Chapter Text
Heathrow in July is a bloody sauna, honestly. I stood in the middle of the terminal and could feel a bead of sweat slowly crawling down my back, all because I was wearing a goddamn black dress with white frills.
“Ron, I’m going to murder you,” I hissed, trying to yank the hem down a bit. It was a lost cause — the dress barely covered my arse. “I’m serious. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m some kind of pervert!”
“Moon prism power, give me strength, Harry!” Ron yelled back, sounding way too dramatic. “The day is just moon prism power, give me strength amazing, and all you do is whine!”
He was standing there in a short blue skirt and a sailor top, with a massive red bow pinned right over his backside. Ginny had really outdone herself: two perfect golden "meatball" buns sat on top of his head. The jinx was working flawlessly. Every time Ron tried to drop his favourite ‘fuck’ or something even stronger, that anime shite just came flying out of his mouth instead.
“Moon prism power, give me strength, everything in this skirt is so moon prism power, give me strength itchy!” Ron continued, stomping his feet in his red knee-high socks.
We’d agreed it would be funny. “Let’s bring outfits for each other to the airport!” Ginny had said. And back then, the idea seemed pretty hilarious and tempting. But not now, not while I was standing here in a maid costume, white socks with stupid ruffles, and a sodding feather duster in my hand. Well, at least I could still swear properly instead of shouting “Moon prism power, give me strength” like Ron.
Hermione, on the other hand, looked surprisingly natural in a puffy, short Queen of Hearts dress with leopard-print leggings and a pink sceptre (she’s the Queen of Hearts — isn't a pink sceptre a bit of a betrayal?). She was leaning against the check-in desk, absolutely wheezing with laughter.
“Harry, why aren’t you wearing the frilly cap?” Ginny, in an ultra-short cheerleader outfit with a neon “Go Ron-chan” splashed across her chest, waved orange pom-poms in my face. “The look isn't finished, so it doesn't count! Put it on, I need to take a photo for posterity!”
“Go to moon prism power and find your conscience there, Gin!” I swung the feather duster violently, kicking up a small cloud of dust. “I feel like a bloody faun! Look at my legs!”
I pointed at my very masculine, hairy legs, which looked completely surreal paired with the short dress and frilly socks.
“I look like a victim of a botched Transfiguration from Narnia! And anyway, this dress... it doesn't cover a damn thing!” I tried to keep my voice down so I wouldn't attract even more Muggle attention.
“At least the ventilation is moon prism power, give me strength brilliant in this heat!” Ron tried to scratch his back, but his huge clip-on pigtails smacked him right in the face. “Moon prism power, give me strength! For god's sake! Moon prism power, give me strength!”
We were howling, honestly. All it took was one look at Ron’s dead-serious face while he delivered those tirades, and my annoyance would vanish, replaced by laughter so hard my ribs ached. We really did look like a bunch of entertainers who’d escaped from a mental asylum, but hell, it was summer, we’d finished school (well, three-quarters of us; Ginny still had another year of suffering left), and we were absolutely free!
Mini-Weasley wouldn't put her phone down.
“Right, everyone together! Ron, give me your ‘I shall punish you in the name of the Moon’ face,” she commanded.
Flash, then another. I watched her go straight onto Lumia[1] and dump the whole lot of jpegs onto the net.
“There you go, my lovelies, look for yourselves online. Harry, you’re a total cleaning goddess in that one. Parkinson will drop dead of envy when she sees your waist.”
I rolled my eyes, hitching up a strap that was betraying me by sliding off my shoulder. We sat on the plastic seats — my arse was sticking to the plastic something rotten and I couldn't shake the feeling that I’d pissed myself. Merlin, how do girls wear these skirts? — We drank some fizzy pop from a vending machine and just laughed at every move we made. Ron was trying to eat a sandwich without swallowing his magical-moon-pigtails along with it, while I used my duster to fend off Ginny’s attempts to finally pin the lace cap on me.
It was absolutely, incredibly, idiotically brilliant. The best day ever.
“Fine, give me the damn cap!” I gave in to the ginger terrorist. I snatched the lace rag from Ginny’s hands and shoved it on my head, tying the bow under my chin. “Happy now? Now I’m officially the most humiliated maid in British history.”
“You’re a real cutie, Harry,” Ginny giggled and snapped another photo. “Come and get a coffee with me? I’m not going with Ron — I’m too embarrassed!”
