Fic - cont'd
Title: War Wounds
Pairings: HP/DM (primary), HP/GW
Genre/rating: Drama, romance; NC-17
Length: 30,528 words
Summary: Some wounds take longer to recover from than others. This is a story about finding the way forward. Themes of alcoholism, dubious fidelity, and a love triangle.
Read it in completion at Skyehawke, or read it in pieces here. :P
First bit
The incident bothered Harry far more than it should have. If he was really that secure about himself and who and what he was, then, he told himself, it shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it was. It shouldn’t be on his mind as much as it was. Perhaps it was the shock of it. Perhaps it was just that it felt so different. He’d never had another male kiss him before, and it was a strange and new experience. It was less soft than kissing a woman, somehow, though it hadn’t been whatever the opposite of soft was, either. It was stronger. Harry tried to imagine Ginny kissing him that way and feeling the same way about it, which was not to say that he had liked it. But there was something about it coming from someone who matched him in nearly every way. Malfoy had always been the negative balance to whatever it was that Harry offered to Hogwarts, to the world at large. Malfoy was the only wizard who rivalled Harry for power during the war, had been his only rival in Quidditch, really, and whose magic was as creative and dynamic as Harry’s was, though they used their powers in rather different ways. It was something about the balance that Malfoy provided that wasn’t the same with anyone else. Harry had known this for years. Working with any other person whom he’d known as long and had to work with as much gave him a rather vivid understanding of Malfoy’s capabilities, and though he had never quite put words to the sensation, there was something satisfying about having another high level Ministry employee who could provide counterbalance to Harry. It was a subtle sensation, but a distinct one.
There was nothing subtle about the sensation when it came to feeling it face-to-face, though. Harry had been all too aware, short as it had been, of Malfoy’s latent power meeting and struggling with and balancing his own even in that short kiss. It wasn’t about gender. It was only the balance that had caught Harry’s attention. Or so he was trying to tell himself. He was aware that Malfoy was an attractive man, at least to women and a particular sort of men. Not to Harry personally, of course, but in an abstract sense, certainly. The realisation had hit hard upon physical contact, though. He was trying valiantly not to think of it.
Ginny told him that night that he was off his game, and went to sleep frustrated. Harry was frustrated, too. He’d never before been unable to come with her. Though it had happened in the past with other women. He was embarrassed and angry and could not sleep. And she didn’t kiss like Malfoy, either.
* * *
His mobile rang. Harry glanced at the clock. It was nearly four in the afternoon. “Hello?”
“Potter.”
He braced himself mentally. “Hello.”
“Busy?”
“Sort of. You?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve only got every potion the Ministry needs for the week brewing, and I’m slicing Krumm snouts even as we speak.”
Malfoy sounded tired. “What can I do for you, then?” Harry asked, casting an eye toward the opening of his cubicle.
“Some company would be nice, if you can spare the time.”
Harry felt a rush of apprehension. What if he spent time with Malfoy and couldn’t stop thinking about… it? What if Malfoy tried something else? He caught himself. Was he really that insecure about it all? Harry frowned. “Sure, no problem. Maybe in fifteen? I just have a couple of things that need finishing. The rest can wait, I guess.”
“Lovely.” Malfoy said airily. “As long as I have everything else boiling, I’ll put a kettle on.”
Harry had no idea if this was meant to be a joke or not. “Okay,” he said dubiously. “See you soon.”
Malfoy disconnected without further comment.
Harry closed the phone, took off his glasses and rubbed them for about five minutes on his tie before snapping back into focus.
Precisely fifteen minutes later, he was at Malfoy’s office door, clearing his throat and feeling like a fifteen-year-old again. The door opened at his touch and Harry thought of Malfoy’s customised ward for him. It made him feel distinctly odd. He went in and looked around.
“Over here,” Malfoy said from the corner. He was crouching, but straightened up with a kettle. “I had to boil it over the smallest cauldron, since all the rest are busy.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. The office was filled with cauldrons of every size, none of which had been there on Harry’s previous visiting. Each was bubbling, hissing, steaming, smoking, making gloopy sounds, emitting jets of light, or all of the above. Harry raised his eyebrows. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Not at all.” Malfoy advanced, picking his way through the maze toward his desk, a small copper kettle in one hand. “Excuse the mess.”
“I’ve never seen you in action before, as it were,” Harry said, and immediately regretted his choice of words.
Malfoy was pouring hot water into a teapot on his desk, and smirked mightily in its direction. “All in good time, Potter.”
Harry’s face was hot. “I didn’t mean it to sound quite like that,” he mumbled.
“I know you didn’t.” Malfoy was still smirking, and when he turned it on Harry, the effect was horrifying. Harry felt himself trying to stutter for words, confused and embarrassed as hell. “Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said, dropping the smirk. “Have a seat.”
Harry located a chair under a stack of parchments, as before, and transferred the pile to Malfoy’s desk, grateful to have a reason to look anywhere else. “What kind of tea are you making?”
“Earl Grey. The tea of kings.”
“Or of earls,” Harry said.
“Whichever.” Malfoy stripped off his steam-stained work robes, sat down behind his desk opposite Harry and leaned back, hands behind his head. “Notice anything, Potter?”
“About the office?” Harry asked.
“No. Not the office. Me.”
Harry looked at him, simultaneously reluctant and relieved to have the opportunity to have a free invitation to do so. Malfoy looked better than he had in days. His hair was clean and rather shiny, and the clothes he was wearing beneath the work robes were obviously designer and fit rather well. Rather too well. Harry’s eyes travelled down over Malfoy’s body before he could prevent himself, and Malfoy caught him at it. Harry cleared his throat again and came up with the right answer. “You’re sober,” he said.
“Damned straight.”
Well, maybe not that, Harry thought, but didn’t say. “That’s great, Malfoy. What’s the occasion?”
Malfoy snickered. “I had too much work to do. No rest for the wicked and all.”
“Are you doing the work of four people here?”
“Nail on the head, Potter. It takes a bit of concentration, I must say.” Malfoy was full of smug confidence, though his gaze wandered to one of the larger cauldrons not far from Harry’s chair.
“Am I distracting you?”
“No. I’m just at the point where, because I coordinated things so well, I get to have a little break while they all bond. That’s just how talented I am.”
“Modest, too,” Harry said dryly.
“Confidence is attractive.” Malfoy caught his eye and grinned, an evil glint in his expression.
That was distracting. “I see,” Harry said, squinting at the teapot.
“That’s probably ready,” Malfoy said. He got up and leaned over the desk to pour the tea. “Though I must say, you were never particularly confident. Not until after the war.”
Harry swallowed. “Pardon me?”
Malfoy just shot him a smile, wickedly sweet, and handed him a cup. “Sugar?”
“Yes. Please.” Harry was flustered. What was he supposed to do with a gay Malfoy telling him he was attracted to him? And why couldn’t he just leave all that alone?
Malfoy picked up the sugar bowl and placed it near Harry’s hand, along with a small spoon for stirring. “I’m not going to jump you. Stop looking so worried.”
Harry spilled a bit of sugar on the table. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Well. I mean, you did… er, kiss me the other day.”
“Still on your mind?”
Harry didn’t answer. He stirred his tea rather vigorously.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t really planned.” Malfoy hesitated. “I was also hungover. I tend to be a bit more… I don’t know. Unstable. Not really sure what I’m doing. I shouldn’t have. It just took me by surprise that you’re actually concerned about me. I don’t know a single other person who genuinely is.”
In the pause that followed, Harry managed to look up at last. “Well, I am. And it’s not because I have a saviour complex.”
Malfoy smirked again. “One could definitely argue that, but I’d rather not. It’s sort of nice to think otherwise.”
Harry took a sip of his tea. “Good, then.”
“How’s the wife?” Malfoy asked casually, but it was anything but casual and Harry knew it.
Angry, he didn’t say. Though it would have been true. “Fine,” he said evasively. “How’s… do you have… anyone… right now?”
“No,” Malfoy said. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
Why was that somehow disappointing? Harry negated the thought immediately. “Okay,” he said.
Malfoy nodded at his cup. “Drink your tea,” he said. “I just have to stir something here.”
Harry put the tea down, turning in his seat to watch Malfoy go by. “Do you need a hand at all?”
“Actually…” Malfoy seemed to be thinking, calculating. “If you don’t mind, in fact, this other one here could also use a stirring. Nothing magical, no special number or anything - I just don’t want it to stick. And if you stir it counter-clockwise, it’ll spoil, so don’t do that, please. I have to stir this one counter-clockwise and I’m not very good at doing both at the same time.”
“Sure, I can do that,” Harry said. He got up and looked around. “What should I stir it with?”
“Anything that isn’t metal,” Malfoy said. “On the bench here, there’s a wooden spoon you could use.”
“Great.” Harry went and got it and took it to the potion. The office was so crowded that his cauldron and the one Malfoy was stirring with precisely measured circles were touching. “You’re not worried about any of them splashing into each other?”
“These ones won’t,” Malfoy said, adding under his breath, “… twenty-nine…” He pointed with his chin across the room. “All the ones that splash are separated. A couple have shielding charms around them, too, but with some, you can’t do that or it… thirty-seven… throws the potion off.”
Harry nodded and let Malfoy stir in peace. He moved the wooden spoon around in clockwise circles. Malfoy was very close to him, necessarily, though he was focused on counting. Harry counted the cauldrons instead of circles, and counted nineteen. Nineteen potions at once! At his best, he never could have managed more than three at the very most. But then, he’d never even tried using his magic to help him multitask, aside from the things he did automatically. Offensive and defensive magic at the same time, for instance. He supposed it was all a matter of choice and training, but it didn’t lessen his admiration for Malfoy’s talents any.
Malfoy also smelled rather nice. Harry caught the dangerous thought and squelched it flat. No. Just no.
Malfoy put his spoon down. “There, that should do it. I just have to watch it now to see how the colour settles.” He came over and looked into Harry’s cauldron. Harry thought he was unnecessarily close, but didn’t say so. “That looks good. Was it sticking at all?”
“No, it seemed fine,” Harry said, holding his breath for some reason.
