. While he’s here hiding, literally, because he can’t figure out how to hack it in the real world.
And there’s something about this event in particular; Ginny’s wedding. It feels like something has ended. Like some door that has always been open, just a crack, has finally, irrefutably, closed.
A small throng of Slytherins are gathered by the bar. Harry moves in close enough to hear their conversation.
“...decor is a bit whimsical, but I suppose that’d be Weasley’s influence,” Pansy Parkinson is saying to a tall, dark haired man Harry thinks might be named Theo. “This is just the beginning. Soon Blaise’ll start wearing jeans and thinking homemade sweets are acceptable gifts.”
Theo laughs indulgently into his drink. “You’re quite a snob, you know?”
Pansy sniffs. “Well someone’s got to be. Draco isn’t here to pick up the slack.”
Harry stiffens at the name and takes a step closer, controlling his breath.
“Ah yes, did Blaise even bother to invite him?” Theo asks.
“I don't know. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't. Draco hasn't responded to anyone’s owls in months. Millie even went to that blasted flat of his and”—Pansy waves a manicured hand in the air—”nothing.”
“Is he still at that Muggle place?” Theo wrinkles his nose.
“I believe so.” Pansy replies. “Anyway, I’m starved. I suppose there’s food somewhere?”
Harry exhales as they both walk away, trying to settle the pounding in his chest.
Eventually, Harry relents and removes the cloak. The small reprieve is enough to carry him through the rest of the evening. He congratulates the happy couple, dances with anyone who asks, and fields relentless questions from folks he barely knows about when he’s going to “settle down and find himself a nice girl”.
He can’t tell them that he doesn't want to settle down. That he isn’t sure he can. After a string of casual hookups with men and women, Muggle and magical, Harry has gotten a bit sick of the poorly concealed disappointment on his lovers’ faces when they realise that the Boy Who Lived isn’t all that interesting. He's decided to give it a rest for a while.
By the time Ginny and Blaise depart the ballroom under a shower of petals, Harry is spent. He wants nothing more than to be alone.
The wards of Number 12 Grimmauld Place are sluggish to grant him entry. He doesn’t bother to light the sconces in the dusty living room, instead making his way upstairs into bed. His limbs are unbearably heavy all of sudden, and removing his clothes seems like an arduous and unnecessary task.
Hours later, he’s still awake, laying face down on his bed covers. His previously aching limbs are restless, twitchy. This happens to him, every now and again. He’ll be at some gathering, some event, a charity ball, or Hermione’s 21st birthday, and he’ll feel so overcome with fatigue, like a wall of it has just shot up and smacked him in the head. He’ll get into bed as soon as is physically possible and then—nothing. No sleep, no rest, just anxious thoughts multiplying and reverberating off the inside of his skull. On nights like these, Harry finds there’s no use forcing it.
Within five minutes, he’s outside, clad in the invisibility cloak, walking aimlessly along the damp moonlit streets of Islington.
***
“Do you know what’s happened to Malfoy?” Harry asks Hermione.
She pauses, a spoonful of curry and rice suspended midair. “Malfoy? Why are you asking about Malfoy?”
“No reason, I just—I heard some of his friends talking about him at Gin’s wedding.”
“Oh, well,” she shrugs, “no idea, I haven't heard anything.” She continues eating.
“Hugo’s back down again,” Ron says, reentering their kitchen and sitting beside Harry. “What are we talking about?”
“Harry's asking about Malfoy,” Hermione says.
Ron reaches for the naan. “Is he now?”
Harry frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. What about Malfoy?”
“I dunno. I was just wondering what’s happened to him. Pansy made it seem like no one's heard from him.”
“Blaise said something about that. Become a bit of a recluse, innit?” Ron replies. “Who cares?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, moving his korma around his bowl, “who cares?”
Harry lingers at Ron and Hermione’s after they finish dinner. He helps Ron with the dishes and, when Rose gets out of bed for the fourth time, offers to read her a bedtime story. “Lean on your family,” the counsellor McGonagall had hired for the eighth years had told him. For a second, he’d wanted to ask her what a person was to do if all their family was dead, but he hadn’t wanted to be dramatic. Now, with his adolescent angst tempered somewhat in the intervening years, he can acknowledge that he has family and knows that they care about him. It’s the “leaning on them” bit he’s still working on.
“You gonna stay the night, yeah?” Ron asks, stretching as he moves off the couch.
“Oh, that’s okay, I—” Harry says.
Ron rolls his eyes, wraps an arm around a yawning Hermione. “Shut up. Just stay. See you in the morning.”
“Night, Harry,” Hermione calls as they ascend the stairs.
Harry considers leaving, but the thought of going back to Grimmauld Place is unappealing. The house seems to resent his presence, and it makes its displeasure known. Harry frequently trips over folds in previously smooth carpets, loses battles with stuck cupboard doors, and re-lights the fire in the hearth only for it to snuff out again as soon as he leaves the room. The entire place is gloomy and depressing and Harry chooses not to subject himself to it whenever possible.
He means to go to the spare room he knows Ron and Hermione have set up for him, but that same heavy ache has settled over him. If he rests his head on the back of the couch for just a second, he’ll be able to summon the energy to move.
Harry is awoken by something sticky on his chin. Opening his eyes, he’s confronted with the plump, strawberry jam covered face of Hugo Weasley. The boy blinks at Harry, and then raises a chubby fist and plants it on Harry’s cheek. More jam. Lovely.
Harry sighs and closes his eyes again. His neck is cramped from his position lying on the couch, and he feels like he hasn’t slept at all. Soon, Harry registers jostling at his feet.
“I’m sorry Harry, but do you mind moving? I think you’ve slept on my notes from the Nagnok hearing,” Hermione says, voice muffled by the corner of toast hanging from her mouth.
Harry gets to his feet, wobbling slightly.
“Uncle Harry’s still here? I want him to read me another story!” Rose’s lilting voice rings out from somewhere behind him.
“No, Rose. Harry can’t do that, we’ve gotta go. Grab your coat,” Ron calls from the kitchen.
“Wanna see my unicorns Uncle Harry? I got a purple one that grandma buyed me.” Rose tugs on the hem of Harry’s rumpled shirt.
“Rose,” Ron huffs, entering the lounge room. He’s dressed in his bright blue Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes polo. “‘We’ve got to go. Now isn’t the time to play with Uncle Harry.”
“Uh, sorry. I can just—” Harry points to the front door. He’s probably hindering their morning routine.
Hermione waves a hand vaguely in his direction, slinging a black leather bag over her shoulder “No it’s fine, stay as long as you like. I’ve got to run. I’ll have some very unhappy Goblins waiting outside my office if I’m not there soon.” She bestows brief kisses on all of their cheeks before rushing through the floo.
“Right, let’s go you two,” Ron says, strapping Hugo into the pram and ushering Rose out the door. “Close the wards before you leave Harry!”
Harry sits back down, unsure what to do with himself. The couch is covered in ice cream drips and pen marks. There’s an indent in one of the cushions from where his shoulder dug in as he slept on it. It’s odd, being here alone. There’s no reason for him to stay, yet it still takes him the better part of an hour to muster up the motivation to return to Grimmauld Place.
The eerie silence is jarring after the hurried activity of the Granger-Weasley household. He tries, unsuccessfully, to eliminate the chill in the air by lighting a fire. When he flicks his wand at the sconces, only two of them light with a stubbornly dim glow. He should eat something, but the idea of deciding what is overwhelming. His kitchen is empty anyway. A shower is the next logical step, but as shivers crawl up his spine, he can think of nothing worse than getting undressed. He gets into bed. At least he’ll be warm under the covers.
***
The food situation becomes dire. His stomach protests the diet of stale prawn crackers and apple juice that has been sustaining him for the past 48 hours. He’s put off a Tesco’s run for long enough.
A few cleaning charms later, he’s out the door, cloak stuffed under his coat. He doesn’t even need it. No one will recognise him in Muggle London. But it feels better, for some reason, to have the option.
He makes it through the check out at Tesco’s before he dons the cloak. The shopping precinct is noisy and full of activity, and he’s all hunched up shoulders and clenched fists until the invisibility cloak slips over him, smooth as a calming draught. His aching hunger somewhat subsided by a hastily consumed bread roll, Harry brushes the crumbs off the front of his jumper and continues his walk.
He watches as rowdy pub-goers stumble out onto the sidewalk, hollering lewdly at a group of women sitting at a nearby wine bar. He walks past several restaurants, the amalgamated smell of various cuisines assaulting his senses. He doesn’t even have to move that much to avoid walking into people, so proficient he is now at stepping through crowds, unseen.
He rounds the corner, and finds himself on a much calmer street. A man and woman walk right by him, coupled in an embrace. He crosses the road and loosens his grip on the cloak. For some reason, the quiet is far more tolerable—enjoyable, even—on a random street in London than it ever is at Grimmauld. His steps on the pavement whittle away the evening hours.
Harry’s attention is caught by sudden music, thumping bass piercing the night air. A door opens just ahead of him, and he can hear the unmistakable sounds of people partying. He surveys the building and finds a sign in lurid neon reading The White Swallow. His feet turn to cement as he registers the man who has just exited the club.
Draco Malfoy is leaning against the grimy brick wall of the building, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He rummages through the pockets of his low slung trousers, before removing a lighter. Harry holds his breath as Malfoy takes a pull. Long and thin, and with a dark metal signet ring encircling one thumb, his fingers are more graceful now than they were when he was making rude gestures at Harry from across the Great Hall.
Malfoy closes his eyes and tips his head back. Harry’s gaze travels over him, catching on his bare arms, the Dark Mark as stark as ever. Further still, a strip of skin is revealed under the hem of his cropped shirt, pale and shifting slightly as he moves.
Someone else exits the club, stopping to talk to Malfoy. The man pulls out his own cigarette, and Malfoy holds up a light. Leaning into each other, their heads almost collide. The man has a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, and Malfoy watches the man’s lips as he lights his cigarette. The whole interaction lasts for barely a minute, but Harry feels uncomfortably hot.
Malfoy flicks the cigarette between his fingers, ash falling into a puddle of Merlin knows what, pooled beside the club’s door. Then, he glances up and looks right at Harry. Harry's heart skips, and he pulls the cloak tight around his shoulders. Malfoy stares at the spot where Harry stands, eyebrows pulled together, and cocks his head. Harry should move. He’s being ridiculous and creepy and he should find some quiet corner of the street and Apparate home immediately. But he can’t bring himself to do it. He’s frozen, pinned under the curious silver-toned glare.
After a while, or perhaps just a second, Malfoy apparently decides there’s nothing there, and swiftly pecks the cheek of his smoking companion before turning to walk down the street. Harry's feet propel him forwards and he has no trouble keeping pace. He maintains a safe distance, but can still make out the sweat soaked strands of blond hair, plastered to Malfoy’s neck.
Questions rise in his mind, offering themselves for his perusal as he follows. What was that place Malfoy came out of? Why didn't he show up to Blaise’s wedding? It had seemed odd he wasn't there. Harry remembers Malfoy and Blaise cosying up to each other in the common room in eighth year. Had Malfoy been here that night instead? Pressed up against someone, sweaty and panting in the dark corner of a dingy nightclub?
