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"Well," says Harry, once the Floo's green flames settle back into an orange-yellow. He means for it to sound like a prelude to saying goodnight and making use of the Floo himself, but it comes out almost like a question.
"Oh Merlin," says Ginny. "You're not about to start in, are you?"
"Start in on what?" asks Malfoy, because of course Malfoy's here. Of course he's borne witness to this, the coming-out chat with Harry's middle child — because Albus's big reveal wasn't just I'm gay but was, additionally, and I'm in love with Scorpius Malfoy.
"So you don't have any — any thoughts?" Harry says, steadfastly ignoring Malfoy's scowl. "Ginny? I mean, this is the third time we've done this."
"Harry," says Ginny, "honestly, he was probably the least surprising one out of all of them. Albus? The only thing that's taken me aback about it is that it took him this long to work it out. I've known he's mad for Scorpius since they were little boys. I just didn't think he'd be all of twenty-two before he realised it himself." Ginny picks up her purse. "Thank you for dinner, Draco," she says, going up on her toes so she can offer a polite cheek kiss to Malfoy. "I'll owl you about having you round next time, Pans was sorry she couldn't be here tonight."
"Goodnight," Malfoy says, with that warm smile he always seems to have for everyone but Harry these days. Harry didn't even know Draco Malfoy had dimples, back in their schooldays. "Give Pansy my love."
And with a loving punch to Harry's biceps — you're such a muppet, we'll talk more later — and a whirl of long red hair, Ginny goes through the Floo as well. Which means it's definitely time for Harry to make his excuses. He can't even remember the last time he was alone with Malfoy. He's sure the man can't wait to be rid of him.
But: "Nightcap?"
"Oh. Erm. Yes." Because Harry really does abruptly feel the need for a stiff drink, and he knows Malfoy stocks the good stuff.
Malfoy pours two healthy glasses of firewhisky and passes one, gently smoking, to Harry. "To our sons' mutual happiness," he says, but in such a wry voice that Harry knows his heart's not quite in it.
Harry raises his glass to echo the sentiment, then takes a sip to brace himself before finding a seat at one end of the dark green velvet sofa that faces the hearth. It's the same spot where Albus sat only moments earlier while he and Scorpius took turns disclosing their news, the two of them clasping hands and exchanging one loaded glance after another.
Malfoy, to Harry's mild surprise, sits at the other end of the sofa rather than resuming his place in the winged armchair nearer the fire.
"You didn't suspect," Malfoy says, gone suddenly much more drawling and posh than he was when Ginny and the boys were in the room with them. "Really?"
"Of course I did," Harry says, helplessly. He and Ginny used to joke about it back when Albus and Scorpius first met, back before he and Ginny split up. "No, I — you know I'm not bothered, don't you? You must know it. I mean — for Merlin's sake, Scorpius came out to me before he did to y— well."
"Yes, indeed." The words are touched with bitterness.
"And with James, and Lily," says Harry, "I've had years to get accustomed to — well. James has been a great one for broadening the mind as a parent, him and his… well. But you know I love them just as they are." He doesn't want to get into it right now, but Harry's mind helplessly flashes first to James' current complex polycule, and then Lily's staunch declaration about being ace and aro when she was only thirteen. "And there's Ginny, too," Harry says, trying to move himself along this line of thought. "She told me she was bi before we were even married, did you know that?"
"So it's the Malfoy of it all." He huffs a little humourless laugh, looking away from Harry, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "That's what has you looking like the sky has fallen."
"No," says Harry, taken aback. "No. It's not that, no."
Malfoy must hear the sincerity in his voice because he looks over at Harry with surprise. "So," he says, awkwardly. "I'm not sure I understand — what is it, then?"
"Three for three," Harry says. "All three of my kids. Just seems — well, and then there's Ginny. That's — sort of — everyone."
Malfoy's mouth starts to curl, not enough to bring out the dimples. It's on the edge of meanness, really. "Feeling left out, Potter?" he says. "The only straight one in the family?"
"Ha," says Harry, trying for sarcasm but winding up sounding a little forlorn.
"Ever wonder if it's hereditary?" Malfoy says, throwing back the last of his drink and going over to the bar for more. "I do. Seems like it might be, with me and Scorpius, and Ginny and your kids."
This, in fact, runs so close to Harry's thoughts that he laughs in spite of himself. "You asking me if I'm queer, Malfoy?
Malfoy makes an amused little sound and comes over to top up Harry's glass next, the dimples now playing in and out of his cheeks. "This is a safe space, Potter, if you have any big disclosures to make tonight." The lip of his pretentious crystal carafe clinks against Harry's pretentious crystal tumbler, and it takes Harry a moment to realise it's because his hand jumped, and not because Malfoy is being uncharacteristically clumsy. Harry looks up to see if Malfoy noticed, and is immediately pinned by his steady grey gaze.
"Oh," says Malfoy, the smile slipping away. "Harry."
"I would have known if I were," Harry says, forcing a short laugh. "Right? You know these sorts of things, by our age. You're — sure. You don't just, sort of. Wonder."
Malfoy straightens up slowly, moves slowly as he puts the carafe back on the bar cart. Turns around and holds his glass between his fingertips of both hands, staring at Harry with an unreadable expression. The firelight plays at his sharp jawline, obscures his dramatic hairline. "Are you," says Malfoy. "Wondering?"
Harry, staring over at Draco — outlined in orange from the firelight, voice deep and formal — finds himself wondering rather strenuously. "Of course not," he says. "Well, I should probably. Erm." He throws back his second glass of whisky and exhales a gout of steam as he sets it down on a handy end table. He stands.
"Harry," says Malfoy. "You're allowed not to be sure."
And it sounds so kind, is the thing. Harry exhales shakily, averting his eyes, embarrassed. Overcome. God. He's too old for this conversation. Isn't he? He's nearly fifty. "Yes, very funny," says Harry, forcing the words out. "I should be —" He clears his throat. "Thanks for the drinks."
The next morning Harry wakes with a hangover, because two glasses of whisky and a couple glasses of wine with dinner are apparently too much when you're this middle-aged. He stares at the blurry ceiling above his bed, wishing he'd drunk more last night. If he had been properly sloshed, he might feel less horrified now about his little fireside chat with Draco Malfoy. As it is, he remembers it in perfect detail. Every instant is freshly humiliating.