Malfoy gave him a strange look. “Great,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly interested. “You can stop stirring it, then.”
“Okay.” Harry just stood there, feeling oddly immobile. He didn’t want Malfoy to kiss him again. He didn’t. Not even just to see if it felt the same way as it had before - that curious rush of power pooling into his, the warmth.
Malfoy was still looking at him as though he thought there was something wrong with Harry. He took the spoon from Harry’s limp hand. “You all right, Potter?”
“Fine,” Harry got out, wondering if it was a lie.
“You look like you’re about to be ill.”
“I’m fine,” Harry repeated.
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment. Harry wondered what he was thinking. Then he shrugged and turned away, setting the spoon back on the counter. “Have it your way.” He looked back at his cauldron. “Oh good, the blue is coming through.” He sighed. “That means the break is over, sadly. Everything else is just about to come to the crucial point.”
Harry shook off the weird mood. “Do you need any more help?”
“No, I work better alone. I get distracted when there are other people around.” Malfoy’s tone was clipped, moving away from the corner with the two cauldrons, checking on others. “Thanks for coming by. It was nice.”
Harry hadn’t finished his tea, but it seemed rude to say so, so he didn’t. “Sure,” he said. “My cubicle isn’t nearly as fun as this, but maybe sometime I’ll call and see if you want to come for a coffee break somewhere outside the offices or something.”
Malfoy gave him a half smile. “Do that,” he said.
Harry was at the door. Malfoy followed and met him there. Harry, feeling ridiculous, held out his hand for Malfoy to shake. Malfoy looked at it. Harry shrugged. “Thanks for the tea?” he tried, feeling lame.
Malfoy took his hand, but instead of shaking it, he just held it and drew himself closer. Their eyes met, and neither of them said anything. Harry was holding his breath again. Then, swiftly, Malfoy kissed him again. Harry was half expecting it and half dreading it. And it was everything he had remembered, but it was stronger this time. It was not vulnerable Malfoy, out in the rain. It was Malfoy in the center of a whirlwind of his own activity, in his own office. Sober. He was kissing Harry with strength, but it wasn’t domineering. Not insistent. His jaw opened, his lips moving Harry’s open. It felt so good, and so powerful that Harry actually had to fight to keep hold of his own power lest it slide away under Malfoy’s strong mouth. And then the tip of Malfoy’s tongue touched Harry’s, and Harry stiffened in shock. What was he doing? He wasn’t gay! He pulled away gasping and pushing Malfoy back. “Malfoy - !”
Malfoy’s startled eyes flew open. He appeared to be at a loss for words. “… Potter - I - ” he stopped, his breathing too fast. “But you - ”
Harry didn’t let him finish, couldn’t. “No. No. This can’t - I’m not - just no. I - I have to go.” He opened the door and shut it behind him quickly, and fled toward the lifts before Malfoy could follow him. But he needn’t have worried; he didn’t.
* * *
Sleep came even slower than usual that night. Harry lay awake on his side, facing away from Ginny. She was still upset with him, and he was upset with himself, too. Damn his curiosity. Now he was troubled in a way that he had never given much thought to before. It had never been an issue. He’d never had to worry that he was some sort of freak in yet another way. Hermione would sternly lecture him for the thought, for thinking of it that way, but all normal blokes did, Harry was sure. Being gay was freakish and weird and disgusting and was not something that he needed to explore in any way whatsoever. What would all his friends say? Ginny would be livid over it. She had a way with an insult that could cut to the quick in seconds, and something like this would give her grist for years. Harry could only imagine it, her telling everyone they both knew that Harry had kissed Malfoy and found out he was gay.
Harry stomped on the thought mentally. He was not gay. Not, not, not. Maybe if he thought it enough, it would be true. It was true. He’d been with Ginny for ages. And even if that wasn’t what he wanted, it just meant he needed to be with someone else. A different woman. Not a man. And certainly not Malfoy.
Perhaps it was a phase. People went through strange phases sometimes. He’d lived through enough without having to deal with a sexual identity crisis on top of it all. And maybe there was more to the whole question of choice than anyone really gave credit to. Sure, you could ignore urges. He’d ignored the urge to kill Malfoy all through Hogwarts, hadn’t he? Now he could ignore the urge to kiss Malfoy onto the ground, pinning him there as they lost themselves, breathless and dizzy. Edit that. No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. Cancel. Full stop.
Harry lay awake for hours, trying not to let himself think things that he had no business thinking. Didn’t want to be thinking. Could not think, if he wanted to keep his life the way it was. And he… did. He was fairly certain that he did. He was happy. Happy enough. Who was completely happy all the time? That was a myth.
Ginny was snoring, though she always denied it when he mentioned it. Harry scowled in the darkness and shifted further away.
* * *
He went in to work late. His unfinished work from the previous afternoon lay piled where he had left it, and there were four notes from people asking if they could have meetings as soon as possible. Harry groaned and pushed all four of them aside, looking for the file he’d been working on the day before. He found his place and began to work again, glad to have the task to distract himself. The day passed without incident. He was tired from lack of sleep, and left when most other people left - hoping to avoid Malfoy leaving late, as seemed to be his habit.
He could not face Malfoy, not like this, with his mind still whirling in confusion and anger. The first time, it had taken Harry by surprise. But the second time, he should have known better than to have let it happen. Malfoy should have known better, too. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want it, in the park? But then, he had allowed it in the office. He had. Harry could not escape that fact. And - though he hated the thought, he could not bring himself to believe that it was not true - he had liked it, at least until it had become too intense. Or something. Too frightening. Too real. Harry shook his head, trying to clear it, and stepped into the Floo when he came to the front of the queue. He made it home without seeing Malfoy.
Ginny was staying with a friend. Things were on the rocks. Harry could feel the end coming, and that thought used to send him into a panic. In the old days, he would have grovelled until she wasn’t angry any more - played the flowers/chocolates/cooking/whatever game she wanted, just to fix things. Now, Harry could hardly bring himself to be all that upset. He was lost in his own thoughts and had no energy to spare for drama.
He managed to avoid Malfoy for the rest of the week, and gradually the confusion and anger began to fade. The humiliation remained, but Harry was getting better at not thinking of it. There was a lot to do, anyway. Everyone was busy. Busy was good.
On Saturday, Harry was at home. Ginny was back, and though still cool, had apparently forgiven him for whatever it had been this time. Harry was just contemplating a jog or something, just to get out of the flat, when Tonks called his mobile. Harry went back into the bedroom to where it was ringing on the dresser and opened the small phone. “Hello?”
“Harry, it’s Tonks.”
There was something in her voice. “What is it?” Harry asked tightly, thinking simultaneously of Surrey and Malfoy.
His latter suspicion was confirmed. “It’s… well, I stopped by the office to grab something,” Tonks said, “and I had to go by the seventh floor for something, and…”
Harry’s heart had already sunk. “Is it Malfoy?”
“I’m not sure if he’s drunk or just pissed off about something, but he was throwing things around in his office, and I heard something explode… I tried to knock, but the door was warded weirdly and it just gave me shocks. I don’t even think he could hear me, and I couldn’t disable his ward.” Tonks sounded frustrated. “I don’t want to report him, but it’s Saturday night and he’s all alone in there. I’m worried he’ll hurt himself, or damage Ministry property and get into trouble.”
Harry paused. “What are you saying?”
She heard his hesitation. “Couldn’t you just go by?” Tonks pleaded. “Just check on him. Maybe he needs real help. I don’t know.”
“Why me?” Harry asked bluntly, not wanting in the slightest to go.
“Because you talked to him before. Because you established a connection that I don’t have with him. I’m concerned for him, Harry. Would it really inconvenience you that much?”
Harry waited a long moment, debating with himself. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Tonks’ relief was palpable, even over the phone. “Thanks, Harry. I owe you one.”
“That you do,” Harry said shortly. “I’ll see you later.” He closed the phone. He paused, thinking, then changed out of his jogging clothes and into his oldest jeans and a comfortable shirt. He told Ginny something vague and Disapparated before she could ask too many questions.
* * *
The Ministry was mostly dark. Few people worked on the weekends, though some jobs went round the clock. Harry was no fan of the Department of Mysteries, but he knew that those lights were on at the same time as all the other departments’. He took the lift to the seventh floor and went down to Malfoy’s office.
Everything was quiet now, whatever it had been earlier. Harry listened for a moment, then knocked. The door did not shock him. Neither did anyone answer. Perhaps Malfoy had gone home.
Harry tried the door, and to his surprise it opened. Disappointment hit with the fume of alcoholic vapours and other, less pleasant smells. Wrinkling his nose, Harry went cautiously in. “Malfoy?” he asked softly, not wanting to startle him if he was still there.
He didn’t hear anything. The lights were off, but even so Harry could see that the office was a disaster. Books lay strewn about the floor every which way. Bottles of potion ingredients lay broken and uncovered, seeping into the carpet near Malfoy’s desk and pooling on the stone floor at the end of the room where two large, smoking cauldron pots stood. Harry made his way gingerly across the office to have a look at them. One was empty but hissing, while the other was smoking darkly. Remnants of something black and oozy burned with a barely audible sizzle at the bottom of the cauldron and gave off a terrible stench.
A sound made Harry turn. It seemed to come from near Malfoy’s desk, so he went back the way he had come. With growing wariness, he saw the bottle first, then the hand and the arm. It was attached to Malfoy, who was lying on the floor beneath his desk, curled into fetal position. Harry forgot his personal confusions and crouched down. “Malfoy?”
Malfoy made a faint sound of some sort, nothing decipherable.
Harry waited. “Are you okay?”
Malfoy mumbled something that Harry couldn’t hear.
“What?”
“Does it look like it?” Malfoy slurred, not moving.
“No,” Harry said flatly.
“Why’re you here?”
Harry hesitated. “What’s going on here? Your office is a wreck.”
“Fuck you.”
He delivered this without malice, though the words were still barely intelligible. Harry began to lose patience. “Come on, Malfoy. Talk to me. What happened?”
Malfoy said nothing, but curled tighter into himself.