We headed towards the food court. I tried not to take strides that were too wide so the skirt wouldn't hike up higher than it already was, clutching the feather duster like a broadsword. My head felt light and empty — right up until the moment we drew level with the glass cube of the smoking area.
I froze so suddenly that Ginny nearly flattened herself against my back.
Tom was standing behind the glass. The same Tom Riddle who, back in May, had looked me dead in the eye and shamelessly lied through his teeth, claiming he couldn't stand leaving the country. That travel was tedious and gauche. That he wouldn't dream of flying to Spain with me or going to Ireland for a snog.
Yet here he was. Wearing a bloody black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking for all the world like he owned the entire airport. Next to him, leaning languidly against the wall, stood Abraxas Malfoy. Of course — you can’t have one half of the ‘dumb and dumber’ duo without the other! He was in a light linen blazer, talking quietly while flicking ash into a bin. He looked like a sodding page out of a catalogue!
My mood didn't just sour — it curled up and died. So, it’s “I don’t like leaving the country” when it comes to me, but for Malfoy, you’d go to the literal ends of the earth, wouldn't you, Riddle?
Abraxas noticed me first. His eyebrows shot up towards his platinum hairline, and his cigarette froze halfway to his lips. He slowly reached out, frantically patting Riddle’s shoulder and jerking his chin in my direction.
Riddle turned around.
Those few seconds stretched into an eternity. We stood there staring at each other like two idiots through the glass. Me — in a ridiculous frilly cap with a pink feather duster gripped in my fist. Him — as gorgeous as ever in his bloody effortless charm.
I could feel my knuckles turning white around the handle of the duster. Everything inside me was seething. More than anything, I wanted to march in there and plant my fist in his perfect nose once more. Just to wipe that unreadable expression off his face.
Tom wasn't laughing. He was studying my outfit with a look of surprise — no, more like sheer bewilderment. His gaze flicked slowly down my bare legs, lingered on the frills, and came to a dead halt at the bow tied under my chin. Something strange flared in his eyes, something that sent a shiver down my spine despite the sweltering heat.
“Harry?” Ginny yanked my elbow. “What are you gawping at? Oh...”
She followed my gaze, spotted the Slytherins, and let out a low whistle.
“God, can’t even get a break from the bloody Slytherins outside of Hogwarts,” she muttered, forcibly spinning me around and dragging me towards the café. “Come on!”
I followed her like I was on a leash, feeling Tom’s gaze literally searing through my shoulder blades and the thin fabric of the dress.
“Four iced lattes, please!”
I stood behind her, my insides churning. To Ginny, to Ron, to the rest of Hogwarts, Riddle and I were classic enemies. “Potter and Riddle at it again in the corridor,” “Riddle takes ten points from Gryffindor because of Potter,” “Potter’s cursed Riddle’s quills.”
No one knew that beneath that hatred lay months of emotional whiplash; that his icy fingers could be heart-stoppingly hot when they dug into my thighs; that his voice, usually so clipped and mocking in front of the class, could break into a rasp right against my ear.
We’d spent the whole of seventh year shagging like possessed lunatics, hiding from everyone, and I’d been a total prat to think it actually meant something.
“Harry, oi!” Ginny poked my ribs with a pom-pom. “You dreaming? Grab the cups.”
I automatically took two cups of iced coffee. We headed back to Ron and Hermione. I felt like a complete non-entity in this short dress. It was bad enough looking like a total degenerate, but Tom had to see me like this. Not that I gave a toss about his opinion, but I really hadn't planned on showing my face to him looking like this after I’d broken his nose at graduation.
“Here’s your swill,” I muttered, shoving a cup at Ron when we got back.
Ron was perched on a suitcase, legs crossed in a way that made his blue Sailor Moon skirt hike up, putting his hairy thighs on full display.
“Moon prism power, give me strength, Harry, why are you so twitchy?” Ron took a long pull from his straw. “Seen the prices in Duty Free, have you?”
“We ran into Riddle,” Ginny said shortly, sitting down next to Hermione.
Hermione, who’d been trying to braid her unruly hair, snapped upright. Her Queen of Hearts sceptre clattered to the floor.
“Who? Riddle? Here?”
“Yeah,” I leaned against a cold pillar, trying my best not to look towards the smoking area. “And Malfoy, because heaven forbid he goes anywhere without his retinue.”
“Blimey,” Ron nearly choked on his ice. “That moon prism power, give me strength is here? Moon prism power, give me strength, Harry, you should’ve clocked him again, just for good measure.”
