Chapter Text

“Was that the last box? Oh—thank you, George.” A large cardboard box came floating up the stairs, George following behind it. The box joined the large pile of boxes sitting in the middle of the living room. Ginny gave her brother a kiss on the cheek and ruffled his hair.

Harry was sitting in the middle of what looked like an exploded piece of furniture; pieces of wood, screws, and those little circular metal things that go around the screws were strewn around him in a circle. He was assembling a bookcase and had been at it for a while already, unable to wait any longer to get started. Two shelves were already complete and attached to one side of the bookcase to be.

“Thank you,” he said to George with a grateful smile. His fingers were dusty. “Did you want to stay for dinner? We’re ordering in.”

“That’s all right. I ought to be on my way or both Lee and Angelina will have my hide,” George answered, wiggling his eyebrows at Ginny. Ginny swatted him. “See you love birds later!” He ducked out of the door and was gone.

Ginny came over to sit beside Harry. “We don’t have any books.” She touched the half-finished bookcase. “Why do we need it?”

“So we can put books in it,” Harry said. “It’ll go over there.” He pointed with the screwdriver at the little wall divide jutting out between the fireplace and the front door. It was just wide enough that he could fit the bookcase there. Harry thought the wall was made for it; the fireplace was awkwardly situated, not quite centred and much closer to the windows on the opposite wall, so the bookcase should balance it out nicely.

“All right.” Ginny leaned against him. She watched him finish building the bookcase. She watched him test its stability and move it to the wall. She watched him shuffle it a few inches to the right and then just a half inch to the left, until it was perfect. “Come to bed,” she said when it was all done, “and let’s break in this home of ours.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.” She stood up, then held a hand out to him.

“What about dinner?”

“Mmh, after.”

Harry looked around the unfinished living room, and the bookcase he’d just assembled. It was completely empty. They didn’t have any books. Maybe he could put his Quidditch books in it? He had a battered copy about the Chudley Cannons Ron had given him somewhere. Which box were they in again?

“Harry.”

“Yes?” Harry didn’t look up from the box he was poking through. He set it aside and opened another.

“Are you coming to bed?” Ginny had withdrawn her hand, Harry now realised. She’d crossed her arms, and there was a small wrinkle on her forehead, the kind that usually meant she was concerned about something or was about to get upset about something—usually Harry and his reluctance to sleep with her.

“Yes, I was just…” He gestured at the bookcase, tamping down on the low dread in the pit of his belly. “I wanted to put something in it.”

“Can we do it tomorrow? I was hoping for some proper alone time. We don’t have roommates anymore.”

Harry looked at the empty bookcase again, trying to keep the dread from turning into an empty hollow, a growing dead zone. He didn’t really want to go through the entire ritual of pretending he wanted to have sex with Ginny, not today. Today he just wanted to start…fitting the pieces of their new life together. New year, new place, new life. But Ginny was looking at him like that, with that frown on her face, and Harry didn’t want their first night in the flat to end with a fight. That wasn’t how new beginnings should start, and it wasn’t what he wanted for their future.

“Okay,” he said, and followed Ginny into the bedroom.

Unpacking went slowly. Between Ginny’s long days with Quidditch practice and Harry’s two jobs, neither of them wanted to spend all their free time dealing with finding new places for everything. Boxes stayed piled up in the living room, and two weeks later were still largely untouched. Harry never uncovered his books and rather feared they’d ended up in the charity shop pile somewhere along the way.

Instead of dwelling on it, Harry resolved to buy a book as soon as the opportunity arose. Which kind of book it would be he hadn’t really figured out yet. Maybe it would be a book about Quidditch. Maybe non-fiction of a different kind; Neville was putting out a revised and updated book of some kind about herbs in some context or other. Maybe he’d read it. Maybe he would pick fiction, if only he knew what kind of fiction he’d like to read.

Maybe something about cowboys and Indians, he thought, recalling glimpses he’d managed to steal from Dudley’s comics in childhood. Maybe something about space.

“Mr Harry!”

Harry focused on what was happening in front of him. Charlie was having problems with his broom, it looked like. He had a lisp, which sometimes made it difficult for the broom to understand his commands.

He jogged over. “Show me.”

Charlie held his hand over the broom, which was no longer hovering a foot above the ground, but lying flat on the grass. “Up!”

The broom didn’t move.

“Hmm.” Harry nudged the broom with his foot. The problem was obviously not the lisp. “I think it’s frightened. It’s playing dead, see?” He nudged the broom again.

“It wasn’t me!” Charlie said, too quickly to be entirely innocent.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“I promise!”

“All right.” Harry cast about until he found Avery, hovering nearby. The look of guilt on his face matched Charlie’s to the letter. “Avery.”

“We didn’t mean to,” Avery said.

Harry knelt by the broom, running his hand alongside the shaft. The broom was very much alive; he could feel the low thrum of magic when he focused on it. It was only playing dead. These brooms typically weren’t temperamental, and generally not prone to hysterics just because small children happened to say things around them; it was more likely that it was picking up on something in Charlie that he hadn’t communicated out loud.

“Charlie,” he said. “The broom is scared because it thinks you’re scared.”

Charlie shuffled.

“We really didn’t mean to,” Avery said. “We were just talking.”

“All right.” Harry resisted the temptation to rub his face. He’d learned the hard way not to show his frustration around small children. “You run off, now, Avery. I’m going to have a word with Charlie for a second.”

The rest of his tiny daycare were already practicing the task he’d set them: throwing Quaffles between them, while also moving in a circle. He’d get them zooming around soon enough, for now balancing on a broom, controlling the broom, and also keeping an eye on a Quaffle (not to mention catching the thing and sending it off again) was proving a challenge for them. They were only four and five years old; they were still developing their coordination skills.

Avery pointed his broom towards the other kids and went off, and Harry turned to Charlie. He was still kneeling by the broom, so he had Charlie at eye level.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Harry asked him.

Charlie wouldn’t meet Harry’s eye. He shook his head minutely.

“Okay. Do you want to try again?” Harry silently reset the broom as he moved it to lie on the ground between them.

“It doesn’t like me,” Charlie said, eyes flickering towards the broom.

“Now that’s just not true,” Harry told him, using his best and most patient voice. This one usually worked. “This is just a bundle of twigs. It’s not alive like you and me, it just flies about and does whatever you want it to do.”

Charlie didn’t say anything to that.

“Let’s make a deal,” Harry then said, switching to a different tactic. “How about you just get it up? You don’t have to fly on it today if you don’t want to, just get it up.”

“Only to my hand!” Charlie declared, with somewhat more confidence than Harry was expecting.

“Okay,” Harry agreed. He stood up and stepped back, to give Charlie space. “You can try now.”

Charlie stepped up to the broom, held his hand out and looked at Harry, uncertainty in his eyes. Harry gave him a nod. Charlie drew in a deep breath and then: “Up!”

The broom raised itself up until it met Charlie’s hand. His fingers closed around the shaft automatically.

“Oh!” Charlie grinned. “It came!”

“Well done.” Harry smiled back. “You can sit on it now if you’d like and go join the others.”

Charlie bit his lip, but Harry could see the resolve in his face despite it. A moment later he nodded, and then he was sitting on the broom. Whatever had been wrong earlier seemed to have evaporated.

Excellent. Harry helped Charlie towards the other children and got him joining the little Quaffle circle almost seamlessly.

Somebody had—again—left a not inconsiderable amount of documents spread across two desks, instead of returning them to either the service desk or the return trolley. Harry inspected the documents carefully and compared them with his ex libris list; none were missing. One document flagged, however, and Harry found a dark stain on the lower right corner.

Coffee, he determined, after a quick sniff test. Never mind that that beverage and other liquids weren’t allowed in the reading hall; people would find ways to sneak them in past the magical barriers anyway.

Harry flagged the document for conservation to deal with, then piled them all onto the return trolley and wheeled it back behind the service desk. He’d have taken it downstairs to the strongrooms already, but a customer was waiting at the desk. Albert, who usually manned the desk along with Harry, wasn’t around—probably out back on a smoke break.

“Hullo,” Harry said, as he parked the trolley. “How can I help you?”

The customer, who Harry now realised was Draco Malfoy, said: “I’m interested in coroner reports or death certificates or other documents that would describe an individual’s cause of death. Do you keep that sort of thing here?”

He was impeccably dressed, though he had dark circles under his eyes and a sickly tint to his complexion. He’d changed his hairstyle since Harry had last seen him, what had possibly been three or four years prior, but his white-blond hair didn’t look the way it usually did, if Harry’s memory was anything to go by; it wasn’t as shiny as he remembered it to be.

Draco Malfoy looked like he hadn’t slept for at least two months, if not more.

Harry was aware he was staring, so he pulled himself together. Before he could respond to Malfoy’s inquiry, however, Malfoy’s face shuttered.

“My apologies for wasting your time,” Malfoy said, turning to go.

“No, wait, sorry, that was rude of me—let me look that up for you,” Harry scrambled to say, already flicking through the ledger, a large leather-bound volume which permanently resided on the desk. “Coroner reports, was it?”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Thank you.”

“There—” Harry paused, staring at the ledger. One and a half pages of it were dedicated to coroner reports, with several dozen cross references listed. “Were you looking for anything specific? We have a lot of those things. Sorry—a substantial collection, is what I should say.”

“Oh. What are my options?” Malfoy seemed to have come in unprepared.

“Well, we have coroner reports going back to the 12th century, though they weren’t called that, then, and,” Harry paused, examining the ledger, “they are tagged by natural causes, accidents, homicide, and unexplained. They are also sorted by region, so say you wanted to look at homicides in Leeds in the 17th century, I could fetch those for you.”

Malfoy had a far-away look in his eyes. “I don’t suppose you have anything recent?”

Harry checked the ledger. “Most recent reports on file are from 1899.”

“In that case I’d like to see whatever you’ve got from the 19th century.”

Harry drew his wand over the ledger and compiled a request form: coroner reports, all-inclusive, the British Isles, 19th century. The form filled itself out and Harry went over it to check that the parameters he’d set were right. “Uh, Malfoy, that’s over three thousand documents…are you sure you don’t want to narrow it down further?”

Malfoy focused his gaze on Harry. He looked neither surprised nor upset, or even overwhelmed. In fact, he’d barely shown any kind of emotion on his face since Harry had first seen him that day. “I’m sure.”

“All right. I’ll bring those up for you. The reading hall is down that way; grab a vacant desk and make yourself comfortable, and I’ll come to you. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Malfoy pulled his gloves off and headed off the direction Harry had indicated.

Harry took a moment to himself to process the fact that Malfoy had just asked to see three thousand coroner reports. It would take him days to look through them all, if not weeks.

That wasn’t even the weirdest thing: he hadn’t reacted to seeing Harry at all.

Shaking himself out of it, Harry took the return trolley and the newly filled out request form down to the strongrooms. The documents in the return trolley returned themselves to their correct places, bar the flagged document which took itself to the conservation inbox tray. The ex libris list wiped itself and returned to a slot in the trolley.

Harry fed the request form into a different slot in the trolley and waited while three thousand coroner reports made their way to him, floating out of boxes and folders through the air to stack themselves neatly in the trolley. As he waited, the request form copied itself, the copy wandering off to file itself in the archive’s request history ledger.

When the reports had all slotted themselves into the trolley’s shelves (now slightly bulging), a fresh ex libris list popped out of the trolley and into Harry’s waiting hand.

The whole machinery had taken four minutes and thirty-six seconds, Harry noted, and took the trolley upstairs to find Malfoy.

Malfoy had chosen a desk in the far corner of the reading hall, below a painting of a meadow. The painting reflected the outside weather, so today it was sunny and a bit hazy, as if the cold of the morning was still lingering. Malfoy wasn’t looking at the painting; he didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.

The vacant, dead look in Malfoy’s eyes was slightly unnerving, so Harry cleared his throat. Malfoy’s eyes brightened and he turned his attention to Harry, though his face remained expressionless. “Here’s the documents you requested. We close at five. No beverages or any other liquids are allowed in here. Don’t write on the documents. Any questions?”

“No, thank you.” Malfoy had out a single black notebook and a pencil on the desk—no ink, which was also not allowed in the reading hall.

“Okay. If you have questions later, I’ll be at the service desk out front. If nobody is there, you can ring the bell and either I or one of my colleagues will come.” Harry didn’t receive a reply to this—aside from a perfunctory nod—so he left Malfoy to his documents and went back to the service desk.

He didn’t see Malfoy again until closing; Harry had few errands in the reading hall that day and when he did, he noted that Malfoy kept his head down and went through the reports methodically, occasionally writing something in his notebook.

Malfoy didn’t even pause in his work to get a bite of food or a drink from the small café that was attached to the Archive’s western wing. Harry headed down there himself around three to fetch a sticky bun and a cuppa.

Five minutes before closing, Harry made his way to the reading hall to chase out stragglers and discovered that only Malfoy had remained. Harry sorted the 5th century seafaring maps left by an enthusiast from Cork—fine fellow, but incapable of following instructions—into their trolley, and then went to Malfoy.

The painting of the meadow showed a sun low in the sky and a bunny peeking out of the grass. A tree in the distance swayed gently in the wind.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but we’re closing,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked up from the report he was pouring over. There was a thin wrinkle in his forehead. “It is that hour, is it?” He sounded distracted. “My apologies.” He glanced at the report, then at the trolley. “I haven’t finished.”

“We are also open tomorrow,” Harry informed him. “You can come back.”

“Yes, I suppose I can.” Malfoy carefully closed the report he’d been looking at, then put it back in the trolley. He then tore a page out of his notebook and wedged it in between the report he’d just returned and the one before it, taking care that it stuck out visibly.

“Er, Malfoy, what are you doing?”

“Marking my spot?” Malfoy looked at Harry again. “Is that not okay? I would like to return tomorrow and resume my work.”

“I have to return these to the strongroom they came from,” Harry said. “I can check them out for you again tomorrow.”

It would be wrong to say that Malfoy made a distressed sound, for he didn’t make a sound at all, yet Harry could feel the distress radiate from his body. “I see.”

Harry picked up the ex libris list. “I can make a note of which ones you’ve already looked at and fix you up a new request form, and then all you have to do is submit it to the front desk tomorrow and you’ll get,” Harry gestured at the trolley, “this, but just the stuff you haven’t looked at yet.”

“Oh.” Malfoy blinked. “I would like that, thank you.”

“Right on. Come with me.” Harry checked that the contents of the trolley matched the ex libris list, then pushed it out of the hall. Malfoy pocketed his pencil and notebook, picked up his cloak—which he’d draped over the back of his chair—and followed Harry out.

At the front desk, Harry tapped the ex libris list with his wand and flagged the documents that’d been taken out of the trolley during the day and saw that Malfoy had made his way through three hundred and sixty-four of the reports. Impressive. Harry then transferred the information to a new request form, deleted the flagged items, and gave Malfoy the form.

“Give this to Albert or Janie when you come in tomorrow,” Harry said. “They’ll sort you out.”

“Not you?”

“I won’t be in until after lunch.”

Malfoy nodded. Then he turned on his heel and left.

Strange, thought Harry, watching him go. Both Malfoy’s choice of reading material and the detached way he’d spoken to Harry, as if they were...strangers. Interacting with Malfoy in the past had usually been coloured by annoyance and alcohol, even when they’d been civil—and on rare occasions, even friendly—and this had been anything but.

It’d been a long time since Harry had last seen Malfoy, though he’d heard a little about him through the grapevine over the years; apparently he’d been keeping himself busy by restoring Malfoy properties and selling them off. Last Harry had heard, Malfoy had spent the previous winter in Cornwall, fixing up a neglected Manor House and doing repairs on the local inn. It seemed they’d held historical value to Muggles in the area. Something about smuggling alcohol from (or was it to?) France during the Jacobean era (or something, Harry didn’t know who Jacob was or why he had an era named after him), Harry thought. Pansy had said something about it.

Harry shook it off. If Malfoy had no more properties left to restore, he was more than welcome at the archive to study coroner reports.

The selection in Flourish and Blotts was overwhelming. Harry only vaguely recalled it having been so in general; he hadn’t stepped foot in there since last time he’d had to get textbooks and that had always been during the back-to-school rush, so it’d been overwhelming for different reasons. Now the school season was in full swing, so the store wasn’t actually chock full of students and parents trying to get copies of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 or Defensive Magical Theory, or anything else off the Hogwarts curriculum. This time around, Harry could actually see the store’s contents for what they were.

Harry had never known that Flourish and Blotts had a section for fiction before, or that the fiction section had so many subsections. Large labels proclaimed that these shelves were CRIME, a smaller label divvied them up into Muggle and Magical. Another set of shelves were all YOUNG ADULT, and yet another was HISTORICAL FICTION. Harry was in the middle of it all, staring down between tightly stacked shelves, trying to decide which section of the section of the section he should look at first, wondering if maybe he should flip a coin, or just close his eyes and spin in a circle and buy whatever he happened to grab first.

He stood there for so long that an employee had to politely tell him that they were closing soon, Mr Potter, and would he like to make a purchase, or…?

“No, no, that’s all right. I’ll come back later. I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” Harry left the store and Apparated home, conscious of the fact he was late. Flourish and Blotts closed at seven on Wednesdays. It was Wednesday. Harry had just spent almost two hours in there, unable to make a simple decision about what to buy, not least read.

It wasn’t until Harry materialised just inside the front door and saw Ginny’s shoes that he remembered that he’d promised to make dinner. “Ginny?”

The shower was on.

Harry quietly put his shoes and cloak away, found the take-out menus, and put in an order for their usual at the Vietnamese place.

She came out of the shower, towel-wrapped and vibrant, just after the food arrived. “Hello, handsome,” she said, and kissed his cheek. The scent of her shampoo, floral and sweet, wafted over him. “When did you get home?”

“Just now.” Harry dished out the food. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing at the food. “I forgot.”

“Hmmm.” Ginny didn’t bother getting dressed, just sat at the table in her towel, her damp hair cascading down her shoulders. “What happened?”

Harry joined her at the table. Should he tell her that Malfoy had come to the Archive? It wasn’t technically the reason why he’d been home late. Being rooted to the floor in Flourish and Blotts, incapable of making simple decisions, was the cause of that, but Harry didn’t want to tell Ginny that either…but telling her about Malfoy didn’t seem quite right.

There was also the option of not telling her anything at all, but how then would Harry account for being home late? Nothing wasn’t an adequate explanation and lying was not an option at all.

He dipped a spring roll into the peanut-soy sauce that’d come with their order. He took good care to dunk it so he could get as much peanut crunch as possible. “Malfoy came to the Archive,” he said, inspecting the spring roll. He took a bite.

Ginny paused. She had a fork stuck in her noodles, wound tight. “Malfoy?” Her voice had an odd quality to it. “What was he doing there?”

“Utilising our services.” Harry shrugged.

“But he made you leave work late?”

“No, not at all, he was a model citizen and all that. I barely noticed he was there.” That wasn’t a lie, technically; Malfoy had been very quiet and made no fuss. If Harry hadn’t known he was there, he might not have noticed him at all.

Ginny’s eyes bored into him. Harry dunked his half-eaten spring roll into the sauce again.

When he’d finished the roll and made his way through half of another one, he spoke again. “What kind of books do you like to read?”

“Quidditch analysis articles,” Ginny said, shrugging. The tension around her eyes leached away. “I don’t have time for much else.”

Harry’s heart sank. This wasn’t new information, not by far—and he’d known her long enough to know that. It’d just…never disappointed him before.

They finished eating in silence, each of them seemingly deep in thought about some matter or other. Harry found his thoughts straying to Malfoy and his odd choice in reading materials. What would one want to read three thousand coroner reports for? He resolved to ask Malfoy about it if he were to see him again.

Ginny was shaking out her hair and Harry’s attention snapped to her. She was drying her hair with magic, and soon it fell about her face in a soft cloud.

“See something you like?” she asked.

“Your hair.”

“Anything else?” Ginny loosened the towel, letting half of it fall away to reveal a pert breast and a pink nipple. Her eyes sought Harry’s, and then she let the other end of the towel fall.

Harry tried to locate a spark of desire within him and came up empty. All he found was love, burning bright and strong in his heart. He’d have to use that. Make do. “I love you.”

Ginny stood up and came over to kiss him, her hair falling over his face like a curtain. “Want to show me just how much you love me?”

At precisely one minute past one o’clock, Malfoy came to the Archive. Harry had checked with Albert when he’d come in earlier, but nobody had requested coroner reports that morning, so Harry had concluded that Malfoy hadn’t come back after all. But there was, standing in front of Harry, clutching the request slip Harry had given him the previous day.

“Hello,” Harry said.

Malfoy nodded in greeting and handed Harry the slip.

It was short work to fetch Malfoy his coroner reports and see him installed in the reading hall. The spot below the meadow painting was vacant, so Malfoy chose it for himself again and set to work quietly.

Harry forgot he meant to ask what Malfoy wanted with all those reports and only remembered when five o’clock came around and he had to politely chase Malfoy out.

“You’ve made headway with these,” Harry commented as he prepared the new request form. He’d deducted a considerable number of reports from the pile.

“Thank you?” Malfoy’s tone indicated surprise, but his face remained as impassive as ever.

“What are you doing with them anyway? If you don’t mind me asking.” Harry gave him the new form.

“It’s for a project.” Malfoy accepted the form, peering down at it. “When will you, ah, be in again?”

“All day tomorrow,” Harry replied. “We close early on Fridays.”

Malfoy nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

This was starting to get unnerving. “You know, you can come in any time. The other staff can also help you.”

“That’s quite all right, thank you.” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Have a lovely evening.”

He left.

Harry stared. Have a lovely evening? Was this the real Draco Malfoy or had he been replaced with a replica that looked like him, but was otherwise completely unrecognisable?

What the hell was going on with him?

Malfoy came back the following day as soon as the Archive opened. Harry politely processed his request form and Malfoy took his place below the painting once again.

The meadow was bathed in sunlight and the grass swayed in the wind, the bunnies that lived in it running hither and thither. Malfoy didn’t pay attention to any of it.

When Harry went for his lunch break, Malfoy was still sitting at the desk going through the files. He was still there when Harry came back, showing no signs of having taken a break himself.

Harry let him be.

A quarter of an hour before closing, Malfoy came to the front desk. He was pushing the trolley ahead of him. Harry eyed the trolley, then Malfoy, who was fidgeting.

“How can I help you?” Harry asked.

“The usual.” Malfoy gestured at the trolley. “I also wanted to ask…” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Harry was reaching for the ex libris list, but paused.

Malfoy didn’t say anything, only glanced to the side. He was doing something odd with his lips that Harry had never seen him do before—belatedly he realised that Malfoy was chewing on his bottom lip. It was a strange look on him.

“What did you want to ask?” Harry prodded.

“Ahh…actually, never mind.” Malfoy shook his head, taking a step back.

“All right.” Harry tried not to frown at him; he’d been told it was unprofessional. “Did you want a new request form for the reports you haven’t looked at yet?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Harry took the ex libris list and quickly sorted Malfoy out. As soon as the new form was in Malfoy’s hand, he shoved it in his pocket and walked out.

He certainly wasn’t getting any less weird, Harry thought, and took the trolley downstairs to the strongroom.

The pub was uncharacteristically quiet, a fact that could largely be attributed to the fact Ginny wasn’t there. She had a rule of not drinking or going out the night before a game, a rule Harry was not beholden to. He’d show up to her game with a hangover more often than not.

Not many had come out this Friday either. Lee was there, as was Angelina (but no George in sight). Hermione and Ron hadn’t come, but Padma and Pansy were there, and Parvati had shown up single again.

“Are you entering the Little League?” Lee asked, leaning across the table.

Harry frowned. “The what?” He had almost finished his pint and was considering getting another round for the table, or maybe something to eat.

“Quidditch Little League,” Lee explained. “It’s a new thing, not terribly official. I hear the grand prize is a trophy made out of chocolate. Oliver is setting it up with a couple of lads he knows, all professional players. It’s a charity thing.” He grinned. “Don’t you have a little team?”

“Kind of.” Harry had five little players, if one could call them players. That seemed a mite generous. And it wasn’t a team, it was a daycare. “I don’t have a full team.”

“Well, think about it? You can pick which charity to support, the kids would love it, and everyone would love you. And give me a heads up, I’ll do a spot for you on the wireless.” Lee winked.

Harry grimaced.

“You don’t think Harry gets enough publicity as is?” Pansy commented, in that sharp tone of hers. Harry had learned by now that this was Pansy’s normal state of being; this was a casual remark, not criticism or tart commentary.

“Thank you, Pansy,” Harry said. “I’d think the public had got enough of my dumb mug at Ginny’s games. Excellent photos, every time.”

Lee shrugged. The girls smiled.

“It does sound fun,” Padma commented, a thoughtful look on her face. “Low stakes, adorable children, proceeds go to honourable causes…will you be commentating, Lee?”

The truth was, it didn’t sound all that terrible. The kids would love the idea of a chocolate trophy, and they were enrolled in a Quidditch-themed daycare, after all. Of course everybody and their second aunt thrice removed would get wind of it faster than Harry could get a broom off the ground, but… Harry finished his pint. It could be something to look forward to. He didn’t have a lot of that in his life at the moment, or so it felt like.

“I’ll look into it,” he said, putting down his empty pint glass.

Lee whooped. “Get me all the exclusives, yeah?”

Harry cracked a smile. “Sure, Lee.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “I still don’t have a team so don’t get your hopes up.”

There was also the fact that he wouldn’t actually be able to get a full team, even if he somehow had kids lined up to join; he ran a Quidditch-themed part-time daycare, not a sports team or a Quidditch class. As a registered childminder he could only be responsible for the care of up to five children. If he wanted to enter the daycare into the league, he’d have to sort out what could only be a terrifying load of paperwork, and then find two more players. Maybe even extras, to rotate… it wasn’t impossible, but it was a change, and a challenge, and Harry had been walking in the same groove for a long time now.

It was comfortable in the groove.

All the same, the whole thing appealed to every fibre of Harry’s being—training a little team from the ground up, seeing them through a couple of games, helping them win a trophy, and at the same time raise money for a charity of his own choosing? Harry could think of more than a few causes he wouldn’t mind putting his support behind.

Pansy was giving Harry a knowing look over her own pint glass. Harry ignored it and decided to change the subject. “What’s Malfoy been up to lately?” he asked her. “You haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

She put down her glass. “I don’t know,” she said, frowning. “He’s been elusive of late. Impossible to get hold of. For all I know he’s finally effed off to the Continent.” She shrugged, but it didn’t look half as casual as she probably meant for it to be. “Why?”

“No reason.” He could tell her that Malfoy had not, in fact, effed off to the Continent, but it didn’t feel right. Harry shrugged it off, then lifted his own glass only to realise it was empty. He stood up. “Another round?”

This was met by cheers all around, so Harry went to the bar. When he came back, it was to find Parvati in deep conversation with Angelina and Lee, while Padma’s hand seemed to have found its way up Pansy’s skirt. That didn’t stop Pansy from giving Harry a searching look, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised in question.

Harry set the drinks on the table, ignoring all of Pansy’s unspoken questions.

Charlie and his mum were at the game, just two seats over from Harry’s. The game hadn’t started yet; they’d arrived early—Harry did indeed have a hangover, but he’d dragged himself out anyway—and Charlie was bouncing in his seat, waving frantically.

“Hi, Mr Harry!”

“Hello, Charlie,” Harry said, making his way over. “Ms Baxter.” He shook hands with Charlie’s mum and gave Charlie a high-five. “How’re you today?”

“I’m going to see Andrew Crocker play!” Charlie said. “He’s my favourite. Who’s yours?”

Harry smiled. “Ginny Weasley, of course. She’s on the other team.”

Charlie considered this. “She is very good,” he allowed. “But she’s not a Keeper.”

“Do you want to be a Keeper?”

“Yes!”

Ms Baxter gave Harry a long-suffering smile. “He’s been practicing with apples at home,” she confided with a whisper. “He managed to charm them himself.”

Harry whistled. “That’s impressive.” His head was starting to hurt, what with the noise levels rising; people were pouring into the stadium. All the same, Lee’s suggestion dropped into his head unbidden, and for the moment, unwelcome. “Do you think he’d like to play on a real team?” He asked Ms Baxter.

“A real team?” She frowned, then glanced at her son. Charlie was watching the pitch; the players had started filing out. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a Little League tournament starting up. It’s a charity fundraising thing, only a few games, and the prize is a,” Harry leaned in to whisper, “chocolate trophy.”

“Good grief,” Ms Baxter said, hiding her amused chuckle behind her hand. “You’re putting together a team for this?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I—” A whistle sounded. “I should find my seat. Let’s talk later? Enjoy the game.”

They exchanged hasty of-course-see-you-later smiles, and Harry left them to enjoy the game. He was the only one who’d come out today; everyone else was nursing hangovers and Ron was manning the shop. Hermione had some prior commitment as well, though Harry couldn’t recall what it was, or even when he’d last seen her. He made a note to book her for lunch soon.

It’d been a while since he’d seen her without Ron, Harry realised. That was a sobering thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his friends, but since they’d decided to let nature run its course on the matter of children, there was no end to how affectionate they were with each other, and Harry found he had difficulties sitting through it. He and Ginny weren’t like that. He and Ginny weren’t like anybody, actually, not like Padma and Pansy, who weren’t shy about their love, or George, Lee and Angelina, who didn’t care that the rest of the world knew how much they all three loved one another, or Percy and Oliver—there was a couple Harry hadn’t seen coming—or Dean and Seamus, or Neville and Hannah…the only people Harry knew who weren’t all up in their partner’s space were Parvati (single), Blaise (single), and himself and Ginny.

There had to be something wrong with that. All right, Percy tended to be embarrassed about public displays of affection, but he engaged in them all the same. But he and Ginny…they’d always been private, though even in private Harry had never gone for cuddling when he could just look at her instead. Surely that was fine? Not everyone had to be like…a Valentine’s Day postcard, right?

These old doubts were really starting to get tiresome. Harry tried to clear his mind and focus on the game instead, on Ginny’s flying—she really was a phenomenal player—but he couldn’t get rid of the coil of anxiety in his belly.

The game passed almost without Harry’s noticing, and before he knew of it, it was over and the Harpies had lost.

“Looks like your Keeper did an excellent job,” Harry said to Charlie on his way out, gently bumping their fists together.

“I’m sorry your girlfriend lost,” Charlie said, sincerely.

Ms Baxter ruffled Charlie’s hair. Whispering to Harry she said: “I’ve been teaching him what good sportsmanship is about.”

“Thanks buddy.” Harry smiled. “I’ll see you next week, we’ll practice some goalkeeping, yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“What was that you said before about a Little League?” Ms Baxter asked.

“Oh, that—I haven’t got any…I’m still looking into that.” Harry shrugged, trying not to look as awkward as he felt. He hadn’t technically decided he wanted to do this—he’d only been aware it was a thing for about twelve hours—but it was nagging at his brain and his gut, and Charlie’s enthusiasm was only stoking that fire, even as he balked at the paperwork. Harry had no idea where to even start with this thing. “I’ll owl you once I know more about it?” he offered.

“Sure,” Ms Baxter said, giving him one of her rare soft smiles.

They said their goodbyes and Harry went to find Ginny.

He didn’t have to wait long; she’d showered quickly by the looks of it and her eyes had that determined look that usually followed a defeat.

“Hey,” Harry said, offering to take her bag. She let him. “Let’s take the tube home? I want to talk to you about something.”

“What?” Ginny’s head jerked up. “Is today really the day you’re going to break up with me?”

Harry blinked, his gut twisting. “No! Why’d you think—I’m not going to break up with you! I just like to talk on the train,” he tried to explain.

“You only want to talk on the train about serious stuff,” she said, her voice shaky. She shook her head, looking skywards, and Harry thought maybe she was trying to blink back tears.

“Hey,” he said. “I love you. I’m not breaking up with you.” He didn’t really understand why she’d think that—sure they had their problems, but breaking up? It had never even registered as an option.

“Okay,” Ginny said. “Let’s go then.”

They walked the short distance to the tube in silence, and got to the platform just as the train pulled in. The only other people in their carriage were an elderly lady with a small dog, and a man in a suit.

“What is it, then?” Ginny asked as the doors closed.

“Have you heard about the Quidditch Little League?”

Ginny stared at him. “Do you mean that charity thing Oliver is putting together with Faulkner and Pomeroy?”

“Yeah, that thing. Lee told me about it.”

“Are you thinking of doing it?” Ginny leaned against the seat, relaxing a little in the shoulders.

Harry let out a breath. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it…what do you think?”

“You were a terrible captain at Hogwarts,” she said, but her eyes were twinkling. “But you’re not on the team this time. I hear you’re great with the kids on your little hobby team.”

“Not a team,” Harry corrected. “Who told you I’m great?”

“Betty’s mum. She’s on my team?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. I knew that.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “No, you didn’t. Anyway, so, this daycare of yours…you want to lead them to victory and overdose the lot on chocolate?”

“Maybe. I…” Harry rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure I can do it alone. I don’t know where to start, or where to get two more players, or uniforms, or—” He cut himself off with a wave of his hand. “Or the paperwork.”

“Do you want me to talk you into it or out of it?”

“What?” Harry looked up. Ginny was giving him one of those steady uncompromising looks of hers, the kind that she usually exhibited in the air, or when it came to taking the trash out. She hated taking the trash out. Harry usually did it for her.

“You have two modes, Harry,” Ginny said. “Either you decide you’re going to do something and nothing on earth can change your mind about it, or,” she lifted a finger and drew circles in the air, “you waffle about for half an eternity until somebody makes a decision for you. Lately, it’s more of that and not so much the first.”

Harry was quiet, staring at Ginny and her unyielding gaze. She was right. And unlike him, she usually didn’t have any scruples about letting the truth out.

“I have made decisions,” he said, but it was pointless. “I got that bookcase.”

“It’s still empty,” she said. “Because you still don’t know what to put in it.”

Yeah. That was true. “Yeah okay,” Harry agreed.

Another thing that was true was this: something had to change. He knew this, but—as Ginny had observed—he was waffling about that too.

“I don’t need you talk to me into it,” Harry said, deciding to just do it. Take the leap. “I’m going to do it.”

“Excellent.” Ginny grinned. “I’ll help you with the paperwork.”

“Thank you.” Harry leaned in to kiss her. “Do you know more people with five-year-olds who would like to play for chocolate?”

“Mmmmmaybe.” Ginny slipped her hand into his. “We’ll get you up and running in no time.”

They spent the rest of the ride home going over the drills and practices Harry was giving his kids and discussing possible uniform colours for the team to be. He was letting the kids name the team, he decided, once he had a team—they might not all want to join.

“You probably don’t have to convert your daycare,” Ginny said as they got off the train. “You could probably register the team independently of the daycare. That way they don’t all have to join the team if they don’t want to, and you can schedule team practice at normal team practice hours in the early evening which opens the team up for more kids.”

Harry had to agree with that. “It makes sense. But if I’m opening the team up like that, couldn’t I choose to only take the less well-off kids?”

“You could.” Ginny bumped his shoulder. “For this kind of thing the parents usually bring the money, so you’ll have to rely on donations for uniforms and equipment. You can’t keep funding everything yourself.”

“I’m not!” Harry protested.

“Really?” Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me you haven’t actually been running a non-profit daycare for the past three years? I happen to know that Betty isn’t the only one whose parents aren’t paying for you minding her.”

“…Bill helped me set up some investments or something at Gringotts, I don’t really know what, but the profits of that is what’s keeping the daycare running,” Harry admitted. “I was thinking I could ask him for help with the funds for the team.”

“Mm.” Ginny gave him one of her rare, dazzling smiles. “Soooo…how does it feel? Knowing you’re about to become a bona fide Quidditch coach?”

Harry thought about it. Scary, he thought. Nerve-wracking. “Exhilarating,” he said, his mouth turning up into a smile.

Harry had Quidditch Daycare on Monday mornings, so he wasn’t at the Archive until after lunch. He inquired with Albert, but Malfoy hadn’t come by—yet. Malfoy hadn’t said when he’d come in again or asked when Harry would be in, for the matter of it, so Harry didn’t know if he’d come at all. He took over front desk duty from Mildred, checked the visitor logs and made a quick round of the reading hall, and settled back behind the desk.

His colleagues, being trained archivists, usually had a number of tasks they could do to while away the time at the front desk on slow days, but Harry wasn’t a trained archivist. He had no formal qualifications to speak of, but he could retrieve documents and shelve them again, and he was semi-officially in charge of dealing with incoming owls. Sometimes they brought research questions, sometimes stacks of papers some kind soul wanted to donate to the Archive for posterity (according to Mildred and Laura, most of the time donated documents were actually worthless and thus wound up in the incinerator instead of in the archives), sometimes fanmail to Harry. Sometimes he got to help catalogue small collections, but most of the time he was here, helping patrons.

Harry was sorting through the stack of mail the owls had brought when the clock chimed one and Malfoy walked in. He entered cautiously, as if he wasn’t quite certain he was allowed into the building, but then he caught sight of Harry and straightened up, coming toward the desk at a brisk pace. Harry put the mail aside.

“Good afternoon,” Harry said, offering him his best customer service smile. Ron claimed it made Harry look absolutely frightening, but Hermione had given it one look and said you look like mum and dad’s receptionist at the dental clinic, which Harry decided was ultimately a good thing. Those receptionists were supposed to be friendly, welcoming, and able to make the patients feel calm. At least that’s what Harry thought, only rarely having actually been to the dentist. “How can I help you today?”

Malfoy stared at him. Then he blinked, slowly, not in that way cats do when they’re all snug somewhere outside one’s field of vision, but in that way where one keeps one’s eyes closed for several seconds, as if reciting a quiet prayer. When he opened his eyes again to look at Harry, he paused. Then he shook his head.

“Er,” Harry said. He dropped the customer service smile. “Did you bring the slip I gave you last week or did you want something else today?”

“I have it,” Malfoy said, fishing the folded piece of paper out from a hidden pocket and handing it over.

Harry gave it a cursory glance to check that it was indeed a request form. “All right, a ludicrous amount of deaths coming your way. I’ll be a moment.” He rolled his chair out from under the desk and headed for the levitating platform. (Why they didn’t simply install ordinary elevators was completely beyond Harry.)

He thought he heard Malfoy snort behind him and smiled to himself.

The documents didn’t take long to sort, and Malfoy had settled beneath the meadow painting in less time than it took to prepare a cup of tea. The meadow was sunny, snowdrops and purple crocuses peeking out of the grass, and a few birds were flittering about the tree. As usual, Malfoy didn’t notice.

“That’s you all set,” Harry said. “I’ll be at the front desk if you need anything.”

Malfoy gave him a nod, and then started digging into the reports. Harry saw that his little black notebook was halfway to filled out, Malfoy’s hand neat and tidy. He leaned in a little to have a closer look, but was thwarted in his efforts when Malfoy put his hand over the notebook.

“Yes, Potter?”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t snooping—I mean—I was just…curious,” Harry said, retreating to a professional distance. His ears were burning. “I guess that actually means I was snooping.”

“Er,” Malfoy said. He glanced at the notebook, then at Harry. “You could just ask?”

You could just ask. Harry was struggling to remember the last time he’d had a civil conversation with Malfoy…that was to say, before he started coming to the Archive. Was it at the trials? Harry recalled sharing a few words with an exhausted Draco Malfoy in the halls at the ministry—Harry had been utterly wrung out at the time as well, testifying for and against so many people, standing trial himself, testifying, testifying, watching friends and enemies and everyone in between go from court room to holding cells to court rooms to freedom, or to jail.

No, there had been instances other than that, later. A few words at a party or other, those Pansy had put on after the trials (and after she got out of prison), the ones that started out as blind drinking and dancing to forget, that turned into drinking to talk, that turned into canapés and Muggle movies and friends. Malfoy had been there, but now Harry didn’t know if he’d spoken to him at length, if at all, or if all their interactions had been filtered through alcohol and semi-annoyed tolerance. Pansy had stopped throwing those get-togethers a long time ago.

“What are you looking at coroner reports for?” Harry finally asked.

Malfoy regarded him cautiously. “I’ve been dead for two hundred years. I’m trying to solve my own murder, so that I may finally pass to the other side.” He paused. “Pass into the light? That sounds better, doesn’t it.”

Harry stared. Was that a joke? Was Malfoy trying to joke with him? “Well, let me know when you’ve figured it out,” he said. “Can’t have people just disappear on me, you know, I need to check people out of the reading hall properly.”

“Right, of course. Can’t have that.” Malfoy cracked the tiniest smile Harry had ever seen, and then very pointedly turned to the reports.

Harry took the cue and let him be, returning to the front desk and the stack of mail. There was an odd ringing in his head, like adrenaline barrelling into old walls. Malfoy had just tried to joke with him. And Harry had tried to joke back, and Malfoy had smiled.

The ringing faded eventually, replaced with a small tendril of something else, whispering against his diaphragm whenever Harry thought about that smile, so small, so brief, but so infinitely significant.

Harry sorted out the mail—there was an inquiry in there about the introduction of oranges to Britain, which Harry looked up and found to be the early 17th century, date unknown—and helped the few other patrons who came in.

Ten minutes before closing time, Malfoy returned the trolley, and the tendril in Harry’s belly nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“Same as usual?” he asked, fumbling with the ex libris list. Malfoy was very close to finishing the stack, one more visit to the archive and he’d be done, Harry reckoned.

“Yes, thank you.” Malfoy waited patiently while Harry sorted him a new request form. “When will you be in tomorrow?”

“Oh—I won’t be,” Harry said.

Malfoy had been reaching for the new request slip, but his hand hung frozen in the air. “Oh,” he said, finally taking the slip. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. His face was carefully neutral; that was to say, a different kind of disinterested, neutral face, void of emotion.

“I’m at my other job on Tuesdays,” Harry elaborated. “I’ll be in on Wednesday again, after lunch. Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons, and all day on Friday,” he added. “That’s…my schedule.”

“Right,” Malfoy said.

“I think Mildred is on front desk duty on Tuesdays,” Harry said.

“Right,” Malfoy said, again.

“Uhm,” Harry said.

Malfoy stood there, uncertain, looking like he wanted to say something, or maybe like he didn’t want to want to say something but wanted to say it anyway—which was a sentence Harry thought would sound crazy if he said it out loud—and didn’t say anything at all. Then he turned and walked out and was gone within seconds.

“Okay,” Harry said, to no one in particular. He leaned back in the chair. Nobody was in the Archive but him—correction: nobody was in the public areas of the Archive; the archivists were at work in their offices and work rooms and down in the strongrooms, cataloguing collections or conserving documents or whatever it was that real archivists did, and that Harry didn’t.

Harry finished up his duties and returned Malfoy’s morbid documents to the strongrooms. He locked the front doors as he left, heading towards the cross where Diagon Alley and Direction Alley met—Flourish and Blotts was still open, and this time Harry wanted to actually go in, pick a book, pay for it, and bring it home.

He turned left at the crossroads, past Gringotts, and towards the bookshop. Malfoy looked like a person who liked to read, maybe. He was very quick about those reports, and the only other person Harry knew who could go through a pile of documents that large as quickly, was Hermione. What kind of books would Malfoy enjoy? Non-fiction? Too easy a guess, Harry decided, just because he liked to spend hours reading about grisly deaths, that didn’t necessarily mean he liked non-fiction in general.

Stories about pirates, maybe? Or dragons and damsels in distress? Muggles liked to read about magic and dragons and villain-defying heroes, Harry knew, but he’d lived through what would probably be several books’ worth of magic and dragons and defeating villains, so he, at least, did not want to read about that sort of thing. Maybe Malfoy didn’t either.

Maybe Malfoy liked to read about…love stories? Love stories would probably be nice to read about so long as they didn’t have any dragons in them. The ringing surfaced again inside Harry’s skull, and he stopped in his tracks. He was just outside the shop.

He could go in, pick a book, and take it home, wondering all the while if maybe Malfoy would’ve liked it, or he could just go home. Ginny was at home.

Malfoy had no place inside Harry’s skull.

The light from Flourish and Blotts spilled onto the street, catching on flecks of mica in the cobblestones. Harry stared at the sparkles, recalling that he only knew it was called mica because the countertop in his and Ginny’s apartment was stone, and had those flecks, and it was called mica because Ginny had told him so.

Harry turned around, left Diagon Alley, and headed instead for his favourite Muggle shop. He wasn’t running low on bath bombs exactly, but there were none left of the kind Ginny liked. She was a shower person, but sometimes Harry could persuade her to join him for a soak.

He walked out of the store with Ginny’s favourite, a pink thing with jasmine and rose, as well as a cheerfully yellow and citrusy one he liked to use on the rare mornings he started with a bath instead of a shower.

Clutching the paper bag, he went home.

Charlie was still having problems with his broomstick, and now the malaise had spread to Alice’s broomstick as well. Which was odd, because there’d been no problem in the morning, but now that the kids had had lunch and an hour indoors with colouring pencils, two broomsticks refused to comply.

“Hmmm,” Harry said, seriously. They were all standing in a circle around the grounded broomsticks, Charlie and Alice fidgeting, while Avery, Betty and Hugh were trading looks. “I see the problem,” he said. “Yes, it’s very serious indeed.”

“What is it?” Betty piped up.

“I think,” Harry said, dropping into a crouch so he could get on eye level with the kids, “that somebody has been teasing these broomsticks, and now they’re too embarrassed to fly.”

Avery and Hugh both looked down. Charlie and Alice weren’t saying anything either, though Alice was glaring at Avery, and Betty looked like she was gearing up for a spectacular round of shouting.

“When it comes to teasing, it’s very important to apologise,” Harry said, looking at each of them. “Teasing isn’t a very nice thing to do, now is it?” He waited for the kids to acknowledge this, then continued. “Who wants to go first?”

Feet shuffled. Eventually Avery spoke. “I’ll go first,” he said, stealing glances at Charlie and Alice. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Hugh said.

“That’s very good of you.” Harry was impressed; his knowledge of children didn’t reach far, but he was certain none of his own childhood bullies would’ve done this. Perhaps that was the difference—he’d had bullies, not friends who occasionally messed up. “Is that all, do you think?”

The kids all nodded, one after the other.

“Do you think the brooms will want to fly now?” Harry had already reset the brooms, but maybe he should see a technician about an inspection. This was the third time in two weeks that his toy brooms had picked up on a child’s feelings, which was an uncommon problem for him to have.

Or maybe the kids were just getting bigger and as a result having bigger emotions. He’d had Charlie, Avery and Alice in his care since they were two, Betty had joined six months later, and Hugh a few months after that. He’d have the lot until the end of spring, and then Charlie, Avery, and Alice would be off to school full time and Harry would have to take on three new kids, or…let them all go and find another line of work.

He wasn’t sure he really wanted new kids. This lot were his and he’d grown attached to them.

“Go on, try it.” Harry nodded at Alice, who’d been poking her broomstick with the tip of her shoe. Charlie, he knew, didn’t like an audience, so if he could get Alice up and running, the bunch of them would disperse and remove all attention from Charlie.

Alice glanced at Hugh, who had the decency to look shamefaced, and held out her hand. Her broom zipped up without her even saying a single word.

Hugh’s eyes widened.

So did Harry’s. Non-verbal magic wasn’t uncommon for children, but it usually took on more…accidental forms. Curtains catching fire when a child was angry, for example, or a bad haircut growing out after a night of fear and wishful thinking. “Well done,” he said to Alice, and made a note to talk to her parents later.

He sent her off, and while Betty, Hugh and Avery were occupied with either watching Alice zooming between the apple and pear trees at the edge of the field, Charlie got his own broom to obey.

Harry picked up the Quaffle. This afternoon he was playing pretend Keeper, which really only meant levitating the Quaffle back into the air for somebody to try to grab it, because so far all they were good at was dropping it.

Little League Quidditch was going to be…interesting, if it took off the ground. There were two age brackets, five to six and seven to eight, and so far, there were four teams registered to the lower bracket while the upper bracket had ten teams. Harry trusted the seven and eight-year-olds to be able to play Quidditch semi-competently, but if the other four teams were anything like his kids…

It would be fun, probably. Something for the parents to ooh and ahh over, and the kids to feel accomplished about.

The rest of the week passed by in a flurry and a blur. Between parents and registration forms and team uniforms and Ginny and temperamental brooms and Malfoy wanting ever more macabre documents to read, Harry was all but breathless.

He felt strangely alive, and in love, and excited, for the first time in a long time.

Percy had lost his voice entirely, alternating between cheering on his sister’s team and his boyfriend’s team, but that didn’t stop him from yelling—soundlessly—when the game ended, and the Holyhead Harpies won. Harry grinned, thumping him on the back, and hollered at Ginny as she flew past on a celebratory loop, hair wild and cheeks flushed from exertion.

She was at her most beautiful like this, Harry thought, watching her as she somersaulted on the broom, then zoomed towards the ground. Her teammates followed. She was at her most beautiful like this: full of life and excitement and determination.

Ron was elbowing him, commenting something or other, and Percy had pulled out his wand—probably to fix his throat—but Harry didn’t pay attention to either of them, so focused was he on Ginny and the blush in her cheeks. The other team had come down as well, and they were shaking hands. He spotted Oliver, who—despite having lost—was grinning at Ginny as she shook his hand.

“Perce, you and Oliver coming to the pub with us?” Ron was asking, leaning over Harry.

“Yes, come,” Harry agreed. He hadn’t spoken to Oliver in a while. He seemed to be doing well on the not drowning himself in the shower after a lost game front, if the display on the lawn was anything to go by, but Harry wanted to talk to him about the Little League.

“I don’t know.” Percy frowned. He clearly looked like he wanted to. “I’ll ask Oliver—oh, sod it, I’ll come alone if I have to—”

“That’s the spirit!” George, sitting on the other side of Percy, bumped his shoulder. “His consolation prize can wait, honestly.” He waggled his eyebrows and Percy rolled his eyes at him, cheeks slightly pink.

They filtered out with the crowd, and Harry went to wait for Ginny outside the changing rooms while the others went to the pub to hog tables.

Ginny was still flushed when she came out, and Harry greeted her with a deep kiss. “You were amazing,” he said.

She kissed him back. “Thank you, handsome.” Some of Ginny’s teammates walked out behind her, and she took a moment to engage in some mutual positive reinforcement, which included a chorused yell of the team motto and complicated high-fives. Ginny’s captain paused for long enough to give Ginny a hug and a whispered something or other which had Ginny’s cheeks flushed with pride.

“The others went ahead to the pub,” Harry said, when she was done, and kissed her again. “We’re going to celebrate your win.”

“Yeah?” Ginny got into his space, arms slinking around him. “Want to skip home from the pub early? Or skip the pub entirely?”

“No, I want to celebrate in the pub,” Harry said. “Everybody is there. And I want to talk to Oliver.”

She leaned in to whisper. “We could go home first. I’m in the mood for some insanely celebratory shagging.”

Harry threaded his fingers through her damp hair. “Can’t we go to the pub first? We can leave early.” He put his nose into her hair, partially to hide his face and partially because he knew Ginny liked when he did that. Her hair smelled lovely, floral and sweet.

It wasn’t lying when one was being evasive, right? Leave early meant different things to different people, and if Harry left it late enough he’d be too soused to get up to anything with Ginny, which saved him the embarrassment of plain turning her down. He just…wasn’t in the mood.

He was never in the mood, if he had to be entirely honest with himself, but he didn’t want to be—because then he’d have to think about how odd that was, how wrong, and how maybe, that part of him had died in the forest—

Ginny, however, seemed to have caught on, because she pulled away. “If you don’t want to have sex with me you can just say it,” she said, hard lines all over her face. “Instead of doing this avoidance ritual every time.”

“I’m not—” Harry bit down on his tongue. “I just wanted to have a couple of pints first,” he said, pushing down the niggling fear and sense of wrongness, to somewhere deep enough that it couldn’t, wouldn’t, come back and bother him.

Everything was fine. He just wasn’t in the mood. That didn’t mean he didn’t love her.

She snorted. Her arms were crossed now. “Really.”

“Yeah?”

“No.” She shook her head. Her voice had taken on a sharp, angry tone. “It’s the same bullshit every time,” she snapped. “What’s the problem? What the fuck is the problem? Why is it you never fucking want to fuck me?”

“That’s not true,” Harry said, taking a step away. He was acutely aware of how loud Ginny was, and that there were people outside and some still in the changing rooms, and this really wasn’t the place to have this fight, or any fight at all. “It’s not never—”

“Bloody feels like it!”

“Maybe if you didn’t always want it it wouldn’t be a problem!” The words slipped out before Harry knew he was going to say them, and then it was too late to take them back.

Ginny’s face crumpled. She turned away, holding herself stiffly—too stiffly, and Harry wanted nothing more than to turn seven seconds back in time and stop himself from ever saying those words.

“Gin,” he said, rubbing his face. “Let’s just go home.”

“No.” Ginny turned on him. “You can go to the fucking pub if you want to, but I’m going home.” She didn’t wait for him to respond, only slid her wand out of her sleeve, picked up her gear bag, and Disapparated, leaving Harry alone in the foyer of the club.

Great. Perfect. Just…fucking dandy.

Harry Apparated home.

Ginny wasn’t there. There was actually no sign she’d come home at all; her bag wasn’t there, and her shoes weren’t in the hall. Harry called out anyway, but got no response. She’d gone…home. Home.

It’d been a while since Ginny had gone home to the Burrow after a fight, and Harry had honestly thought…thought what? That they were past that kind of difficulties? If anything, the difficulties they’d been having had only become more pronounced now they didn’t have other people to hide behind.

It was just the two of them now, had been just the two of them for four short weeks, and all the ways in which they didn’t quite fit had become glaringly obvious. Harry had stubbornly ignored it.

He loved her. It was enough, wasn’t it? It had to be enough. He needed it to be enough.

Harry stood in the middle of the empty living room, staring at the bookcase in the corner—still empty—and felt utterly and completely dejected. He went to bed.

Their friends could make whatever assumptions about his and Ginny’s conspicuous absence that they wanted.

Ginny didn’t come home the following day and wasn’t responding to owls (Hilde returned increasingly antsy and aggressive every time Harry sent her out with another letter), so Harry took the opportunity to unpack the rest of the boxes and search for his books. They were meant to have a housewarming party, but boxes were still stacked in the living room (what was even in those boxes, Harry wondered, he couldn’t recall seriously missing any items), and they just hadn’t got around to it.

By all accounts it was normal to have unpacked boxes for a long time—George used to joke that he dealt with so many boxes at work that he just couldn’t be arsed to deal with those at home—but the boxes made Harry uneasy. Like they hadn’t finished moving in together, like the process could be interrupted, reversed, made undone.

The fact that he and Ginny currently weren’t on speaking terms didn’t help at all to dispel that feeling.

Harry discovered a mismatched set of spatulas and stirring spoons in a box with a stuffed animal and a broken lamp. He didn’t recognise the stuffed animal, but it looked old and well loved—Ginny’s? Or did it belong to one of his kids? He set the animal aside, threw out the lamp, and put the cooking utensils in the kitchen. Ginny had already purchased a brand-new set to replace this one, when they hadn’t been able to find it, but Harry liked the blue spoon. They’d picked it out together in a second-hand shop on Direction Alley, the same week Harry had officially moved out from Ron and Hermione’s and in with Ginny and her flat share.

They hadn’t bought any new things together for this flat, not really. Harry had bought the bookcase all on his own, had seen it in the window of a Muggle shop near the Quidditch Daycare.

He went through several boxes, systematically finding places for his and Ginny’s shared stuff, throwing out things that were either broken or that they’d clearly not been missing (including several of Uncle Vernon’s cast-off socks that Harry was mystified as to why they were still around—he took great pleasure in setting them on fire) and moving onwards with the process.

Maybe, if Harry could complete the moving in process, it would make a difference. As if by unpacking some boxes he could…magically fix what was wrong between him and Ginny. Or fill up that hole inside that should be all for Ginny, that strange, unalive mass at his core that did nothing but cause him anxiety whenever he tried to wake it up.

He eventually uncovered his books in the very last box in the living room. There weren’t many, but they were his. The photo book Hagrid had given him, the battered book about the Chudley Cannons Ron had given him, Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare (from Hermione), Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland (also from Hermione), Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches (from Ron, and Harry paused at it, wondering if he’d ever actually opened it) and the set of Practical Defense Magic books that Sirius and Remus had given him. Harry placed the books in the bookcase: they all fit neatly into the topmost shelf, with room to spare.