Harry removed the mostly empty Firewhiskey bottle from his hand and put it on the desk, then sat down on the carpet near Malfoy. “Do you have any hangover remedies here?”
“All gone. Was trying to make more,” Malfoy mumbled. “Besides… no point taking it when you’re still drunk. I tried to make more… didn’t work.”
“Would that be what smells so bad?” Harry asked, unimpressed.
“Couldn’t slice the fucking elm bark the right… why am I ex… explaining this to you. No point. Leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you here like this,” Harry said.
“I want to die.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“Sure you do. Make your life simpler,” Malfoy said into the carpet.
Harry decided to ignore that. “What happened first, the temper tantrum or the drinking or the potion, or what? Give me a hint, Malfoy.”
“All of the above.”
“Can you sit up?”
“I don’t want to sit up. I want to die. Are you deaf, Potter?”
Harry sighed. Malfoy was completely pissed. “Are you upset about something?” he asked after awhile, thinking about what Malfoy had said about when or why he drank.
“Nobel prize for the genius.” Malfoy pulled his hand in and it disappeared under his face somewhere.
Harry ignored the sarcasm, too. “What’s going on?”
Malfoy didn’t say anything for a long time. Harry was about to prompt again, when it occurred to him that Malfoy was crying. He wasn’t sobbing or anything like that, but his breathing was congested and his back heaving silently. Harry felt more awkward than ever. He’d dealt with people’s emotional breakdowns during the war often enough, but they weren’t Malfoy. It was just different. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound soothing, but it just came out sounding rough. “It’s okay. We can fix your office.”
Malfoy still said nothing, and Harry had the feeling he’d said the wrong thing. He racked his brain to think of something better. “Do you want to talk about whatever it was?”
Malfoy stopped crying and pushed himself up onto one elbow, his back to Harry, and said, “I’m going to be sick.”
Again, Harry could have added, judging from the odour in the office. Instead, he conjured a bucket and put it near Malfoy.
Just in time, too. Malfoy pulled it closer, then vomited. There was a moment’s pause, then he was sick again, and crying at the same time.
Disgusted, Harry moved closer and pulled Malfoy’s hair away from his face. Malfoy’s frame shook against him as he heaved again, pale fingers splayed on the carpet. After, he leaned back against Harry’s chest, eyes closing, spent. Harry Vanished the contents of the bucket but prudently left the bucket itself. He added a room freshening smell, though he was dubious of its powers to mask both the vomit and the sour/burnt potions smells. Without thinking, he put a hand against Malfoy’s forehead. It was very hot to his palm.
“You must think I’m the most disgusting person you’ve ever known,” Malfoy murmured, barely audible, his eyes still closed, his face pale as death.
Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t.”
“I wish I could die. Why can’t I just die like this?”
“If you keep this up, you’ll get your wish,” Harry said starkly. The thought ate into his belly.
“Relief for everyone.”
“Not for me,” Harry said firmly. The gay/not gay thing aside, it was important, he felt, for Malfoy to feel he had a friend at the moment. Or to actually have one, perhaps.
“Don’t pander to me. I don’t want pretty lies.”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
Malfoy did not tell him why he had been so upset, and Harry thought that he didn’t need to ask, after all. Maybe it was perfectly self-explanatory. Maybe it was just a miracle that more of the war’s survivors didn’t have drinking problems. He did not say that he wished Malfoy would get help for his. He did not have to.
He sat there, holding Malfoy’s limp body in the disaster zone that had been his office for over an hour in silence, as Malfoy drifted off to sleep. Later, when Harry was sure that Malfoy was properly asleep, he conjured a blanket and wrapped it around Malfoy, letting him sleep on the carpet. He got up and cast a Silencing spell to keep his work from disturbing Malfoy, and began to set the office to rights.
He did not know why he was protecting Malfoy, but he had no desire to expose Malfoy’s weaknesses to the world. And, Harry added silently to himself, it was also that he cared, whether or not he liked to admit it.
* * *
It was nearly nine when Malfoy woke, and the office was all but clean. Harry was just contemplating the two cauldrons and whether or not he should even risk trying to rid them of their failed potions. He heard a stirring from the other end of the room again, and went over.
Malfoy was yawning. Harry went around the desk and looked down at him. “You’re awake?”
“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was hoarse, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Then he remembered. “Oh. Still here?”
“I wasn’t just going to leave you here,” Harry said, trying not to roll his eyes.
Malfoy pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against his desk. “I want to go home.”
Harry surveyed him. “Do you need a hand?”
Malfoy winced. “I guess I wouldn’t mind one.”
Harry crouched beside Malfoy and put one of his arms over his own shoulders, helping him up. “Hold on,” he said. “You want to Apparate or Floo?”
“Not Floo,” Malfoy said hastily. “That would make me dizzy, and…”
“Got it,” Harry said briskly. “I’ll Apparate us, then.”
Malfoy was still holding the blanket. He gave Harry his address and a cursory warning about the wards. Harry nodded and Disapparated.
* * *
The apartment was dark and did not smell like alcohol or vomit or potions. There was a faint trace of something slightly familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it. It nudged at his memory like déja vù, but did not reveal itself. Harry didn’t bother looking for a light switch. He’d spent years creeping around dark rooms and alleys and could almost feel his way better than see it by now. He wasn’t sure what to do with Malfoy, though. “Where to?” he asked, trying not to look Malfoy in the eye, as his face was rather close to Harry’s.
“Bed,” Malfoy said. “No. Bathroom. I need to brush my teeth.”
Harry found the bathroom with Malfoy’s help. He seemed to have sobered up a little, but the after-effects were clearly hitting hard. He turned on the light and Malfoy let go of him, stumbling over to the sink. He turned on the taps and splashed water on his face, cursing to himself. Harry watched him. “Hangover potion?” he asked, shifting his eyes away from the mirror.
“Kitchen,” Malfoy said. “By the range.” He began to brush his teeth, eyes focused down on the faucet.
Harry left him and went to the kitchen. The cupboard next to the stove held a rather vast array of potions, all of which were labelled neatly. The hangover potion was closest to the front. Harry frowned at it and poured some into a glass. A rather hefty dosage. He carried it to the bathroom and found Malfoy still brushing. He didn’t say anything, and Malfoy didn’t acknowledge his presence, other than to flick his eyes briefly over Harry’s face through the mirror. Then he bent and spit, rinsing his mouth repeatedly. “Give that here.”
Harry silently handed him the glass. Malfoy downed it without flinching, and that bothered Harry, too.
“Just say it,” Malfoy said, wiping his mouth and not looking at Harry.
“I want you to get help.”
Malfoy shook his head. “You can’t save me, Potter. I find the very notion offensive.” He took off his shoes and left them in the hall, crossing into what Harry presumed was the bedroom. Still feeling strange, he followed.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“In general, or tonight?”
Harry was irritated. “Both, I guess. I meant tonight.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure?” Harry asked, rather pointedly.
Malfoy pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto an otherwise spotless carpet. He went to the window, back to Harry. “You just don’t understand what it’s like,” he said.
Harry didn’t know what he meant. “About what?”
There was a long silence as Malfoy thought, or debated with himself, perhaps. “During the war, everyone knew what you were supposed to be doing. Everyone knew about your prophecy and what you had to do. And because people knew, you got a bit of support, I would imagine. No, you did. I saw it. It wasn’t like that for me. Not during the war, and not after it. Maybe a Gryffindor wouldn’t hide from it all by drinking. Maybe that’s a Slytherin thing. Maybe it’s just a me thing, and something you couldn’t possibly comprehend. But if I solve that, then I have to deal with the rest of it. Do you get it?”
Harry did, or thought he did. He felt terrible about it, but didn’t know what to suggest. Seeing a counsellor might help, but he could predict what Malfoy’s response to that particular suggestion might be. “I… yeah,” he said instead, feeling frustratedly helpless to solve Malfoy’s problems. “I understand.”
Malfoy’s shoulders came down a little. “Thank God for that. Otherwise I couldn’t handle you being here at all. It wouldn’t change the fact that you are here, but at least I don’t have to feel quite as contemptible as I already do.”
Harry took in the pale expanse of Malfoy’s back and tried not to think about it. “We all have our scars from the war,” he said heavily, not willing to open the doors on his own. “I guess we all have our own ways of trying to live with them.”
Malfoy turned around. For a long time, he just looked at Harry. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Then he said, “You do understand.”
Harry sighed and nodded. “Yeah.” How much was he admitting? He wasn’t sure.
There was another brief silence. “Potter…?” he trailed off.
“Yeah?” Harry asked, and as he said it, he got a glimmer of where this was going.
Malfoy hesitated. “Would you stay with me tonight? I just don’t want to be alone. I can’t sleep.”
All Harry’s mind bucked at this. What would such a thing signify? What was Malfoy really asking? What was he supposed to tell Ginny, for that matter? He could hardly plead ‘work’ for staying overnight with someone. Even if it was, he told himself, primarily for the Ministry’s sake that he would even contemplate it. They couldn’t afford to lose Malfoy as an employee. So many of the departments were reliant on the Potions Department. Some part of Harry’s brain acknowledged that this was mostly bullshit. Still, though - it was hard to think of it any other way. “Er,” he began, “Malfoy…”
“Please,” Malfoy said, very evenly, but the plea was there in his eyes, even in the dark.
He couldn’t tell Ginny. That was all there was to it. She wouldn’t understand. His phone was off. She had probably already called it several times. Perhaps he should call and leave a message, but she would answer if he called. A text message to her mobile, then. He could claim the line had been busy. Harry caught his own train of thoughts and stopped short. Was he actually contemplating it? “What do you mean, stay with you?” Harry asked, endeavouring to keep the suspicion from his voice.
“Just that. Just sleep here,” Malfoy said. He looked away. “I won’t… it’ll be okay, Potter.”
Harry gave in. “All right, then,” he said awkwardly. “You… want me to sleep in your bed?”
Malfoy didn’t respond, biting his lip, still not looking at him.
The confusions rushed back with a host of reinforcements. Harry turned his phone on, ignored the blinking message symbol, and quickly wrote: “Got caught up with stuff and won’t make it home tonight. See you tomorrow.” He turned it off again just as quickly. Malfoy hadn’t moved, watching Harry’s thumb on the keypad.