“Ron, shush!” Hermione hissed, looking around. “But that is genuinely odd. I heard him discussing his plans with Slughorn — he said he was spending the whole summer in London.”
“The man’s a silver-tongued liar,” I spat, taking a bitter gulp of coffee. The cold gave me brain-freeze, but the rage inside didn't cool down. “He’s a bullshitter. A classic Slytherin bullshitter.”
“My lovelies, my sweethearts, since when do we give a flying toss about Riddle, Malfoy, or any of those other victims of centuries of inbreeding?” Ginny grumbled thoughtfully.
I adjusted my frilly cap, which had slipped over my eyes. In that moment, I hated everyone: Ginny and her costume ideas, Ron and his “moon prism power,” but most of all — myself. Because even now, knowing that Tom had been lying through his teeth for a whole year, I was still, for fuck’s sake, scanning the crowd for him.
“God, Harry, forget about Hogwarts. You’re done with the house drama,” Ginny said, patting my shoulder. “We’re off to Spain. We’ll drink sangria, go skinny-dipping, and forget all about those snakes. Look at Ron! How can you be miserable with a seven-foot-tall magical girl in a sailor suit right next to you?”
As if on cue, Ron tried to adjust the bow on his backside and managed to smack himself in the face with a long pigtail again.
“Moon prism power, give me strength!” he wailed.
I couldn't help but snort. It was so absurd that for a split second, the weight lifted. But only for a second. Because I felt the air shift. It grew heavier, colder, and thick with the scent of sodding rain.
“Potter.”
The voice came from right behind my ear — low, velvety, and so familiar that my heart gave a traitorous thump. I turned slowly, feeling the lace cap slide over my left eye. Of course. Tom was standing a few feet away, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly’s ‘Special Edition for People with Too Much Ambition and Audacity’.
Ron froze with his mouth open, clutching his latte to his chest, while Hermione, in her leopard-print leggings, looked like she was about to force Riddle into them.
“Do you want to talk in front of them, or shall we step aside?” Tom didn’t even glance at my friends. His eyes — dark and, fuck, so beautiful — were scanning my outfit. They lingered on the short skirt, flicked over the stockings, and returned to my face.
“I don’t want to talk to you at all,” I snapped, trying to sound as firm as possible. It’s hard to sound threatening when you’re in a maid’s outfit holding a pink feather duster, but I was giving it my best shot.
Tom gave a faint, unbothered shrug.
“You broke my nose in May, lionie. And then you just vanished. I’m honestly trying to understand what the hell happened. Everything was perfectly adequate.”
Adequate. He’d always struggled with adjectives when it came to us.
In a split second, a million memories flashed through my mind: kisses in empty classrooms, that date in the tent, the quiet laughter behind the hangings of his bed.
“I don’t like leaving the country,” “I'm not going to be seen snogging in Claddagh,” “I don’t need the extra complications just because I’m like that.” And here he was, with Malfoy, ready to fly with that cockatoo to the ends of the earth and be exactly like this.
I scrambled up, nearly spilling coffee all over my white socks, and grabbed him by the elbow, literally dragging him behind a concrete pillar. Once in the shadows, I stood before him, hands on my hips (which must have looked spectacular in that dress), and glared up at him. The frills on my apron were trembling with my rage.
“What do you want, Riddle?” I tilted my chin up, trying to keep the cap from sliding off entirely.
Tom gave me a long, unreadable look. His gaze travelled slowly over the lace on my chest, drifted down to the extremely short hem, and came to a halt on my hairy knees.
“Potter,” he paused, and that classic Slytherin smirk crept into his voice. “Your current look… is this some new form of self-flagellation? Or have you decided that the role of a servant suits you better than that of an Auror?”
“Piss off, Riddle,” I snapped, crossing my arms and pointedly turning away. “Is that all you have to say? What are you even doing here? Escorting Malfoy to the loo so he doesn't get lost?”
“It’s a business trip, Harry,” Tom said, taking a sharp step forward, invading my personal space. “Abraxas has-”
“Oh, naturally,” I cut him off with a sarcastic snort. “What doesn’t he have, eh?”
“This is childish!”
I suddenly remembered that bathroom on the third floor. Tom’s crumpled blazer, Malfoy with his ‘you need to relax’. The pieces clicked together so easily in my head it made me feel physically sick.