It was a small collection, but it was all his—gifts from people who cared about him. Harry regarded the books, battered and worn, several spines showing cracks. Only one appeared new. He rearranged them, first alphabetically by author or editor, then by topic, then by gifter, then by size, then by colour, then again by gifter. He placed the photo book on the shelf below, because it was a different type of book, and the Practical Defense Magic on the shelf below that one and kept the Quidditch books on the top shelf. The copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches was technically a self-help book and probably the same type as the Broomcare Handbook, but Harry didn’t like putting them together. Broomcare stayed with Quidditch. Twelve Ways… Harry weighed the book in his palm. It was a ridiculous book, but it had been a gift from his best friend. He couldn’t dream of throwing it away. In the end, he placed it on the same shelf as the photo book, but leaning against the opposite wall.

The bookcase didn’t look any more filled out now, with his meagre collection spread over three different shelves (with three empty shelves still), but it looked nicer, in that way where Harry’s heart was feeling less like an echo chamber and more like a small storage closet.

He’d go to Flourish and Blotts tomorrow, Harry decided. He’d pick out a book all by himself and read it and keep it in the bookcase.

Satisfied with this resolve, Harry tidied up.

When he finished and was about to order food and maybe write Ginny another owl, Mrs Weasley’s owl arrived with a letter from Ginny.

Harry,

I’m staying at the Burrow for a week. I need some space and to spend time with my mum and think about what I really want out of this relationship. I need you to do the same. Please. I’ll see you on Sunday. We’ll talk then.

I love you.

Ginny

It was ending. That was what was happening.

It wasn’t like the first time either, when Harry had broken up with Ginny during the War to protect her. It’d been temporary—they loved each other, they were going to see each other again, when the War was over, when everything was over. They were going to be together again.

It was over now, and it was ending.

Harry arrived for his shift at the Archive with wind-blown hair and mud on his robes because he’d been too distracted to pay attention and had been bowled over by an overly enthusiastic Betty. He arrived late, and hungry, but in that way where the hunger didn’t feel real, like it was a separate entity from his body. He collided with Malfoy on the way in.

“Sorry,” Harry said automatically, but then his senses caught up with him. “Oh, Malfoy, hi. Were you…leaving?”

Malfoy’s cheeks were pink. “I thought you weren’t in,” he said. He wasn’t looking at Harry; he was patting down the front of his robes, as if to put them back in order, but they were pristine as far as Harry could see. Suddenly he frowned. “You have mud on your cloak.”

“Yes,” Harry said, glancing down at himself. He should probably do something about that. “I’m. Uhm.”

“Yes, evidently,” said Malfoy. He hovered uncertainly inside the door.

Harry thought Malfoy had maybe got a new haircut. It looked slightly different from before. It made his face look softer. Or maybe it was just the light. Or the fact Malfoy was looking at Harry like he wanted to say a lot of things but didn’t know which thing to say. “Did you want to research some murders or something?” Harry eventually said. “Didn’t you just get started on the 18th century Ireland collection last week?”

“Yes.” Malfoy drew out the little black notebook from some invisible pocket or other and extracted a folded request form. He unfolded it slowly, then held it in his hand as if he wasn’t sure whether to give it to Harry or not.

Harry realised they were both still standing in the open doorway when a gust of wind nudged at the door, making it creak. “Go on, then,” he said.

Malfoy seemed to realise this also, because he took a step backwards, cheeks pinking again, and turned towards the front desk. Harry rushed in, catching up with him and giving Albert a frazzled greeting as he slid around Malfoy and to his spot behind the desk.

“Right, so,” Harry said. He hadn’t taken his muddy cloak off yet. “Let’s see that form.”

It didn’t take long to get Malfoy’s documents. They did their thing, floating out of the boxes of their own accord as Harry waited, but Harry had to pause. Take a breath. Two breaths. Three.

Everything was off kilter. Ginny was going to break up with him. Harry knew it as surely as he knew the colour of the sky.

The knowledge threatened to steal all his breath.

Harry closed his eyes, focused his breathing, and thought about the next steps. The ex libris list. The trolley. The levitating platform that wasn’t an elevator. The hallway. The reading hall. The painting with the meadow. Malfoy sitting below the painting, waiting.

When he finally emerged from the strongroom with Malfoy’s documents, he felt calmer. He’d spelled the mud off his cloak while the platform transported him back upstairs and paused to drop it off behind the desk. His hair was a lost cause, as usual.

Ginny was going to break up with him, but he could handle it. Would handle it. Had to handle it.

The meadow in the painting was flattened by wind and dark clouds filled the sky. The bunnies that lived in the painting didn’t show themselves.

“You all set?” Harry parked the trolley by Malfoy’s desk.

“Yes, thank you.” Malfoy looked like himself again, all collected and polite and distant.

Harry had the sudden urge to tell him about Ginny. My girlfriend is leaving me. No—he couldn’t do that. Saying it aloud would make it real. No. But he wanted to say something, so what came out of his mouth was: “Do you read books?”

Malfoy froze in the middle of reaching for a folder. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, already retreating. It’d been a stupid question. Stupid to think he could talk to Malfoy, of all people. “Forget I asked.” He fled the reading hall.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. He retrieved documents for other patrons, helped Fraunces catalogue a collection of letters from an apothecary, and thought about Ginny every second he wasn’t thinking about shorthand, or which order the letters should go in.

A few minutes before closing time, Malfoy dutifully brought the trolley of documents back to the front desk, and Harry sorted him out a new request form.

“I do read books,” Malfoy said, as he was folding the new form in two. He did it very carefully, and very neatly, so that the crease lined up perfectly with the column divide in the middle of the form. He didn’t look at Harry as he said it, he was looking at the form, placing it with great care inside the black notebook.

Harry had the feeling that Malfoy was being shy. Under normal circumstances that would be an intriguing idea, something to be investigated and be curious about, but as it were, Harry didn’t have any space in his head for it. He just wanted to go home. “Oh,” he said.

“Did you…want a recommendation?” Malfoy asked, looking at Harry at last.

“Yes,” Harry found himself saying.

“Oh.” Malfoy paused. “Well. What kind of books do you like to read?”

There was no answer to that. Harry abruptly did not want to have this conversation. He wanted to go home. Talk to Ginny, try to convince her not to leave, that they could…work through it. They could. They had to.

“Potter?”

“I don’t know,” Harry managed to tell him. “I don’t know where to start or what to do or what I like.”

“Oh.” There was an odd quality to Malfoy’s voice now, and Harry tried not to notice. “Have you…forgive me for asking, but have you read books before?”

“I know how to read, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. He instantly regretted it—Malfoy’s face shuttered, and he’d taken a small step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“That’s quite all right,” Malfoy said, but he had that formal, polite tone back in his voice. He hovered there for just a moment too long, as if he didn’t know what to do next.

Harry didn’t blame him; he didn’t know what to do either.

Malfoy turned and left. The door closed behind him with a snick, and Harry stared at it resentfully.

“If you’re trying to make friends with our resident murder boy, you’re not being very good at it,” Albert said from somewhere behind Harry, almost startling him off his chair.

Trying to be friends? Harry stared at Malfoy’s overflowing trolley, all the differently coloured binders and folders containing meticulously written coroner reports. He stood up, deciding to just get on with it and take it back to the strongroom.

He said something to Albert and then left. All the patrons had left, and all Harry had to do was the little closing up things, and then he could go home, only nobody was home.

I need some space and to spend time with my mum and think about what I really want out of this relationship.

Think about what I really want out of this relationship. What I really want. Out of this relationship. The words had burned themselves into Harry’s brain and wouldn’t leave. Had Ginny really been that unhappy with him that…it’d come to this?

What was worse than the fact Ginny was breaking up with him, was the fact Harry was irrationally jealous that she could choose to just go home for a break. Harry was stuck in their shared apartment, in the interrupted next stage of their life together, with no parent to talk to.

I need you to do the same.

He’d almost told Malfoy about this all. There was nobody he knew who was wholly in his corner, the way a parent would be, or an older sibling, or even a cousin. Malfoy arguably wasn’t in his corner at all, but he was kind of nobody, which was better than…than Ron.

Please.

Harry slammed the door so hard it rattled in the frame. The flat was empty, the living room was empty, the kitchen was empty, and Ginny’s note sat on the table. Please. He didn’t need a week to think about what he wanted out of this relationship, he already bloody knew what he wanted.

He wanted Ginny to love him. He wanted to…to get to love her back freely, without expectations, without constantly having to navigate around a black hole of nothing.

I’ll see you on Sunday. We’ll talk then.

I love you.

Harry threw himself into work. When he wasn’t teaching five-year-olds basic flying and Quaffle handling (they were not ready for Bludgers yet), or at the Archive alternating between fetching patrons documents and cataloguing the odd little collection, he was working tirelessly on putting together a Little League team.

He had meetings with Faulkner and Pomeroy, he put a notice in the Prophet for team try-outs (and then took it out already the following day when he’d received more sign ups than he could handle), he finally secured a sponsor for brooms and another for uniforms, he held try-outs, he formally signed the team up for the League, he chose a charity (well, three charities) to support, found a venue to train the team at, he did…everything. And he did it without Ginny’s help, even if she was supposed to help him. She was supposed to be there, and she wasn’t.

Come Friday, he was exhausted. He’d cancelled lunch with Hermione—actually, he’d cancelled and declined every single social commitment that week—so he could spend his lunch break owling parents the training schedule and the tentative dates for the first games he’d received from Pomeroy. The cut-off for joining the League wasn’t for another week, and the real schedule wouldn’t be drawn up and revealed until after that.

Malfoy hadn’t come to the Archive that morning, which was both a disappointment and a relief. They didn’t really speak to one another—that communicative mishap Harry had committed on Monday had rather put a dampener on whatever friendship there might’ve been growing between them—but Harry had grown accustomed to Malfoy’s presence in the Archive and had been looking forward to seeing how he’d progress with his research today.

He’d also become keenly aware that every day he had been looking forward to a few minutes of awkward conversation with Malfoy, and that he probably shouldn’t have been.

Still, Harry had expected Malfoy to come in. Was he ill? He hadn’t looked chronically sleep deprived of late, but anyone could be felled by illness unexpectedly…

“Harry?” Mildred appeared in the doorway to the break room. “There you are, love. I think your friend is waiting for you.”

“My friend?” Harry put the stopper in the ink bottle; he’d finished the letters anyway.

“Yes, our murder boy,” she said. “He’s loitering out front. He’s not doing a very good job at pretending to be casual. He keeps looking in the windows.”

Malfoy had come. Harry pushed the chair back and nearly toppled it over in his haste to get to the front desk.

The moment he reached his usual chair the front door opened and Malfoy came in. Harry tried to suppress a grin; he’d have to ask him sometime what this all was about, but for now he was just pleased to see him.

“Hullo, Malfoy,” he said. “How is our favourite murder boy doing today?”

Harry could’ve sunk into the ground the moment he realised what he’d just said. Malfoy was staring at him, a faint crease between his eyebrows, and then—suddenly—his cheeks turned a bright red.

That was an interesting development. It was also the first sign of blatant emotion Harry could remember seeing on Malfoy’s face since…well, since he’d first stepped into the archive.

“Sorry about that,” Harry said. “It’s, uh, we shouldn’t really give patrons nicknames, but you’re…because of the coroner reports,” he tried to explain, “not because of, uhm, the War. I mean, you didn’t kill anyone. Directly.”

“Right,” Malfoy said. The crease deepened and his eyebrows did a funny thing that made him look uncertain. That, paired with the still flaming red cheeks, made him look…cute.

Mystified, and not altogether unaffected by his admission that Malfoy was looking cute, Harry tried to pull himself together. “So…more of those for you today, then?”

“Actually—yes, thank you—but actually, I have something for you,” he said, reaching inside his cloak. He drew out the little black notebook, and then also four books of differing sizes, all with brightly decorated covers. “Here.” He kept the notebook, but handed the books to Harry.

Harry stared at the small stack. The topmost book had a black star strewn cover, with a large non-earth like planet on it and a space ship in front, and the title printed in large silvery letters.

“Those are some books I’ve enjoyed,” Malfoy said. If possible, his cheeks were even redder. “You asked, the other day. I thought maybe you’d like to try them.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Something in his belly roared up and whispered, tickling his diaphragm. Excitement, and curiosity, and something deeply pleased that Malfoy had thought of him.

Malfoy pointed. “That one is a classic, a coming of age novel about a wizard, not personally my favourite but it’s not bad. It’s, ah, a cultural corner stone? The saying to be as stubborn as a cabbage comes from there. And that one is a Muggle romance novel, that is to say, it’s not written by a Muggle, but it’s about a wizard who falls in love with one. It came out last year. That one is a collection of poetry, which I don’t know if you like, but I thought it amusing and clever. Critics hated it, though. And that one on top is a Muggle novel.” Malfoy leaned closer. “It’s a science fiction novel,” he whispered, as if imparting some great, wondrous secret, “about Muggles in space. It’s very exciting.”

And then, before Harry could react—he was certain Malfoy had never said as many words to him before as just now—Malfoy’s face drew together into a more blank mask, and he fidgeted with his notebook instead of looking at Harry.

“Of course I suppose you know all about Muggles and science,” he said. “So it must seem silly to you.”

“Not at all.” Harry looked at the cover of the science fiction novel again. “Thank you.” He opened the cover to look inside and found a neat little piece of ornate parchment stuck to the reverse. The decorative band along the edge looked drawn by hand, depicting rows of planets and space ships and little people in space suits tethered to them. In the centre it had two lines, ex libris followed by Draco Malfoy, and then there was a tiny number 137 scribbled at the very bottom.

“That’s a lovely bookplate,” Harry said, hoping against hope that his voice didn’t sound as unsteady as he felt.

“You can borrow them for as long as you’d like,” Malfoy said quietly, almost inaudibly.

Harry closed the book carefully and put the stack down on the desk. “Thank you,” he said, again, keenly aware that he’d been given a tremendous gift. He still felt breathless. “Now. Let’s see about those murders, shall we?”

The meadow painting was sunny and a few butterflies Harry was certain he’d never seen before fluttered over the grass. They were a bright blue, bluer than the sky and brighter than the sun, and too early in the season to exist.

Harry should’ve gone back to the front desk, but he’d wanted to steal a look at the books Malfoy had brought so he skipped into the break room. He’d put them there, out of harm’s way, and had just opened the science fiction novel again to look at the bookplate Malfoy had made, when Mildred came back.

“We’ve a staff meeting on Monday before you come in and we need to rearrange some things,” she said, showing him a neatly filled out form. “Your murder boy friend sent this in last night. It’s a request for two things, a private research room and a designated research assistant, and it says here,” she indicated a rubric near the bottom, “that he wants you.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” Harry said automatically. “I just fetch things and put them in order.” He eyed the form. Malfoy had requested him specifically?

“Same thing,” Mildred said. “Would you mind?”

“No,” Harry said. “So long as my schedule won’t change. But I like being at the front desk.”

“Geoffrey just got handed a massive collection, an entire estate’s worth, down in Kent, so he’ll be doing that for the foreseeable future,” she said. “It’s months of work, and he’s taking two trainees with him. We need somebody to cover the private research. That’s your murder boy friend here, and three other rooms. I can get Annie to cover the mornings and Tuesdays, but we need the extra help.”

“All right,” Harry agreed. He could do that. Maybe he’d even learn more about Malfoy’s research and what he was doing it for. “Do I still get to help cataloguing sometimes?”

Mildred made a sound somewhere between assent and dissent. “We’ll probably need that help more than ever with Geoffrey and two trainees gone.” She levelled a look at him. “You know, you could take the course and get certified, become a proper trainee and full-time archivist down the line.”

Harry hesitated. He’d taken this job only to have something to do, and greeting people and fetching documents and occasionally helping with the cataloguing seemed as good a job as any other. Learning the actual ropes? He’d never considered it. On the other hand, he might need something to do after spring, if he ended up closing the daycare (not that he wanted to close the daycare).

“You’ve got the head for it,” Mildred added. “And I believe there’s a course starting in a few weeks at the College.”

“There is?” Harry asked, interested despite himself. “But…” He had his days full, with both the daycare and his regular archive shifts and now also the Little League. “Do I get my own office?”

“Maybe,” she said. “If you get the certification.”

Harry wavered. He and the volunteers were the only ones who didn’t have their own offices. Whatever cataloguing work he did was always done with somebody else, in their office, or in one of the work rooms where they had the space to deal with large amounts of files. “But I have the daycare also,” he said.

“It’s an evening course,” Mildred said, smiling triumphantly. “Anyway, I need to get back to this. I’ll put you down for research duty, then?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said, wondering what the hell was happening with his life.

“Brilliant. See you on Monday, Harry. Have a good weekend.” She vanished down the corridor.

“Yes. You too!” Harry called after her. He looked at the books Malfoy had brought, but instead of examining them he put them away. Then he went to the front desk and went over the collection of pamphlets and brochures they had displayed beneath the clock until he found the one about the archivist course.

There was a course starting up the week after next, and it was an evening course. There was a full time and part time option, a manageable enrolment fee, and Harry surprised himself with how interested he was. There was a course module called Record-keeping Theory and Practice, and another called Medieval Palaeography, and another called Managing Services, Access and Preservation. All in all, there were about twelve modules, six core modules, the rest optional, to be taken over the course of two years if part time. He pocketed the pamphlet and went back to the desk, deep in thought.

Ginny came back Sunday morning, and the moment Harry laid eyes on her he knew it was over.

She hadn’t brought her bag.

She looked like she’d been crying.

She sat on the sofa next to him, slowly, gingerly, like she didn’t really want to, like any sudden movement from her would shatter the earth.

Harry put the course pamphlet, which he’d been using as a bookmark, between the pages of the book he was reading, and closed it. He’d started with the science fiction novel. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” Ginny looked at the book in his hands, then at the other three books sitting on the coffee table. “You got books.”

“Malfoy lent them to me,” Harry said, putting the book on the table.

Ginny’s eyes followed the book, then flicked up to meet Harry’s. Her eyes were clear, even if red from crying, and there was a strange light in them, a kind of resolve and wonder. “You’re friends now, then?”

“No, not really. He just lent me some books.” Harry shrugged, like it was nothing, but he felt like he was lying. “I have a Little League team,” he said, changing the topic. “I sent in the formal registration. We’re having our first training session tomorrow afternoon. More like, I’ll get the team together and we’ll all get to know each other, but there will be brooms involved.”

“You’ve been busy,” Ginny said, hint of surprise in her voice. “You got all that done this week?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged again. He didn’t say what he was thinking; that he’d needed to keep himself busy and distracted so he wouldn’t have to think about how they were breaking up.

Beside him, Ginny drew in a deep breath. “Harry,” she started, then stopped.

“You’re not staying,” Harry said. He looked at her. “I—” What was there to say? What he wanted, she wouldn’t—couldn’t?—give him, and what she wanted…Harry couldn’t give her either.

“Can I ask you something?” Ginny’s voice was small, unsteady.

“Of course.”

“I’ve been wondering,” she said, picking at a loose thread in her jeans, “if…if the reason you don’t want me is because you’re gay. Because I think I could live with that. Because…then it’s not me.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “I’m not,” he said, “I don’t think so, anyway. But it’s not you, I swear. I love you. I just…” he trailed off, trying to find the words.

“I don’t doubt that you love me,” she said, after a while. “But you don’t want me. You…having sex with me, it’s like a chore, for you. And I deserve better, you know? I want more than…that.” Her lip was wobbling, now, but she wasn’t crying.

Maybe it was sheer force of will. Maybe she’d just already done the crying, so she wouldn’t have to do it again in front of him.

It was unfair, because Harry’s throat had tied itself into a knot, and his eyes were burning. “I know,” he said. It was unfair, because he wanted things too, and here Ginny was making it out like he was the only one who couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t—

“I met someone,” Ginny then said. “It’s a girl, if you’ll believe it. I don’t know if I like her because I’m not as straight as I thought I was, or if it’s because she looks at me like—like I’m the hottest woman in the entire world, but she makes me feel wanted. And I want that. I need that.”

The right thing to do would be to say something like you should go for it or I’m happy for you, but Harry actually just wanted to scream.

“I’m sorry I can’t be what you want,” he said, forcing the words out through the knot in his throat. “I wanted to be enough for you. I wanted it to be enough that I love you, that nothing else mattered, or…”

“To be perfectly honest, Harry, I don’t think I’m what you want me to be, either, and I don’t want to change who I am for you, or anyone else.” Ginny gave him an imploring look. “Are you absolutely certain you’re not gay? It would explain the…lack of interest.”

“I’m pretty sure. I love you, don’t I?”

“You had a crush on Cedric.”

“I had a crush on Cho,” Harry corrected, annoyance rising up in him. His eyes were no longer burning, but his throat still felt rotten and now he was arguing about…what? His sexual orientation? As far as he was concerned, he probably didn’t actually have one, because it’d likely died when he’d died. Back in the forest, all those years ago now. Only he’d come back, and it hadn’t.

Ginny was still looking at him. “You were weird about him.”

“I don’t fucking know what I feel—felt—for Cedric,” Harry snapped. “It was bloody complicated. And it didn’t matter anyway. He died.”

“All right,” she said, eventually. She stood up. “I’ll…just grab some of my stuff and come back for the rest later.”

“The rest?” Harry gestured around the living room. “Most of this stuff is ours.”

“Keep it, toss it, I don’t care,” Ginny said. “What do you want to do about the flat? I think I can withdraw from the lease if you want to stay, but I don’t want to just leave you hanging with the rent all by yourself…”

Harry rubbed his face. All his conflicted emotions were gathering in his belly and threatening to turn into rage.

He needed this to be over.

“I don’t bloody know,” he said. “Just…take your things and go.”

Ginny didn’t hesitate.

Harry dropped his face into his hands, trying to will his emotions to calm, to keep his breathing even, to not feel like he wanted to walk out the door and never come back. From the bedroom came the sounds of drawers and wardrobe doors opening and closing, clinks of bottles from the bathroom: the sounds of Ginny packing herself up and out and away from his life.

She came out eventually, trunk floating after her. Harry did the decent thing and stood up to see her out.

“I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly just exhausted. The lump was back.

“Me too, Harry.” She pulled him into a crushing hug. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah,” he croaked, breathing in the scent of her hair. Floral and sweet. “You too.”

She let go, so he let go, and then she was out the door.

Chapter Text

Harry was tired, not because he’d slept badly, but because he’d stayed up until two in the morning reading the science fiction novel Malfoy had lent him. He’d drawn up a bath and thrown in his last bath bomb (a sunset bomb with lavender and other things, designed to calm and induce sleep), and had only come out of the bath when the water had cooled completely, and he was tired enough to almost drop the book into it. Harry had dragged himself to bed, then, with the scent of lavender in his hair and faint glitter residue on his skin following him there.

All of the hurt and upset from the breakup had as good as evaporated the second Ginny had walked out, leaving behind only hopelessness and anger. As it turned out, when one was angry and dejected, reading about humans and aliens in space not doing much else but existing and having relationships and cross-cultural blunders was strangely uplifting. There was a political subplot, but not one that had democracy and welfare weighed against war and death and it was…nice.

It had made him forget, if only for the duration of reading, that he was just Harry, lying alone in a bed he’d shared with another person for years, in an apartment that was meant to be a new beginning.

It appeared it was still a new beginning, but not the one Harry had wished for.

Harry let the kids do whatever they wanted on their brooms that morning, so long as they did it with a Quaffle, and sat back to watch that they didn’t accidentally kill each other. He thought about the book, about the implausibility and absurdity of an alien and human forming a romantic and sexual connection, but how in the book it’d been the most natural progression of events culminating in a loving, respectful relationship.

He wondered which parts of the book Malfoy had enjoyed. The science? The people? The political plot? The romantic plot? Space? The almost extremely non-magical Muggleness of it? He wondered if Ginny would’ve enjoyed it, and realised he didn’t know.

Betty scraped her knee falling off her broom and Harry put his thoughts aside for a moment to convince her to let him patch her up. He kept a closer eye on the kids after that and had almost shaken his brain out of the unending cycle of despair and anger and vile feeling of injustice and jealousy by the time he met Hermione for lunch.

“Mate!” Ron rose to greet him, thumping him on the back. “I heard about the Little League! That’s brilliant.”

“Hey,” Harry said, suddenly fighting a lump in his throat at the sight of him. He turned to hug Hermione to buy himself a few seconds to get rid of it.

They sat. “Which charity are you supporting?” Hermione asked, handing him a menu.

“The, uh, I picked three charities, three-way split so everyone gets an equal share,” Harry said. He was going to have to work on this for the inevitable press interviews. “The Janus Thickey Trust, The Children of War Charity, and The Lupin Trust for Werewolves in Need.”

“I thought the rule was one charity,” Hermione commented with an eyebrow raised. Beside her, Ron shook his head, grinning.

“It was more like a guideline,” Harry answered. “Anyway, they weren’t going to tell me I couldn’t support more than one charity, you know?” Oliver had told him that once rumour spread that he was joining the project, interest had increased. Seemed like suddenly people were interested in charitable work as soon as there was a chance to be in the same league as Harry Potter. “Come to all the games. Your ticket money will go to several good causes.”

They were interrupted, then, by the waiter who’d come to take their order. Harry had no appetite at all. He gave his friends quick glances, then ordered a small starter and nothing else.

He noticed Hermione and Ron sharing a look.

“Harry,” Hermione started, as soon as the waiter was gone. “Is—”

“Ginny and I broke up,” Harry said, wanting to get it over with.

There. The words were out. It was made real.

Ron and Hermione shared another look.

“Is that why you’ve been impossible to get in touch with?” Ron asked. “I heard from Mum that Ginny had been at home since Saturday last week. She asked me to check in with you, only you’ve been an elusive bastard.”

Harry didn’t want to have this conversation. “Kind of,” he eventually said. “We—yesterday,” he clarified. “So…that’s that.” He avoided Ron’s eyes, looking instead at Hermione, who was wearing that infuriating understanding expression on her face. “I was busy with Little League prep last week.”

“So…you’re not going to fix it?” Ron asked.

“No.” The word rolled off his tongue of its own accord, bringing with it a sense of relief, and freedom, and a kind of…exhilarating release. Even as he felt a pang of grief, for all that he’d wanted, and all that he’d hoped for…and a pinch in his chest, for the love he still carried for her. “No,” he repeated, with greater conviction. “This is it.”

Ron was frowning. “I could talk to Ginny,” he offered, but there was doubt in his voice. Hermione was shaking her head.

“No.” Harry drew in a breath. “This was a long time coming,” he admitted. “Ginny’s already met someone else, and…” He tried for a casual shrug. “It’s probably a good thing.”

“And you? How are you dealing?” Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged. “Better than expected.”

“I’d say!” This was Ron. “Bloody hell, mate, I was expecting to have to wipe you up from the floor.” He slapped a hand over his face, rubbing his chin. “You all right, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. It only felt like half a lie.

Ron and Hermione shared yet another look.

“Have you met someone new?” Hermione asked.

Unbidden, Malfoy came to Harry’s mind with such speed that he was left reeling.

“No,” he said. It felt like a whole lie.

Even if…even if Malfoy was responsible for making Harry feel all sorts of silly things, he didn’t want to put him into the met someone category, which was a dumb, undefinable category with a host of uncomfortable connotations attached to it.

And even if Malfoy could maybe be someone he’d met, it didn’t matter. This entire thing with Ginny had proved one thing to Harry: he couldn’t do relationships right. He couldn’t do love right. Everywhere he looked love seemed to involve a physicality that Harry couldn’t relate to and didn’t want. It was a bit like getting drunk, really, the getting drunk part was nice, but the hangover was awful. Only, Harry would rather have a nasty hangover than the inevitable downward emotional swing that always came after sex these days; an ugly mixture of rotten mood and the feeling that he couldn’t be in his own skin, sprinkled with sadness and irritability. It wasn’t worth it.

Whatever sprouting feelings Malfoy had sown in him, Harry was going to nip in the bud.

Ron and Hermione were both giving him speculative looks, Harry realised, and he decided to change the topic. “How is Project Baby coming along?”

To his astonishment, they both flushed bright red, but instead of it being some kind of awkward embarrassment, it appeared to be a symptom of acute delight and pride.

“That’s why I brought Ron along,” Hermione said, her smile brightening up the room. Ron was looking at her like she’d hung the moon. “We thought we’d wait until some more time had passed, but…”

“We couldn’t wait,” Ron said, beaming. He laced his fingers with Hermione’s and for a second Harry thought they might start making out in the middle of the restaurant.

“That’s great news!” He got out of his chair to give them hugs, pushing down the sudden bout of jealousy and hurt. “That’s wonderful.” Ron was tearing up, so Harry thumped him on the back. Hermione he gave a tight hug and a kiss on the temple. He could be—he would be happy for his friends. He was happy for his friends. It didn’t matter that he and Ginny never—it didn’t matter.

“Thank you,” she said, levelling an adoring look at her husband. They couldn’t stop grinning, and Harry couldn’t honestly fault them, even as he battled with his own mixed feelings.

The food arrived, and they spent the remainder of their lunch hour talking about due dates and check-ups and possible names, and eventually also the Quidditch Little League. Nobody brought Ginny up again, for which Harry was grateful.

“Hullo,” Harry said in greeting the moment Malfoy came through the front door. He’d been waiting for him to turn up; he’d already been filled in on his new rota of tasks and seen to two of the research rooms and all that was left was Malfoy. “How’s our favourite murder boy today?”

Malfoy stopped short, cheeks red. “They’re not all murders,” he said, softly. “Most are natural deaths and accidents.”

Harry couldn’t help the fond grin spreading on his face. “Of course.”

“Have you, ah, processed my request?”

“Do you mean the part about a private research room, or the part about me?” Harry asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds. There was professionalism, and then there was…this.

“Both,” Malfoy replied. He was smiling too, now, though his cheeks seemed to be a stronger shade of pink. “What’s the status?”

“All clear. Come with me.” Harry pushed himself off the door jamb he’d been leaning against and gestured for Malfoy to follow.

He led him down the same hallway that lead to the reading hall, but this time he turned to the last of several short hallways on the left, each lined with two to four doors. “We have a bunch of vacancies at the moment, and I got you the corner study,” he said. “It has two windows.” He turned down the furthest of the short hallways and stopped at the farthest door on the right, and opened it.

“Oh,” said Malfoy, following him into the study. It was relatively small, but there was a desk, a chair, and several empty shelves. There were two windows, facing north and east respectively, and a small painting of a cherry tree. “It’s suitable.”

“I should think so.” Harry grinned. “One of the perks of having private study rooms is that they’re untouchable by anyone who doesn’t have authorised access, which means that only the user—you—and the staff here, can enter. So any documents you request up from the strongrooms can stay here for as long as you need them.”

“No returning them every day and getting new request slips made?”

“Exactly.”

“So…theoretically, I could call up the entire collection of coroner reports and keep in here until I’m done with them?” Malfoy was inspecting the empty shelves.

“Yes.”

“Marvellous.” Malfoy turned to face Harry. He’d extracted his notebook from some pocket or other and was pulling out the latest request slip. “For now, I’d just like this, please.”

Harry took the slip, but before he went to fetch the documents, he walked Malfoy through the rules and restrictions. They were much the same as for the reading hall, but there was greater personal freedom to be had. “Grad students often get one of these for their dissertation research and writing. There’s one in the room next door.”

“And…how does the personal research assistant thing work, exactly?”

“Pull the string.” Harry showed him a concealed bell string near the desk. “That’ll ring a bell backstage—actually, these days it’s a lamp, not a bell, and it’ll stay lit until I turn it off—and I’ll come to you. I’m assigned to you and three others, so if I’m not there right away chances are I’m helping somebody else, but I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Malfoy smiled. “Thank you, Potter.” He seated himself at the desk and laid out the notebook and the pencil.

Harry went to fetch him the documents he wanted. When he came back, Malfoy was studying the painting of the cherry tree. It was naked—like the meadow painting, it reflected the current weather and season, as did all the paintings in the archive—but there was a bird sitting on a branch. The sun hit it just so that its feathers shimmered in the light, reflecting back a multitude of colours.

“That’s a Berylline Hummingbird,” Malfoy said. “They’re native to Mexico. What is it doing in this painting?”

“Maybe it likes it there,” Harry said, parking the trolley by the desk. “You like birds, then?”

“Just hummingbirds.”

Harry wanted to ask about the peacocks at Malfoy Manor, or talk about the science fiction novel Malfoy had lent him, or come up with any other excuse to talk to him some more, but Malfoy looked settled to work, and Harry had to go help Janie with a collection of letters.

The collection turned out to be a lifetime of correspondence from the late 18th century, belonging to a poet. There were all kinds of interesting letters in there, some of them containing whole poems and critiques and some containing nothing but snarky complaints about other poets. Some contained recipes, even, not all of them appealing. Apparently, pigeons had been popular fare once.

Malfoy pulled the string shortly before closing hours—for the first time since settling in with his reports—and Harry found that Malfoy just wanted reassurance that he could really keep the documents he was looking at in the room without having to return them.

“Yeah, that’s what the rooms are for. The shelves will remember for you. If you come back tomorrow—”

“Wednesday,” Malfoy said. “That’s still your schedule, isn’t it?” His cheeks were a delicate shade of pink, a colour that had Harry wondering if the colour of his cheeks could serve as some kind of embarrassometer. If so, then this was maybe lightly embarrassed? And the red he’d sported when he’d come in was…a different kind of embarrassed. Probably. Maybe.

“Yes. So anyway, when you come back on Wednesday, everything will be where you left it, but you can also use this simple Charm to sort the documents into whichever category you require. Just hold the categories in your mind as you say the spell, for example Read, Unread, or Maybe Useful, Look At Later, and so on.” Harry showed him the Charm.

Malfoy stared at him. There was something panicky in his eyes. “What if my mind isn’t that organised?”

“Manual will do it,” Harry replied, inexplicably charmed. “Sorting by hand,” he clarified at Malfoy’s uncomprehending look. “Just leave everything where it is, and it’ll still be where you left it when you come back. You can get creative with it all later. Build piles and stacks and that kind of thing. Small forts.”

Looking at the neat little piles already on the desk, Malfoy nodded. He was still looking a bit distressed, but his eyes were bright.

“Those books you lent me,” Harry started, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t be tempted to fiddle. Then he found he couldn’t continue, because Malfoy was looking at him, open interest and worry on his face.

“Yes?” Malfoy prompted. A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Did you not like them?”

“I read the one with the spaceship! Uhm, I mean, I haven’t read the others yet, but I read that one.”

“Oh.” Malfoy peered at him. “And…did you like it?” The pink spots were back on his cheeks.

Harry considered what to say. Would Malfoy judge him for staying up until two to read it? The tiredness was really making itself known by now, and soon he had to leave for the first Little League practice. “I almost dropped it in the bath,” slipped out. “I didn’t, though! I just—I was reading it in the bath and it got late and, uhm, well I didn’t drop it.”

Malfoy was smiling. “I stayed up late to finish it, too,” he said.

“Two am,” Harry confessed. Having that in common with Malfoy…Hope surged. “This morning. I liked it, even if nothing actually happened in it.”

“Yes!” Malfoy said. He was still sitting by the desk, and it was awkward, talking to him like this, but there wasn’t a second chair in the study. Malfoy seemed to realise this, because he rose from the chair, picking up his notebook and pencil. “It was cosy,” he said. “Like…mundane. Just people existing. Loving other people. Or aliens.”

Harry regarded Malfoy, and the pink spots on his cheeks, and the careful way he held himself. “I liked that too.” Neither of them had said it out loud, that the book only had queer relationships in it, people who loved the uncommon and rare, aliens who loved in foreign ways, strange and wholesome and real. “Do you…have more books like that?”

Malfoy was looking back. “Yes.”

The three of Harry’s daycare kids who’d already turned five had all signed up for the Little League team. So many kids and parents had turned up for the try-outs that he had twelve players; seven for a team and five to rotate. Teddy wasn’t among them—he was in the upper age bracket and had joined a team with a base near Andromeda’s house. Harry had been given carte blanche to use the Chudley Cannons home pitch, so here he was, standing in a muddy field in Devon, with twelve excited faces looking up at him, their parents standing at the edge of the field chatting to each other.

Charlie, Avery, and Alice were standing together, in the middle, Charlie already wearing Keeper gear. The rest of the kids Harry didn’t know as well. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi!” The kids chorused back.

“I’m Harry, and I’m your coach and captain and…we are going to win a chocolate trophy, isn’t that right?”

The kids cheered. Some of them also giggled. He had to learn their names as fast as he could.

He was still struggling with whatever emotions he was having about Malfoy, and the lack of sleep was seriously catching up with him. Looking at twelve kids—twelve kids—who all relied on him to be some kind of adult and lead them on the path to chocolate-y victory…Harry felt out of his depth. He could deal with five kids, he was used to that, but twelve?

He was questioning every single life decision he’d made that’d put him on this path.

Ginny wasn’t here, so he would have to get somebody else to be assistant coach. Harry hadn’t realised that breaking up also meant this, and he tried to keep the ugly resentment from rising up. It wasn’t fair. They’d broken up; she had no obligation to be here.

Even if he really, really wanted her to.

Harry looked at the roster he’d copied out and fished a pencil out of his pocket. It was a messy list, copied out in the order he’d selected the kids instead of alphabetised. He’d have to fix that later. “Let’s get right to it, then. Denise Norbury?”

“Here!” A little girl with curly hair raised her hand.

“Do you know which position you want to play?” He remembered her being fast—as fast as one could be on training brooms, anyway—and thought maybe she could be a good Seeker. He hadn’t tried the kids on a Snitch, though. Not yet.

“Chaser!”

All right, not a Seeker, then. Harry jotted it down. He went over all the kids this way; most knew which position they wanted to play, but a handful weren’t sure or wanted to play all the positions. That was fine, his team was large enough that he could rotate them out and allow everyone to play all the positions they liked and give everyone a turn on the pitch as well.

It would be at least three weeks before anyone had games to play, as the schedule wouldn’t be drawn up and revealed until the press conference the following week. Until then, Harry had to register the team name, so they could join the pool, get the uniform specs to the sponsor, and then…well, he had to make sure the kids could play a halfway decent game of Quidditch.

“Everyone, grab a broom. Let’s start by having some fun—we’ll do two teams, six players on each, and just go. Are you ready?”

The kids scrambled to get themselves a broom—all brand new and shiny, still in the original factory stands. Nimbus had been ready to give Harry a hundred brooms for free, if only he was willing to give them a testimony. Twelve would do it, Harry had told them.

He split the kids into teams according to the roster, so on the first team he had: Charlie (Keeper), Alice (Seeker), Joseph (Beater), Love (Beater), Denise (Chaser) and Dorcas (Chaser). On the other team he had: Rachel (Keeper), Anthony (Beater), Jamie (Seeker), Nathan (Beater), Emma (Chaser) and Avery (Chaser). Splitting Charlie and Avery seemed like a clever move, since they already knew each other, and Harry didn’t want all three of his daycare kids on the same team to start with, as they might work a little too well together and cause confidence crises with the others. He also knew that Emma and Love were best friends as they’d come to the try-outs together, their mothers Quidditch players in their own right, so they, too, had been split up.

Harry made sure everyone had control of their brooms, gave the Beaters their bats, and then released a set of training balls, also sponsored by Nimbus. These balls weren’t easier to catch or beat or pass than regular Quidditch balls, but they were charmed to stay within the same low physical range as the brooms themselves, so nobody would be soaring into the sky after a Golden Snitch—it could only go as high as seven feet. In addition to this precaution, Bludgers were charmed to avoid hitting heads in order to prevent severe head injuries.

Absolutely nothing could go wrong, right? Harry’s tiredness had evaporated, and he was wired now, fuelled by the excitement and energy rolling off the kids.

Quaffles were dropped, Bludgers hit shins, Snitches proved elusive. The kids shrieked and giggled and put up a valiant effort, and slowly, slowly, Harry began to register patterns and pick up strengths and weaknesses. Petite little Emma Wyncall, who Harry had set to play Chaser, kept trying to bludgeon the Bludgers with the Quaffle, whenever she had it, so he made a note on the roster to let her play Beater next time. On the other hand, Anthony kept getting distracted by the Golden Snitch whenever it fluttered by, causing him to miss several Bludgers. He fell off his broom, once, but was back on it before Harry could react.

An hour passed in this way, and then a half hour discussing what their team name should be, and then Harry let them play with the brooms as he went over uniform specs with the parents.

By the time Harry made it home, exhaustion warred with excitement and he stumbled into the bathroom to draw up a bath only to discover he’d run out of bath bombs. He should’ve eaten something, but he crawled into bed instead, ready for twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Malfoy’s science fiction novel was still sitting on the night stand by Harry’s side of the bed. A wild sprout of hope pierced his heart, and Harry reached out to touch the spine of the book.

It couldn’t work out. It couldn’t possibly work out. Even if there was a chance Malfoy might…Harry knew that he would only bring awkwardness and void to the table. But maybe, just maybe...they could be friends.

Harry rolled over, putting his back to the book, and was faced with the empty half of the bed that had used to be Ginny’s. It still smelled like her. He turned onto his stomach and drew his pillow over his head, where neither Malfoy nor Ginny could reach him, and fell asleep.

When Wednesday came around, Harry thought he had a handle on both his feelings and the Little League—they’d named the team Butterfly Bumpkins, and stuck with it even after Harry explained what bumpkin really meant, and did they mean pumpkin? but they wanted to keep the alliteration and so it was. He’d also sent in his enrolment form to the College. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to get into the course, as he’d never completed his N.E.W.T.s, but he had a year of Auror training and three years of job experience from an archive, so maybe that could count in his favour.

Malfoy was late.

Technically he wasn’t late at all, as he wasn’t required to show up to the archive at a set time to use his study, and he’d never indicated a set schedule to Harry either, but he usually showed up at one o’clock or just a few minutes past, and it was ten whole minutes past one.

Not that Harry was lying in wait for Malfoy (he wasn’t), but he’d got started on that wizarding classic Malfoy had lent him, and now had a burning need to talk about it.

“Edwarde Edgcomb is a tosser,” Harry said the moment Malfoy walked in, at five to two. “Also, the distribution of Es in his name is uneven and it bothers me.”

Malfoy froze, two short paces from the service desk. Then he seemed to realise what Harry was talking about, because his shoulders loosened and he offered Harry a smile. “I imagine that was a deliberate choice on the author’s part,” he said. “Are you not enjoying the book, then?”

“I’m not sure I’m enjoying it so much as I’m baffled by it,” Harry answered. He came out from behind the desk and walked with Malfoy to his study. “You said it was a coming-of-age story, right, so I thought it was about growing up, or something like that, but…”

“He does, eventually. But until then there’s all kinds of bullshit,” Malfoy agreed. “I never said it was a good novel, just that it was a classic.”

Harry considered this. “I’m not sure I understand. Edwarde is…he’s not a good person. He’s just not! So far, he has ignored his fiancée—and okay, maybe one shouldn’t get engaged at fourteen—robbed a jeweller’s store, tamed a Granian, and started a revolution, and I’m only on page 73!”

There was a strange look in Malfoy’s eyes, and his face was oddly stiff. Harry abruptly realised he was trying to hold back laughter.

“Why is it a classic?” Harry accused.

“I didn’t make that decision,” Malfoy said, grinning. “I’m not a fan of it either, to be level with you. In the second half of the book he has several orgies, one of them including Beings. I won’t spoil you for which ones. That’s a surprise best served…as a surprise.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I wish!” Malfoy laughed, then cleared his throat, as if he was embarrassed he’d laughed at all. “I first read it at too young an age and it left quite the impression on me.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “Why did you recommend it to me?”

“There is a point in that book somewhere, buried under all the crazy,” Malfoy said. “Not a lesson, exactly, but a kind of uncomfortable truth that no writer since has dared to express.” He held up one hand in imitation of a scale. “So on the one hand the novel is critically acclaimed for that.” He raised the other hand, now weighing the two. “And on the other it’s 400 years old, so the fact that it hasn’t been done again is in itself an uncomfortable truth.”

“What truth is that?” Harry liked this Malfoy—the one that talked with him about things like this. He hadn’t known him for long, but he desperately wanted to keep him, so he allowed the hope to grow bolder. He could use some.

“Read it and find out.” Malfoy took out his notebook and pencil, and Harry understood the conversation was over.

“Ring me if you need something,” he said and left Malfoy to the dusty deaths of Ireland.

A blizzard, not entirely unexpected, forced Harry to cancel the second Little League training and reschedule for Saturday. He was also forced to keep the Quidditch Daycare indoors, so he pulled out the box of art supplies and let the kids have at it; Valentine’s Day was coming up soon, and he’d thought letting them make cards would be a nice activity. As it turned out, they all wanted to make Valentines for their family members.

Charlie’s card was a very carefully rendered drawing of himself on a broom. Betty had gone with a Glitter On Everything approach, and had made seven (she’d counted them three times) cards of them, while at the other table, Alice, Hugh and Avery were fighting over the last scrap of blue silk paper.

“Hey hey hey, if you can’t be nice then nobody gets the blue paper,” Harry said, going over to break up the fight before Alice accidentally set something on fire. (It’d only happened once before, but once was one time too many and it’d frightened them all.) “What’s the problem?”

“I had it first, but Avery took it from me!” Hugh said.

“I need it for the sky on my card!” Alice said.

“I saw it first, so it’s mine!” Avery said.

All three of them said this while yelling on top of each other, so Harry needed a second to parse what was going on. “Let me see it.” He held out his palm.

Reluctantly, Avery handed it over. It was half a sheet of paper big enough to cover half the table, cobalt blue and crinkly. “Hmmm,” Harry said, deliberately drawing it out. He took a seat by the table, laying the paper out in front of him.

The kids looked at one another, now clearly worried that Harry was going to take it away from them altogether.

“All three of you need some of this blue for your cards,” he said, pointing at the paper. “The paper is this big.” He demonstrated with his hands. “Can you think of a good solution to this problem?”

There was clearly—to Harry, anyway—enough of the blue paper to go around between the three of them, but having the kids figure that out for themselves and also solve the problem was usually the best way to go about it. If he went in like some kind of tyrant and either took it away or doled out a solution the kids often felt it was unfair and would be upset about it for a long time.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“We could share it,” said Hugh, looking at Harry uncertainly.

“That’s a good idea,” Harry acknowledged. “What do you think?” This he directed at Alice and Avery.

Alice was worrying her lip, but nodding. After a brief moment, Avery nodded too.

“How do we share it?” Harry prompted.

“We can cut it in three parts?” Alice asked.

“I think that sounds like a great idea,” Harry said. “Is that what we do?”

“I want the biggest piece,” Avery said, only to immediately be set upon by the two others.

“No, everyone gets an equal piece,” Harry cut through, picking up the scissors. “There’s enough of this that everyone still gets a big piece, all right?”

“Yeah,” Avery agreed, not as mulish about it as Harry had expected him to.

Crisis averted, Harry cut the blue silk paper into three pieces of the same size and handed them out. Satisfied that they wouldn’t start fighting again, he went to see how Charlie and Betty were doing and wound up helping Betty write greetings in all seven of her cards; one for each of her siblings, one for her parents, and one for her grandmother.

Indoor activities weren’t Harry’s favourite as a childminder—which was why he’d opened a Quidditch Daycare—but law dictated that attention should be paid to intellectual and artistic stimulation. He spent enough time indoors in the Archive and relished the chance to spend half his time outside in the fresh air. When he’d been looking for locations for the daycare, he’d come across a small cottage with a large field, bordered by woods on two sides and the cottage itself on the third. The fourth was a road, and on the other side of it sat a row of squat little houses. It was secluded and private, and the village was mixed Muggle and magic, so nobody would bat an eyelid at a bunch of kids on broomsticks.

If Harry had to be entirely honest with himself, the chance to spend more time outdoors was half the reason he’d formed a Little League team. Two afternoons per week outside with the kids and the enchanted balls, and soon enough they’d get games to play on the weekends, too.

“Mr Harry, are you going to finish your Valentines?” This was Betty. She blew on the ink in her cards to make it dry faster. “I can help you if you’d like.”

“That’s very generous of you, Betty,” Harry told her. He had two cards in the making, mostly for show—he had to lead by example—but didn’t know who he’d give them to. Last year he’d made one for Ginny, but this year he didn’t think she’d appreciate one. “What do you think?”

Betty assessed his cards. She had only just turned four, but she was smart. “I think you need more glitter.”

“I think you’re right.” Harry let her help him with the distribution of glue and glitter (and which colours and shapes of glitter to use) until Betty was satisfied his cards were perfect. “I think these might just be the best cards I’ve ever made,” he said, admiring the end result. “What do you think, Charlie?”

Charlie looked up from his drawing. He nodded.

“Who are you giving your cards to?” Betty now asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry answered, truthfully. “I don’t have a girlfriend anymore and I don’t have any siblings either,” he told her. The words slipped out easily and with little to no pain.

It’d been less than a week and he was already feeling…if not nothing, then very little?

No, that wasn’t true. It hadn’t been a week. It had been almost two weeks, because the truth was this: Harry had already started detaching himself from the relationship, from Ginny, the day she went to the Burrow.

“You can borrow my mum!” Charlie said. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

Harry laughed. “Thank you, Charlie, but I think I’ll give these cards to my friends, because I love them very much,” he said. “Have you finished your card? Do you want me to help you write a message?”

The rest of the time before the kids would be picked up, went with Harry dutifully letting them dictate him messages for the cards. They could all sign their own names, with varying levels of skill, and he asked them to sign his own two cards, all the while ooh-ing and ahh-ing over their penmanship; he’d keep one for himself and the other he’d find a nice home for eventually.

Maybe Ginny would like the card, after all? It didn’t have to be romantic, it could just be a card, and the kids had signed it…but she hadn’t been in touch since she’d left, even though she still had things at their flat, and…well, he hadn’t been in touch either. He’d continued detaching himself.

Harry didn’t know if he’d ever see her again, or if Ginny even wanted to see him again…and what was worse, he didn’t know if he really wanted to see her, either.

No, that was a lie. He missed her. He missed her friendship. He just didn’t miss the rest of it.

Harry had a busy afternoon at the Archive, as the grad student in the office next to Malfoy’s needed help deciphering some medieval manuscripts, a task that was, frankly, way above Harry’s paygrade. If he got into the archivist course he’d have the option of taking Medieval Palaeography but until then, those manuscripts were as much a mystery to him as…mysterious things, such as the existence of hiccups.

He was with the student for so long that he missed Malfoy coming in, and half feared he’d shown up only to leave again when Harry’d been nowhere to be found, but it turned out Malfoy had gone straight to his study.

“Hey,” Harry said, peeking in. “You okay there?”

“Yes—well, actually, I’m almost done with this lot, so would like to get some more reports up.” Malfoy had sorted the documents neatly, and was retaining a small pile. “I have the reference numbers copied down of some of the other reports I looked at before, if I could have those up too?”

“Of course.” Harry copied Malfoy’s meticulous notes with a routine flick of his wand. “I’m really getting curious, you know. What are you researching these for?”

Malfoy worried his lip. “I’m writing a book,” he eventually said.

“About deaths?”

“About dying.”

The way Malfoy said it gave Harry chills. Not the sort of chills one got from eating ice cream, or the kind one got in a draft room, or the special sort of chill one experienced in fucked up life-threatening situations. There was something in Malfoy’s voice that roused a deep fear in him, not for his own safety, but for Malfoy’s.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked again, but this time he meant something else entirely.

“I’m fine.” Malfoy offered him a small smile. “But thank you for asking.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure he should believe him.

“I will be fine,” Malfoy said. “You look like I just kicked a puppy. Honestly, Potter. It’s just a book.”

“All right,” Harry said, setting the fear aside for now. He looked at the copy in his hand. “So…what else should I bring up for you? Do you want to continue with the Irish coroner reports?”

“Mhmm, yes I think so. Whatever you’ve got in the next century.” Malfoy tapped the pencil against the notebook’s open pages. “Come to think of it, why are the Irish reports here and not in Ireland?”

“Imperialism,” Harry replied promptly. “Same reason why we’ve got Scottish and Welsh documents, and a number of other things that don’t strictly belong to us. There are other archives around, mostly small local ones, but we have a staggering amount of important documents here.”

Malfoy frowned. “I’d have thought…well, I guess the administrative centre and the government are here too, so it makes sense that that the National Archive is here, and…”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not really wanting to get into this debate, with someone like Malfoy—landed gentry, that was, and pureblood, all of it tied up in old money and imperialism. After the War, Harry had learned more about the intricacies of the social and societal structures of the wizarding world and how they differed from (and aligned with) the Muggle world. He and Hermione had looked at one another, and while Harry had retreated from the public eye Hermione had marched into politics, quills blazing and parchment smoking with determination.

Ron hadn’t understood, at first, but he’d come around, the way he usually did. Harry didn’t know where Malfoy stood—if he was aware, if he cared, if he would care. But…Malfoy had been selling off a lot of Malfoy property. Was one technically still landed gentry if one no longer owned land and didn’t have any tenants? Why had he done it?

Saving the questions for later and changing the subject, Harry asked, “Do you want to come to the pub tomorrow?”

“The pub?” Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened. “Uhm.”

“I usually go on Fridays, just get a couple of pints and catch up. It’s fun, you should come. Some of your friends might even be there, too.” Malfoy had never come to the pub with them, Harry realised. Pansy was usually there, Blaise came every once in a while, Goyle had come once, accompanying Blaise.

“Which pub?” Malfoy had stopped tapping the pencil and was now turning it over in his hands.

“The White Hart. I’m sure you know it, it’s not far from here.”

“Who’s going to be there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It varies. Pansy and Padma might come, they usually do, uhm, Ron and Hermione maybe, oh and Neville and Hannah are coming; Neville’s got a book coming out and he said he’d bring copies tomorrow—”

“But.” Malfoy stopped, as if he wasn’t sure what he was going to say, and Harry was so surprised he didn’t continue. The pencil kept turning in Malfoy’s hands, his fingers quick and nimble. “I, ah, when does it start?”

“Whenever? First person to get there snags tables and I guess by eight or nine most people will have shown up that are going to show up…”

Malfoy now had a crease between his eyebrows.

“Do you have other plans?” Harry asked.

“No—that is, ah…” Malfoy cleared his throat. “Are you asking me like—like a friend,” Malfoy visibly swallowed, “or like a…date?”

Harry was brought up short. “Which would you rather it be?” The wild hope in Harry’s chest clamped around his heart.

“I asked first.” Malfoy’s eyes looked wild, his shoulders were stiff—the pencil had stopped, clutched in his left hand. He looked like a cornered animal.

Harry had never realised Malfoy was left-handed before. “Like a friend,” he eventually said. His heart dropped, hope with it, making Harry think maybe he should’ve picked the other option. Though really—Harry had wanted to be friends, so he shouldn’t be feeling so disappointed.

Malfoy’s shoulders immediately sagged. Was that relief? “Maybe another time, then.”

“Yeah, another time,” Harry said, feeling cold. “All right, so, I’ll…” he gestured at the coroner reports Malfoy had already looked at with the notes he was still holding on to—slightly crumpled, Harry realised, from clutching them too hard. “Deal with this. Be right back.”

He didn’t wait for Malfoy to say anything, just grabbed the trolley and pushed it out of the room. Another time, Malfoy had said. Did that mean another time in a friend way, or was he turning the friend date down because he wanted a date date?

The possibility of either was ringing in Harry’s head.

Harry didn’t have any further interactions with Malfoy that day; Malfoy slipped out before closing while Harry was busy helping one of the other researchers: an elderly witch who was looking into her family tree to try to locate some cousins that’d gone to the Continent during the First War. He wasn’t certain how he felt about it—Malfoy and the botched attempt at socialising with him, that was, not the witch—but had no opportunity to try again, or say something different, or just lay eyes on Malfoy and reassure himself that everything was probably fine.

The blizzard had subsided into heavy snowfall, but Harry decided not to un-cancel the Little League training. Perhaps he should’ve, to work off the restless energy and distract himself, but it was too short notice. He’d do some shopping and then grab the chance to finish that bizarre classic Malfoy had lent him.

He needed to see Malfoy again. He would see Malfoy again, he told himself; Malfoy would come back to the Archive, continue his research. He’d get another chance to make friends with him.

The idea of being friends with Malfoy was both foreign and ludicrous, but also strangely right. It had the alluring scent of possibility, of change, of progress. Promise.

Come Friday morning, Harry was waiting for Malfoy to turn up. He’d been late the previous week, so Harry didn’t expect him early, but Malfoy was there within a minute of Harry turning the key in the front door to unlock it.

“Morning,” Harry said, startled but pleased.