He turned away and stripped to his boxers. Harry, feeling monumentally adolescent and worried about this whole thing, followed suit. Malfoy went to the left side of the bed and got in, leaving the right side to Harry. Harry joined him. Malfoy didn’t move or say anything. The room was already dark, so there was no reason to even make small talk.
Malfoy’s shoulders were hunched. He looked miserable, Harry thought, looking at him across the bed. He supposed that if he had agreed to stay in order to keep Malfoy company, there wasn’t much point in adhering only to the letter of the law. Malfoy had done something he usually didn’t do: admitted weakness and asked for help, in whatever strange form that had been. Could it hurt to get over himself and just let Malfoy sleep near him, the way he had in the office? Harry moved over and hesitantly put a hand on Malfoy’s side, the way he sometimes did with Ginny when she was angry with him and he was trying to placate her.
Malfoy let his breath out, and it was shaky. He didn’t anything, but Harry got the impression that he was fighting to keep control of his emotions again. He didn’t move, but relaxed slightly against Harry. Harry let his arm settle around Malfoy and reminded himself that it was for Malfoy’s sake only and had nothing to do with any of his own issues. “Can you sleep like this?” Harry asked, more to break the silence than for anything else.
“Yes,” Malfoy said, and that was all. He shifted back then, closer to Harry, and relaxed fully.
Harry didn’t remember how long it took before he was asleep, himself, nor who had fallen asleep first.
* * *
He woke up disoriented and not sure where he was. A face full of blond hair helped explain rather more quickly than his brain could deal with first thing in the morning, forcing Harry to take rapid stock of his situation. He was in bed with Malfoy. He had his arm around Malfoy, decidedly more tightly than it had been when he’d fallen asleep. In fact, he was glued to the length of Malfoy’s back, right down to his… Oh, God, Harry thought. Too far. He jerked himself away from Malfoy in horror and turned over, hoping desperately that Malfoy was asleep and hadn’t noticed.
A sound strongly resembling either a snort or a chuckle or something in between made him hot with humiliation. “Too late, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled sleepily. “Definitely noticed that.”
Harry fought to master himself. “It happens to everyone. It had nothing to do with anything.”
“You tell yourself that,” Malfoy said, muffled by his pillow. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were hard because your cock was snuggled into my arse.”
“Shut up!” Harry, furious with both Malfoy and himself (though mostly himself), wanted nothing more than to leave, but he had to get dressed, but he couldn’t get out of bed until his problem decided to leave him alone.
Malfoy yawned and stretched. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” Harry muttered, still embarrassed.
“Good.” Another yawn. “Let’s not talk about yesterday.”
Harry stared at the opposite wall. “I think maybe we should, sometime.”
“I’d rather not.”
“What would you rather talk about?”
Malfoy was quiet for a long time. “Let’s see… I don’t know. There aren’t any safe topics. I sort of want to go back to sleep.”
“Go for it, then,” Harry said. “It’s Sunday.”
“Are you leaving right away?”
Harry’s cock was still at attention. “No,” he said, stalling. “Er… I’m still tired, too.”
Malfoy made another sound that might have been a stifled laugh, but all he said was, “Good. You’re warm.”
He turned over and reversed their former positions, settling himself against Harry’s back, a bare arm insinuating itself around Harry’s midsection. His breath stirred Harry’s hair and even that was stronger, more masculine than anything else Harry had felt - and it was such a small thing. How could such a small thing feel so different? Malfoy got closer.
He was hard, too.
And obviously didn’t mind letting Harry know, as the move had been made rather deliberately. Harry was frozen, rigid with panic, because beneath the initial shock of the realisation was the simultaneous one that he wasn’t repulsed by the fact. Not repulsed at all. His traitorous cock was harder than ever, and Harry was mortified. And turned on as hell. His forehead broke out a line of sweat. His body was hyper-aware of Malfoy’s arm, the hand dangling, just touching Harry’s chest. His erection was nestled firmly between the curves of Harry’s arse, and Harry was afraid to even think about how little that was to his displeasure. He couldn’t allow himself to speak or move; he didn’t know what would happen if he did. He felt that Malfoy was holding himself in wait, just watching to see what Harry would do, how he would react to this.
The moment stretched out, the tension growing to massive proportions. Then Malfoy’s arm moved, only a little, but then his hand was holding Harry through his shorts and Harry forgot how to breathe. At the same time, an agonised sound forced its way through his panic and out his mouth. “Malfoy!”
“Still just coincidence?” Malfoy asked, practically purring into his ear. “I think that one could say that I’ve got you by the balls, Potter.”
Harry could not answer. He gripped Malfoy’s hand with his fist, though whether that was intended to remove the offending hand or - he winced - tighten the hold, he could not have said. Also, he couldn’t deal with Malfoy’s wildly varying moods - this Malfoy bore no resemblance to the Malfoy of the night before, broken and vulnerable. This Malfoy was seductive and entirely in control, unless Harry could assert himself more convincingly.
Malfoy rubbed himself slowly against Harry’s arse, through both layers of undergarment, and Harry knew that he had lost the battle. He was trembling with the effort of holding himself back, keeping himself from moving even an inch, and it took all his concentration. His fingers were pinioning Malfoy’s hand to his cock and if he moved at all, there would be nothing he could do to prevent himself from rubbing himself raw against that all-too-willing hand. From turning around to pin Malfoy to the mattress and immersing himself in every manner of perverse and unnatural acts. He hated the thought, didn’t want it on a mental level any more now than he ever had, but his body evidently had other priorities.
His shorts were growing damp both in the front and the back. His cock was seeping precome no matter how hard he was trying not to let this happen. Malfoy could surely feel his silent battle, feel him shaking with barely-controlled lust. Harry was clenching his jaw, straining not to make a single sound, either. Malfoy bit the back of his shoulder and Harry’s restraint flew apart; he was gasping.
He didn’t know whether he had turned over or if Malfoy had wrestled him around, but suddenly he was on top of Malfoy and two pairs of hands were pushing the shorts down. Harry couldn’t even be bothered to get his all the way out of the way - his cock was poking through the front pocket, thick and hard and he felt Malfoy’s against his palm before he ever saw it. It felt strangely satisfying to hold, not that hold was the word for the frantic rubbing. He was half thrusting himself into Malfoy’s hand and half being jerked off by him, his own fist flying along Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy was panting beneath him, eyes boring into Harry’s, burning, and Harry thought that the look alone would force him to come. He wasn’t fighting it now. He was fighting for it, every movement an inevitable, unpreventable, grasping demand for it, and Malfoy was going to give it to him. Had to, at this point. It was going to happen. It was upon him. It was -
Harry came cursing, his cock spurting thickly into Malfoy’s fist, onto his pale, bare belly, his thighs clamped around Malfoy’s. He forgot to move his hand and Malfoy grabbed it, holding it in place with a grip of steel and fucked it with force, his hips rising off the bed to meet it. He came, and it was hot and wet and made Harry want to come again.
Or kill himself. One or the other. La petite mort, forsooth. Groaning, Harry felt deflated and rolled off Malfoy, still breathing hard. Malfoy’s breath echoed his and they lay in silence that way for several moments.
Malfoy spoke first. “Fuck, Potter.”
Harry was belligerent, or would have been if he hadn’t been so very satisfied - physically. “What?”
“If I’d known it would be like that…”
Harry looked at him, but Malfoy’s eyes were closed. “Then what?” he asked, less belligerently.
“I might have asked you to stay over sooner, that’s all.”
“And tricked me into this sooner,” Harry said stiffly, feeling as though he had been manipulated.
Malfoy made a contemptuous sound. “No one said you had to do anything. No one invited you to get hard over me. That’s not my issue. And if you hated it, you could have stopped whenever you wanted to. But you didn’t. Don’t take your issues out on me, Potter.”
Sleep receded. Eyes on the ceiling, Harry said, “I don’t even get why you would want to do that with someone you don’t like, who isn’t gay, and who’s already…” Harry stopped. Ginny. Good God. He had forgotten her entirely. Since he’d been awake, he had not thought of Ginny even once. All he’d had thought for was Malfoy.
Malfoy was quiet. “You might need to do some thinking,” he said. “And I still don’t want to talk about yesterday. I’m going back to sleep.”
Harry looked at him. Malfoy turned on his side, facing away from Harry, and appeared to get comfortable - though Harry suspected he wasn’t altogether easy with what had just happened, either. The temptation to stay and just sleep some more was terribly alluring. At the same time, he was terrified to face his own mind, very much afraid to think about any of this. A steady monologue of self-flagellation had already started chanting in his brain, and Harry was fairly certain that it was not about to go away.
With great reluctance, he sat up and forced himself to get out of the bed. His shorts were covered in Malfoy’s come and his own. He tried not to think about it, instead pulling on his jeans and socks and shirt. His wand was on the dresser. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. At the door, he stopped.
Without opening his eyes, Malfoy said, “You’re leaving.”
It wasn’t much, but it had the effect of making Harry feel unreasonably guilty. “I have to get going.”
“Figured out what to tell the wife?”
The taste in his mouth was bitter. “Not exactly,” Harry said tersely. “As you said. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
Malfoy nodded, eyes still closed. “Right. Well, you know where to find me.”
Harry nodded, too, forgetting that Malfoy couldn’t see him, and said, “Yeah. Uh, take care.”
“I will.”
Harry closed the door behind him.
* * *
He went home. It was very quiet when he opened the door. He made his way quietly into the flat, leaving his shoes by the door. Perhaps she wasn’t home. There was no sound. The television, miraculously, was off. Harry let out his breath and went quickly to the bedroom.
“Not so fast.”
Harry swung around, startled, heart pounding in his ribcage. She was sitting in the armchair, but was so low down in it that he hadn’t seen her. “You scared me,” he said, trying to sound like it was just a case a minor start, not the guilty shock it had been.
Her eyes bored into him. “Where have you been?” she asked, very coolly.
Harry hesitated. “Well - I - ”
Ginny’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “Don’t even try to claim work. I called Kingsley.”