Harry drags himself into the shower, then dresses in his Ministry robes. He pauses, sits at his little desk in the bedroom that was once his and Ginny's.
Albus, Harry writes, because he knows how to do this much. He knows how to be a good dad. Just wanted to say I love you and I'm proud of you. I'm very happy for you and Scorpius. Have a good day! - Love, Dad
Harry sends the letter off through the Floo before going down to fix himself a breakfast of tea and toast. He's nearly out the door on his way to work when the kitchen Floo coughs out a fluttering note — not a reply, but a letter from James.
He finally told you! Can't believe it took him this long. Three for three, Dad. What on earth did you put in our porridge when we were little? Wait, don't answer that. - J
James was actually a bit of a surprise, Harry remembers — sixteen and shamelessly popular with the girls in his house, then a letter from Minerva detailing how James was caught out with a seventh-year boy in his dorm. Turns out he really is the Head Boy, James crowed, unabashed, when Harry tried to tell him off. And that's always been James: unapologetically himself. If he ever struggled with his pansexual and polyamorous identity, he's never shown a sign of it.
Lily was the same, so certain of herself even in the early days when Harry and Ginny both gently suggested it was alright with them if she felt differently in time, if she discovered she just hadn't met the right person yet. But Lily has never wavered. She's gloriously happy in her life packed with friends and work and Quidditch and animals.
In a way, Harry admits as he goes out the door, they knew about Albus earliest of all, even if he's turned out to be the last to tell them. Ginny was the first of them to say it, the two of them lying on their sides to face each other late at night, two lumps of children slumbering between them, a third in their cot nearby. Do you ever think Albus might take after me, she said, grinning so Harry knew what she meant.
God, I hope so, Harry whispered back, because he loved her desperately. He couldn't think of anything better than for their children to be like her, even if Albus was his spitting image.
But that was back before they split up, before James and Lily came out, before Ginny found her new delirious happiness with Pansy Parkinson. And it's not that Harry begrudges Albus a single bit of his right to be himself, to tell the world, to love Scorpius with all his might. It's just that — well. Harry feels like everyone is always so certain of themselves. Ginny and his children all know themselves so fully.
It's very uncomfortable, Harry admits privately as he opens the top file in his in-tray, to admit that your children are more at home with themselves that you are with yourself.
Harry stares down at a grisly crime photo, sighing. Who has time to work this stuff out when there are Dark arseholes like these that need catching?
The kids and their various partners descend on him unannounced for dinner, which Harry throws together in a daze: spag bol, salad, and garlic bread. The clatter of cookware doesn't quite overwhelm the barrage of teasing from James — my darling brother, bravely daring to ask the question: is it possible to be even more obsessed with one person than I've been for the last ten years?
Albus and Scorpius hold hands, blushing and smiling sidelong at each other.
"James," says Harry, "that's probably enough, yeah? Piss taken."
"Daddy says stop picking on ickle Albus," James says, high-pitched, but he slings an arm around his brother's neck, kisses his ear with a loud smack.
Side by side like this, there couldn't be a bigger study in contrast between the two boys: Albus with Harry's black hair and green eyes, wearing a plain jumper and jeans, and James with his auburn waves shorn into a shaggy mullet, piercings everywhere, magical tattoos winking on his forearms, wearing a torn old Harpies t-shirt and one of the long skirt-dress things that straddle the border between wizarding robes and whatever the Muggle kids are up to these days.
But Albus and James's smiles are perfect mirrors for a brief moment as they pull apart.
Harry's heart gives a glad little squeeze at the sight.
After dinner, Albus offers to help with the washing up.
"Dad time," says Lily knowingly, shepherding James, Scorpius, and Tertius (who is — Harry thinks — James's girlfriend's boyfriend's…something? Harry doesn't know, he just feeds them when they show up, and they seem perfectly lovely) up the stairs.
"So," says Albus, when they're companionably working in front of the sink. "Three for three."
"Yeah," says Harry, smiling, elbowing Albus playfully. "Hat trick."
Albus sketches a silly little bow, soapy hands and all, grinning to himself. He rinses a pan and hands it to Harry. "And, er. Things are okay with you and Scorp's dad?"
"What," says Harry, startled. "Did he — say something?" For an instant, Harry's brain is frozen between long-dormant notions of Malfoy's character — sneaky, underhanded, mean-spirited — and years of more recent affirmations of who Draco is now — steady, patient, calm, kind.
Still a bit of a toff.
But not the old Malfoy of school days.
"No," Albus hastens to say, "no, no, you just — the pair of you. Seemed tense, at the end. Last night."
"Did we," Harry says confusedly, almost dropping a knife as he runs a dishtowel over it. "I don't think so."
"Scorp thinks—" Albus stops himself. "I know family is important to both of you."
"You're important to us," Harry corrects instantly. "To me."
"And you're important to us," Albus says. "Dad."
Harry dries his hands. He backs away from the sink, frowning as he tries to decode what Albus is saying.
"I'm just saying," Albus says, yanking the plug out of the drain, taking the towel off Harry so he can dry his own hands. "We're okay with things being… complicated. Scorp and I."
"Er," says Harry. "So, are you not, er. Monogamous?" He's surprised — it was not the vibe of last night's whole we're in love conversation — but if nothing else, James has prepared him for this moment.
"Oh my god," says Albus, eyes wide. "Dad."
"I don't need to know!" Harry says, holding his palms up. "I thought you were trying to tell me something along those lines, though!"
"I meant," Albus said, gritted teeth, pained, "if you and Scorp's dad were… you know. We'd be okay with it. You don't have to hide it from us."
Harry gapes.
Albus seems to realise he's got the wrong end of the stick in a rush, going red in the cheeks. He turns around hastily to hang up the towel, shoulders hunched. "This never happened," he declares. "We never had this conversation. Fuck. Scorpius was so sure, why do I ever listen to him, bloody hell."