Harry isn’t sure how long he’s been following Malfoy, but soon he’s led down a quiet residential street. A row of double story flats line one side, stacked together like blocks. Malfoy stops in front of one of them and jogs up the concrete steps. Harry crosses the road to a park on the other side. Rusty play equipment squeaks ominously in the light breeze, the glare of the street light reflecting off the damp metal. He’s surprised to find that he can see right into Malfoy’s kitchen and lounge from where he stands. Harry glances up and down the street and, finding it empty, moves to sit on the bench in front of the swingset. The moisture from the night air has settled on the wood and it seeps into the back of Harry’s jeans.
Malfoy mulls around in his kitchen, making himself a cup of tea and eating yogurt right out of the tub with a spoon. Harry’s not close enough to see, but his mind supplies a useful closeup of Malfoy’s lips wrapping around the metal, licking milky substance from the corner of his mouth. Harry shifts on the bench.
Malfoy disappears for a while, upstairs perhaps. Harry is just about to leave when he reappears, wearing plaid pyjama bottoms and towling his hair dry. His chest is bare and Harry bites the inside of his cheek. From his perch across the road, Harry can’t make out the scars that he knows must mar Malfoy’s flesh. He imagines the shiny taut skin stretching and wrinkling as Malfoy moves around his flat. Has he collected any other scars over the years? Or is it only Harry who has had that honour?
Harry’s fingers have gone numb from the cold, and it's this that shakes him from his reverie. He’s being ridiculous. This is ridiculous. He needs to go home. He Apparates from a rubbish-strewn alleyway a few minutes later, telling himself that he’s done with the cloak.
Alone in his house, he feels hot and itchy. He takes a shower, revelling in the ice cold spray as it soothes his sweltering skin, cooling the blood which had been rushing traitorously to his groin.
***
Harry has just realised how dark the room around him has gotten. He supposes he has been on the couch for a few hours. He’s exhausted from his afternoon spent syphoning away the few centimetres of water that cover the floor of his kitchen, leaking from the seemingly intact sink. It had taken so long he didn’t have energy to make dinner, and he’s been fighting a persistent fog in his brain ever since. He doesn’t look at the clock, not wanting to face how many hours have passed. It seems worse, somehow, confronting the evidence of time and how it ploughs on without him. Much better to let it happen without his knowledge. Gods how he wishes he could sleep.
Harry tries to resist thinking back to that night. Following Malfoy is a past-time he’s thought he’d said goodbye to. But something about seeing him again, unguarded and unexpected on a random Muggle street, triggers memories Harry hasn’t thought of in years.
Grainy, slightly out of focus images flick across his consciousness. Images of shining blond hair and long fingers. Of thin smirking mouths and low drawling voices. And, with a sick sort of fascination, he sees pale bloodied skin, reflecting off puddles on bathroom floors, and arms encircling a waist, tightly and desperately while flying through unbearable heat and thick acrid smoke. Eventually, sleep claims him.
***
Harry used to do hard things every day. In fact, doing hard but necessary things was sort of his whole schtick. Murderous overlord aside, he’s fought dangerous creatures, suffered through injuries and faced bullies in almost every form. It’s infuriatingly pathetic that these days, something as simple as making toast bests him.
He knows he needs to eat. He can’t remember the last time he’s had anything more than half an apple and a swig of juice from the bottle and that unwelcome fog is clouding his brain again, making his eyelids heavy. With a stupendous effort, he manages to make it out of bed, plodding down the stairs, determined, at least, to put a slice of bread in the toaster.
The small table by the window in the sitting room is covered in two weeks worth of unopened letters. He knows what he’ll find if he could be bothered to read them. Ads for ministry job vacancies from Percy or Arthur. Notes from Ron and Hermione, probably Molly too, asking how he is and why he hadn’t come to pub night or Sunday dinner, inviting him over for tea. It’s pointless to respond. He doesn’t have any explanations to offer, or any intention of applying for jobs or accepting invites. Ron and Hermione are so busy, they barely have time for each other, and Harry’s lacklustre performance during his six month tenure at the Ministry, along with his abrupt departure, would surely not have endeared him to any department looking to hire. Their letters can only be borne out of obligation, which makes his resolve not to respond even stronger.
The toast is dry and ashen tasting, but it does the job. He chews until his jaw hurts and then forces himself to get up and put the plate in the sink, rather than just leave it on the table to join all the others. In that moment, all of the sconces blow out, and Harry is plunged into semi-darkness. The strips of yellow from the fading afternoon sun peeking through his stubbornly shut curtains are the only source of light in the room.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says under his breath, stomping around the room, relighting all the fixtures. He tries to tidy, not realising how far he’s let things go, but it’s a frustrating endeavour. The piles of old take-out containers, neglected laundry and used mugs seem to make their way back to wherever he’s just removed them from.
Some days he tries to read. There are so many books Hermione has given him over the years that he’s never gotten around to. But as soon as he tries to focus, the words swim on the page in front of him, so he moves on. He often thinks he should garden, finally get to work on those planter boxes he’d bought a few months back. But the thought of trying to find his gloves—for some reason his summoning charms are weak and near ineffectual when cast inside Grimmauld Place—seems like the first of far too many steps.
Most days, he walks. Time slips by him, disappearing with the pavement under his feet. Crisp morning turns to glazed afternoon turns to vibrant evenings as he traipses through London. Under the cloak, no one bothers him. It’s exactly what he wants and the very reason he wears it. Though sometimes, he fantasises about what would happen if he moved from spectator to player; if he took off the cloak in the middle of a crowd and just, let everyone see. The fantasy almost always ends with him feeling slightly sick, clutching the cloak tighter as he makes his way back.
A week passes before Harry goes back to the club. He oscillates between wanting to see Malfoy again, and hoping he doesn’t. The wisdom of his late-twenties has taught him enough to know that nothing good can come of breathing life back into his Malfoy obsession, but not enough to actually resist the temptation when it’s right in front of his face. So he lingers there, strolling up and down the street, like some sort of pathetic apparition. Malfoy doesn't show. Harry should go home. He should go home and ignore the twinge of disappointment bitter on the back of his tongue. Willful avoidance is another really good strategy he’s learnt over the years.
Unsurprisingly, Harry recalls the route to the row of boxy flats without difficulty. His frequent jaunts throughout London streets have given him quite the sense of direction. He parks himself on the bench, and checks the cloak is covering his shoes. This time, he casts a warming charm. A precaution, only to prevent catching a cold. He won’t spend much time here. Malfoy’s windows are dark, and the house seems quiet. He probably isn’t home. Harry’s muscles ache, and he reclines on the hard backed surface of the bench.
Some time later, Harry jolts awake, frantically grabbing for the cloak. His situation comes back to him quickly, almost as quickly as Malfoy is walking down his street, hair bright in the morning light. Harry hastens to follow.
Malfoy in the morning, all crisp and buttoned up, is a stark contrast to the lazy, languid evening version that wears crop tops and smokes cigarettes outside of bars. He’s like a zoo animal Harry wants to learn more about; step in closer and devour every piece of information on the little plaque outside the enclosure. Even more so, when he follows Malfoy to an unremarkable doctors’ surgery. Malfoy enters, and Harry plasters himself against the peeling paint of the building’s exterior, peering through the grimy windows to watch Malfoy greet the staff like he knows them. Malfoy soon takes a seat at the reception desk and puts on a headset.
On his way home, Harry tries to place what he’s seen into his idea of Malfoy, but it doesn’t really fit. His idea of Malfoy is outdated, years old, ink faded into parchment. Their interactions after the war have been almost non-existent. A few distant glances during the eighth years’ frequent common room parties, maybe a run-in at Diagon Alley. He didn’t even see Malfoy at his trial, having sent along his testimony with Hermione, too wracked with grief to string coherent sentences together. Maybe this is what he needs, to gather all this information about Malfoy and form a new picture. Maybe, if Malfoy can reinvent himself, pull himself together enough to hold a job and go to clubs and appear seemingly content, Harry can too.
***
Harry is having a fight with a cupboard. For several minutes he tries to open his pantry door, before kicking it in rage and then hopping ludicrously on one foot, wincing in pain. Everyday, Harry feels more and more regret for his decision to send Kreacher to work at Hogwarts. The old elf would probably sort the house out—or at least get the blasted pantry open—in no time at all. When the bookshelves start spitting books onto the floor of the living room, Harry is at his wits end. He needs to get out. Apparating on impulse, he arrives at the Burrow.
“Harry, Hullo! To what do we owe this surprise?” Arthur Weasley bellows as he spots Harry from his seat in the living room.
“Harry’s come to visit, isn’t that nice Arthur?” Molly says from behind him, patting him on the back. She jostles past him into the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea, shall I?”
“Uh, sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”
“So?” Arthur looks at him expectantly.
“I just thought I owe you guys a visit. I was wondering if I could maybe stay a few days? My house is, er, well it needs some work, I think.”
“Oh dear,” Molly says, levitating three mugs and a pot of steaming tea in front of her as she ushers him into the living room. “Is there something we can do to help? Maybe Arthur can—”
“No,” Harry says, more firmly than he intended. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got someone looking into it. That’s why I need somewhere to stay. If you don’t mind.”
Arthur seems to hesitate for a second, but quickly says “‘Course we don’t, we’d love to have you” after Molly shoots him a pointed look.
It was a good idea, coming to the Burrow. Harry’s wrapped up in Molly’s hovering attention. He eats full meals, and a soft clean towel is placed outside the bathroom for him every morning. Despite this, he still struggles to get out of bed before the afternoon. After getting himself cleaned and dressed, and sitting in the kitchen listening to Molly chatter away as she plies him with leftovers, Harry’s tired all over again. At night, he lies awake staring at the fading Chudley Cannons poster on the ceiling of Ron’s old bedroom, shifting restlessly.
Molly must notice his lack of energy, for both she and Arthur keep trying to get him outside and moving. She asks him to harvest carrots from the vegetable patch near the oak tree in the backyard, only for him to get out there and discover that they’ve already been harvested. Arthur comes in from the shed exclaiming that he found Charlie’s old Cleansweep, and would Harry like to take it for a spin? The gnomes aren’t singing a rendition of Weasley Is Our King, despite Molly telling him otherwise.
It starts to become irritating, so Harry tries to get out occasionally. He explores Ottery St. Catchpole under the cloak, but the sleepy town is rather boring, with its neatly manicured hedgerows and shops that all close promptly at four o’clock. He goes to London, but the buzzing activity is suddenly too overwhelming. He considers visiting someone, but dismisses the idea quickly when he realises he’d probably have to talk to them. Instead, he ends up spending most of his time outside a run-down doctors’ surgery.
He tries not to stay there for too long. In fact, he gives himself an hour. Long enough to watch Malfoy politely interact with a few patients and take an afternoon break—a quick smoke while he waits for his coffee and some sort of baked good he brings back to his desk—before he makes himself leave, feeling completely idiotic and strangely energised. It soon becomes a routine and it keeps him going for the next few days.