“Morning,” Malfoy said. His cheeks were rosy with the cold. “Uhm. Sorry about yesterday.”

“The offer still stands if you want to come,” Harry said, stepping aside to let him in.

“Ah…” Malfoy avoided Harry’s eyes, taking great care to pull his gloves off. “Another time? I can’t really…”

“It’s fine! Another time is fine.” Harry glanced towards the front desk, where Albert was going over the Archive’s correspondence, then back at Malfoy. “Uhm, I finished that book.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t really know what to say about it. He sort of got what Malfoy had meant about it being a commentary, but felt he lacked context. “It would’ve been great with some annotations,” he confessed.

“Oh.” Malfoy was frowning. “I suppose I should’ve thought of that. What did you think of it, at any rate?”

“It was bonkers. Was it supposed to be an analogy for some kind of…class segregation? I mean, this Edwarde tosser did all this shit and never saw any consequences, but his mate lost everything he had, and…Edwarde wasn’t kind to him either.”

“No consequences?”

Harry had the weird feeling of being back in class. “Well I dunno, his sort-of-fiancée left him, and his parents died, and his friends didn’t want to speak with him…” The mate had picked himself up and married and lived a modest, but happy life, and Edwarde had had his riches, but no one to share them with. “He wound up alone.”

“Precisely. Of course, he was a caricature, and the people this satire was aimed at failed to realise it at the time because he was so out there. But the essence of it was, I think, that if you share what you have you will gain in the end, and if you treat others badly, you will lose.” Malfoy smiled wryly. “At the time, the concept of noblesse oblige—though the term is modern—was about throwing money at problems until they went away, throwing money at the poor until they went away, or throwing money at people in order to get your way. As I’m sure you’re aware, that hasn’t changed.”

“That’s what your father used to do,” Harry said, immediately wishing he could take the words back. Lucius Malfoy had died alone in prison. Edwarde Edgcomb had died alone in his mansion, but it seemed there was a small difference.

Malfoy’s mouth turned the wry smile into a bitter one. “Well, exactly. Charitable giving was and is still a thing, but…when the charitable giving has a hidden agenda—well.”

“This is personal, for you.”

“Yes.” Malfoy was still holding on to his gloves.

“Why…why lend me that book?” Harry thought maybe he could understand why Malfoy had lent him the queer science fiction novel, and even the romance novel (which he hadn’t got to yet) and the poetry (ditto), but this? Presented as a classic, not as a personal favourite, Harry had thought maybe Malfoy was giving him a piece of wizarding literary history, something Harry wouldn’t have encountered on his own.

“History,” Malfoy replied. “And…shame, and…”

Silence stretched between them, as Harry didn’t know what to say, and Malfoy didn’t move.

“It’s not really a coming-of-age story,” Malfoy said, after a while. “But it was for me.”

Harry thought maybe he understood. “I’m sorry your father died,” he said.

“I doubt you mean that, but thank you,” Malfoy said, then started down the hallway. Harry watched him go until he’d turned the corner and vanished out of sight.

Not the most auspicious start to the morning, but Harry’s insides were a roiling dark sea of mixed emotions. Malfoy had shared quite a lot of himself, lately, and Harry hadn’t answered in kind. No wonder Malfoy didn’t want to come to the pub—no matter that they had a past: they weren’t the same people anymore. Malfoy certainly wasn’t.

He’d…do something about that, soon. Maybe Malfoy wouldn’t object to lunch?

Malfoy did, in fact, object to lunch.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. “I’ll eat when I get home.”

“Are you staying until closing hours?” Harry asked, dubious. He had noticed that Malfoy never visited the café in the West wing, but he’d assumed…what? That Malfoy was a vampire?

“Unless you actually are dead and don’t need sustenance, skipping meals is a terrible idea. Food is great. Food is awesome, and I know for a fact that the soup is fantastic. Today is chicken noodle soup, Anne told me so this morning.”

Malfoy huffed. “Trust that you’re on a first name basis with the kitchen staff.”

“I do work here,” Harry said, trying his best winning smile on Malfoy. “Come on, have lunch with me. I’m not on the clock for the next hour.”

“I…” Malfoy worried his lip. “Can we eat outside?”

“In this weather?” Harry blinked. There was outdoors seating connected to the café, overlooking the garden behind the Archive rather than the narrow path leading from Direction Alley to the Square, but nobody used the garden this time of year. “Uhm, sure?”

“Okay.” Malfoy got up and grabbed his cloak. “Lead the way?”

Harry led the way. The café was usually buzzy with people; customers from Direction Alley and Diagon Alley, workers from nearby businesses, the staff. Today it was a little fuller than usual.

“Why outside?” Harry asked, once they’d got their soup and had made their way to the garden and one of the benches sitting under a naked cherry tree. Malfoy had drawn up a small weather bubble for both of them.

“No people,” he answered, blowing on his soup.

“Do people give you grief about…you know.” In the first years after the War, it’d been near intolerable. Grief and anger had run rampant, and those who’d allied themselves with Voldemort had taken a lot of abuse, even as they waited for their trials. It’d been miserable, and they hadn’t even had their own government and judiciaries to sort it all out; the dust had barely settled in Hogwarts before a delegation from Europe had shown up to clean up the mess.

Harry had been one of the first people on trial.

“No,” Malfoy said. “I just…I have anxiety. I don’t do well in crowds or around unfamiliar people.” He was quiet for a bit, looking straight ahead. The blizzard had left behind a heap of snow, some of which was already melting and turning into dirty slush. Not in the garden, here the snow was still more or less pristine, save for bird tracks on the ground. “I’m in therapy, actually. For anxiety and other things. It’s why I’m writing a book. My therapist said I should keep a journal or something, so I decided to write a book.”

“I thought therapy was a Muggle thing,” Harry said, not knowing what else to say.

Malfoy shrugged. “It is. The general ideology seems to be that if it can’t be fixed with a potion or magic, it can’t be fixed at all. But Muggle therapy—it’s a relatively new thing here, there’s just the one clinic and it’s run by Muggleborns who, rightly, thought not enough was being done for mental illness in the magical community.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Harry admitted. “But it makes sense? Does it help, with your anxiety?”

“Yeah. A bit.”

They ate in silence for a bit, until Harry started feeling too awkward about the silence. The weather bubble Malfoy had conjured held really well; it didn’t keep the cold out completely, but it took the bite out of the wind.

“I’ve started a Quidditch Little League team,” Harry said. “For charity.”

“I saw in the paper.”

“Oh.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Harry looked up. Malfoy’s cheeks were pink and he looked both worried and apprehensive, like he wasn’t certain about anything at all. “Yes, please.” The look turned into confusion and Harry hastened to explain, “Sorry, it’s just that you’ve been sharing all kinds of stuff about yourself and I just…I want you to also know me, you know?”

“Am I oversharing?”

“No! I don’t know—maybe? I don’t mind!” Harry’s neck was burning. “I mean, I don’t know—I’m trying to make friends with you.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s cheeks had reddened some more.

“Go on, ask your question.”

“All right. Uhm. Why did you drop out of the Auror programme?”

That. Suddenly Harry didn’t want to talk at all.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

“No, it’s not…” Harry drew in a deep breath. Malfoy had told him he was writing a book about dying, that he was in therapy for anxiety…and he’d promised to lend him more queer books, he’d…the least Harry could do was answer this one question. “After I served out my prison sentence and community service I was offered a spot and since I had nothing else to do, I accepted it. And everyone else expected me to take it, you know? I was the Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Evil, The Boy Who Lived, all that bullshit—and everyone expected me to continue down that path. Be some kind of…Arbiter of Justice.”

Malfoy had raised an eyebrow. “You? Forgive me, but…not that I don’t appreciate your role in how everything turned out, but…”

“Right?” Harry agreed. “It was…I was tired. I was so tired. And after a year of training, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to be a person who fights, you know? I never…I never chose to fight in the first place, I just had to. And now it was all done and I was supposed to fight crime? Me?”

“You did choose to fight, though. You could’ve walked away from it all, but you didn’t. Nobody does that just because they have to, not unless it’s because their sense of justice is telling them so,” Draco argued.

“That sounds very nice, put like that.” Harry finished his soup. “And I guess that it’s true, to some extent. But when the War was over, all that went away and I just wanted to sleep and do normal people things.”

“I don’t think any of us got much sleep in those years.”

“No.” The trials had gone on for two years. Harry had done his community service in between testifying—every week he’d had to show in court again—and most evenings he’d been at Pansy’s parties or in bed with Ginny. Those were the years where the exhaustion had carried him through everything. “That was when I started working here, and the year after that I started the daycare.”

That startled Malfoy. “Daycare?”

“My other job,” Harry clarified. “I forgot to tell you that, didn’t I? Here.” He still had both Valentines in a pocket somewhere. He dug them up and showed them to Malfoy. “We made Valentines yesterday. You can have one if you like.”

The cards were covered in glitter, one card with heart-shaped glitter and the other with stars and balloons. Malfoy stared at them. “You run a daycare?”

“Yeah.” Harry was still holding the cards. He thrust them at Malfoy again.

“Why?” Malfoy finally took the cards, then looked inside them.

“Just because.” There was a reason, but Harry wanted to talk about that even less than he’d wanted to talk about the Auror programme. “They’re great, right? I had help from the kids.”

“I…yeah.”

“Pick one.”

“You’re joking?”

The way Malfoy was looking at the cards was feeding the hope growing in Harry’s chest. “Not at all. I’m keeping one for myself, but the other I’m giving away.”

“You should give it to your girlfriend.” Malfoy gave the cards back.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Harry said. The words came just as easily as they’d done the day before. “People don’t give their exes Valentines, do they?”

“That…would potentially send the wrong signal,” Malfoy agreed. “You really want me to have one?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, without hesitation, and meant it. He couldn’t possibly give it to Ginny after all. But Malfoy…there was a look in his eyes, and Harry didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it was important. “Pick one.”

Malfoy worried his lip, staring at the cards. He eventually picked the one with all the hearts. “Taking this…which signal does that give you?”

“A good one.” Harry’s heart vibrated with joy. He smiled.

Harry was floating. Even if Malfoy hadn’t come to the pub with him, Harry felt lighter than he had in a long time and that, at least in part, was because of Malfoy.

Falling in love was a strange feeling: a pain that couldn’t be classified or quantified or described. Sometimes it didn’t even feel like pain at all, but like a kind of bliss, bubbly and perky and boiling hot.

“You’re in a good mood,” said Pansy when Harry slid into the chair next to her. “What’s up?”

“Oh you know, just the usual.” Harry stole a sip from her drink, then leaned over to say hi to Padma. “How’re you two? It’s been a while. Nobody else here yet?”

“We’re moving in together,” Padma said.

“Oh, that’s great! Congrats. Do you need a flat? Ginny and I broke up.”

Pansy made a scary noise and spluttered. “What?” Padma thumped her on the back.

“I’m serious about the flat. I can cover the rent on my own, but…” Harry shrugged. “You know how it is.”

The girls were staring at him. Pansy regained her composure.

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry said, shrinking a little under their gaze.

“Are you, like, all right?” Pansy asked. “Not that I care, you understand. I’m just…fascinated.”

Padma rolled her eyes. “Pansy is moving in with me, so thank you for the offer, but…” She shrugged.

“Potter?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “It’s really not a big deal. It’s just how things are. Ginny’s seeing someone and I’m…” Developing a massive crush on Malfoy. “Busy.”

“Darling, are you seeing this?” Pansy said to Padma.

“If you’re going to be like that I’m leaving,” Harry said, getting up. He only went to the bar, however, and ordered himself a pint of the house IPA.

He should ask Pansy about those parties, turn the discussion away from his new status of being single—knowing her, she might try to set him up with someone, or…want to know details, which was worse.

By the time he got back to the table, Ron and Hermione had arrived, and only just; Ron was helping Hermione out of her coat. Harry greeted them and guided Hermione into the chair he’d been sitting in so he would be at a slightly safer distance from Pansy.

Soon after that their table filled up and they commandeered a second one; Neville and Hannah turned up, as did Blaise with a date Harry didn’t recognise but whose name was Heather, Dean and Seamus came on their heels, and Theo, who rarely turned up for pub night, had come by with a date also (her name Harry didn’t catch). Janie turned up too, with her husband, and then a co-worker of Hermione’s with her husband, so it was the liveliest Friday night Harry had had in a while.

The fact Hermione was alternating between water and non-alcoholic drinks didn’t go unnoticed for long, and soon the mood had turned celebratory; they were the first from their year to have kids.

Harry had always thought he and Ginny would’ve had one or two little ones by now, but when he’d brought it up she’d said no. Harry had started a daycare instead. And now he and Ginny were a thing of the past and Harry was…relieved. Relieved that he was relieved, because that meant breaking up had been the right thing to do.

Pansy and Padma had snuck off at some point, and Harry found himself entrenched in a discussion about child rearing and legal issues surrounding fatherhood when the parents aren’t married, and something about a dog, and he just had enough. He spotted an empty seat next to Dean and Seamus, who were whispering something to each other, and didn’t excuse himself before going over to sit there instead.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” Dean clicked his glass to Harry’s. “Everything all right? You look harried, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

“Hah.” Harry smiled wryly. “I’m just…” Tired. He rubbed his face, trying to articulate what he was feeling, through the swamp of alcohol and unease. “Tired of straight people,” he eventually said, gesturing at the group. “You know.”

Harry was vaguely aware that Dean and Seamus were exchanging glances and nudging each other and also whispering something, but he didn’t care. Ginny had asked if he was gay. He’d said no.

But. But Malfoy. Harry closed his eyes, wishing Malfoy were here, or that he was somewhere else, where Malfoy also was. He wanted to continue the conversation they’d had earlier. He wanted to talk to him about queer science fiction novels. He wanted to ask him about the Malfoy properties. He wanted to tell him that he’d got into the archive course, which actually meant telling him he had applied and was waiting for an answer, and that he had some kind of plan with his life now.

And Harry wanted to know things about Malfoy, like which way his hair parted in the mornings before he styled it, if it misbehaved at all, and how many sugars he liked in his coffee, if he liked coffee at all, and if he would—could—

“Harry?” Dean was bumping his shoulder with his fist. “You asleep on us?”

“No.” Harry reluctantly returned to the physical space he was in. “I was just thinking. Were you saying something?”

“Were you trying to tell us something?” Seamus asked. “Because, you know, if you’re done pretending to be one of the straights…” he winked.

“Ugh. I don’t know.” Harry glanced at Ron and Hermione, glowing with happiness as they were. “I’m not, I don’t think. I mean, I’m not straight, not pretending. You know what I mean.”

“And?” Dean prodded. “We did hear about you and Ginny. Was that…?”

Harry shook his head. “That was a long time coming. I’m…” He discovered that his glass was empty. When had he finished his pint? “Malfoy lent me this book, and it was amazing,” he said. “It had all these…people…”

Seamus was giggling. “Harry. Are you having a, a bisexual awakening?”

“Awakening? Nothing is awake in me,” Harry said. “That’s kind of the problem.” He paused. “Bisexual doesn’t sound too bad though.” Except for the sex part of bisexual. That made it a pretty stupid word, all things considered. But it still made room for all these feelings he was having about Malfoy, so maybe it was good for something.

“Bisexual isn’t bad at all,” Dean agreed. He was making eyes at Seamus, and now Harry didn’t want to sit here anymore either.

“It’s all terrible. I just want to be in love.” Harry stood up. “I’m going home.”

Harry showed up to Little League training mildly hungover and trying not to let it show. He wasn’t late (he checked), but when he arrived, it was to find twelve kids and a number of parents making snowmen on the middle of the Chudley Cannons pitch.

“That’s great teamwork!” he called out, jogging out to meet them. “I’m glad to see you’re all getting along!

“Mr Harry!” There was no telling which kid had said that, so Harry flashed them all a smile.

The parents disentangled themselves and soon all twelve kids were gazing up at him and positively vibrating with excitement.

“Can I play Beater this time?” Emma piped up.

“Yes, you get to play Beater this time,” Harry said, glancing at his roster and all his notes. “And Anthony, you’re Seeker, and Jamie, you’re Chaser. Is everyone ready?”

It turned out that a few of the kids needed reminding which position to play, but soon they were on their brooms and playing. They did better this time than the second, likely because it helped that Anthony wasn’t missing Bludgers anymore, now that Emma was on the task and he was free to chase the Snitch.

Harry let the kids play for half an hour, taking notes, and then stopped the game to get them doing drills. Most of them could sit on a broom and handle a second task, like a bat or a passing a Quaffle, but several were still toppling off their brooms or moving very slowly.

He paired them off two and two and gave each pair a Quaffle. “What I want you to do is race from this line here,” Harry drew a line in the snow with the toe of his boot, “to that line there,” he pointed at the line he’d marked out earlier. “You start on opposite sides. The one with the Quaffle has to pass it to their partner when they pass each other, make it to the other line, turn around, and then receive the Quaffle when their partner passes it back to them….do you know what I mean?”

The kids nodded uncertainly. Harry wished Ginny—he wished he had an assistant coach, so he could demonstrate the exercise accurately.

“All right, uhm…” He turned around. The parents were sitting in the stands, chatting and watching the proceedings. He waved. “Could I have a volunteer? There are brooms in the cupboard!”

Emma’s mum split, and shortly after Harry had filled her in on the exercise. She played Chaser for the Tutshill Tornadoes, if Harry wasn’t mistaken, and would actually be playing the Harpies in two weeks’ time. They demonstrated the exercise, and Harry thankfully did not embarrass himself by dropping the Quaffle.

“Thank you,” Harry said, watching as the kids attempted to repeat the exercise after them. Lots of Quaffles were dropped, but they were doing their best.

“No problem,” Emma’s mum said. Wyncall, Harry recalled her name was. Emily Wyncall. “You need an assistant coach.”

“I have one,” Harry said, unwilling to admit that Ginny wasn’t here.

“Ginny Weasley?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. She’s busy, couldn’t make it today.”

“All right,” Wyncall said. “I’d have offered, otherwise.”

“Much appreciated,” Harry said, wavering. “I’ll let you know if we need an extra hand.”

She flashed him a grin and went back to sit with Love’s and Denise’s mums, and Harry turned his full attention on the kids.

Practice went perfect, and Harry went home slightly snowy and soggy at the bottoms, but happy and excited.

He spent the rest of the weekend packing up whatever things of Ginny’s he could find, and reading; he peeked at the poetry volume (the bookplate for that one was as lovely as the rest; Malfoy had drawn little sunflowers and mice along the bottom) and read the Muggle romance in the span of an afternoon. It was quick, easy reading, and quite possibly weirder than even the bizarre four-hundred-year-old classic—Harry suspected the writer had never met a Muggle, or set a foot in the Muggle world at all.

The poetry wasn’t his thing at all. He’d just have to take Malfoy’s word for its supposed cleverness.

“Why do you always look like you just got off a broom?” Malfoy said in greeting. “The hair is one thing, but the mud?”

Harry glanced at his feet. The hem of his cloak was muddy, as were his shoes. “I did just get off a broom,” Harry told him. “It’s my other job, remember.”

“The daycare?”

“It’s a Quidditch-themed daycare,” Harry said. “Anyway, I brought you back your books.” He put the small stack of books on Malfoy’s desk. “I skipped the poetry collection.”

“And the romance novel?” Malfoy tapped it with a finger.

“It was odd. I don’t think the writer knows much about Muggles.”

Malfoy nodded in agreement. “I don’t think so either. I detected several inaccuracies, and it had an…unfortunate slant of magical supremacy. Even so, I thought the romance was sweet.”

“How…what do you know about Muggles?” Harry asked. “Have you ever met one?” The idea of Malfoy face to face with a Muggle was strange, as was the idea of him interacting with one.

“Of course I have,” he said.

Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that information. How had that gone down? “When?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Potter, it wasn’t a one time chance encounter in the wild, nor did I go seeking them out like hummingbirds in an aviary!” Malfoy said, all fretful. “I worked with Muggles on restoring several Malfoy properties.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“I also,” Malfoy added, cheeks pink, “have a degree in Muggle Studies from the College.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Sorry.” Harry blinked, looking away. The back of his neck was hot with embarrassment. “Sorry. I just didn’t expect…why?”

Malfoy worried his lip. “Are you on the clock right now?”

“I…technically, yeah.”

“Come back when you get a break, and we’ll talk then.” Malfoy gestured at his neat piles of research. “You know. Oh, and I brought more books for you as well, if you want to…pick some to take home.”

“Okay, yeah. Okay. Yes. Definitely.” Harry lingered for just a second. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Harry left Malfoy to his coroner reports. A flick of his wand and most of the mud on his cloak and shoes was scrubbed off. He put the cloak away and went to see Mildred about cataloguing tasks, since nobody in the study rooms needed him.

If he was quietly counting down the hours and minutes until he could take a break and talk to Malfoy about Muggle Studies and novels, then that was nobody’s business but his. Quarter past three o’clock he finished a small collection of letters and seized the opportunity; he legged it to Malfoy’s study before Mildred could give him more things to do.

“Do you like lemon tart?” Harry asked as he walked in.

Malfoy looked up. “Meringue?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s sit outside.” Malfoy grabbed his cloak. It was raining; the hummingbirds in the painting were nowhere to be seen as the rain formed a grey wall of misery around the tree. That was one thing, another thing was the actual real-life rain pouring down outside both of the windows in the study. “I conjure an excellent umbrella, Potter, no need to look so worried.”

“All right.”

The café did indeed have lemon meringue tarts. Harry got them each a slice and a pot of tea, and Malfoy conjured an invisible umbrella large enough for both of them.

“So…” Harry started, when he’d finished half a mug of tea. Lacking a table, he’d set the tea pot and their lemon tarts to levitate in the air, but made sure they stayed within the confines of Malfoy’s umbrella. “About you and Muggles.”

Malfoy huffed. “It’s not a spectacular story,” he said. “You know that I got a combined prison and community service sentence?” Harry nodded. “The community service part was in reconstruction. I and a bunch of others repaired and rebuilt what the Death Eaters destroyed—what we destroyed, everything from homes to bridges to Hogwarts to businesses. We broke it, so we fixed it.”

“I remember.”

“Yeah.” Malfoy sipped his tea. “Well, when I completed my sentence, I decided…to continue. More or less. Both sides of my family are old blood, old money, but I think you’ve actually got what’s left of the Black properties? Sole male heir and all. Anyway, my Dad’s family had a lot of land and estates, and a lot of it had been sitting empty and abandoned for a long time. I found out many of the properties had only been abandoned during the First War…many of the tenants had been Muggleborns, Half-bloods, blood traitors, what will you, enemies of the Dark Lord. Some of our tenants were actual Muggles. They were murdered.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything at all.

“Chilling, isn’t it? I guess Dad wasn’t considering the impact it would have on our revenue stream when he allied himself with a genocidal madman,” Malfoy said dryly. “We lost all our tenants, so we couldn’t afford to keep the estates in good repair, et cetera.”

“So you repaired them.”

“Yeah. I wanted to repair them and give them away. Continue to fix what I broke, you know? And give back. But the problem was, most of those properties were dead, and many were in Muggle areas. So I couldn’t use magic to fix them, and while I could give them to magic folks, well. They were still dead, you know?”

“I don’t follow,” Harry said. “What do you mean the properties were dead?”

“No house-elves,” Malfoy said. “You know?”

Harry didn’t know. “…No,” he said. No house-elves? “I don’t get it. What have house-elves got to do with anything?”

Malfoy’s brow furrowed and he took several sips of his tea. He hadn’t touched his tart yet. “What do you know about house-elves?” he finally asked.

“Uhm, not much? They’re slaves to wizards and giving them clothes sets them free?” Harry thought about the decapitated house elves in Grimmauld Place, and Kreacher, and Dobby, and Winky. The Hogwarts elves. “They’re loyal to their masters…and stay with the family? And only the rich wizards have them?”

“The slave part is correct, to a degree,” Malfoy said. “House-elves belong to the house, not to the family, though that got skewed over time as families became synonymous with the house, as in the physical location of their home, and became Houses, capital H,” he explained. “Like the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. When a house—as in the physical place—loses its house-elves, the house is considered dead. Magic folks can still live there, of course, and many live in homes that don’t have house-elves, never had house-elves to begin with, and aren’t any the worse off for it. But a house that once was inhabited by elves, and no longer is? That’s bad luck. Those houses are ‘dead’, so to speak.”

“Okay,” Harry said, slowly, absorbing this new information. “But if house-elves don’t belong to the family, then how come they serve them?”

“They don’t.” At Harry’s nonplussed look, Malfoy explained further: “Only captured elves serve wizards. House-elves are hard to catch, and because they belong to the house—and they don’t tend to move into a house until it’s been inhabited for a while—circumstance led to it being only wealthy and skilled wizards and witches who could capture one, the wealth being a prerequisite for owning and living in a house that was both inhabited by elves and passed down generations, and then of course the skill was a prerequisite for capturing one in the first place.”

“Is that why there’s so many house-elves at Hogwarts?”

“Yes! You’re getting it. Of course there’s approximately four times as many house-elves living in the castle than are captured and in service, I’d say maybe even seven times as many.”

This was boggling Harry’s mind. “How come? I mean, we never saw them—I didn’t even realise there were house-elves at Hogwarts until I went to the kitchens…”

“And saw them at work? Yeah, they’re sneaky, tricky creatures. They can make themselves completely invisible, and they have magic we can only dream of. What did you think was behind the moving staircases?”

“House-elves are responsible for that?”

“Yeah. Wild house-elves are tricksters. They pop up in Muggle literature, in their myths. They hide things and steal food and can be heard giggling, that sort of stories. In some cultures Muggles leave food out for them on particular holidays. So elves live in Muggle houses too, but they vastly prefer magical homes. Captured elves, that’s…something else. Once you’ve captured an elf, you’ve ruined that elf for the rest of their life.”

“You had an elf,” Harry found himself saying. “Dobby.”

“I know. I think my grandmother captured him? I’m not sure. There are still elves in the manor, but Dobby was the only captured one.” Malfoy finally plucked his plate out of the air and started in on his lemon tart. “I know you don’t think well of my family, and I can’t blame you. Captured elves aren’t supposed to be treated like…like that.”

“No, they aren’t.” Harry watched Malfoy drive the fork into the tart, the cracks in the meringue, the fork imprint in the custard, the crumbs of the crust scattering on the plate. “Dobby saved my life.”

“I know.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at Harry. “There’s nothing I can say that will excuse or justify how I and my family treated him. I can’t justify any of it.”

They ate their lemon tarts in silence, the rain falling off Malfoy’s invisible umbrella in a neat round curtain.

“What about those dead properties, then?” Harry eventually said. “You were saying.”

“Right! Yes. Well, I hired local Muggles to do renovations and repairs and the like. Carpenters, masons, thatchers, and so on. I helped where I could and learned a lot about the manual process—ask me one day what I know about woodwork—and took Muggle Studies classes at the College in the evenings, so I wouldn’t make a complete cock of myself. I did in the beginning, you know. They must’ve thought I was some kind of eccentric.”

“You are an eccentric, kind of,” Harry said.

Malfoy huffed. “I’m not.”

“What’d you do with the properties when you were done? I heard you sold them.”

“I gave most of them away. Donated them to the local communities. The ones that had had Muggle tenants often had historical value to the Muggles in the area. The rest, well. I sold some. All the land, most of it arable, some of it forest, I also sold or gave away. Some went to Muggles, some to wizards. And before you ask, all the proceeds went to charity.” Malfoy finished his tart. “Isn’t your break over?”

It probably was. “Not yet.” Harry hadn’t finished his tart yet, and there was still plenty of tea in the pot. What was more important was that he didn’t want to go. Malfoy had a lovely voice, despite the posh accent, not too deep, or gravelly. Smooth. Warm.

Harry could probably listen to him talk about anything, so long as he did it with this voice.

The rain continued pouring. It was cold, but dry, under Malfoy’s umbrella. Harry didn’t really know what he was doing, here, with Malfoy. He was falling in love with a person who had just reminded him, bluntly at that, that he’d been on the other side in the War, a person whose family was tied up with centuries’ worth of human and magical supremacy politics and blood politics, somebody who’d been directly responsible for a lot of harm.

But it was hypocritical, Harry thought, to hold himself in better regard. He’d gotten a combined prison and community service sentence too. He’d used Unforgivables. He’d caused injury and death to a lot of innocent bystanders when he’d broken into Gringotts with Ron and Hermione, and he had to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. Hell, he’d probably broken more laws than Malfoy had, but Harry had gotten two months in prison, and Malfoy had gotten a year.

“Well, I…” Malfoy trailed off. “I’ve given you a lesson in house-elves.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Thank you. I didn’t know any of it before.” He poured up the rest of the tea. “How do I know if there are still house-elves in Grimmauld Place?”

“You’ll know.”

“What if there aren’t any?”

Malfoy shrugged. “That’s your choice. What you’ll do with the place.”

“Okay.” Harry looked at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“If you had to say that the War taught you one thing, what would it be?”

“Merlin’s balls, Potter,” Malfoy said, adding another string of expletives. To his credit, the umbrella didn’t flicker. “Just dig right into it, will you?”

“You don’t have to answer,” Harry said. “I was just…”

“Curious?” Malfoy rubbed his face. “To answer your question. One thing. Well. It taught me that I’m a coward, and that there’s no excuse for making the wrong choices.”

Harry regarded him, the way Malfoy worried at his lip, the hint of disgust and anger on his face. “Isn’t there? I was there too, you know. I know you and your parents were just trying to stay alive.”

“Don’t make excuses for me.” Malfoy turned to look at Harry. There was a bite of steel in his voice. “Allow me to ask you the same. What did the War teach you?”

“Just one thing?”

“That’s what you said to me.”

Caught out, Harry stared at his plate and his tart. Suddenly he didn’t want to finish it. “I learned that…that the War was our own making, and that if we don’t want it to happen again, then we have to fix ourselves.”

Malfoy seemed surprised by this. “And yet you didn’t go into politics.”

“Neither did you.”

“Fair.” Malfoy stood. “I want to get back to my research. I can leave the umbrella for you if you’d like.”

“No, I need to get back to work.” Harry stood with him. “I’ll come by when we close to look at those books.”

“All right.”

The two of them lingered for just a breath, then started towards the cafe doors. The umbrella and the levitating crockery followed.

Once inside and back at work, fetching maps from the strongroom, Harry realised he’d forgotten to ask about Malfoy’s Muggle Studies. He’d ask later.

The week went by quickly. Between Little League practice, starting the Archive Studies course at the College, and the readings that came with the course, Harry had little time to himself. He’d cracked open one of the new books Malfoy had lent him—a Muggle science fiction novel with robots on the cover—but hadn’t made much headway with it. He did chat with Malfoy at the archive when he could find a spare minute; with the spring semester starting up at the College, the Archive was seeing an increase in patrons and Harry couldn’t skive off work to chat with Malfoy as often as he liked.

By Friday, Harry was looking forward to being able to just go home, run a bath, and sink into it for a few hours. He wasn’t going to the pub; he had reading to do and this weekend the Little League had a press event—the first games weren’t until the following weekend, but Harry had to make an appearance with the other teams’ captains for the kick-off event and photo ops with the sponsors and charities.

Until then he wanted a few hours at least with the purple cloud bath bomb. It had cedar wood and cypress oils and violets, a seasonal thing that usually came out in February and retired again come summer, and that Harry loved—it was perfect for de-stressing. He’d gone and picked up a few after lunch with Hermione. Maybe he’d finish his coursework early, so he could read Malfoy’s book in the bath instead; it was about a robot war in space. Malfoy had said the robots had unconventional gender structures but were probably pretty gay.

Harry didn’t know what gay robots were like, but he very much wanted to find out.

“Potter?” Malfoy was standing just inside the front doors, twisting a pair of black gloves.

“Oh, hello.” Harry fastened his cloak in front. “I thought you’d left already.”

“I wanted to wait for you,” Malfoy said. “I’m going to pick up some books I’ve ordered, and I thought maybe…” He looked down, carefully pulling the gloves on. They were leather, soft and supple looking, and fit Malfoy’s hands so neatly that Harry could see the contours of Malfoy’s knuckles and the tendons on the back of his hands through the leather. “Do you want to come with me?”

“To the bookstore?” Yes, Harry wanted to say. I want to go with you anywhere. “Why? I mean, yes, sure.”

“You don’t have to,” Malfoy said.

“I want to,” Harry said.

Malfoy’s cheeks pinked ever so slightly, and then Harry held the door. A gust of wind stirred up Malfoy’s hair as he passed through and he waited while Harry locked the door behind him. “I’m sure you have other plans,” Malfoy said.

“Not really.” The paper bag with the new bath bombs sat in Harry’s pocket. He could almost smell the violets if he concentrated.

“No pub?”

“Nope.” They set out down the street, towards Diagon Alley. “Why did you ask me to come?”

“Do you want the honest answer or the sane-sounding answer?” Malfoy was looking straight ahead.

“Honest.” Harry couldn’t stop looking at him.

“I’m trying to make friends with you,” Malfoy said. He glanced at Harry quickly, then looked ahead again. “I didn’t know how else to do it.”

“You want to make friends with me?” There was no stopping the smile on Harry’s face, or the delight filling every fibre of his being.

“I just said that.” Malfoy’s cheeks were red, and he was walking a little faster.

“Don’t run off!” Harry jogged up to his side. “I want to make friends with you too, you know.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Potter. I couldn’t handle it if you did.”

“I’m not making fun of you.” Harry wanted to touch him, but Malfoy was all closed off. “What was the other answer going to be? The sane-sounding one?”

Malfoy slowed down. “Something about getting you some books. You said you wanted some of your own the other day, and I thought…” He gave a little half shrug. “It’s a terrible excuse.”

“I don’t know about that, I think it’s a fantastic excuse,” Harry said because right now he was inclined to think that everything Malfoy did was fantastic. There was some odd quality to him, like he was a taut string on the verge of breaking. But he was right there, with his red cheeks and perfectly coiffed hair and hesitant look, and he’d said he wanted to be friends.

Harry understood just enough to know he needed to keep Malfoy from breaking.

He was absolutely in love. Hope grew strong and wild in and around his heart in Malfoy-shaped patterns.

After a long moment of silence, of Harry trying not to let on how much he wanted to kiss Malfoy on pain of him running away and taking his friendship with him, Malfoy spoke up. “How are you liking the new books I lent you? We haven’t had a chance to discuss them yet.”

“I haven’t had the chance to read them yet,” Harry said. “I just started the robots one. I was going to read it tonight.”

“In the bath?”

“Well—yeah. I promise I won’t drop it in.”

Malfoy smiled. He seemed a smidgen more relaxed now. “Why the bath? It doesn’t seem…practical.”

“It’s…” Harry shrugged. “I don’t really know. It’s relaxing, I guess.” They were walking close enough together that Harry could touch his elbow to Malfoy’s, so he did. “I bet you have some kind of reading room to read in, with a nice chair and all.”

“No, actually…” Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “I like to read in bed. It’s not very practical either, I suppose, but it’s very comfortable.”

“Lots of pillows?”

“Mmhh, and I have this lovely comforter as well.”

“That’d be my second choice…actually I was kind of thinking of getting a nice chair to read in. It seems like it would be a good thing, right? A corner with a comfy chair and a bookcase and a lamp.”

“You do know that’s not strictly necessary, right? You can read anywhere you like. Prop a book up against the coffee pot over breakfast, or in the bath, or you don’t have to read at all, you can just listen to the book instead.” They’d reached Flourish and Blotts, and Malfoy held the door open for Harry. “After you.”

“How do you listen to books? The only books I’ve heard speaking are the ones in the restricted section in the library at Hogwarts. They scream if you try to read them without permission.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I’m concerned that you know that,” he said.

Harry only shrugged.

“There are spells. And the Muggles make ‘audiobooks’ that you can listen to with special devices. I’ve always wanted to try one of those.” Instead of heading for the counter, Malfoy had led Harry towards the fiction section. They were now standing in front of the Muggle section labelled SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY.

Harry was looking at Malfoy instead of the books. “Have you ever been to a Muggle bookstore? Since you have all those Muggle books…”

“No. I don’t really know where to find them,” Malfoy said, cheeks pinking. “And I rarely have Muggle money on hand. Flourish and Blotts are fairly well stocked but will also order in things, so…”

“Would you like to go to a Muggle store sometime?”

Malfoy hesitated. “Maybe.”

“We should go, sometime.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said. He picked a book out of the shelf and handed it to Harry. “I was going to lend you this one next. When you’ve finished reading the ones you have now, I mean.”

“What is it about?” The cover was different from the ones Harry had seen so far; no spaceships or robots or metallic lettering. This one looked a bit like a fairytale illustration—there were silhouettes of two men on the cover, but surrounding them in an elaborate pattern were several figures in the shape of plants and animals. The whole thing was made to look like it was discoloured and worn.

“Magic in England,” Malfoy said, smiling delightedly. “It’s the most extraordinary thing, really, the way Muggles write about magic. They keep coming up with new and ingenious ways to do magic that have no basis in actual reality, but are compelling all the same.”

“Oh,” Harry said, looking at the cover. “I don’t know…”

“The main character is a detective,” Malfoy said. “The other guy is a magician. They, uhm, work together to save England from war with the fairy realm. Of course there’s no fairy realm, but it’s a great story. There’s going to be a sequel I think because there’s a number on the spine, but I don’t know when it’s coming. I hope in the sequel—” he abruptly shut up, looking away.

Harry thought the curve of Malfoy’s ear might’ve held the secrets to unlock the universe. “In the sequel what?”

“The detective is gay,” Malfoy said, his voice low and vibrating. “I was just hoping that in the sequel he and the magician…” he gestured. When he looked at the book there was a special kind of hunger in his eyes. “You know.”

“Oh.” Yeah, Harry knew. “I’m getting the book.”

“Really?” Malfoy’s gaze landed on Harry, heavy and hopeful.

“Yeah.”

“My treat,” Malfoy said then, and took the book from Harry.

Harry tried to protest, but Malfoy ignored it, striding to the front of the store. Harry followed him and watched helplessly as Malfoy paid for both the book and a small pile of other books that the shopkeeper materialised onto the counter.

“You didn’t have to,” Harry said, once they were back outside and he had his new book in hand.

“I wanted to,” Malfoy said. He’d put the pile of books away in his cloak, a well-tailored and classy dark grey piece that clearly had pockets that were bigger on the inside and fitted with a weightless charm.

“Thank you,” Harry said. He had only one big pocket, and it was currently holding a large paper bag full of bath bombs. He put the book down there with them. “I…appreciate it?”

“You’re welcome.” Malfoy was fiddling with his gloves now. “I best be off?”

“Oh, yes. Er. Have a lovely weekend?” Harry floundered.

“I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Yes! I’ll see you on Monday.”

Malfoy nodded. “Right. All right. Bye.” He nodded again, then turned and walked away.

Harry let out a puff of nervous breath. He watched Malfoy until he vanished from sight, then set off in the other direction. All kinds of weird emotions were flooding his system—Malfoy had bought him a book!

He’d read it soon. Maybe as soon as he finished the robots one. Or maybe he’d put the robot book aside for now and just dive headfirst into this one. Or maybe he’d just put it in his bookshelf where he could look at it and where it would wait for him until he was ready to read it.

Maybe he’d make a bookplate and number it, like Malfoy did with his books. The first book in his very own library.

The Montrose Magpies’ home pitch was the home for the Little League Quidditch Charity Series, and therefore also the venue for the press conference that started the Series off. The press weren’t the only ones who had shown up, however, as the Magpies were playing the Holyhead Harpies later in the day. The small crowd that had gathered on the stands was undeniably there for peeks at the Little League captains; Harry felt their eyes on him, in addition to the unforgiving glares of the cameras.

A good number of the captains were—or had been—professional Quidditch players, but the rest of them were a mixed bag of known personalities. Harry didn’t recognise anyone, aside from one person who he thought might’ve been a cookbook author.

For a press event, Harry didn’t think it was too bad. It helped that he wasn’t the only famous person present; the reporters were just as interested in Lorcan d’Eath, who’d surprised everyone when he’d come back from obscurity to coach a Little League team, as they were in the brains behind the project (Oliver was positively radiating with pride), or Harry.

He answered questions about his team (Firecrackers, all of them, and ready to win the trophy), about his chosen charities (Yes, The Janus Thickey Trust might be an unconventional choice, but I chose it because that’s where I served out my community service after the War, and I saw first-hand what a difference it makes to be able to afford quality care), about his sponsors (The Chudley Cannons are a great team, honestly, and we are very grateful they’re letting us use their pitch), about ordinary things (I burnt my breakfast this morning if you’re curious about just how talented I am).

It was almost a relief. Harry hadn’t spoken to the press in five years. Maybe he’d eventually come round to not actively disliking it.

“Mr Potter, rumour has it that you and Ginny Weasley, Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, are no longer together. Do you care to comment?”

Nope, Harry definitely still hated the press. Hackles raised, he leaned towards the amplifier. “Did you have a question relevant to the topic at hand?”

The reporter, unperturbed, continued: “Your team registration papers list Miss Weasley as assistant coach, yet we have confirmation that she hasn’t attended a single Butterfly Bumpkins practice so far. Will she be joining you eventually, or will your team go to their first game without an assistant coach?”

“We—”

“Are you aware that your team might be disqualified if you do not comply with—”

“This is a charity series, not the First Division,” Oliver interjected. “Our main objective is fundraising. Disqualifying teams for arbitrary reasons such as non-compliance with the standard Quidditch Regulations is in direct conflict with that goal.”

Harry shot Oliver a grateful look. “As I was saying earlier, I have experience with handling children of that age. Ginny is very busy with her own career at the moment and hasn’t been able to attend practice yet.”

“So you will neither confirm nor deny the rumours that Weasley is having a romantic affair with a teammate?”

“Leave her alone,” Harry said, glaring at the reporter. “Both of them.”

“Is that an admission—”

Harry turned to the nearest security guard. “Can we have him removed? Before this turns into a Twenty Questions for Harry Potter show?”

Before the security guard could do anything, the reporter seemed to shut up of his own accord—though Harry noticed that George’s wand was aimed at the guy. George winked, and the wand vanished up his sleeve.

The conference ended pretty soon after that, and Harry gave Lee the exclusive he’d promised him. It wasn’t much of an exclusive, as he didn’t really have any facts or interesting titbits that hadn’t already come out during the press conference, but he’d given Lee enough material for fifteen minutes of radio.

“Thanks, that’s all,” Lee said, switching off the recorder. “Off the record and all personal: are you free to babysit sometime in the next two weeks? I want to take George and Angelina out for an evening, no kids.”

“Oh! Yes—well, depends, I’ve most of my evenings full these days, but I’d love to.” Harry couldn’t help smiling, it’d been a while. Ginny didn’t usually care for babysitting, even if the kids were her nieces and nephews, so Harry usually wound up taking the sits by himself, when Ginny was doing late night practice or overnight stays for games on the Continent.

George came over, having loitered nearby waiting on Lee. “Did I hear the word ‘babysit’?” He grinned at both of them. “Are you going to be our Saviour, Harry?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Sure, George. Owl me?”

“Definitely.” Lee whooped. “Yes! Thank you. We were going crazy taking turns staying in with the kids.”

“No problem. I haven’t seen them in ages. It’s going to be fun.”

Harry exchanged a few pleasantries with them—apparently Roxanne had made the walls sing just the other day—and then headed out of the stadium. The journalists had mostly left, though a few were conversing with the celebrity coaches and the stands were filling up more as the game would soon be underway.

He ran right into Ginny and another woman just outside the exit.

“Hey,” Harry said, drawing up short in front of them. He’d known, intellectually, that the Harpies were playing, which meant that Ginny would be there, but what with the press event and everything he hadn’t…prepared for the possibility of seeing Ginny, or how to react, or what to say to her. How to feel about seeing her. “How…are you?”

“I’m good,” she said, uncertainly. She looked just as unprepared as Harry felt. “And…you?”

He suddenly realised that Ginny had cut her hair. Not drastically; it was still long, but now it followed the line of her jaw instead of extending past her shoulders. It was easier than usual. She looked good.

He also realised that he’d let go of Ginny a long time ago. He’d had a dream, once, about her, and the children they’d have, and the life they’d build, but it’d fizzed out over the years as time passed and the likelihood of it ever coming to pass got smaller. She might’ve shared that dream, once, but she hadn’t for a long time.

Harry had started a daycare and Ginny had put everything into Quidditch.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Is this…?” Harry extended his hand to the woman by Ginny’s side. Her…new person? Or just a teammate?

“Rhosyn Jones,” the woman said, shaking Harry’s hand. “Ginny’s teammate.”

“My girlfriend,” Ginny said.

“Right,” Harry said, looking between them. On one level he was genuinely relieved that he and Ginny no longer had to…keep doing what they were doing, but on another there was residual grief and hurt and some feelings he didn’t know how to name. What he did know was that he needed to free himself from Ginny for good. “Right. Er. Gin, can I talk to you for a second?” No time like the present.

Ginny hesitated. “I—yes, okay.” She let Harry lead her a few steps away, to relative privacy—a few reporters were still hanging around and were no doubt taking covert photos of the two of them. “What’s this about? Is it about us? Getting back together?”

“What? No.” Harry glanced at Rhosyn, who was pretending not to be watching them. “I boxed up the rest of your stuff last weekend so you can come pick it up. Did you want the chest of drawers? Wasn’t that your grandfather’s? And the bed is actually yours—”

“I thought—” Ginny shook her head, letting out a chuckle. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Your things,” Harry said, frowning. Was she having second thoughts? Now? “Don’t you want them?”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact we haven’t spoken in two weeks and the first thing you want to talk about is splitting furniture,” she said. “But okay, let’s talk furniture. I’ll take the chest of drawers. You can keep the bed, or replace it, I don’t care.”

“Okay.” Harry regarded her. She looked the same as she always did, if a little jittery. Probably not having second thoughts, then. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She glanced back at Rhosyn, who was patiently waiting and still pretending she wasn’t following their conversation. “Was there anything else?”

“Yeah, there’s a box with some things.” Harry hesitated for just a second—he did treasure her friendship and her professional qualifications, even if he didn’t want any trace of her in the flat anymore. “I also wanted to talk about the assistant coach thing. I’ve thought about looking for someone else, but I’d much rather have you—”

Ginny’s eyes widened. “You still want me to be assistant coach?”

“Yeah? Of course.” Harry blinked. “I’m working off your plans. I don’t know what I’m doing, despite what I just told the press. You do.”

“So…to be clear, this is not some kind of ploy to get back together?”

“No? Why would I…I don’t want to get back together. I’m…” Harry shrugged. “You know.”

They looked at each other, a lot of unspoken things hanging in the air between them. Rhosyn was waiting behind Ginny, and Harry…he wanted to go home and continue reading about gay robots having mind-meld sex in space. And then talk to Malfoy about it.

“Okay,” Ginny said, eventually. “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, that’s awesome. You’re the best,” Harry said, relief flooding his system. “I—thank you.”

“No problem?” Ginny touched Harry’s arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I was just…I have so much to do. All this stuff, my evening courses—I started the Archive Course, which, well, you wouldn’t know about because I only just started it…I’m sorry we haven’t talked.” He squeezed her hand, then started walking her back to Rhosyn. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Ginny said. “But not like…”

“No, not like that.” Harry gave her a smile. “I should warn you, I think the press is on to the two of you.”

Ginny and Rhosyn shared a look. “That was fast.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “It was nice to meet you,” he said to Rhosyn. It probably wasn’t a lie. She looked nice, at any rate. “I need to get going—”

“You’re not staying for the game?” Rhosyn asked.

“I’d love to, but I have homework.” And a book about robots to get back to…though the temptation to stay and watch the Harpies throttle the Magpies was strong. “It should be a short game, right?”

“We’re counting on it,” Ginny said with a grin. “Ron and Percy have already reserved tables at the pub.”

Harry’s resolve wavered. There was still Sunday for homework, but the book…he wanted to finish it this weekend so he could talk to Malfoy about it over lunch on Monday. On the other hand, it would be nice to come to the pub since he hadn’t gone the day before…but the pull towards the book was strong.

“I know that look,” Ginny said. “Stay for the game, at least?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll stay for the game. Damn it.” He shook his head. “But then you have to come over tomorrow and pick up your things.”

“Deal!” Ginny pushed at his shoulder, then turned a brilliant smile on Rhosyn. “Let’s go kick arse.”

Harry didn’t go to the pub, though he did chat with Ron and Percy briefly after the game. Percy was impressed by Harry’s decision to go back to school and Ron thought it was brilliant. Once homework was over with, Harry spent the rest of the weekend reading about robots, only surfacing for food and a peek at the Little League reportage, which Ginny brought with her when she came to pick up her things.

On Monday, Harry went directly to the Archive from the daycare, partially because he hoped he would run into Malfoy while still off the clock, partially because he had some tax paperwork to fill out, and partially because his standing lunch arrangement with Ron and Hermione had been cancelled: they had an appointment at St Mungo’s for a scan.

Malfoy was in the foyer when Harry arrived. Malfoy typically didn’t show up until around one, after Harry clocked in, but they were both early today, it looked like. Harry tried—though not very hard—to hide just how pleased he was to see him.

“Hello,” Malfoy said, having stopped short at the sight of Harry. He glanced at Harry’s shoes, his muddy cloak, the bundle of papers he was carrying, and his windswept hair. “Children?”

“How’d you guess?” Harry replied dryly. He gestured with the bundle. “Paperwork, also.”

“Mmh.” Malfoy seemed to take this seriously. “Have you had lunch?”

“Are you offering?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m starving.” Harry grinned. “Give me a moment and I’ll be right there.” He ducked into the back room before Malfoy could respond and shed his cloak (a quick spell and it was dry, if not entirely mud free) and shoved the papers into his designated hat shelf.

“I’m good,” Harry said as he rejoined Malfoy in the foyer. He noticed now that Malfoy wasn’t wearing his own cloak and hadn’t actually been wearing it, which meant that he’d…what, been at the archive for a while already? Lying in wait for Harry? In the middle of the foyer? How early had Malfoy come in today? “Were you waiting for me?”

“That’s absurd.” Malfoy’s cheeks were suspiciously pink.

Harry couldn’t help grinning. “You were waiting for me.”

Malfoy ignored the comment and stalked ahead into the café. Harry followed, and soon they were supplied with lunch and sitting outside, invisible umbrella shielding them from the light drizzle.

“I finished the robots book,” Harry said, a few bites into his meal.

“What’d you think of it?”

“Why’d you lend it to me?”

“Robots.”

“Robots?”

“Technology,” Malfoy clarified. “I learned that Muggles have the ability to build…things, that they can animate and make do things. Artificial intelligence. And all without magic! They can just…make robots. And then they write stories about them too? All kinds of stories, stories where robots take over the world, or stories where robots are servants, or…or anything, really. It’d be like if wizardfolk wrote stories about talking teacups becoming supreme overlords, you know?”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure he understood, but Malfoy’s enthusiasm was rubbing off on him. “Yeah, I think so? But I’m not sure talking teacups would be able to form functional societies with, like, social structures and all, and, uhm, have sex.”

Malfoy laughed. “Well, as far as I know, Muggle robots don’t do that either in real life. As a metaphor, though…you can say a lot about a lot of things by dressing them up as something else.”

“What are these robots a metaphor for?”

“What do you think they’re a metaphor for?”

“People.” Harry summoned the hot sauce packets levitating just inside the boundaries of the umbrella, and emptied two of them onto his plate. “War. And…” Well, there was the way the robots in the book had formed relationships, that had struck a deep, raw chord with him. “I thought it was interesting that…for the robots sex wasn’t a physical act, it was about fusing minds. Like, sharing information—allowing complete and unfettered access to everything inside their heads.”

“You don’t think that’s physical?” Malfoy asked. “They did have to connect some wires in a way that scanned as incredibly physical to me. Slotting plugs into sockets.” The way he pronounced the technical terms was very careful and precise, as if he’d practiced enunciating the unfamiliar words out loud multiple times.

“I guess, but…I mean, they’re robots, not…people, or animals. It wasn’t about…well, you know. Genitals. Carnal pleasure.” He wasn’t sure Malfoy would understand, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about the whole thing in the first place. But he’d been burning up inside since reading that book, with the feeling that maybe the author understood—because the author had written a book about a cast of characters for whom sex had nothing to do with the body, inasmuch as the body could be separated from the mind, when one was a robot. “It was about vulnerability and trust.”

“Trust that the other person would still like you after seeing all your ugly parts,” Malfoy agreed. “And the reverse, accepting and loving the other person even after seeing all their ugly parts.”

“Yes, exactly!” Harry’s gut flooded hot and bright. “It was—there were several aspects to it, and it took almost the entire book until the mechas could reach that point of, of, vulnerability, that point of no return, and after, they were both changed. In the literal, physical, sense, I guess, because the data sharing meant some code got rewritten and they were different, but also—they finally understood each other. That’s when the war stopped.”

“The war never stopped.”

“Well no, there was clearly work to do. I meant…”

“I know what you meant.” Malfoy was looking at him. “Metaphorically, I guess it was about the power of human connection to stop evil. But on a basic level…it was about overcoming centuries of prejudice and rage and hate—on both sides—and…working on building bridges.” The left side of his mouth tugged upwards. “Or to put it crassly, bone the enemy for world peace.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, I guess. I just…I liked that part. Where it was about sharing ideas, thoughts, memories. Mind melds.”

“Yeah? That something you’re interested in?”

“You already know some of my ugly parts, Malfoy. Do you really think anyone would be interested in…seeing all my ugly parts?”

Malfoy didn’t answer, just continued eating. Then: “I suppose that depends on whether you’re willing to face those ugly parts yourself. As I recall it, that was the first crucial step for both mechas before they could connect their…hard drives. I imagine real life is much the same.”

“Have you faced yours?”

“That’s a very personal question, Potter.”

“I’m sorry—you’re right. I shouldn’t have asked.” Harry’s stomach pinched and he suddenly didn’t feel like finishing his lunch.

“Apology accepted. To answer your question: I’d like to think so. It’s an ongoing process, but on the whole,” Malfoy shrugged, “I think I’m reaching a point where I’m okay with those parts. Maybe.”

“That’s…really great.”

“I see you haven’t lost your way with words.” Malfoy smiled. “Therapy helps. It’s not just about treating my anxiety. It’s also…depression, PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he clarified, “relating to, well, a lot of things. Accepting responsibility. Learning to live. To forgive. To fix the parts of me that are…that need fixing.”

Harry thought about this. “Do you think I should go to therapy?”

“Do you want to go to therapy?” Malfoy challenged.

“I don’t know. I never thought I had to.” And yet…there were a lot of things that Harry couldn’t honestly say he’d really dealt with or faced. Or acknowledged. Maybe, if he’d been less of a coward, if he’d…talked to somebody, his and Ginny’s relationship wouldn’t have turned into the farce it’d been, and maybe they’d still have been together. Maybe he could’ve fixed things—himself—before they became unfixable.

“That’s an interesting look you’ve got there,” Malfoy said, pointing his fork at Harry’s face. “I’ll tell you one thing. Therapy is hard. It’s ugly. It requires commitment.”

“But it’ll fix you?”

“That is entirely up to you.” Malfoy finished his food. “And I’m not going to lie and tell you that it doesn’t hurt to try. It might. But if you want to fix…things, it’s a start.”

Harry had lost all appetite. Maybe therapy could fix that part of him that was all dead and ugly. Maybe it could fix his feelings about sex. Maybe he could…he’d never get Ginny back—didn’t really want her back, if he was to be honest with himself, though whether that was because he was falling in love with Malfoy or because the thought of going back to what they’d had was making his stomach seize up, he didn’t know—but maybe he could fix some of his ugly parts for Malfoy.

If Malfoy was interested at all.

“Can I ask you something unrelated?”

Malfoy made an assenting noise.

“Do you…want to…hang out with me? Go out? Do something? Sometime. Later. Not today! But, uhm, sometime.”

“Do you mean…what do you mean? Like a date?” Malfoy was definitely flustered, cheeks pink and eyes wild.

“If you want it to be,” Harry said, tamping down on his mad, wild heart and the messy hope growing around it.

Malfoy wasn’t having it. “No, you do not get to pass that Bludger to me. Not again. What exactly do you mean?”

Harry stared at him, his gut hot with embarrassment. “I hoped—okay, yeah. I meant as a date.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s entire face was pink now.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I just.” Harry tried for a nonchalant shrug and absolutely, completely, utterly failed at passing it off. His left shoulder probably looked like it’d had a sudden spasm. “You don’t have to say yes.”