"I'm not even—" gay, Harry means to say. Or bi, maybe. But he stops. Hears himself say: "…I'm not even sure he can stand me. Malfoy. I mean, Draco."
"Ha," says Albus, like Harry's joking, then readjusts his expression as he reads Harry's face. "Dad. Really?"
"What," says Harry, flummoxed.
"Oh Merlin," says Albus. "And James thinks I'm thick."
Harry scoffs, though he's not even sure what he's reacting to at this point. "Malfoy's not," he says. "I'm not… sorry, what?"
"Right," says Albus, pushing off the kitchen bench, dragging a hand through his hair so it stands even more on end than usual. "This was a mistake, and a horror. I have to go murder my boyfriend now. Thanks for dinner, Dad. Love you."
Harry is so frozen that he barely responds when Albus squeezes an arm around his shoulders, doesn't even manage a bye as Albus all but runs for the stairs.
You don't have to hide it from us.
Scorpius was so sure.
James thinks I'm thick.
Then, in a flash: Draco in the flickering firelight, the cut of his jaw and the small play of dimples in his cheeks. Are you? Wondering?
It's not as though Harry has time for a personal crisis, being the head of MLE, being Harry Potter professionally, being a dad of three busy young adults. He's long been excellent at compartmentalisation, so he does that: he puts all those thoughts and feelings aside. Nose to the grindstone.
There's a big conference for the International Confederation of Wixen coming up in Brussels. Harry's got three separate employees jockeying for the honour of accompanying him on the trip as part of the British MLE delegation. They're all so keen. They've all got so much energy and enthusiasm. Harry sometimes feels tired just listening to them. He can't quite remember being that young, brimming with ambition.
"You sound one million years old when you say that," Ron advises. It's a fair comment coming from a forty-eight year old man wearing a bow-tie that spins whenever someone nearby tries a stealthy fart.
"I feel one million years old," Harry groans, slumping over the counter at Wheezes. "Would it be wrong just to send all of them so I can stay home?"
"Try this," says Ron, handing Harry a brightly-coloured sweet.
"Absolutely not." Harry hands it right back.
"It's not anything embarrassing," Ron insists. George, passing by, winks at Harry and then does something that makes Ron's bow-tie whirl. "George," Ron complains, though it's not clear which gesture he's objecting to. "No, Harry, it's not — it's just a Clarity Eclair. Helps make a path clear when you're mulling over a big decision."
Harry takes the sweet back again, frowning with suspicion. The curly writing on the wrapper supports Ron's claim. "Has this been tested?"
"Mate, we've been selling them by the dozens for a year. Promise." Ron looks very earnest, the freckles standing out on his long nose. "Perfectly safe."
"If you're lying to me, I'm telling Hermione," Harry says, and unwraps the sweet. He pops it into his mouth. It tastes of mild mint until the outer layer cracks on his tongue, and then it tastes of chocolate, rich and dark.
"Well?" Ron says, leaning in keenly. "Who's going to Brussels?"
Harry crunches thoughtfully, waiting for his moment of Wheeze-induced clarity. He ponders the three young MLE employees again, but none of them stands out to him any more than they did a moment earlier. "No idea. Don't think this works on me," he says.
"Bloody hard-headed Harry," says Ron, dismayed. "They should be studying your brain in Mysteries. It's like if an Impervius charm fucked a Protego."
Harry reaches into a bowl displaying more of the sweets and takes a handful. "I like the flavour, anyway," he tells Ron, smiling. "Thanks."
The ICW biennial conference is a known fuckfest, or so Harry's been told. He's never had so much as a whiff of it, at least beyond the occasional drunken come-on.
It's the Chosen One thing, Hermione told him once, when they were both three cocktails in, several conferences ago. There's a sort of…holy monastic aura around you.
Harry hotly denied as much, which led to him revealing that he'd parlayed his Chosenness into a handie under the Quidditch stands from Lisa Turpin in 1996. Unfazed, Hermione retorted that his whole dying-for-our-sins act in 1998 was the true final nail in Harry's unfuckable coffin.
It's possible he's still hacked off about this exchange, because he's running out of patience now as Hermione adjusts her cleavage for the tenth time in her Brussels hotel room.
"The drinks thing started almost an hour ago," he reminds her, checking his watch. She told him to come to her room on his way down to the event.
"Nobody important as us shows up on time, obviously," she answers, frowning and jiggling, casting a support charm, jiggling again.
"Who's that even for?" Harry says, trying not to look. Hermione's bosom lost any lingering sex appeal for him sometime around Hugo's birth, thankfully. "Ron's seen them, hasn't he. And he's not even going to pay attention to you, he's fixated on landing that distribution contract with Zonko's Italy. He'll be deep in negotiations by the time we get down there."
"Harry," says Hermione, "please don't ask me to explain my whole plan for tonight to you. I need you to maintain some plausible deniability in case you're ever deposed."
"Hilarious," says Harry, but he goes over and helps her do up the clasp on her necklace.
"Yes, I'm definitely only joking," Hermione says, arching an eyebrow. "Fine, let's go down if you're so desperate to start networking."
"I'm desperate to get down there so I can put in a solid hour and fuck off back to my hotel room to watch Belgian telly and drink Belgian beer out of the minibar," Harry says, grumpier by the minute.
"Why do men like wanking in hotel rooms so much, anyway," Hermione asks, rolling her eyes. "You can wank at home anytime you like." But she picks up her little handbag and leads the way out of the hotel room at last.
Harry huffs in relief and doesn't bother responding to her rhetorical question. She's not wrong. Hermione rarely is.
The ballroom is crowded, noisy with the sound of dozens of languages and the crackly static of competing translation charms. Nobody is dancing yet, too busy pressing hands and attempting to be seen talking to important people. Harry himself takes about fifteen minutes just to get to one of the bars because he's stopped every other step by another delegate who's just so delighted to see him again.
Hermione abandons him almost immediately, presumably to execute whatever terrifying bosom-related plan she has for tonight.
Harry considers his drink options as he queues at the bar. He's in Belgium, and his heart longs for a proper Belgian ale; but he's also forty-eight and therefore prone to bloating and wind. He sighs and asks for a firewhisky when it's his turn.