Today, however, he ignores his one hour time limit. Standing outside the surgery, shoulder pressed up against the window, Harry knows he’s been here too long, but he doesn’t care. Malfoy brought a slice of cake back to his desk, and Harry hasn’t been able to move since he saw Malfoy lick pink icing off his fingers, can’t move while Malfoy’s tongue darts across his lips to catch the crumbs, stands frozen while Malfoy’s throat bobs as he swallows. Malfoy’s almost finished the cake when he drops his fork on the desk, stands abruptly and marches out the front door. It happens so fast, Harry has no time to move. He stands, rooted to the spot, while Malfoy’s head swivels this way and that, pausing every now and then, eyes squinting at something unseen, just like that night outside the club. Harry Apparates from a nearby alley as soon as Malfoy turns back inside.
***
Harry wakes from a nap, his mouth dry and teeth slightly furry. The couch in The Burrow’s living room is far too comfortable for anyone’s health. Heading to the kitchen for a drink, Molly and Arthur’s whispered conversation behind the door reaches his ears.
“We’ve put it off for a week now. If we don’t show up soon, we’ll lose our booking entirely,” Arthur is saying.
“I know, but—” Molly starts. Arthur interrupts.
“Let’s go. He can stay here on his own. He’s a grown man, Molly.”
There was a pause, then some movement, and Harry missed the next few hushed sentences.
He hears Molly’s voice again. “....don’t really think it’s wise. Leaving him here alone. He’s not well. Anyone can see it. He’s lost too much weight and he doesn’t do anything. Merlin knows where he goes during the day. He’s not with Ron or Hermione or anyone else we know, I’ll tell you that much.”
A heavy sigh. “This was supposed to be our holiday."
Molly lowers her voice slightly, but Harry can still hear it. “Yes, well. No one else can take him. I’ve checked.”
He jerks back, clenching his jaw, and then hears Molly approach the kitchen entrance. He makes a break for the stairs before she can see him. The bed in Ron’s bedroom groans when he sits on it. His hands shake.
This is fine. He can leave. He probably shouldn’t have stayed this long anyway. Gathering the few belongings he’d brought with him, he heads back downstairs, ignoring the anger that flares inside him at the thought of Molly discussing him with others. He leaves the Burrow amidst Molly’s repeated “Are you sure?” and Arthur’s booming “Was good to see you, m’boy!”
Not wishing to confront whatever horrors Grimmauld Place has in store for him after his time away, Harry Apparates to Malfoy’s street, cloak in place, rucksack shrunk in his pocket. With a decent warming charm, it’s almost comfortable, sitting here in the park under the fluorescent glow of the street light. He’ll stay until Malfoy gets home, then he’ll leave. He just needs something to fill the next few hours, before he’s forced to go home and pretend to sleep.
Harry's lower back is cramping when Malfoy arrives several hours later. He’s wearing a silk shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing a swathe of smooth pale skin that Harry wants to dig his nails into. He stamps out his cigarette in the courtyard before entering the flat, moving into his kitchen and taking a swig from a bottle he pulls out of the fridge door. He settles on the couch in his living room and turns on the TV, but Harry can't make out what he's watching. Malfoy doesn't seem all that interested, as soon he flops his head back, hair splayed, staring at the ceiling. Harry should leave.
Malfoy’s hand is on the waistband of his dark trousers, pulling and pressing, and Harry doesn’t leave, because Malfoy pulls his cock out and begins stroking it lazily. Harry's breath hitches and he wants nothing more than to step right up to Malfoy’s window to get a closer look. He wants to know who Malfoy is thinking about as he wanks himself. Had he met someone at that club tonight?
Malfoy’s hand speeds up, and Harry wishes he could hear the sounds he’s making. He watches, enraptured, as great globs of come spurt from Malfoy’s cock a few minutes later, landing all over his fists and the front of his jeans. Harry's own cock throbs, needy and neglected, but he doesn't reach for it. Instead he counts the rhythmic rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest.
Flashes of pale skin, sure hands and silk shirts are Harry’s only company as he makes his way back to Grimmauld Place.
***
“Been doing heaps of research into magical plant hybrids. Did you know that no one has even attempted it? There’s so much potential out there. I’ve been talking with Pomona and she was telling me that kind of experimentation was frowned upon by the big wigs in Herbology back in the day,” Neville says, face bright with unreserved enthusiasm. “Anyway, here are some of mine.”
Neville points to a row of pots on a dirt-covered wooden table at the back of his and Luna’s overgrown garden. Inside are writhing mounds of knotted roots, with pulsing purple flowers that periodically spit bursts of yellow mist from their buds. Neville looks back at Harry expectantly.
“Oh, er, nice. What are they?” Harry asks, taking a small step back. He’s had enough experience with plants emitting unknown substances to know better.
“They’re hybrids of Shrivelfig and Valerian root. Not sure what I’m gonna call them. I used the vegetative propagation method and—”
Harry tries his best to stifle his yawn, but he’s apparently unsuccessful. Neville cuts himself off by saying, “Sorry, you’re right. I’ve been talking your head off about this stuff.”
“No, no,” Harry says hastily. “It’s okay. I’m interested. I’m just—I just didn’t sleep well last night. My house, you know.”
In an unwelcome turn of events, Grimmauld Place hadn’t locked Harry out of any cupboards or tripped him on the stairs or deprived him of light for the past few days. Instead, it had taken to reserving its disruptions for when Harry tried to sleep. As soon as he lay on his bed, a cacophony of sound assaulted his ears. If Harry didn’t know better, he would have thought a herd of erumpants was trampling through his attic. He’d searched every part of the house he could access and couldn’t locate the source of the noise. His silencing charms only held on for so long. As if he didn’t have enough trouble sleeping already.
Neville looks at him, eyebrows pinched together. “Merlin, that's horrible. I’m glad we can help you out, anyway.”
“Yeah, thanks for letting me stay,” Harry replies.
Neville claps him on the back. “No problem. Come inside. I think Luna’s made tea.”
Neville and Luna’s house is a blow to the senses. The wallpaper clashes violently with the furniture, and there’s a plant or unusual contraption on every available surface within sight. Tattered books are stacked in corners on the floor or piled ominously on armrests or overfull shelves. Thick floral scents waft through the stale air, heavy with the sun beating through the paned windows. Harry almost wants to go back outside to the garden. At least out there he can breathe. Instead, he sits half swallowed by the plush armchair, sipping his tea and letting Neville’s words wash over him.
“It’s really fascinating. More and more research is coming out about how plants—magical plants in particular—are incredibly susceptible to the temperament of those around them. Like for example, if Luna and I have a fight, and I try to spend time in the garden while I’m all angry and stuff, the plants will feel it! They won’t grow right or they’ll start to wilt. It’s amazing.”
There’s perhaps too long of a silence before Harry figures Neville must be waiting for a response. “Oh, cool,” he offers lamely.
“Bugger, I'm doing it again, aren’t I? Going on and on. Sorry mate. Tell us what’s happening with you.”
Harry, more unprepared for this question than he perhaps should be, tries to sit up a bit straighter in his chair. “I, er, well…” He trails off, unsure what to say.
“I don’t think Harry minds listening, do you Harry?” Luna says, her singsong voice floating in the humid air. Harry blinks at her. “I’d imagine after all that time in the spotlight, you’d enjoy just fading into the background a bit. Less pressure that way.” A beam of warm sunlight causes her pale blond hair to almost shine. It triggers something in Harry.
“I suppose. Hey, um, have you heard anything from Malfoy?”
Neville gives him a puzzled look. “Nah mate. Haven’t seen him since Hogwarts.”
“We used to write,” Luna says. “Especially when he was first released from Azkaban. Both his parents died that year, did you know? He’s had rather a hard time, I think.”
Neville scoffs into his mug, but doesn't add anything.
“Do you still? Write?” Harry asks.
“Hmm, no,” she says airly. “He stopped responding to my letters after that article came out in The Prophet. You know the one?”
Harry had never paid much attention to The Prophet in the months after the war, but recalls hearing so many people talk about the article that he had to get a copy for himself. He doesn’t remember the details, but thinks maybe he might have laughed about it with Ron one night, drunk on Firewhiskey after yet another funeral.
“I can’t really remember what it was about.”
“It wasn’t very flattering. He was probably very embarrassed. Maybe he just wants to fade away a bit, too,” Luna muses, staring out the window.
Harry sips his tea. “Yeah, maybe.”
Harry spends the next few days at Neville and Luna’s. He mostly sits in their garden, finding the living room somewhat suffocating. He allows time to pass him by, staring into space for hours as flying insects flit from plant to plant around him. He watches Neville putter around. Sometimes he falls asleep and is woken gently by Luna’s kind hands and soft tones. He only eats when she reminds him. Mostly he just sits there, in the dirt, tearing blades of grass between his fingers. Some days he sits there for so long he wonders if he's disintegrating, fading into the earth that surrounds him.
He doesn’t let himself go back to watch Malfoy. When the restlessness comes back to him with vigour, he Apparates to Diagon Alley with the cloak and just walks, unnoticed, up and down the cobbled streets. He watches the shoppers as they bustle past him, letting their detached conversations soothe his uneasy mind.
Returning from one of these trips that evening, Harry finds Neville and Luna in the garden.
“Oh, hi Harry. Sorry we haven’t got dinner sorted yet,” Luna tells him as she stands at the table carrying Nevile’s plant hybrids, face lined with concern.
“S’okay. What’s going on?” Harry says as he approaches.
“They’re dying.” Neville’s voice is thick.
Harry peers into one of the pots and finds a wilted pile of rotting petals and shrivelled roots. A weight presses in on his chest. He looks up at Neville and sees a stricken expression on his face.
“I wonder what's happening? The mallowsweet and gurdyroot are struggling too,” Luna says.
“I don't—I’m not sure. They started wilting a few days ago. I thought I'd done enough to prevent…” Neville trails off, meeting Harry's gaze. Harry doesn't look away, even though he wants to. He hopes Neville can see the apology in his eyes.
Luna lifts a petal out of the pot and sniffs it.
“Do you think they've been picking up on your mood?” She says to Neville. “You have been a bit stressed about work this week.”
The pity in Neville’s expression is unbearable. “No, I don't think that’s it.”
A weight on Harry’s chest spreads like sludge. It's in his throat. “I'm uh, I'm gonna go,” he says, voice rough.
Neville is still staring at him as he turns and forces himself to walk, not run, out of the garden. He grabs his bag from the spare room off the kitchen and heads to the front door. “Harry.” Neville’s voice reaches him as his hand is on the doorknob. He sighs and turns around.
Neville doesn't seem angry, just deflated. Disappointed, maybe. “Harry I—”
“It's okay,” Harry interrupts him, surprised at the steadiness in his voice. “I'm obviously a bit messed up at the moment. It's better. That I leave.” He doesn't wait for Neville to reply before he pulls open the door and steps out onto the road.
He Apparates into the sitting room of Grimmauld Place, and immediately blocks the floo. Blinking furiously, he doesn't bother to light the sconces or the fire in the hearth as he makes his way to his bedroom. He pushes on the door, feeling like his legs won't be able to hold him up much longer, but it doesn't budge. He jiggles the handle. Nothing. He pushes again, throwing his weight behind it. The door doesn't relent.
Vision blurring, he pulls his wand out of his back pocket and casts a hasty Alohomora, before trying the handle again. After a few more half-hearted attempts, Harry leans his back against the door and slides down it, losing his fight with gravity. As he lies there on the cold wooden floor, in his house that hates him, he succumbs. Great heaving sobs barrel through him as he fades from consciousness.