“You did what?” Harry forgot his guilt in favour of anger. “Ginny, you had no right. You cannot just call my boss!”
“Harry, I was worried,” she snapped. “You could have been called on an emergency assignment. You could have been attacked.”
“You could have been checking up on me,” Harry retorted. “I sent you a text!”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Right, an extremely vague text after ten at night. No explanation, nothing. You could have called.”
“I thought you might have been sleeping,” Harry said. He thought of a time when she had abruptly changed her mind about sex on a particular occasion, opting instead to go to bed early, and the memory made his tone nasty. He knew she would recognise it as the dig it was intended to be.
She did, and her white cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re actually doing this. Trying to change the topic about where the hell you were last night to that time when I didn’t feel like indulging you.”
“Which time?” Harry shot back.
Ginny shrugged. “I have the right to refuse if I want to.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Harry said, trying to keep the topic away from his absence. “It’s not as though anyone ever made you in the first place. In fact, as I recall, this entire relationship was your idea.” That was true. He had dragged his feet and stalled and thrown up roadblocks about dating, and then again about moving in together for months until Ginny had finally talked him into it.
Ginny looked away. “Straight answer, Harry. Were you with someone else last night?”
Harry paused. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“Who was it?”
“Malfoy,” Harry said tersely.
“What?” Her head snapped around to look incredulously at him.
He knew it wasn’t the whole truth, but he had to say something. “He’s got a drinking problem,” Harry said heavily. “I went to the office to check on him, because he was drunk and making a wreck of the place. And then I took him home.”
“And stayed the night?” Ginny said dubiously, though much quieter.
“Right.” Harry didn’t meet her eyes.
There was a long silence. “You left me waiting all night for you so that you could spend the night at Malfoy’s. You’re not even friends with him.”
“I guess I sort of am now,” Harry mumbled.
“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Ginny said curtly, and got up and went to the kitchen.
It appeared that the conversation was over, so Harry took himself to the bedroom and stripped off his clothes, wanting a shower in the worst way. He was sticky. He had to wash Malfoy off himself, his smell, his come. He kicked his clothes into the corner near the laundry hamper and got a towel from the closet. Wrapping it around himself, he went to the bathroom and closed the door, relieved to have the barrier in place.
He had to tell her. It would be horrible, but he had to do it. He took a very long, very hot shower, and was both miserable about his unfaithfulness and his apparent gayness, but beneath that, somehow strangely content about the fact that it had been Malfoy. The act itself, in isolation, he could not make himself regret. Were he there again, he would still do it. Harry faced this thought rather soberly, rinsing the shower gel off himself, the stickiness finally dissolving, and knew for certain that his days in this flat were numbered.
* * *
Ginny went out and did not say where she was going. Harry puttered around the flat, doing what he normally did on weekends. Little, in other words. He vacuumed the carpets and did a few dishes and otherwise lounged in front of the television, read his current book, made himself a late lunch. How soon should he tell Ginny? How should he do it? He was genuinely fond of her between the fights and didn’t want it to hurt her. It wasn’t about her.
Harry thought this, and slowly the realisation began to dawn. It had never really been about Ginny. Not since they had been sixteen, anyway. But this time around, it had everything to do with going with what made sense. His best friend’s sister. Harry had always ignored the whispered comments that occasionally came his way about all things Freudian and resemblances to long-dead mothers and so forth, but it had bothered him privately nonetheless. Was that really it? Was he looking for a mother substitute - and a convenient place to stick it on a regular basis? It sounded very ugly. But the truth was that he had never felt the level of arousal he’d felt with Malfoy that morning. He hadn’t known that he could genuinely be that attracted to another person. He had never been unhappy; it was just that it had not dawned on Harry that it was possible to feel that. And what had it even been? An early morning hand job. Nothing glamorous, nothing particularly exciting. They hadn’t even kissed. Not then, at least. But Harry craved more of it. Much, much more.
The fact that it was Malfoy was troubling on the conceptual level, but it was not the greatest of his problems. He wasn’t gay. He just really wanted to spend a little more time with Malfoy and his cock and on his terms, next time. Harry knew he wanted a next time. It was a problem. Gay. He said the word aloud. Did being gay mean having to come out? Having everyone know and talk about it and give him even funnier looks when he came into a room. He didn’t want that.
He thought of Malfoy. Did Malfoy actually feel the same way, or had he just been looking for a quick way of getting off? Was it worth destroying his relationship with Ginny over, or should he talk to Malfoy more first and find out whether it was even worth pursuing?
He thought of Malfoy’s drinking, and the thought was sobering. That was a problem, too. A rather large one.
Harry slept on his side of the bed that night, close to the edge, and slept fitfully.
* * *
Go on to the last chunk
(please comment at the end)
Pairings: HP/DM (primary), HP/GW
Genre/rating: Drama, romance; NC-17
Length: 30,528 words
Summary: Some wounds take longer to recover from than others. This is a story about finding the way forward. Themes of alcoholism, dubious fidelity, and a love triangle.
Read it in completion at Skyehawke, or read it in pieces here. :P
First bit
The incident bothered Harry far more than it should have. If he was really that secure about himself and who and what he was, then, he told himself, it shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it was. It shouldn’t be on his mind as much as it was. Perhaps it was the shock of it. Perhaps it was just that it felt so different. He’d never had another male kiss him before, and it was a strange and new experience. It was less soft than kissing a woman, somehow, though it hadn’t been whatever the opposite of soft was, either. It was stronger. Harry tried to imagine Ginny kissing him that way and feeling the same way about it, which was not to say that he had liked it. But there was something about it coming from someone who matched him in nearly every way. Malfoy had always been the negative balance to whatever it was that Harry offered to Hogwarts, to the world at large. Malfoy was the only wizard who rivalled Harry for power during the war, had been his only rival in Quidditch, really, and whose magic was as creative and dynamic as Harry’s was, though they used their powers in rather different ways. It was something about the balance that Malfoy provided that wasn’t the same with anyone else. Harry had known this for years. Working with any other person whom he’d known as long and had to work with as much gave him a rather vivid understanding of Malfoy’s capabilities, and though he had never quite put words to the sensation, there was something satisfying about having another high level Ministry employee who could provide counterbalance to Harry. It was a subtle sensation, but a distinct one.
There was nothing subtle about the sensation when it came to feeling it face-to-face, though. Harry had been all too aware, short as it had been, of Malfoy’s latent power meeting and struggling with and balancing his own even in that short kiss. It wasn’t about gender. It was only the balance that had caught Harry’s attention. Or so he was trying to tell himself. He was aware that Malfoy was an attractive man, at least to women and a particular sort of men. Not to Harry personally, of course, but in an abstract sense, certainly. The realisation had hit hard upon physical contact, though. He was trying valiantly not to think of it.
Ginny told him that night that he was off his game, and went to sleep frustrated. Harry was frustrated, too. He’d never before been unable to come with her. Though it had happened in the past with other women. He was embarrassed and angry and could not sleep. And she didn’t kiss like Malfoy, either.
* * *
His mobile rang. Harry glanced at the clock. It was nearly four in the afternoon. “Hello?”
“Potter.”
He braced himself mentally. “Hello.”
“Busy?”
“Sort of. You?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve only got every potion the Ministry needs for the week brewing, and I’m slicing Krumm snouts even as we speak.”
Malfoy sounded tired. “What can I do for you, then?” Harry asked, casting an eye toward the opening of his cubicle.
“Some company would be nice, if you can spare the time.”
Harry felt a rush of apprehension. What if he spent time with Malfoy and couldn’t stop thinking about… it? What if Malfoy tried something else? He caught himself. Was he really that insecure about it all? Harry frowned. “Sure, no problem. Maybe in fifteen? I just have a couple of things that need finishing. The rest can wait, I guess.”
“Lovely.” Malfoy said airily. “As long as I have everything else boiling, I’ll put a kettle on.”
Harry had no idea if this was meant to be a joke or not. “Okay,” he said dubiously. “See you soon.”
Malfoy disconnected without further comment.
Harry closed the phone, took off his glasses and rubbed them for about five minutes on his tie before snapping back into focus.
Precisely fifteen minutes later, he was at Malfoy’s office door, clearing his throat and feeling like a fifteen-year-old again. The door opened at his touch and Harry thought of Malfoy’s customised ward for him. It made him feel distinctly odd. He went in and looked around.
“Over here,” Malfoy said from the corner. He was crouching, but straightened up with a kettle. “I had to boil it over the smallest cauldron, since all the rest are busy.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. The office was filled with cauldrons of every size, none of which had been there on Harry’s previous visiting. Each was bubbling, hissing, steaming, smoking, making gloopy sounds, emitting jets of light, or all of the above. Harry raised his eyebrows. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Not at all.” Malfoy advanced, picking his way through the maze toward his desk, a small copper kettle in one hand. “Excuse the mess.”
“I’ve never seen you in action before, as it were,” Harry said, and immediately regretted his choice of words.
Malfoy was pouring hot water into a teapot on his desk, and smirked mightily in its direction. “All in good time, Potter.”
Harry’s face was hot. “I didn’t mean it to sound quite like that,” he mumbled.
“I know you didn’t.” Malfoy was still smirking, and when he turned it on Harry, the effect was horrifying. Harry felt himself trying to stutter for words, confused and embarrassed as hell. “Relax, Potter,” Malfoy said, dropping the smirk. “Have a seat.”
Harry located a chair under a stack of parchments, as before, and transferred the pile to Malfoy’s desk, grateful to have a reason to look anywhere else. “What kind of tea are you making?”
“Earl Grey. The tea of kings.”
“Or of earls,” Harry said.
“Whichever.” Malfoy stripped off his steam-stained work robes, sat down behind his desk opposite Harry and leaned back, hands behind his head. “Notice anything, Potter?”
“About the office?” Harry asked.
“No. Not the office. Me.”
Harry looked at him, simultaneously reluctant and relieved to have the opportunity to have a free invitation to do so. Malfoy looked better than he had in days. His hair was clean and rather shiny, and the clothes he was wearing beneath the work robes were obviously designer and fit rather well. Rather too well. Harry’s eyes travelled down over Malfoy’s body before he could prevent himself, and Malfoy caught him at it. Harry cleared his throat again and came up with the right answer. “You’re sober,” he said.