"Cheers, Potter," says someone at his elbow, and Harry turns to see Draco Malfoy raising his glass in Harry's direction, a cool little smile — no dimples — on his face.
"Malfoy," Harry says, surprised. He shouldn't be — Malfoy's inherited his family's seat on the British Wizengamot, and Harry's bumped into him at the ICW conference in prior years. Usually they have a stilted little chat about their kids and then gratefully part ways.
But now — Harry clears his throat and then knocks back half his whisky to brace himself. Well, now, they're in-laws of a sort.
"Get in today?" Harry asks.
"Yesterday," says Malfoy, who probably took even longer to get himself ready than Hermione with all her tit adjustments. He looks it, anyway: expensive and sleek and unfairly at ease in his sharp dress robes. "There was a strategy session for — ah, it's boring. I'm bored, honestly. Would you like to get a breath of fresh air with me?" And here Malfoy raises his free hand to his lips, two fingers, making it clear that he's suggesting a smoke break.
"Yes," says Harry, who hasn't smoked anything other than the occasional spliff, who gave up fags when James was born.
"Come on," says Malfoy, ticking his head to one side.
Harry follows, his heart kicking up a stupid giddy beat. This isn't anything. This isn't anything. Merlin. What is he doing?
What he's doing, it seems, is following Draco Malfoy's tall blond head through the sea of chattering delegates, only pausing long enough to nod and gesture like he's on some secret Ministerial mission when anyone tries to waylay him. It doesn't seem possible that Malfoy has only one day's lead on learning the conference hotel's layout, he moves with such assurance. Maybe it's something they teach in posh pure-blood homeschooling: how to cut through a crowd like the sharp blade of a knife using only self-possession to guide you.
"Here, I think," says Malfoy, and puts his hand on Harry's elbow as he makes a quick left down a corridor and to a service door. "Yes," he says, exhaling, shouldering open the door and leading them out onto a square concrete step littered with fag ends. "This will do nicely." He pulls a packet out of some hidden Undetectable pocket and taps a cigarette into his palm, offers it to Harry.
Harry takes it, tucking his glass into his armpit so he can get out his wand and light up.
"Thanks," says Malfoy, assuming rather than asking — more Posh Arsehole 101 — as he leans in for Harry to light his, too. "Fuck," he exhales on a gout of smoke. "I hate these things."
"Me too, so stuffy," Harry says, hoping smoking is like riding a broom as he takes a tentative puff. The smoke is sharp but blissfully familiar, and the head-rush hits him like a friendly wallop at the base of his skull.
"I meant the fags," Malfoy laughs, gesturing. "But yes, the International Council of Wankers drinks do is also ghastly."
"Ghastly," Harry echoes in Malfoy's drawl, snorting. "Prat." He takes a sip of his drink. Between the whisky and the nicotine, Harry's pleasantly light-headed already. He didn't eat dinner, he remembers, too late.
"Don't tell Scorpius," Malfoy directs him, tapping the ash from his cigarette with a drape of one elegant wrist. "I told him I quit. When he was ten."
"I'm not a nark," Harry says, which is probably a weird thing for him to say as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement for the United Kingdom.
But Malfoy just laughs softly, his dimples making a brief appearance. "Well, I think I owe you a bit of an apology, Potter," he says, without any preamble.
Harry's face goes hot all at once. Merlin. Malfoy's not actually about to rehash any truly old business, is he? They aren't about to have a horrible heartfelt chat about the Room of Requirement or Moaning Myrtle's toilet, are they? "I don't think," Harry begins hurriedly, hoping it's not too late to cut this short.
"Just let me say it," Malfoy says, insistent. "I think I rather got the wrong end of the wand, a few weeks back. The night Scorpius and Albus — that night."
"Ah," says Harry. His relief is short-lived. He takes a healthy drag off his cigarette, and Malfoy seems to take the cue to do the same. Malfoy, in fact, looks about as nervy as Harry's seen him in years: pale, sharp-edged, jittery.
"Right," says Malfoy, apparently having gathered his courage again. "I don't want to blame anyone else, but I'm afraid Scorpius filled my head with some utter nonsense a while back, and even though I knew it was nonsense, I — I got carried away with it, a bit. I think."
"What?" says Harry, thoroughly confused now.
Malfoy's been avoiding Harry's gaze during his little monologue, but abruptly he looks directly at him: grey eyes, steady and wide. Malfoy's eyebrows and lashes have got darker with age. He's got smile lines. Worry lines, too. God, when did they all age?
"I only want to say that I didn't intend to make you uncomfortable. I certainly don't have any — designs. On you. That way."
"What," says Harry again, more softly. He steadies himself, takes a deep nicotine-free breath. "Do you mean — what did Scorpius say, exactly?"
"Nothing sensible," says Malfoy, dismissing the idea with a wave of his head, smoke trailing. "I made the mistake —" He stops himself. "You know, Scorpius has been in love with Albus for years."
"I know," Harry says, not sure why they keep talking about their sons when it seems like there's something entirely different actually being said, here. "Everyone knew. Well, everyone but Albus, I guess."
"And as his father," Malfoy says, grinding his fag end out on a handy railing, "I provided many years of consolation, you know. Lots of he might yet come around and plenty of fish in the sea and time heals all wounds. That sort of thing."
Harry nods, hoping Malfoy will get to his point now.
"And I might have told him," Malfoy says, steadily looking out into the night, "once or twice…that I knew what it was like, having a bit of a pash for a — a straight boy." He nods once, and then looks back at Harry. "For a Potter, come to that."
"Oh," is all Harry can muster.
"I mean, when we were schoolboys ourselves, of course," Malfoy says, getting out another cigarette, busy fingers, breezy tone. "I think Scorpius just got the notion that — that maybe if Albus wasn't actually straight after all...that, well…perhaps, you also…" He clears his throat, shakes his head. "Obviously, I shouldn't have given it a second thought. I didn't mean to embarrass you. So I just wanted to. To apologise. Would you like another?"
"What the fuck," says Harry, gobsmacked. He's still got most of his fag unsmoked, for one thing. And for another: what the fuck!