***
Harry stops fighting it. With nothing else to occupy the days that drag his reluctant existence on through time, he gives in.
He only has to wait an hour or two before Malfoy appears at the end of his street. He’s not alone, and Harry swallows his disappointment. He makes to leave, but stops when he sees Malfoy’s companion pull at his shirt, their bodies colliding, pressing against the wall between two flats. They kiss ferociously, and Harry takes in the man's appearance. He’s shorter than Malfoy, and far bulkier. His face is half-covered by a thick black beard and the sleeves of his t-shirt are stretched tight around his biceps. They trip up the steps and tumble through Malfoy’s front door. Curiosity and anticipation pull at Harry, tempting him.
He needs to get closer, he needs more. He crosses the street, climbs over the crumbling knee-high brick wall bordering Malfoy’s courtyard and positions himself in front of the large window at the front of the flat. There are tall, prickly weeds catching on his jeans, and the glass is so thick he can’t hear anything Malfoy and his companion are saying. However, the unimpeded close up he has of all the activity in Malfoy’s living room makes his awkward position worth it. He flicks his wand and casts a Muggle-repelling charm on the street.
Malfoy is rough. The man leans into him, but Malfoy holds him back with a tight circle of fingers around his neck. The man's sags in Malfoy’s grip, like he wants him to hold him up by throat alone. His meaty hands come up to pull at Malfoy’s shirt. Malfoy shakes his head then stands back and points at the man’s chest. The man begins taking off his shirt and unbuttoning his jeans, all while Malfoy watches on, smirking.
Harry pulls at his cock, freeing it from its confines as Malfoy pushes his companion around and shoves him against a bookshelf. The man is completely naked, his ruddy cock is bouncing in front of him. Malfoy, fully clothed, presses against him and grips his arse with one hand, pinching and pulling at his nipples with the other.
The man keeps opening and closing his mouth. Harry can almost hear the sounds of pleasure he must be making as Malfoy continues to handle him. Harry rubs a thumb over the head of his own cock, spreading wetness all over the tip. A shiver breaks out over his skin. The contrast between the two of them, Malfoy’s forceful control against the man’s desperate compliance, has Harry gripping himself tight.
Malfoy lets go of the man and pulls out his own cock, massaging it. When the man attempts to turn around, Malfoy pushes him forcefully back against the shelf and holds him there, slowly pumping himself. Harry’s dick is completely hard and he almost cries out as Malfoy moves his grip to the man’s hair, pulling the man's head back far, running his cock between the man’s cheeks. Harry stumbles forward, slapping his hand on the window to stop himself falling face-first into it. He tries to steady himself, slowing the speed of his strokes. He wants to last.
The man smashes a fist against the shelf as Malfoy enters him in one steady thrust. Harry imagines the feeling of being breached by Malfoy, of being stretched wide, and his resolve to last crumbles. Malfoy fucks into the man over and over again, pulling his beefy arms back to hold him in place. Harry swears under his breath when he catches sight of the expression on Malfoy’s face. He looks resplendent, victorious, like he’s won something he knew he had no chance of losing.
The window fogs from Harry’s rapid panting, his orgasm ripping through him as the man's cock bursts with come, and Malfoy’s body goes taut, face clenching. Harry continues to stroke his sensitive cock, pathetic whimpering coming from him unbidden, while Malfoy pulls himself from the man's arse. Harry is overcome with sensation, and he turns and collapses against the wall of Malfoy’s house to keep himself upright.
The sound of Malfoy’s front door opening startles him and he stills and holds his breath. He must have lost track of time. The man walks past Harry and down the street, pulling down the hem of his shirt. Harry watches, unmoving, until the man turns the corner and disappears from sight. He tucks his now flaccid cock back into his briefs and pushes off the wall.
“Petrificus Totalus.”
Harry’s limbs go rigid and snap together as he keels over, face first onto weeds and patchy, wet grass. His nose and chin hit the packed dirt with a painful crunch. Though his shout of surprise is stuck in his throat, the sound of his body hitting the ground echoes in his ears. A hand grabs at the cloak and pulls hard. Then, he’s on his back, Draco Malfoy standing over him.
“Well now, this is familiar,” Malfoy says, a smirk pulling at his mouth. He crouches down at Harry’s side, pulling at his hair so that Harry's head is angled to face him. “Harry Potter.” His voice is low and drawling and it scuttles over Harry’s skin. “I’m simply dying to know what you're doing here.”
Harry’s current predicament is, he can admit, rather dire. Being caught stalking aside, he thinks his nose might be broken. Humiliation licks up his rigid spine, but along with it is a prickle of ill-advised anticipation, a foolish thrill at what Malfoy might do.
“You’ve been following me for a while now, haven’t you? I thought I could hear—” Malfoy cuts himself off. Harry hardly registers what Malfoy is saying, caught up in the opportunity to finally look at him up close. Malfoy laughs and the sound crawls up over Harry, gets under his nails. “Merlin you are such a little creep, aren’t you, Harry?” Harry's sure a violent flush must be blooming across his face, not only at the insult but at his body’s reaction to the words, his cock twitching traitorously.
Malfoy tilts his head, pinning Harry with a look of bright-eyed curiosity, the upturned curve of his mouth steady. “Did you like watching me fuck that boy? Did your perverse little brain enjoy that?” A sudden, probing hand is on Harry’s crotch, squeezing his dick. Malfoy’s eyes widen, before his features settle back to smug satisfaction. “Hmm, thought so.”
Malfoy continues to grope Harry, rubbing his hands along the seam of his fly. “And what do we have here?” He brings his hand to his face. Under the dim light of the lamppost, Harry can see the evidence of the orgasm he’d yet to Scourgify off his jeans, coating Malfoy’s fingers. “Circe, that is disgusting.” Malfoy examines them, his face alight with barely restrained glee. “You touched yourself while watching me. Freak.”
He opens his mouth and licks Harry’s come off his slender fingers. “I’ve always wanted to know what you taste like,” he says on an exhale. Harry’s heart skips, a staccato beat punctuating the shame he feels with the facts evident; He’s glad Malfoy caught him. He likes this. He's pleased Malfoy knows just how much he likes this.
“I suppose I should let you out now.” Malfoy says, then hesitates, his eyes darting over Harry’s body and then along the deserted street around them. “Maybe I’ll just—” he slips a hand into Harry’s pocket and pulls out his wand, before standing up straight. He stares at Harry for a moment, the corner of his lip dimpled as his tooth presses into it. Huffing, he flicks his own wand at Harry, releasing the spell.
Harry brings his hand to his nose before he does anything else, unsurprised to find he’s bleeding. Standing, he keeps his eyes trained on the wet concrete between them, the embarrassment stronger now that he can control his own movements.
“What, you can't look me in the eye after you watch me come?” Malfoy asks.
Harry reluctantly meets his gaze. His features are set, the unreserved glee muted down to a tight, thin grimace, shoulders hunched. A sudden realisation jolts Harry. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, baffled by the abrupt shift.
Malfoy blinks, face going blank for a second before he comes back to himself. “Of course you won’t. I'm not the one who was caught being a pervert.” He steps closer to Harry, crowding him with his sweat-scent, his pink lips. “Who knows? Maybe next time I’ll really put on a show.”
Harry falters and Malfoy grins, teeth bared. They stare at each other for a while; a competition. Then Malfoy jerks his head. “Run along now.” Harry doesn’t need to be told twice.
***
Harry tries. He really, really tries. He goes out to buy groceries and cleans the kitchen. He attempts to fix the broken shower head in the third floor bathroom and even sorts through his ever increasing pile of unopened mail. He doesn’t pretend he’s not home when Ron firecalls and asks to go for a fly. He goes for a fly, and then comes back to Ron’s for pizza with Hermione and the kids. He does all the things he's supposed to do. All the things in the pamphlets, the ones McGonagall handed out in eighth year that said Transfigure Your Mind: The Five C’s of Mental Fortitude and Dreamless Sleep: Why a Potion a Day Won’t Keep the Grief at Bay and So You Feel Like You’re Drowning? 10 Tips to Help You Get to Land.
The extra activity does nothing to help him sleep. And instead of feeling happy, feeling like he used to, Harry feels like someone has flipped him over and shaken him out, emptying him of all the things that make him him, leaving nothing but an empty husk behind, dry and brittle. The only evidence he’s a person at all is in Ron and Hermione, in the way they look at him with concern, their hands finding him more frequently than usual. He almost resents them for the reminder.
It’s only when he lets himself think of Malfoy that he feels most like himself—or at least an approximation of himself. The fervent curiosity, an undeniable need to know more, to see more. The thrill at catching Malfoy out, at witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to. A pull when everything else is a push. The desire to rise to the challenge battling with his wish not to give Malfoy the satisfaction. When faced with another evening of being alone in his dark, cold sitting room, listening to the house creak and groan around him as if complaining he still lives there, Harry’s already weakened resistance disintegrates.
Malfoy is inside, sitting on his torn leather couch, a book propped up on his knees when Harry arrives and positions himself in front of his window, hesitating only for a moment as he notices it’s open. Malfoy dangling the “I’ll put on a show” carrot has been the only thing on Harry’s mind since he’d made the decision to come here twenty minutes ago. He’s now realising Malfoy has no way of knowing he’s come back. And the idea of letting him know, of taking action to directly elicit the reaction he wants from Malfoy, is too humiliating to think about. Harry briefly considers that Malfoy could’ve been lying, that the taunt could’ve been an attempt to lure Harry back so he can trap him and hex him into oblivion. Unfortunately that possibility is not enough to keep Harry away.
Harry is there for not even a minute before Malfoy stiffens, the book falling to the floor. He stands so quickly that Harry instinctively reaches for his wand. But then Malfoy turns and walks through the room and out of sight.
Harry waits. Five minutes. Ten. The disappointment is bitter on the back of his tongue and confirmation of what he suspected. Either a show or a confrontation would have been preferable to Harry than what he’s now faced with; a night of staring at his ceiling trying not to spiral.
However, Mafoy does return, almost fully naked, save for his pants. Harry’s cock twitches at the possibility that Malfoy could be doing this for him. His eyes rove hungrily at the sight before him, taking in the smug expression on Malfoy’s face, and travelling down over all his valleys and edges, the criss-cross of scars. He spots a long pale pink dildo in Malfoy’s hand, thick and veiny and made of rubber.
Facing the window—facing Harry—Malfoy removes his pants, and begins stroking, fingers slow moving over his cock. Harry moves closer, entirely unbothered by the corner of the brick window ledge jutting into his thighs. Malfoy moves to sit back on the couch, legs splayed and vulnerable. Harry swallows noisily when Malfoy pushes a finger into his arse, sliding it in and out. He adds a second finger and moans, the sound filtering through the open window. Soon the movement of his fingers mirrors Harry's, his hand wrapped around his own cock.
“Oh fuck,” Malfoy whimpers, throwing his head back, as he positions himself and begins to steadily push the dildo in and out of his arse. Harry bites the inside of his cheek, fucking into his fist with abandon. Malfoy’s thrusts become more hurried and his desperate moans make Harry’s knees go weak.