“Damned straight.”
Well, maybe not that, Harry thought, but didn’t say. “That’s great, Malfoy. What’s the occasion?”
Malfoy snickered. “I had too much work to do. No rest for the wicked and all.”
“Are you doing the work of four people here?”
“Nail on the head, Potter. It takes a bit of concentration, I must say.” Malfoy was full of smug confidence, though his gaze wandered to one of the larger cauldrons not far from Harry’s chair.
“Am I distracting you?”
“No. I’m just at the point where, because I coordinated things so well, I get to have a little break while they all bond. That’s just how talented I am.”
“Modest, too,” Harry said dryly.
“Confidence is attractive.” Malfoy caught his eye and grinned, an evil glint in his expression.
That was distracting. “I see,” Harry said, squinting at the teapot.
“That’s probably ready,” Malfoy said. He got up and leaned over the desk to pour the tea. “Though I must say, you were never particularly confident. Not until after the war.”
Harry swallowed. “Pardon me?”
Malfoy just shot him a smile, wickedly sweet, and handed him a cup. “Sugar?”
“Yes. Please.” Harry was flustered. What was he supposed to do with a gay Malfoy telling him he was attracted to him? And why couldn’t he just leave all that alone?
Malfoy picked up the sugar bowl and placed it near Harry’s hand, along with a small spoon for stirring. “I’m not going to jump you. Stop looking so worried.”
Harry spilled a bit of sugar on the table. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Well. I mean, you did… er, kiss me the other day.”
“Still on your mind?”
Harry didn’t answer. He stirred his tea rather vigorously.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t really planned.” Malfoy hesitated. “I was also hungover. I tend to be a bit more… I don’t know. Unstable. Not really sure what I’m doing. I shouldn’t have. It just took me by surprise that you’re actually concerned about me. I don’t know a single other person who genuinely is.”
In the pause that followed, Harry managed to look up at last. “Well, I am. And it’s not because I have a saviour complex.”
Malfoy smirked again. “One could definitely argue that, but I’d rather not. It’s sort of nice to think otherwise.”
Harry took a sip of his tea. “Good, then.”
“How’s the wife?” Malfoy asked casually, but it was anything but casual and Harry knew it.
Angry, he didn’t say. Though it would have been true. “Fine,” he said evasively. “How’s… do you have… anyone… right now?”
“No,” Malfoy said. “I’m not looking for anyone.”
Why was that somehow disappointing? Harry negated the thought immediately. “Okay,” he said.
Malfoy nodded at his cup. “Drink your tea,” he said. “I just have to stir something here.”
Harry put the tea down, turning in his seat to watch Malfoy go by. “Do you need a hand at all?”
“Actually…” Malfoy seemed to be thinking, calculating. “If you don’t mind, in fact, this other one here could also use a stirring. Nothing magical, no special number or anything - I just don’t want it to stick. And if you stir it counter-clockwise, it’ll spoil, so don’t do that, please. I have to stir this one counter-clockwise and I’m not very good at doing both at the same time.”
“Sure, I can do that,” Harry said. He got up and looked around. “What should I stir it with?”
“Anything that isn’t metal,” Malfoy said. “On the bench here, there’s a wooden spoon you could use.”
“Great.” Harry went and got it and took it to the potion. The office was so crowded that his cauldron and the one Malfoy was stirring with precisely measured circles were touching. “You’re not worried about any of them splashing into each other?”
“These ones won’t,” Malfoy said, adding under his breath, “… twenty-nine…” He pointed with his chin across the room. “All the ones that splash are separated. A couple have shielding charms around them, too, but with some, you can’t do that or it… thirty-seven… throws the potion off.”
Harry nodded and let Malfoy stir in peace. He moved the wooden spoon around in clockwise circles. Malfoy was very close to him, necessarily, though he was focused on counting. Harry counted the cauldrons instead of circles, and counted nineteen. Nineteen potions at once! At his best, he never could have managed more than three at the very most. But then, he’d never even tried using his magic to help him multitask, aside from the things he did automatically. Offensive and defensive magic at the same time, for instance. He supposed it was all a matter of choice and training, but it didn’t lessen his admiration for Malfoy’s talents any.
Malfoy also smelled rather nice. Harry caught the dangerous thought and squelched it flat. No. Just no.
Malfoy put his spoon down. “There, that should do it. I just have to watch it now to see how the colour settles.” He came over and looked into Harry’s cauldron. Harry thought he was unnecessarily close, but didn’t say so. “That looks good. Was it sticking at all?”
“No, it seemed fine,” Harry said, holding his breath for some reason.
Malfoy gave him a strange look. “Great,” he said, though he didn’t sound particularly interested. “You can stop stirring it, then.”
“Okay.” Harry just stood there, feeling oddly immobile. He didn’t want Malfoy to kiss him again. He didn’t. Not even just to see if it felt the same way as it had before - that curious rush of power pooling into his, the warmth.
Malfoy was still looking at him as though he thought there was something wrong with Harry. He took the spoon from Harry’s limp hand. “You all right, Potter?”
“Fine,” Harry got out, wondering if it was a lie.
“You look like you’re about to be ill.”
“I’m fine,” Harry repeated.
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment. Harry wondered what he was thinking. Then he shrugged and turned away, setting the spoon back on the counter. “Have it your way.” He looked back at his cauldron. “Oh good, the blue is coming through.” He sighed. “That means the break is over, sadly. Everything else is just about to come to the crucial point.”
Harry shook off the weird mood. “Do you need any more help?”
“No, I work better alone. I get distracted when there are other people around.” Malfoy’s tone was clipped, moving away from the corner with the two cauldrons, checking on others. “Thanks for coming by. It was nice.”
Harry hadn’t finished his tea, but it seemed rude to say so, so he didn’t. “Sure,” he said. “My cubicle isn’t nearly as fun as this, but maybe sometime I’ll call and see if you want to come for a coffee break somewhere outside the offices or something.”
Malfoy gave him a half smile. “Do that,” he said.
Harry was at the door. Malfoy followed and met him there. Harry, feeling ridiculous, held out his hand for Malfoy to shake. Malfoy looked at it. Harry shrugged. “Thanks for the tea?” he tried, feeling lame.
Malfoy took his hand, but instead of shaking it, he just held it and drew himself closer. Their eyes met, and neither of them said anything. Harry was holding his breath again. Then, swiftly, Malfoy kissed him again. Harry was half expecting it and half dreading it. And it was everything he had remembered, but it was stronger this time. It was not vulnerable Malfoy, out in the rain. It was Malfoy in the center of a whirlwind of his own activity, in his own office. Sober. He was kissing Harry with strength, but it wasn’t domineering. Not insistent. His jaw opened, his lips moving Harry’s open. It felt so good, and so powerful that Harry actually had to fight to keep hold of his own power lest it slide away under Malfoy’s strong mouth. And then the tip of Malfoy’s tongue touched Harry’s, and Harry stiffened in shock. What was he doing? He wasn’t gay! He pulled away gasping and pushing Malfoy back. “Malfoy - !”
Malfoy’s startled eyes flew open. He appeared to be at a loss for words. “… Potter - I - ” he stopped, his breathing too fast. “But you - ”
Harry didn’t let him finish, couldn’t. “No. No. This can’t - I’m not - just no. I - I have to go.” He opened the door and shut it behind him quickly, and fled toward the lifts before Malfoy could follow him. But he needn’t have worried; he didn’t.
* * *
Sleep came even slower than usual that night. Harry lay awake on his side, facing away from Ginny. She was still upset with him, and he was upset with himself, too. Damn his curiosity. Now he was troubled in a way that he had never given much thought to before. It had never been an issue. He’d never had to worry that he was some sort of freak in yet another way. Hermione would sternly lecture him for the thought, for thinking of it that way, but all normal blokes did, Harry was sure. Being gay was freakish and weird and disgusting and was not something that he needed to explore in any way whatsoever. What would all his friends say? Ginny would be livid over it. She had a way with an insult that could cut to the quick in seconds, and something like this would give her grist for years. Harry could only imagine it, her telling everyone they both knew that Harry had kissed Malfoy and found out he was gay.
Harry stomped on the thought mentally. He was not gay. Not, not, not. Maybe if he thought it enough, it would be true. It was true. He’d been with Ginny for ages. And even if that wasn’t what he wanted, it just meant he needed to be with someone else. A different woman. Not a man. And certainly not Malfoy.
Perhaps it was a phase. People went through strange phases sometimes. He’d lived through enough without having to deal with a sexual identity crisis on top of it all. And maybe there was more to the whole question of choice than anyone really gave credit to. Sure, you could ignore urges. He’d ignored the urge to kill Malfoy all through Hogwarts, hadn’t he? Now he could ignore the urge to kiss Malfoy onto the ground, pinning him there as they lost themselves, breathless and dizzy. Edit that. No, no, no, no, no. Absolutely not. Cancel. Full stop.
Harry lay awake for hours, trying not to let himself think things that he had no business thinking. Didn’t want to be thinking. Could not think, if he wanted to keep his life the way it was. And he… did. He was fairly certain that he did. He was happy. Happy enough. Who was completely happy all the time? That was a myth.
Ginny was snoring, though she always denied it when he mentioned it. Harry scowled in the darkness and shifted further away.
* * *
He went in to work late. His unfinished work from the previous afternoon lay piled where he had left it, and there were four notes from people asking if they could have meetings as soon as possible. Harry groaned and pushed all four of them aside, looking for the file he’d been working on the day before. He found his place and began to work again, glad to have the task to distract himself. The day passed without incident. He was tired from lack of sleep, and left when most other people left - hoping to avoid Malfoy leaving late, as seemed to be his habit.
He could not face Malfoy, not like this, with his mind still whirling in confusion and anger. The first time, it had taken Harry by surprise. But the second time, he should have known better than to have let it happen. Malfoy should have known better, too. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want it, in the park? But then, he had allowed it in the office. He had. Harry could not escape that fact. And - though he hated the thought, he could not bring himself to believe that it was not true - he had liked it, at least until it had become too intense. Or something. Too frightening. Too real. Harry shook his head, trying to clear it, and stepped into the Floo when he came to the front of the queue. He made it home without seeing Malfoy.