Tom reached out toward my face, clearly intending to fix that sodding frilly cap. I swiped his hand away with a sharp blow.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Lionie, you...” Tom leaned in slightly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “Are you jealous?”
“Final boarding call for flight BA542 to Athens…”
Tom shot a quick glance at the departures board.
“I have to go. But we’re going to have to talk when I get back.”
And what was I supposed to say to that? I wanted to say something that would hurt him as much as it hurt me. Then again, can a heart even ache if it doesn't exist? So, failing to come up with anything worth saying, I simply turned on my heel, chin held as high as the slipping cap would allow, and marched back to my friends. The skirt flapped ridiculously against my thighs, but I didn't give a toss.
I flopped into a seat next to our mountain of luggage, feeling the air-con draught whistling under my short hem. The rage hadn't gone anywhere; it had just settled like a heavy stone in the pit of my stomach.
“Well?” Ginny asked, peering into my face while sipping her coffee. “What did that prat want? Another lecture on the perils of Gryffindor recklessness? Telling us we’re a disgrace to the British public?”
“Said I was being childish,” I muttered, stabbing my straw into the remaining ice. The plastic cup crunched pitifully under my fingers. “And that his jaunt with Malfoy is a ‘business trip’.”
“Moon prism power, give me strength, Harry!” Ron exclaimed, waving his pink wand and nearly poking a passing stewardess. “Why does he think we’d give a flying toss about his moon prism power, give me strength business?”
I pressed my forehead against the cold plastic cup. Ron and Hermione thought Riddle and I were just having our usual spat, the way we’d done for seven years in front of the whole school. Trading insults, snubbing each other, measuring ourselves by house points... It was hard enough to tell them then, but now — it was bloody impossible. It’s bad enough that I’m wallowing in self-pity; I don't need any extra sad looks.
“Your arse would’ve been fine.”
Fuck. A shudder ran through me at the memory.
“Listen,” I said, looking up and straightening the lopsided cap. “To hell with him. And to hell with Athens too. We’re going to Valencia. We’re going to drink sangria, lounge on the beach, and forget that Slytherin even exists.”
“God, finally!” Ginny cheered, raising her latte in a victory toast. “Spain is calling. They say the parties there are so wild you’ll forget about that cap in two hours.”
I gave a crooked grin. I certainly hoped so. Because right now, it felt like I’d never forget how Tom used to act like I was invisible in the corridors, just so he wouldn't have to out himself in front of Malfoy.
“Moon prism power, give me strength, Harry, that’s the spirit!” Ron nodded approvingly, adjusting his golden pigtail-buns.
We’re going to have to talk. Yeah, right. I’ll get right on that, shall I? He can take his dim-witted cockatoo and talk to him if he’s so chatty.
“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione squinted suspiciously, pointing her Queen of Hearts sceptre at me. “You look like you want to strangle someone with that feather duster.”
“Perfectly fine,” I forced the most nonchalant smile I could muster and leaned back. “Just waiting to get the hell out of this airport. I just want to see the sea.”
***
Valencia was so sweltering that the air felt thick and sweet, like syrup. The moment we tumbled out of the plane, I was momentarily blinded — the sun here was absolutely mental, nothing like that pathetic excuse for sunshine we have in London. This wasn't Britain with its eternal grey skies and the damp that “homebody” Riddle supposedly adored. Here, it smelled of salt, sun-baked oranges, and actual, bloody freedom.
“Blimey,” Ron exhaled, wiping his forehead with a hand clad in a thin white glove. His pigtail-buns were wilting under the weight of the Spanish sun. “Harry, look at that! It’s just… moon prism power, give me strength, like moon prism power, give me strength!”
“Look, you really ought to find a new way to swear, mate,” I said, yanking that cursed frilly cap off my head and crushing it in my fist. “Let’s get a move on before we turn into roasted cutlets.”
Our hotel turned out to be a small place with white walls and balconies overflowing with flower pots. We split into pairs: Hermione and Ginny vanished into their room, already plotting their evening, while Ron and I collapsed into ours.
“Shotgun the bed under the air-con!” Ron groaned, tossing his suitcase into a corner. “Harry, I’m going to peg it if I don’t get these moon prism power, give me strength stockings off. How do girls walk in these?”
I peeled off the maid’s dress, feeling my skin finally start to breathe, and face-planted onto the bed.
“Too right, to hell with the costumes, Ron. Maybe if you take them off, you’ll start swearing properly again. That ‘prism’ talk is making me feel a bit peaky.”