They come together; Malfoy with a yell as his greedy arse clenches around the dildo, and Harry, panting and sweaty, his release painting the weeds at his feet outside Malfoy’s window.
***
Days blend. Together, apart, sideways. Before long, it’s Christmas, and Harry is tired. He’s late for the Burrow. He’d woken that morning with a pounding in his head, and couldn’t bring himself out of the cavern of musty-smelling pillows and three day old laundry that is his bed, for hours. His bladder eventually forces his hand, and he chooses to cast quick freshening charms by way of a proper shower.
“Harry, you came.” Molly answers the door, nose wrinkling, concern lining her face. Harry doesn’t have anything to offer to make it disappear. She cups his cheeks. “Merlin, You’re a bag of bones! You can take some leftovers home.” He wants to ask if his weight is something else she’s been discussing with everyone behind his back. He nods and hugs her instead.
Harry finds himself squashed between Bill and Hermione. It’s fine, until they start talking about Goblin banking law reform. He relocates and then Percy is there, asking Harry about his job prospects and offering to help, dropping names he obviously expects Harry to know.
As usual, the Burrow is near constant sound and motions. The crooning wireless in the corner and the clatter of plastic stacking blocks, pushed over by a very pleased looking Hugo. Charlie’s stilted attempts at Italian in response to Blaise’s honey smooth phrases. Arthurs’ bellowing laughter and Ginny’s snicker. Perhaps it’s a result of his isolation of late, but everything combines in a blanket of dizzying noise and activity that threatens to suffocate him.
He moves outside and finds Ron on the back step. They sit in silence for a while, overlooking Rose as she stomps around in the overgrown yard, lunging for garden gnomes.
“How’ve you been?” Ron asks, watching Rose.
“Fine. Normal.”
“Any luck finding a job?”
He shakes his head.
“That’s rough,” Ron says, before his attention is pulled. “No Rose! Keep your fingers away from their mouths!” He turns back to Harry, “Hang on.”
Harry takes a sip from the bottle in his hand, finishes it before Ron returns. He pins Harry with a look, like he’s gearing up for something. “Neville said you left in kind of a hurry, the other day.”
“Did he?” Harry tries to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Yeah. He said he felt bad.”
“Oh,” Harry says, swallowing. “I think—”
A shriek interrupts them, followed by sobbing. “Oh bugger,” Ron says under his breath, before he’s up and off again.
“I’m gonna grab another butterbeer,” Harry calls after him.
Inside, he runs into Blaise.
“Well hello Potter, haven't seen you around much lately.”
“Oh, um. Yeah.” Blaise raises an eyebrow, but Harry doesn't say anything else.
“Well it's been a pleasure, as always.” Blaise goes to move past him, but Harry grabs his arm.
“Hey, have you heard from Malfoy recently?”
An easy smile spreads over Blaise’s stupid face. “No, have you?”
Harry's tongue feels thick in his mouth. “No I—why would I’ve heard from him?”
“I'm not sure.”
Harry scowls. “Well? Have you?”
Blaise’s smile grows wider, his eyebrows in his hairline now. Harry wants to hit him.
Eventually, Blaise lets out a sigh. “No, I haven't heard anything from our dear Draco. Haven't seen him in months.”
“You haven't, like, checked up on him?”
“I have no doubt he's perfectly fine. He doesn't want to be bothered. And I'm never one to miss a hint,” Blaise replies.
“Right,” Harry says.
Blaise looks at his arm where Harry is still gripping him. “May I be dismissed?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” Harry lets go.
Blaise chuckles as he walks away.
The Weasley dining room table is stuffed to the brim with food, and Molly beams proudly as everyone digs in. Harry pushes carrots around on his plate.
“You seem quiet Harry, everything okay?” Charlie asks, reaching across him to grab the gravy.
“Yeah, fine,” Harry says, giving up on his plate.
“Dad mentioned your house is giving you trouble?”
Harry huffs, “You could say that.”
“I’d offer for you to stay with me at my flat, but I’ve just rented it out. I’ve got that big research trip to Lithuania coming up.”
“Oh, cool. That’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”
For the rest of the meal, Charlie tells him about his upcoming trip, even though he didn’t ask. Harry flits in and out of the conversation.
Once everyone is full to bursting, Harry offers to make tea so he can escape to the kitchen. The sleepy, post-meal quiet unsettled his stomach more than the food did. As he waits for the kettle to boil, he spots the omniscient clock on the wall. All of the Weasley’s hands are there, pointed towards ‘home,’ including two tiny spoons depicting Rose and Hugo. Fleur, and her and Bill’s daughter are also there. Even fucking Blaise is there now. Everyone except—
“Wondering where your hand is?” Bill asks from behind him.
“Um, yeah,” Harry says, trying to breathe normally. It feels like there’s mud in his ribs again. He pours hot water over the tea bags.
“Mum says it broke a few months ago. Just fell off. I’ve been asking around at work to see if anyone knows how to fix it. Turns out it’s quite rare, so no one’s been any help yet.”
“Oh.” Harry replies over the roaring in his ears. He overfills one mug, the boiling liquid spreading around his other hand. “Shit.”
“You alright?” Bill asks, stepping closer.
Harry shakes his hand. “Yeah, fine. I’m just gonna—bathroom.”
He exits the kitchen and makes for the stairs, thrusting his stinging hand under a cold stream of tap water as soon as he reaches the bathroom sink. Maybe he could stay up here for a while, just until the silt in his lungs clears.
As he lets the sound of the gushing water wash over him, the urgent, serrated edge of his thoughts cut through his pathetic defences. You don’t belong here. You’re broken, unwanted. They mock him, becoming louder and louder until Harry feels swallowed up. He grips the sink with both hands, the cool porcelain doing nothing to soothe his crawling skin. Not wanting anyone to come looking for him, he forces himself to leave the bathroom.
The tea seems to have injected some energy back into everyone and Harry lurches to avoid colliding into Victoire and Rose as they run right past him, giggling. The noise in the room has reached its pre-lunch volume. He sits in an armchair in the corner, wishing he had his cloak.
***
Potter,
Tonight, I have a surprise for you.
Spare key under the mat. Wear the cloak.
DLM
P.S. unless you’re scared?
The note is burning a hole in his pocket as he walks along Malfoy’s street. On the off-chance that Malfoy is being serious, Harry longs to know what the “surprise” is, and the taunt does nothing to lessen his desire.
He finds the key where Malfoy indicated and steps over the threshold, locking the door behind him. He never replied to Malfoy's letter, wasn't entirely convinced he’d even accept the invite until he’d Apparated to Malfoy's street. He’s pretty sure Malfoy can sense him, somehow, under the invisibility cloak. The events of his previous visit to Malfoy's house stand in his mind as firm evidence of this fact. Pondering how Malfoy knows is something of a lower priority right now.
Malfoy's flat is dark and cramped. Harry is lit up with the unrestricted opportunity to explore his things, the spaces he occupies. The adrenaline is intensified by the fact that it's not unrestricted at all, that Malfoy could come home at any moment and catch Harry at it. He's never really been able to muzzle the instinct that had broken out of him at age 11, to go into places he shouldn't. A childhood of being told not to touch, not to see, not to be, left him raw with a desire to occupy space, the more forbidden, the better.
A thousand possibilities form in his mind at what Malfoy could be planning, and Harry is prepared to hex his way out of here if needed. But while he can, he uses his time wisely. Taking inventory of the places and things that Malfoy has touched, possessed, inhabited. Malfoy eats here, he’s licked that spoon. He’s sat there, and fucked himself on that couch. Harry catalogues cutlery and pantry items. The temptation to go upstairs and explore Malfoy's bedroom grows stronger and stronger as time passes, but he gets distracted rifling through the third drawer of a cabinet, inspecting the small collection of junk Malfoy keeps there.
The sound of a key in a lock causes Harry’s stomach to flip. He checks his feet, unsure where to stand.
“Are you sure about this?” A voice—not Malfoy’s—reaches Harry in the kitchen.
Malfoy appears, face flushed, exhilarated. His silver eyes dart around the room, lingering for a moment on the spot where Harry stands, unseen. A self-satisfied grin spreads syrupy across his features. “Very.”
A man appears behind him, short, stocky, uninteresting. Harry watches Malfoy pilfer through the same drawer Harry was just in, then the pantry, then the cupboard under the sink.
“Here, hold this. I’ll be right back.” Malfoy thrusts a small glass phial into the man's grip before turning and dashing up the stairs. He returns a second later, and he doesn’t appear to have anything in his hands. He unstoppers the phial the man’s holding and places his pinched fingers over the opening. The phial starts to smoke. Polyjuice.
Malfoy looks back at the man, expression victorious.
“I don’t know. Feels kinda wrong,” The man says, eyeing the phial warily.
Malfoy scoffs. “Oh come on. Trust me, he’d love this. He’s always had a giant ego. Probably gets his rocks off thinking about how many people want to fuck him.”
The man pauses for a second more, then downs the potion. Harry’s insides curl and twist as he moves from unease at the sight of bubbling, pulsing skin, to astonishment at the identity of the likeness now standing in front of him.
It’s him. It’s Harry. The man has transformed into Harry.
The man conjures a mirror and inspects it, his reflection now depicting Harry’s face. “Merlin, this is weird. I haven’t even met him, you know?” Harry’s own voice sounds foreign in his ears.
“He’s not that special.” Malfoy removes the mirror from his hands. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Harry takes a few minutes to gather himself, to steady his breathing and process what’s just happened. When he reaches Malfoy’s bedroom, he stops.
Malfoy is sitting on the edge of his bed, stroking his hands through the hair on not-Harry’s head. Harry’s hair. Malfoy’s expression is full of wonder as not-Harry laps at Malfoy’s cock with enthusiasm.
“You do that so well,” Malfoy whispers, thumb stroking not-Harry’s cheek. Not-Harry moans, his sucks becoming more eager.
“I’m gonna fuck you. Would you like that?” Malfoy says, and Harry puts his fist to his mouth to stop himself from saying yes, gods, please. Not-Harry groans and continues to slurp and suck Malfoy’s cock.
“Yes, I know. I know,” Malfoy coos.
Soon not-Harry is pulled to his feet by Malfoy and they both clamber onto the wrinkled bed sheets. Kneeling, Malfoy licks and bites not-Harry on the side of the neck, and Harry finds himself arching his own. An invisible offering.
Harry has himself in hand as Malfoy turns not-Harry around and pushes him against the wall. Harry bites his lip so hard, he can taste blood. The expression on not-Harry’s face—Harry’s face—is wanton and desperate as Malfoy plays with his arse. Embarrassment and shame merge with Harry’s arousal to create a flood of blinding need. His hand flies over his cock as Malfoy lines himself up and pushes in.
“Yes. Yes. Gods, Harry.” Malfoy chants, picking up speed. Harry’s knees buckle.
Not-Harry begins stroking himself, but Malfoy stops him, grabbing his arm and pulling it tight, trapped between their writhing bodies. “Not yet. Only when I tell you.”
Not-Harry nods, and so does Harry. He slows his own strokes and moves his hand under his t-shirt, pinching at his nipple. A whimper escapes him, but it goes unnoticed.