"In my defence," Malfoy goes on blithely, "you did make it sound a bit like you were — well. Water under the bridge, and all that. Should we get back to the ghastly drinks do? I'm sure you're expected to do more swanning around the room looking heroic and rumpled." He puts his second cigarette back into the packet, unlit, and then the packet vanishes into his robes again.
The kiss, when it lands, is so surprising that Harry needs a moment to realise he's the one who lunged at Draco, who planted his mouth over Draco's snide little smile as if to try and erase it, or maybe to take them back a few sentences: away from you're expected to do more swanning around and closer to a bit of a pash.
Draco makes a small noise of shock, takes Harry by the shoulders, and forces him away squarely.
"No," says Malfoy. Harry floods with shame, burning, but then Malfoy says it again, not releasing Harry's shoulders. "I mean, no, we must do better than that. If I'm going to finally kiss you, I'm doing it properly."
"Properly," Harry repeats with helpless wonder, and immediately lets both his drink and his fag end fall to the concrete beneath them so he can grab hold of Draco's taut little waist. Properly. "Yeah, let's," Harry breathes. This time it goes so much more slowly, and Harry's lips land on a mouth that's gone soft and open with anticipation.
Harry can feel the faintest scrape of stubble from Draco's upper lip, his chin. Merlin. Harry's kissing a man. He's kissing Draco.
Draco is ceding control just enough to let Harry take his time, but his hands stay firm on Harry's shoulders, and there's eager pressure answering every one of Harry's increasingly ardent kisses.
Harry's always supposed it would feel wrong, kissing a man. He thought it would give him the same squirmy discomfort he feels viewing Hermione's cleavage or imagining kissing a House Elf.
But no. No, it's not that at all.
It's Hagrid tapping a brick behind the Leaky Cauldron and Harry watching the whole world reveal itself to him. It's whizzing up into the air on a broom, the ground falling away swiftly. It's feeling the Philosopher's Stone drop heavy and secret into his pocket.
That this was right here, all along. That there's been a whole world beyond Harry's experience, and that it's this.
That it's him.
At length, Harry starts to pull back: shorter, softer kisses. Draco follows his lead here, too, and in another moment, their lips stay parted long enough to catch their breath, to share a close nervous laugh. Harry lets his hands loosen, then fall. Draco lets go of Harry. They move their faces apart further, Harry scuffing his shoe through the wreckage of ice and broken glass underfoot.
"I think I've actually filled my quota," Harry says.
"Sorry?" says Draco, who absolutely looks the stupidest Harry has ever seen him: pupils blown, mouth red and agape, breath heaving.
"Swanning about looking heroic and rumpled," Harry explains. "Done enough for the night."
"Oh," says Draco, mildly confused, still dazed-looking. "Er, yes."
"Come back to mine?" Harry says, reaching down and picking up Draco's free hand — he's kept hold of his drink through all this, somehow.
"Oh," says Draco again, understanding now. His expression sharpens and he looks down at Harry's mouth. "Are you — sure? This isn't, er…going a bit fast?"
"We can slow things down if you want," Harry says, arching an eyebrow, enjoying the sight of Draco Malfoy on the back foot. "I like slow." He twists his grip on Draco's hand, catches him around the wrist, and strokes a thumb over the thin skin on the inside, just under the edge of his poncy French cuff.
"Salazar," Draco breathes, "I had myself fully convinced it was just a sad horny fantasy that you'd be like this."
"Into blokes?" Harry asks.
"Ha," Draco says, voice cracking. "No, I mean — the way you are. You know, a walking superego with green eyes and biceps and — and, sort of, I'm here to save your life by fucking you sideways."
"A walking superego?" Harry repeats, amused and insulted in equal measure.
"I've had decades to build you up in my mind," Draco says, straightening, then overhand-throwing his glass out into the night. It lands with a distant, lovely tinkling sound. He grabs Harry by the hand. "But then, you've always had a flair for living up to your own hype."
They must be outside the anti-Apparition jinxes blanketing the ICW event, because in the space of a breath, Harry is squeezed through thin air, landing with a crack in the middle of a hotel room that looks exactly like his, but larger and posher.
"I thought I said we should go back to mine," Harry protests, grinning at Draco's boldness.
"I doubt you have the proper supplies laid in," says Draco. He puts his palms flat on Harry's chest, gives him a wonderfully nostalgic shove.
Harry lets the force of it carry him back a couple of steps, but not so far as the edge of the mattress. "Straight people use lube, too," he says, still grinning maniacally.
"Harry," says Draco, nudging him back again, more gently now.
Harry fetches up against the edge of the bed, his whole body singing with anticipation and giddiness. He hasn't felt like this in ages. It's possible he's never felt like this. "Yes, Draco?" he says, chewing on his lip, watching Draco prowl closer.
"You're not a straight person," Draco says, and pushes Harry one last time so he falls back onto the bed. Draco knees up over him until he's straddling Harry's thighs, then presses a palm against Harry's flies, unerring, unflinching.
Harry's as hard as he's ever been. He feels electric. He feels like he's sixteen and getting a handy from Lisa Turpin under the Quidditch stands.
No, he feels much better than that.
"Guess not," Harry says, lifting his hips into Draco's touch. "Oh my god."
Draco gets Harry's trousers open in a series of deft movements, and then Harry utters a little groan, because there's his dick, and there's Draco's hand around it, Merlin, this can't be happening.
"Go up the bed," Draco says.
"Hm?" says Harry, busy watching Draco slowly jerk him off.
Draco takes his hand away and swings his thigh over so he's beside Harry instead of on top of it. "Go up the bed, I want to suck you off but I can't do it from here."
"Oh," says Harry, who will never recover from finding out what suck you off sounds like in Draco's stupid drawl. It sounds like swallowing.
"Up. The. Bed," Draco says, pointing, laughing at Harry's expression.
Harry goes, elbows, shoulders, heels scrabbling. He's glad the headboard is the stupid upholstered kind because he goes so quickly, he might have concussed himself on a hard headboard. His cock swings around wildly as he goes, but when he lands up against the pillows, it's sticking straight up out of his flies. He's wet. Harry doesn't remember the last time he got wet from a little wanking action.