“I want to,” Malfoy said. “I didn’t expect—but I want to. What did you have in mind, for this date?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it before I asked.”

“Uhm, okay, uh, what about—when did you want to do this?” Malfoy’s eyes were getting wilder—or was that panic?—by the moment.

“Er.” Harry shrugged.

Malfoy definitely looked pained. “Merlin’s balls, Potter. I’m.” He closed his eyes, then took a few moments to take slow deep breaths. “I’m sorry,” he said, when he opened his eyes again, calmer. “Uncertainty is one of the things that gets my anxiety going. I generally prefer to be given a time, day, and location, and advance notice. I’m working on it,” he added. “Should we…reconvene later?”

“Yeah, yeah let’s do that. Reconvene. Later.” Harry had had enough embarrassment for the day. “I’ll, uh, think of something?”

“You do know how dates work, right?” Malfoy frowned.

Not really. Malfoy must’ve seen that uncertainty on Harry’s face because suddenly he smiled like he’d seen something really funny.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Malfoy said. “I’m just realising something.”

“What?”

“That’s for me to know.” He stood up. “Let’s get back to work. I want to look at those medieval coroner rolls from Oxford you mentioned last week.”

Valentine’s Day came around and the kids (and their parents) reported that the cards had been universally adored and thus successful. It’d been rainy all week and Harry was getting really tired of it, between the daycare and Little League practice—though the kids were mostly okay, equipped as they were with cloaks charmed to be toasty warm and waterproof, and happily zipped after Bludgers going at them with bats. Harry usually made a point out of ending every day with a hot bath and a book and had managed to finish one book and had almost finished another, within the week.

His reading was definitely getting faster now that he was doing it regularly. It also helped that the books were good; he agreed with Malfoy that the detective and the wizard should definitely be boyfriends and made a note to pre-order the sequel with Flourish and Blotts the next time he was heading that way. The second he was less sure about, but felt he needed to finish the book before he could really talk about it.

Harry tracked mud after him when he met Malfoy for lunch at the archive. “I know, I know,” he said, swishing his wand about and getting rid of most of the dirt, “you’d think I’d have learned to use weatherproof charms after all these years as a wizard.”

“I wasn’t going to comment,” said Malfoy, with a smile. “But since you brought it up, why don’t you?”

“Same reason I still slice my bread by hand: habit.” Harry fell in step with Malfoy, peering over his shoulder to see what was on the menu today. Steak and kidney pie, it looked like. “You want to sit outside?”

“Do you not want to sit outside?”

“I don’t care either way. I just don’t get why you’d want to when the weather is like this.”

“That’s the best time to eat outside,” Malfoy said. “Outside is textured differently when it rains. It smells different than when it’s dry out, or the sun is shining. I find it greatly enhances the eating experience.”

Oh. Harry couldn’t help but stare; the answer was so…unexpected. And odd. “I thought…never mind. I just don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who genuinely enjoys rain.”

“It is also an anxiety thing,” Malfoy added, with a wry smile. “At least the first few times. I didn’t like sitting in here with strangers nearby.”

“And now you just want me to yourself in the rain?”

“Maybe.” Malfoy paid for both their lunches and gestured for Harry to get a move on. Their plates, as always, floated gently ahead. “Maybe it’s all of those things. Smelling the weather, tasting the food, talking to you. It’s a particular kind of peace.”

“I didn’t think talking to me was peaceful,” Harry said. “It never was, in the past.” That, and they kept going over some pretty tough topics together when they weren’t talking about books—which could be tough in their own right.

“I could break your nose again if you’d like?”

“Pass. My nose hasn’t been the same again since, I’ll have you know.” Harry cleared the bench of water with a flick of his wand and they sat, snug under Malfoy’s invisible umbrella, their food hovering just within reach.

It wasn’t raining very hard in that moment, it was more like the weather couldn’t decide between being a mist or a drizzle. Either way, it was wet, and when Harry took a breath to see what smelling the weather was all about, he picked up wet earth, damp brick, and the moist bark of the willow trees in the garden. He also picked up the scent of their food, flaky buttery pastry, slow-cooked meat and gravy and roasted vegetables. It smelled different out here than it’d done inside.

“I told you,” Malfoy said, looking pretty satisfied with himself.

Harry just grinned at him. “Yes, okay. It’s brilliant. No need to be smug about it.”

“It’s an essential part of my personality, Potter.” Malfoy grinned back. “If you want to be friends with me, you’ve got to live with it.”

“Mmh, whatever you say,” Harry said around a mouthful of food. It tasted delicious. He tried to be mindful of all his senses, putting the weather into the pie, the comfort of Malfoy next to him, and found that…well, maybe some of it was bullshit, but there was definitely something to be said for it.

“Did you finish the book?”

“Not yet. Probably this weekend,” Harry said. “Maybe tonight, if I skip the pub. Or you could come with me to the pub—it’s a standing invitation.”

“I can’t today. I have other plans.”

“Yeah?” Malfoy rarely talked about what he did when he wasn’t at the Archive. Harry knew he wasn’t seeing his friends on a regular basis; Malfoy never talked about them, and Harry had asked both Pansy and Blaise the last time he’d seen them, and neither had heard from him in months. “What kind of plans?”

“I’m meeting with my supervisor for my dissertation in Muggle Studies,” Malfoy said.

“I thought you already had a degree?”

“Yeah, an undergraduate degree. I continued with the Master’s and have almost finished it—I’m missing one course and my dissertation—I, well, my mental health imploded, so…” Malfoy shrugged. “I took a break. I think I’m getting ready to go back and finish it. The course I’m missing isn’t offered until summer term, and the dissertation isn’t due until September if I go back now, but I want to…you know. Ease into it.”

“Oh.” Harry looked at Malfoy, really looked at him, and tried to compare what he was seeing with what Malfoy had looked like when he’d first come into the Archive almost five weeks ago. He didn’t look chronically underslept anymore, or like breathing was a chore, or vaguely ill. He looked like what a normal person was supposed to look like.

Malfoy was worrying at his lip, his cheeks pink. “I know it’s weird,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t judge me.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Harry said. Malfoy’s lip was red. Harry wanted to kiss it. “What’s your thesis about?”

“Oh, uhm, well. My undergrad thesis was about the intersection of Muggle technology and magic. Things like trains and cars that have been magically enhanced, photography—I was surprised to discover it was originally a Muggle invention, and that Muggle photographs don’t move—and also technology that hasn’t yet been adapted for magical use but could be. For my Master’s I want to expand on that, but in a slightly different direction: I want to look at the intersection of magic and Muggles.” Malfoy was slightly out of breath, but he looked determined, and excited. “What I mean is, I want to study the ways Muggles interact with magic.”

“But Muggles don’t…I mean, they can’t interact with magic, can they?”

“That’s precisely what’s so interesting!” Malfoy gestured with his fork. “Muggles don’t think magic is really real, but they keep writing stories about magic—wildly inaccurate but nonetheless amazingly imaginative stories—and many of them are superstitious, which is a certain kind of belief in magic, and they have folklore and mythologies that clearly stem from a much older time, from before the Statue of Secrecy, that they still adhere to to a degree, and there’s the entire alternative medicine thing, which closely resembles magic but isn’t, and—” He flushed red.

“Don’t stop on my account!” Harry hurried to say. He liked this side of Draco, liked seeing it, and didn’t want him to take it back. He’d never seen him so excited about anything, not even the most obscure coroner reports he’d managed to dig up for him. “It sounds interesting. I’ve never thought about those things.”

“But…you were raised amongst Muggles, weren’t you? You probably know all about this stuff.” Malfoy’s cheeks were still red, but he looked less embarrassed and more curious. “What was it like?”

“Honestly? Because there’s the honest answer, which is not very nice, and there’s the generic answer, which isn’t entirely honest.”

“I want to say honest,” Malfoy said, after a moment’s pause and a bite of pie. “I’d like the truth. But I’ve heard the rumours, and if the rumours are half true it must’ve been…a traumatic experience, for you.”

Inexplicably, Harry’s throat seized up. He knew, objectively, that he’d had a terrible upbringing, he knew it had been abusive, he knew it had been traumatic, he knew—he knew all those things. Hermione had pointed it out to him, Ron had been horrified, he would still make an offhand comment about something and meet distressed silence. He knew.

Once upon a time, Malfoy would have (and had) made derisive comments about his Muggle upbringing. If he’d said those words then, it’d have been with a sneer, and it’d have been a mockery—intended to be cruel.

This wasn’t. And that was the weird thing: even if Harry knew that what he’d been put through wasn’t right, it’d been easy to brush off when it was Hermione saying it. She was always finding something wrong with the world, something to fix, something to feel sympathetic about. Malfoy saying it…Harry had once considered him a nemesis. They’d hurt each other, tried to kill each other—for Malfoy to say it, it was making it all real in a different way.

“Harry,” Malfoy said. “Harry. Potter.” His voice was unsteady, a bit shaky, as if he was trying to deliberately keep it calm. One hand was hovering just an inch from Harry’s arm, as if Malfoy wasn’t sure whether to touch him or not, as if he was afraid Harry would bolt if he did. As if Harry had turned into a skittish animal.

“Yeah?” Harry’s voice came out all wrong, so he tried to clear his throat. It was still seized up.

“Do you know where you are?”

Harry blinked. What? The question was so unexpected he didn’t know how to react. “Why wouldn’t I know where I am?”

Malfoy exhaled. “Okay. Good. Sorry, it’s just, you looked like you were having a panic attack or dissociating or something like that.” He put his hand on Harry’s arm. “I’m sorry for asking. It’s clearly not a safe topic for you.”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine…” Harry’s throat tightened again. He didn’t know what ‘dissociating’ was, though it was obviously some therapy term, and he could guess at what panic attacks were. Malfoy was trying to be considerate. That was a whole other reason for his throat to go all thick. “It wasn’t that. It’s fine. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Okay.” Malfoy still looked wary.

Harry really, really, did not want to talk about this anymore. There was a tiny insistent thought pushing at the back of his head telling him he should talk to a therapist, find out what dissociating was, what panic attacks were, tell the therapist about the day he’d died, and maybe, this, too. But he pushed it away, changing the topic. “Tell me about Muggle Studies. What was that like? What was your favourite class?”

Relief passed over Malfoy’s face. “My first term we had a class about terminology,” he said. “As in, just words, and what they meant. We covered technology and pop culture and things like that, which was really interesting. One lecture was all about the difference between very similar sounding words and phrases. For example—wait, do you know what a mobile phone is?”

“Er. Cordless telephones?”

“Yes! They were new things when we had the course, they’re these like, telephones, that Muggles can take with them outside the house. They keep them in their pockets. They work with invisible technology waves, which…well, if it weren’t for the fact I know it isn’t magic, I’d say it’s magic. And they can use the telephones to send messages as text too, which is very cool. Anyway,” Malfoy continued, “we learned things like the difference between a butt dial and a booty call.”

Harry wasn’t entirely certain he knew the difference between a butt dial and a booty call, having never had a mobile phone and also little interaction with the Muggle world since he left the Dursleys. He had the creeping sensation that Malfoy might actually know more about Muggle culture than he did. “What’s the difference?” he prompted.

“A butt dial is when you have your mobile phone in your pocket, like a back pocket on a pair of Muggle trousers, and accidentally dial a number of somebody in the contact book on the telephone,” Malfoy explained, gesturing with his fork again. “Because the buttons on the telephone can get squeezed by accident as you move or sit down. And a booty call is when you make a phone call to somebody you want to have sex with, to invite them to your house to have sex. Presumably it’s a euphemism, where booty, or butt, is a stand in for sex.”

“Yeah, I see how those are very different things,” Harry said, amused. Malfoy had delivered the explanation as succinctly as if he’d been giving a lesson, but far more excitedly. “It sounds like a fun class.”

“I enjoyed it.” Malfoy smiled. “We covered other things also. Like the difference between a car bomb and a bath bomb—a car bomb is a device that explodes a car, but a bath bomb does not…explode a bath.”

Harry perked up at this. “Have you tried a bath bomb?”

“No? How do you try a bath bomb? I regret to admit our instructor didn’t tell us much about them.”

“They’re great!” Harry grinned. He knew now where to take Malfoy on a date. “They make the bathwater nice,” he explained. “I can take you to a Muggle store that sells them, you can see them and pick some out for trying.”

“Oh! Like potions?”

“Sort of. They’re shaped like balls and when you drop in the water they fizz, so I guess that’s why they call them bombs? They don’t explode, but they move around and all. It’s fun to watch. And they smell great and make your skin all soft and they have different colours and sometimes glitter.”

“Is that why your hair sometimes has glitter in it?” Malfoy asked, glancing at Harry’s hair. “I assumed it had something to do with your daycare work, but…”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, that’s…the glitter doesn’t rinse off very well most of the time. Maybe with magic, but I don’t want to strip all the effects of the bath bomb off, so the glitter stays.” He ran a hand through his hair. There was no glitter in it today, but it was silky soft from the cloud bomb he’d used the evening before. “Come with me to the store? I think you’ll love it.”

“Okay. Yes. When? Is it a date? Are you taking me to a Muggle store for a date?” Malfoy looked entirely too pleased about this. “Should I wear Muggle clothes?”

“Yes and yes. And no, you don’t have to wear Muggle clothes.” Harry racked his brain for his schedule for the next week. “I can do…Wednesday next week, after my shift? I have to go to my Archive Studies course afterwards, but it doesn’t start until seven, so we have some time.”

“That’s an odd day for a date,” Malfoy commented. “It works for me. Should I bring something? Muggle cash? I don’t have any, so I’ll have to make an appointment at Gringotts first.”

“It’ll be my treat,” Harry told him, giddy with excitement now. A date! “So…that’s a deal? A date?”

“Do you want to shake on it?” Malfoy raised an eyebrow. He offered Harry his hand.

“Yes, actually.” Harry shook Malfoy’s hand. “No backing out now.”

Malfoy very nearly rolled his eyes, it looked like. “You’re on.”

Harry was almost too wired to be in his skin by the time he made it to the pub. He was early, too, unable to sit still—he’d tried to finish reading the young adult dystopian book Malfoy had lent him, but had been unable to focus. The only people already at the pub were Dean and Seamus. Harry fetched himself a pint of pale ale from the bar first, then wound his way over to the table.

“Harry! How goes life?” Dean saluted him.

“Dude, I don’t even know,” Harry said, sliding into the booth. “I feel like I’m running head first towards…dragons, probably.” He took a large sip of the ale.

Seamus raised his own pint in greeting. “Did you start early? The metaphors don’t usually come out until much later,” he said.

“I have a date,” Harry said. “I’m.” He frowned.

“Freaking out?” Dean asked.

“No. But we’re not going out until Wednesday, which is,” Harry counted on his fingers, “whole five days away, but I’m seeing him again on Monday for non-date reasons, and I just don’t know how I’m supposed to, you know, wait.”

“So you’re freaking out,” Dean said. “Cheers.” He clinked his glass with Harry’s. Seamus elbowed Dean and whispered something in his ear. “So, this random Irish bloke I know wants to know who you’re dating.”

Harry hesitated. “We aren’t technically dating yet…”

“But?” Seamus prompted. He was grinning, and Harry couldn’t quite determine whether he was teasing or not, so he opted for drinking his ale instead of answering the question.

Dean cleared his throat. “Well, we have news,” he said, nudging Seamus. “You want to tell?”

“We’re taking over mum’s horse farm,” Seamus said. “In Ireland.”

“Oh.” Harry looked between them. “So…you’re moving?”

“Yup. Not yet—but the process starts next month. By July we’ll be settled.” Seamus was grinning again, but it was softer now, and aimed at Dean.

“That’s really great,” Harry said, even if he couldn’t help being just a smidge jealous. “Congrats.”

“We’ll still be around,” Dean said. “Ireland’s connected to the UK Floo Network. But come visit sometime? Bring your date if things go well?”

Harry didn’t know if Malfoy would like to visit an Irish horse farm. “Yeah. Sure. I’d love to.” He bumped fists with Dean.

Pansy showed up then, with Padma. “What’s up boys? Anything exciting happen?” They took the other side of the booth, small glasses of fizzy whiskey floating in after them. Harry listened to Dean and Seamus fill them in on the horse farm, making good work of his ale all the while.

Seamus was explaining the breeding program to Padma when Blaise turned up. He’d brought a date, a guy that looked vaguely familiar (so Heather was no more, apparently) but that Harry couldn’t place at all.

“You didn’t tell me you’d met someone! Hello there,” Pansy shook hands with the newcomer sweetly, then turned back on Blaise. “Honestly!”

“Everyone, meet Gilliam,” Blaise said, ignoring Pansy. “We are disgustingly in love.”

“We’ve known each other for a week,” Gilliam said. “Uh, hi.”

Gilliam turned out to be a Quidditch player, a reserve Chaser for Puddlemere United, which explained why Harry had seen him before. He and Blaise did seem rather taken with one another and Harry became conscious of the fact he was the only one at the table who hadn’t brought anyone with him.

“Oi, Thomas.” Blaise leaned over the table to speak to Dean. “Gilliam’s mum owns an art gallery and has a spot open for a show next week—I sang your praises from here to Sunday, so get in touch?” He fished a business card out of his breast pocket. “I know it’s short notice, but she had an unexpected drop-out.”

Dean took the card. “The Jamaican Kitchen? That place is really difficult to get into!” He looked at Gilliam. “Your mum owns it?”

“Yeah—she founded it. Don’t be fooled by my extremely aristocratic white English packaging. I got that all from my dad.” Gilliam shrugged, but he was smiling proudly. “Blaise showed me your painting, the one he keeps in the bedroom? It’s very good.”

“Thank you.” Dean looked at the business card like it was made of gold, which for Dean it probably was.

“Tell mum we sent you,” Gilliam added, and then let himself be smooched into oblivion by Blaise.

Harry was very aware that Blaise hadn’t brought a guy to the pub before and, as far as he knew, was straight…or had been. Nobody at the table was commenting on it, or in some other way drawing attention to it—it wasn’t that it bothered Harry, but he was unsettled anyway, as if something had gone off-script.

It wasn’t until Harry was standing at the bar getting them all a round of drinks, listening to the bartender flirting with two girls a bit further down as he pulled the draughts, that he realised that all of them at the table tonight were queer. They didn’t have to do the entire inane ooh what a change! or how modern of you or have you always been gay? song-and-dance. He’d watched Percy and Oliver squirm uncomfortably through it, seen George, Lee and Angelina on the defence more than once, witnessed Pansy’s raised hackles, and Padma’s carefully calculated defiance.

The only people who knew that Harry wasn’t straight were Dean and Seamus and probably Ginny.

“Guys,” Harry said, when he returned to the table with their drinks. “I’ve a date on Wednesday. I’ve been trying to get him to come to pub night for a while, but he’s…I don’t think he’s ready. When I get him to come, could you help me make sure he’s comfortable?”

All eyes were on Harry. His neck was burning.

“I just mean,” he continued, looking at the drinks on the table, “that I want him to know it’s okay.”

Dean was the first to speak. “Of course,” he said. And then, because he was Dean and sometimes had an uncanny ability to know what Harry was thinking, added: “we can tell the straight people pub night is cancelled that day if you give us a heads up.”

Relief washed over Harry and he let out a breath. “I don’t know if that’s really necessary, but…thanks.”

“We could tell the straight people pub night is cancelled forever,” Pansy mused. “Honestly, they’re exhausting.”

“Being straight is exhausting,” Harry mumbled.

The table erupted into laughter.

“Too damn right,” Blaise said and offered Harry a high five. Dean made an assenting noise and Harry high-fived Blaise back.

“About time you figured that out,” Padma commented. “You and Ginny were starting to get really painful to watch.”

Harry startled. “That’s not why we broke up.” Had their issues really been that transparent? Did everyone know that…well, that they hadn’t been working out? “You can’t have known I’m…or Ginny…you know.”

“I didn’t know know,” Padma answered. Pansy nodded. “It’s…more of a vibe?”

“Yeah,” Seamus agreed.

“Besides, there was the Yule Ball.”

Everyone groaned, except for Gilliam, who hadn’t gone to Hogwarts and thus was looking very confused.

“What about the Yule Ball?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Ron was too obviously hung up on Hermione to pay attention to me, and you seemed…Parvati couldn’t figure out if it was Cho or Cedric or both of them you were hung up on, or if you just hated the entire extravaganza to begin with,” Padma explained.

Harry was speechless, so he decided to avoid talking by putting beer in his mouth. Definitely the safest choice.

“Of course, the Yule Ball was when I had my big gay awakening,” Pansy then said, thoughtful look on her face. “There was a girl in Durmstrang who just,” Pansy gestured, “did things to me. It was at the Yule Ball I realised I wanted to bang her, not hex her.”

“Did you?” Padma asked.

“Oh yes, once I’d ditched Draco.”

Harry’s heart skipped at the mention of Draco, and he belatedly joined the laughter.

“I was still in denial at the time,” Dean said. “Still went with Seamus, though.”

“Because I pretended I couldn’t get a date so you’d go with me,” Seamus said. “It didn’t really work, but I think my lack of seduction skills can be excused. I was fourteen.”

“Thank you,” Blaise said, slamming his hand on the table. “I would prefer not to relive that terrible, awkward, horrible time. Let’s focus on how much more suave and handsome I have become since.” He flashed Gilliam a smile.

Pansy gave Blaise a playful smack over the back of his head, which Blaise ignored. The conversation took a different turn after that, and when Neville and Hannah turned up, smoothed out completely.

It was very, very hard to focus. This was a problem, because twelve small children were depending on his leadership and his being an adult, and generally, to be on top of things.

Harry was not on top of things.

Parents still stuck around for practice, watching from the stands—not out of distrust of Harry, or worry for their children, but because they were as excited as the kids were. Harry suspected they also liked socialising with each other, which was a novel concept to him. Gossiping. About him, probably, and Ginny, and the League, and how well their kids were doing. He could feel their eyes on him as a prickling at the back of his neck, as he narrowly avoided being hit by a stray Bludger.

“What is going on with you?” Ginny asked him, as she sent the Bludger back into circulation. They were training the kids on formations today—that is to say, just the one formation—in anticipation for the first game, which was going to take place that Sunday.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, trying to refocus on the kids. “Just distracted, that’s all.”

He’d seen Malfoy at the Archive earlier that day and had taken his coffee break with him to discuss the book he’d been reading. It’d been a day just like any other day: thoughtful conversation and insightful analysis of the YA dystopian novel Harry had just finished reading, and they’d talked about reading a book together, next time. As in, they’d be reading the same book at the same time, and then they’d compare thoughts after.

Harry had had difficulties not kissing Draco right there in the garden.

“Harry.” Ginny was starting to look pissed off. “Are you paying attention at all?”

“Yes. Yes!” Harry was. He wasn’t being very good at it right now, but he did see that they needed to go over the formation again. “Let’s pause and show them again?”

Ginny assented, and they spent the next twenty minutes showing the kids how to perform the Hawkshead Attacking Formation and explaining whose job it was to do which part as they rotated in and out. Denise, Dorcas and Avery had turned out to be a fantastic Chaser trio, rivalled only by the Denise, Dorcas, and Emma trio. Rachel was a stronger Keeper than Chaser, so she’d relieve Charlie of his Keeper position when he rotated out, and Chaser if needed, and then there were Nathan, Love, Anthony, Joseph and Jamie, who were all strong Beaters. Anthony doubled as Seeker, so Harry put him down for that for the rota, as none of the others wanted to, or were any good at it. Jamie would also double as Chaser, and Emma as Beater.

They were still a fairly haphazard team; they’d only been training together for four weeks, and some of the kids hadn’t had any formal Quidditch training at all before joining. Even so, Harry was confident they would do well at the game on Sunday. They had another training session on Thursday, which was also when everyone would get their player uniforms and they would check over the equipment to make sure everything was in order and ready for the game.

It was almost enough to distract Harry from the fact he had a date with Malfoy in two days.

Ginny didn’t ask him again for what remained of the practice, though she did continue to shoot him speculative looks. As soon as practice ended, and the last child had been whisked away by a parent, she caught the Snitch out of the air before Harry could get to it. The Bludgers had been secured already, but the Snitch, as always, proved elusive, even when charmed to stay within a limited parameter.

“Can we talk about it?” she asked, inspecting the Snitch. It looked fine. “If me being here is going to be a problem—”

“It’s not that,” Harry said. “It’s not you. It’s just…I have a date.”

Ginny nearly dropped the Snitch. “A date? Tonight?”

“No, on Wednesday, it’s just, waiting is awful. One isn’t supposed to kiss until the first date? Right? But I really want to. But it wouldn’t be appropriate? Merlin’s mouldy socks,” Harry cursed, rubbing his face. He wasn’t sure whether it was good that he wouldn’t be seeing Malfoy at all tomorrow because on Tuesdays he wasn’t at the Archive at all, or whether it was worse because he would be seeing Malfoy on Wednesday at the Archive before their date, and he’d have to…somehow pretend they weren’t going on a date later when he saw him? Pretend like it was any other Wednesday, fetch Malfoy coroner reports, maybe entice him to join him for a tea break, talk about normal things and somehow not combust over the fact that they’d be leaving together, maybe holding hands—would Malfoy even like holding hands? Was that something they could do? And from that moment on, everything they said or did would have…a different colour to it, a romantic intent laced through everything, and maybe Harry was going to throw up.

“Harry. You’re overthinking this,” Ginny said. She’d put the Snitch back into the box and locked it and was now sitting atop it. She patted the space next to her.

“When did I become someone who overthinks things?” Harry grumbled, sitting down.

“When you came back from prison,” she answered, without hesitation.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t recall his time in prison being particularly awful; the incarceration rates after the War had been so high that there wasn’t enough space in Azkaban for everyone, even with the staggered sentences, so he’d been sent to a facility in Norway. And even so, the European Delegate had banished Dementors from Azkaban. Hermione had served in Azkaban and had said of her time there that it’d been a bit cold, but otherwise uneventful. Harry could’ve said the same thing. Prison had been mostly boring. There’d been a library there, and they’d had a few books in English, so Harry had read those, and…that was it. Two months of boredom in a Norwegian prison.

How had that possibly changed him? Was it all that time to just…think? His prison time had been bookended by his community service; he’d been assisting in the Janus Thickey ward for about six months before he went to prison, and he came right back to it afterwards.

He’d thought a lot about the war, then. About his choices. Both those that led to his sentence and those that hadn’t, all the different ways the war could’ve turned out if he’d only been faster, braver, more cautious, more bold…there’d been a counsellor there, but Harry hadn’t wanted to talk to her at the time. He’d made his peace—he’d taken both his punishment and his accolades, and gone to Pansy’s parties, and put it all behind him.

“I don’t think…none of us came out of the War unscathed,” Ginny continued, “and I think all of us were impacted by our sentences in some way or other…maybe it was a slow change, I don’t know. But when you came back from prison, that’s when I noticed you weren’t the same person anymore.”

“Is that when we should’ve broken up?”

“I don’t know.” Ginny sighed. “Maybe. Hindsight isn’t always clear. I don’t think either of us were ready then, even if…”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Doesn’t matter now, though, does it?”

“I think it does matter.” There was emotion in Ginny’s voice, something thick and heavy like regret. “I think we could’ve been happier.”

Harry put his arm around her and she leaned into his side. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.”

This was nice. Harry had missed Ginny—more than he’d realised. This, the casual closeness, the smell of her shampoo. Her insightfulness. “I love you,” he said.

“I thought you had a date?” Ginny extricated herself.

“Yes.” Harry let Ginny go. His feelings about her didn’t have anything to do with his feelings for Malfoy, but he could understand her need for distance.

“Don’t overthink the date,” she then said. “Malfoy’s already agreed to it, so…you both want the same thing. It’ll be fine.”

Harry nodded, wanting so badly to agree, for it to be just that simple. Then her words caught up with him. “How’d you know it’s Malfoy? I didn’t tell anyone that.”

“I had a hunch.” Ginny shrugged. “I do like to think I know you pretty well, Harry.”

“But…”

“I’m not offended or angry. I’m just…tired.” She picked up her bag. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Tell me how it went.”

By a stroke of luck, providence, or a series of random and unrelated events, Harry barely saw Draco until closing. He hadn’t even had time for a break, between helping a college student with research into flying carpet trade, assisting an elderly lady signing up for the Family Tree programme, handling a surprise delivery of South English Council’s documents going back fifty years (Harry counted himself lucky it hadn’t been five hundred years, and dumped the boxes in an empty workroom for someone else to sort out), and covering the front desk when Albert had to bow out sick, Harry just hadn’t had time to sneak away for a slice of tart and a cup of tea with Malfoy.

But he was locking up the front doors of the Archive now and Malfoy was waiting.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Malfoy gestured at himself. He was wearing his usual outer cloak over a set of moss-green robes that Harry had come to recognise as Malfoy’s Wednesday outfit. Everything was neatly tailored, impeccable, and looked good. “I have a change of Muggle clothes with me just in case.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “I go like this all the time.” His own cloak was a different cut from Malfoy’s, a more practical design and made from a sturdy fabric able to withstand a lot of weather. And also, black. “No one is going to look at us oddly.”

Malfoy frowned.

“Really,” Harry said. “It’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Malfoy steeled himself. “Let’s go then. Which way?”

Harry hoisted his book bag. “Up this way, the store is near the Direction Alley exit.” He glanced at Malfoy’s hand, wondering if he should ask or just casually go for it, but then Malfoy put his hands in his pockets.

Right. Okay.

They started walking.

“Uhm, so…how is your research going?”

“You know how my research is going.” Malfoy frowned.

“Yes, no, I mean,” Harry said, “how is your book coming along? It was about dying, right?”

“Yes.” Malfoy was quiet for a while. “I think so. I mean, it’s definitely about dying. But maybe it’s about other things, too.”

“Like?” Harry prompted. They were almost at the Direction Alley entrance—or exit.

It wasn’t used much, as it looked to Muggles like a narrow passage between two large buildings barely large enough for a cat to pass through, and to wizardfolk felt a little like rubbing shoulders with an electrical outlet. Most preferred to enter and exit the district through the Leaky Cauldron.

“Living,” Malfoy answered, following Harry out onto the Muggle street. “I’ve never been through this way. Where are we?” He looked around and up and down, as if the answer was to be found in the sky or on the curb.

“In or near Soho,” Harry said. “I don’t actually know for sure. I don’t spend much time in Muggle London. This way.” The store was just around the corner. “So…you don’t want to die anymore?”

“I’ve never wanted to die,” Malfoy said, without hesitation. “I just feel dead a lot.”

Harry almost stumbled over his own feet as his heart skipped a beat. “Feel dead? How?” The same way Harry felt? Like there was a…something missing? An emptiness inside?

“It’s a depression thing,” Malfoy said, glancing at Harry. He looked embarrassed. “Like…being so tired and disconnected from everything that I might as well be dead. It’s hard to explain. And it’s not so bad anymore.”

“Oh.” It didn’t sound at all similar to what Harry was feeling, and he had to tamp down the disappointment. “Because of therapy?”

“Yes.” Malfoy looked at Harry. “And medication. It’s a combination of both. So I’m thinking I should write about living, too. The book was a therapy assignment to begin with, so…” he shrugged. “It seems fitting.”

“Therapy makes you feel alive?” Harry’s mind was boggled.

“No, therapy makes me feel like sleeping for a week,” Malfoy said with a snort. “It’s fucking exhausting. But it makes me feel better, and that makes me feel less dead, which…” he trailed off. “It makes everything better.”

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he should try therapy—even if he and Malfoy weren’t the same, maybe it could fix him, make that emptiness feel better. “That’s great,” he heard himself say, “I might try it.”

Malfoy stopped short. “Do you want the name and address of the clinic?”

“Uhm. Okay. Yes. If it’s not too much trouble?”

“Not at all…” Malfoy fished his little black book and pencil from his inside pocket. He scribbled something on a blank page, then tore it out to give to Harry. “It’s a small clinic, run by three therapists. Muggleborns, it’s all Muggle science.”

“Thank you.” Harry looked at the page quickly—the address was in a different Wizarding district in London—and then found a pocket to keep it in. “We’re, ah, here.”

Malfoy had stopped just a few steps from the store. A customer exited and brought with them the scents from inside. Harry grabbed the door before it closed, and gestured for Malfoy to go in.

“That’s a lot of…” Malfoy wrinkled his nose. But he went in, Harry following.

“You get used to it.” He led Malfoy directly to the bath bomb section, where tables and baskets were piled high with bath bombs in all kinds of shapes and colours. “These are bath bombs,” he said. “You put them in your bath and they fizz and melt, turning your bathwater into…well, what you want to turn it into. There’s different ones for different things.”

“Perfume?” Malfoy asked, looking at the nearest pile. It consisted of round bombs swirled with pink and purple.

“No, natural ingredients. That one is good for sleeping, it has lavender, ylang ylang and…tonka? I think it was tonka. I like it. It turns the water purple and it makes you really calm.”

“Makes you calm?” Malfoy perked up at this. He picked up a bomb from the pile and studied the label. “This is aromatherapy!” he burst out. “I read about it in class. Some Muggles believe that scents can have therapeutic effects. You said this helps you sleep?”

“Uh, yeah. Sometimes. I don’t have trouble sleeping or anything, but sometimes I’m just…in a bad mood? Or tired but frustrated, or something, and just need to relax before going to bed, or maybe I’m not even in a bad mood but just want to relax anyway, and then this one is good for that, because it’s all calm.” Harry was definitely rambling now. “It’s soothing.”

Malfoy sniffed the bath bomb, then looked at the label again. “That’s remarkable. None of these ingredients have magical properties, but what you’re describing sounds very similar to the effects of the Calming Draught.”

“I suppose,” Harry said, frowning. He’d taken Calming Draught a number of times and didn’t care for it at all. It didn’t compare to a bath bomb, in his opinion. “I don’t think they’re the same.”

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t be,” Malfoy mused. “These aren’t meant to be ingested, I presume?”

Harry confirmed this and grabbed a basket. “Do you want one?”

“Maybe.” Malfoy’s eyes slid over every colourful pile in the vicinity and then stopped—Malfoy froze. “Are those shaped like space ships?” Before Harry could respond, Malfoy had crossed the room and was studying a blue, rocket-shaped bath bomb. “It is!”

“I’ll buy you one,” Harry said, catching up with him. “Do you want it?”

“Yes.” Malfoy put it carefully into Harry’s basket. “Thank you.”

Harry couldn’t help smiling. “There’s also one shaped like a robot. And there’s a galaxy one. You might like those too.”

“A galaxy one?” Malfoy’s eyes were positively sparkling.

“Yup. It’s a happy one. Always puts me in a good mood.” Harry directed him to the appropriate pile. He watched as Draco, barely controlling his excitement, turned the colourful bath bomb over in his hands, sniffing it and studying the label. “It makes the water look like a galaxy,” Harry told him. “All colourful and sparkly. Until it all gets mixed together in the end, but there’s a lot of glitter and it smells really good.”

“Do you use this one often?” Malfoy asked, holding the bath bomb up to the light as if it would reveal its secrets to him that way.

Harry was absolutely dying to kiss him.

“Not as often as I’d like, actually…here, this one I use a lot at the moment.” Harry plucked a purple cloud shaped bath bomb from a nearby basket and handed it to Malfoy. “This one is a seasonal product, so I’m grabbing a bunch more of these today before they’re all gone.”

Malfoy sniffed it. “I recognise this scent. You smell like this sometimes.” He looked at the label. “That’s…an eclectic mixture of ingredients. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be refreshing or relaxing?”

“Both,” Harry grinned. Draco knew what he smelled like? “It’s supposed to embody rain and spring. So it’s like comfort and excitement all rolled up in one.” He grabbed five of them to take home, to make sure he wouldn’t run out just yet.

“Just how many of these do you go through on a monthly basis?” Malfoy asked, adding the cloud he was holding to the pile already in the basket.

“Of these, or bath bombs in general?”

“In general?”

“About two or three per week,” Harry replied. “Depends. Sometimes less, sometimes more. This week none so far because I haven’t had the time.”

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose almost comically high. “Are these things actually magic? I have to ask, because I’m not sure I understand why anyone would want to sit in a bathtub so often and for so long.”

“Sometimes I read,” Harry said, going over to grab a ball of sunshine, the one he used for the rare early morning bath. “Sometimes I just want a break.” And sometimes he had company, when he could get Ginny to join him. There was a pink bomb with jasmine and rose she liked, that Harry was now eyeing. He had one left at home, that they hadn’t had the chance to use before Ginny left.

“For company?” Malfoy asked, reading the label. “Jasmine and clary sage are both an aphrodisiac, though jasmine is also a stress reliever. Interesting that they paired it with rose and ylang ylang…” He made a small assenting noise. “Or perhaps not; this seems like it would support a soothing, sensual and romantic atmosphere.”

Yeah, Harry could attest to that. He’d liked it for the effect it had had on both him and Ginny, easing away their rough edges and feeding the senses. Harry had loved sex with Ginny then, either in the bath or after, when it wasn’t hurried or full of expectations or…any number of other things that Harry would inevitably think were wrong. He usually felt good afterwards as well…but it was just a bath bomb, a Muggle invention full of baking soda and natural oils, it was silly to think it actually changed things—it was a prop. Nothing more.

He wondered if it’d be the same with Draco, if he’d need this prop to actually enjoy it, or coax Draco into doing things differently. Different from what? Harry had no frame of reference because he and Draco hadn’t done anything, hadn’t even kissed, and maybe they would never get that far, maybe everything would fall apart before they even got the chance. Maybe they wouldn’t even have to.

Or maybe Harry should stop overthinking things.

Malfoy saw something in Harry’s face, because his cheeks were pink enough to match the bomb he was holding. He put it back. “Maybe another time?” he asked, brushing pink dust off his fingertips. “I don’t mean to…give the wrong impression.”

The wrong impression? “Maybe another time,” Harry agreed. What’d Draco mean by that? Wasn’t this a date? Did he not want this?

You don’t, Harry’s brain helpfully reminded him. You’re the one having a minor meltdown in a bath & body shop over possibly having sex with Draco.

“You should check these out,” Harry said, wanting to move on. He showed Malfoy little oval green bombs with a leaf pattern. “These make me think of Quidditch. They smell like the outside. Well, like mud and wood.” He gestured at his cloak, which still sported mud-splatter from Quidditch Daycare that morning.

“One’d think that with how much Quidditch you do in your daily life you wouldn’t need these,” Malfoy said with a smile. He still did a sniff test and studied the label. “Oakmoss and rosewood. Mmh. I’ll try one of these.”

They went over every single bath bomb and bath melt in the store. Harry stocked up on his favourites and Malfoy carefully selected a small number of bombs to take home and try out. In addition to the rocket-shaped bomb, the rain bomb, and the Quidditch bomb, as Harry had dubbed it, he also had a galaxy bomb (peppermint, vetivert, and cedarwood) and a robot-shaped bomb (lavender and chamomile). The basket was bulging; Harry had never actually made such a large purchase before, preferring to come in more frequently to just get what he was in the mood for.

Evidently the cashier hadn’t seen such a large purchase before either, judging by the way her eyes widened as Harry put the basket on the counter. “Are you running a spa?” she asked. “We do have B2B programs for that sort of thing.”

“Just for us,” Harry said. “Could you put these here together in one bag, they’re for him, but put it all on one tab?”

“Of course.” She glanced between them, but did as Harry asked and punched in everything on the machine.

Malfoy was watching and trying to be inconspicuous about it.

“Haven’t seen one of those before?” Harry whispered.

“Of course I have,” Malfoy whispered back. “But this one is digital.”

The cashier tried to hide a smile. “Your costumes are excellent,” she commented. “Where’s the party at?”

Malfoy blinked. “Oh! Sorry. There’s no party. This is for LARPing,” he said, enunciating carefully. “We’re both wizards.”

“And these are your weapons?” she indicated the pile of bath bombs on the counter she was sorting into bags. Harry had bought so many that she was divvying his into three bags.

“Yes.” Malfoy grinned. “They’re meant to look like potions, you see.”

Harry was staring. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “You can’t break the Statute of Secrecy!”

“I’m not,” Malfoy whispered back. “I’ve got it under control. It’s LARPing, see?”

Harry did not see, but he paid for the bombs (and was nearly short on Muggle cash, which he did not tell Draco—these things were expensive) and ushered him outside. “What was that? What’s larping?”

“It means Live Action Role Playing, it’s an acronym. LARP, see?” Malfoy said. “It’s a Muggle game about dressing up as something and then pretending to be that character and doing things like solving quests and fighting and things like that. I read about it in class.” Malfoy gestured at the store. “She thinks we’re roleplaying wizards.”

Oh. Oh. “Oh!”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Malfoy was grinning, all giddy and happy and pleased with himself.

He looked lovely like this, Harry thought. That smile suited him. And Harry really, really wanted to kiss him. But they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, and also Harry had to go to his Record-keeping Theory and Practice lecture, and it didn’t seem like the time or the place.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and gave him his bag. “This is yours. I, uh, have to go.”

“Right. Your course? I’ll walk you.” Malfoy put his bag into a well-charmed concealed pocket, where it disappeared out of sight and didn’t cause any unnecessary break in Malfoy’s silhouette.

Harry’s pockets weren’t as well-charmed, or as roomy, but he had space in his book bag for the third bag. “Okay, uhm. This way.”

“I know which way the College is,” Malfoy said, quick grin on his face. He fell into step with Harry, and a few seconds later, his hand was in Harry’s. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, throat dry.

It was a short walk to the College; back to Direction Alley and then down the small path past the Archive which led onto Toothill Square, where the College was tucked in between the Archive Garden and the White Hart.

“So, standing invitation to join us at the pub on Friday, as usual,” Harry said, gesturing at the pub. “But I actually wanted to ask—on Sunday I have my first Little League game. Do you want to come? I’ll reserve you a seat with the team if you’d like? I mean, it’s for parents and other family members of the team, but as captain I get seats too.”

Malfoy hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t want to come,” he said. “I just…I’ve already bought a ticket.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked. “So…”

“It’s for charity, right?” Malfoy looked uncertain. “I want to support the charity.”

“Yes, of course—that’s fine, that’s brilliant. Thank you.” Harry squeezed his hand. Malfoy hadn’t removed it yet, even if they were on the steps of the College. “I’ll…see you after? I’ll get you a pass that’ll let you into our section if you’d like? Or we can meet—”

“I’d love that. The pass,” Malfoy said, and then suddenly he was leaning close and speaking into Harry’s ear. “Thank you for today,” he said. A brush of something warm and soft on Harry’s cheek, and then Malfoy had taken a step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, touching his cheek where he was positive Draco had just kissed him. Kissed! “I’ll see you then.”

Malfoy Disapparated.

There was no way Harry was going to be able to focus in his lecture.

Not only had Harry been unable to focus in his lecture Wednesday evening, he was distracted Thursday morning at the daycare as well, and when he saw Draco at the Archive after lunch he nearly walked into the doorjamb.

Thankfully, Malfoy either didn’t notice or he pretended not to notice, so Harry’s dignity remained intact.

Malfoy didn’t sneak another cheeky kiss at the archive Thursday or Friday, but he did take breaks with Harry over tea and cookies in the garden, where they discussed the book Harry had just finished reading, another one that Draco had lent him. This one was a Muggle fantasy novel about talking dragons with political opinions, which Harry thought was delightful and terrifying all in one—delightful because the book was funny, and terrifying because the thought of real dragons getting seats in parliament to vote about free sheep for all sounded like a nightmare.

Ginny did ask how the date had gone at practice, but Harry had just shook his head. “Not now,” he’d said, and buckled down for practice: the first Little League game was rapidly approaching and the kids were so excited they were easily distracted.

“All right,” she’d said, and buckled down with him.

And now it was Sunday, and the game was starting in just under five minutes. Harry’s stomach was in knots; the first League game had been Saturday, DragonTamers versus Hawkins’ Hawks. The Hawks had secured a narrow victory over DragonTamers, and Hawkins had wasted no time blathering to the press about how his team was going to take the Chocolate Cup home. Harry had read the play-by, which hadn’t made him feel any better, as it seemed both teams had not just worked well together, but had ‘several aspiring talents’ on their rosters.

“The important thing isn’t winning,” Harry muttered to himself, watching his kids take their positions on the field. “The important thing is the kids having fun.”

Ginny eyed him sideways. “You all right, Harry?”

“Yep,” Harry responded. If he was going to have to fake it, then so be it.

Oliver was refereeing this game, and Lee was commentating. Oliver stood in the middle of the field, one wand raised, waiting for the time. His whistle sounded, his wand came down, the balls went up—and the game was on.

Butterfly Bumpkins were playing Dragonriders, which was—if Harry recalled correctly—the team captained by a cookbook author. Her profession was clearly not a mark against the team’s skills, who were all excellent fliers and players for their age, but to Harry’s delighted surprise his own team was fantastic.

“Well done, Denise!” Harry yelled as Denise scored the first goal of the game. Dorcas picked up the Quaffle before it touched the grass and threw it to Avery, who passed it to Denise, who made another pass at the goal—and scored again. “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!”

The Little League games were played on a proper Quidditch pitch, but on a smaller scale; the goalposts had been lowered so the highest ring was at fifteen feet and the lowest at six, and they’d been moved closer to the centre of the field. The entire match was contained, so that if the players or the balls touched the invisible boundary, they were gently guided alongside it until they veered back.

Yesterday’s game had had a much smaller field, but both teams had been frustrated by the experience, so Oliver, Faulkner, and Pomeroy had all agreed to expand it for today’s game and see if it would work better.

Charlie let in one goal but successfully blocked the next, which had both Harry and Ginny jumping and whooping. Another ten minutes of gameplay, and then Harry rotated Joseph, Denise and Love out, and Jamie, Rachel, and Emma in.

The teams were fairly evenly matched, but Harry noticed that his team had more players on the roster. They wouldn’t tire as easily, and everyone would get a turn—if by the time two hours had passed and the Snitch hadn’t been caught, the game would end and the team with the most points would win.

“All right, Anthony, you’re swapping with Alice soon. Do you have eyes on the Snitch?”

“Yes, Mr Harry!” Anthony was clutching his broom, following the game—or the Snitch—intently.

Harry doubted he could actually see it from this distance, but he wasn’t about to point that out. “Good. Be ready.” Harry whistled loudly, and Alice swooped down to swap.

“I saw it! But it got away from me,” Alice yelled, almost falling off her broom as she landed. Harry helped her up. “It’s so fast!”

“I know, kiddo. You’ll get it next time.”

It was impossible to stand still—his kids were giving their all, and their enthusiasm and excitement was contagious. Harry barely noticed the crowd in the stands, being too busy yelling encouragement and suggestions at his players and rotating them out when he saw them flagging.

He’d rotated Alice back in as Seeker with twenty minutes to go before the game would be called, and they were twenty points behind. They could catch up easily, but Alice was determined to catch the Snitch this time.

Harry’s throat was getting raw from all the yelling, and from the sound of it, so was Ginny’s.

Charlie was on the bench, Rachel keeping the goal in this last stretch, and both Love and Emma were beating Bludgers with a particularly keen vengeance Harry had only ever seen in girls.

And then—like magic—Harry saw Love send a Bludger directly at the other team’s Seeker, who narrowly avoided it, and as she swerved, he saw Alice come up behind her speeding towards the right-most goal post on the opposite side of the playing field, and he saw the sun bounce off something shiny for a second—

“Ginny,” he gasped, watching Alice—he was almost out of breath, but it didn’t matter—and there, there, Alice’s fingers closed over something—

The stadium erupted, Lee’s voice nearly drowning in the cacophony.

Harry was yelling. “YES! ALICE!” Next to him Ginny was also yelling. One by one, the players on the field stopped as they realised the game was over, then followed Alice as she speeded off the field towards Harry.

“I GOT IT!” she yelled, holding the Snitch aloft and almost crashing into Harry.

He’d have to go over the whole ‘land first, then cheer’ thing again, but not now, later. Next practice. “You got it!” Harry helped her up. “We won! We won our first game!”

The yelling wasn’t subsiding at all. The kids were unstoppable. Their families had poured onto the field to hug and kiss them and dance—Ginny was twirling Jamie and Love simultaneously, both girls shrieking with joy.

Harry was losing his voice, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t have asked for a better first game. “All right, all right! Players!” A few more shouts and he got their attention. “You were all amazing! This victory was well deserved!” The kids cheered. “But don’t forget. What do we do when we win?”

Rachel piped up. “Tell the other team good game!”

“Exactly! That’s what good winners do. Let’s go. Everyone, shake hands.” Harry ushered the kids up and back to the field.

“I couldn’t possibly be prouder of this team,” Harry said to Ginny as they went to meet the other captain and assistant coach. He couldn’t stop grinning. “Thank you, for helping me.”

“You did most of this work,” Ginny said, smiling. “You can be proud. This is your team, your kids.”

Harry and Ginny shook hands with the cookbook author, whose name turned out to be Pleasance Downer. “You played a good game,” Harry said. “Maybe we’ll meet you in the semi-finals or finals?”

“We’re counting on it,” said Pleasance.

Draco was waiting near the edge of the field, a small distance away from the kids’ waiting families, when the team returned. Harry’s heart skipped several beats when he saw him. “Ginny, can you take over for a second?”

She followed his line of sight. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was as hoarse as Harry’s was, but he thought maybe he detected something else in it. “Don’t be long.”

Harry went to Draco. “Hey!” He was still bubbling over with happiness and high on victory. “Like the game?”

“Yes.” Draco was smiling. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you! It’s the kids, they’re amazing—did you see that goal Charlie blocked in the second half? And Alice, when she caught the Snitch—”

“I saw.” Draco’s smile softened, and he moved closer. “You’ve got a great team.”

“Yeah, I…” Harry exhaled. “Wow. Just…I’m still processing everything, you know?”

“Mmh.” Was it just Harry, or was Draco looking at his mouth? “So, I wanted to ask—”

He was definitely looking at Harry’s mouth. “Kiss me,” Harry said, closing the distance between them. “Please?”

Draco didn’t wait.

Harry could’ve been drowning, but it didn’t matter. He would drown again, and again, and again, if it meant he could have Draco like this: a soft kiss at the edge of a Quidditch pitch, bathed in victory and happiness.

Chapter Text

“I’m glad you came,” Harry said, and kissed Draco again. His left hand had somehow found its way to Draco’s neck, his hair tickling his fingers. Harry’s thumb brushed over Draco’s earlobe. “What are you doing after?”

“I have no plans,” Draco answered. His hands were on Harry’s waist.

“Oh! Good! Do you want to—” Harry realised he had no idea what he wanted to do. He couldn’t see—or think—past the next few minutes. “Be with me?”

Draco smiled, his lips forming a soft, lopsided curve. Harry loved it. “Yes.”

“Good. Good. I need to wrap things up here—wait for me?”

“Yes.”

Harry kissed Draco again and then jogged back to Ginny and the teeming mass of excited children and parents and assorted family members. Ginny handed the kids off to Harry with desperation, which Harry thought wasn’t entirely fair. He had only been away with Draco for a moment.

“Looks like your date went well?” Ginny commented in a low voice as she handed him the clipboard. One name had been crossed off already, with equipment marked as returned.

“Yeah,” Harry said, glancing back at Draco. He couldn’t help the smile; Butterfly Bumpkins may have won their first game, but that was nothing compared to the elation Harry felt when he looked at Draco. “You can say that.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.” He didn’t detect any lie in her face, even if she looked more reserved as usual. “Do—” he started, but was interrupted by Emma, who was holding up her broom and uniform. “Thank you, Emma. You did a good job today. I saw you whack a Bludger all the way across the field!”

“Yes, I did!” Emma said, squaring up proudly. “I also scored a goal!”

“That you did,” Harry acknowledged. He marked her off on the team roster and saw to it that her equipment went into the right trunks, then exchanged a few words with her mother.

One by one, Harry and Ginny saw the kids off with their families and collected all the equipment and confirmed with Oliver and Faulkner that everything was all right when they came by.

“Good game, Harry,” Oliver said. “Though you had a run for your money. The teams were evenly matched today.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Do we know how much we raised today?”

“I expect we’ll know by Friday. This weekend’s donation box is still open.” Oliver clapped Harry’s shoulder. “It’s looking good, I can tell you that much.”

Ginny, who’d been chatting with Faulkner and some reporters, came over, the reporters following, so Harry wound up giving the press some statements.

“Yes, yes that was a brilliant game, both teams gave their all, and it was anyone’s guess who’d have won in the end,” he said, grinning happily. “Of course I’m happy my team won! I’m sure Dragonriders will get the next one.”

“Of course, and we noticed you have some very talented players—do you see a future in Quidditch for them, Mr Potter?”

“I—no—listen, they’re five years old. Let them grow up.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “They’re just having fun.”

“There are several children on your team whose parents are—”

“What did you want to be when you were five?” Harry cut him off. “A pain in the arse? You’re doing a good job of it. Leave the kids alone. They signed up to have fun and because they like chocolate. Let them have it.”

The reporter wasn’t done. “What did you want to be when you were five?”

Harry froze. There were a lot of things he’d wanted when he was five, but none of them were professions. Alive, his brain helpfully supplied. Anywhere but here. With my parents. “A dentist,” he finally said, latching onto the first Muggle profession he could think of. “Though Little League Quidditch captain is working well for me.”

“I, of course, always wanted to be a Quidditch player,” Oliver said, stepping in. He gave Harry a wink and a nudge to go. “Got my first broom at age three, this fantastic little toy Cleansweep modelled after the 2, that my mother charmed to go a little faster.”

“I could’ve done without the press,” Harry muttered to Ginny, who just gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“You knew that would be part of the deal,” she said. “But dentist? Really?”

Harry chuckled. “I had to say something.” He rubbed his face. “I need to get out of here.”

“Yeah. Hey, I’ll take this stuff back to our lockers at the Cannons’,” Ginny said. “I think someone is waiting for you.”

Turning, Harry saw that Draco was standing alone near the exit. Of course. Draco. Harry’s belly flipped. “You don’t want to say hi?” he asked her.

“Someone needs to take this back,” Ginny said. “And to be honest with you, Harry, I’m not ready to meet him.”

“You know him,” Harry said, nonplussed. “We went to school together?”

“That’s not what I mean. Look, this wasn’t a clean break.” She gestured between them. “Not for me. I’ll meet him later, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said, though he didn’t quite understand. She was the one who’d come back after a week and told him she’d met someone. And he’d met her, he’d shaken hands with Rhosyn. It’d been fine. “Later, then.”

“Thank you.” Ginny gave him a brief hug. “You can tell him I said hello.”

“I will.”

She shrunk the trunks and walked off, and Harry finally, finally, could go back to Draco.

It took all he had in him to not run, but he did jog over.

“Hey,” he said, only a little breathless. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes,” Draco said, giving him another smile. He looked a bit nervous. “Where did you want to go?”

“Anywhere—so long as you’ll be there,” Harry said. He was still riding a wave of exhilaration, but it was starting to come down. Now all he had was nervous jitters. “I’m starving. Food?”

He had homework to do, as most of Saturday had gone into last minute prep and he hadn’t had the time—or state of mind—to get it done, but he couldn’t honestly say he had either today. Right now, Draco was more important than the reading for Tuesday’s class in Managing Services, Access and Preservation. He’d do it tomorrow after Little League practice.

“It’s a bit early for supper,” Draco said, thoughtfully. “But I know a good place for tea?”

Draco could’ve suggested eating dirt and it would’ve sounded marvellous. “Yes! Perfect. Tea sounds fantastic. Can I kiss you again?”

“Oh.” Draco was blushing. “I—yes.”

Harry kissed him. Draco took his hand and once they were out of the stadium, Apparated them to Godric’s Hollow, where he took Harry to an ancient bookstore that smelled of dust, oak and tobacco, and that also served tea and coffee. He got Harry an entire pot of black tea, a table under a window that overlooked a grassy field with sheep, and several brilliant smiles.

When Harry returned home, hours later, belly full of tea and sticky buns and heart full of wonderful conversation, he was exhausted. Homework would have to wait. He ran a hot bath and dropped in the pink and purple sleep bomb. No homework, no science fiction, just this sea of calm and comfort.

Harry was late. He was so late he was running through the Ministry to Hermione’s office because he was late—not just five minutes late, which wasn’t out of the ordinary on Mondays, but twenty minutes late. There’d been a conflict at the daycare, which had delayed everyone, parents and children alike, and eaten into Harry’s lunch hour.

“Sorry!” Harry said as he barrelled into Hermione’s office. “There was a situation!”