“So good,” not-Harry pants as Malfoy thrusts into him. Harry watches Malfoy snake another hand around him, fingers pressing, searching, until they settle around his neck.
“Come here,” Malfoy says, nuzzling into not-Harry’s nape, licking and nosing at it. Harry’s breathing is erratic now, and the tone of Malfoy's voice is unfathomable. It's almost soft, reverent, as if Malfoy actually wants this, wants Harry. Standing there, hidden and propped up against Malfoy's wall, Harry lets himself believe it for a while.
Malfoy keeps his pace steady, pushing into not-Harry over and over again, his eyes closed and face buried into his neck. Harry watches Malfoy's face, moisture—sweat surely—trailing down it. And for a moment, it's just that. Them. Malfoy, his face split with overwhelming pleasure and Harry witnessing, watching, worshipping.
The foreign version of Harry’s own voice is like a hammer, shattering the blissful direction of Harry's thoughts. “I’m gonna come—” Not-Harry jerks and then spills all over the sheets. Malfoy growls, his hips snapping violently against not-Harry’s arse. Harry wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, suddenly aware of his own impending orgasm. He screws his eyes shut, tightening his grip. Malfoy hasn’t told him to come yet.
“Gods, that was—I’m sorry. I just couldn’t hold it,” not-Harry says, turning as Malfoy pulls out of him, his cock glistening with his own release.
His smile is cold. “Clearly.”
“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Not-Harry’s features are slowly morphing back into their original form. The black hair turns brown and recedes, the nose rounds and chin lengthens.
“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” Malfoy says mildly.
The man looks taken aback. “Oh. Will I—”
“You can see yourself out.” Malfoy starts stripping the sheets off the bed.
The man stares at Malfoy for a second longer, his own likeness fully returned now. “Gotcha. Thanks, then. I guess,” he says, hastily grabbing his discarded clothes and leaving the room.
Harry’s nerves are on alert, his heart pounding loud in his ears, his cock still hard and aching. Malfoy doesn’t say anything. If Harry didn’t know better, he'd think Malfoy has no idea Harry is even there. Malfoy throws the soiled sheets in a corner of the room and begins remaking the bed. The front door downstairs slams.
“I think you should show yourself now, don’t you?” Malfoy is still turned away.
Harry hesitates. He could leave. He could leave right now, go home and frantically rut on his bed until he comes, thinking about Malfoy and his words and his cock and his hands. If he had any self-preservation instincts at all, that’s what he would do. Instead, he removes the cloak, letting it fall to the floor at his feet. His dick is still pathetically hard, hanging out of his undone jeans.
Malfoy turns and walks towards him. His eyes are dark and intense, and Harry’s hand twitches towards his wand in his back pocket. “Oh Potter,” he says, his bare chest so close now. “You want to hex me? When I’ve just done such a nice thing for you?” His voice is dripping, falsely sweet and dangerous. Harry’s face heats. “No point in being embarrassed. I already know about your sick little fascination. Did you enjoy that? Did you like watching me fuck you?” Malfoy traces the tip of his index along the length of Harry’s cock, and Harry is undone.
“Oh gods. I—” Harry's voice is shaky, stuttering. Malfoy keeps trailing his finger.
“You didn’t come.”
Harry closes his eyes. “You told me not to,” he whispers.
“Good boy.” Harry’s eyes fly open, and Malfoy is smiling. A warm, true thing that Harry wants to study until he knows it like the back of his hand. “Do you want to touch me Harry?” His voice is gentle.
“Oh. Yes, please.”
Malfoy takes a step back, holding his arms out in a gesture that says go on, then. Harry’s unsure what to do first. He's overwhelmed by the opportunity in front of him. Malfoy, bare porcelain, allowing—no, welcoming—Harry to touch him. He traces a shaking finger from Malfoy’s collarbone to just above his navel, following the path of the deep jagged scar he’d put there. He keeps looking back up at Malfoy's face, waiting. When Malfoy closes his eyes and lets out a pleased sigh, Harry's hesitation snaps.
He runs his hands all over Malfoy’s torso, his fingers bumping over the ridge of his collarbone, the jut of his hip. Harry is taken by the soft flesh of Malfoy’s belly, the single freckle that marks the hill of his shoulder, the fine pale hairs that trail down, down, to his soft cock, his heavy balls.
“I can't believe you're letting me do this,” Harry tells Malfoy’s sternum, his pink nipple, focusing intently, so as to hide his furious blush.
Malfoy stills Harry’s hand as it outlines the curve of his pec. “You know, you can explore with more than just your fingers.”
Harry looks up, then. Testing the boundaries of Malfoy's invitation with direct eye contact. Malfoy nods once, and Harry wastes no more time. He presses his lips to the side of Malfoy’s neck, inhaling the tangy sweet smell of his sweat. “Yes,” Malfoy says on an exhale, as Harry trails tentative licks and kisses down to his nipple, taking it in his mouth, between his teeth.
Harry continues his descent, sinking to his knees. He noses at the join of Malfoy’s hip to his thigh, and buries his face in the thatch of wiry dark hairs at his groin. He tongues Malfoy’s flaccid cock, sucks at his balls. The sticky-dried residue of Malfoy’s orgasm causes his mouth to flood with saliva.
“So pretty on your knees,” Malfoy murmurs, voice soft. The sound of it burrows into Harry, settling in his psyche. Malfoy brings a hand to Harry’s hair, pushing it back to reveal the thin pin-prick scar on his forehead. Harry feels Malfoy’s cock jerk against his cheek. He meets his gaze.
“Would you like to come?” Malfoy asks. Harry whimpers in response, and Malfoy grips his jaw, fingers biting into flesh. “Touch yourself.”
Harry groans in relief, gripping his swollen cock in his fist. He continues to lick and suck on Malfoy’s sack, the inside of his thighs, pumping himself vigorously. Building, chasing. “That’s it,” Malfoy says. “Come for me.”
Harry’s orgasm is brutal, a torrent of shattering glass. His cock convulses aggressively, spurting onto the floor between Malfoy’s bare feet. Panting, he collapses against Malfoy’s leg, his limbs shaky and spent.
“Well done. You did such a good job,” Malfoy is offering soft-toned praises, caressing his jaw, stroking his thumb across the rise of Harry’s cheekbone, the cool metal of his ring soothing his heated skin. “Here,” he says, hooking a hand under Harry’s arm to lift him up, pulling him towards the bed. Harry’s eyelids are heavy, and every muscle in his body aches. Malfoy climbs on to the bed, still holding Harry’s hand, tugging.
“I should go,” Harry hears himself say, as he lands next to Malfoy on the crisp sheets.
“Stay.” Malfoy says.
“What?”
“You could stay.”
Harry blinks. “But that’s—I mean, you don’t want—you can’t be serious.”
Malfoy stiffens, all gentleness in his expression turned into something trained, intentional. He climbs off the bed. “I think you owe me, don’t you?”
“Owe you?” Harry croaks, sitting up and watching Malfoy move around the room.
“I let you snivel around, watching me as you get yourself off, and what do I get?”
“I don’t—”
“I don’t sleep well alone.” Malfoy says, spitting the words onto the floor as if they disgust him. “I’m better—it’s better, when I have someone there. Just a body, any body will do.”
“Oh.”
Malfoy lifts his chin.“It doesn’t matter who it is.”
“Right, of course.”
Malfoy huffs, and Harry thinks he might have stomped his foot. “So will you? Stay?”
“Um, okay.”
“Great. I’m having a shower.” Malfoy turns abruptly, leaving Harry alone in the room.
Harry can’t get back to sleep. He’d passed out on the bed before Malfoy had even returned from the bathroom, undoubtedly exhausted from all the adrenaline that had run through him that evening. Now he lies awake, counting the cracks in Malfoy’s ceiling. The room is lit by the unpleasant glare of the street light outside. Malfoy really needs to buy some curtains.
Harry replays the night's events over and over. A swirling mess of shame, embarrassment, arousal, and shock fills his mind and chases sleep away. And then there's Malfoy, sprawled out on his front, one of his long pale legs a hair's breadth away from Harry’s own limb. Despite the nature of their interaction earlier that night, being together in this bed—Malfoy’s bed—seems far too intimate. Harry can't bring himself to look at him, all soft and rumpled, for more than the second it takes to confirm he's still sleeping. Which is odd, considering Harry hasn't stopped looking at Malfoy for weeks.
Harry sits up slowly, trying not to move the mattress. He should leave. Malfoy will be fine. He was surely exaggerating when he said he couldn’t sleep alone, and he won’t even know Harry is gone until the morning.
***
Harry is done with following Malfoy. Their evening together will be forever seared in his memory, but it’s enough now. It’s become too real and Harry has to stop himself before he gets any ideas that will never come to fruition. He’s stopped himself from going on his invisible ventures through London, worried that if he was already wearing the cloak, he'd be tempted to go back. Though without Malfoy, without his walks, Harry has no reason to leave the house, and soon loses track of the days. He’s unsure, one moment to the next, if the sun shining harshly across his face as he wakes on the couch, is the same sun he saw the last time he was conscious. He receives an owl at some point, and finds it easy to ignore, allowing his fatigue to crawl back over him.
He wakes to a crashing sound followed by an ear piercing screech. “What the fuck?” he whispers blearily, falling off the couch and scrambling to his feet at the sound of something shattering. He heads towards the kitchen and finds the owl from earlier, flying madly around as projectile crockery and utensils hurl towards it at random intervals. He summons the owl and leaves the kitchen to its tantrum. “What’s so important that you braved that to deliver me a letter, huh?” He checks the ruffled bird for injuries and attempts to send it on its way, but the damn thing won’t leave. He huffs and unfolds the parchment.
Harry,
How are you? We haven't heard from you in a while. Missed you at the Ginny and Blaise’s New Years party last Sunday. Seamus got absolutely buggered and tried to fly out a second story window. Dean levitated him to a nearby tree and then just left him there for a while. It was great.
We miss you. We all do. I know I’ve already asked, but I really want to see you. I’m happy to come over, you don’t even have to get out of bed. What happened with the plants, it wasn't your fault. Please write. We want to know you're okay.
Love, Nev.
P.S. I told Berta not to leave until she’d delivered the letter and gotten your reply. Sorry if she damages anything!
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Harry remembers why he stopped reading his letters. Though he’s sure it’s not intended, letters from his friends and family generally just leave him with an uncomfortable lump of guilt and obligation, sitting low in his belly. And now he’s faced with the realisation that New Years has come and gone without his permission. He checks the date on Neville’s letter. Harry hasn't left the house in over six days.
Maybe he should go out today, just to make sure he doesn’t burn up as soon as the sun hits his skin. He sends along a vague reply to Neville, with half-hearted assurances and a promise to meet up that he has no idea if he’ll be able to keep. Casting yet another freshening charm over himself, he winces at his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He looks pallid and kind of blurry, like his edges are blending slightly with the background. His hair is a mess and purple lines his eyes, his overgrown stubble looking like smudges of dirt on his face.
He Apparates to Diagon, not having the energy for a long walk at the moment. The streets are quieter this afternoon, and Harry enjoys not having to swerve out of the way of hurried shoppers. He spends some time in front of The Magical Menagerie, watching the owls displayed in cages at the window with an old, familiar longing. He sees a young girl exit Ollivanders, staring wide-eyed at the long thin box in her hand, her parents beaming. Moving further throughout the streets, he watches idly as an assistant changes the display in the window at O’Malley’s Antiques.