An hour later, we were at the beach. The sea was so warm I just stood there in the water, feeling the salt scrub away the London heartache. By evening, we’d migrated to a bar right on the sand. Music, neon lights, and me with a turquoise cocktail decorated with a ridiculous little umbrella — life suddenly didn't seem quite so rubbish.
At one point, a girl sat down next to me — a local with a wild mane of curly hair. We chatted for a bit, and then we started snogging. I tried, I really did. But inside… there was nothing. Zilch. Her lips were soft and smelled of strawberries, but I caught myself thinking, I’m not into this.
God, bloody Riddle, flashed through my mind. Has he actually turned me gay? It was infuriating. It was as if that bastard, even from his perch in Athens, was managing to control who I got a hard-on for.
Around midnight, I trudged over to the queue for the loos. It was stuffy and smelled of expensive cologne. A bloke was standing next to me — tall, with sun-bleached hair and a shirt unbuttoned halfway down.
“Long wait, isn't it?” he smiled, flashing a set of perfect teeth.
“An eternity,” I huffed. “I think people go in there to start new civilisations.”
In the few minutes we spent in line, I managed to find out his name was Javier, he was a local, and he had a charming accent when he spoke English.
Half an hour later, he had me pinned behind the bar, kissing me so hard my knees went a bit wobbly. My body reacted to him instantly. It was nothing like it had been with that girl. It was hot and… good. His hands slid onto my thighs, and I couldn't help but let out a shaky breath into his mouth.
Kissing a guy was a hundred times better, and the realization sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
“I live nearby,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Want to come back to mine? It’s cool there, and I’ve got orange wine.”
For a split second, I remembered Tom’s face, that condescending smirk when he asked “Are you jealous?”, and the way Malfoy looked at him. I told the memory to sod off.
“I do,” I said, pulling out my phone.
I quickly texted Ron: “Don’t wait up. Be back in the morning. All good!”
The reply came back instantly. Ron, evidently, was already three sheets to the wind on sangria: “💃😱🥳 MPON🥳 PRISM PRAWN FOR U 🥳🤩 HARRY!!! 💅”
I chuckled, pocketing my phone, and followed Javier, feeling the night air of Valencia cooling my skin in all the right ways.
The flat greeted us with the blissful chill of tiled floors and the clean scent of fresh laundry. The second the door clicked shut, Javier had me pinned against the wall. His kisses were salty, hungry, and tasted of that turquoise cocktail that was still pleasantly clouding my head.
“Wine? Coffee?” he rasped against my lips, breathing hard. His accent had become thick and syrupy. “I am... I am a little nervous, la verdad[2]. I usually solo follo después de la tercera cita[3] and I am not quite sure cómo comportarme[4].”
He really was nervous, judging by the way he babbled that last bit so fast that even if I spoke Spanish, I wouldn't have caught a word of it. Instead of answering, I grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him toward me, nipping at his neck. Javier’s skin was salty, hot, and smelled of the sun. I felt him shiver under my teeth, his erection pressing quite confidently against my thigh. Right then — I spoke that language fluently.
“Didn't catch a word of that, Javi,” I breathed, trailing kisses further down, undoing his shirt buttons one by one, before kissing him again.
“Corazón…” he exhaled against my mouth. The sound of it, in that low, vibrating voice, made my knees go weak.
Javier smiled — an open, brilliant smile, without a trace of the coldness I’d grown used to in London. He wasn't trying to play a part or control the room; he was just radiant because I was here, with him, and we were about to have a bloody good shag.
We tumbled onto the bed, and the cool sheets felt divine against our heated skin. Javier pulled my shirt off, peppering my collarbones and shoulders with kisses, working his way down to my stomach. His hands were everywhere, and every touch was filled with a frantic, genuine tenderness.
Once we were both completely stripped, Javier suddenly paused, looking down at me. His eyes shimmered in the dim light. He didn’t wait for me to make a move. Instead, he slowly sank to his knees between my thighs.
“Wait…” I let out a sharp breath, but the moment I felt his hot breath near my cock, I changed my mind — I didn't want him to stop at all.
Javier just gave me that disarming smile again and wrapped his hand around me, slowly running his thumb over the head. Then, he leaned down and took me into his mouth.
“Oh, fuck…” I arched my back, pressing the back of my head into the pillow.