Ron was already in the office, legs slung up on the desk. He was slurping soup from a take-out container. “Mate,” he said. “You have something you want to share?”

“Probably,” Harry said, dropping himself into the other chair, and grabbing the other take-out container. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Emergency of some sort or other, I don’t know.” Ron shrugged. “She’ll be back, or she won’t. What’s up?”

“Ugh.” Harry stared into the container. It looked like Chinese soup of some kind, with dumplings in it. “Half my daycare kids are on my Little League team, the other half aren’t, and since yesterday we played our first game and won, the half that’s on the team has been, quite literally, gremlins this morning, and the other half has, naturally, been upset. And of course, as kids get hungrier and hungrier…” Harry trailed off. “Things were on fire.”

Ron looked mildly terrified. “Hungry kids explode, got it,” he said. “Thanks for the warning.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll find out soon enough,” Harry said. “Once you get kids. When your kids get big enough to start trouble, all bets are off.”

“Comforting, Harry.” Ron stabbed a dumpling with a chopstick and popped it into his mouth. “So, tell me about Malfoy.”

Harry looked up from his soup. “Uh. Malfoy?”

Ron picked up the Prophet, which was open to a specific page, and showed him. There were two headlines on that page, one to do with Butterfly Bumpkins’ first win, with a quote by Harry highlighted directly underneath it. There was a photo of Harry and Ginny jumping and punching the air as Alice caught the Snitch. The other headline came with a photo of Harry and Draco on the Quidditch pitch. It was taken from a distance, but it was clear they were smiling at each other and kissing, the loop unmistakeable.

“Oh, that,” said Harry, his belly swooping. “It’s a thing.”

“So it’s a thing,” Ron said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s a thing because I don’t know what it is yet. It’s not been a week.” He threw the paper onto Hermione’s desk and started in on his soup. “I’d like to think it’s a good thing. Maybe permanent.”

“All right.”

“That’s it? All right?”

Ron shrugged. “There’s not much else to say, is there?” He speared another dumpling. “Unless there’s more to say?”

Harry groaned. “Nothing I’m willing to share,” he said. He speared a dumpling of his own. “I’d like to say that you’d like him.”

“But?”

“I don’t know. I like him.”

“Yeah, and you’re bloody weird, mate.” Ron punctuated this statement by jabbing his (single) chopstick at Harry.

Harry huffed.

“What’s he like, these days?” Ron asked. “I haven’t seen him around in a while. He dropped off the grid. Thought he’d left the country.”

“Well…” Harry decided to eat dumplings instead of answering. How could he possibly begin to describe Draco? He’s not an annoying git anymore didn’t seem to cut it.

There were things he could say, but Harry wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to share them. Things he’d learned in private conversation, through observation, from reading the novels that Draco had lent him.

“He’s quiet,” Harry eventually said. “But he has interesting things to say. I like talking to him.”

“Yep, that’s probably a good quality to have,” Ron said, with a grin.

Before Harry could answer that, Hermione came in. “I’m sorry!” she said, plopping down in her chair. “What a mess. Hello, Harry. What’s this about Malfoy?”

“It’s a thing,” Ron and Harry said, at the same time.

Hermione stared at them. “Okay!” She threw up her hands. “That was easy.”

“There’s nothing easy about it,” Harry protested.

“Well, Harry, you have been avoiding us lately,” Hermione said and picked up her own food. “I thought we’d have to drag it out of you.”

“Avoiding…? I haven’t been avoiding you!” Harry sputtered. “I’ve just—I’ve been having lunch with Draco. And,” he added, “I’m in school now, and coaching a Quidditch team, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little busy these days.”

“Not too busy to hang out with Draco,” Ron commented, his eyes twinkling.

“Ugh, shut up,” Harry grumbled.

Harry had homework to do today after Little League practice, but maybe…maybe Draco would like to come? He could ask. He was hell bent on finding time for a tea break with Draco at the Archive today, he’d ask then.

Ron and Hermione shared a look and some badly suppressed giggles.

“Okay you know what, I’m taking my lunch and leaving,” Harry said, though he made no move to actually get up.

“Sure,” Ron said and threw a wrapper at him.

The week had gone by in a flash. Draco had declined the invitation to come along to Little League practice, but he’d walked Harry to the Direction Alley exit where he usually Apparated from. They hadn’t made plans to see each other outside of the Archive, yet; Harry had his evenings full most days and Draco hadn’t suggested alternatives. They had been sneaking kisses during every break they took together, though, so Harry wasn’t too dejected about it.

“I finished the book,” Harry said, fetching Draco from his study for their usual Friday Lunch. “I brought them all, so you can take them back home.”

“Thank you. What’d you think of it?”

“I think I liked it. It’s complicated—it’s like the robots book. No definitive solution to anything.” Harry held the door for Draco, then fell in step with him, their shoulders touching. “But I think I liked it?”

“I had to chew on it for a bit,” Draco agreed. “In the end, I didn’t like it.”

This piqued Harry’s interest. “Why not?”

“It was the double-crossing double agents. It was all too confusing, and the more I thought about it, the less I believed in the truth we were presented with at the end,” Draco explained. “The parallel timelines, the unreliable narrator—I think she was lying about everything.”

Harry frowned. Draco didn’t say anything, just patiently waited for Harry’s thoughts to get in order. It wasn’t raining today, and the weather was almost balmy, so Draco didn’t conjure up his umbrella. He did expertly arrange their levitating plates in a semi-circle around them; today’s lunch was an array of small dishes with different types of curry, and bread to scoop them up with.

“Then she would’ve been lying about her best friend’s death,” Harry said, after two bites of curry-soaked bread. “Which means that she killed him.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “I think that’s what it comes down to, really: either you believe she was capable of killing her best friend, and thus also betrayed her country and successfully lied about both, or you believe that she couldn’t save her best friend, and that she was framed for the whole thing by her former lover and as such, is innocent.”

“I don’t like either scenario,” Harry admitted. “I think…I wanted her to be telling the truth.”

Malfoy smiled, and offered Harry some of the curry that was levitating by his elbow. “I suspected you would. You like to see the best in people.”

“Do I?” Harry dipped the bread into the curry, and then took a bite. Delicious. “You don’t think I’ve become cynical after everything?”

“No, that would be me,” said Draco, evenly. “I don’t trust people, on a fundamental level. When I read that book for the first time…as soon as I realised that her narrative was unreliable, I decided she couldn’t be trusted. She had to be lying about everything. It was…” He tilted his head, thoughtful look in his eyes. “A surreal experience. By the end of the book I was certain it was all a lie. Then I read it again and saw all these little details that didn’t add up. One moment she was wearing a white jacket, the next a grey jacket? A fault of the author’s, or a liar’s slip up?”

“But if she wasn’t lying?” Harry asked. He couldn’t take his eyes off Draco, who rarely looked as animated as when talking about books. His whole face came alive: lips quirking, eyebrows moving, eyes twinkling. There was a line in his cheek that deepened every time he did the ‘or maybe’ face.

Draco did the ‘or maybe’ face. “I would have to wonder what that says about me, only I already know it. I think—suspect—that there isn’t any definite proof in the book. I think it’s up to the reader to decide. Do you give her the benefit of the doubt, or do you assume the worst?”

For a long time, Harry didn’t say anything. Neither did Draco. The bowls emptied, little by little, and Harry was acutely aware of all the things that hung in the air between them.

Or maybe it was his imagination. He didn’t think so. Not after everything—not just their shared history, but everything.

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt,” Harry eventually said. “I gave your mother the benefit of the doubt. I—” He swallowed. “I won’t say that it made all the difference. Just that it made a difference for me.”

“Yes,” Draco exhaled. “It did. It made all the difference. Because you—you chose to see good.” He collected the bowls and stacked them neatly. “I’ve thought about it a lot. All the choices I’ve made. All the choices you made. And I—I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d very likely make those same choices again.”

“I’m not a paragon of virtue,” Harry said, knot forming in his chest. “You can’t hold my life up as some kind of beacon of justice, some kind of goal to strive for or measure yourself against. I’m just me. And it’s…it has sucked to be me.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Draco rubbed his face. “I haven’t put you on some fucking pedestal if that’s what you think. I was just saying you and I are different people. You’re the hero in this story. I’m…a side character. A low-rank villain, one of those who disappears out of the story before it ends, and you never find out what happened to them. I’ve made my peace with it.”

The knot in Harry’s chest tightened and then dissolved into pure, hot hatred. He hated this conversation, he hated the War, he hated the Dursleys, he hated every single facet of his life that had brought him here, to this garden, to this very moment, and made him have this conversation. But most of all he hated all the damage the fucking War had wrought on not just him, but on the country, and on everyone around him.

He hated that he’d had to sleep in a cupboard, that he’d had to face a basilisk alone, that he’d had to walk to his own death to save everyone else, and he hated that he hadn’t stayed dead. That he’d had to come back to a world in ruins, with the consequences of his choices weighing him down with no air left to breathe.

“I haven’t made my peace with anything,” Harry said, his voice rough.

A warm hand settled on the back of Harry’s neck. “I know,” Draco murmured. “You might never. But so long as you continue to choose to see the good in the world instead of the bad, I think you’ll be all right. That’s the hardest choice of them all, and yet it’s the one that comes to you the easiest.”

Harry snorted. “I’m not a saint.”

“Oh, trust me, I know you’re not.” Draco’s thumb moved. “But you don’t pretend to be either. Look, I didn’t mean to dredge all this stuff about the War up. I just wanted to say, I thought you’d sympathise with the protagonist and I was pleased I was right. Pretty damn smug about it, actually.”

“Yeah?” Harry looked at him. “How smug?”

Draco smirked.

“All right.” Harry tried to clear his mind of all this debris, focusing instead on Draco’s mouth, his eyes, the pointy tip of his nose. “I wanted to ask you about another date or something. Not that I don’t love these chats—” Draco raised an eyebrow at that “—but I want to see you when I’m not at work, too.”

“Mmh,” Draco assented. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Anything. Come to the pub with me tonight. Have dinner at my place. Bookstore. A picnic. I don’t care, I just, I want to do things. See you in the mornings. Hang out with your friends. All those things.”

“Yes. Well—no to the pub, for now. What are you doing tomorrow? You don’t have a Little League game this weekend, do you?”

“I am one hundred percent free this weekend, Draco, and I am very close to begging you to spend all of it with me.”

“Begging?” Draco grinned, delighted. “I’ll spare you the indignity. I would absolutely love to spend the weekend with you.”

After his date with Draco on Saturday, Harry sent Hilde with a letter to the Muggle therapy clinic about an appointment, and then did his best to forget all about it the rest of the weekend, choosing instead to do his homework and start the novel he and Draco had bought together. Draco had gone home Saturday evening to be with his Mum the rest of the weekend, cutting their plans short, but it’d been okay—Harry had been plenty busy. And then, Monday morning, before he’d left for the daycare, he’d finally received a reply from the clinic: he had an appointment later that same day with a Gladys Oakland, who had a slot available.

And now he was here, a whole fifteen minutes early for his appointment and still muddy from Little League practice, trying not to pace nervously in the small receiving room. There was a comfy looking sofa and a chair, a large potted plant with vicious looking red blossoms, a coffee table covered in a mix of Muggle and wizarding magazines of a kind that Harry didn’t care to investigate further, and a rack full of pamphlets and leaflets and copies of what looked like a Muggle psychology journal.

Nobody else was there, and while the receptionist had told him kindly to take a seat, Harry was too jumpy to be able to just sit. Instead, he went to look at the rack.

What was he going to say once he was face to face with his therapist? His therapist. Why was he there? My boyfriend said it was helpful didn’t seem like a very well thought out reason. I had a shitty childhood? I have a dead, black hole inside? Harry stared at the rack, unseeing. I was a child soldier in a war that nobody wants to talk about?

Yeah, no. Harry didn’t want to talk about any of those things, when it really came down to it. He wanted to talk to Draco about those things, but Draco had made it clear on Saturday that he couldn’t be Harry’s therapist. And there was one truth that Harry couldn’t ignore: Draco was right. Not just about that, but about something he’d once said, about facing the ugly parts of oneself.

And that it was hard, and necessary, and Harry…well, he wanted to be good for Draco. And maybe, maybe, this therapist could help. Maybe she had answers. Maybe she could tell him what was wrong with him, why not all of him had come back after he’d died, why his relationship with Ginny had fallen apart.

Whatever it was he had with Draco, Harry didn’t want it to fall apart. So he was here now, for better or for worse.

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. Opened his eyes again and focused on the pamphlets in front of him.

He still had seven minutes until his appointment.

There were several pamphlets about addiction, a few about stress, one about depression (Harry took one of those), a few about divorce, some about PTSD (Harry took one of those too), several about various mental illnesses, some about sexuality… Harry pocketed a pamphlet about anxiety as well, and then he saw one that gave him pause. ASEXUALITY, it said, in large letters, underneath which was a cloud of quotes, such as I’ve only ever wanted to kiss and cuddle my partner, not have sex, I thought I was broken for a long time until I discovered asexuality, I never liked sleep-overs because the others always wanted to discuss which boys were hot, and I never thought anyone was hot, and I enjoy sex with my partner, but only because I love him. Following the cloud, it said Does that sound familiar to you? Then you might be asexual!

Harry’s heart had jumped into his throat. He picked up the pamphlet, folding it open. ASEXUALITY IS THE LACK OF SEXUAL ATTRACTION, it said on the first page. Approximately one per cent of the population experiences no sexual attraction to other people, be it strangers on the street, movie stars, or their partners. Asexuality is a sexual orientation, just like heterosexuality, bisexuality, homosexuality, and pansexuality, it went on. Harry’s hands were shaking, and the pamphlet with it.

“Mr Potter? If you’re ready?” His therapist, Harry presumed, had appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, of course.” Harry glanced at the pamphlet again, mind still reeling, but his feet started carrying him towards her. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready at all.

She must’ve noticed his panic because she gently guided him into her office and into a chair and offered him a glass of water. “Just make yourself comfortable. I’m Gladys Oakland, you may call me Gladys, Mrs Oakland, Hey You, or whatever else you’re comfortable with. How would you like me to address you?”

Harry’s mouth felt dry, despite having just had a sip of water. “Harry,” he said. “Just Harry.” He was still clutching the pamphlet, which had gone all crumply in his hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Harry.” She gave him a warm smile, and then went over some practicalities, which Harry barely paid attention to, something about client confidentiality and how he was here on his terms, or something like that. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I—” Harry cleared his throat. Everything he’d been worrying about had vanished from his head, and all he could think about was this stupid, stupid pamphlet that was having him all freaked out. The possibility—the possibility alone—that he’d come back whole, that there was not, in fact, any part of him that had stayed dead—Harry didn’t know how to handle it at all. Not after all this time, all the fights with Ginny, the continuous dread he’d felt, the awful sex hangovers—he was here for answers, so why was it so hard to believe he might’ve found one already?

He put the pamphlet on Gladys’ desk and pushed it towards her. “Can we—I need to know more about this. Please.”

If she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Of course.” She folded it open carefully and turned it so that it was facing him. “Do you see yourself in this?”

Harry took another sip of water. Then he started talking.

It was just as well that Harry didn’t see Draco on Tuesdays, being at the daycare all day and then at the College in the evening; his one single therapy session with Gladys Oakland had done a number on his head. It’d also left him exhausted, and it was all he could do to keep up with the kids—Betty and Hugh had got into a fight over the bats and by the time Harry had successfully managed to separate them, Hugh had angry red scratches on his face and Betty had a split lip.

“You, go sit in that corner, and you, go sit in the other corner. Stay there until I come back. Do not look at each other, do not speak to each other and do not move. No tricks, understand?” Harry said to them, rather more sharply than he intended to. Hugh’s lip started wobbling, but he went to sit. So did Betty.

“You three.” Harry turned to Charlie, Alice, and Avery. “If I give you a Quaffle will you go outside and play nice?”

The three of them nodded solemnly. Harry gave them a Quaffle.

“You stay on the playground where I can see you,” Harry said, pointing at the large windows and the swing-seats and sandbox beyond. “We’ll all go together to the field with our brooms as soon as I’ve dealt with this.”

The kids nodded and trotted outside quietly. Avery went for a swing seat, but Charlie and Alice took the Quaffle over to the seesaw and started throwing it to each other.

Harry took a minute to breathe. Once, twice, thrice. Then he fetched the first aid kit.

“Come here,” he said to Hugh and Betty, setting the kit down on one of the kid-sized tables in the middle of the room. His voice came out too brusque, and Harry bit his tongue.

Both Hugh and Betty ambled over, Hugh’s chin definitely wobbling. He was going to cry, Harry knew with certainty. Thankfully he also knew that Hugh was a silent crier, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the noise of it. He told them to sit.

“Are you mad, Mr Harry?” Betty asked. She and Hugh were sitting side by side, not looking at each other, but also avoiding looking at Harry.

Harry knelt in front of them, first aid kit open. “No,” he said. “A little bit. I’m disappointed more than I’m angry.” He gave Betty a reusable ice pack. “Hold that against your lip, yes, like that.”

Tears welled up in Hugh’s eyes and streamed down his cheeks. Harry dug into the first aid kit for an antiseptic salve and band aids. “Chin up, Hugh,” he said, gently. “Okay. This is going to sting a bit.” He wiped most of Hugh’s tears away with his thumbs, then started applying the salve to the scratches. One looked deep, and Harry thought he’d probably find bits of Hugh’s skin under Betty’s nails if he looked.

While dabbing the salve onto Hugh’s face—a magic salve, with quick healing properties—he started talking, keeping half an eye on the trio that was outside. “What happened here, kiddos? Why were you fighting?”

“Hugh took my bat from me,” Betty said quickly.

“I didn’t!” Hugh sniffled. “It’s my favourite bat and I always use it but you took it anyway even though I always, always—”

“It’s not yours—”

“All right,” Harry cut in, before they could wind each other up again. “Betty, I thought you liked the yellow bat best?”

“Avery took it,” she said, mulishly. “He says it’s the best one and he has to have the best one because he’s a professional Quidditch player and only professional Quidditch players are allowed to use the best bats.”

“I see.” Harry glanced at her. She looked genuinely upset, and understandably so. He closed the jar of salve and cut out strips of band aids for Hugh. “I will talk to Avery about this. Is that all right?”

“He’s stupid,” she said. “And annoying.”

Harry thought she wasn’t entirely wrong. There still existed a clear split between his daycare kids despite Harry’s best efforts, and he was running out of ideas how to fix it.

Betty and Hugh were only four, too young to join the team and not quite as coordinated when it came to Quidditch because they were still developing. Avery, Charlie, and Alice all had a year or more on Hugh and Betty and were naturally ahead. And now they also had more training, a team affiliation, and actual games (well, so far only the one) to play. No wonder they were feeling good about themselves.

“You know what,” Harry said, finishing up Hugh’s face with band aids. “I understand that the big kids are really annoying at the moment, but I think we should all be friends, right? So no more fighting about bats, or brooms, or gloves, or helmets, or anything.”

“Tell Avery,” Betty grumbled.

Harry removed the ice pack to look at her lip. It had stopped bleeding and wasn’t as swollen as it could’ve been. “I’ll put some salve on that. Hugh, you’ve been quiet.”

Hugh just sniffled. “I don’t want to play Quidditch today,” he said, tears welling up afresh.

“Because of Avery?” Harry dabbed some salve onto Betty’s lip. Hugh nodded. “All right. How about I teach you how to referee instead? Would you like that?”

“Yeah.” Hugh sniffled again.

Harry packed the first aid kit up again. “That’s a plan. Now. Before we do anything else. Is there anything you two should be saying to each other?” He looked at the kids expectantly. They were good kids and usually needed only a little prompting to apologise to each other, but Harry knew that was the most difficult part of any conflict.

The kids looked at each other, Betty rather more shamefaced than Hugh. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m sorry, too,” Hugh said.

Letting out a small sigh of relief now that the hard part was over, Harry stood up. “Betty, go wash your hands. Let’s get you a drink of water, Hugh, and then we’ll go outside and join the others, all right?”

Not much later all six of them were trotting to the field, brooms in hand (no bats and no Bludgers), Harry carrying a small cage of fluttering practice Snitches. His thoughts kept straying to everything he’d discussed with Gladys the evening before, but he tried valiantly to keep focused on the present until he would have the time to properly process them; he had kids to look after.

He’d taken Avery aside for a minute before they headed out and while Avery had promised to change his behaviour, Harry wasn’t convinced it was going to be that easy.

Harry had taken Draco to a Muggle bookstore on the weekend, where they’d each got a copy of the same book to read—carefully selected, after perusing the Young Adult section for hours, and on recommendation by the store clerk who’d been restocking shelves nearby. After, Draco had cooked him dinner. At Harry’s place, mind, as it’d been within walking distance, and Draco had made a funny face when Harry had asked him where he lived.

He still didn’t know where Draco lived, which was…odd. He knew he didn’t live in the Manor, which had been closed up for years. Unmarketable, according to Pansy. Might one day be a valuable historical site, according to Hermione. A pile of crap, according to Ron. But Harry didn’t know where Draco lived, which was a pretty weird thing not to know about one’s boyfriend.

Sooner or later Harry would get to see his home, he was sure. When he was ready to take Harry there, probably, or for some other reason. It didn’t matter. Well, not entirely—Harry had the spare key to his own flat in his pocket, the key that had once been Ginny’s. He’d nearly given it to Draco on the weekend already; he’d been so delighted to have him there, in his kitchen, making food. Draco’s pleased smile when Harry had liked the meal, and the soft kisses he’d let Harry sneak…it all added up to a certainty that, well, that Harry was definitely beyond the point of no return.

How was he this close to basically asking Draco to move in with him when he and Ginny hadn’t lived together for years—for all the time their relationship had actually been at its strongest?

“Sickle for your thoughts,” Draco said, coming up from behind and surprising Harry. They joined the line at the café.

“I was actually thinking about your cooking,” Harry said, grasping for the safest straw. “And how much I’d like to do that again. I like watching you cook. And eating the results.”

“Oh?” Draco smiled, a corner of his mouth curling just so. Harry both loved and hated that he knew how to read it.

“Yes, go on, be pleased with yourself,” Harry told him, smiling back. “How is your research today? Those twelfth century coroner scrolls yield anything interesting?”

“Grisly accidents, violent murders, and questionable forensic practices,” Draco replied. “I think I have collected enough material for my book.”

“Oh? So…you’re done?” Harry faltered, nearly missing the plates Anne was handing him over the counter. Today’s course was roast lamb with mint peas. He grabbed them just in time.

“Mmhmmmaybe.” Draco, as usual, set all the plates to levitate smoothly ahead of them as they made their way to the garden. “The part about dying, at least. I’m not sure what to do about the rest. I don’t suppose you have birth records?”

“Certificates? Er, those are kind of personal. They’re not on public file,” Harry said. He wished he could say yes, if only to keep Draco at the Archive for longer. He’d got used to seeing him practically every day, and if he didn’t need the Archive’s resources anymore, then…Harry felt like he’d slip away.

“Figures.”

Outside, the sun was shining and it was an unseasonably warm day—it was only March, but it almost felt like summer. Aside from the wind, which nipped at Harry’s cheeks and ruffled Draco’s hair. It was almost sparkly in the sun, fine and pale as it was.

Draco enclosed them in a weather bubble, to shield them from the wind. “Have you finished the book yet?”

“Oh! Yes. Last night, after practice. Finally. What’d you think of it?” Harry balanced his plate on his lap and speared a roast potato. “I mean, aside from the dreadful capitalist technocracy.”

“I do wonder why Muggles keep writing books about the evils of technology,” Draco said, eyebrow quirked. “It’d be like…if we wrote books about the evils of magic. It’s…unthinkable.”

“I know,” Harry said, not keen to go down this path again. They’d discussed it at length on Wednesday. “It wasn’t technology so much as the people in charge of it, I think. And those kids! I mean…well, if it were magic, it could’ve been us.”

Could’ve been me, is what Harry should’ve said, because if that novel had been about him, then he would’ve been leading the rebellion against the technocratic government, and Draco would’ve been one of the people under its thumb.

But it wasn’t about him, it was just a book, a fiction. Teenagers waging a war that their parents were unequipped to deal with, suffering heavy losses to take down corruption and injustice and coming out the other side victorious.

“I liked the ending,” Harry said, then. “It was…”

“Unrealistic?” Draco said.

“I was going to say soft.” Harry looked at him. “You didn’t like it?”

“No. The epilogue ruined it all.”

Harry paused his eating. “Ruined it? But…it was a happy ending. They won. Did you want them to lose?”

“No, no, I just…” Draco gazed into his mint peas, frowning. “I just didn’t believe it. You have this group of teenagers fight this war, and they win, but before they win two of them are dead, two have become injured to such a degree they’ll be permanently disabled, all of them are carrying a lot of trauma—physical injuries aside, they’re essentially child soldiers in a war they never asked for, they have PTSD, they have survivor’s guilt, they have—a lot of issues. And I’m supposed to believe they just got married and had kids and everything was happily ever after? Just like that?”

“Why not? It’s the kind of happy ending I wanted.”

“And did you get it?” Draco asked pointedly. “I don’t see you with a wife and two kids and a nice house and a cushy job and maybe a dog and family picnics in the countryside.”

“No,” Harry replied, snappish. He couldn’t help it, but it stung—he’d wanted to marry Ginny and have kids and a nice house and everything. But she hadn’t wanted kids, and she hadn’t wanted to get married. And in the end they’d broken up.

But still—Harry had wanted a normal life. After everything, he just wanted to feel like a person, somebody capable of building a family and loving them, making a good life, something untarnished by war and dreadful relatives and other bullshit. He didn’t want to be The Boy Who Lived, he wanted to just be Harry. Dad, husband, friend. What was so wrong with wanting that?

“That’s not the only reason why I didn’t like the ending,” Draco continued, after a pause. “Even if—even if their trauma had been addressed and dealt with, that epilogue was still an epilogue that had no place for me, or people like me.”

Harry pushed his hurt aside, curious. “What do you mean, people like you?”

“I’m gay. And everyone in that epilogue, all those happy couples? They were straight. The one character I thought I could identify with was killed off. And maybe it’s stupid, but there’s no place for me in the real world, so when there’s no place for me in the books I read, it just—” Draco shrugged.

“It hurts,” Harry finished. “But there is—Draco, there is.”

“Yeah, right.” He snorted. “Where? How? This isn’t a goddamn novel, this is my life. I don’t get a carefully written wish fulfilment fantasy of a happy ending. I don’t get to be in this fucking world. It doesn’t matter what I want, I’m not going to get it, and I sure as hell don’t deserve it.”

Harry was at a loss for words. It hadn’t occurred to him that Draco would have such a different outlook on life than him, that he wouldn’t know—wouldn’t see… Abruptly Harry realised that Draco was out of touch with the world. Neither Pansy nor other friends of Daco’s from school had seen him in months. How long had he been isolating himself if he hadn’t seen that all around him there were people just like him?

“Come to the pub with me,” Harry said. “Please.”

“What?” Draco looked up, surprised. “What has that to do with anything?”

“Your place. I mean it, please come to the pub with me. Just once. I want to show you that there is a place for us. There is a happy ending—”

“You think you’re my happy ending?” Draco challenged.

“I want to be,” was Harry’s immediate response. If you’ll have me, he thought. Even if I’m me. “Look, that book? Is just a book. It’s not an indicator for your life, or mine, or anyone else’s. We get to make our own happy endings, all right? We deserve that.”

“Do we?” Draco said, after a while. “After everything we did, do we really?”

“Yes, damn it. I didn’t suffer for most of my life only to continue to suffer. I don’t care about what I deserve or don’t deserve, I care about what I want. Right now, that’s you, us.”

“That’s easy for you to say—”

“No, it isn’t! Merlin’s bloody hat, Draco, none of this is easy.” Harry rubbed his face. His food had gone cold while arguing with Draco, but he didn’t feel like eating right now anyway. He hadn’t told Draco about his therapy session yet, or about his being asexual. He’d barely even processed it yet—he didn’t know what bearing it would have on their relationship, and now they were arguing about happy endings?

Draco hadn’t touched his food either. “I just don’t understand,” he said, “how, after everything we did, we deserve anything at all. The book—those characters all did some truly awful things to overturn the government, and they just…went and got married and that was it? How did they deserve that? How do we deserv—”

“I’ve already been to jail, and so have you.” Harry was done with this discussion. He put his plate aside and got up, pacing. “We’ve had our punishment. That’s enough. I’m not going to continue to punish myself just because. It’s done! It’s in the past! I just want to move on!” He glared at Draco. “I want a normal goddamn life, a fucking happy ending, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I want—I need to just be a normal fucking person!”

“So just because in the eyes of the law it’s done, it’s really done?”

“Yes!” Harry threw up his hands. “I don’t know! But there’s no other metric, is there? It’s why we have the sodding law in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Draco sighed. “Can we change the topic? I don’t feel like fighting.”

“Come to the pub with me,” Harry repeated. “It doesn’t have to be tonight, it can be next week, or the week after, or sometime later, but promise you’ll come.”

Draco looked at him. “Next week,” he said finally. “I’ll come next week.”

“Okay. Good. Thank you.” Harry sat again, suddenly exhausted. The food still wasn’t appealing, so he ignored his plate, which had floated over and was now bobbing in front of him, like some kind of buoyant little creature. Harry pushed it away. “There are happy endings for people like us. In real life, not just in books.”

“And those happy endings are at the pub?” Draco shook his head. “Whatever. I’ll come. But I won’t drink.”

“You can have whatever you want to drink, Draco, I don’t care. But I want you to meet Dean and Seamus, and George, Lee and Angelina, and Pansy and her girlfriend—Padma—and Blaise might be there with his new boyfriend, I forgot his name, just, come hang out with us.”

Draco was staring. “Pansy has a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, for quite some time now.” Harry shrugged. “They’re moving in together and all. I think they’re doing really well.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, Pansy said she hasn’t heard from you in a long time.”

Guilt flickered across Draco’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Did you say Blaise has a boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” Harry bumped his shoulder against Draco’s. “I told them you and I are dating. Kinda had to, after that picture got in the paper.”

Draco froze. “They know? What’d they say?”

“Not much, really. Just asked when I’d be bringing you round.”

Draco had pushed his food aside as well, and was twisting his hands instead, so Harry reached over and took Draco’s hand in his. He had nice hands, strong, slender fingers, but his palms were rough. Harry didn’t know what to do to help calm him down, or what exactly was wrong, but something wasn’t right.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. He’d found a small scar near Daco’s thumb and was tracing it with his fingers.

“Yeah, I—no, not really. It hadn’t occurred to me that the picture in the Prophet would mean that people would know about me. I mean, obviously everyone who saw the paper would know, but I wasn’t thinking about…me.” He exhaled. “Only my parents knew about me. And now, apparently, all of magical Britain, including my old friends.”

“It’s not so bad, is it? Nobody’s given me any grief about it. Though I suppose I’ll be fielding questions from journalists tomorrow after the game...What about your parents?”

Draco shrugged. “My parents are my parents. Love me unconditionally and all that, so they…it was never an issue that I’m gay. I think mum hopes I’ll find me a nice boyfr—” He stiffened, horror writ across his face. “Merlin’s tits. I haven’t told her about you and she’ll have seen the paper.”

“Is that…a bad thing?” Harry asked, suddenly uncertain. The realisation that he’d have to be introduced to Draco’s mum eventually, as his boyfriend, was…mildly terrifying. He hadn’t seen Narcissa since the battle—not even at the trials, though he’d spotted her in passing.

The last time he’d seen her, really seen her, he’d been pretending to be dead and she’d been lying to Voldemort. Next time he’d see her it might be in a nice sitting room over tea.

“I don’t know yet.” Draco had his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Harry squeezed his hand. “I’ll…tell her today, I suppose.”

“Yeah? What’ll you tell her? Am I your boyfriend?”

A moment of silence. Then: “Yes.”

Harry grinned. “Do you want to come over to mine tomorrow after the game?”

“I—yes. I’d like that very much.” Draco afforded him a soft smile. “I, ah, have my ticket already.”

It was quite possible that Harry was falling even deeper, if such a thing was possible. He resisted sneaking a kiss and instead summoned their plates, which bobbed over happily, and put a refreshment charm on them. Soon enough their food was hot and inviting again.

They finished eating with barely a minute to spare before Harry’s lunch break was over and he had to get back to work and the collection he was helping Albert with.

It was pouring down and freezing cold. Harry’d put his best weather protection charms on the kids and himself, but the rain won out. Halfway through the game, everyone had been miserable, Harry most of all. The Snitch got lost in the weather, the Seekers on both teams unable to locate it, or concentrate through the bone-chilling rain to focus enough to try, so the game was called after two hours.

The Butterfly Bumpkins had been twenty points short, and had thus lost the game to the Fishes, but neither team had managed to score very many goals to begin with; the Quaffle slipping through wet hands and aims being off at fault all around. The kids had done their best, but it’d been a thoroughly shitty game.

Afterwards, the kids and their parents were quick to pack up and go, nobody wanting to linger. Harry gave Draco his spare key and told him meet him at the flat, and then went to join the other captain in talking to reporters. By the time that all was over with and Harry had taken all the equipment back to the Chudley Cannons’ home stadium (he’d let Ginny leave early, on account that she’d handled the gear last time) and had made it home, he was in a terrible mood. The kind of mood that wasn’t grumpy or angry so much as tired and depressed and disappointed and upset all at once.

“Hey!” Harry called out, letting the door fall shut behind him. He was regretting having sent Draco here, to have made plans with him in the first place, because all he really wanted was to mope and wallow and let the bad mood run its course.

Draco appeared in the doorway to the kitchen with floury hands. “Hi,” he said, unsure. “I, ah, took the liberty to make scones. Raspberry and white chocolate,” he added.

Harry stared at him. Draco had transfigured a tea towel into a makeshift apron, the apple and elderflower pattern stretched oddly as the tea towel had distorted itself into the new shape. Draco had also fastened the cut sleeves on his robes above his elbows and rolled up the thin sleeves underneath, but there was a smudge of flour on the left sleeve anyway.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Draco said, cheeks pink. “While waiting, I mean.”

“I love you,” Harry said, closing the distance between them so he could kiss him. Preferably forever. He was dripping water everywhere, and there were squeaky noises that Harry was sure weren’t from him, but he didn’t care. Everything was better now.

“Your hands are cold,” Draco eventually managed to get out in between kisses. His cheeks were dark pink, but his eyes were sparkling and there was a pleased edge to his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, realising his hands were all over Draco’s neck and hair and face. “You’re very warm.” He also realised that Draco’s hands were not on him; he was holding his floury hands away from Harry’s soaked self. “Uh, do you want to go finish those scones while I change?”

Draco frowned. “You should have a hot shower, or a bath—” Harry made a noise. “Bath?”

“I’d love to,” Harry admitted. “But I don’t want to leave you alone in the kitchen all that time. Seems pretty rude to me.”

“What if I joined you?”

Harry was brought up short. “Join me?” He’d be lying if he said it didn’t sound appealing. A hot soak with a choice bath bomb and Draco in there with him? The mere idea of it spoke to all of Harry’s senses. “Yeah, okay, if you want to.”

“Yes, I…haven’t actually tried any of the bath bombs yet,” Draco confessed. “It’s embarrassing, but I’m kind of intimidated.”

“They don’t actually explode,” Harry said, delighted by his admission.

“I know.” Draco huffed. “Go run that bath. I only need to put the scones in the oven. They won’t take long.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry smooched him. “Come pick a bath bomb when you’re done.”

Draco went back to the kitchen and Harry made his way to the bathroom, where he promptly shed all of his soaked clothing and stuffed it all into the washing machine, along with the contents of the laundry basket. He’d just slipped on a bathrobe when Malfoy came in.

“Over there,” Harry said, pointing at the shelf. It held several brown paper bags, some open, some not. He started the washing machine, and then the bath.

“Any?” Draco opened all the bags. “Anything you’re particularly in the mood for?”

Harry had been in the mood for the black bomb, actually. It was an annoying little thing, turned the water a gross dark brownish purple, but it had pepper and cinnamon and something else in it that was spicy and jabbed and prickled at him—it was a cleanser, of a sort, or so Harry felt; when he used it on bad days, it always felt like the negative energies washed off him and down the drain along with the water. However, most of Harry’s awful mood had evaporated when he’d seen Draco in a transfigured tea towel for an apron. (Draco had taken it off already.) “Whatever you want.”

“Hmm.” Draco inspected all the bath bombs, pausing briefly on the sunshine bomb and later the black bomb, studying the label and sniffing it. Harry watched him, keeping half an eye on the bath so it wouldn’t run over, checking the temperature as it went. Draco moved on, considering the green Quidditch-like bomb for a moment, and a pink one he’d described as full of aphrodisiacs. “This one?” Draco eventually asked, holding up a galaxy bomb. “Or maybe this one, it has vanilla in it.” The other was a multicoloured bomb in a geometric shape.

“Either is good.”

Draco weighed the two against each other. “The vanilla, I think. I’m not in the mood for peppermint.” He put the galaxy bomb back and handed the other one to Harry. “I’ve got to go check on the scones.”

“Yes—actually, let’s bring them in here. I could eat.” He turned the water off, put the bath bomb aside, and went with Draco to the kitchen.

The scones were almost done, so while they waited, Harry prepared a pot of tea and arranged a tray with butter and jam (he had no cream), and milk and sugar for the tea. Draco watched the oven anxiously all the while, until he declared the scones ready.

“What’s that?” Draco asked when he saw the tray. He’d tipped the sheet of scones over onto a clean dish towel (not the one previously serving as an apron) and was transferring the bundle to the tray. “That looks like…”

“Like children made it,” Harry finished for him, with a grin. “It’s a Christmas gift from my daycare kids. We painted trays last year for gifts, for their parents, and they painted me one too. Isn’t it great?”

Draco nodded thoughtfully. “That’s nice of them.”

It was still pouring down outside, the sky dark grey and gloomy. There was a small window in the bathroom that let all this gloom in, but now the bathroom also held the scent of fresh scones. Harry set the tray down on the small chest of drawers tucked in between the washing machine and the bathtub.

“You want to do the honours?” He gave Draco the bath bomb he’d picked out. “Just drop it in.”

“So this goes in first? We don’t have to be in the water already for it to work?”

“It doesn’t really matter? If you want to see all the colours it’s easier if you drop that in first, but it’s also fun to watch it fizz around you in the water.” Harry checked the temperature. Still good.

Draco considered this. Then he dropped it in.

Instantly, the bath bomb started fizzing, a trail of pink, blue and yellow behind it as it went. At first there wasn’t much of a scent, but then suddenly it was there, rich vanilla rising out of the water to fill the room.

“Oh,” Draco said, mesmerised. “It’s very much like bath potions? But there’s not a trace of magic in this.” He dipped his fingers into the water, swirling some of the pink with the blue. “None at all.”

“Do you want to go in first?”

“Oh, I—you go, you’re already…” Draco gestured at Harry’s robe. “I’ll just…”

“Yeah,” Harry said. He dropped his robe, trying not to feel self-conscious, and got in the tub. When Harry looked, Draco was unbuttoning his robes with his wand, so he averted his eyes and waited until Draco had climbed into the tub with him to look again.

And then Harry didn’t know what to say, or do, so he steered the fizzing bath bomb (half spent by now) towards Draco. The scent of caramel had come out to join the vanilla, along with something woody. The rain hammered against the small window—inspired, Harry turned the light off with a wave of his hand, and with another he summoned two dozen candles from the shelf and set to float in the air. He alighted them with a snap of his fingers and the gloom disappeared, replaced with a warm glow that matched the deep scents of the bath bomb, the heat of the water and the sweetness of the scones.

“Better?” he asked.

Draco was staring at him openly, a peculiar look in his eyes Harry hadn’t seen before. It looked a little like desperation. “Maybe,” he said. “Yes, I mean. It’s better. Have you always been able to do wandless magic?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged. He repeated the performance with the tray, setting it to levitate beside the tub. He poured the tea. “I left my wand in my cloak, by the door. So this was easier.”

“Easier?” Draco’s voice had roughened. He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re not wrong.” He took the cup Harry had poured for him and added milk and sugar. “Wandless magic is very difficult to do intentionally.”

“It’s no big deal.” Harry buttered himself one of Draco’s scones next, trying to avoid his gaze. He realised now what it was he’d seen in Draco’s face: the same thing he’d seen in Ginny’s whenever she’d wanted sex.

It had to happen sooner or later, Harry knew, but he had been hoping for later. Though if this was it, the Moment, for lack of other words, he’d…just do it. Get that part over with.

And then maybe make another appointment with Gladys because even if—even if he was asexual, it didn’t seem right to be thinking like this. Maybe she could help.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’ve just never seen anyone do wandless magic before.”

“It’s fine,” Harry said, even though that wasn’t the issue at all. He took a bite out of the scone so he wouldn’t have to talk.

It was delicious. The white chocolate bits were still melty, and the raspberries burst in his mouth in little tart explosions. There was vanilla in these scones too.

“Good?” Draco asked, smug.

Harry nodded, mouth full.

“May I?” Draco gestured to between them.

Harry wasn’t sure what he meant, but he nodded anyway, still munching on the scone. It was better than talking. Draco shifted, their legs knocking together, and then manoeuvred himself across carefully, until he managed to slot himself between Harry’s legs, his back against Harry’s chest. Harry automatically put his free arm around Draco’s waist.

“Is this okay?” Draco asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. This was more in line with what he’d wanted when Draco had suggested a bath. It wasn’t comfortable exactly, Harry was still too unsure of what Draco wanted to truly relax, but he was warm now, and he had tea and scones and Draco so close he could smell his hair and feel the heat of his body.

They sat like that for a while, polishing off three scones between them and half the teapot.

“I can see the appeal, I think,” Draco said, when he finished his second cup of tea. “I’m not sure what I was expecting—some kind of latent magic, perhaps, to be triggered by contact? But it’s actually just nice.”

The bath bomb had fizzed out completely a long time ago, and the water was a dark purple. It should’ve started cooling, but Harry had surreptitiously charmed it to stay hot. If Draco noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

“Yeah. It’s just nice. There’s not that much more to it, really,” Harry said. He put his own cup down and sent the tray away.

“You don’t get bored? I mean when you’re by yourself and all.” Draco had a hand on Harry’s knee, his fingers going over the knobbly bits as if trying to memorise them.

“Not really. It’s like…a time out. A small break. Or I read, or…well, you’re here now.” That part of it was more than nice, Harry thought. Over these past few weeks, he’d seen glimpses of Draco’s core, got really close, as they talked about books and ideologies and told each other things—Draco had perhaps opened up more than Harry had, in some regards—but being like this, skin to skin, was a different kind of closeness.

“Sex?” Draco asked.

Harry hesitated. “Is that a suggestion?”

“No.” Draco exhaled. “I’m not ready for that. I was just…I don’t know what I was thinking, really. Just wondering.”

Not ready? That made no sense—could people really be not ready? Harry chanced a look at Draco, something he’d studiously avoided all this time, and saw he was hard. That was even more confusing; by Harry’s reckoning, if he was in the mood then…that was it, right?

What was going on?

“So…you don’t want a hand with that?” Harry asked, thinking he could do that. If Draco wanted to, he could deal with it.

“No,” Draco said. “I’m not ready for any of that.” He sat up, breaking contact, and leaned forwards over his knees instead, hugging them. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay?” Harry wanted to touch him again, but now it seemed like he couldn’t. “Why not?”

“I can’t explain it. I just can’t do any of that yet. I need more time. I’m sorry.”

Time, Harry could understand. “Okay.” He put a hand on Draco’s back. There were streaks of colour there from the bath bomb. Draco startled, so Harry withdrew it. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to push, I’m just trying to understand.”

“We haven’t been dating that long,” Draco finally said, sitting up a bit straighter. His shoulders were still tense. “It’s not you, I promise, you’re very attractive and I want you very much, I just—I need more time.”

The idea that you could want someone and still not want to have sex with them was so entirely foreign to Harry that he didn’t know what to think or say. Ginny had wanted him all the time, or so it had felt; it hadn’t happened very often that she turned him down. Possibly because he hadn’t asked very often to begin with. It was usually when they’d been fighting that she didn’t want to, which had made a lot of sense to Harry. He’d never wanted to either, and especially not then.

Abruptly, Harry realised that he couldn’t expect Draco to be the same as Ginny, that it wasn’t just him—he and Ginny might’ve been incompatible in the end, but he and Draco didn’t have to be.

“Okay,” Harry said. “More time is fine. It’s—more than fine, I wasn’t—I didn’t mean that I wanted—I’m asexual,” he blurted. His heart skipped a beat or two, suddenly terrified at having said it out loud. “Or at least I think so.”

That had Draco swivel round to look at him. “I saw the pamphlet,” he said. “On your fridge. I read it. I didn’t mean to pry, I was just curious…”

“Yeah…” Harry shrugged awkwardly. “I got it from the clinic. I went to talk to a therapist and…” He shrugged again. “I think that’s me. Maybe.”

“Okay, so…what does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m still figuring it out.” Harry exhaled. “I have…weird hang-ups about sex. I don’t want—I don’t know. Is that okay? Is that a problem? Because I don’t want it to be—”

“It’s not a problem,” Draco said, touching Harry’s knee. “Whatever it is you’ll—we’ll figure it out?”

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” Harry rubbed his face. “Bloody hell.”

Draco patted Harry’s knee, while Harry took a moment to collect himself. “What were the other pamphlets for? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“You,” Harry answered, looking at Draco. “I wanted to know more about PTSD and all that, so maybe I could understand it better. I was curious, too—I wanted to know more about what it’s like for you.”

The hand on Harry’s knee stilled. “Oh,” Draco said, looking all odd in the face again.

“Is that not okay? I was just—curious.”

“Yeah, no, yes, it’s okay. I just hadn’t expected—look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and made me fall in love with you more,” Draco said, voice rough and terrified.

Harry’s heart swelled to bursting and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “More, you say? I wasn’t aware you already were in love with me.”

“Shut up.” Draco glared at him. “You knew.”

“But now you said it,” Harry said, reeling him in for a kiss. Draco squeaked, but kissed Harry back. “Is that what you told your mum?”

“If we’re talking about my mum, we are getting dressed,” Draco said, firmly, hand on Harry’s chest.

“What did she say?” Harry asked, taking Draco’s hand to kiss his palm instead.

“No, no more naked kissing in an extremely romantic setting until we are definitely no longer talking about my mother.” Draco withdrew his hand, crossing his arms. “Which is it?”

Draco’s pink cheeks and stern demeanour were delightful, and Harry wanted nothing more than to look at him for the rest of his life. He’d never tire of this sight.

“Let’s get dressed,” he said.

Harry used the Archive’s owl to inquire with Gladys about another appointment. He received a prompt response that there was a slot open that same evening, so he sent back a confirmation. He’d talk to her about maybe setting up a schedule of a kind—he hadn’t thought he would, but after that first appointment Harry found there were a lot of things he wanted to talk about. Unburden himself. Have someone smarter than him who used words like recontextualise and cognitive training sort him out.

Then he went to sort out all the documents Draco had piled up over time in the borrowed study. The painting on the wall was chipper, the hummingbird in it flitting about, the painted sunlight glittering off its iridescent feathers. Unless somebody else wanted to use the room, Harry probably wouldn’t see that hummingbird for a while.

“I’m afraid everything has been mixed up,” Draco said, standing in the middle of the room. “I did use that Charm you showed me, but I think my thoughts were all jumbled, so…”

Scrolls and folders were stacked, some less neatly than others, all over the shelves and the desk, giving off the impression that this was the lair of an eccentric scholar rather than an orderly and finicky person.

“That’s all right,” Harry said, ordering the documents off the shelves and into the trolley he’d brought. “They’ll sort themselves back into their own places when I take them downstairs. I just need to verify that there’s nothing missing.” He tapped the ex libris list for the room with his wand and watched the items on it lit up and burn black as everything returned to the trolley.

Draco had said he was done researching, but Harry hadn’t quite believed it—or had hoped it wasn’t true, or that it wouldn’t happen so soon. The Archive had other patrons of the authorly type, and they’d been coming here for years to look things up. Draco had only been coming here for a little over two months. Somehow, Harry had believed that this comfortable rhythm he had established with Draco would continue forever.

It was crazy how fast Harry had got used to his presence here, how fast he’d moulded his work day around Draco—if this was it, then they wouldn’t have a tea break together this afternoon at three. Or the rest of the week. Or any time after that. They’d have to establish a new kind of rhythm—recontextualise their relationship, Harry thought wryly. Fit themselves into a new framework.

Maybe if he brought this up with Gladys she’d tell him to stop worrying about it.

“Looks like everything’s there,” Harry said when the last document squeezed itself into the trolley and the ex libris list had gone all black.

“That was remarkably simple,” Draco said, relieved. “I needn’t have worried at all.” He was clutching his little black notebook. It was a little worn around the edges by now, and some pages were dog-eared.

“What’re you going to name your book? Draco Malfoy’s Guide to Stop Dying and Start Living Instead?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head, smiling. “No. I don’t know, actually. I thought about naming it A Thousand and One Ways to Die, but I’m not sure I have a thousand deaths lined up for it, really.”

“Shame, that. It’s a catchy title.”

“Maybe I won’t give it a name.” Draco put the notebook into a pocket. “I…do I need to do anything? About the study, I mean. Do I need to sign anything?”

“No.” Harry gestured for him to go ahead, then followed with the trolley. He tapped the door, marking the room as returned so that the cleaning staff would know to come by. “It’s all sorted.”

“Okay.” Draco paused uncertainly by the front desk, manned by Mildred today, and turned to face Harry. “If that’s all…”

“That’s all,” Harry said, pushing the trolley behind the desk. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yes.” Draco left.

Harry sighed, leaning on the trolley.

“Murder boy got enough of the murders?” Mildred asked cheerfully. “Oh, now, no need to look so glum. He’ll be back before you know it.”

“How do you know?” Harry narrowed his eyes at her. “Has he said anything?”

“He knows your schedule,” was her reply. She winked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry grumbled. “He’s done with the research. What does it matter that he knows my schedule?”

“Don’t be dim. That boy will be back at five to pick you up. Walk you home or sweep you off your feet. Probably both.”

Harry stared at her, but Mildred just smiled sweetly. “Ugh, whatever,” he said and pushed the trolley onto the levitating platform.

Harry’s second meeting with Gladys had veered off course in a matter of minutes; Harry had gone in thinking he wanted to talk about Draco, who had indeed come pick him up when his shift ended, and had wound up talking about anger. Or lack thereof.

“I used to be so angry,” he’d said, and Gladys had nodded and asked “Why aren’t you anymore?”

He wasn’t entirely sure he knew, really, all his suggestions sounding more and more ludicrous as he came up with them, going from “Everything about the fucking War, really” to “My cousin used to shove my head in the toilet at school and that just seems so insignificant now.” She’d prodded and poked, asked about this or that event, and then they’d talked about Dudley.

And now Harry was here, two days later, at a Muggle library and looking for Dudley in the phone book, because confronting your family about your abuse might have a cathartic effect. Think about it.

Harry had thought about it. And he’d thought about it some more, and eventually he got tired of thinking about it, so by Wednesday he’d decided to do something about it.

Not the whole family, though. Just Dudley. The Dursleys as a whole could still shove it as far as Harry was concerned; the last time Harry had seen them had been a few days before his seventeenth birthday and he’d fully intended it to stay that way. They’d gone into hiding and Harry had never cared to find out what happened to them, if they’d come out the other side alive, or if Death Eaters had found them, or…anything, really. (He’d been surprised to discover he did actually still have a lot of anger aimed that way.)

Harry never wanted to see them again, but the idea of looking in their eyes and saying, unequivocally, you hurt me, had a kind of appeal to it. A potential for satisfaction. You fucked me up and that’s not okay. You abused me. There’s no excuse.

Because that’s what it was. Abuse. The fact that he’d been used to it, that he’d borne it, that he’d just lived through it as if it were any other day—which it had been—didn’t make any of it less awful. It didn’t make him less angry, apparently.

Dudley, however. The last words he’d said to Harry had been I don’t think you’re a waste of space. Much as Harry doubted that Dudley truly had any positive emotions towards him—an entire childhood of torment was evidence counter to that—Dudley had nevertheless shown Harry a spark of common decency on that one, single day.

Which was why Harry was now trying to find out if he could find Dudley. He checked Surrey first, in case the Dursleys had returned and Dudley had chosen to stay close to his parents, but while he did find his aunt and uncle back at 4 Privet Drive, Dudley wasn’t listed at that address.

He found Dudley in London. There was a phone number and an address in Camden. It had to be him; there weren’t many Dudleys, by Harry’s reckoning, and definitely not of the Dursley kind. He copied the information onto a scrap of paper and made his way to the nearest payphone.

It picked up on third ring. “This is Peony.”

“Er, hello,” Harry said, oddly relieved and disappointed at once not to get Dudley on the phone. “Is Dudley there?”

“Who is this?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m his cousin. Harry. Should I call at another time? Or is there no Dudley at this address?”

There was a sharp intake of air on the other end. “Harry.” It was still Peony, but her voice had gone all rough. “It’s me—I’m Dudley. Peony these days, but it’s me.”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know what to say. “Er. That’s a nice name?”

Peony chuckled. “Yeah. Thank you. Hey, I’m glad you called. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but I didn’t know how to find you.”

The surprises just kept coming. “You wanted to talk to me?” Harry asked, unable to hide his incredulity. He fed the phone more coins. “Are you sure you’re my cousin?”

“I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth. Listen, I was just on my way out. Can I call you back later?”

“Er—this is a payphone. I don’t have a telephone.” Harry frowned. “I could give you my address? I receive mail the ordinary way…you could send a letter?”

“Mmmh. Sure…how do you feel about meeting?”

Meeting? Harry was stunned silent. “To talk?”

“Yeah. I understand if you don’t want to, but I would appreciate the chance to have a sit down. You can bring someone if you want?” she added.

Harry’s brain was still in the process of rewriting itself to think of Dudley as Peony, and not Dudley. He mentally ran over his schedule. Between work, Quidditch, school, his friends, and Draco, he didn’t know how he’d fit Dud—Peony in. Maybe if he brought someone? Would Draco want to? Maybe not. But Harry wasn’t entirely sure bringing either Ron or Hermione would be a smart move; both of them were liable to swing their fists. Hermione had good aim. “I’ll think about it. Bringing someone, I mean. Uh, I’m really busy though, I don’t know…when were you thinking?”

“This weekend? Sunday?”

The Butterfly Bumpkins were playing the Candy Cranes that day, but Harry could meet before or after. After was probably best.

They agreed on a time and place, and Peony took down Harry’s address. “Looking forward to it, Harry,” she said, and Harry awkwardly stammered a reply and hung up.

Well. That was certainly something. Harry collected his change from the phone and sank onto the nearest bench. Had the last five minutes of his life been real? Was he actually going to meet his cousin for tea? What kind of person had Dudley become since Harry had last seen him—her?

Harry rubbed his eyes. When he’d gone into this year with the hope of a new beginning, he hadn’t envisioned…all this. Three months into the year, and he’d been dumped, gone back to school, started a Quidditch team, got a boyfriend, started therapy, and now, apparently, was meeting with his cousin over bloody tea.

It was altogether too much. Harry got up. He left the change in a donation box near the exit and headed for the tube. If he was lucky, Draco would already be at home waiting for him. Harry wanted nothing more than to kiss him, then sit down in the kitchen to watch him cook, kiss him again, and skip class tonight. Record-keeping Theory and Practice could wait.

“Tell me again who’ll be there,” Draco said, his hand somehow both warm and clammy in Harry’s.

They were right outside the White Hart, Draco having stopped them before heading in. Harry had gone over it several times already, Draco having explained it was his anxiety talking and not any kind of dislike or fear aimed at the people—so even if Harry was getting tired of repeating himself, he did it anyway.

“Dean and Seamus said they’d be there, Blaise said he’d come, but didn’t say if he’d bring Gilliam, Pansy and Padma will be there, though possibly not until nine, George said he and Lee would be there, Angelina too if they could find a sitter, Percy and Oliver said they’d try to make it, but Oliver is refereeing a Little League tomorrow and then playing for Puddlemere after that, so it might just be Percy.” Harry frowned, counting on his fingers. “I think that’s everyone.”

Draco nodded.

“There’s no need to be anxious,” Harry said. “You’ll be fine.”

“I know I’ll be fine. Can’t help being anxious anyway. That’s just how it is.” Draco adjusted his robes, though there wasn’t a thing to adjust; his collar was straight, the brocade lapels flush against his chest, and the light cape over his shoulders draped just right.