A familiar voice sounds from nearby. He turns around to spot Ron and Hermione with Rose and Hugo, leaving Fortescue’s Ice-cream Parlour. Hermione is laughing at Hugo, who is so focused on his ice-cream that he keeps walking into people. Ron is swinging a giggling Rose by her arms. Harry smiles at the sight. He should take the cloak off and approach them. Then he remembers what he looked like in the mirror and thinks better of it. He’d rather not be confronted with the looks of concern and disappointment on their faces. He can’t help but follow them though, not wanting to move out of the soothing warmth of their obvious contentment.
When Hugo and Rose run ahead to a street merchant demonstrating his wares, brightly coloured toy wands that sprout flowers and glitter when waved in the air, Ron hooks an arm around Hermione’s shoulders and kisses the top of her head. The gesture is simple, mundane, but Harry’s breath catches in his throat and his eyes sting. He suddenly feels exposed and raw, like someone’s scrubbed at his insides with too much force.
He lets the Granger-Weasley’s disappear around a bend in the street without following, finding his way to a secluded alley. Leaning against the mottled brick wall for a few minutes, he tries to steady his breathing. He’s being a right git, having a breakdown because he can’t handle seeing his friends happy. He should be happy for them. He is happy for them. He needs to get over himself.
The easy touch just threw him, is all. The casual way they embraced each other, kissed. Had what they wanted within reach and grasped it. He envies that, he realises. He doesn’t really understand it, yet he wants it for himself. Until today—or perhaps the other night, a signet ring brushing across his cheek—he hadn’t realised how much he wanted it. He sighs shakily, before Apparating back to Grimmauld Place.
He doesn't land in Grimmauld Place, that much is clear. For one thing, he’s outside, the slowly fading daylight casting shadows across his face. For another, he’s laying on top of several rubbish bins. Attempting to right himself, he ends up tipping one of the bins too far to the left so both he and it fall over, scattering bits of cardboard and empty pop bottles across the laneway. He finds his feet and then checks his extremities for signs of splinching. With his eyebrows and fingernails seemingly intact, he tries to Apparate again. Perhaps he’d been too distracted when he’d left Diagon.
With each attempt, a bruising weight blooms across his chest. He can’t understand it. He tries again and again, spinning on the spot until he’s too dizzy to see straight. Panic rises, unbidden, creeping up his arms and trickling down his spine. He tries to enter through the front door, but the ornate brass handle is cold and unresponsive to his touch. His spells reverberate off the mahogany wood with such little fanfare it’s almost as if the house is mocking him. Breathing hard, Harry tries to think. But his thoughts are muddied, slow and then racing, and it feels as if there’s cotton wool in his ears. The weight on his chest threatening to crack him open, Harry Apparates to the first place that comes to mind. Malfoy answers the door almost immediately.
“Merlin Potter, did you just—” he pushes past him to look up and down the empty street. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, shoving Harry inside.
“I’m sorry,” Harry heaves, “I just—” he takes in gulps of air, trying to get his lungs to expand, to rid himself of this thing sitting in between his ribcage.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Malfoy demands.
Harry’s vision is blurring around the edges. He presses his palms to his eyes, bright spots popping against his eyelids. He should lie down before he passes out. He thinks he hears Malfoy leave the room, but he can't see to be sure. His heart is beating so fast and so loud, he’s worried it’ll explode right out of him. He’s going to die, right here on Malfoy’s kitchen floor, pathetic and alone.
Something cold and hard presses against the back of his hand. “Here, take this.”
Harry looks up, blinking furiously. “Um…”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “It’s a calming draught, you idiot.”
“Oh.” Harry tries to unstopper the phial, but his hands are shaking too much. Malfoy takes it from him without a word, lifts it to Harry’s lips. It tastes slightly peppery on his tongue. “Thanks.”
They sit there for a while, on the cold tiles of Malfoy’s slowly darkening kitchen. Harry's breathing settles, and the blurring in his brain clears somewhat. Malfoy’s knee is pressed up against Harry’s shin, sharp and pointy. He’s wearing fluffy pink socks, which is entirely too much for Harry to handle.
“So, are you going to tell me why you showed up here, having a breakdown?” Malfoy asks.
Harry tears his eyes away from the socks. “I wasn’t having a breakdown,” he says instinctively.
Malfoy huffs and rolls his eyes. “Right, and I’m rich and this is my castle.” He gestures around him.
Harry follows the movement. “It’s not that bad.”
Malfoy makes another sound in his throat. “Well?”
“My house kicked me out.”
“What?”
“Yeah it sorta just…didn’t let me in.” Harry shrugs, as if the only home he’s ever owned rejecting him is no big deal.
“You live in the old Black house right?”
Harry nods.
“I’m probably keyed into the wards. I could get you back in,” Malfoy offers.
Harry has no energy to contemplate what that means, and the choice that’s been in front of him for weeks makes itself clear. “No, that’s ok. I’m not really sure I want to go back there. It’s been acting up for a while.”
“I see.” Malfoy’s foot twitches. “Well, did you want some food?”
“What?”
“Food, Potter,” Malfoy repeats, getting to his feet.
“I, um, didn’t know you could cook.” Harry sits on one of the kitchen stools and catches Malfoy’s second eye roll of the night.
“What, you haven’t watched me do it before?” He grins as Harry blanches. “Anyway, I’m not going to cook for you.” He reaches into the pantry and pulls out a half-eaten packet of crackers. “Here,” he says, flinging them onto the bench.
“Er,” Harry takes one from the packet, the corner of it crumbling into his hand.
“With this,” Malfoy says, supplying a small tub of dip, white-ish and slightly lumpy. Malfoy grabs a cracker, swipes it through the dip and puts it in his mouth. Some dip gets on his fingers, and and Harry watched as he licks it off.
“If you're really desperate, I suppose you could stay here,” Malfoy says, just as Harry puts a cracker with nowhere near enough dip on it in his mouth.
He tries to chew quickly, but the cracker is dry and sticks to the back of his throat. He coughs for a long while. “I should probably go,” he rasps when the coughing eventually subsides. He clambers off the stool. “I’m not sure why I—” he wasn’t really sure what the end of that sentence was. Came here? Thought of you in the middle of a panic attack? Feel better now I’m here? He really should leave. “Thanks for the potion.”
Malfoy’s face twists sour. “You’re welcome. I suppose I’ll see you lurking outside the next time I bring someone home to fuck.” Harry’s steps falter. “That’s what you like, right? Hiding under your freaky little invisibility cloak so no one has to know how fucked up the Boy Who Lived has become? Following me around at school to satisfy your paranoid hero complex, and now stalking me to fulfil some perverted fantasy.”
Harry doesn’t try very hard to resist. Malfoy has always known how to wind him up.
“Well I don’t see you doing any better,” he bites back. “Maybe you don’t have a cloak, but you’re still hiding. Not seeing your friends, refusing to go to wizarding establishments. No one I've asked even knows what you’re up to, it’s like—” the words die on his tongue.
Malfoy’s smirk is on full display, and there’s something like triumph in his eyes. He takes a step towards where Harry stands in the kitchen doorway.
“Asking around about me, Potter?”
Harry stumbles, trying not to look at the curl of Malfoy’s hair around the top of his ear. “No, I—”
“Concerned?”
“What? No, of course not.” Harry sputters.
Malfoy steps even closer, his thigh pressed up against Harry’s now, silver eyes trained on Harry's lips. Harry holds his breath, paralysed by the proximity.
“I think you are. I think you can’t get enough of me. I think you’ve had a taste”—he trails his thumb across Harry’s lip, the signet ring rubbing against his chin—”and now you want more.”
Malfoy moves, and Harry thinks—hopes—just for a second, that he might kiss him. But Malfoy simply steps away, and Harry deflates a little at the loss.
“I’m going upstairs,” Malfoy says, eyes glinting.
Harry watches him go, still unable to move, until he hears Malfoy’s drawling “Hurry up, Potter” float down from above him.
He finds Malfoy in the bathroom. The shower is running, curls of steam rising above the blue and white checked shower curtain. Malfoy has already removed his shirt, and his long fingers are fiddling with the drawstring of his sweatpants. He pulls them down, revealing himself, his thighs, his pointed knees, the graceful hips and skinny ankles. He stands there in nothing but his pink fuzzy socks and the image should be funny, but it’s not.
“You can watch.”
Harry’s mouth opens of its own accord, speech escaping him, but Malfoy doesn’t seem to need a response. Removing his socks, he turns to the shower and steps in, leaving the curtain open.
Harry sits on the edge of the yellowed bathtub, engrossed in the sight before him. Malfoy’s impossibly soft looking hair darkens, collecting moisture and slicking to his scalp, his ears, the nape of his neck. Water sluices down the bumps and ridges of him, his edges, the soft middle. Harry wants to follow it with his tongue.
Malfoy stands under the spray and stares at Harry. Harry tries to hold his gaze, tries not to look away from the challenge he sees there, but he can’t help himself. His eyes rove hungrily, from Malfoy’s broad shoulders to the notch on his wrist, the soap suds as they collect in the crook of his elbow. Harry lingers on Malfoy’s cock which, already flushed and thick, grows harder and longer the more Harry looks at it.
Malfoy takes himself in hand, lathering his cock and balls with soap. Harry is torn between watching Malfoy’s hand, the clench in his arse cheeks, or the way his foot rolls slightly inwards. He wants to memorise all of him, wants every inch of him imprinted in his mind, safe there in case Harry doesn't get this chance again. Their eyes meet, and Harry is knocked back by the force of what he sees, the hunger he feels reflected back at him in Malfoy’s darkened gaze.
When Malfoy steps out of the shower, dripping and lovely, Harry stands too, handing him the towel he’d taken from the rack behind. His breathing is loud in his ears as Malfoy pats himself dry and walks past Harry, leaving his clothes on the floor in a pile behind him. Harry hesitates in the doorway to Malfoy’s bedroom. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, this quiet, soft Malfoy sending him all upside down and wobbly.
“Come here,” Malfoy says, standing naked in the middle of his cluttered room. So Harry does, because of course he does.
Malfoy surges as if he can’t wait a second longer, lips colliding with Harry’s. His hands trail a scorching path under Harry’s shirt, up his back. Harry groans and allows himself to plunge his hands into the damp hair. The kiss is messy and wet and Harry wants to drown in it.
“Eager,” Malfoy says into his mouth.
Harry nods so vigorously, they break apart.
Malfoy licks at the corner of Harry’s lips, “Call me Draco.”
“Okay,” Harry agrees, shivering at the feel of Draco’s nails scratching his scalp. “Draco.”
Draco kisses him again, plunges deeper this time, then pulls back just a touch. “Didn’t want to join me in the shower?”
“I didn’t know I could,” Harry whispers, tugs on Draco’s hair.
“You can.” Draco hastily removes Harry’s shirt while Harry sucks under Draco’s ear, the hinge of his jaw. Harry moans when their bare chests meet. “How long?” Draco asks.
“How long?” Harry repeats into Draco’s shoulder, hands roving down the curve of his spine.