It was incredible. Javier used his tongue with a mix of confidence and softness, taking me deep, all the way to the base, without ever breaking eye contact. His blonde hair tickled my thighs, and I felt like everything inside me was melting. It was so… emotional. He wasn't just getting me off; he seemed to be relishing the process, every breath I took, every quiet moan I couldn't hold back.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, guiding his rhythm, and Javier responded, picking up the pace. His lips, his tongue, the hot slick of it — it all dissolved into one continuous wave of pleasure.
“Javi, get up…” I rasped, feeling that if he stayed where he was for another second, I’d simply explode right there in his mouth.
Javier obediently scrambled onto the bed and immediately lay on his front, burying his face in the pillow. I watched the muscles in his shoulders tighten. In the dim light, his back looked as if it were cast from dark gold, a faint tremor rippling across it every now and then.
I reached for the tube of lube on the bedside table. My fingers were shaking with anticipation.
“You need to relax,” I whispered, leaning down. “Do this for me, alright?”
I began to cover his shoulder blades with short, weightless kisses, trailing down his spine. His skin tasted of sea salt and a scorching summer. Beneath my lips, I felt him begin to soften, the tension he’d mentioned slowly ebbing away.
As I began to slide inside him, Javier let out a sharp, ragged breath, his fingers clutching the sheets. It was incredibly hot and tight; he squeezed me so hard it stole the breath from my lungs.
“Try to relax a little,” I murmured, covering his back with my own.
I held still, giving him time to adjust, and began kissing his shoulder, licking away a bead of sweat. I could feel his heart thumping against the mattress — rapid and frantic, like a trapped bird. To distract him from the ache, I peppered his neck with kisses, nipped at his earlobe, and whispered incoherent nonsense about how beautiful he was.
Eventually, Javier let go. He made a low, vibrating sound, and his hips rocked back against mine of their own accord, inviting me in.
I started to move. Slowly, cautiously, making sure not to break that skin-to-skin contact. Every thrust was accompanied by a kiss to his back or a gentle nip at his shoulder. It was so strange — Javier didn’t try to dominate, he didn't build a wall of sarcasm. He was just there, completely mine, open and wonderfully tender.
“Mare de Déu… así…” he rasped as I picked up the pace.
His shoulder blades moved beneath my chest, and I felt every fleeting movement. Once I found my rhythm, Javier let out a slightly louder moan before burying his face in the pillow again, as if suddenly shy.
I caught his hands, interlacing my fingers with his, and pinned them to the bed. Now we were bound even tighter. I drove into him, no longer holding back, feeling how everything inside him pulsed, urging me toward the finish. Javier threw his head back, gasping for air, his voice breaking on a high, trembling note.
“Corazón!”
I came hard, until my vision went dark, feeling Javier shudder beneath me in a responsive flash. We lay there for a long time in total silence, broken only by our ragged breathing and the hum of the air-con. I kept kissing his damp shoulder, feeling a stupid, drunken lightness.
For one night, bloody Riddle didn't exist. There was only Javier, the cool sheets, and the lazy breeze from Malvarrosa blowing in through the window.
I didn't pull away immediately. I just slowly slid out, feeling a heavy, lazy languor spreading through my limbs, and flopped onto my side next to him. Javier turned toward me at once. He was breathing heavily, his eyes shimmering in the dim light, and he was smiling — not that polite, scheduled smile Tom produced like clockwork, but something entirely sleepy and soft.
He pulled me closer, and we kissed again — a lazy, lingering sort of kiss, our lips, noses, and cheeks brushing against one another. Javier stroked the back of my head, running his fingers through my hair and whispering that corazón of his right into my mouth. I didn't know the literal meaning, but I felt it against my skin it was something incredibly warm.
We kept kissing for a long while, until my eyelids turned to lead and our movements slowed to a crawl. At some point Javier, already halfway gone into sleep, rolled onto his other side to get comfortable, tucking his knees up. I moved in behind him instantly, pressing myself against his shoulder blades. We fit together perfectly.
I draped an arm over his ribs, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my palm. Javier covered my hand with his own, interlacing our fingers and giving them a little squeeze, anchoring us both in the moment. The air-con hummed steadily in the room, and I tucked my nose against the back of his neck, never even noticing the exact second I finally drifted off.
***
The sun in Valencia doesn't do 'delicate' — it simply bursts through the windows, enough to rouse the dead. I woke to the scent of coffee and a rustle coming from the kitchen. My body felt heavy and relaxed, and my mind was a blissful void. No bloody Riddle-induced heartburn, no poisonous whispering at the back of my neck.