Honestly, he doesn't remember the last time he got wet from anyone's mouth, either, and he doesn't have the brainpower to work it out because there's Draco, clambering closer and gripping his cock and licking up the slick at the tip. He's still fully dressed in his immaculate dress robes, but he doesn't look quite so neatly put together otherwise: cheeks hectic red, thin grey-blond hair mussed and falling down around his forehead and ears. Saliva stringing between his lower lip and Harry's cock head when he pulls off again, gasping.
Harry's been grabbing fistfuls of the duvet when he could have been — he lifts his hands as soon as he realises, takes his cock by the base, and then strokes the hair back off Draco's brow. Fine and slippery and damp at the roots with sweat.
Draco looks up at Harry, grey gaze sharpening, and then his dimples pop into being. Fuck, he's so handsome. He's so charming. Harry admits it to himself in a huge rush of suppressed longing: Draco's fit.
"Put it in my mouth," Draco says. "Put it where you want it, Potter."
Harry makes a strangled noise that's a laugh and a groan combined, then slips his hand around the back of Draco's head, guides him down. Draco — goes. Soft, slippery, hot, suck. Humming, swallowing. The fat flat of his tongue pulsing against the sweet underside of Harry's cock. Draco's lips meeting the top of Harry's fist, bumping insistently until Harry takes his hand away so he can urge Draco lower.
"Mmph," says Draco, which is the best argument Harry's ever considered for why he might like a blowjob from someone over six foot with a jawline like Draco's. Draco's always had a big fucking mouth.
And Harry's liked that about him a lot longer than he's admitted.
Draco bobs up for air, then down again for a few breathless sucks. Up, gasp, down. Harry mirrors his breath unthinkingly until he's dizzy himself. The tips of Draco's ears are almost purple with heat. Harry's losing his mind over it; he's always loved how Draco's skin flushes so easily in anger. He never thought he'd see it in lust.
"Okay, okay," Harry says, loosening the hand gripping Draco's fine hair. "Give me a minute, here."
Draco's shit-eating grin is another thing Harry abruptly loves. "Scared you're going to blow your load, Potter?" he asks, smearing the back of one long-fingered pale hand over his wet red mouth, puffy cock-sucking lips.
"No," says Harry. "I told you, I like it slow." And he hooks his index finger into Draco's collar, right next to the bump of his larynx, and urges him up the bed to lie next to Harry. "You're good at that," he says, and kisses Draco, pulls his bow-tie loose with clumsy sex-drunk fingers. "Take this off."
Draco complies, but he doesn't stop at the bow-tie. He keeps going, dress robes falling open under his touch, then the funny old-fashioned trousers Harry's never got used to wearing: buckles and ties where Harry prefers zips and buttons. Harry's hit by a series of little thrilling surprises as he watches: of course, there's the Mark, blurred and liver-coloured and vague now. And — so faint Harry finds himself straining to see them — the silver old puckered lines of a curse thrown out of desperation and stupidity.
"If you grew a beard, would it be this dark?" Harry asks. His fingers are touching, smoothing the little whorl of surprisingly dark blond chest hair between Draco's flat pecs. Harry's never really given much thought to chest hair, though he sometimes felt a little self-conscious about his own abundance of the same when he was younger. He's not prepared for how sexy it is on Draco, how he can't stop himself from stroking down. He follows the trail as it tapers towards Draco's navel — softness there, Draco sucking his belly in a bit, from ticklishness or egotism. And then lower, where the hair spreads thicker again, and where —
"Ha," says Draco, twitching his hips up and away. Ticklish, definitely. "Not going squeamish now, are you? After you made me this hard?"
Draco is, in fact, very hard. He's also big. Harry lets himself have a proper look, moving down the bed to get closer; it's clear Draco doesn't mind from the way he's breathing, fast and harsh. Draco rings his index and thumb round the base of his big cock, works himself just a little. Harry's not sure if that's an invitation to touch, or to suck, but whatever it is, it's clear that Draco's extremely proud of himself. "God," says Harry, "you're such a show-off."
"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else with a dick," says Draco, and then he pivots his cock so the head bumps against Harry's cheek, chin, throat.
"Big talk," says Harry, grinning in spite of himself. When Draco does his little manoeuvre again, Harry lets his mouth fall open in invitation; Draco makes a little ha sound as he pulls down on Harry's lower lip with the head of his cock, and then another — deeply pleasing — ah, ah, yeah when Harry darts out his tongue and tastes.
Harry's always had something of an oral fixation, which has served him well when it comes to sex. He doesn't let himself think too much about it, then, just licks and sucks and lets himself go mindless with the animal curiosity and lust. It's nothing like the practised choreography Draco provided for Harry, but it's honest, and it seems to be enough for Draco. Draco is noisy, exactly like someone who mostly fucks in places where he can be as noisy as he likes, like someone who didn't have years of infrequent and hurried sex with children sleeping far too lightly next door.
"Here," says Draco, at length, tugging on Harry's glasses. They're fogged up and knocked askew anyway, and Harry's had his eyes closed to better focus on his mouth. "Just — everything off."
Harry sits up and puts his glasses aside on the bedside table, then wrenches his dress robes off in a few hurried motions. He has to stand to get his shoes and socks off too, which means he has a new vantage point to stare down at Draco: long and pale and watching Harry with equal interest, as if Harry is somehow interesting and worthy of staring.
"Would it spook you if I asked you to fuck me?" Draco says, drawing up one knee and then letting it fall open. It doesn't leave much to the imagination: Draco's balls, the soft insides of his long thighs, the shadowy cleft underneath. If Harry wasn't already half-blind without his glasses, there would probably be even more revealed to him now. "We don't have to, obviously. If you're uncomfortable."
Harry knees back onto the bed and over Draco, dropping a hand to the inside of his knee. He pushes his leg further, opening Draco up more. "You might be my first dick," Harry says, "but I've fucked an arse before." He slides his hand up and finds the soft place behind Draco's bollocks, further back to swipe a fingertip over his tight whorl of an arsehole.
"How cosmopolitan of you," Draco purrs, amused. But he slings an arm around Harry's neck and drags him closer to kiss him. "Very good. Good boy."