“How long have you been—ah,” Draco yelps as Harry pinches his nipple between two fingers, “—watching me?”
It takes Harry a moment to register the question, distracted by licks along the shell of his ear, the slip of a hand into his waistband. “I took a break for a few years,” he breathes out. Draco nips his neck. “Fuck—a few months. Before Christmas.” Harry has to get out of his pants. He stumbles and Draco grabs his elbow to steady him.
“And?” he says, watching Harry free his foot from the material.
“And what?”
They move to the bed, Draco with a firm hand on the small of Harry’s back. Harry’s hand on Draco’s hip anchors him close, so they both fall onto the sheets in a heap. Draco rolls until Harry is bracketed by his arms, his weight firm and heavy on top of him.
“What did you think?” Silver eyes scan Harry’s face, searching.
“You want to know what I thought when I was watching you?”
Draco nods and Harry hesitates. Though his role as Draco’s silent observer was destroyed and discarded the moment he first set foot in his flat, Harry still pauses at the idea of revealing the thoughts that have plagued him for months now. At the idea of exposing his underbelly for Draco to slash through with the sharp edge of his words.
“I thought…” he trails off as Draco begins to move against him, rolling his hips into Harry’s. He hums into Harry’s skin. “I thought you were mesmerising,” Harry says quietly, testing the feel of the words on his tongue, against the roof of his mouth.
Draco’s lips curve into a bright, thrilling smile and Harry knows he would do anything to keep it there. His hesitation crumbles. “Gods, Draco. I loved you in that crop top. The grey one with the rip in the side.” Draco begins feverishly attacking Harry’s chest with kisses and bites. “I wanted to die when I watched you ride that dildo.”
Draco groans, nipping the space just below Harry’s hipbone. Harry bucks up off the mattress, bumping clumsily into Draco’s nose. “Oh, fuck, yes. Gods, sorry.” Harry pants. “I wanted to hear the noises you make.” Draco’s hair is drying in Harry’s grip, soft and pliant. “Wanted to know your taste, your smell. I thought you’d smell like cigarettes, but you don’t. How do you do that?”
Draco interrupts his ministrations to smile up at Harry. “I only smoke when I go to the club. Plus, you know, magic.”
Harry laughs breathlessly as Draco nuzzles between his legs, his breath hot against Harry’s sensitive skin. “I wanted so much,” Harry tells him.
Draco looks up. “Me too.”
“You can have it. Just keep touching me.”
“Always Harry, I’ll always touch you.”
Then Draco takes Harry’s throbbing cock into his mouth, and Harry cries out, shivering all over. “Oh my god, yes. Draco, fuck.” Draco takes him deep, all the way, the head of Harry’s cock bumping against the back of Draco’s throat. “Oh, that feels—”
Draco moans, the vibrations amplifying everything. Harry bites his lip, feeling close to the edge. Draco sucks and slurps and the sound reaches Harry’s ears and sends him reeling.
Malfoy pulls off, breathless. “Roll over.”
Harry does, willing, desperate. He buries his face into Draco’s sheets, relishing the smell that envelops him. Draco kisses down Harry’s spine, whispering into his skin, his cock resting hot and heavy against Harry’s arse. He arches to meet it, but soon Draco’s mouth is there, biting at the flesh of his cheeks, breath scorching.
Harry almost sobs when Draco pries his cheeks apart and buries his face in between them, tonguing along Harry’s taint, the base of his balls, and back up again, to the edge of his hole. Harry fists the sheets, writhing at the feel of Draco’s slick tongue sliding over his opening again and again, a bolt of heat shooting through him, reaching right to the tips of his fingers.
“Draco, your mouth, that mouth drives me crazy,” Harry whines as Draco pushes into him, licking the very inside of him. Harry can feel the wetness spread around him, dripping to his sack. Harry turns to look over his shoulder, needing to see.
Draco looks up at that moment, and the pinked cheeks and glistening mouth is enough to ruin Harry. “You love this, don't you?”
“Oh Gods.” Harry is completely overwhelmed.
“So sweet, you're so sweet,” Draco says, pushing a slick finger into Harry, lowering his head again to lick and suck around the intrusion. “You love my tongue in your arse, my fingers.” Draco says, the words bouncing off Harry's spread cheeks. “Standing out there watching me, desperate to have me inside you.” Draco adds another finger, and another, kissing and licking the puffed,stretched skin. “So obsessed with me, you couldn't keep away.”
Harry can do nothing but nod his head and moan into the mattress. Soon Draco has tongued and fingered him so thoroughly, he’s nothing more than a needy, incoherent puddle.
Draco turns him back over, and Harry immediately bends his legs, spreading himself wide, offering. Draco looks down, lining himself up and pushing forward, the tip of his cock pressing into Harry’s overworked hole with little resistance. Draco stops there, and Harry gazes at him.
“I can’t believe—” Harry says, reaching down to feel the place where they’re joined.
Draco leans in and kisses Harry’s collarbone. “Me neither.”
Draco moves and Harry is undone. After Draco's attentions, it's barely a stretch as he slots inside Harry, deep—so deep Harry can feel it in the base of his spine.
“God you're so—” he says, arching, twitching.
“I know, you too,” Draco replies, driving, gripping.
Harry looks. He sees. He witnesses Draco plunge into him, aiming true and hitting that spot that makes Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his jaw clenched. “Oh fuck, I need—” he grits out.
“I’ll give it to you.” And Draco does. Harry is overcome, inevitable heat and pleasure flowing over, spurting and swearing, splashing on his belly, up his chest. Draco shudders and collapses on top of him, burying his face in the crook of Harry's neck.
For a while there is just the sound of their laboured breathing, the rustle of sheets as Malfoy shifts his legs to tangle them up with Harry’s.
Then, Harry’s blissed out satisfaction gives way to something else, something murky and alarming. In the silence, the events of the past hour, the past day, the last few months, seem to crash down around him. They claw and pull at the boarded up, choked back parts of him, left vulnerable in the absence of his usual defences. A plastered smile, a casual shrug, an ancient, vengeful house and an invisibility cloak.
His sudden intake of breath squeezes past the boulder in his chest and the sediment in his throat, transforming into a sob. Draco lifts off, assessing him with raised eyebrows. Harry closes his eyes, stinging tears running down his cheeks, his skin feels drawn tight, stretched, the bed sheets itchy.
“Darling.” Draco’s touch on Harry's jaw is too soft, too careful. He feels Draco pull out of him, and Harry takes the opportunity to roll away on to his side, Draco's come leaking from his arse onto the bed sheets.
Harry's sobs are wrenched, ripped out of somewhere deep and hidden and shameful inside him. His whole body shakes with the force of them, broken and ugly in his ears. Draco slides in behind him, an arm moving from the valley of his waist to the stuttered, shaking plane of his chest, his chin pressing against the base of Harry's neck. The press of his body is sticky and warm with exertion. As Harry's gives way to the inevitable flood of that which he's left unacknowledged for so long, Draco's presence is an anchor, holding him steady, here, in this unmade bed. Seen and heard.
Harry lets the warm skin and sweaty lemon scent envelop him, fatigue sending everything blurry and muffled. He falls asleep to Draco's whispers. “Darling, it's okay. I'll keep you, I'll have you. It's okay.”
Harry stays with Draco after that. They don’t really talk about it, no decision is made. It just happens. Harry wakes and it’s morning. Draco is making breakfast; an omelette, some coffee. They fall back into bed together and fuck, lazy and slow. Harry kisses Draco searchingly. There’s a bit of egg in his teeth. Afternoon rolls past them, an ambivalent sun occasionally peeking through the clouds, bathing Draco’s pale skin in warm light as he lies on top of Harry. Draco makes spaghetti for dinner. The sauce comes from a jar and tastes awful. Harry has three helpings.
“Stay,” Draco says, and Harry does.
A few days later, Draco goes to work. “Could you go out and get some groceries? We'll have nothing for supper,” he says, kissing Harry swiftly on the cheek before walking about the door.
Draco takes Harry to the White Swallow. Harry gets drunk on Kamikaze shots and is on his knees for Draco in the bathroom while someone vomits in the stall next to them.
Harry tells Ron and Hermione. “But I just don't understand. How did you even get back in touch with him?” Hermione asks.
His answer of, “I just ran into him one day,” was met with a scoff and raised eyebrow.
“Malfoy. You’re with Malfoy. You’re with Malfoy? As in, seeing him and snogging him and all that?” Ron asks, and to Harry’s nod, shrugs his shoulders and turns away. “Alright.”
Draco still doesn’t see his friends, still refuses to go into wizarding London. “I’m ashamed,” he admits when Harry questions him about it one night. “After the war, the trial, the way people looked at me, what they said—it was just easier to avoid it all together.” So when he runs out of potions or wants a new book, Harry shops for him. Draco disguises him with a glamour before he leaves.
Some days, the familiar fog and fatigue inexplicably catches up with Harry. He sleeps too long during the day and forgets to eat. Draco is there to wake him, to make sure he at least consumes something. He complains when Harry goes days without a shower, but still wraps himself around him at night, still buries his face in Harry’s chest. Harry still hasn’t found a job, and Draco delights in calling him his “kept man.” Harry keeps the invisibility cloak with him in magical districts, but finds less and less reason to use it. In any case, Draco lets Harry watch him whenever he wants. He's always been a bit of a show off.
***
Harry is in Draco's kitchen, buttering bread to make toasted sandwiches, when Draco returns home in a huff, throwing his dripping raincoat on the bench.
“Frankly, I've seen five-year-olds with better emotional regulation than that place,” Draco spits out, sitting heavily on a stool. He’s spent the entire day at Grimmauld.
“I’ve no doubt,” Harry replies.
“The magic has obviously been rotting for years. All the signs are there. You can have a restorer have a look at it, they would probably be able to tell you how extensive the damage is. Then you can decide.”
“Decide what?” Harry bends to find the cheese in Malfoy’s overstuffed fridge.
“What you want to do with it. Keep it, sell it, you know.”
“Oh,” Harry says, dropping a sandwich onto the sizzling pan. He feels suddenly nervous, grateful to have something to occupy his hands, to distract him from the sensation of Draco staring holes through the back of his shirt.
“Harry—”
“What, uh, what do you think I should do with it?” Harry asks, feigning nonchalance.
Draco is standing behind him now, his breath ghosting over Harry's neck. “You should probably sell it. You'll just go back to stalking me otherwise.”
Harry holds in his laugh, but it's a near thing. “Sell it?” he asks, turning to Draco.
“Sell it.” Draco nods, gripping his jaw and kissing him roughly.
They ruin the sandwiches, so instead Draco orders too much take-out and puts the telly on. He insists on a game show and Harry is subjected to his relentless commentary, his long arm pointing aggressively at the screen at random intervals, shifting his head as he lay on Harry’s lap.
The show eventually switches to a nature documentary, which captivates Draco but is of no interest to Harry. He cards his fingers through Draco's hair and stares out the window to the bench across the street. “Hey Draco?”
“Mmm?” Draco doesn't look away from the TV.
“How did you know it was me?”
“What?”
“Watching you. How did you know I was out there?”
Draco turns his head to look up at him through pale lashes. “I always know where you are, Harry.”
The End