I yanked on my shorts and padded out into the hallway. Javier, barefoot and dishevelled, was busy at the hob. In the daylight, he looked even more attractive — golden skin, a strong back, legs that seemed to go on forever, and that sleepy smile of his when he turned at the sound of my footsteps.
“Bon dia, Harry,” he said, setting two mug on the table. “I hope you take it black?”
Actually, I’m more of a black tea man, but he was smiling so brilliantly that I sat on a high stool, cupped the mug in my hands, and assured him that I adored black coffee. My gaze wandered lazily over the kitchen shelves until it snagged on a narrow, dark object tossed carelessly next to some keys and a pack of fags. A wand. Unmistakably magical, with a distinct curve near the handle.
“Javi,” I nodded toward the shelf, “are you a wizard?”
Javier froze. For a second, a ringing silence hung in the kitchen. He suddenly let out a nervous chuckle, stepped quickly to the shelf, and practically swept the wand into a drawer, slamming it shut with a loud thud.
“What? What magia?” He looked at me as if I’d just suggested he eat a raw seagull. “Arry, what are you on about? That… that is just a chopstick. No, it is a souvenir. Mare de Déu, my first one-night stand and it’s with a madman. Tu m’espantes[5].”
He started fussing about, rearranging the cups and doing his best to avoid my eyes. He looked so genuinely terrified of being outed to a Muggle that I nearly burst out laughing. It was actually quite sweet, in a way.
“Javi, relax,” I said, sliding my hand into my pocket. I felt the cool wood and slowly laid my wand out on the kitchen table, right next to his coffee.
Javier went rigid. He stared at my wand as if it were a loaded revolver. The silence thickened. He flicked his gaze to me, then back to the table, and all his feigned nervousness suddenly deflated like a punctured football.
“Oh…” He let out a heavy breath and covered his eyes with his palm. “Ostres[6]. Harry. Are you serious? ¿Tú también?[7]”
“Hogwarts, just finished,” I smirked. “So you can stop hiding your ‘chopstick’ now.”
Javier pulled his wand back out of the drawer and laid it gently beside mine. They looked strange on that ordinary Spanish kitchen table, amongst the toast crumbs and the scent of Arabica.
“Mare de Déu, I almost had a heart attack,” he admitted, sitting down opposite me. His accent became even more melodic with relief. “Es que[8]… I really nunca… nunca llevaba[9] someone back like that right away. Especially not one of our món. I thought you were a Muggle, and I would have to spend the whole día pretending to be normal. Ostres!”
We burst out laughing at the same time, and suddenly everything felt simpler, as if an invisible wall between me and the world had just dissolved into thin air. We chatted about the Spanish Ministry, the wizarding school in Madrid, and how bloody difficult it is to keep sparks from flying out of your fingertips when you’re drunk and happy. With Javier, it was easy — none of that heavy, multilayered tension like with Riddle, where every single word was a tripwire. Just two blokes, having a proper good time together.
When it came time to leave, Javier lingered by the door, fiddling with his phone.
“Listen, Harry…” He looked at me, and there was genuine curiosity in his eyes. “Si et escric[10]… will you answer me?”
I looked at him, at the sun-drenched Valencia behind his shoulder, and at my own hands — they weren't shaking anymore, and I didn't feel that frantic urge to wring my fingers.
“I’ll likely text you first, Javi,” I said, and I surprised myself with how confident — how honest — it sounded.
Javier beamed. I gave him a quick kiss, tasting coffee and morning sun, and stepped out the door.
I walked down the street, practically skipping with the sheer rush of it all. In my pocket, I had the number of a gorgeous wizard; in my head, a plan for the evening; and in my soul — absolute calm.
Fifteen minutes later, I sauntered into our room. It was thick with the smell of fried bacon. Ron, dressed only in his boxers and still sporting those golden pigtail-buns — which, remarkably, hadn't shifted an inch overnight — was sitting on the bed, chewing with intense concentration.
I flopped onto my bed, the springs letting out a happy squeak under my weight. I felt so light that even Ron’s loud chewing sounded like a divine symphony.
“Well?” Ron wiped his greasy fingers on the sheet (Hermione would have murdered him) and leaned forward. “Who is she? A local? The waitress from the bar? Spanish girls are fire, aren’t they? What’s her name? Maria? Elena?”