Harry feels a crazy thrill zing up his spine at this last, and has to hold himself back from kissing Draco wildly in answer. "How do you like it?" he asks, instead. He puts his hand back down between Draco's legs but grabs his cock instead, strokes it. It feels familiar now that Harry's had his mouth all over it. "From behind? On your back? Or were you serious about being fucked sideways, because I'd be game."
Draco groans softly and nips at Harry's lower lip. "Start off with me on my front," he says. "Start off by making me come on your cock, hard and fast. And then you can go as slow as you want."
He goes and gets the lube and condoms after that, his cock swinging around in front of him, unfairly sexy for a man with the beginnings of a little belly, with very little arse to speak of. Harry puts his glasses back on, feeling like he wants to ogle Draco properly, and also like he wants to minimise his fumbling. He's fucked an arse before — he was telling the truth — but it's been a long time.
But Draco makes it so easy, wriggling back onto Harry's fingers, gripping the duvet, pushing his blood-hot cheeks into the mound of hotel pillows. He directs Harry with just a few words — more, curl your — yes, like that, go faster, I won't br— I won't — ah, fuck, you've got big hands.
Harry could do this for a long time, if he's honest, and he's just wondering idly about getting his mouth involved here too — if that's the sort of thing he could just do — when Draco gets up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder at Harry and says, "Fuck down, not just in. You'll see." And he grabs one of the condoms, hands it back, and settles himself down on elbows and knees, raising his pert little white-boy arse expectantly.
Harry is too horny to wonder what it means, that Draco's entitled little arse in the air is enough to make him feel abruptly wild with lust. He just unwraps the condom, rolls it on, coats it with more lube, and — slides right the fuck in.
"Yeah, yeah," says Draco, shaking, clutching the duvet, his back arched like a bow. "God, take me."
Harry tosses his head to get his sweat-damp curls out of his eyes — fuck, he's still got his glasses on, who cares — and takes Draco by the hips, fucks down instead of just in, and Draco groans and nods into the pillow. His ears are bright red, as is the back of his neck, but his knuckles are white. Harry draws back and fucks into Draco again — slap of skin on skin, filthy — and then he loses his fucking mind.
It's just so good: the tight and pull and — the suck, it feels like Draco's body is sucking him in. The slipperiness. The dark of Harry's wet cock sinking into Draco's pink hungry hole. The sound it makes. The sounds Draco makes. Harry fucks Draco with short hard strokes, then reaches forward on some weird instinct, pushes down between Draco's shoulderblades so he falls off his elbows and flat onto his chest, and that makes it easier to hit the place inside Draco, and Draco's saying yes, yes, fuck, fuck - Harry - fuck me.
Once Harry feels certain Draco will stay put, he pulls his hand back and reaches under Draco to find his cock, hard and urgent and rocking with Harry's thrusts. It's easy to coordinate the squeeze of his fist with his fucking, but Harry slows down a little anyway so he can savour the counterpoint of it all. Drags it out.
"Come on, come on," says Draco, and Harry thinks it's for him, but then Draco goes rigid, shoves back hard, and comes into Harry's fist: slippery arcs of come that spill everywhere, messy and male and proud. "Ah," says Draco, shaking now, tension falling out of his shoulders at once. "Ah, Merlin, that was — oh. Stop for a second, Potter, just a —"
Harry stops for a second, even though he thinks he could come if he just chased this feeling for about three more thrusts. He told Draco slow, Harry reminds himself, even as he fights down the urge to pull out and wank all over Draco's little pale arse. "Okay?" Harry asks, when he trusts his voice.
"Mmhm," says Draco, languid. He falls away, hips lowering, and Harry slides out of him wetly. "I'm just fine." He sighs, stretches luxuriously, and then rolls over, slinging his open thighs around Harry where he kneels, still holding onto his cock, keeping the condom on. "Did you want to try this way?" he asks. "I just need a pillow under my hips." His cock is still impressively hard, but there's white glistening evidence of his release all over his dark belly hair, his chest, his dick.
"You don't need a break?" Harry asks, surprised. "I could — just take a break. Get some water? Or a flannel?"
"Or you could clean me up," Draco says. His cheeks are so pink. He reaches up and thumbs Harry's lips. "You seem to like that sort of thing."
Harry kisses Draco's thumb, nips at it, and then does as he's bid. He ditches the condom, drops to his belly, and noses around the mess of Draco's come. He avoids his cock at first, but Draco finally grabs it again and pushes it into Harry's face. It's mostly soft by now, and it must be overly sensitive, but Draco makes a low pleased sound when Harry tongues a cooling dribble off the lip of his foreskin. It tastes like a man. It makes Harry feel wild.
"Here," says Draco, passing Harry a fresh condom packet. "Start slow."
Harry rolls it on, adds more lube, and comes up to kneel between Draco's thighs again. Draco shoves a pillow under his hips,and uses his heels on the back of Harry's legs to encourage him closer. "Doesn't hurt?" Harry asks, pushing in again, slowly this time.
"I like that it hurts, a bit," says Draco, drawing a little breath through clenched teeth. "Mm, don't you like when it's a bit much?"
"No," says Harry, honestly, but he can see Draco does. He rolls his hips, assiduously trying not to put too much pressure on the place that made Draco gasp and moan earlier. "God, you feel so tight."
Draco makes a little hurt sound as Harry tries a harder thrust, and Harry tries to pull back, but Draco curls his hand around the back of Harry's neck, holds him there. "Don't stop," he says, grey eyes alight.
"Okay," says Harry, and doesn't stop.
They can kiss this way, at least a bit, more when Draco pulls one of his legs up over Harry's shoulder in a truly impressive feat of flexibility for a man in his later forties. Harry kisses Draco, and steadily, tenderly fucks into him. You're okay, and don't I sound okay, and your eyes are watering, and it's a compliment, you tosser, and god, god, you feel so good, are you getting hard again, I think you're getting hard again.
After a while, Harry pulls out and pushes Draco onto one hip, goes behind him again, fucks him sideways. Much easier to kiss, now, and Harry flings his glasses away behind him into the dark of the hotel room, noses into Draco's pink neck, pinches his nipple until Draco hisses with it. Palms down Draco's narrow flat torso and finds his cock mostly hard, yes, hard enough to wank.