Harry’s robes looked almost shabby in comparison—they were clean, and on his body, and they were his favourite set (bought last fall), with loose sleeves and hidden buttons at the front, but at some point the collar had got a bit bendy and Harry had never managed to bend it back.

“You look good,” Harry said. “Let’s go in?”

“Yes,” Draco said, slowly. “Let’s.” He steeled himself and then walked in, Harry by his side.

Dean and Seamus were sitting at a large table near the back, Seamus waving to get their attention. Draco had gone all stiff beside Harry, but Harry tugged him gently forwards. This wasn’t the first time they’d met since the war, Harry knew, that wouldn’t be the issue—hopefully. Dean had spent some time in captivity at Malfoy Manor, but neither Dean nor Draco had brought that up to him at any point leading up to this evening.

“This is Draco,” Harry said, as they reached the table. It felt odd not introducing them to each other, even though they did already know each other, so he did. “Draco, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan—we were roommates at Hogwarts.”

“I remember,” said Draco, shaking their hands in turn. “The artist?” He asked Dean.

“Yes, that’s right,” Dean answered, surprised, if a bit wary. “I’m in marketing these days, I design advertisements and labels and that kind of thing, and do my own art on the side.”

“He’s got an art show in Brixton,” Seamus added, proud and delighted. “It’s very good. I got an exclusive first showing, you know.”

Harry exchanged grins with Seamus, Dean rolling his eyes. Draco was silent, though he was nodding.

They were still standing. “Sit,” Harry told Draco. “I’ll get us drinks. What do you want?”

Draco looked mildly terrified that he was going to be left alone with Dean and Seamus, but he asked for tea and took a seat. Seamus asked for a refill and Harry fetched the drinks, going for a tea for himself as well. If Draco wasn’t drinking he wasn’t comfortable getting inebriated himself.

When he returned to the table Draco was listening to Seamus talk about horses.

“What’s the status on the farm?” Harry asked as he joined them. “Got everything sorted yet?” He slid Draco’s tea over, earning a soft thank you in return.

“Close enough. We’ve set a moving date—two weeks from now, so we’ve moved the schedule up a little.” Dean grinned, then his expression softened as he glanced at Seamus. “It’ll be fantastic to get out of the city. I love it here—grew up here and all—but there’s something to be said for the lush Irish hills, you know? There’s a kind of peace and magic there you don’t find in the city.”

Harry could relate. He looked at Draco, surprised to find Draco was already looking at him. “You grew up in the countryside, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Draco answered. “We didn’t have horses, but a neighbour over the hill did. I snuck over sometimes to look at them. Mum would usually find me up a tree a few hours later, when I hadn’t come in for supper. It was a good tree; it had a perfect view over the paddock.”

Draco’s hands were cradling his cup of tea—his fingers looked stiff and uncomfortable and had to be scalding from the heat of the tea. Harry realised that despite his easy way of speaking, Draco must be deeply anxious still.

The pamphlet from the therapy clinic had something in it about how to help ease the person with anxiety, but the only thing Harry could remember was the bullet point about removing them from the situation that was causing them anxiety in the first place.

“You’re welcome to come over sometime and look at the horses,” Seamus was saying. “Harry’s got a standing invitation; that includes you.”

“Oh,” Draco said, his shoulders firming up. He blinked. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he started, but Seamus waved the protest off.

“None of that nonsense,” he said. “Dean and I aren’t becoming farm gays as an excuse to stop seeing our friends. Please, come visit. We’ll have guest rooms and free-range chickens and a garden, and Dean is trying to talk me into getting sheep.”

“I was only saying, I could spin and dye my own wool for a fibre art project,” Dean argued. “And I could train them to run in formation—”

“Have you ever seen a sheep in your life, city boy?” Seamus challenged.

With this seemingly age-old argument playing out, Harry could afford Draco some attention. “Are you okay?” he asked in a low voice.

Draco nodded, but he didn’t release the cup and his shoulders remained stiff. On the one hand Harry wanted to give Draco the opportunity to leave, but on the other the evening had barely started, and he’d taken Draco here for a reason.

The pamphlet had said something about touch, hadn’t it? Only Harry couldn’t remember if it was about not touching or touching. His daycare kids usually calmed down when offered physical contact if they were upset or anxious: a hug, a pat on the knee, holding hands on excursions, that sort of thing. But Draco wasn’t a five-year-old, and Harry didn’t want to think about managing him like a child, either—but physical touch was physical touch, wasn’t it? People are people? It could be worth a shot—he could make the offer at least.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asked.

“What?” Draco startled.

“Can I put my arm around you?” Harry clarified. “You don’t have to say yes,” he quickly added. “I just wanted—thought—”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’d like that.”

Harry shuffled his chair closer. Draco was a bit taller than him, but it wasn’t a noticeable difference like this, so Harry put his arm around Draco’s shoulders, resting it on the back of Draco’s chair. “This good?”

Draco nodded, leaning into Harry. This close, Harry could smell Draco’s hair, and he couldn’t resist putting his nose in it. Draco always smelled woody, though if it was because he spent a lot of time in his wood workshop or because of his shampoo, Harry didn’t know.

“Thank you for coming,” Harry whispered. “I really appreciate it. Dean and Seamus are good folks—I think you’d like them. We should go visit them at the farm sometime.”

“I—I can’t promise anything,” Draco whispered back. But little by little his shoulders loosened up.

Harry was thrilled, and pleased, and giddy, and could’ve stayed like this for the rest of the evening. Just watching Draco’s face, feeling his shoulders, letting his fingers drift over Draco’s arm. Half-listening to the argument Dean and Seamus were having about sheep—they appeared to be discussing breeds now.

“Oi, lovebirds,” Seamus said, cutting through Harry’s thoughts. “Any chance you can help me talk sense into this fool?”

“I have sense,” Dean argued. “It’s either the sheep or the furnace—”

“Furnace!”

“Yes, for ceramics—”

“Why not both?” Draco suggested.

Dean’s eyes lit up and Seamus looked ready to cry. “Yes! Thank you!” Dean said triumphantly, thumping the table. He gestured at Draco. “He gets it!” he said to Seamus.

“Fine! Fine! You can have sheep and a furnace and whatever, but don’t come complaining to me when the shed turns out too small for all your hundred and fifty-seven art projects and you can’t find your oil paints under ninety pounds of unspun wool.”

“Can I take it back?” Draco asked, looking alarmed.

“No,” Dean and Seamus said in unison.

Harry laughed. “Don’t worry about them,” he told Draco. “They argue about everything.”’

“They really do,” said someone from behind—Blaise, accompanied by Gilliam, Pansy and Padma. Pansy was holding her hand in such a way that nobody with functioning eyes in their head could avoid noticing the very shiny golden ring on her finger.

“Darlings!” Pansy greeted them, flashing her ring. “And Draco.”

“Pansy,” Draco answered, looking terrified.

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if trying to decide what kind of bug he was, but then she shrugged. “Next time, write me back.” Padma glanced between the two of them, but apparently decided not to comment. “By the way, we are engaged.”

A chorus of well wishes rose up, including from the surrounding tables, and Pansy and Padma shared a passionate kiss for everyone’s benefit, Pansy dipping Padma and then twirling her about. She then sat down, nonchalantly as you please, next to Draco.

“Was that dramatic enough for everyone?” Blaise then said, amused, and moved past the topic. “Good to see you, Draco. This is Gilliam, the most perfect boyfriend in history and also the love of my life.”

Gilliam rolled his eyes, but he shook Draco’s hand politely and when Blaise went to fetch them drinks, inquired about what he did for a living.

“Right now, nothing,” Draco answered. “I, ah, have been—indisposed. I don’t need to, I mean, I would like to…” he trailed off, then cleared his throat and started over: “I work with wood, but I can’t say it’s very profitable at the moment. I have plans to turn my workshop into a small business and will be starting to look for possible clients by autumn.”

This was news to Harry and apparently also to everyone else. Pansy was staring, Padma and Blaise were frowning, and Dean and Seamus, who didn’t know Draco well, were puzzled. Gilliam was looking at Draco with interest, however. “Woodwork? That sounds very interesting. What is that about?”

“It’s a mainly Muggle craft,” Draco explained. “I picked it up when I was restoring our old properties. It’s about transforming wood—not magically, by hand—into something practical and beautiful. Things like decorative trimmings, furniture, ceilings, staircase banisters…”

“Oh,” said Padma, suddenly. “You mean like—could you fix a chest of drawers with a broken leg?”

“Yes,” Draco confirmed. “I can replace the broken leg with a new one just the same, stained to be identical to the rest of the piece. Depending on the type of wood the repaired part might look different from the rest of the piece, which is where the staining comes in—what I’d recommend in that situation is actually sanding down the entire piece to remove the previous stain, and then stain the repaired piece at once, to give it a uniform look. If the piece is unstained, untreated wood, say—pine, which is a bright wood that turns darker with age, sanding the older parts or in other ways bleaching or lightening the wood might not be advisable in which case aging the new part might be a better option.” He stopped, turning crimson. “I apologise, I did not mean to go on. Did you have a chest of drawers you want looked at?”

“Yes, actually…I’ll owl you about it later if that’s all right with you? Give me a quote?”

“Why don’t you repair it magically?” Dean asked. “We have spells for that, don’t we?”

Draco was shaking his head even as Padma was answering. “It’s been repaired once before magically, but the spell wore off and it broke again in the same place.”

“That,” Draco said, nodding towards Padma. “Magical repairs work short term on minor damage, but the effect will inevitably wear off. It’s not like a healing spell; wood isn’t alive in the same sense as a human is. The human body will repair itself, and the spells help with that process. Wood and rock and metal can’t knit itself back together.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean said, and Harry nodded along. He’d never afforded this much thought; he’d thought—like Dean—that magic could fix anything.

Pansy shrieked suddenly, a cue that some particularly exciting person had arrived. Harry turned to see Blaise and Millicent making their way over, carrying a large number of drinks on fire. “Millie!” Pansy shrieked. “I thought you weren’t coming!”

Neither did I, Harry thought, noticing Draco going completely tense beside him. He brought his hand up to Draco’s hair, his thumb brushing against his ear as his fingertips stroked over his scalp. He had no idea Millicent was even invited—he didn’t think he’d ever seen her at pub night.

“How could I resist?” Millicent said. “I had to see Big Gay Pub Night for myself. Draco, long time no see. Hello, Potter. And you two are?”

“This is Seamus, I’m Dean,” Dean said, offering his hand. Millicent shook it, then Seamus’.

“Gryffindors, am I right?” she asked, snagging a seat. “That’s all right.”

“Thanks?” Seamus raised an eyebrow.

“What is it with the house thing?” Gilliam asked, exasperated. “Blaise tried to explain it to me, but honestly—”

“Don’t try to understand it,” Padma said. “I’m a Ravenclaw, by the way. I’m not part of this Gryffindor-Slytherin thing.”

“You’re engaged to a Slytherin,” Blaise pointed out with a grin. “You picked a side.”

Harry shared a look with Draco, who just looked completely bewildered. “Why is this an issue?” Draco whispered. “Does Gilliam not—oh, he didn’t go to Hogwarts, did he?”

“He went to the school in Cornwall, I think,” Harry whispered back. “I don’t know. I didn’t know there were other schools than Hogwarts until recently.”

Draco nodded. “Big Gay Pub Night, though?”

“Well—” Harry started, but was cut off. Draco had forgotten to whisper.

“I’m a bleedin’ dyke, Draco,” Millicent said, and Draco coughed.

“This is true,” Padma added. “We dated, briefly.”

Pansy looked at Padma with interest. “I thought you were into femmes.”

“Pansy honey, much as you’d like to think of yourself that way, you are not a femme. Futch, at best.” Padma blew her a kiss.

“I wasn’t asking about that,” Draco said. “I—nevermind.”

“We uninvited the straight people tonight,” Pansy told him, gently. “It’s just us.”

Draco sipped his tea. Harry pressed a kiss into his hair. “We like our straight friends,” he said. “But sometimes it’s nice to just…”

“It’s a relief,” Seamus said.

“I should bloody well hope so,” Millicent added. “I need to fucking breathe. Oi, Pans. Who do you know who’s single?”

“Rhosyn, though we dated once—”

“Rhosyn Jones? She’s dating Ginny,” Harry interjected. “Rhosyn from the Harpies?”

“I thought that was a rumour? Good for them.” Pansy frowned. “Well, there’s Cornelia, but we dated once, and I think Abby and Ursula broke up again. Anyway, Ursula and I hooked up once.”

“Yasmin is also single,” Padma added. “Do you know Zoë? I think she’s also single, though we used to date.”

“Zoë Hopper? Last I heard Juniper was dating her,” Millicent said. “I think they’re engaged, actually.”

Blaise leaned over. “Juniper is Millie’s ex,” he stage-whispered.

Before either Harry or Draco got a chance to reply (Harry was slightly bewildered by the fact the lesbians all seemed to know each other—though he did remember Cornelia, she and Pansy had been together a ways back and Harry had met her at pub night a few times), the impromptu single-or-not-update thing going on got interrupted by the arrival of three tall and rowdy people.

“Good news!” Angelina said, taking a seat and pulling George down with her. “I am no longer breastfeeding! This means wine for me. So much wine.”

Greetings and introductions went around the table. “You remember Draco?” Harry asked. “Draco, this is Angelina, Lee and George, we were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Well, not Lee, but close enough.”

“Same thing,” Lee announced cheerfully, shaking Draco’s hand across the table. “I’ll get us drinks, loves. Anyone else want a refill?”

Lee ended up taking orders of refills for everyone (a pot of tea for Harry and Draco to share) and returned swiftly with an entire bottle of wine for Angelina, sparkly fairy brews for him and George, and several pints of Flaming Flurries. Draco had tensed up again and was keeping quiet.

“You got a new babysitter, then?” Seamus asked.

“Our usual one decided to get busy all of sudden,” Angelina said, looking at Harry pointedly, but there was no malice behind it. “Not that we’re complaining… but Fred has been asking for you, Harry.”

Harry tried not to feel guilty. He hadn’t seen Teddy in a long time either. In fact, he was spending a lot of time with kids that he had no relation to. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been…well, busy.” He grimaced.

“You babysit?” Draco asked. He was speaking softly, softly enough that Harry might not have heard him over the noise of the pub if it weren’t for the fact he’d felt Draco speak. Harry squeezed him gently.

“Yeah, sometimes. When I have the time.” He glanced at the three of them, who thankfully didn’t look too put upon. “I’d offer, but, er, I don’t have a lot of free time anymore. I have this new boyfriend, you see.” He grinned at Draco, whose cheeks were rapidly pinkening.

“Hello,” Draco said. “I’d apologise for stealing him away, but…actually, I won’t.”

Dean and Seamus cracked up, and Lee bumped Harry’s shoulder with his fist. Harry grinned at Draco, inordinately pleased—not just that Draco had claimed him, but that he wanted to, that he was here, that he was doing his best to joke along with Harry’s friends.

“I need fresh air,” Draco said, abruptly, and extricated himself from Harry and the table. “Come with me, please.”

Befuddled, Harry made some hasty excuses—“Be right back, we’ll be just a moment…”—and followed Draco outside. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know that there’s anything wrong,” Draco said, hysteria creeping into his voice. “I’m—this was deliberate, wasn’t it? You said you’d—and you collected every single queer person you know and put them in that pub—Big Gay Pub Night, all right—” he cut himself off, wide-eyed and wild.

“To be fair,” Harry said, “it just kind of happened that many of my friends turned out this way…but I did want to show you that, that all of them, they’re happy, you know? It’s not just in books, Draco. We get to have this in real life.”

Draco was nodding, but the wild look in his eyes was still there. “So…” he closed his eyes, rubbing his face. “Let me get this straight. George, Lee, and Angelina. They’re…in a three-way relationship? And have kids?”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. “They call it a triad, though. Two kids so far, Fred and Roxanne. Fred is…three, and Roxanne is the little one. They’re great kids; when I babysit I let Fred win at gobstones. I think he knows I’m letting him win, but he’s pretending he doesn’t know so he won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Right,” Draco said. “How does that work? Who’s the father?”

“They both are.”

“No, I mean…” Draco trailed off, frowning. “How do they…” He gestured. “That’s an offensive question, isn’t it?”

“I guess. Look, what’s important to them is that they’re a family, and though it’s unconventional, they’re happy. It works for them. They haven’t told us who the biological father of each child is, though looking at them you could probably guess. But don’t bring it up?” Harry took Draco’s hands. “Are you okay? You’re not really having a freak-out over George, Lee and Angelina, are you?”

Draco exhaled. “No,” he admitted. “But they just…it’s allowed?”

“You mean legally?” Harry frowned. “They aren’t married, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t think the law has considered triads…but it’s not…illegal, you know. To be together. It’s fine.”

“But…” Draco was clearly still struggling. “I just don’t understand.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Draco. I don’t know how to explain this all. I just know that—all of us in there, we made our own happy endings. And I want you to be mine.”

Draco’s eyes welled up and his entire face contorted in a way Harry had rarely seen before.

“Shit, Draco—are you crying?” Harry cupped Draco’s face instinctively, the way he did with his daycare kids, to wipe at the tears with his thumbs. He paused when he realised what he was doing. “I’m sorry—”

“I’m not crying,” Draco said, crying. Fresh tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m just having a lot of emotions.”

“Well,” Harry said, pausing. “That’s quite all right.”

“I can’t believe I’m in love with you,” Draco said, shaking his head and sniffing. “You’re so…you.”

“Thanks? I guess?”

Draco snorted. “Enough of this.” He fished a handkerchief—a real, actual, handkerchief—from a pocket and dabbed at his face.

“I can’t believe you carry around handkerchiefs,” Harry said. “Is it monogrammed? Please tell me it isn’t monogrammed.”

“It just came with the robes,” Draco said, showing him the now tear-splotched handkerchief. It was the same colour as the accents on Draco’s robes, but made of a softer material. “It matches.”

“It matches,” Harry repeated.

Draco dabbed at his eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m just…I don’t know where these emotions came from. It just feels…it feels like I’ve been falling, you know? And nobody could see it—see me, and now a lot of people are seeing me, and it’s like I’ve hit solid ground. Does that make sense?” His voice broke. “It doesn’t make sense, it’s—”

“It makes sense,” Harry told him, cupping his face again. “It makes a lot of sense.”

“Yeah?” Draco sniffled. “Is that what it felt like for you?”

Harry considered this. “Kind of,” he eventually said. “I think for me it was more…slow. Like…Dean and Seamus came out years ago and since then…I don’t know, more and more people I know did and then I realised…” he shrugged. “It was like…this feeling of peace? Of belonging?”

“I only knew about Pansy,” Draco said, voice raw. “I thought we were the only ones in the entire world. And I thought we had to hide it.”

“You were never the only one, Draco. There’s all of us.”

Draco nodded, leaning into Harry. “I think I’m beginning to understand that.” He shuddered. “I—”

“Do you want to go back in?”

“In a bit.” Draco kissed him. “I need to—” He kissed Harry again. “I want to take you home, put you in my bed, and kiss every inch of you. I want to suck you off. Will you let me?”

“Now?” Harry’s stomach dropped. “I—okay, if that’s what you want?” He wasn’t entirely sure that’s what he wanted, but Draco seemed like he…needed it. Not like the other day, in the bath. “Are you…ready?” he asked. “You said you weren’t, but—”

“Yes. I think I am.” Draco was looking at Harry’s mouth, his chest, his shoulders—then he looked in Harry’s eyes. “Is that okay?”

What would happen if Harry said no? Would Draco leave? Would he be annoyed, angry, disappointed? Would they fight? What if he just said yes, got it over with, and avoided the whole debacle—it had to happen eventually, he’d just been hoping it wouldn’t be yet, that he could put it off. Indefinitely.

Harry’s stomach felt heavy, black and thick with dread.

“You don’t look okay,” Draco said. A thin line had formed between his eyebrows. “I can wait, you know. If you don’t want to, it’s okay.”

“But what if I never want to?” Harry blurted out. “I mean—I don’t know, I don’t want to—I don’t want you to resent me.”

Draco went still. “I don’t resent you.”

“You might,” Harry said. “Maybe not now, but later. That’s what—” That’s what happened with Ginny, he nearly said. She hadn’t said so, but he had seen it in her eyes, read it in her body language every time they’d fought about it. “I wish sex didn’t exist,” he said, viciously. “I hate it.” He immediately regretted saying it and was about to backtrack when Draco just nodded.

“Well,” said Draco. “That’s off the table, then.”

“Just like that?” Harry blinked. “What about—”

“Let’s just go back inside.”

“But—”

“Harry,” Draco said, “it’s pointless discussing it further. Mood thoroughly ruined and all that. We can talk about it later if you want, but right now I just want to get back to my tea and maybe try to catch up with Pansy. I haven’t…been the best of friends, to her, lately.”

The dread in Harry’s stomach was expanding. “Are you mad?”

“What? No.” Draco frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“No reason,” Harry said, quickly. “I was—never mind. Let’s go back to the others.”

Draco gave him a searching look, but Harry distracted him with a kiss. The last thing he wanted was an argument of any kind, so even if the pit in his stomach was gnawing at him, he forced himself to push the whole matter aside.

They went back in, Draco a little red-eyed but a whole lot calmer, and Harry managed to relax just enough to continue to enjoy the evening.

Draco had slept over after Big Gay Pub Night and was lying face down on Harry’s side of the bed, a cloud of blond hair covering most of his face—Harry briefly wondered if he was actually able to breathe, smushed into the pillow like that. It’d been late when they’d left the pub; Percy and Oliver had eventually shown up, and then, because Oliver had told all his queer friends about Big Gay Pub Night, a small handful of Quidditch players that Harry didn’t know had turned up, too. They’d set Draco on edge for a hot minute, but once it was clear they were there to chill he’d relaxed again.

And Draco had come home with Harry instead of Apparating to his own home, and the bathroom had been quiet in a kind of magical way as they’d stood there, tiredly brushing their teeth and washing their faces and not talking. Draco had looked contemplative and Harry had looked at him in the mirror, at the damp strand of hair falling over Draco’s forehead, and thought that it wasn’t possible to be more in love than he was, right at that point in time.

They hadn’t talked about sex again, just crawled into bed and fallen asleep.

Not for the first time Harry wondered if he should get rid of the bed, or maybe transfigure it into a new one, since he’d shared this one with Ginny for years. He’d slept on her side tonight, and while it hadn’t really bothered him before to think of the bed like his and Ginny’s, having Draco in it now was…incongruous with that line of thought.

He wasn’t with Ginny anymore. But this bed—this flat—had been their shared space. It wasn’t really his. The only thing in it that he could claim for himself was the bookcase. It held more books now than it’d done when he first put it together; the books he currently had on loan from Draco, but also the few books he’d purchased for himself or that Draco had given him.

Maybe he could just transfigure the bed for now, and then get a new one later.

“I can hear you thinking,” Draco mumbled from inside the pillow. He barely stirred. “Go back to sleep.”

“What if I was thinking about you?”

“Were you?” Draco shifted, moving onto his side to face Harry. He had crease lines on his face. “What were you thinking about me?”

“Good things.” Harry touched his legs to Draco’s under the covers. “I was wondering how you sleep like that.”

“Very well,” Draco answered, then yawned. “No offence, but I really miss my bed.”

“We can sleep in yours next time,” Harry said.

Draco stilled. “You want to do that?”

“I—yeah. I haven’t seen your place at all, but you’re here all the time. I’m stupidly curious about if you have any pictures on your walls and what’s in your fridge, if you even have a fridge, or what colour your sheets are.” He still didn’t really know where Draco lived, either. With his mum, he knew, but not where.

“They’re white.” Draco smiled. “Really boring.”

“I just want to know you,” Harry continued. “Like—what do you do all day? I mean. You’ve never told me, what do you actually…spend your time doing? I know you’re not working, and you don’t come to the Archive anymore, so…I’m, like, super busy all the time and I hardly think you just sit around all day waiting for me.”

“I don’t have a job,” Draco said, rolling onto his back now, staring up at the ceiling. “I…well, I used to…My dad died.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, confused what Draco’s dad had to do with anything.

“I thought I was doing okay. I was fixing up our properties and all that, and it was kind of a job. And I was getting my degree. I didn’t have to have a traditional job at the time, and I still don’t. Mum and I have enough capital that we can live comfortably. But I was doing all that work and I enjoyed it, and when I was working on our last property…my dad died. And everything fell apart for me then. My mental health just…” He gestured, imitating a broom falling from midair and crashing; his fist skidded along the cover. “So I was...indisposed. Couldn’t get out of bed. Dress myself, or eat, or shower. I barely felt any emotion, it was all just...grey. For months, I don’t know—I know, I just don’t want to know how long for.”

“That’s when you disappeared,” Harry said. Part of him was horrified, that a person could just stop like that, that it could happen to someone so normal as Draco—but he’d seen the effects of war and trauma first-hand during his community service. For it to happen after a death of a parent didn’t seem so outlandish after all. “Pansy stopped talking about what you’d been up to, and you didn’t show at any…well, anywhere.”

“You were keeping tabs on me?” Draco gave him an incredulous look. “That’s just creepy.”

“No, no, I just noticed that Pansy didn’t talk about you anymore. Never mind, go on, you were saying.”

“Creepy,” Draco repeated, then shrugged. “I eventually got tired of being a dysfunctional mess and got myself into treatment, to therapy, and medication, which was a struggle and a half, and when I’d been doing that for a while and improving and just generally…turning into a human being again, I went back to the property I was working on. I finished it up. A few hours here, a half day there, five minutes sweeping, that sort of thing. What I could manage at any given time. And therapy. Then as I got better, I started doing other things. That was when I came to the Archive, you know. For a while there all I did was the repairs, my research, and therapy.”

“And now?” Harry reached out to touch him, his fingers brushing over Draco’s shoulders.

“I finished repairs on the property, but I still have my workshop. So I’ve been alternating between researching my book, improving my woodworking skills, and planning the rest of my degree. Now that I’ve finished my research, I have more time for the rest.” Draco hesitated. “I’m serious about the woodworking business. I want to set up a part time thing.”

“What about the book?” Harry kept stroking his fingers over Draco’s skin. His shoulder had a tiny birthmark on it.

“It’s just a therapy assignment. My therapist is pretty happy with my progress, so I don’t have to—it was just an excuse to go out, you know. A reason to go out, more like. Because my PTSD—we aren’t actually sure how the PTSD, anxiety, and depression mesh, if they’re three different things or if it’s all of it PTSD, but one of the big things is that I get these intrusive thoughts, that affect, well, everything, and…I end up withdrawing from everything. Social isolation, it’s called. And I went to the Archive as a part of the treatment, to…try to get over that? The assignment was to go somewhere I’ve never been to socialise with someone I don’t know.”

“I remember,” said Harry. “You told me that before.” He also remembered how Draco had looked those first few weeks at the archive. Tired, oddly void of emotion.

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I think I failed at the socialising with someone I don’t know part, because that…well, that ended up being you.”

“I’m glad it was me.” Harry gave him a smile. “I liked hanging out with you. I still do.”

“It was hard,” Draco admitted. “And it wasn’t ideal, in many ways. My therapist wasn’t happy. I ended up copying your routine, you know?” Harry nodded. “I was supposed to create my own.”

“So it was a setback?” Harry was having some difficulties comprehending what Draco was telling him; the words all made sense, but the issues he was describing—Harry just didn’t understand how or why Draco would have had problems going somewhere. It was entirely absurd to him. And yet, he knew that Draco had turned down his invitation to the pub several times, citing his anxiety, and he’d seen how tense he’d been the evening before when he’d finally come along.

“That’s hard to say. It’s complicated. I’ve learned that recovering from mental illness is a crooked thing. It’s not a straight line. It was good in some ways, not great in some others. I’m doing better now than I have in a long time.” He looked serious. “I might never completely recover, you know. Mental health recovery doesn’t really have an end date. I’m never going to be the same person I was before. I might get worse again—we’ve changed my medication twice already. I mean—I just need you to know that.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say. He wanted to know, wanted to understand, but it was all very foreign to him. “Thank you for telling me all this,” he eventually said. “Was it hard? To tell me, I mean.”

“Not as hard as I thought it would be,” Draco said. He put his hand over Harry’s, stilling his fingers. “I—thank you for not judging me,” he said. “I was terrified when I first brought my anxiety up, but you just…took it in stride. Didn’t ask questions or looked at me differently. It felt safe.”

“I’m not sure I deserve any credit for that,” Harry told him. “I didn’t really know what any of it meant. I’m not sure I do now.”

Draco brought Harry’s fingers to his mouth, pressing kisses to his knuckles, his fingertips, his palm. Harry let him, fascinated. “Monday morning I start by having breakfast with my mum, showering, then writing. She usually cooks lunch and we eat together. Then we go for a walk and I go to my workshop.” He went through the entire week. Therapy on Tuesday mornings, which was why Harry never saw him on Tuesdays: it was so exhausting he couldn’t handle any socialising afterwards. Workshop on Wednesday mornings, set days and times for lunch with his mother, with Harry, supper, reading, and so on. “I’ve gotten better at deviating from my routine and being more spontaneous.”

“I noticed,” Harry said. Draco had pressed Harry’s hand to his cheek, and that simple act was enough to make Harry’s heart expand to bursting. “Can I ask you about something spontaneous?”

“Mmh.” Draco kissed Harry’s palm again.

“So, my therapist thought it would be a good idea to…confront my past, to put it that way. Because, uh, I haven’t told you this, but well, my relatives that I grew up with were, ah, they didn’t treat me very well,” Harry said, floundering a lot more than he’d done in Gladys’ office. “And so tomorrow I’m meeting my cousin.”

Draco was giving Harry this intense look, like he was trying to reach inside—briefly Harry wondered if he knew Legilimency, but then dropped the idea. “You have a game tomorrow.”

“After the game,” Harry said. “Uh. Do you want to come? You don’t have to,” he added, his fingertips—now at Draco’s lips—tingling with nerves. What was he doing meeting his cousin? Why was that a good idea?

“This cousin,” Draco said, slowly, still looking directly into Harry’s eyes, “what did they do to you?”

“Uhm.” Harry didn’t know where to start. Gladys had had to ask him probing questions to get him to talk—to articulate his feelings. “Standard stuff,” he said, eventually. “Like—beat me, terrorise me at school, all kinds of…that. My aunt and uncle were the worst, though. They—they used to lock me up. It used to be, my Uncle would punish me for breathing, and I wouldn’t get dinner, or—” Harry cut himself off, acutely aware that Draco’s grip on his hand had become painfully tight. “That kind of thing,” he finished, lamely.

“Okay,” said Draco. “So your relatives abused you. That’s horrible in so many different ways, but…why are you meeting with them? You don’t have to do it just because your therapist said so.”

“Just my cousin,” Harry corrected. The idea that he didn’t have to go see Dudl-Peony was attractive, but he’d been gearing up for it all week. He wasn’t going to back out now. “I—I don’t know what to think of the whole thing, but I think I’m willing to see what happens.”

“Okay.”

“So you’ll come? Or what does ‘okay’ mean?”

“I’ll come,” Draco said, slowly. “For moral support, correct? You’re not bringing me because you harbour some secret hope that I’ll hex your cousin six ways to Sunday?”

“No hexing,” Harry confirmed. “You don’t have to, like, talk, or anything. You don’t even have to sit with us if you don’t want to, I just—I’d really appreciate it if you were nearby.”

“Do I have to wear Muggle clothes?”

“Ye-no, actually, please don’t. Be as wizardly as possible. If you have a pointy hat, wear it.” Harry was already mentally going over his robe and cloak options. The petty part of him that was still angry with Dudley (Peony, he kept correcting himself) didn’t want it to be a comfortable meeting for her at all.

“Pointy hat? Those are kind of unfashionable,” Draco said, with a frown. “Only old people wear them, and people in uniforms, you know, like school or ministry.”

“I know, but Muggles think wizards and witches all wear pointy hats,” Harry explained. “You know, like on the covers of those novels. And my cousin used to be terrified of magic and wizards, might still be, so…go all out?”

“Hmm.” Draco mulled this over. “All right. I’ll go to the tailor, put something together.” He leaned in to give Harry a kiss. “Any chance of breakfast?”

“Oh, right, yes. Definitely.” Harry kissed him back.

“And then we are going to the tailor,” Draco amended. “If I’m to wear a pointy hat, then you are, too.”

Okay. Harry could live with that. He hadn’t worn hats since he’d had to wear them for his Hogwarts uniform, but he could make an exception.

The Butterfly Bumpkins had won their third game by a hair; Candy Cranes had put up a good fight. As much as it could be called a fight with children this age—but the weather had been good, the kids had been in a good mood, and everyone had had fun. The defeat to the Fishes the previous weekend seemed all but forgotten, and when the game ended with the Snitch still on the loose and Butterfly Bumpkins ahead by ten points, the kids were happy.

Harry had packed them off with their parents pretty quickly and set about collecting and packing up the equipment with Ginny. She hadn’t said much during the game that wasn’t Quidditch related, and the work went by quietly and amicably.

“These are Alice’s,” Ginny said, throwing over a pair of gloves.

“Thanks.” Harry threw them in with the rest of Alice’s gear. Movement by the edge of the pitch caught his eye and he looked up; Draco was heading over.

He and Draco had picked up their new robes, cloaks, and hats from the tailor this morning before heading out for the game, and while Draco was wearing his new outfit already, Harry wouldn’t be changing into his until now. During the game he had had his game clothes on, ordinary robes and a cloak with the team name and his name written on the back in the team colours (maroon and black), all to identify him as the captain of the team.

Besides, he’d have stood out like a sore thumb on the pitch in the new threads.

Draco, on the other hand…looked fantastic. His outfit was all browns and blues with specks of white; brown robes in a textured wool and silk blend, with a high collar and a simple cut with two rows of buttons—ordinarily Harry would’ve thought this kind of robes looked monk-ish, but Draco looked tall and slim and completely ordinary, nothing like the monks Harry had seen pictures of as a child. The robes were cut so a white shirt cuff showed at the sleeves, and a white collar peeked out at the neck. Over the robes he had on a leather cape dyed a dusty sky blue, with a row of brown buttons at the split sleeves, currently closed. The cape was on asymmetrically, covering only one shoulder and held in place with a braided leather strap that went across his chest and under the other arm rather than going over both shoulders. The hat was the masterpiece that tied the entire outfit together (or so Draco and the tailor both had said), being of the same blue leather as the cape. It was pointy, but did not droop; it was all straight lines and geometric perfection, one side of the brim pinned to the hat with a brown button and a large, white, fluffy feather. The cape and the hat together elevated the look (Draco had said) and made it look jaunty and modern—a big concern, since he would be wearing a pointy hat.

He looked like a wizard—he looked like he belonged on the cover of a Muggle novel, while also looking like the smartest wizard Harry had ever met. He dropped whatever he was holding and went to meet him.

“Hey.” Harry couldn’t stop the delighted grin as Draco approached. The cape was heavy enough that it didn’t flutter much as he walked, though it draped beautifully, the whole thing giving him an air of…elegance and stability. “You look amazing.”

“I should bloody hope so,” Draco said, smiling back. “You free to go? You need to change.”

“Yeah—hey, Gin!” Harry turned, calling out. She was just far enough away she was outside hearing range. “You good with the equipment?”

Ginny just nodded and waved them off, so Harry went to the changing rooms. His own robes were less flashy than Draco’s, being simply cut and black (though the fabric felt much more luxurious than what he usually wore), but the tailor had wanted to put him in a short robe with tightly fitted trousers instead of the more common long robes, muttering something about the shape of his legs that Draco had very vocally agreed with. Draco had also, upon learning that Harry didn’t own a single pair of boots, splurged on a pair to go with the outfit. These new boots were nearly knee height, shiny black with silver fastenings, and matched his new (also short) cloak, which had a single silver clasp holding it closed in front.

His hat, at least, looked normal, being a short and droopy pointy hat with an ordinary brim, all black, though his brim was also fastened to the hat on one side. No fluffy feather, though, just a silver brooch keeping the brim in place. Harry had never worn anything as obviously fashionable and flashy as this before, aside perhaps from his robes for the Yule Ball in fourth year. He hadn’t had any dress up occasions since—no festive ones, at any rate—and this felt like a festive outfit, almost.

“I feel a bit like I’m about to ride into the night on a dark horse,” Harry told Draco when he came back outside. “All I’m missing is a sword.”

“It is a very serious outfit,” Draco agreed, admiring him. “All the better to wear to confrontations.”

“Right,” Harry said, remembering exactly why he was wearing these clothes. To intimidate his cousin. To feel powerful—to feel like whatever was going to happen in that café, he would walk out again whole and hale.

“Are you ready?” Draco asked.

“Yeah—no—doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m going anyway.” He took Draco’s hand and squeezed it. “Let’s go. Now. No point in dawdling.”

Draco gave him an assessing look, but then nodded.

They nearly collided with Ginny in the doorway. “Oh!” she said. “Sorry—Harry, you dropped this.” She gave him the team notebook, the one that held all his notes about his players, game plays, and everything. “Uh.”

“Thanks.” Harry put it away in a pocket. This new cloak had properly charmed pockets, so the notebook disappeared entirely, leaving not a single trace in the drape of the fabric. “Uhm, Gin—this is Draco,” he then said, conscious of the fact she’d declined to meet him, but also the fact that they’d literally bumped into each other. “Draco, Ginny.”

“Hi,” Ginny said, eyeing Draco warily, but she extended her hand.

“Hi,” Draco said back, shaking her hand. “Lovely to properly meet you,” he added.

She didn’t answer that, instead taking in their outfits. “Are you two trying to bring back pointy hats?”

“Depends,” Harry said, touching the brim of his hat. “Is it working?”

“It might.” Ginny gave them another once over. “You look good. I—I’ve got to go. See you later, Harry. Draco.”

“Is she always like this?” Draco asked, watching her go. “That was awkward.”

“We broke up a couple of months ago,” Harry explained, looking after Ginny as well. “I guess she’s still getting used to me being with someone else. Let’s go.”

The stadium was enchanted with anti-Apparition wards, so they had to get outside the boundary to leave. Harry tugged Draco off.

“I thought she was seeing someone else too?” Draco asked.

“Yeah, Rhosyn. I’ve met her, she seems nice.” Harry shrugged, then patted down his pockets. He’d stuffed his change of clothes and shoes into a pocket in his robes—not an ideal place, but Draco’s tailor was a genius with pocket charms, so it all fit comfortably and weightlessly—but he needed his Muggle wallet for the trip, and for the café.

“I’ve got it,” Draco said, handing Harry his wallet. “You gave it to me, remember?”

“Right.” Harry found an empty pocket on the inside of his cloak to put it in. “Right. Okay.”

They’d have to Apparate back to London and then probably take the tube the rest of the way, as Harry didn’t know where exactly this café was that they’d be meeting in. Not to mention, they didn’t want to accidentally drop into a crowd of Muggles…Harry would prefer to avoid getting the Ministry involved.

Harry took Draco’s hand again. “Hang on tight,” he said, taking a deep breath. A swish and a pop and they materialised in a narrow laneway, scaring a cat and two pigeons. “You okay?”

“I’m all here,” Draco answered.

The laneway was near a station on the Northern Line, so getting to Camden was quick. Draco, who hadn’t been on the tube before, was fascinated with the turnstiles and the Oyster cards, and was delighted when he got his to work so he could go through. Harry forgot to be nervous for a moment, watching how pleased Draco was with himself, and how much he enjoyed the entire journey.

They found the café easily enough in the end. There weren’t a lot of people inside, and Harry couldn’t see if his cousin was there—there was nothing to do but just go in and find out.

The moment Harry walked in with Draco there was a loud crash from the corner by the window. Looking over, Harry saw a broken cup in a pool of tea on the floor, and two girls at the table staring at the two of them. A member of staff came over to clean up the spill.

One of the girls was, undeniably, Harry’s cousin. He’d have known that face anywhere.

“Harry!” Both girls stood up. Harry’s cousin—Peony, and it was so much easier to think of her as Peony now that Harry was face to face with her—stepped forwards. “I’m glad you came.”

“Hi,” Harry said, awkwardly. “Uhm.” He glanced at the other girl. “I, ah. This is Draco. My boyfriend,” he said, practically dragging Draco in front of him. “Draco, this is, uh, Peony, my cousin, and—”

“Delighted,” Draco said in a frosty tone. He didn’t offer his hand, but then neither did Peony.

Harry reckoned they were probably past polite pleasantries such as handshaking.

“Lov-lovely to meet you,” Peony said to Draco, glancing between them. “This is Julie. Uhm. My girlfriend. Uhm.”

Julie, clearly uncomfortable with this awkward meeting, spoke up. “Call me if you need me? I’ll be just around the corner.”

Peony agreed to this and they exchanged a hasty kiss before Julie left and Peony returned her attention to Harry. “I, uh—sit?” She glanced at Draco. “You can stay,” she added, voice shaky. “I mean—”

“Do you want me to stay?” Draco asked Harry. His hand was on Harry’s arm, squeezing gently. “I’ve brought a book. I can go sit over there,” he indicated an empty chair nearby, “or stay with you. It’s your choice.”

Harry looked over at the empty chair, then at the table Peony and her girlfriend had occupied, and then at Draco. “Go read your book,” he eventually said. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure he wanted Draco—or anyone else, really—to listen in on, or be part of, whatever conversation was about to happen. But he did want Draco nearby; he wanted to know that somebody he trusted was within easy reach.

“All right,” Draco said and pulled a large hardcover book out of an impossibly small pocket. Peony’s eyes went wide and Harry tried to suppress a pleased smile.

After a bit of shuffling about and ordering tea and biscuits, Draco settled down with his book at the other table and Harry joined Peony at hers, with a cup of tea and lemon biscuits on a plate. Draco had taken his hat off and hung it off the back of his chair, so Harry did the same—for all he knew, it was wizarding custom.

The silence was nearing awkward.

“So, Big D,” Harry said. “Why are we here?”

“It’s Peony. I don’t go by any of those names anymore,” she responded, awkward and hesitant. “I’m sorry—I’d just appreciate it if you just called me that. P works as well.”

“Okay.” Harry waited for her to respond to the actual question.

She turned her cup round by the handle, fidgeting, not looking Harry in the eye. Eventually, though, she drew in a deep breath and looked up. “I want to apologise,” she said. “I know it’s too little, too late, for everything I put you through, but I am sorry. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Harry was staring, trying to believe what was happening—he was paralysed, hot and cold at the same time, and there was this din in his head like a large machine had taken residence there just to make noise.

“I don’t expect you to accept my apology,” Peony went on when Harry didn’t respond. “And you have no obligation to. I just wanted you to know that. And that I’m sorry.”

“Wow,” Harry finally said, his tongue feeling thick. “That’s—not what I expected. Du—P, what the hell? Where is all this coming from?”

“The short version? Therapy,” she said. “Years of it. I’ve been reaching out to people to make amends, or try to. Own up to all my bullshit so I can move on. You were the only one I hadn’t talked to yet, you’re…hard to find.”

“Therapy,” Harry repeated.

“Yes, it’s not that strange. Lots of people go to therapy.” Her tone was defensive, and Harry had to fight the urge not to laugh.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I go to therapy. Funny, that. Only, I go to sort out all the fucking trauma and bullshit from my life—my therapist suggested I confront you about it, which is why I called in the first damn place.”

“I see.” Peony had the decency to look appropriately ashamed. “Well—lay it on me, then.”

“No.” Harry’s voice was shaky with rage. “How do I know you really mean it?”

Peony looked away. “I don’t speak to my parents anymore,” she said. “Well, Mum, sometimes. But they don’t—you know how obsessed they were with keeping everything normal? How nothing ever was allowed to deviate from—from this arbitrary and toxic standard of normal that didn’t exist anywhere except in their narrow world-view?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question?”

“Right. Well, as you can see,” she gestured at herself, “I’m transgender. I realised fairly early on, but I also realised that if I let it fly, my parents would turn on me the same they turned on you, and I didn’t want that to happen. And I didn’t want them to find out or raise suspicion, so…I took part in their abuse, of you.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.” Harry hadn’t touched his biscuits, but now he had a strong urge to crush every single one into dust, lest he crush his cousin’s skull through accidental magic. It was a wonder nothing worse had happened to Marge than her getting slightly inflated, really, given how angry the entire Dursley family made him.

Coming here had been a mistake.

“I know it doesn’t. Look, I’m sorry. I’m just trying to explain.” She leaned over the table. “I’m trying to tell you that my upbringing wasn’t all that great either.”

“Your—you weren’t literally locked in a cupboard under the stairs!” Harry burst out, the din in his ears having returned. He was dimly aware that what he was hearing was actually the rush of his own blood, but that was inconsequential. “You weren’t forced to cook breakfast for the family while receiving only scraps yourself, you didn’t get the bloody cupboard door slammed over your fingers for nothing, you didn’t—” Harry’s voice broke and clammed up; no way he was showing Peony any kind of emotion over this other than anger.

At the other table, Draco was looking at Harry over the top of the book, a concerned expression on his face. The book was upside down—the realisation that Draco was keeping tabs should’ve freaked him out, but all Harry felt was relief and a peculiar ache in his chest. He shook his head minutely, trying to convey that he was fine (he wasn’t, he so very wasn’t, but he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, and definitely could not handle any kind of…care, from Draco, right now) and Draco frowned, but went back to pretending to read the book.

Peony was silent.

“You had freedom,” Harry said, voice tight as he tried to keep his emotions under control. “You had any toy you wanted, parents who loved you, friends—I had none of that. It was abuse, plain and simple. You don’t get to tell me you didn’t have a ‘great’ upbringing when you were literally treated like a king, and I was treated like the dirt the cat dragged in.”

“It’s not the same thing, I agree,” Peony eventually said. “But my parents were emotionally negligent towards me. It was just in a different way. They’d throw money and stuff at me to keep me happy—quiet, essentially. So long as I was quiet, they could pretend everything was normal. So long as I remained their perfect little son, everything was fine. I learned pretty early on that I could never rely on them to…be there for me. It was more like I existed for their sake.”

Harry didn’t respond to that. He could understand that this was shitty, he just wasn’t in a place where he could—or wanted to—acknowledge it. What they did to me was worse! he wanted to scream. Shut up!

“I tried a soft coming out first,” she went on. “I told my parents I was bi because I hoped it wasn’t as bad as being trans, and that they could accept that—I had this idea that I could live with just being bi if it meant I could keep my parents. But Dad freaked out and nearly disowned me, Mum—well, she came around, and talked Dad around too. About a year later I couldn’t deal with that anymore and came out to them properly. Dad really did disown me then, and Mum looked at me like—well, you know how she gets. So that was that. I cut ties.”

“You said you still talk to Aunt Petunia,” Harry said, feeling snide and petty and angry.

“Sometimes. I think Mum realised if she wasn’t going to accept me, she’d lose me forever. I think she does love me, but just…fails, as a parent and a human being.” Peony shrugged. “But I…I can’t trust her, not after everything. I should’ve known that sooner, given how she treated you, and you’re the closest family I have that isn’t my parents.”

Rage rose up in Harry’s gut, the blood rushing in his ears.

“We’re not family.”

“I meant—”

“I don’t care what you meant. You and I are not family. We may be related by blood, but we are not family.”

“That’s fair,” Peony acknowledged, after a while. “I’m sorry. About everything. I didn’t ask you to come here to make it all worse, I was…hoping for something better. Like maybe we could give each other some closure, or something. I don’t know. What do you want?”

What did Harry want? They’d been here, what, half an hour? Less? More? And Harry felt more confused and more angry and more upset about everything than he had before he’d walked in. It all felt like a mistake—like he could’ve gone through life never speaking to his cousin again and been perfectly fine.

He’d wanted Peony to feel unsettled. He’d wanted to remind her that he was a wizard, a powerful person capable of…anything. He’d wanted the satisfaction of telling her straight up what kind of horrible person she had been and (maybe?) still was. He’d wanted…Harry glanced over at Draco, who’d consumed all of the cake he’d ordered and still hadn’t realised the book was upside down. He was staring so intently at it that Harry had no doubt he was straining his ears to listen.

“I wanted to show you that despite your best efforts, I’m great,” Harry said, still looking at Draco, trying to draw some comfort from the fact he was there. Draco was there for him. He was undeniable proof there was at least one person who actually cared about him and his well-being. “That no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t squash my magic or my will to live, or, or, my person. I still exist. I’m me. And I made it happen.”

That last part wasn’t entirely true—Harry wouldn’t be here if hadn’t been for Ron and Hermione, and Ginny, and all his other friends, and even Dumbledore and Snape, who’d led him towards Death. And he wouldn’t be here, in this café, talking to his cousin, if not for Draco.

“Your boyfriend looks fit,” Peony said. She’d turned to look at Draco as well.

“I have a job I love,” Harry said, thinking of his daycare. “I’m captain of a Quidditch team—it’s a magical sport played on brooms—for charity, I’m in college getting my degree, and my boyfriend is fit.” He put emphasis on that last part. Peony hadn’t reacted to Harry presenting Draco as his boyfriend, possibly because she was apparently queer in so many ways, too (now that was something Harry had never seen coming), but that didn’t mean Harry was going to give her a pass. He hadn’t forgotten the slurs and the violence towards him that she’d been responsible for in the past.

She winced, and apparently didn’t miss the hint.

“Just to drive the point home,” Harry said, “Cedric wasn’t my boyfriend. But he was someone I knew, a good person, who died in front of me because I wasn’t quick enough to save him. And you thought it was a great idea to make fun of those nightmares and turn it all into a vulgar homophobic joke.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Her face was beet red. “I—I’m sorry. I’m trying to be better.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed, suddenly tired and exhausted. He thought about leaving. He thought about the fact that Draco had been an asshole to him, too, but he—they were in a different place now. But he hadn’t grown up with Draco, not the way he had with Peony, whom he’d had to hide from or deal with on a daily basis for ten years, and every summer after that until he could leave.

Still, the fact that she was here and had apologised—many times over—and was actively trying to make amends? Harry had to respect that. Draco had done the same thing and Harry had accepted it, so why shouldn’t he be able to give Peony some benefit of the doubt, at the very least?

It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? He didn’t have to accept her apologies, but he could acknowledge that she’d made them, that she was trying. Even if what he wanted most was to make petty, cruel remarks—did therapy teach you to string together whole sentences, Duddykins?—it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be a good person. Good people didn’t do that sort of thing.

“So, Peony,” he said slowly. These words were harder. “You pick that yourself?”

“Oh? Yeah. I wanted something floral—it feels stupid now, but I wanted to keep part of my family with me, you know? Despite…well. So I looked at floral names. Nearly went with Lily, but that was your mum’s name, right, and I didn’t think you’d approve, so Peony it was. It suits me better anyway, I think. It means healing, did you know that? I like that.”

Harry stared. “Why would you care about what I’d think? We were never going to see each other again. I wasn’t going to know.”

“That wasn’t the point. Choosing a new name was…it was this whole thing with a new beginning, figuring out who I was and, like, healing myself from…everything. I couldn’t do that with a name that I knew could potentially hurt anyone, you know? So I picked a name that no relative I know of has ever had, and one that was symbolic for healing, because I wanted that to be who I was,” she explained. She sounded like she’d given this speech before. “I’ve had enough of hurting people.”

“Okay. All right.” Harry hadn’t touched his tea, which had no doubt gone cold. He didn’t want it. The biscuits had turned into dust—he hadn’t touched them, but nevertheless there was a pile of yellowish crumbs on the plate in place of biscuits. If Peony had noticed, she’d not mentioned it. “You seem more chill about magic than you used to be.”

“Yeah, I…have had other worries. I didn’t see or hear anything about…any of that, since those Order people told us the war was over. They said you’d won it. And. That was it, they left, and Mum and Dad went back to normal, and I tried to, and…well, here I am. More worried about the Gender Recognition Act than I am about wizards.” She shrugged. “It’ll come into effect next month, April, but there’s a transition period—funny that—and I won’t be able to get my new certificate until I’ve been living as a woman for six years, which I haven’t yet. That’s…my concern, these days.”

“Okay,” Harry said, not understanding what she was going on about. “Do you mean like…” he trailed off, not sure what he was asking.

“Changing my name and all,” she clarified. “All the paperwork.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. The silver lining, I guess, is that my old name is still everywhere, so that’s how you found me.” Peony smiled ruefully. “Depending on how you look at it.”

“I guess,” Harry repeated. The exhaustion was creeping into his bones. He glanced at Draco, who was no longer pretending to be reading his book but was openly looking over at their table. He raised an eyebrow and Harry nodded. Yes, he thought. Let’s leave soon. He hoped Draco got the message.

“You…look more like a wizard than you used to,” Peony then said. “What with the…” she gestured at him. “And the hat.”

That familiar flare of rage smouldered in Harry’s gut, but he was almost too exhausted to let it live. “Yeah, it’s amazing the difference it makes when I’m actually free to be who I am without my aunt and uncle punishing me for every little thing,” he retorted.

“It is,” she agreed, after a beat.

Draco stood up, collecting his hat. Harry shifted in his chair, ready to get up. “Yeah. Look, I—what now?”

“I hoped we could meet again sometime,” Peony said, glancing at Draco as he slowly collected his things and started making his way over. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she added hastily. “But thank you for coming. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“I’ll think about it,” Harry said, frowning. He couldn’t envision them ever becoming friends. But then again, he was friends with Pansy now, and she’d literally tried to give him up to Voldemort. He was friends with Draco—he was in love with Draco, for Merlin’s sake—and Draco had done the same, and more. “I’m…also glad you’re doing well,” he added.

He wasn’t sure he meant it, and judging by the look on Peony’s face, she was aware of it.

“Ready to go?” Draco asked, having come up. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring.

“Yeah,” Harry said, standing up. He turned to Peony, who had stood too.

They looked at one another, hesitant, unsure, but then Harry extended his hand. “I’ll see you around, P,” he said.

She let out a relieved sound, cheeks flushed, and smiled. “Yeah, sure.”

Draco gave her the most perfunctory of goodbyes, made sure Harry remembered to collect his hat, and then they left.

It wasn’t very late in the day, which was surprising to Harry, who felt like hours had passed. But the sun was still in the sky (presumably—behind all the clouds) and people were milling about. It looked like rush hour.

He closed his eyes for a second, drawing in a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” Draco asked softly, his arm linking with Harry’s.

“I think so,” Harry said. “I don’t know.”

“What do you need?”

Harry opened his eyes to look at Draco, who was looking right at him. His eyes were clear and concerned and slightly blue—the colour of his hat reflected in his irises.

“Let’s just go home.”

Harry had been busy enough lately that he hadn’t had much time to read, and it was at least partially because he was spending a lot more time with Draco than he’d done before. Draco loved curling up with Harry on the sofa, reading a book, but Harry often had homework to do and would be reading textbooks or writing essays as Draco zipped through book after book.

Embarrassingly, Draco turned out to be such a fast reader that Harry realised that when they’d read that dystopian novel together, Draco must’ve been pacing himself so Harry could keep up with him. He could read an entire book in the course of a few hours, so while Harry would finish an assignment for Record-keeping Theory and Practice in an evening, Draco would read an entire novel.

The slimmer types of novels, but still.

Those evenings were Harry’s favourite. Draco was an animated reader; he’d make faces and noises at the book as he went through it, would laugh and cry, and on one memorable occasion he’d stared at a book in disgust for full two minutes and then set fire to it. When Harry asked, he’d just said it’d been morally reprehensible, and when Harry had pressed further, he’d snapped. Just the usual droll, he’d said, voice dripping with anger. Fascist women-hating bullshit. And the prose was terrible.

Sometimes when he read a funny passage, he’d read it out to Harry, but most of the time he’d say it won’t work out of context or nope, you’re going to read this later so I’m not spoiling it.

But Harry had had some time to read this week, picking a book at random from the now permanent (and growing—Harry was convinced Draco was secretly adding to it) pile of books he had on loan from Draco. It was a romance novel, written by a witch and set in magical Britain, so not another one of those odd Muggle romances written by a non-Muggle. Draco had reread it recently, so when Harry turned the last page he was ready, watching Harry over the rim of his cup, curious and excited.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, closing the book. “I’m not sure what I think of it.”

“Oh.” Draco looked disappointed. “How come?”

“I don’t know. It was kind of boring I guess?” Harry frowned. “And frustrating. I didn’t like the bit where they break up. It was stupid.”