Ginny was staying with a friend. Things were on the rocks. Harry could feel the end coming, and that thought used to send him into a panic. In the old days, he would have grovelled until she wasn’t angry any more - played the flowers/chocolates/cooking/whatever game she wanted, just to fix things. Now, Harry could hardly bring himself to be all that upset. He was lost in his own thoughts and had no energy to spare for drama.
He managed to avoid Malfoy for the rest of the week, and gradually the confusion and anger began to fade. The humiliation remained, but Harry was getting better at not thinking of it. There was a lot to do, anyway. Everyone was busy. Busy was good.
On Saturday, Harry was at home. Ginny was back, and though still cool, had apparently forgiven him for whatever it had been this time. Harry was just contemplating a jog or something, just to get out of the flat, when Tonks called his mobile. Harry went back into the bedroom to where it was ringing on the dresser and opened the small phone. “Hello?”
“Harry, it’s Tonks.”
There was something in her voice. “What is it?” Harry asked tightly, thinking simultaneously of Surrey and Malfoy.
His latter suspicion was confirmed. “It’s… well, I stopped by the office to grab something,” Tonks said, “and I had to go by the seventh floor for something, and…”
Harry’s heart had already sunk. “Is it Malfoy?”
“I’m not sure if he’s drunk or just pissed off about something, but he was throwing things around in his office, and I heard something explode… I tried to knock, but the door was warded weirdly and it just gave me shocks. I don’t even think he could hear me, and I couldn’t disable his ward.” Tonks sounded frustrated. “I don’t want to report him, but it’s Saturday night and he’s all alone in there. I’m worried he’ll hurt himself, or damage Ministry property and get into trouble.”
Harry paused. “What are you saying?”
She heard his hesitation. “Couldn’t you just go by?” Tonks pleaded. “Just check on him. Maybe he needs real help. I don’t know.”
“Why me?” Harry asked bluntly, not wanting in the slightest to go.
“Because you talked to him before. Because you established a connection that I don’t have with him. I’m concerned for him, Harry. Would it really inconvenience you that much?”
Harry waited a long moment, debating with himself. Finally, he sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Tonks’ relief was palpable, even over the phone. “Thanks, Harry. I owe you one.”
“That you do,” Harry said shortly. “I’ll see you later.” He closed the phone. He paused, thinking, then changed out of his jogging clothes and into his oldest jeans and a comfortable shirt. He told Ginny something vague and Disapparated before she could ask too many questions.
* * *
The Ministry was mostly dark. Few people worked on the weekends, though some jobs went round the clock. Harry was no fan of the Department of Mysteries, but he knew that those lights were on at the same time as all the other departments’. He took the lift to the seventh floor and went down to Malfoy’s office.
Everything was quiet now, whatever it had been earlier. Harry listened for a moment, then knocked. The door did not shock him. Neither did anyone answer. Perhaps Malfoy had gone home.
Harry tried the door, and to his surprise it opened. Disappointment hit with the fume of alcoholic vapours and other, less pleasant smells. Wrinkling his nose, Harry went cautiously in. “Malfoy?” he asked softly, not wanting to startle him if he was still there.
He didn’t hear anything. The lights were off, but even so Harry could see that the office was a disaster. Books lay strewn about the floor every which way. Bottles of potion ingredients lay broken and uncovered, seeping into the carpet near Malfoy’s desk and pooling on the stone floor at the end of the room where two large, smoking cauldron pots stood. Harry made his way gingerly across the office to have a look at them. One was empty but hissing, while the other was smoking darkly. Remnants of something black and oozy burned with a barely audible sizzle at the bottom of the cauldron and gave off a terrible stench.
A sound made Harry turn. It seemed to come from near Malfoy’s desk, so he went back the way he had come. With growing wariness, he saw the bottle first, then the hand and the arm. It was attached to Malfoy, who was lying on the floor beneath his desk, curled into fetal position. Harry forgot his personal confusions and crouched down. “Malfoy?”
Malfoy made a faint sound of some sort, nothing decipherable.
Harry waited. “Are you okay?”
Malfoy mumbled something that Harry couldn’t hear.
“What?”
“Does it look like it?” Malfoy slurred, not moving.
“No,” Harry said flatly.
“Why’re you here?”
Harry hesitated. “What’s going on here? Your office is a wreck.”
“Fuck you.”
He delivered this without malice, though the words were still barely intelligible. Harry began to lose patience. “Come on, Malfoy. Talk to me. What happened?”
Malfoy said nothing, but curled tighter into himself.
Harry removed the mostly empty Firewhiskey bottle from his hand and put it on the desk, then sat down on the carpet near Malfoy. “Do you have any hangover remedies here?”
“All gone. Was trying to make more,” Malfoy mumbled. “Besides… no point taking it when you’re still drunk. I tried to make more… didn’t work.”
“Would that be what smells so bad?” Harry asked, unimpressed.
“Couldn’t slice the fucking elm bark the right… why am I ex… explaining this to you. No point. Leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you here like this,” Harry said.
“I want to die.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
“Sure you do. Make your life simpler,” Malfoy said into the carpet.
Harry decided to ignore that. “What happened first, the temper tantrum or the drinking or the potion, or what? Give me a hint, Malfoy.”
“All of the above.”
“Can you sit up?”
“I don’t want to sit up. I want to die. Are you deaf, Potter?”
Harry sighed. Malfoy was completely pissed. “Are you upset about something?” he asked after awhile, thinking about what Malfoy had said about when or why he drank.
“Nobel prize for the genius.” Malfoy pulled his hand in and it disappeared under his face somewhere.
Harry ignored the sarcasm, too. “What’s going on?”
Malfoy didn’t say anything for a long time. Harry was about to prompt again, when it occurred to him that Malfoy was crying. He wasn’t sobbing or anything like that, but his breathing was congested and his back heaving silently. Harry felt more awkward than ever. He’d dealt with people’s emotional breakdowns during the war often enough, but they weren’t Malfoy. It was just different. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound soothing, but it just came out sounding rough. “It’s okay. We can fix your office.”
Malfoy still said nothing, and Harry had the feeling he’d said the wrong thing. He racked his brain to think of something better. “Do you want to talk about whatever it was?”
Malfoy stopped crying and pushed himself up onto one elbow, his back to Harry, and said, “I’m going to be sick.”
Again, Harry could have added, judging from the odour in the office. Instead, he conjured a bucket and put it near Malfoy.
Just in time, too. Malfoy pulled it closer, then vomited. There was a moment’s pause, then he was sick again, and crying at the same time.
Disgusted, Harry moved closer and pulled Malfoy’s hair away from his face. Malfoy’s frame shook against him as he heaved again, pale fingers splayed on the carpet. After, he leaned back against Harry’s chest, eyes closing, spent. Harry Vanished the contents of the bucket but prudently left the bucket itself. He added a room freshening smell, though he was dubious of its powers to mask both the vomit and the sour/burnt potions smells. Without thinking, he put a hand against Malfoy’s forehead. It was very hot to his palm.
“You must think I’m the most disgusting person you’ve ever known,” Malfoy murmured, barely audible, his eyes still closed, his face pale as death.
Harry shook his head. “No. I don’t.”
“I wish I could die. Why can’t I just die like this?”
“If you keep this up, you’ll get your wish,” Harry said starkly. The thought ate into his belly.
“Relief for everyone.”
“Not for me,” Harry said firmly. The gay/not gay thing aside, it was important, he felt, for Malfoy to feel he had a friend at the moment. Or to actually have one, perhaps.
“Don’t pander to me. I don’t want pretty lies.”
“It wasn’t a lie.”
Malfoy did not tell him why he had been so upset, and Harry thought that he didn’t need to ask, after all. Maybe it was perfectly self-explanatory. Maybe it was just a miracle that more of the war’s survivors didn’t have drinking problems. He did not say that he wished Malfoy would get help for his. He did not have to.
He sat there, holding Malfoy’s limp body in the disaster zone that had been his office for over an hour in silence, as Malfoy drifted off to sleep. Later, when Harry was sure that Malfoy was properly asleep, he conjured a blanket and wrapped it around Malfoy, letting him sleep on the carpet. He got up and cast a Silencing spell to keep his work from disturbing Malfoy, and began to set the office to rights.
He did not know why he was protecting Malfoy, but he had no desire to expose Malfoy’s weaknesses to the world. And, Harry added silently to himself, it was also that he cared, whether or not he liked to admit it.
* * *
It was nearly nine when Malfoy woke, and the office was all but clean. Harry was just contemplating the two cauldrons and whether or not he should even risk trying to rid them of their failed potions. He heard a stirring from the other end of the room again, and went over.
Malfoy was yawning. Harry went around the desk and looked down at him. “You’re awake?”
“Potter?” Malfoy’s voice was hoarse, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Then he remembered. “Oh. Still here?”
“I wasn’t just going to leave you here,” Harry said, trying not to roll his eyes.
Malfoy pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against his desk. “I want to go home.”
Harry surveyed him. “Do you need a hand?”
Malfoy winced. “I guess I wouldn’t mind one.”
Harry crouched beside Malfoy and put one of his arms over his own shoulders, helping him up. “Hold on,” he said. “You want to Apparate or Floo?”
“Not Floo,” Malfoy said hastily. “That would make me dizzy, and…”
“Got it,” Harry said briskly. “I’ll Apparate us, then.”
Malfoy was still holding the blanket. He gave Harry his address and a cursory warning about the wards. Harry nodded and Disapparated.
* * *
The apartment was dark and did not smell like alcohol or vomit or potions. There was a faint trace of something slightly familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it. It nudged at his memory like déja vù, but did not reveal itself. Harry didn’t bother looking for a light switch. He’d spent years creeping around dark rooms and alleys and could almost feel his way better than see it by now. He wasn’t sure what to do with Malfoy, though. “Where to?” he asked, trying not to look Malfoy in the eye, as his face was rather close to Harry’s.