"I can't," Draco says, gasping, rolling his hips into Harry's grip, "can't come again, I don't think, but don't stop, don't stop, never stop."
Harry doesn't ever want to stop, that works out nicely, that's just — fucking — perfect, fucking his cock into the tight slick want of Draco's arse and feeling his big overstimulated cock shuddering and Harry pushes his face into the back of Draco's shoulder and opens his mouth and realises he's going to — he already is —
It rolls over him in a long wave of overwhelm, impossibly bigger than Harry himself, and he clutches at Draco as it subsumes him, leaves him breathless, weightless. Harry is coming — yes, give it up for me, that's it, so good, so good, Harry — and he's tumbling, in freefall, and he's caught up again, spread on a wide white duvet, shaking, gasping.
"You really do like it slow," says Draco, sounding impressed. His arse flexes around Harry as if to test his hardness, and Harry jolts in protest, groaning. "I think I'm right on the knife's edge," Draco says, sounding far away. "If you can stay hard for about two minutes, I — yes, I think I — fuck, Harry." Draco's wanking, it's clear in the jostle of his elbow and the hitch of his voice, but Harry can only ponder this with a sort of academic interest. His body is past such earthly considerations. He's just — mist. Pink, glorious mist. "Yeah, yeah," Draco says, worked up, and then releases a slow pleased sigh, coming.
Some minutes later, Harry's mostly regained corporeal form, and Draco certainly has. "Up, up," he's saying, aiming a little slap at Harry's bum. "Shower."
"Shower," Harry says blearily, because he's mostly asleep, if no longer mist.
"Yes, shower," says Draco, "you're not walking back to your rooms like that, you smell like a bathhouse on Monday morning, up."
Draco's ensuite has a massive walk-in shower, worth the effort it took Harry to get upright and into it. It's even better because it features a naked Draco, who doesn't seem to have any objection at all to Harry helping him wash, to Harry dragging the soapy flannel over his arsehole as he admires how pink and puffy and used it is, over Draco's cock and balls. Over Draco's pale slim chest and his soft middle-aged belly and his little pert arse, his endless sexy legs. The shower's stream flattens his thin blond-grey hair, makes his forehead look even higher.
"Don't you dare put that flannel on my face after it's been everywhere else," Draco warns when Harry's hand comes up to touch the dimples on his cheeks. Harry obediently drops the flannel with a wet splat and backs Draco into the tiled wall to kiss them instead. "You're cock-drunk," Draco says, still smiling, entertained.
"Didn't know that was a thing," Harry says, not denying it. He kisses Draco's mouth.
Afterwards, Harry finds his glasses on the floor of the bedroom. He puts on his dress robes again while Draco gets into posh silk pyjamas. It wouldn't be the worst thing, staying the night — but they've both got endless meetings tomorrow, and you're not going back to your room like that, and Harry maybe needs a few hours alone to process bloody everything that happened tonight.
Draco comes over to help Harry tie his bow-tie, and though Harry was planning to leave it hanging unknotted around his neck, he holds still and lets Draco do it. Nimble fingers, and the shower-fresh smell of him, and the intimacy of Draco with damp hair and no pants on under the pyjamas, the soft bulk of his cock and balls just there if Harry wanted to look or touch. "I wanted to say," Draco says, and stops himself.
I hope you haven't got the wrong idea. Or, this was a nice time, but we'll leave it here. Or maybe even, what happens in Brussels stays in Brussels. "Yeah," says Harry, hoping that he sounds normal about all of these possibilities. Like he feels the same, and not like he wants to stick his hands under Draco's stupid silk shirt and cling.
"I don't want the kids to know," says Draco. "At least, not until — well. I know this is all quite. Erm. New. To you."
"Ah," says Harry, shocked.
"You — no, of course," says Draco, clearly backtracking. "One-off. I understand completely." He's gone very drawly all at once, which makes Harry realise how casual he's been for the last long while.
"No," says Harry. "I just — yeah. I agree. Maybe we can talk about it over a meal? Soon?"
"Oh," says Draco, shoulders dropping, face clearing. The dimples flicker, disappear again. "Yes."
"And," Harry says, giving into impulse, reaching out and slipping two fingers into a space between shirt buttons. He can feel Draco's soft chest hair, can picture how dark it secretly is. "Take our time."
Draco nods, laughs awkwardly, and walks Harry to the door.
"My wife," says Ron, the next morning, toasting Hermione with his pumpkin juice. There's a breakfast buffet, but it's wizarding style, and it all has Harry feeling rather Hogwarts-y: long tables laden with food, everyone helping themselves, noisy and cheerful and busy with their own intrigues. "My wife, who did something very clever and complicated regarding creature rights in — I want to say, Bolivia? Anyway, she made the world a better place, as per usual."
"And to Zonko's Italy and your distribution deal," Hermione answers, giddy, toasting Ron in return.
Harry cranes his head around Ron's face just a little as they all clink glasses and drink.
Malfoy's two tables over, neat and snobby, bored, posh. He's chatting desultorily with his table mate. Some comment he makes has half of them laughing heartily. Malfoy smiles his mean little smile of yore. The Hogwarts feeling intensifies.
But then he seems to sense Harry's gaze on him, because he makes abrupt eye contact, and the tight smarmy curve of his lips softens, gentles. The dimples appear.
Harry smiles back, stupidly, helplessly.
Nearby, Ron and Hermione carry on with their chatter and mutual pride and strategy, oblivious to Harry's emotional state. And that's fair enough, isn't it? Harry's been the steady point around which everyone else has evolved and grown for a long while. It's fine — he's always known who he is, who he's meant to be.
"Sorry," says Harry, standing up from the table all at once. "I've just remembered — I need to —" and though Hermione and Ron are clearly startled by all this, they don't try to stop him as he tosses his napkin on his half-eaten breakfast and hastens out of the dining hall.
Harry sees the motion in his peripheral vision, the way he's always seen Draco: a pale lean shape standing as well, wending around tables and chairs, silently following Harry's lead.
Following Harry down a new path.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.