“That’s my favourite part,” Draco said, face even more drawn. “It’s what makes the ending so emotionally satisfying,” he went on. “The Black Moment in romance is the part that peels back the last remaining layers of protection from both characters, so we see them at their worst, and then—because it’s a romance and they always have a happy ending—they choose to overcome that, in the end. And it’s hard, and tough, and requires sacrifice, but they do it anyway and they become better people for it and live happily ever after.”

Draco’s cheeks were colouring rapidly, following this passionate explanation. Harry turned the book over, considering it. He’d have preferred if the couple in the book had just continued onwards and onwards with their relationship without this ‘Black Moment’, that they had just been happy without all that trouble. That wasn’t wrong, was it? “Couldn’t they have been happy anyway?” he asked.

“I guess,” Draco said and sipped his tea. “But I wouldn’t have liked it half as much. I like—I like seeing people earn their happy endings. It’s—on a narrative level, I think it’s more satisfying to structure a love story that way, but personally, emotionally, I just…like it more.”

Was this about Draco’s belief that happy endings had no place for him? That he didn’t deserve a happy ending?

“I don’t think people should have to earn their happy ending,” Harry said. “I didn’t want them to break up first. It was unnecessary. They could’ve just sat down and talked about their problems instead of being all dramatic and breaking up. I hate breakups. They tend to be pretty final.”

“I suppose,” Draco said eventually. He opened his mouth to say something more, but seemingly changed his mind and instead went for more tea. When he finally spoke again, his tone was different. “You said it was boring. Tell me about that.”

“Oh—yeah, it was just, there was nothing else happening but them falling in love,” Harry said. “There was no…world-saving plot or anything. Just the two of them falling in love and having lots of sex and, I dunno, it was just boring. I wanted there to be other things too, like, like that book with the detective and the magician, they were working together to save England’s magic, but were also obviously falling in love on the side, you know? I liked that. But instead there’s just this witch and wizard and they do nothing but fall in love, and…” Harry trailed off, not sure how to articulate himself beyond ‘and it was boring’ for the third time.

“Fair point,” Draco answered, thoughtful. “So…if I find you a romance novel that has a secondary plot you might enjoy it more?”

“Maybe?” Harry shrugged. He could do without the graphic parts of the falling in love plot as well. It was at least partially why he’d enjoyed reading about the detective and the magician; in addition to the ‘saving magic’ plot there had been a lot going on with their relationship development, but they hadn’t been shagging from chapter two.

Well, neither had he and Draco, Harry mused. And since Draco hadn’t brought up sex again, Harry hadn’t either, and it seemed…okay. As if the inevitability had gone out of it somewhat. Harry had noticed Draco looking at him, and he’d joined him in the bath once more since the weekend, but he hadn’t suggested anything, and Harry had been very careful not to bring up the topic either.

They should talk about it, sometime, eventually—before…well, before. Just before. Talk about it properly, that is. After he’d talked to Gladys, maybe—she hadn’t been able to do Monday evening appointments anymore, but they’d set up a biweekly schedule, Thursday afternoons every other week. His next appointment was the following day. She’d been confident they didn’t need to meet more often than that.

“Sickle for your thoughts,” Draco said, nudging Harry’s thigh with his foot.

“I love you,” Harry said, because it was true and he wanted Draco to know, and because the witch and wizard in the book hadn’t said it and had broken up over it and it was stupid. “I love you.”

To Harry’s surprise, Draco blushed crimson. Not just his face either, his ears were red, and his neck, and Harry was sure if he unbuttoned Draco’s robes the rest of the way, his chest would be aflame as well.

“What’s the matter? I’ve said it before,” Harry said. He grabbed onto Draco’s feet, previously wedged under his thigh, and pulled them into his lap. Draco let him.

“I thought you didn’t mean it, before,” Draco answered, still flushed. “It wasn’t—it just seemed like a thing to say, random, not really…”

“I always mean it.”

“Okay.”

“Why would you think I don’t mean it?” Harry pulled at Draco’s legs, making him yelp as he slid closer to Harry. Draco hadn’t spilled a single drop of tea, but put the cup down anyway, and tried to right himself.

“You’re you,” Draco huffed, giving up. His robes were all dishevelled now. “If you’d asked me ten years ago—if you’d asked me just three months ago—whether I thought it possible that you’d love me, I’d have asked you which potion was messing you up. I’m still not entirely certain this all is real. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“There aren’t any shoes dropping,” Harry said, though he couldn’t help but wonder—what if sex was a shoe?

They stayed like that for a bit, but then Draco pulled his feet out of Harry’s grasp and clambered over to kiss him instead. “I’ll find you a different romance novel,” he said. “Something with a secondary plot and no Black Moment.”

“Okay,” Harry said, happy to have a lapful of Draco, and kissed him back.

Three things were happening at once. The brooms were all unresponsive and dead on the ground, all five kids were crying, and a tree was on fire.

The tree was easily dealt with: a swish with a wand put the fire out, and a flick produced a stream of water to drench the smouldering remains, just in case there were still live embers in the tree. The brooms—well, the brooms could wait. Addressing the crying and the cause of the crying (and the cause of the fire and the unresponsive brooms) was next.

“Alice,” Harry said, then stopped. What on earth could he say to a frightened child who hadn’t meant to set anything on fire to begin with? “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Alice cried, only she was crying so much the words came out all garbled.

Harry could wager a guess. They’d been playing tag—Harry had reduced the amount of directly Quidditch-related activities recently in an attempt to put an end to the (still) ongoing rivalry between the Little League kids and the…not-Little League kids—and the game had turned into a full-blown blood feud.

Well, no actual blood had been spilled, but Alice had knocked Avery off his broom and Betty had turned into a bloodthirsty pink blur on her broom, shrieking every time she got tagged, and at one point—Harry had shut that behaviour down instantly—launched herself off her broom and tackled Charlie the second he tagged her. Blur was maybe an exaggeration as these brooms were child safe and couldn’t go as fast as adult racing brooms, but it was close.

Just before Harry was going to call the game quits to take the kids back inside to draw pictures instead, or something else docile and less likely to end in premeditated murder, Avery had nearly run Hugh off his broom in his haste to tag Betty, who’d swerved (shrieking) and collided with Alice, who had fallen off her broom as she hadn’t seen Betty coming at all, and had been taken off guard so badly that she unleashed an accidental burst of magic and…set a nearby maple tree on fire. The sudden fire explosion (the maple tree bursting with sweet sap, Harry belatedly realised, thanking Neville for that titbit of information) shocked all five kids into a complete standstill, their brooms dropping from the sky and the kids with them.

Luckily it was only a five-foot drop.

The kids were still crying.

“All right,” Harry said, finding his Big Voice. It wasn’t as scary as his Authoritative Voice, but it was firm and very effective at making scared kids believe he had any kind of control over the situation at hand. “Pick up your brooms and come over here.”

Thus prompted into action, the kids all—all but one—stopped crying. They picked up their brooms and trotted over to Harry.

Harry found a crumpled paper napkin in a pocket. He tapped it with his wand and multiplied it. They were all of them snotty from crying, and Harry set to work on the nearest child, wiping tears and noses. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, expecting sprained wrists and bruises, at least. “Knee scrapes? How are your arms? Does everyone still have their heads?”

That last question elicited a few giggles as the kids ascertained that they definitely still had their heads. Nobody seemed to have hurt themselves, but Harry would check them again later and let their parents know when they came to pick them up—he’d learned the hard way that sometimes kids weren’t aware of their own injuries and wouldn’t be for hours. Slowly, the crying ceased, and everyone’s faces got cleaned up.

“That was scary,” Alice whispered, just as Harry was wiping her nose. Hugh, who was standing next to her, nodded wide-eyed. “Did I do that?”

“You did,” Harry confirmed. He was crouching in front of her and could see plainly the wobble of her lip and the fear still in her eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d accidentally set something on fire and she’d been so frightened the first time that she’d refused to participate in any activity for weeks afterwards. “Sometimes big emotions turn into big magic,” he said, trying to explain.

He didn’t know how to tell her not to be scared—or if he should tell her so in the first place. Fire wasn’t harmless, and the next time this happened it could turn out worse. They’d gotten lucky so far.

“Gather round,” he said, beckoning the kids to come over. They did, forming a tight half circle. “When you’re very, very little, like you are—” Avery protested, and Harry smiled, “—like you are now, before you grow big like me, sometimes emotions can be so big they don’t fit inside of you,” he said. “All kinds of emotions can become very big. And big emotions turn into magic sometimes.”

“Like the time I made butterflies?” Betty asked.

“Exactly. Do you remember how happy you were? And how happy the butterflies were?”

Betty nodded very seriously.

“So what happened just now was that Alice had a Big Fright, and it turned into magic. So the maple tree caught fire. She didn’t explode it, that’s something that happened because maple trees are full of sap, and maple sap is very sweet, like sugar, and sugar likes to burn. Can you smell it?”

The kids all sniffed the air. “Smells like fire,” Charlie said.

“I think it smells like the burnt caramel Mum made once, but like if she put grass in it,” Betty said.

Hugh was frowning. “What’s burnt caramel smell like?”

“Like this,” Betty declared.

Alice was looking at Harry, afraid still, but curious. “Have you ever had a big emotion?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “When I was little, my hair was so messy—” Five pairs of eyes flicked to his hair. “I know, it’s still messy. But I lived with my aunt and uncle and they didn’t like that it was messy. So every day I had to comb my hair, but it never worked because my hair has a magic all of its own and it likes to be messy, you see. So one day my aunt decided to cut all my hair off because then it wouldn’t be messy anymore.”

At this the kids gasped, some in delight at the story, others in fear of what was going to happen next in the story. Harry gave them a conspiratorial smile. “Can you guess what happened next?”

“Did it catch fire?”

“Did your aunt catch fire?”

“Did the scissors catch fire?”

“Nothing caught fire,” Harry reassured them. “She cut all the hair off. I was bald as a baby, except for a bit in front to cover this little scar here because she didn’t like that either. And all night I was so scared I couldn’t sleep because I was worried the other kids would make fun of me.” He paused for a dramatic effect, giving the kids the opportunity to gasp in the right places. “Do you know what had happened in the morning?”

Wide-eyed, they shook their heads.

“It had all grown back!” Harry grinned. “Just as messy as before!” He tugged at his hair, demonstrating just how messy and how much of it there had been. As hoped, the kids burst into giggles at this punchline. He didn’t tell them how the story really ended, about how mad Petunia had been, about how she’d locked him in the cupboard as punishment, about how she’d never touched his hair again after that.

“Have you ever set fire to something?” This was Alice asking.

“No,” Harry replied, truthfully. “But I have made things break and rattle and get really scary,” he said, opting to not tell them about blowing up Marge. “Big emotions are like that.”

“What if I try not to have big emotions?” Alice asked.

“You should have big emotions all the time,” Harry said, concerned now. “Big emotions aren’t wrong or scary, even though it can seem like that sometimes. But do you know what you can do the next time you have a big emotion and get scared?”

She shook her head. The other kids were listening intently.

“Think about what kind of magic you want your big emotion to be. Like butterflies or flowers or rain. It’s very hard to be scared when one is thinking about butterflies.”

“I like the orange and black ones,” Alice said.

“Good choice,” Harry said, standing up. “I think we’re done playing tag for today. Let’s go in and wash our hands. I have a brand-new box of crayons that would like to be friends with you. All right?”

Hugh and Betty whooped, and soon enough the kids were racing each other off the field. Harry followed at a more sedate pace, taking a moment to himself. Being a childminder could be tough sometimes, and never tougher than when he had to deal with his kids’ emotional well-being.

The irony that he would be seeing his therapist later that day to sort out his own emotional well-being wasn’t lost on him, but he was also already tired, so the thought of having to spill his feelings to Gladys later was weighing down his shoulders like a particularly heavy robe.

Harry had sat in Gladys’ office in complete silence for a full twenty minutes before she started asking questions. Have you talked with your cousin? Harry had said yes, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys at all. He didn’t want to recount his meeting with Peony, or talk about his feelings, or bring up any more awful stories from his childhood. He was done with trauma.

He hadn’t come this clinic to talk about the Dursleys, he’d come here to get the sex thing fixed. Un-kill that void inside of him—that Gladys had said wasn’t there, explaining that he in no way was partially dead, or just a little bit dead, or damaged. He’d come back whole, she’d said.

Asexuality had nothing to do with dying, she’d said. There were limited resources and knowledge about asexuality, she’d said, but one thing she did know: it didn’t come from death.

“Harry, what do you want from this meeting?” Gladys finally asked after ten minutes of Harry deflecting everything. “What’s your goal today?”

Harry didn’t answer. How did one say I’d like to stop freaking out at the thought of having sex with my boyfriend without sounding like a nutcase?

“If you just want a space where you can be contemplative, we can arrange that,” she added. “But I think there’s something you want to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing his face. “It’s about sex,” he said, slowly, forcing the words out. “It’s about—I don’t—I mean—” He drew in a deep breath, grateful for Gladys’ patience and lack of judgement, and the way she always gave him space to find the words he needed.

And then all the words came, all the confusion and conflicted feelings: his entire history with Ginny and how it hadn’t always been bad, how he’d actually enjoyed being with her at first, how he’d wanted it, and then how he’d stopped wanting it, and how it’d become this—obstacle, and how it felt like it was an obstacle again, what Draco had said, what he’d fought with Ginny about every time, the ways he’d found to manage their relationship, how he used to just get it over with, the rotten feelings afterwards, his feelings for Draco—everything, just everything came out until Harry wasn’t sure anymore what he’d said or not said.

“I mean, I don’t…want want to have sex in general, but I do kind of want it anyway, but in a detached kind of way, like, I want to make him happy, and I know it can be nice, and I want it to be nice, but when I just think about it I…freeze, and there’s nothing I want less right then, and I think about just getting it over with, but I don’t want the sex hangover that comes with it, but then I’m scared about what it’ll mean for us in the long run, so I want to, but I don’t want to—” Harry stopped then, suddenly empty for words. “I—” he put his face in his hands. “Honestly, I feel like I’ve gone round the bend,” he eventually added, speaking into his palms instead of looking at Gladys, aware that his gut felt kind of full and his chest warm, as if he hadn’t been pouring words out, but in.

She gave him a moment to breathe. “Harry, I’m going to say something I don’t think you’ll want to hear, but that I think is important for you to consider,” she said, gentle but with a touch of authority.

He nodded, straightening up in his chair. Made eye contact. “Okay,” he said.

“I want you to consider that repeatedly having sex when you didn’t want to was a traumatic experience, and you have been re-traumatising yourself every time you engaged in that kind of activity,” she said. “You’re conflating sex with a task to overcome instead of a bonding experience—you talk about it in the same terms you’ve used to talk about your childhood trauma and war experiences.”

Harry stared at her. “Traumatic experience?” His brain shut down. “Like—like rape?” Nausea filled his throat. It couldn’t be—Ginny would never—that couldn’t be—

“No, I’m not saying that,” Gladys said. “But consent is a spectrum, and agreeing to an activity for other reasons than genuinely wanting to engage in the activity isn’t entirely consensual—what do you think about that?”

“I—” Harry tried to push the nausea down. “I guess,” he croaked, then cleared his throat.

“Do you need a moment? This is a lot to take in.”

Harry shook his head, even though maybe he did want a moment. However, moving on, distracting himself, seemed like the better option.

“All right. I understand that what you would like to happen is to find a way to enjoy having sex with your partner without it being a terrible thing to overcome, and without there being this ‘sex-hangover’ afterwards.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said. “That’d be ideal.” Then a thought struck him. “Do you—is that why I’m asexual?”

“To be truthful, Harry, I don’t know. I don’t know enough about it. I don’t think so.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “However, I do think your asexuality may have been a contributing factor to the trauma,” she added. “In that it is where your lack of interest in sex originates.”

“Okay—yes—okay.” Harry looked at the ceiling, taking a moment to breathe. “So…what now?”

“Have you discussed this with your partner?”

“No—well, sort of. I’ve told him I’m asexual, and he…seemed like it wasn’t a big deal.” Harry frowned. Draco had been kind of weird about, well, sex. Everything he’d said and done had been the complete opposite of what Harry had expected.

“But?” she prompted.

“He once suggested it and I said no and then he said okay,” Harry said. “I mean, what I actually said was I hate sex and that I wished it didn’t exist. And he said okay. And then nothing happened.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Confused. Relieved? But confused.” Harry drew in a deep breath. “He said it was off the table then, and we haven’t talked about it since. I…don’t really understand it. If it were Ginny, we’d have fought about it. But he just said okay. I don’t know what to think about it? It’s weird. How could he go from being really…like, really into it one moment and then just flip to completely disinterested the next when all I said was no?”

“It sounds to me like he was respecting your boundaries,” Gladys said.

“But…” Harry blinked. It made sense, but yet not.

“Did you want him to push you?”

“No!”

“Harry, you have been living with a pattern of not having your boundaries or personhood respected your entire life, starting with the abuse you endured from your relatives, and continuing in your relationship to your ex. The fact that you’re used to it doesn’t make it right, but it will make it difficult for you to recognise what a healthy relationship can look like,” Gladys explained, patient and gentle as ever. “Your partner accepting that you didn’t want to have sex and then not pursuing it further is a good thing.”

“Okay,” Harry said automatically. He was having difficulties parsing this—did it mean that Ginny had been—that she’d—no, she couldn’t—

“Tell me what you’re thinking right now, Harry.”

“You’re saying Ginny was a…” Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it. He’d loved her. He still loved her. And he knew she loved him. She wasn’t like the Dursleys, and he hated even thinking the thought that she could be. “She didn’t abuse me.”

“I’m not saying she did, Harry. That’s for you to decide. But I think we can agree that you did not have a healthy relationship.”

Yeah, that much was probably true. Hadn’t Ginny said that when they’d broke up? Something about him not being what she needed. Well, she hadn’t been what he needed, either. “Okay,” he said. He was saying okay a lot. What else could he say?

“How are you holding up? We have ten minutes left, but if you need to stop early—”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, quickly. Lying. “No, I mean—you know.”

“All right.” She waited.

Harry’s head was spinning.

“Okay, so…” he said eventually. “How do I…get out of that pattern? How do I get to a point where…it’ll be all right?” It was all getting too much now. “You said sex should be a bonding experience?” Harry had never thought of it that way if he was entirely honest with himself. It wasn’t an entirely repulsive idea, looking at it from this chair, but in practice? He wasn’t sure. “How do I make that happen?”

“You need to learn where your boundaries are. Communicate with your partner what you’d like to try—or not try. Stop when you have to. Make sure you respect his boundaries, too.”

Harry startled at that. It hadn’t occurred to him that of course other people had boundaries about sex, too. It should’ve gone without saying, but the realisation that if Draco said no, and Harry kept pushing on some unfounded idea that he didn’t really mean it, that it would be violating Draco’s boundaries—it made Harry queasy all over again.

Maybe it was easier to just never go there. Even if that meant Draco would eventually leave him.

“It’s not going to be an overnight fix,” Gladys told him. “I want you to be aware of that.”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Communication is key,” she continued. “Breaking patterns is difficult, but it can be done. You will be essentially reconfiguring a lifetime of behavioural patterns, Harry.”

He nodded. He understood, on some level, what she was saying, but it also sounded like nonsense. Of course communication was key. How should he go about communicating? What should he say? Of course he should say no. Of course he should, of course, of course, of course.

She tapped her chin with a finger. “I’ll be honest with you, sexuality, sexual health, sexual dysfunction—it isn’t my area of expertise. I’d like to do some research and then pick up this thread later. Will it be all right if I owl you some reading material before we meet again?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Gladys, seemingly aware that Harry had reached the end of his tether where therapy was concerned, rounded off. She gave him a brief rundown of what kind of phrases for good communication he could use that Harry nodded through, and a pamphlet about healthy communication habits that Harry pocketed without so much as looking at it.

“I’d like for you to take the rest of the evening off,” she said, before she sent him out the door. “You’re overwhelmed, and you need to process.”

“Sure,” said Harry. She raised an eyebrow, but Harry just said his goodbyes.

He Apparated straight to the Chudley Cannons home stadium. Little League training wasn’t for another hour or so, and the stadium was empty. He hadn’t had dinner, and on an abstract level he knew he should eat something before having to deal with twelve kids, but right now there was no way he could muster the energy to deal with something as simple as food acquisition. Instead, he sat down on a trunk in the equipment room, and exhaled.

Harry had been distracted throughout Thursday’s Little League training, the distraction only getting worse once Ginny had shown up, as Harry’s brain replayed his session with Gladys over and over and over. The kids were distracted because Harry was distracted, and training turned out a complete disaster.

The rest of the week continued in the same manner. Draco had remarked on Harry’s jittery hands and scatter-brained-ness when he’d come to pick up Harry from training, but Harry had brushed it off, therapy, you know how it goes, and Draco had left it alone. Harry had been profoundly grateful, and once home he’d planted his face in Draco’s belly and stayed there for a long time while Draco’s fingers caressed his scalp. They hadn’t talked, but Draco read aloud from the book he was reading, and that was better, it quietened Harry’s brain a little, until all his world consisted of was Draco’s voice, hands, scent, just Draco, Draco, Draco.

And then the worry had set in. Worry that they’d lose the next game since training had gone so spectacularly badly, worry that Harry would never figure out how to break his bad patterns, worry that Draco would get tired of him, worry that he would never be able to look at Ginny again without thinking about how they’d mistreated each other, worry that he’d never have a family of his own, worry that he was a crap Quidditch captain, worry that he would fail his Archive Studies, worry that the maple tree would never heal, worry that Alice would grow to be scared of her own magic, worry that he would never be good enough for Draco, worry that everything would soon be ending, just stopping, ceasing to be, without him being able to do a single thing about it.

Draco, bless him, and Harry had never loved him more, tried to distract Harry from his own head all weekend, going with him to the pub on Friday, taking him out for a date to the bookshop in Godric’s Hollow on Saturday, and filling his kitchen with the scent of freshly baked bread.

“I love you,” Harry had whispered in Draco’s ear over the din of their mates’ laughter. “I love you,” Harry had said after two hours of browsing the second-hand section, his arms full of books Draco was interested in. “I love you,” Harry had said, untying Draco’s transfigured apron—a blue dish towel with sea shells, this time— and pulling him into a kiss. “I’ll buy you a proper apron for your birthday.” Draco’s cheeks had pinked every time, and he’d given Harry delighted smiles in return.

“The kids will be fine,” Draco was now saying. “They’ll play a good game.” He stood shoulder to shoulder with Harry at the edge of the pitch. The game would start soon, but Harry had a minute. Ginny was with the kids, just a short distance away, helping them with their equipment checks. “You’re a good captain. You’ve trained them well.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, automatically. He didn’t feel like a good captain. He just felt like a confused person.

“Hey,” Draco said, and something in his voice made Harry look at him. The breeze was ruffling his hair (his hat—another new pointy one—was hanging on his back by a long cord, tied by his throat with a neat bow) and his eyes were as deeply grey as the clouds. “I love you,” he said. “And I know you’ve got this.”

“Oh,” said Harry. And then his brain caught up with him. “Oh.” Something bubbled in his gut—nerves, probably, but also something far more excited and happy. Draco had said I love you. “If you say so,” he said with a grin.

“Go on, then,” Draco said, nodding towards the kids. Harry detected no change in his face, except for a pleased draw of his mouth. “Prove it.”

Harry leaned on Draco’s shoulder a little. “Kiss for good luck?”

“You can have as many kisses as you fancy,” Draco said, putting a finger on Harry’s lips to stop him when he leaned in, “if you win this game.”

“I’ll win this game,” Harry said. “Watch me.”

“I’m right here.” Draco’s eyes were sparkling with mirth. Harry was so in love.

Who needed sex as a bonding activity when you could have this?

Harry lingered for just a moment, soaking in Draco’s joy, and then strode over to the kids and Ginny. He tried to channel confidence and positive spirit, or whatever would get his team to believe that today would be a great day. “Who’s ready to win this game?” he yelled.

The kids stared at him, confused and hesitant.

“Well?” Harry grinned at them. “It’s a beautiful day to play some Quidditch and beat the DragonTAMERS to smithereens, don’t you think? Say YEAH!”

“Yeah!” half the team shouted.

Harry punched the air. “YEAH!”

“YEAH!” the kids yelled, punching the air with him. Even Ginny joined in, though she was looking at him like he’d gone round the bend.

After that things happened fast, and the game was in the air, players speeding after one another and dropping balls and bats left and right.

“Smithereens?” Ginny asked, when Joseph sent another Bludger after the other team’s Seeker. “Where did that come from?”

“What? Oh. A book, I think,” Harry answered, semi-distracted. “WELL DONE, AVERY!” he yelled, just as Lee was announcing the score. Ten minutes into the game and the Butterfly Bumpkins were ahead thirty points to ten.

He was surprised to see that despite the disastrous training session, the formations they’d practised (attempted to practise) were working beautifully. Dorcas, Denise and Avery, on Chaser rotas, were moving together in a beautiful uniformity Harry would not have believed five and six year olds capable of, torpedoing through the opposite defence and scoring another goal. Behind them Love and Jamie were attacking Bludgers with a terrifying ferocity—one Bludger whizzed past Faulkner’s head, ruffling his curls in the process. He was so startled he nearly fell off his broom and forgot to give out any kind of penalties.

The next formation they attempted failed miserably, but the kids took it in stride and only seemed emboldened, and those waiting on the sidelines jumped and yelled with Harry and Ginny as goals were scored or lost and Bludgers were missed.

“You’re up, Charlie!” Harry whistled, and Rachel and Charlie swapped places; Rachel landed hard in the grass next to Harry, all breathless and wild.

“DID YOU SEE THE GOAL I BLOCKED?!” she shrieked, scrambling to her feet.

“I did, it was amazing!” Harry told her, giving her a clap on the shoulder while still keeping half his attention on the game. He’d have to rotate Joseph, Denise and Love out soon so Emma, Nathan and Anthony could get their turns.

“GO, ALICE!” Ginny and Rachel both screamed, and soon Emma and Nathan were screaming too. Alice was on Seeker rota and she’d clearly spotted the Golden Snitch—she wove in between players erratically, following a sharp sparkle glinting in and out of existence as it flittered in and out of shadow. “GOOO-oh no!”

A Bludger had rammed into Alice sideways and knocked her off her broom, and she’d lost sight of the Snitch. Faulkner stopped the game, and Harry ran onto the pitch, all the players hovering on their brooms in place as they watched what was going on.

“Ow!” Alice said, already getting to her feet by the time Harry reached her. “That hurt.” She scowled and glared at the DragonTAMERS Beaters, both of whom were looking very guilty.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, relieved she didn’t seem injured and that there’d been no outburst of accidental magic.

“I’m fine,” she stated imperiously, all ready to get back on her broom.

Harry stopped her, instead escorting her off the pitch. “It’s Anthony’s turn,” he explained, and took the chance to rotate everyone while the game was paused. “And I want the Mediwitch to have a look at you, just in case—”

“It doesn’t hurt at all!” Alice argued. “I can play—”

“You’ll play when it’s your turn again.”

Harry signalled to Faulkner that everything was in order and the game resumed. The Snitch had vanished, Anthony scouting after it diligently, the other Seeker on his tail. “You did good,” Harry said to Alice as she was being checked out by the Mediwitch. “You would’ve gotten it if not for that Bludger, I’m sure of it.”

“I will get it,” she declared, getting to her feet as soon as the Mediwitch allowed, broom in hand. Harry thought she probably would—in the heat of the game, she seemed to have forgotten the last time she’d gotten knocked off her broom, and the fire she’d caused. Good. The last thing Harry needed was more fires.

The DragonTAMERS were a good team, with skilled fliers and a bigger rota, totalling fourteen players. They’d have an advantage over the Bumpkins, but Harry had faith in his team. They’d forgotten all about Thursday, so caught up in the actual game, and were executing all of Ginny’s game tactics beautifully. “Are you seeing this, Gin?” Harry whooped; Emma and Nathan had effectively tag teamed the Bludgers and sent them all towards the opposite team’s Keeper, exactly the way they’d practised it. “THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!”

“It’s beautiful,” Ginny agreed, vibrating with glee. For a moment Harry forgot they were broken up and that they’d been awful together—they’d always been great like this, when it was about anything else but their relationship.

An hour and a half into the game and several rotations later—Alice and Rachel had rotated back in—the Butterfly Bumpkins were in the lead with a hundred points to sixty, and Harry’s entire being was on fire with adrenaline, almost as if he were in the air himself. Anthony had chased the Snitch once, but lost it, and when the other Seeker had gone after it he’d distracted her by zipping in front of her and doing a barrel roll. A freaking barrel roll.

Harry had not taught his team to do barrel rolls. Six year olds should not do barrel rolls. Lee and Faulkner were just as surprised as Harry, Lee faltering in his commentary and Faulkner stopping short in the air and then turning to look towards Harry, gesturing helplessly as if saying why is your team like this? Harry had just shrugged.

And then, without anyone noticing, Alice caught the Snitch.

Charlie had three Chasers coming at him, flanked by both Beaters, and everyone was watching—holding their breaths—to see if Charlie would block the goal. Two things happened: Charlie blocked a Bludger with a sidekick to the left, and the Quaffle with his face, and Alice floated on her broom towards the grass as casual as you’d like, reached towards a flower—and caught the Golden Snitch.

Then she hopped off her broom and inspected the Snitch as if she’d just picked up a particularly interesting bug and was cradling it in her palms.

“Is that—I’m getting conflicting information, folks,” Lee said, “did someone catch the Snitch? I’m not seeing a Snitch in play—”

“ALICE,” Harry yelled, finally noticing her standing there after witnessing the sheer implausibility of what Charlie had just done. “WHAT IS THAT?”

“Oh,” Alice mouthed, realising everyone was staring at her. She raised her arm, holding the Snitch aloft for everyone to see. “I got it?”

“Merlin’s left tit,” Ginny swore, and then cracked up laughing.

“Mate, you’ve been spacey since you walked in,” Ron said, kicking Harry’s chair.

Harry grunted and took another bite of his sandwich.

“If you don’t want to hear any more about wallpaper patterns or buggies, you can tell me to shut my gob,” Ron continued.

“You can talk about buggies,” Harry said. “I don’t mind.”

“Maybe you don’t mind, but you’re bored dumb.” Ron kicked his chair again. “So let me try again. Congrats on the victory yesterday, well done, hilarious catch, your team is fantastic.”

“Thank you.”

“Okay, seriously, what the hell is wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Harry protested. “I’m just tired. Daycare was a mess today because Hugh and Betty were feeling left out, Avery and Alice were acting like royalty and Charlie wouldn’t shut up for one second about that goal he saved—”

“A brilliant save,” Ron acknowledged.

“Yes, I agree, and he does deserve praise for it, but I had to stop two fights from breaking out today. I’m praising the powers that be that our next game isn’t for another four weeks.” Harry let out a sigh. It was poor planning, really, that they had this gap, but right now Harry wasn’t going to complain about it. Anything to keep tensions at bay.

Maybe he should cancel tonight’s practice? No, better not. Let them run all their steam off instead of keeping a lid on it until Thursday.

“Mmh,” Ron vocalised, around a mouthful of sandwich. “What else is new in your life? You and Malfoy getting hitched soon or something?”

“No.” Harry frowned. “We don’t even live together.”

“Isn’t he at yours all the time, though?”

Well, sort of. Draco hadn’t colonised Harry’s wardrobe or anything, but he did have a toothbrush in the bathroom, and even if he didn’t sleep over every night—Draco usually opted for Flooing home, and some days he never came over to begin with, like on Tuesdays and most Fridays.

Harry wouldn’t mind if he came over all the time, to the extent that he never left at all, but Draco wasn’t there yet. And even if he did move in, Harry was sure he’d still spend Tuesdays at his mum’s. And even…well, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted Draco to move in so much as he wanted them to move in together. Or maybe—maybe he could move in with Draco, if that was what Draco wanted? If he wanted.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Pretty much.”

Ron stopped eating, scrutinising Harry instead. He looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it and went back to his sandwich.

“I’m going to therapy,” Harry said. “for, er, stuff.”

“Therapy? Like…Muggle mind stuff?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged.

“Oh.” Ron chewed. “Does it work?”

“Maybe? I think so. I don’t know. It’s…weird. But nice weird. I’m…working through some stuff.” Harry focused on his sandwich as he spoke, not sure why telling Ron about therapy seemed so…revealing. He’d told Draco, and it hadn’t felt like this.

“That’s great,” Ron said, sincerely. “We all could use some of that, yeah? Put our heads on straight and all.”

“Yeah,” Harry said and changed the subject, picking up an old conversation about product testing for the joke shop instead.

Record-keeping Theory and Practice was getting duller and duller with every week that passed. It wasn’t that it was boring as such; Harry enjoyed it well enough in practice when at work—though at work he had colleagues and also patrons to assist. In class it was all theory, and Harry just didn’t think the theory was all that interesting.

The course as a whole had lost a lot of its shine. Using the new knowledge at the Archive was fun, but it was more fun being around people. People other than his colleagues, nice as they were.

And if Harry had to be completely honest with himself, he missed Draco’s presence at the Archive as well.

And if he was even more honest with himself, he was too busy.

And if he was even more honest than that…all he really wanted to do with his time was to be with the people he cared about. He hadn’t seen Teddy in weeks, he hadn’t properly hung out with anyone outside of Friday pub nights, and he’d love to get more than a handful of hours with Draco that weren’t spent doing homework. He missed their discussions. He missed eating lemon meringue tart with Draco in the Archive garden while talking about house-elves.

He’d taken the job at the Archive just to have something to do, and while it’d been okay and paid the bills, it was just that: okay.

Harry wanted more than okay.

Record-keeping Theory and Practice was okay. But there had to be something more. Something that got him excited, something that felt meaningful in a different way. Something that wasn’t dusty and about preserving history, about posterity, something less steeped in questionable methods and practices, something whose history didn’t include cultural theft and colonialism—

“Oh,” Harry said, sitting bolt upright. “Children!”

“What’s that?” Harry’s seatmate to the right was looking at him.

“Nothing—sorry,” Harry apologised, keeping his head down. Class was ending soon, but none of that mattered anymore.

He tore a blank page out of his notebook and scribbled on top: possible careers. And then he started making a list, anything and everything he could think of. By the time class ended, he’d filled half the page.

The others were filtering out of the classroom, but Harry wasn’t ready to leave just yet. He was staring down at his list, with notes and underlined and circled words, and feeling strange. A hotness spreading in his chest, almost like embarrassment, a lot like disbelief, something reminiscent of promise.

HELP RAISE KIDS TO SEE THE GOOD IN EACH OTHER AND THEMSELVES AND BECOME KIND PEOPLE, he wrote at the bottom of the page.

Harry didn’t know exactly how he was going to make it happen, but he had a list—he had options, and possibilities, and a place to start.

When had he last felt so exhilarated? When he had asked Draco on a date. Kissed him for the first time. Harry smoothed his hand over the list. Yes, he thought. This is what I want.

Then he collected his things and went home, where he knew Draco would be waiting with dinner, probably wearing another dish towel as an apron. He hadn’t said what he’d make, but Harry wanted nothing more than to find out, and kiss him, and tell him everything about his list.

Draco had made some kind of French dish—cock oh van, or something—which turned out to be a delicate stew of sorts with chicken in wine and vegetables. Harry perched on the kitchen counter, watching Draco finish it off while he rambled about all his ideas for the future.

He kept talking all through dinner, only pausing occasionally to appreciate how fantastic the food was; mouth-melting and intensely flavoured and so, so good. Draco’s cheeks acquired these lovely pink spots of delight every time Harry praised his cooking, which only made him want to do it more.

“So you will quit your studies and your job at the Archive,” Draco said, when Harry had momentarily stopped talking to shovel in the last bites of his dinner. Draco had finished his own a long time ago, by virtue of having been eating while Harry had been talking his mouth off.

“Oh yeah, I guess.” Harry shrugged. “It’s not that I don’t like it there, but what’s the point when I could be doing all this instead? Old documents aren’t that interesting. But kids are—kids are great, and they’re our future, and we can do so much—”

“Yes,” Draco said patiently. “I only meant, can you afford to quit?”

It’d be a lie to say Harry had thought that far ahead, because he hadn’t. And the truth was, he was only barely making ends meet since Ginny had moved out and he’d had to handle rent and utilities by himself. His only income was from the part-time archive job as the daycare expenses were covered by the investment profits Bill had helped him with.

“I might have to move,” Harry said slowly, thoughtfully. He could probably find another flatshare if the old one wouldn’t take him back. Or he could move into Grimmauld Place if he really had to. Or he could stay, and ask Bill for advice—he did still have some of his inheritance left and while he’d put it all aside for the future, a nice house or something, he could live off it for now if he had to. And maybe—well, maybe this would be a good excuse to get rid of this flat and the last dregs of his relationship with Ginny.

Maybe he could even…move in with Draco? Somewhere else, somewhere new. He looked at Draco, who had gone all pink again. Could he ask now? Or was it better to wait?

Either way, he should probably make sure that whatever he did next, he would be able to pay his bills.

“I’ll work it out,” Harry said. “I think I can make it all work.”

Draco smiled. It was amazing, really, how Draco’s smile, when directed at him like this, all warm and soft and happy and loving, could make Harry’s insides feel.

“I think your ideas are great. I’ll support you, whatever you choose to do,” Draco said. “I think this…it suits you. It’s very heroic.”

Harry shook his head, but he was smiling. “Nothing heroic about it. It’s just—I want this. For me. Also for the kids, but I’m being selfish here. I’m—" He paused, trying to find the words. Gladys had had a good one. “It’s…reparations. It’s what I was missing when I was a kid, and I can’t fix that, but I can try to make sure no other kid goes through what I did, you know? And I just want to help.”

“Of course you do.” Draco rose from the table, picking up their empty plates. He bent down quickly to give Harry a kiss on the cheek. “It’s what I love about you,” he murmured, and then he was gone, already by the sink, before Harry properly processed what he’d said.

He quickly cleared the rest of the table, dumping it all in the sink. Draco was filling it with hot water and soap, having taken to Harry’s Muggle methods of dishwashing (Harry reckoned the novelty would soon wear off), but Harry didn’t want to do the dishes now.

“Hey,” he said, sliding his arms around Draco from behind and resting his chin on his shoulder. He took the opportunity to kiss Draco’s neck. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“Mmh.” Harry had a lot of favourite things about Draco, but this was possibly one of them. He never minded when Harry got all up in his personal space like this, and Harry loved it, loved touching him, smelling his hair, kissing him, and getting kisses back. “I was wondering, actually, if we could…do you want to come to bed with me?” Harry kissed him again, trying to tame his own heartbeat before he said the next bit. “Just to be clear, I mean sex.”

Draco stopped what he was doing. “What changed?”

“Nothing really changed,” Harry said. “I just thought it’d be nice. I mean, I don’t always hate it, I just—I thought it’d be nice.” It was easier to talk about it when not looking Draco in the eye, so Harry continued: “I have a lot of complicated feelings about it but right now I’m really happy, and I just want…I feel like maybe I can make you feel what I’m feeling? That sounds stupid, doesn’t it—”

“It doesn’t sound stupid.” Draco turned a bit in Harry’s arms, so he could look at him. He was all serious, line between his eyebrows and all, but his mouth was soft. “I’d love to. Does it have to be right now?”

“Uh—” Harry floundered. It didn’t have to be, no, but he wasn’t sure this feeling would last, and if he waited then maybe it’d be too late and—

“I only meant that I want to do the dishes first,” Draco clarified, smiling wryly. “It’s going to bother me if we just leave them, so can we do the dishes first and then—”

“Oh, yeah, definitely, we can do the dishes first,” Harry replied, so relieved he could’ve laughed. He went to find a dishtowel, so he could help Draco, and came up with the one he’d transfigured. A quick tap and it was itself again.

The dishes were quick work, even if Draco took every opportunity to give Harry kisses with every item he handed him.

And then there were no more dishes, and Draco was looking at Harry like he was starving, and Harry did the only thing he could think to do and pulled him in for a kiss. He’d taken the outer layer of his robes off before starting dinner, so he was in rolled up shirtsleeves and trousers, while Harry was still wearing his full robes. Draco was handsy, undoing buttons quickly, so Harry’s outer layer was soon half off.

“Let’s get out of the kitchen.” Harry slipped the outer robe off completely and draped it over his arm, knowing that if he dropped it here it would also bother Draco. “Bed?”

“Yeah.” Draco took a moment to compose himself, and Harry waited. “Okay.”

There was a kind of urgency behind Draco’s every move that Harry hadn’t expected—or, well, he sort of had, but he was surprised anyway. Their clothes were off and folded neatly (another of Draco’s neuroses) in no time, and then it was like Draco was trying to drown himself and come up for air at the same time.

“Tell me what you like,” Harry said, wanting to let Draco have everything. He’d give him everything. And Draco was good, kept talking, directing Harry, and giving praise, and he was beautiful, really. Flushed, and happy, and vibrant.

“Is this okay?” Draco would say before he touched Harry, before he did anything, and Harry would say yeah, and it was okay. It was nice.

The nicest part was Draco, the little satisfied sounds he made, the way he came apart, and that would’ve been enough, but Harry let him have more.

“How’re you feeling?” Harry asked him, afterwards. Draco’s face was buried in Harry’s side, perilously close to his armpit. “What are you doing down there?”

“Smelling you.” Draco’s voice was muffled. He drew in a deep breath, then dragged himself up. “I’m great. You?”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged. It wasn’t a complete lie. He was feeling okay. Comfortable, even. It was always a bit strange, like there was this great physical relief and bliss, but there was also the part that was just okay. It was the after that was usually a mess, that was the part he couldn’t control, that sometimes hated everything, and sometimes didn’t. What he’d tried to explain to Gladys last week, and that he wasn’t sure he’d really managed to get across, or understand himself. Maybe it’d be okay this time. It felt like it could be.

The happy warm feeling from dinner had subsided, though looking at Draco now, Harry thought it might come back. “I’m okay.”

“Just okay?” Draco frowned.

Harry’s insides flipped and the familiar black feelings started roiling in his gut. “Yeah. It’s no big deal—I’m fine, really.”

“Fine?” Draco’s frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything—can we drop it? I don’t want to fight,” Harry said, trying to ignore the creeping sensation of impending doom. He could do comfortable silence, not this, not the look on Draco’s face, or the questions, or his own complicated feelings.

“Harry.” Draco’s mouth was drawn firm, unhappy. “Am I to understand you didn’t enjoy this?”

Harry gestured at their naked selves, hoping it’d be enough. They hadn’t cleaned up yet, so they were both still sticky and starting to get gross.

“I can see that,” Draco said. “It’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know.” Gladys had said he had to communicate, so that meant he had to talk. But talking—telling Draco the truth—didn’t seem like it’d do any good. “I don’t know, Draco. It was fine. I guess. I didn’t hate it. It was nice.”

“You didn’t hate it? Okay…but…so…”

“I wanted it for you,” Harry then said. He didn’t know how else to explain. “I wanted you to feel good. I liked that, it was great. I liked making you come. I liked seeing that side of you.”

“That should go both ways,” Draco said. “You didn’t like any of it, then?”

“No, I mean yes, I liked parts of it, most of it—”

“But not the parts where I touched you, great, thanks—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Harry blurted. “It’s just—it was fine, Draco. I didn’t hate it. I just wanted you to have a good time, and so maybe I’m not, I don’t know, comfortable with all of it, but I can’t control how I feel—”

“No, but you can stop!” Draco interrupted, voice rising. “You can say stop any time!”

“What?” Harry completely forgot what he was saying. Stop? How? By just saying it?

“I would’ve preferred it if you’d asked me to stop,” Draco continued, making a noticeable effort to stay calm. “Instead of—what were you thinking? Why didn’t you just stop?”

Harry’s head felt like it was full of cotton. How could he possibly explain what he’d been thinking when he barely knew himself? Stopping hadn’t occurred to him as an option. He’d started it, so he’d finish it, let Draco do whatever he wanted to him. “Because you wanted to,” he said. “I thought you liked it.”

“Much as I enjoy sucking dick, I don’t enjoy it when the person whose dick I’m sucking doesn’t actually want me to be doing it,” Draco snapped. “That does rather sour the experience of it.”

“Yes, well, I think this argument has rather soured the experience,” Harry bit back, a dark coil of anger and hurt unfurling in his stomach. “I was fine, I didn’t want to fight, but you just had to—”

“Are you listening to yourself? Bloody hell, Harry, what’s your damage? Why are you like this?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who couldn’t get out of bed for six months,” Harry snapped, and instantly regretted it.

Draco had gone white.

He couldn’t say he’d said it without thinking. He’d said it deliberately, to hurt, to shut Draco up.

“I need to go,” Draco said, and rolled out of bed. With the aid of his wand he cleaned up quickly and started getting dressed.

“Wait.” Harry sat up. “Draco—”

Draco shook his head, buttoning up his shirt. “I’m going home.”

“Are you coming back?” The words tumbled out before Harry could stop them, and he hated how desperate they sounded, how desperate he sounded, but he didn’t want Draco to go. He wanted to apologise, he wanted Draco to stay, he wanted a do-over.

“I need—” Draco stopped, collecting his outer robe. He didn’t put it on. “I need some space.”

Harry’s stomach dropped as an overwhelming sense of vertigo and deja-vu descended on him. “Okay,” he heard himself say, as if from a distance, and then Draco was gone.

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet as death in the wake of Draco’s departure, and Harry was struggling to breathe.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His first instinct was to run after Draco, apologise, beg on his knees if he had to, and bring him back. But Draco had said he needed space, so instead Harry was still sitting on the bed, cold and sticky and heavy-hearted.

How had he managed to fuck up so badly?

You knew it was only a matter of time, he thought to himself, shivering and alone. This was never going to work out—you knew it would all go to down the drain the moment you had sex with him. You can’t do sex right, you can’t do relationships right, you knew that, you knew this would happen, you were just delaying the inevitable.

Harry’s chest was heaving and he knew he was on the verge of either hyperventilating or sobbing. Possibly both. He badly needed to clean up, but he’d been hoping Draco would join him in the shower after, or even the bath. He was low on bath bombs, but he had a rain one left, and one of those vanilla scented ones that Draco liked so much—but he was alone and Draco was probably in Wiltshire, which might as well have been a world away.

Everything was heavy. A black stone settled in his gut, a heavy weight of fear and anxiety and other things he couldn’t name. What if this was the end?

Harry wasn’t ready for this to be the end, not so soon, not ever. He wanted to…get to know Draco, he wanted to still be getting to know him years from now, he wanted to see his woodworking business take off, he wanted to be there when he submitted his dissertation, he wanted to talk about the book he was reading, he wanted—he wanted so many things.

But most of all, Harry couldn’t get the look of Draco’s face out of his head. Maybe it would’ve been easier if Draco had gotten angry, if they’d ended up shouting at each other, but the way Draco had just shut down, all the colour draining from his face…Harry had hurt him.

He had hurt him.

And there was nothing in this moment Harry wanted to undo more than that. Go back in time and stop himself. Go further back in time and stop himself from suggesting they have sex in the first place. It hadn’t been worth it. It hadn’t been worth it at all.

Harry managed to suppress the sobs in his chest for long enough to get out of bed, slowly and unsteadily as if the entire world was rocking under his feet, and went to take a shower.

It was easier to let the tears come under the warm spray of water, where he could pretend he wasn’t crying at all and where it felt like all his ugly mistakes washed away.

When Harry finally stepped out of the shower, his fingers were prune-y and his skin scalded, and the bedroom smelled like sex. The bed was a mess, a familiar site of destruction, and Harry—Harry suddenly had enough.

He vanished the entire bed.

He didn’t even use his wand, just let all his accumulated feelings of disgust and anxiety and hatred of that fucking bed and everything that had happened in it flow out through his fingertips, and vanished the damned thing.

Well. There were dust bunnies where the bed had been and a lingering smell of sex in the air, so Harry vanished the dust bunnies also and opened a window.

Fuck everything. Fuck every fucking thing.

Harry pulled a pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt out of the wardrobe, realised he’d also vanished his sheets, duvet and pillows, so dug in again for a blanket. He’d sleep on the sofa tonight.

Hilde was hooting in her cage when Harry entered the living room, so he went over to let her out for a night hunt. She rubbed her beak against his hand, but didn’t show any signs of wanting to go out.

“Do you want to take a letter to Draco for me?” he asked, even as he wondered what use it would be to write him. What could he possibly say that would make this evening less catastrophic and make Draco forgive him and set everything right?

The owl gave him such a deprecating look that Harry snarked back. “I don’t care what hour it is.” Deciding on writing Draco anyway, he tore a page from his notebook.

Draco,

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said, and I’m so sorry . I hope you can forgive me? I know you said you wanted space but can we talk? Whenever is good. Please. I screwed up. I’m sorry.

I love you

Please write back,

Harry

Was it too much? Not enough? Harry frowned, Hilde hooted, and before he lost his nerve he folded it up and tied it to her leg. “Make sure he gets it,” he told her. “It’s okay if there’s no reply, don’t hassle him for one. Just make sure he reads this one, okay?”

Hilde gave him a look like who do you think I am, your messenger? but she took off through the open window.

It was raining, which suited Harry’s mood just fine. Draco hadn’t responded to this note. Hilde had returned after a few hours with nothing but a dead mouse, and Harry had kept the window open after that just in case Draco’s owl was going to make an appearance. But Draco hadn’t sent so much as a single word, and Harry had slept badly, and now it was raining, just further cementing what a colossal idiot he was for believing a single note would make any difference. It was all over. Draco had left, Harry had missed his shot at something remotely resembling happiness and, well, that was that.

So much for hoping this time would be different.

The kids were doing drills with a Golden Snitch and a bunch of distracting glittery or shiny objects. It was a drill he’d done with his Little League Seekers, who’d loved it, but it was a good task for the daycare, too—it was just difficult enough to keep them all focused, but not dangerous enough that Harry couldn’t afford to let his mind wander.

“Come on, Draco,” Harry muttered to himself. “Please write back.” He was, slowly and surely, getting soaked. His weather charm had worn off, and while he’d made sure the kids were comfortable, he hadn’t afforded himself the same care.

Let him be wet and cold and miserable. He deserved it.

“Mr Harry!” Betty was shrieking with delight. “I got it! I got the Snitch! The real one!”

“Well done, Betty!” Harry yelled back. “Now release it and try again!”

Betty made a victory loop around the other kids, whooping and cheering, and then released the Snitch. Alice went after it right away.

Most of the morning passed with this Snitch drill, but even the kids got tired of the rain, so the rest of the morning passed indoors with paint brushes and canvases. Harry had ordered them the previous week, as summer was approaching and with it the holidays. He always did end of the year paintings with the kids, to give to their parents or guardians. And this year, Charlie, Alice and Avery wouldn’t be returning in autumn as they’d be starting school.

It’d be empty around here with just Hugh and Betty around. One more year and then they’d be off to school full-time, too.

That was the original plan, anyway. But Harry had a list of possibilities tacked to the fridge, and now the idea of turning the daycare from part time into full time, of taking on a new crop of kids, was exciting instead of depressing. Yeah, he’d gotten attached to these kids, but they weren’t really his, and their life had to go on. He could just…keep teaching little ones all about flying and Quidditch and finger-painting and how to be friends and what respect was and everything.

Alice, Avery, and Charlie were great kids, and they’d do well in school. Harry was sure of it.

Once, he’d wanted kids of his own. He’d wanted to marry Ginny, move into a nice little family house, and have a small crop of kids. Now…he just wanted Draco back. Nothing else mattered.

Harry went through the rest of the morning and his lunch break feeling dejected and desperate, tired, panicky, hopeless…cycling through an endless barrage of emotions with every moment that passed without an owl from Draco. By the time Harry turned up at the Archive for his afternoon shift, he was done. Just done.

“I quit,” he said to Mildred. “I’d also like to call in sick for the rest of the day.”

She stared at him. “You…quit?”

“Yeah.” Harry sighed, running a hand through his damp and wild hair. “I have one month’s notice, don’t I? This is it. I’ll owl you my formal resignation later if you need it.”

“Are you all right?” She took him to the back room. “You look terrible.”

Suddenly, Harry was on the verge of tears. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, thickly. “Can I call in sick for the rest of the day?”

“Of course,” she said. “Will you take tomorrow as well?”

Fridays he had an all-day shift. He could probably use the distraction, but right now… “Yes, I think so. Yes. I’ll take tomorrow, too.” He rubbed his face, trying not to cry. The thought of having to go through another day without Draco was making it hard to breathe.

Mildred gave him a pat on the back and some kind words, and then Harry left, Apparating straight home instead of walking.

There was a letter on the floor by the door. Harry’s heart jumped into his throat before he picked it up and then dropped into his stomach when he realised it wasn’t from Draco. It was a Muggle letter, delivered by Muggle post, and it was from Peony. Harry stared at the letter, disappointed it wasn’t from Draco and confused it was from Peony, and angry, and upset, and tired.

He tossed the letter onto the kitchen table to deal with later.

Harry had been looking forward to Little League practice, especially since they wouldn’t be playing a game this weekend (they had three game-free weekends in a row, actually, and then two games after that, and then they’d know if they’d make the semi-finals), and could relax a little, have some fun, maybe learn some new techniques that were somewhat more advanced in time for their next game.

But the last person he wanted to see right now was Ginny. Harry didn’t think he could look at her, let alone talk with her, without…feeling guilty. Guilty that he hadn’t felt like this when Ginny had left, like something important had been taken from him, and guilty that he was struggling to even get through the day. It felt…unfair, somehow, that breaking with the person he’d been with for seven years had been relatively smooth, while now…Harry hadn’t been with Draco more than six weeks, Harry realised, though it felt like it’d been longer.

He’s not gone for good, Harry told himself, but didn’t believe it. Ginny also hadn’t gone for good when she’d gone, except then she had. What if Draco did write back, and what if he said he definitely wanted to end their relationship? What if he never wrote back at all and just stayed gone, the days dragging on and on until, finally, Harry would lose all hope of him coming back?

Hilde was resting in her cage, so Harry wrote a cancellation for Little League practice, duplicated it, and sent her off with all twelve notes. He couldn’t face people anymore, not with the growing abyss of terror and desperation within him.

And then…he had nothing to do.

Calling in sick was a mistake. He should’ve stayed at work. He shouldn’t have cancelled practice either. He should’ve…he shouldn’t have let Draco leave, he should’ve tried harder, he should write him again, he should, he should, he should.

Harry faceplanted onto the sofa. He wasn’t going to cry, he told himself. He wasn’t going to cry at all. He shouldn’t cry, he should do something, not just lie there all paralysed and unable to deal with anything at all. If he’d been face to face with a dragon he would’ve done something, he wouldn’t be like this. But this wasn’t a dragon, this wasn’t life or death, this was a complicated tangle of emotions rattling around inside him, making it hard for him to think clearly—the only thing he could think about was how much he missed Draco, how much he needed him there, and how scared he was that he would never come back.

He cried.

He cried until he fell asleep, and when he woke up it was because he was dehydrated, hungry, and there was an awful racket outside the front door.

“Harry? Are you home?” Banging on the door. “Harry!”

It sounded suspiciously like Ginny. What was she doing here? Harry dragged himself off the sofa and to the kitchen for a sip of water, ignoring her. The banging and yelling didn’t stop, however, and a headache was blooming behind his eyes.

Harry downed the entire glass of water and went to answer the door.

“Harry! You didn’t show up for practice! Nobody showed up for pra—what’s wrong?”

“I cancelled practice,” Harry said, ignoring her question. She didn’t look angry, just confused and Harry realised he must’ve forgotten to duplicate the cancellation note for her. Shit. Another thing he couldn’t do right: avoid the person he actually wanted to avoid. “I forgot to tell you. Sorry.”

“What happened? You look awful. Have you been crying?” Ginny reached for him, concerned, and Harry winced, taking a step back.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said, the words turning sour in his mouth instantly. Of course it wasn’t nothing, but Harry didn't want to say anything out loud lest he speak it into existence. “I called in sick at work,” he tried, dancing around the truth.

“You're never sick,” Ginny said.

“Yeah, well.”

“Okay, if you don't want to talk to me, you don't have to,” she said, frowning, “but you're clearly not okay. I still care about you, you know. That didn't stop, just because we…” She gestured between them.

Harry wished he could just close the door on her, but that would probably end this tentative friendship they’d cobbled together. “I know,” he said, after a pause and then decided to tell her a half-truth after all. “I just don't think talking to you, of all people, is fantastic idea. Not about this.”

“All right,” she said. “Let's talk about something else, then. Quidditch?”

“Little League or Big League?”