I stared at the ceiling, feeling a daft grin spreading across my face of its own accord.
“Javi,” I breathed.
Ron froze. The piece of bacon he’d been about to shove into his mouth flopped forlornly back onto the plate.
“Eh?” Ron blinked. One of his golden buns gave a comical little twitch. “Javi? Is that like… Javina? Javiella?”
“Javier, Ron,” I turned my head to look at him. “And he’s… well, he’s a bloke.”
The silence in the room became so thick you could have cut it with a butter knife. Ron slowly set down his fork. His eyes went as wide as Snitches, and his jaw began a slow, steady descent toward the floor.
“What do you mean, a bloke?” he whispered, before his voice cracked and hit a frequency that was practically ultrasonic. “Harry! You’re… you’re with Ginny! You’ve done the business with Ginny, Harry. We were… bloody hell, Potter! Are you telling me that while I was here choking on cold bacon, you were… with a man?”
“Well, yeah,” I felt my ears starting to burn. “And he’s a wizard, actually. We had coffee this morning, so I’m not hungry, thanks for offering,” I huffed, glancing at his empty plate. “He’s great, Ron. Really. Sweet and handsome, and funny, and he kisses… well, he’s a very good kisser.”
“Fuck me…” Ron clutched his head, nearly knocking his buns off. “So all those seven years in Gryffindor… What about Seamus? Or Dean? Harry, I’m in shock! I’m in total, bloody shock! Tell me everything! How does it even… you know, technically? Is his wand bigger than yours?”
I’d already opened my mouth to explain in general terms (very general!) that wands had absolutely nothing to do with it, when the door to the room burst open with a crash as if someone had hit it with a Bombarda.
“Boys, what are you shouting about for the whole floor to hear?” Hermione flew into the room, tying her impossible hair into a high ponytail as she went. Ginny followed right behind her, already in her swimsuit with a towel slung over her shoulder.
“Hermione! Ginny!” Ron exclaimed, leaping up from the table in nothing but his boxers and pointing a pathetic, dramatic finger at me. “You won’t believe it! Harry… he’s… he’s defected to your camp!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ginny narrowed her eyes, her gaze landing right on my love-bite. “Found someone, did you?”
“Javier!” Ron shouted, beaming as if he’d won the bloody lottery. “His name’s Javier! He’s Spanish, he’s a wizard, and he spent the whole night… well, you know! Harry’s into blokes now! Moon Prism Power gave him such strength that he switched teams over a single cocktail!”
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow, feeling myself turn a shade of red that matched the Weasleys’ hair perfectly.
“O-o-oh,” Hermione hummed, and there wasn't a hint of surprise in her voice, only scholarly interest. “Javier, is it? Harry, that’s wonderful! New horizons, self-discovery…”
“Right, hang on,” Ginny sat down unceremoniously on my legs. “Spill. Is he the active one? Or you? Ron says he’s a wizard — what’s his wand like? Olive? Oak? Unicorn hair?”
“Ginny, shut up!” I groaned into the pillow.
“No, but really!” Ron was already waving his arms about, pacing the room. “Imagine it — Harry and a hot Spaniard! It’s the perfect headline for the Prophet! ‘The-Boy-Who-Caught-The-Snitch-And-The-Spaniard’. Hermione, d'you reckon they use magic in bed?”
“Ron, that’s vulgar, but theoretically possible…” Hermione pulled out a pencil and smoothed a paper napkin across the table. “There are certain charms for sensory stimulation…”
I pressed the pillow tighter against my ears, shielding my face with my hands. There they were, sitting on my bed, discussing my private life in a three-part harmony — from the length of Javier’s wand to the exact shade of my blush.
“I hate you all,” I muffled into the mattress.
❧ —————— ❦ —————— ❧
notes
[1] Lumia — fictional Insta, don't ask lol. ↩
[2] La verdad — “To be honest” or “Truth be told”. ↩
[3] Solo follo después de la tercera cita — Spanish: “I only shag after the third date”. ↩
[4] Cómo comportarme — Spanish: “How to behave”. ↩
[5] Tu m’espantes — Valencian: you’re scaring me. ↩
[6] Ostres — Untranslatable Valencian profanity; the closest British equivalent would be "fuck" or "bloody hell." ↩
[7] ¿Tú también? — Spanish: “You too?” ↩
[8] Es que — Spanish: "it's just that". ↩
[9] Nunca… nunca llevaba — Spanish: "never… never brought". ↩