“It's not really called Big League,” she said, giving him a smile. “Whatever you want. I was actually looking forward to teaching the kids the Finbourgh Flick tonight.”

“You mean you were looking forward to watching me teach the kids the Finbourgh Flick,” Harry said, automatically. Ginny was good at demonstrating, but absolutely no good at teaching—especially little ones. She had little idea of how to talk to them and even less patience, so she was usually content watching, taking notes, and planning ahead, while Harry rolled his sleeves up and got dirty with the kids. He stepped aside, letting her into the flat.

“Well, yeah,” Ginny said. “I always love seeing you fall on your face. I'll make us some tea?” She was already heading into the kitchen as if she'd never left, and Harry’s heart sped up irrationally. He followed her in. She didn't make it far, however. “Uhm.” She was staring into the cupboard she’d opened.

“Draco rearranged the cupboards the way he likes,” Harry told her. His throat tightened. “The tea is over here now.” His voice wavered, so he didn't elaborate—he didn't want to start crying again, not in front of Ginny. He turned away from her, pretending he was only getting the tea, and then making it, and not hiding from her.

“So…Draco,” she said. Harry made an mmh-I've-heard-you noise. “He’s moved in, then?”

Harry paused as he got the jar of honey for Ginny. The kettle was just starting to boil, and while Harry stood there, trying to will away the pangs in his heart, it got louder. “No,” he eventually said.

“Okay,” she said. She hesitated. “Did he…not want to?”

“Didn’t ask him,” Harry said, snappish. His heart beat painfully against his throat, pressing tears into his eyes. He’d never got around to asking Draco if he wanted to live together and now…it was too late. Harry had missed his shot, his one chance at doing something right.

Ginny put her hand on Harry’s back and he flinched away.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Harry kept himself out of reach, but finally took the kettle off the heat. He filled the mugs, dumping in the teabags with little care, and thrust one mug at her.

She took the mug silently, the look on her face unreadable. Harry put milk in his and pretended not to notice the gross amount of honey that Ginny added to hers.

“I’m sorry,” Harry eventually said. He didn’t look her in the eye. “I’m just not in a good place right now.”

Ginny stared at him. “You know, that may actually have been the first honest thing you've said to me in a long time,” she said. “Talk to me? I'm a big girl—whatever it is, I'm sure I can handle it.”

Guilt rose up in Harry along with the tears, but so did all his complicated anger and hurt that he’d come to realise was woven around Ginny in this fine, invisible cloud. And yet…if she was so determined to talk, Harry would fucking talk. “All right,” he said, snappish and grumpy and heartsick, and petty enough to want to push that pain outwards. “But I want it known for the record that I did not want to talk to you about this. And you don’t get to complain.”

She just shrugged, as if to say she didn’t care, but the look on her face told a different story.

“Draco and I had a fight,” Harry said, then stopped. He didn’t want to say and then he left me. “I—” What exactly could he say? How much was he willing to tell her? “I’m—afraid—” his breath caught in his throat. “—I’ve fucked it all up for good.”

Ginny moved to sit at the table. “What’d you fight about?”

“That’s between me and him.” Harry wavered, but then followed her over and sat opposite her. “It was stupid anyway, but it just proved—it proved that I’ll fuck shit up. I couldn’t make it work with you, and now apparently I can’t make it work with him, and—” he cut himself off, his throat so tight it hurt, and pressed his eyes closed. “It’s never enough,” he forced out.

“Well,” Ginny said eventually, slowly, seemingly talking around a throat issue of her own. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt that you’re more broken up about this than you were when we broke up...”

“We didn’t break up,” Harry said. “You broke up with me. And Draco hasn’t—yet. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You didn’t fight me on it,” Ginny pointed out. “The one time I wanted you to fight me on an issue, you didn’t. That’s why I left, we weren’t—look, I wanted more. You didn’t want to give me more. It was a done deal, in the end.”

“Yeah thanks,” Harry snapped, furious now, and using that fury to suppress the tears. “I fucking loved you, but that wasn’t enough! It was like—you just wanted more and more from me, but you never fucking wanted to give me anything in return!”

“Merlin’s tears, Harry, I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t ready to have bloody children or, or, get married, or any of that shit!” Ginny snapped back. “I just wanted to live! Have fun! Not think about the fucking War or my dead brother or the fact everyone was in prison or doing community service—I just wanted to play Quidditch and have fun and not get serious, and you—you didn’t.”

“You don’t think I wanted the same thing? I wanted—something of my own, a family, to feel safe, to love—I was picturing how much fun we’d have with our kids, you know? I wanted to—” Harry was breathing hard. “I just wanted you to love me.”

“I did love you,” Ginny said after a breath. She was crying, but silently. “Still do. But you never—I didn’t feel like you loved me. Not in the same way. It was like I was just…I don’t know, some kind of means to an end, or an ideal personified, or something—I don’t know. As much as you talked about wanting kids, you never were very interested in actually making them.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to touch me,” Harry said.

The kitchen was silent in the wake of those words and Harry almost wanted to take them back. It didn’t matter; he and Ginny had reached the point of no return a long time ago and nothing he—or she—could say would change that.

“Thank you for finally being honest about it,” she said, sniffling and wiping her face with her palms. “You know, if you’d just said no, not tonight every now and then, instead of, I don’t know, weaselling out of it in other ways, I’d have felt less…unwanted.”

Frustration roiled in Harry’s chest. He’d said no! Plenty of times! And then they’d fought about it! “I did,” he snapped. “Or do you not remember all those fucking fights?”

She snorted. “No, you didn’t. It was always let’s stay for another drink and then you’d get too drunk, or I’m doing this other thing right now or maybe later? and then later you’d have some bullshit excuse—like honestly, what was I supposed to think?”

Harry stared at her. The realisation that she was right came crashing over him and abruptly he remembered what Gladys had told him about patterns—this was a pattern, this and all the times he’d gone along with it instead of saying no for whichever reason—avoiding a fight, doing something nice for her, wanting a closeness but not that closeness—and it all tangled together in his head. Except he’d never actually said no, he’d just tried to avoid a potentially unpleasant situation in the least confrontational way he knew how to.

Merlin’s balls on a stick, no wonder his relationship with Ginny had imploded. No wonder—Harry’s breath hitched. Draco.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, woodenly, trying to organise his thoughts. “I never meant to make you feel…that way. I…” He couldn’t think, couldn’t split his attention between his brain, which was screaming about Draco, and Ginny, sitting across from him. He couldn’t—she had to leave. “I love you,” he said. “I want you to know that. I always loved you, I still love you, and I’m sorry. Can you please leave?”

Ginny nodded, getting up. “Yeah. I don’t know what…I’ll leave.” She left her mug of tea, still untouched. “Can I ask you something?”

Harry wasn’t sure he had the brain space to answer whatever question she had. “Uh, sure.”

“If you hadn’t gotten with Draco…” She wiped her cheeks one more time. “Would you have considered getting back together with me?”

What kind of question was that? Harry’s brain stalled. Get back together? Maybe if she’d asked—no, it didn’t matter. She was right: he hadn’t fought the break up. He’d let her leave. Amidst all the heartache, he’d felt free. “No,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue like relief. “Absolutely not.”

“Wow.” She shook her head, looking like she might cry again. “That was perhaps more honesty than I wanted.”

“You wanted a no,” Harry said, the frustration coming back. She couldn’t have it both ways. “This is it. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted, but no. No, no, no, no, no.”

“You’ve made your point.” Ginny struggled for a second, then continued. “I’m sorry, too. About everything.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Then. I’m going.” Ginny headed for the door.

“See you on Monday.”

“What?” She turned around. “Why?”

“Little League practice.” Harry got up and emptied both their mugs into the sink. “Right?”

“Yeah.” Her voice vibrated. “Okay.”

Harry didn’t turn around until he heard the front door open and close and he was certain Ginny had left. Then he let himself collapse, exhausted and confused—both feeling better for having cleared some of the air between him and Ginny, and worse. He needed to talk to Draco more than ever, to understand what exactly had gone wrong—Harry was sure he had part of the answer, but he needed to think, to see Draco, find out if there was a way back.

Fucking patterns. So much for trying to break them—he’d walked right into one without noticing.

Harry woke up Friday morning with a puffy face and messy hair and a void of hunger in his belly. He hadn’t eaten since he’d had lunch the day before (and even then, he hadn’t eaten much) and he was really feeling it now. He’d gone to sleep without eating after Ginny had left, too caught up in his own head to even think about food, and then when Hilde had returned from an evening flight without a note from Draco, he’d managed to talk himself into believing all was lost.

It was odd, feeling hungry. He hadn’t felt hungry like this in years. Not since the Horcrux hunt, or the summers at Privet Drive…Harry’s stomach turned and gurgled, and the hunger abated bit by bit.

There was still no owl from Draco, but the hunger had somehow spurred Harry into…if not action, then at least a different state of being. He needed to get Draco back, and the only way to do it was by…talking to him, finding a way to apologise, explain himself, and…something.

He needed to think, to do something, to not just sit there like an idiot and let his life fall apart. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up from the sofa, and for a moment everything went white and he nearly tumbled over the coffee table.

Right. Food. Breakfast first, problem-solving second.

Harry made it into the kitchen without fainting (a useful skill to have; thanks a lot, Aunt Petunia) and made toast. He had jam on his toast, a lovely blackcurrant and lime preserve with star anise that Draco’s mum had made last summer, and as Harry slowly munched through it, with the taste of sun-ripe berries on his tongue, the light-headedness went away.

There was another jar in the cupboard from Narcissa, orange and rosemary, which was Draco’s favourite. Harry spread it on his second toast.

An owl pecked at a window in the living room and Harry rushed to let it in, swallowing his bite of toast hurriedly. His heart was thumping. The owl dropped a thick envelope and took off again, and when Harry looked at it he realised it wasn’t from Draco. It was from Gladys.

Confused, Harry opened it.

Harry,

As promised, some material for you to read. Maybe some of it will sound familiar—let’s talk about it next session.

Have a lovely weekend,

Gladys

Enclosed was a sheaf of papers that all looked like Muggle photocopies and print-outs which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be articles. They were all about sex in some way or other, ranging from trauma and dysfunction to sexuality and different types of verbal communication and body language.

Harry leafed through it all, slowly remembering his last session with Gladys and why she’d sent him all this stuff. He took it all back to the kitchen and sat down to read, picking up his toast again.

Some of the articles he only skimmed, deciding they weren’t relevant to him, but there was one about asexuality that he read all of, and some about sexual dysfunction—one interesting article surmised that in men orgasms and ejaculation wasn’t one and the same—and then there was one that stopped him in his tracks entirely. It was about Post-Coital Dysphoria and came with a note attached from Gladys. This has only been researched in women, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t also apply to men, she wrote. As asexuality isn’t researched much either, correlation between asexuality and PCD hasn’t been looked into. What do you think of this?

Almost everything in that article touched a nerve somewhere deep in Harry; everything about expectations and pressure and the emotional crash afterwards—There’s no correlation between intimacy in a relationship and PCD, or the pleasurableness of the sexual encounter, the article read. PCD is an onset of deep sadness, agitation, aggressiveness, discomfort, etc. after a sexual encounter.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered, eyes flicking over the pages of the article, too fast to really read them as he tried to take in everything at once. He’d thought he’d figured everything out when he’d found out about asexuality—mostly, anyway—but now more pieces were slotting into place.

He read the article again from the beginning, absorbing everything, underlining words and phrases as he tried to figure out how it applied to him. At the end he paused again. Possible treatment options: patients treated with serotonin reuptake inhibitors have reported no emotional crash after sex, however the sex was less intensely pleasurable. That wouldn’t be so bad, Harry thought. He’d take a smaller rush any day if it meant he didn’t have to feel shitty afterwards. Some patients also reported a lessening of PCD symptoms after therapy and the establishing of good communicative practices with regards to sexual encounters. The article didn’t mention what kind of therapy, what it’d been about or how long it’d gone on for, but maybe Gladys would know.

There was a specific kind of relief that came with having words to describe what he was feeling, and the knowledge that he wasn’t the only person in the entire world who felt it. Harry put down the article and choked back a sob; the release of all the anxiety and fear that he had carried around for so long, and which he hadn’t been entirely aware of carrying in the first place, was overwhelming.

He wanted to tell Draco. He wanted to show him these articles, show him there was a reason why he was messed up like this, and—reality came crashing, as Harry remembered that Draco had left and hadn’t answered his owl and might not want to talk to him at all.

Harry drew in a deep breath and made more toast. He’d talk to him—see if they couldn’t patch themselves up, but to do that he needed a plan. While eating, he made a list.

It was a short list, and Harry thought it looked very simple and easy. As if everything could be boiled down to six points—as if it wasn’t more complicated than that—but the part of him that was terrified down to his core proved it wasn’t.

He’d talk to Draco. That was the first step. He wouldn’t wait for an owl—he couldn’t wait for an owl. Ginny had wanted him to fight for their relationship and Harry hadn’t; he hadn’t tried to talk to Ginny, he hadn’t responded to her owl, he hadn’t done anything. He’d let her go. He wasn’t about to do the same with Draco. He’d show him—in some way or other—that he was going to do everything in his power to fix things.

In the romance novels he’d read with Draco there was always a big moment after the break up, the Black Moment that Draco loved so much (well, in the novels anyway), so it stood to reason that if this was their break up scene, then Harry should do something big—only, there was no airport to chase after Draco in, and there was nowhere he could publicly declare his love for him either (and more to the point, he wasn’t sure Draco would enjoy a public spectacle). But he could get him a gift, maybe, and prepare a speech, and go knock on his door?

Yes. He’d do that. Harry swallowed the last bite of toast and washed it down with orange juice. He’d have a shower, shave—he’d gotten a bit stubbly—find a gift, and then go. Everything else on the list he’d figure out as he went along.

“Can I help you?”

Harry looked up from the book he was inspecting to find a member of staff beaming at him. “Uh—maybe?” He’d been in the store for half an hour already, wandering between the SFF section and the romance section, unable to make a choice. He just didn’t know what Draco had read already and what he hadn’t, and also he wasn’t sure whether to get him something with a romance or something about science, or something completely different. “I’m trying to find something for my boyfriend,” Harry explained. “It’s, uh, an apology gift.”

“Ohh, all right,” the staff member said. Her name tag read Lisa. “What does he like?”

“This,” Harry said, gesturing at the shelf. “He, well, he likes romance novels. The really dramatic ones. But he also likes science fiction and fantasy—I think science fiction a bit more? He likes the ones with queer characters and relationships in them. Uhm. I don’t know what else. I don’t know which ones he already has, aside from that one.” He indicated the book Draco had lent him the first time around, the one with the spaceship on the cover. The one about the mixed crew of humans and aliens and the varied ways they loved each other.

“The sequel to that one came out just last week, so if he doesn’t have it you could get him that one?” Lisa suggested. She plucked the book out of the shelf and handed it to him. “I haven’t read it myself, but I’ve heard it’s great.”

Harry turned the book over in his hands. The same spaceship was on the cover again, but the background and colour scheme were different. The blurb on the back promised plot this time, something about a mystery and an accident, and a cover-up. “Yeah, okay.” Draco hadn’t mentioned the book, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know about it, or didn’t have it pre-ordered at Flourish and Blotts. Harry decided to risk it. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent.” She smiled. “Will that be all?”

“Er…” Harry glanced at the shelf, and then over at the romance section. “I’m not sure. What’s your most dramatic romance novel? The kind that makes you cry and laugh? Or, like…just makes you feel a lot of emotions, I guess?”

“He likes those, does he?”

“Yeah.” Harry’s throat tightened. “He really does. I like the ones best where they just fall in love and that’s it, but he likes the ones where they fuck up and have to grovel. And, uh, I guess—I mean, we had a fight and all—it’s probably stupid, but if I get him some books he likes, that can be my kind of grovelling?” he rambled, not sure why he was telling this stranger all this, but she had smiled at him and seemed nice, and Harry wasn’t at all sure if this was a great idea.

“I love that idea,” Lisa said. “I can think of a few romance novels like that, but they’re all about straight people. Do you want gay ones, or will the straight ones do?”

“Gay ones?” Harry asked. “There are gay romance novels?” Draco had never mentioned them. He’d only introduced Harry to romance novels about straight people—was it possible that Draco just didn’t know there were romance novels about queer people?

“Yeah! We don’t have any in print, unfortunately, though I could order some in if you’re interested? But there are digital books if your boyfriend has an e-reader.”

Harry had no idea what an e-reader was. “Explain that to me?”

Lisa showed Harry the types of e-readers they had in stock and explained how they all worked, what his options were, where to find the books and how to get them onto the device. It was all very exciting and Harry thought Draco might enjoy the e-reader—if nothing else, he might have an academic interest in it, as this small piece of technology seemed magical all on its own—but he was going to need a credit card and a computer and an internet connection to load books onto the device, none of which he had. He didn’t know how to use a computer either, though he’d seen them at the Muggle library he’d visited to look up Peony. Maybe he would go there and ask for help. Later.

“Thank you,” he told Lisa. “I, uh, that’s a bit out of my price range at the moment, but he’s got a birthday coming up in June…” he trailed off, apologetically. He’d done the conversion to Galleons in his head, and the e-reader alone was more than he’d want to shell out without careful budgeting. But Draco had mentioned audiobooks once—maybe Lisa would know about those. “What about audiobooks?”

She went over those options as well, and it turned out that audiobooks were frequently triple the price of regular books, so also not a financially viable option for the time being. Harry made a note of it, however, for Draco’s birthday. (If Draco was still in Harry’s life by then, that was.)

“I think for now I’ll just get this book,” he said, eventually. “But thank you for your help.”

“Of course!” She rang him up and Harry gave her his last twenty-pound note. “I love your costume, by the way. It looks really cool.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Harry pocketed his change. “It’s, for, uh, LARPing,” he added, remembering the excuse Draco had used, all those weeks ago, on their first date.

“Ohh, nice. Have fun! And good luck with the boyfriend! I hope he likes the book!” Lisa gave Harry the book in a small paper bag. “The receipt is in the bag.”

Harry thanked her and headed out. Good luck with the boyfriend. Harry breathed deeply, trying to calm his nerves. He was going to need all the luck in the world, or so it felt.

Armed with just the one book (the receipt now nestled in Harry’s pocket, in case Draco wanted to exchange the book for another), Harry walked down the street, keeping an eye out for a good spot to Apparate from. He hoped Draco would be home. Harry had (finally) learned that Draco lived with his mum in Wiltshire, though not in the Manor—another house on the grounds, he’d said, a dower house. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too hard to find.

He popped into a doorway set back from the street, and Disapparated.

Wiltshire was sunnier than London, and breezier, and didn’t look like the Wiltshire in Harry’s memories at all. Malfoy Manor was an imposing, pale building, but it loomed darkly, with shuttered windows and an unkempt lawn. A forest seemed to be encroaching on the Manor from two sides and there wasn’t a single white peacock in sight.

Harry stood at the edge of the gravel pathway to the Manor, reluctant to go near the building at all, but also unable to spot any other structures nearby. Draco had said the house was a dower house and that his mum had moved into it when both he and his father had gone to prison. When Draco had been released he’d moved in with her instead of getting his own place or living in the Manor as the de facto head of the House.

There was no dower house in sight. Harry didn't know much about what kind of house it was, or what they looked like (if they had any particular look at all), or where they were typically situated, but Draco had said they were for a widow to move into once her eldest son inherited the estate, and that she’d usually have a full retinue of servants as well as other family members or friends living with her. That sounded like it’d be a sizeable house, but…there was no other house in sight.

The only option for the location of the house, presumably, was somewhere behind the Manor, so Harry started walking.

He avoided the Manor by a wide berth, but behind it he spotted a roof behind a copse of trees about a Quidditch pitch’s length away, and what was more, there was smoke coming out of the chimney. Somebody was home, and Harry hoped it was Draco.

It was not Draco.

“Uhm, hi,” Harry said when Narcissa answered the door. “Is, uh, Draco home?”

Narcissa levelled a cool look at him. “That depends. What do you want him for?”

“Apologising,” Harry replied, heart in his mouth. He held up the paper bag with the book. “I brought a conciliatory gift?”

“He's not home,” Narcissa said.

“Oh.” Harry couldn't quite figure out if the odd spinning feeling in his chest was disappointment or fear, or both. If Narcissa wasn't going to let him see Draco, then—

“He went to see you,” she continued, less coolly than before. “He just left, not five minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Harry said, again. The spinning in his chest intensified. “Okay—thank you!”

Harry said some hasty goodbyes and left, walking back towards the gravel path in front of the Manor. He could feel Narcissa’s eyes on the back of his head, but that didn't matter as much as the fact that Draco had gone to see him. Hope sprouted in his chest and put a spring in his steps, urging him onwards.

Etiquette prescribed that Apparating in and out of people’s homes, including their grounds, wasn't done, but Harry didn't wait; halfway to the Manor, he Disapparated to his favourite arriving spot in Direction Alley.

Draco wouldn't know that Harry wasn’t at work, so Harry rushed to the Archive, hoping he'd catch him still there.

Albert was manning the front desk.

“Is Draco here?” Harry asked, craning his neck to see if he was in the café. “Have you seen him?”

“Who?” Albert frowned. “Oh, murder boy?”

“Yes, murder boy. Is he here?”

“Hmm. I don't recall…”

Mildred poked her head out the door to the back. “Aren't you supposed to be sick?” she asked.

“Yes. Have you seen Draco?” Harry was getting impatient. “He, uh, was supposed to come meet me here.”

“Your delightful murder boy came by just before,” Mildred said, tutting. “I told him you were home sick, of course.”

“That's right,” Albert added, and went back to responding to owl queries.

Merlin’s saggy bottom and fried toes, Harry was going to go spare. “Thanks,” he said, and left.

His flat was within walking distance, but Harry Apparated—hoping that Draco would be there, or that maybe he'd walked and Harry would make it there first. He’d go after Draco wherever he went if he had to, but—pop—he didn't have to.

Something smelled like food, and Draco was standing in the doorway to the bedroom.

Exhaling, Harry uttered just one word: “Draco.”

“Oh, there you are,” Draco said, turning around. “Where have you been?”

“Looking for you.” Harry searched Draco’s face for signs of…well, anything. But Draco just looked like himself, if a bit frowny.

“Looking for me? Why? Where?”

“I went to your house, but your mum said you'd gone to the Archive, and Mildred said you'd come here—”

“You talked to my mum?” Draco’s frown was gone, replaced with a frankly adorable look of incredulity. “Why?”

“I—fucking hell, Draco, I needed to see you!” Harry rubbed his eyes. “I needed to apologise, and talk, and try to fix things, and—I needed to see you.”

“Oh.” Draco stood there for a bit, then seemed to deflate. “I need to apologise too. I brought you lunch—eat with me?”

“You brought me lunch?” Nothing was happening the way Harry had expected—though what exactly he’d expected he didn’t quite know. Grovelling, definitely, pleading, probably, and several moments of terror until Draco deigned to forgive him. Not this. “What are you apologising for?” Harry was uncertain of everything, but also oddly exhilarated because Draco was here and he’d brought food—

“It occurred to me that I wasn’t entirely fair,” Draco said, directing Harry to follow him into the kitchen.

The table was still covered in the papers Gladys had sent Harry, and the letter from Peony was there too, forgotten. Harry brushed them aside and sat while Draco opened the containers of food he’d brought and dished it out.

“I won’t pretend what you said didn’t hurt, but I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I shouldn’t have let my feelings get in the way…” Draco put a bowl down in front of Harry, full of fragrant rice and steamy curry. “I’m sorry.”

Something weird was happening in Harry’s stomach, and it wasn’t just because the food in front of him smelled and looked delicious. The last thing he’d expected was an apology from Draco. “I don’t understand.”

Draco sat opposite him with his own bowl of food. “The way I experienced it,” he started, picking his words carefully, “I was upset at the implication that you’d gone through with a sexual activity you didn’t want without telling me about it. And because I was upset, I was rather more…sharp-tongued than I would’ve ordinarily been. I hurt you, and you wanted to hurt me back, and that’s…where we ended up. And for that I’m sorry.”

The way Draco had phrased it reminded Harry of the way Gladys spoke sometimes. “I’m sorry, too,” Harry said. “I…” The speech he’d semi-prepared had flown out of his brain and now it was all scrambled six ways to Sunday. The book he’d gotten Draco was quite forgotten, the bag left sitting by the front door. “I am sorry for what I said. I don’t want to hurt you like that ever again,” he said. “Uhm, I—you asked me what my damage was. If you care to know, it’s, uh, I don’t know how to say no. I mean, I know, but I don’t know know, you know?”

“I’m not sure I follow. Are you saying you…don’t…” Draco trailed off, frowning. “Could you try to explain?”

Harry looked into his bowl of food. He hadn’t touched it yet, not really hungry—or too anxious to be hungry. “It’s that…my entire life I’ve had to do a lot of things I didn’t want to do, but had to do anyway. Sometimes because I was punished if I didn’t,” he said, thinking of Petunia and her frying pan, “and sometimes because the safety of other people and the world was at stake, you know? There was…a lot of shit.”

“Oh,” Draco said, pale. “You never learned how to properly maintain your own boundaries?”

“That’s what my therapist says.” Harry took in a deep breath. “She’s talked a lot about patterns and finding my own limits and…stuff like that. It’s—it’s kind of what I was trying to do, really. I wanted…I mean, I’m not sure what I really wanted, but it was only a matter of time before we’d have to have sex, right, and I didn’t want it to be too long because that’d just mess things up, and I wanted to see if I could find out what I can do before it starts feeling awful, and…” Harry trailed off, not really sure how to continue, and either way, Draco was looking at him like he was going to cry. He hadn’t even gotten to the part about PCD yet.

“Okay,” Draco said thickly. “Okay. Uh—excuse me—” He cleared his throat. He was also blinking rapidly, looking away.

“Are you crying?” Harry asked. Absurdly, he thought of the first time he had ever seen Draco cry, really cry, which had been in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom in sixth year. It was a terrible memory, and one that now seemed like it had happened to a different person in a different past.

“I’m trying not to,” Draco answered, his voice thick and cracky.

“Oh.” Harry, suddenly feeling small, decided to take interest in his food. This meant staring at it, since he was still feeling queasy, and now his insides were turning into hard rocks, grinding against one another. “Was it anything I said?” he eventually asked, unable to bear the strange silence anymore, or the odd way he was feeling.

“Yeah. It was everything you said.” Draco looked at him. His voice was still thick, and his eyes were definitely shiny. “I’m just now understanding the extent of what you’ve been through and how it’s affected you, and yes, it’s making me cry because it’s awful, and you should never have had to suffer it, and I’m having difficulties containing my empathy.”

Harry didn’t know how to react to that. He could barely comprehend what was happening; that Draco was having some kind of strong emotion about Harry’s fucked up past instead of giving him the silent treatment, or unloading his anger and hurt on Harry—it was like there was a script, but the script was all wrong and Harry didn’t know what would happen next or what he was supposed to do. Nothing was turning out the way he’d expected, or feared, or was hoping for.

“Okay, uhm…” Harry noticed that Draco hadn’t touched his food yet either. “So does all this mean that you’re not breaking up with me?”

“What?” Draco’s fork clattered onto the table. “Oh no, Harry, love, I was never going to break up with you—shit, shit, shit—” He scrambled out of his chair and in a flash he was in front of Harry, his hands on Harry’s face, his thumbs swiping over Harry’s cheeks.

Which were moist, because at some point Harry had started crying and hadn’t even noticed. Draco was saying a lot of things but none of them were registering with Harry, it was all just a mess of sounds, only it was Draco’s voice, posh vowels and all. Warm and gentle. “You said you needed space,” Harry said, and it came out hoarse and wet. “I thought—”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I just needed space, I didn’t mean—ending things—I just—” Draco stopped babbling. “I’ll be more clear next time. Can I kiss you?”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat and then floated all the way up to his throat. “Yes,” he said, grabbing onto Draco’s hips. “Please.”

Draco kissed him. His lips were hot and there was something desperate about the way he was kissing Harry, like he was trying to impress himself on him, or maybe draw Harry into himself. “I love you,” he said between kisses, “so much.”

“Oh. You do.”

“Did you think I didn’t?” Draco’s hands were still cradling Harry’s face. His fingers were rough.

“No, it’s not that. I think I just didn’t…believe it.” Harry’s eyes weren’t leaking anymore, but he still had a lot of unruly emotions he didn’t know how to interpret or handle. One was definitely relief. Another was also definitely love. But there was all the rest, all the fear and insecurity and hope and want and confusion.

“Listen,” Draco said, one thumb resting just on the edge of Harry’s bottom lip. “There is something we need to set straight. We don’t have to have sex if you don’t want to—”

“But—”

“No, listen. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to put yourself through…all that, to keep me around. You don’t have to. Do you understand? You don’t have to.” There was an intensity in Draco’s eyes that Harry hadn’t seen in a long time.

He understood, on the logical, reasonable plan, what Draco was saying. Of course he didn’t have to. He knew that. But there was a different, illogical, reactionary part of him that didn’t understand at all, that was shooting up FAKEfakeFAKEfakeFAKE signals in his brain.

“What about you?” Harry asked.

“Nobody ever died of blue balls,” Draco said. “No, seriously,” he continued when Harry was going to protest. “Getting laid is not worth it to me if it hurts you.”

“But what if I want to? I didn’t always…dislike it. And it’s important in a relationship.” Draco’s thumb was still on Harry’s lip and he didn’t want it to go away. He didn’t want Draco to stop touching him, even as their food grew cold, and it was getting increasingly more awkward to sit-stand like this.

“Is it something you think is important, or something someone else told you is important?” Draco asked, and he sounded so much like Gladys that Harry felt a little bad for putting him in this situation to start with. “Because I’m going to be honest here and say it sounds like you don’t really believe a word of what you’re saying.”

Harry wavered. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just—I have this feeling, like if I don’t then everything’s going to fall apart, so—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Draco repeated.

“Okay,” Harry said.

They stayed like that for a bit, just letting the words float between them.

“I do have a question,” Draco said. “Because I want to understand. You don’t have to answer. Your issues with sex…do they have anything to do with your being asexual?”

Harry thought for a long time, long enough that Draco seemed to have decided he wasn’t going to get an answer. “Partially,” Harry said eventually. “I mean, it wasn’t always like this, it’s not always been uncomfortable or, or, felt like some kind of…obstacle, and it didn’t always feel so monumentally shitty afterwards—I mean, it didn’t feel that bad the other night, but it was still,” Harry made a wiggly gesture with his hand, “on the verge. All that—I think that came later, after a lot of…not saying no. I don’t know. It’s very confusing. I’d like to get back to a point where it was…not necessarily something I want, but something I don’t mind, and can enjoy? If that makes sense? And I don’t know how to get there. I just think—when I think about how it was in the beginning, it was just this thing I didn’t have a lot of strong feelings about, you know? It was nice enough, fun, even. I think that’s what I want. For it to be like that again, so that I stop worrying about it.” He drew in a deep breath. “But I found out there’s a name for it, it’s a real thing, here—” Harry pulled the stack of papers from Gladys closer and picked the one about Post-Coital Dysphoria out. “Look.”

Draco looked at it, his eyes skimming the pages. Harry could see the moment understanding dawned; Draco’s eyes widened and the hand that was still on Harry’s face stilled. "This is how you feel?" he asked. Harry nodded. “I think I understand,” Draco said slowly. “And we can figure it out, but there’s no rush, is there? Just breathe. Take your time. Go to fifty therapy sessions if that’s what you need. I’ll be right here, and when you’re ready to try again, if you’ll be ready, we can try. But until then…” Draco bit his lip. “Well, there’s this curry I cooked.”

“Right. Okay. Yes.” Harry exhaled. He couldn’t argue with any of that, and maybe he could believe that Draco would stick around—he had, in fact, stuck around for six weeks before Harry had cocked up the other night—and maybe he was also actually hungry. “It smells delicious.”

“It tastes even better, and that’s a fact,” Draco said and gave Harry another kiss. “Eat. You’ll feel better. I know I will.” He went back to his chair.

The curry was delicious, spicy and hot and bursting with flavour, and Harry had never tasted anything better in his life. Actually, everything Draco had ever made was delicious and the best thing Harry had ever had and it finally dawned on him why: nobody else had ever cooked for him before. Not like this—he’d been fed by other people, of course, but nobody had ever gone out of their way to make something just for Harry, but Draco had, multiple times. He said as much to Draco, between shovelling in forkfuls of curry and rice.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you,” Harry added. It was ridiculous, but it felt a lot like the heat from the curry had gone straight to his heart and now it was bursting with affection and love for Draco.

“Saved the world?” Draco answered. “Can’t think of anything else, really.”

Harry lowered his fork. He hadn’t been serious; the words had just slipped out—but Draco’s matter of fact tone reminded him of the last time they’d talked about deserving things. “You’re not a side character, you know,” he said. “What you said the other day. You’re not a side character.”

“What am I then? The hero’s love interest?” Draco asked, eyebrow raised. If he thought the change in topic was odd, he didn’t let on.

“No. Well, if you want to be. But you’re the hero in your story.”

Draco laughed. “That sounds like something my therapist might say. Actually, I think she did say it once. Be the hero of your own story, Draco. You have agency. Use it.”

“She’s right, though. In your story, I’m the love interest,” Harry pointed out.

“So this is a love story, then? A romance?”

“It could be,” Harry said. “I’d like it to be. Those always have a happy ending, right? I’d like a happy ending.”

“That’d be nice.” Draco frowned. “In romance novels it’s about earning a happy ending. I’m not so sure we—I mean, I’m not sure I have earned one.”

“Why not? Everybody deserves a happy ending.” Harry pushed his bowl away and got up to fetch the book he’d gotten for Draco earlier that day. Draco followed him.

“Does everybody really deserve a happy ending?” he asked.

“Well—yeah.” Harry found the paper bag discarded by the door and fished the book out.

“What about those who have hurt other people?” Draco then asked. “What about—what about Voldemort?”

“He didn’t get a happy ending regardless,” Harry pointed out. “Because for him it wasn’t about a happy ending; it was about a bad ending for everyone he hated and seeing those people suffer, and building an entire world on...suffering and hate. There’s no happiness in that.”

Draco was quiet. “I suppose,” he eventually said. “His story wasn’t a romance, anyway.”

“Ew, that’s just gross.” Harry shuddered. “He wasn’t capable of love, or remorse, or anything that could’ve redeemed him. His story could never have been a romance.”

“But you think mine could be.”

“Of course.”

“But I don’t see what I’ve done to earn—why I deserve a happy ending,” Draco said. “All the things I’ve done, I’ve—I’m not a good person. That’s just how it is.”

Harry was reeling from the whiplash between I’ll be right here and I don’t deserve you, as if Draco hadn’t even realised how contradictory his own words were. “Listen Draco, if you think you’re anywhere close to being the same as fucking Voldemort, you are wrong. Where did you get the idea that you don’t get to have this?” He gestured between them. “This is real.”

Malfoy just shrugged. “You think you’re my happy ending?”

“I don’t know, but I’m bloody well going to find out! I want to be!” Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. “Don’t you want to be my happy ending too?”

“I think,” Draco said slowly, “that wanting something isn’t the same as deserving—”

“Maybe it’s not about deserving it? Maybe you just get to have it anyway. In my opinion you have earned it already,” Harry argued, and thrust the book at Draco. “I got this for you. When I thought I needed to grovel and all to get you back I thought I’d do it like in the romance novels you like and make a grand statement and everything, and give you a gift because—because that’s what the love interest does, right, which makes you the bloody hero, and just—take it.”

Draco finally took the book. His chin was a bit wobbly, but he looked at the book and turned it over, and when he spoke his voice was rough. “This is the sequel to that book I lent you the first time.”

“Yes,” Harry said, glad that Draco noticed. “It just came out. I thought we could read it together maybe.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Draco,” Harry continued, closing the distance between them. “I don’t know how to make you understand that you deserve good things—”

“Just because I went to prison it doesn’t mean the scales are even—”

“No, but you have been working tirelessly on becoming a better person than you were since then,” Harry pointed out. “Everything you’ve done since then has been about that. You’ve earned it. You get to have things, now.”

“I don’t—” Draco shook his head. “I’ll never be done with that. That’s not a process that ever really ends...I just happened to run out of properties to give away.”

“No, I know, but—okay, you know what. I died. I died so everyone could live, and part of me stayed dead—or so I thought anyway—and you know what, I don’t care if I haven’t deserved this, or if you haven’t deserved it, I want it, and I want you, and that’s just how it is. That’s how it’s going to be. Okay? I’m allowing myself to want something and to let myself have it and to fight for it. And what I want is you.”

Draco was quiet for a while, his lip wobbling and his eyes shiny, jaw clamped shut. Finally, when it seemed like he was going to be able to speak without crying, he did. “You know, you’re doing a terrific job as a love interest,” he said. “That was—a lovely speech. Certainly a…good moment, the kind that in the books usually ends in a kiss—”

“Well, are you going to kiss me then?” Harry interjected. “Or do I have to do that, too?”

That had Draco laughing, which Harry took as a yes and reeled him in. “Okay,” Draco said, smiling and kissing Harry back. “What’s next?”

“Do you want to move in together? Not here. Somewhere else, somewhere that’s…just for you and me.”

“Merlin’s flaming beard, Harry, that’s—okay, okay. Yes. Let’s move in together.” Draco had turned strangely intense and speculative. “How do you feel about living in a barn?”

Harry's nerves were fraying at the edges, in the middle, and everywhere in between. Three months of practice and games and more practice had led to five victories out of six games: they'd made it to the semi-finals.

Three weekends in a row with no games at all had allowed them to focus on learning new moves and formations and perfecting the ones they already knew, so when they’d faced Hawkins’ Hawks after the break, Harry had on his hands not a team of five and six year olds, but rather…bloodthirsty gremlins. Hawkins’ Hawks had suffered a crushing defeat, and when the following weekend they'd played Just Us, the Butterfly Bumpkins had gone in with all the confidence in the world and had utterly defeated them.

Five victories out of six games: they’d won against Dragonriders in the first week, lost against Fishes in the second, then won over Candy Cranes in the third, DragonTAMERS in the fourth, Hawkins’ Hawks fifth, and then Just Us sixth. It was a good track record—good enough to get them to the semi-finals.

And now they’d be facing Candy Cranes again. The other semi-final game was Fishes versus Dragonriders—and if Butterfly Bumpkins proceeded to the finals, it was 50:50 who they’d compete against.

Winning today was the penultimate step towards the much-coveted chocolate trophy (and the announcement of how much money the Little League teams had raised for their respective charities, which, in a way, Harry was more interested in, though he also remained loyal to his kids’ chocolate-y priorities). He’d postponed both this week’s session with Gladys, so he would have the energy to coach his team at practice, and his second meeting with Peony. He’d see both of them later when he was less preoccupied with the Little League.

All this was going through Harry’s head as he looked over the Quidditch pitch. Either this would be their last game, or they would get to go to the finals next weekend. The kids were clearly full of the same nervous energy Harry felt, getting into small fights with one another over silly things like standing too close, or leaning their broom over another’s, or having accidentally picked up a wrong pair of gloves. He and Ginny had had their hands full getting the kids ready, and now they were standing at the edge of the pitch elbowing each other and hissing.

“They've got this,” Draco said, coming up on his right side and gently bumping their shoulders together. “Stop worrying.”

“How’d you know I was worrying?” Harry asked. Draco was proudly wearing his I’m with the team-lanyard, even though the colours didn’t match his outfit, but he was also wearing a badge that said I’m with the captain.

Draco just gestured at all of Harry. “This,” he said. “Here, I made badges.” He pinned one to Harry’s front that said I’m the captain. “Everyone else has one too, but theirs just have the team name on.”

“Do they do anything?” Harry asked. The badges were nice, but they weren’t changing colours or flashing different text or doing anything interesting.

“If you win, tap it with two fingers, like so,” Draco demonstrated, without actually touching his badge. “Don’t do it now—it’ll only work once.”

“And if we lose?”

“Well…you can do it anyway?” Draco shrugged. “It’ll be neat either way. But I’m rooting for you to win, you know.”

“Thanks.” Harry looked back over the pitch. Oliver was refereeing today, and he was making his way to the middle of the pitch with the chest of balls. “All right. Time to get cracking.”

Draco kissed him. “For luck,” he said and left, going to sit with Ron and Hermione. They were wearing badges, too, Harry realised. Hermione was showing by now and had put on robes that emphasised the growing baby bump.

Then he realised that everyone had come to the game today, all of Harry’s friends, and Ginny’s friends and her family—including her parents, whom Harry still hadn’t gone to see since his break up with Ginny—Harry’s own family, in the form of Teddy (who did not have a game of his own to play today, and who was there with both Andromeda and Draco’s mum), and friends of friends and family. Millicent was sitting with Pansy and Padma and some girl Harry didn’t recognise, and on the other side of Draco were Blaise and Gilliam and some girl who looked like she could’ve been Gilliam’s identical twin. Dean and Seamus were there with what looked like Dean’s siblings, Rhosyn was there with the rest of the Harpies. Everyone. Everyone was there. They were also all wearing Draco’s badges.

“No pressure, right?” Ginny said, having come up to stand beside him. “Imagine how it feels when you’re the one on the pitch and not standing on the sidelines.”

“I’d rather not,” Harry admitted. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply, and then turned his attention back to the pitch.

The kids were all lined up and raring to go, just waiting for Harry’s permission.

“Are you ready to play another game?” Harry asked them, conscious of not using too much language about winning and losing, just in case they lost today’s game.

“Yeah!” they cheered.

“Didn’t hear you,” Harry said, grinning.

“YEAH!” the kids screamed.

“Starters—go!”

Seven children ran onto the pitch, clutching their brooms, and formed a half circle around Oliver. The other team did the same.

Oliver released the balls, waited a split second, and then threw up the Quaffle and blew his whistle.

Everyone shot into the air and within minutes Harry was witnessing the dirtiest game of Quidditch he’d ever seen five year olds play. Love smashed a Bludger directly into the face of a Chaser from the other team despite the Anti-Face Charm on the Bludgers. A split second later, when it flew back at her, she grabbed it out of the air and threw it back at the same Chaser, but before Oliver could cry foul (not that it kept the spectators from collectively crying out) the other team’s Seeker pulled at Alice’s ponytail and nearly dragged her off her broom. Alice cried out and a flock of orange and black butterflies appeared out of nowhere to viciously attack the attacker.

For the first time in Little League’s brief history, Oliver paused the game to assign both teams penalty shots.

“I didn’t teach her to do that!” Harry despaired, having been too baffled by the display to do any captaining at all. “Merlin’s bleeding tits, what the fuck—”

“Love is a shark,” Ginny commented, but she was grinning gleefully. “And a very enterprising one at that.”

“She just—she just grabbed it—”

“It was amazing,” Ginny said, but then Love was sent off-pitch and Ginny tucked her admiration away.

“Oi, girl,” Harry said to her. “Stick to the rules, yeah?” He signalled for Jamie to take Love’s place.

“But it was right there!” Love protested. “So I just did it!”

“Yes, yes, but use the bat next time,” Harry said, still wtf’ing. “How’s your hand? Did you hurt yourself?”

“I am wearing gloves,” she said, her tone so scornful that Harry nearly grounded her on the spot. “See? Mum charmed them to protect my fingers.”

Anti-Bone Breaking Charms on Quidditch wear weren’t technically illegal, so Harry didn’t comment. He did inspect Love’s hand anyway, for any sign of injury, and when he found nothing wrong he directed her to wait with Nathan and Anthony.

Little League Quidditch didn’t ban players, but the referees often sent the rowdy ones off-pitch to cool down for a bit and assigned penalty shots instead. Three shots per penalty, which meant that the Butterfly Bumpkins had six shots and Candy Cranes three (Harry did briefly wonder if Candy Cranes should’ve had another three, for Alice’s impressively violent butterflies, but Oliver seemed to believe they didn’t count as a foul).

Charlie was on goal, and he blocked one of three shots, all performed by the same Chaser. Harry let Avery, Denise and Dorcas split the shots between them so they had two each, and each managed to make one goal. That set the score at 30-20 seven minutes into the game, all through penalties.

“I’m not sure this is a good or bad omen,” Harry commented.

“We’re ten points ahead, that’s not bad,” Ginny answered.

Oliver resumed the game, and while it continued in a less dirty manner it was clear that both teams were playing for blood. (Or a very large chocolate trophy.)

It was an interesting game, Harry thought, in between shouting encouragement and directions at his players, because it was so completely different from the first game they’d played against the Candy Cranes. Then, it had been the third game in the Series, the team had been enthusiastic but still finding their feet, and they hadn’t let the competitiveness get to them entirely—that game had been fun, some decent plays, the weather had been nice, nobody had caught the Snitch, the teams had been fairly evenly matched.

They were still evenly matched, but they’d had about eight weeks to improve their flying, their playing, and their teamwork, so the teams that were playing now were barely recognisable. Harry had trained his players well; the rotations were nearly seamless and they all worked well together, but the viciousness with which they handled the Quaffle today was something new. Avery, Denise, and Dorcas had just successfully passed the Quaffle between them in a zig-zag pass around the other team’s Chasers, Denise making for the goal—and scoring—and while Harry had practised this move with them over the past weeks, seeing them execute it so perfectly and confidently was humbling.

This team he’d put together for the purpose just having some fun and raising money had become an entity of its own. Evolved beyond him.

The game seemed to happen in a haze—Lee was commentating, but Harry didn’t register a single word he said. He rotated his players out (Love was very happy to be let back onto a broom) and gave them praise and watched Emma do a perfect Finbourgh Flick, and then Anthony performed a Wronski Feint (and nearly gave Harry a heart attack; that was one of the more dangerous moves—even if only from a height of seven feet—that he and Ginny had decided not to teach the kids) orchestrating a close meeting with the grass for the other Seeker. The scores were even: if Candy Cranes got ahead by ten points, the Butterfly Bumpkins were quick to catch up or overtake them, and vice versa. There were a few more fouls and resulting penalty shots (Charlie and Rachel blocked them all, which had Harry and Ginny both jumping and screaming) and Love managed to not bash anyone’s nose in, though she did steal an opposing Beater’s bat one time to throw it back at his head.

It was a close race.

Ten minutes before the game would be called, nobody had caught the Snitch yet, and the scores were even at 130-130. Instead of swapping Alice out with Anthony, Harry decided to keep her as Seeker until the end of the game and sent Anthony in as a Beater instead, taking Love out of play before she caused a major incident—Harry could deal with her frothing on the sidelines—and also rotated Denise and Dorcas back in as Chasers.

“Come on,” Harry muttered, palms sweaty. Next to him Ginny was shouting something at Rachel, who was currently playing as a Chaser. On his other side Love was screaming and swinging her bat, spitting with frenzy.

Charlie blocked a goal and Harry yelled, next Denise, Dorcas, and Rachel had the Quaffle and shot towards the other end of the pitch, passing it between them and narrowly escaping both Bludgers—and scored. Ten points ahead. Six minutes to go.

Alice and the other Seeker were tailing each other and occasionally jostling—though they hadn’t done anything to merit penalties—and time was running out. The Snitch was nowhere to be seen.

The Candy Cranes got another Quaffle in, evening the scores again to 140-140, and Harry thought the adrenaline in his veins might just possibly do him in. Four minutes, Denise had the Quaffle—she lost it, but Anthony aimed a Bludger at the Chaser who stole it and Dorcas got it back—passed to Rachel—passed to Denise—goal blocked, two minutes—Denise caught the Quaffle and looped back up, made a pass—scored! Harry was vaguely aware of the spectators making a lot of noise, but the seconds were ticking, and the Candy Cranes had the Quaffle, racing towards Charlie at the other end and Harry couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—the time stopped.

The game was over.

Nobody had the Snitch, but Butterfly Bumpkins were ten points ahead when the clock stopped.

“Did we win?” Harry asked, breathless, as he watched the Candy Cranes Chasers drop the Quaffle a short distance from the goalposts. Lee was yelling, the kids were running onto the pitch to meet their teammates, and Ginny was laughing.

“We won,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, still laughing. “Sweet Merlin, that was close.”

“Yeah,” Harry said and then he finally caught up and realised they’d actually won. They were going to the finals. The finals! He jogged to keep up with the kids, to try to corral them into more sportsmanlike behaviour; they could cheer all they wanted, but they were going to have to be nice to the other team first and thank them for a good game.

Harry glanced back at the stands, hoping he would get a glimpse of Draco, and was surprised to see a swarm of something maroon—the brightest of the Butterfly Bumpkins team colours. Abruptly, he remembered the badge Draco had given him and tapped it with two fingers; a number of maroon butterflies erupted from it, wings dark and glittery at the edges, and fluttered upwards to join the swarm over the pitch.

It was ostentatious and marvellous and completely ridiculous, but Harry loved it and the kids loved it—having stopped cheering and screaming just long enough to notice—and there wasn’t anything else Harry loved more in that moment but the pure and unadulterated joy and awe on their faces.

“Did you like it?” Draco asked after the game, cheeks rosy with pride.

“Did I like it? I fucking loved it,” Harry grinned and drew him into a kiss. Draco squeaked, but melted into the kiss anyway.

“Oi!” Ginny called out. “How’re you going to top that next weekend?”

Draco turned a smug smile on her. “Fear not, I have a plan.”

“We might not win,” Harry said, just for good measure.

“Your gremlins are going to win and you know it,” Draco said and when Harry was going to protest, he planted a kiss on his lips. “Shh.”

“Okay, okay.” Harry gave up. He’d done his part to not tempt fate.

“Ginny,” Draco said suddenly and Ginny turned her attention back to them. “I didn’t get you a badge because I didn’t know what to put on it. Do you want one? I’ll personalise it any way you like.”

“Oh. I’d love one. Do you mean like…” Her eyes drifted to Harry’s badge and then Draco’s. “Mmh. Master Strategist, I think.”

“Excellent!” Draco declared. “If we’re done here, we have places to be.”

Harry perked up—he’d nearly forgotten because of the game. “The barn!”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t forget—”

“I told you there’d be food—”

“I didn’t forget,” Harry protested. “I never forget when you promise me food. Gin, tell him. I didn’t forget.”

Ginny turned around again, a long-suffering look on her face. Rhosyn, on the other hand, was clearly trying to keep her laughter contained. “He hasn’t talked about anything else at practice all week,” she said. “Which, if you ask me, is pretty weird because having a date in a barn is one thing, but deciding to live in one—without even having seen the place—is pretty damn nuts.” She shook her head. “But there you have it: he didn’t forget.”

“See,” Harry said, triumphantly.

“It’s not a date,” Draco started, but Harry didn’t let him finish.

“There’s food, it’s a date,” he pointed out. “Let’s go.” He started pulling Draco towards the exit. “I’m dying to see the place. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting? Six bloody weeks!”

“I told you I had to get rid of the smell of cow dung!”

The barn turned out to be a semi-run-down building from the 17th century, located a fair distance from the Malfoy Manor but still within the grounds. A short distance away was the farmhouse associated with it. Both the barn and the farmhouse had been in use until the First War, Draco explained, until Voldemort had killed the Muggle family who’d rented that bit of land from the Malfoys to farm on it. The farmhouse Draco had already repaired a few years back and then partitioned the land it was on off from the rest of the Malfoy estate and given the lot to relatives of the family who’d lived there (they’d sold it, and now a different Muggle family was living there). The fields of arable land within the estates he’d also partitioned off and given to neighbouring farmers (all Muggles, bar one), and the barn…well, he’d kept it.

“I had this silly notion of turning it into a workshop-cum-family home,” Draco explained as they walked up the small trodden path towards the large barn doors, “because Mum is just up the hill in the dower house, and I wanted my children to have their grandmother nearby. Of course, that was when I thought I had to marry some pureblood girl and carry on the family line—when that was the only ending I could envision for myself.” He pushed the latch up and pulled one side of the doors open, and they walked in.

“Did you say children?” Harry asked, pausing at the threshold, such as it was. The inside of the barn was dim, though less run-down than it looked on the outside. It didn’t smell like cow dung at all—in fact, the only thing Harry could smell was dust and wood and dirt. The floor was a dirt floor, packed tight from centuries of animals and people walking on it, and just inside the large doors were a work bench and tools and several half-finished pieces. Fresh wood shavings littered the floor.

“Yeah,” Draco said. “I always thought—hoped—I’d have at least one. Come in, it’s structurally sound. I made sure of it.”

“We could have kids.” Harry followed him. Most of the old cow stalls were still in place, but further back there was a more open area and he could see that Draco had put in a large old fashioned wood-burning stove of the kind Harry had only ever seen pictures of in books; it had several latches in front that could open, some of which Harry knew must be ovens and probably one for the fire, and it had a large stovetop for cooking. At least he assumed Draco had put it in—it looked brand new and not like something that usually lived in a barn. Several covered dishes were sitting on the stovetop. “I mean, I always wanted kids—I thought I’d be having them with…well, you know. But we could have kids. We could have a family together.”

“Yeah?” Draco lifted the Stasis Charm on the dishes and suddenly the smell of food permeated the air. Roast potatoes and something beefy and spicy and smokey. “I—I hoped to turn the hayloft into bedrooms,” he said, pointing upwards. “A large one for us and then smaller ones for…little ones.”

Harry looked up, at the plain wooden boards, grey with age, that made the ceiling above their heads. Some light filtered in between the boards, which meant there must be a window or two up there somewhere. There was a narrow rickety ladder going up through a hole in the ceiling, and Harry really wanted to climb it to see what it looked like up there.

He could envision it—for a barn it was small (Harry guessed), having held up to six cows in the stalls, but for people? It could make a decent house. This open space they were standing in was large enough for a kitchen and living room, and probably a pantry, and the area with the stalls that wasn’t already occupied by Draco’s wood workshop could become something else, and the entire hayloft could easily house several bedrooms and a bathroom. It was all very dark and dim, however, and dusty, and it felt cramped. It wasn’t cramped, not really, the ceiling was high enough that Harry couldn’t reach it if he stood on tip-toes and tried, and he assumed the hayloft had an even higher ceiling. But it looked—it needed a massive overhaul. Proper floors, for starters, but also…

“Windows,” Harry said, finally. “We need more windows. Bigger ones. I want lots of light in here.”

“It won’t feel claustrophobic when I’m done with this place,” Draco said, putting a hand on Harry’s waist. Harry listened to him talk about the parts of the walls he wanted to knock down, where he wanted to put in new and bigger windows, possibly even a solarium, how he wanted to keep the workshop with the big barn doors, and which colours he thought of putting on the walls, and even his plans for plumbing. He gestured as he spoke, his voice warm and gentle, with just a hint of cautious excitement. “I fixed the old well outside the barn, but I thought we could establish a new one in the kitchen, and run pipes upstairs for the bathrooms.”

“More than one?”

“An ensuite for us, and a family bathroom for the kids,” Draco answered. “And I thought of building all the furniture myself, and a new flight of stairs—I recently learned how to warp wood with steam, so I could make a really nice curved banister—and I thought about putting in hardwood floors. Maybe something bright, like whitewashed pine—”

“White floors? With kids running around the place?” Harry scuffed at the dirt floor with his shoe.

“I’ll put an Impervious Charm on it, or something,” Draco said, cheeks pinking slightly.

“Mmh.” Harry looked around. “Why a barn, though? Why not…a real house?”

“Originally I wanted to build a brand new house,” Draco admitted. “But then I set up my workshop here, and…I thought I could transform it into something else. It’s an ugly old stone building with a leaky roof, but it could become something beautiful. I thought—I hoped, really, that we could create a home here together, something that’s tailor-made for both of us. Nobody has lived here before except for cows and probably mice and maybe some birds, but it’s still got history, you know? It’s…I like this place. It feels alive. I hoped you’d like it too.”

The barn was quiet, except for the tittering of birds from the hayloft. Harry could smell fresh wood and dirt through the scent of food still sitting on the stove, but he could see what Draco was talking about. He could see how the space could become theirs—where the bookshelves would go, how the light from the proposed solarium and the knocked down wall that would make space for it would brighten up the barn, how he could spend his days here with Draco knowing it would be forever. And it was doable—Harry would be happy to sink the remainder of his inheritance into building this with Draco, and helping him, even if all he would be able to do was fetch things while Draco did all the difficult expert stuff.

It’d be theirs. And they had time—to get it just right, to just be, and exist, and live.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and looked at Draco. There was a light in his eyes and a smile on his lips, and Harry’s heart constricted and expanded, until all he could feel was nothing and everything, and at the centre of it all was Draco. There was a future here, promise and potential, and so much love to fill it all up. “When can we start?”