“Bed,” Malfoy said. “No. Bathroom. I need to brush my teeth.”
Harry found the bathroom with Malfoy’s help. He seemed to have sobered up a little, but the after-effects were clearly hitting hard. He turned on the light and Malfoy let go of him, stumbling over to the sink. He turned on the taps and splashed water on his face, cursing to himself. Harry watched him. “Hangover potion?” he asked, shifting his eyes away from the mirror.
“Kitchen,” Malfoy said. “By the range.” He began to brush his teeth, eyes focused down on the faucet.
Harry left him and went to the kitchen. The cupboard next to the stove held a rather vast array of potions, all of which were labelled neatly. The hangover potion was closest to the front. Harry frowned at it and poured some into a glass. A rather hefty dosage. He carried it to the bathroom and found Malfoy still brushing. He didn’t say anything, and Malfoy didn’t acknowledge his presence, other than to flick his eyes briefly over Harry’s face through the mirror. Then he bent and spit, rinsing his mouth repeatedly. “Give that here.”
Harry silently handed him the glass. Malfoy downed it without flinching, and that bothered Harry, too.
“Just say it,” Malfoy said, wiping his mouth and not looking at Harry.
“I want you to get help.”
Malfoy shook his head. “You can’t save me, Potter. I find the very notion offensive.” He took off his shoes and left them in the hall, crossing into what Harry presumed was the bedroom. Still feeling strange, he followed.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“In general, or tonight?”
Harry was irritated. “Both, I guess. I meant tonight.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure?” Harry asked, rather pointedly.
Malfoy pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto an otherwise spotless carpet. He went to the window, back to Harry. “You just don’t understand what it’s like,” he said.
Harry didn’t know what he meant. “About what?”
There was a long silence as Malfoy thought, or debated with himself, perhaps. “During the war, everyone knew what you were supposed to be doing. Everyone knew about your prophecy and what you had to do. And because people knew, you got a bit of support, I would imagine. No, you did. I saw it. It wasn’t like that for me. Not during the war, and not after it. Maybe a Gryffindor wouldn’t hide from it all by drinking. Maybe that’s a Slytherin thing. Maybe it’s just a me thing, and something you couldn’t possibly comprehend. But if I solve that, then I have to deal with the rest of it. Do you get it?”
Harry did, or thought he did. He felt terrible about it, but didn’t know what to suggest. Seeing a counsellor might help, but he could predict what Malfoy’s response to that particular suggestion might be. “I… yeah,” he said instead, feeling frustratedly helpless to solve Malfoy’s problems. “I understand.”
Malfoy’s shoulders came down a little. “Thank God for that. Otherwise I couldn’t handle you being here at all. It wouldn’t change the fact that you are here, but at least I don’t have to feel quite as contemptible as I already do.”
Harry took in the pale expanse of Malfoy’s back and tried not to think about it. “We all have our scars from the war,” he said heavily, not willing to open the doors on his own. “I guess we all have our own ways of trying to live with them.”
Malfoy turned around. For a long time, he just looked at Harry. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Then he said, “You do understand.”
Harry sighed and nodded. “Yeah.” How much was he admitting? He wasn’t sure.
There was another brief silence. “Potter…?” he trailed off.
“Yeah?” Harry asked, and as he said it, he got a glimmer of where this was going.
Malfoy hesitated. “Would you stay with me tonight? I just don’t want to be alone. I can’t sleep.”
All Harry’s mind bucked at this. What would such a thing signify? What was Malfoy really asking? What was he supposed to tell Ginny, for that matter? He could hardly plead ‘work’ for staying overnight with someone. Even if it was, he told himself, primarily for the Ministry’s sake that he would even contemplate it. They couldn’t afford to lose Malfoy as an employee. So many of the departments were reliant on the Potions Department. Some part of Harry’s brain acknowledged that this was mostly bullshit. Still, though - it was hard to think of it any other way. “Er,” he began, “Malfoy…”
“Please,” Malfoy said, very evenly, but the plea was there in his eyes, even in the dark.
He couldn’t tell Ginny. That was all there was to it. She wouldn’t understand. His phone was off. She had probably already called it several times. Perhaps he should call and leave a message, but she would answer if he called. A text message to her mobile, then. He could claim the line had been busy. Harry caught his own train of thoughts and stopped short. Was he actually contemplating it? “What do you mean, stay with you?” Harry asked, endeavouring to keep the suspicion from his voice.
“Just that. Just sleep here,” Malfoy said. He looked away. “I won’t… it’ll be okay, Potter.”
Harry gave in. “All right, then,” he said awkwardly. “You… want me to sleep in your bed?”
Malfoy didn’t respond, biting his lip, still not looking at him.
The confusions rushed back with a host of reinforcements. Harry turned his phone on, ignored the blinking message symbol, and quickly wrote: “Got caught up with stuff and won’t make it home tonight. See you tomorrow.” He turned it off again just as quickly. Malfoy hadn’t moved, watching Harry’s thumb on the keypad.
He turned away and stripped to his boxers. Harry, feeling monumentally adolescent and worried about this whole thing, followed suit. Malfoy went to the left side of the bed and got in, leaving the right side to Harry. Harry joined him. Malfoy didn’t move or say anything. The room was already dark, so there was no reason to even make small talk.
Malfoy’s shoulders were hunched. He looked miserable, Harry thought, looking at him across the bed. He supposed that if he had agreed to stay in order to keep Malfoy company, there wasn’t much point in adhering only to the letter of the law. Malfoy had done something he usually didn’t do: admitted weakness and asked for help, in whatever strange form that had been. Could it hurt to get over himself and just let Malfoy sleep near him, the way he had in the office? Harry moved over and hesitantly put a hand on Malfoy’s side, the way he sometimes did with Ginny when she was angry with him and he was trying to placate her.
Malfoy let his breath out, and it was shaky. He didn’t anything, but Harry got the impression that he was fighting to keep control of his emotions again. He didn’t move, but relaxed slightly against Harry. Harry let his arm settle around Malfoy and reminded himself that it was for Malfoy’s sake only and had nothing to do with any of his own issues. “Can you sleep like this?” Harry asked, more to break the silence than for anything else.
“Yes,” Malfoy said, and that was all. He shifted back then, closer to Harry, and relaxed fully.
Harry didn’t remember how long it took before he was asleep, himself, nor who had fallen asleep first.
* * *
He woke up disoriented and not sure where he was. A face full of blond hair helped explain rather more quickly than his brain could deal with first thing in the morning, forcing Harry to take rapid stock of his situation. He was in bed with Malfoy. He had his arm around Malfoy, decidedly more tightly than it had been when he’d fallen asleep. In fact, he was glued to the length of Malfoy’s back, right down to his… Oh, God, Harry thought. Too far. He jerked himself away from Malfoy in horror and turned over, hoping desperately that Malfoy was asleep and hadn’t noticed.
A sound strongly resembling either a snort or a chuckle or something in between made him hot with humiliation. “Too late, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled sleepily. “Definitely noticed that.”
Harry fought to master himself. “It happens to everyone. It had nothing to do with anything.”
“You tell yourself that,” Malfoy said, muffled by his pillow. “Doesn’t change the fact that you were hard because your cock was snuggled into my arse.”
“Shut up!” Harry, furious with both Malfoy and himself (though mostly himself), wanted nothing more than to leave, but he had to get dressed, but he couldn’t get out of bed until his problem decided to leave him alone.
Malfoy yawned and stretched. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine,” Harry muttered, still embarrassed.
“Good.” Another yawn. “Let’s not talk about yesterday.”
Harry stared at the opposite wall. “I think maybe we should, sometime.”
“I’d rather not.”
“What would you rather talk about?”
Malfoy was quiet for a long time. “Let’s see… I don’t know. There aren’t any safe topics. I sort of want to go back to sleep.”
“Go for it, then,” Harry said. “It’s Sunday.”
“Are you leaving right away?”
Harry’s cock was still at attention. “No,” he said, stalling. “Er… I’m still tired, too.”
Malfoy made another sound that might have been a stifled laugh, but all he said was, “Good. You’re warm.”
He turned over and reversed their former positions, settling himself against Harry’s back, a bare arm insinuating itself around Harry’s midsection. His breath stirred Harry’s hair and even that was stronger, more masculine than anything else Harry had felt - and it was such a small thing. How could such a small thing feel so different? Malfoy got closer.
He was hard, too.
And obviously didn’t mind letting Harry know, as the move had been made rather deliberately. Harry was frozen, rigid with panic, because beneath the initial shock of the realisation was the simultaneous one that he wasn’t repulsed by the fact. Not repulsed at all. His traitorous cock was harder than ever, and Harry was mortified. And turned on as hell. His forehead broke out a line of sweat. His body was hyper-aware of Malfoy’s arm, the hand dangling, just touching Harry’s chest. His erection was nestled firmly between the curves of Harry’s arse, and Harry was afraid to even think about how little that was to his displeasure. He couldn’t allow himself to speak or move; he didn’t know what would happen if he did. He felt that Malfoy was holding himself in wait, just watching to see what Harry would do, how he would react to this.
The moment stretched out, the tension growing to massive proportions. Then Malfoy’s arm moved, only a little, but then his hand was holding Harry through his shorts and Harry forgot how to breathe. At the same time, an agonised sound forced its way through his panic and out his mouth. “Malfoy!”
“Still just coincidence?” Malfoy asked, practically purring into his ear. “I think that one could say that I’ve got you by the balls, Potter.”
Harry could not answer. He gripped Malfoy’s hand with his fist, though whether that was intended to remove the offending hand or - he winced - tighten the hold, he could not have said. Also, he couldn’t deal with Malfoy’s wildly varying moods - this Malfoy bore no resemblance to the Malfoy of the night before, broken and vulnerable. This Malfoy was seductive and entirely in control, unless Harry could assert himself more convincingly.
Malfoy rubbed himself slowly against Harry’s arse, through both layers of undergarment, and Harry knew that he had lost the battle. He was trembling with the effort of holding himself back, keeping himself from moving even an inch, and it took all his concentration. His fingers were pinioning Malfoy’s hand to his cock and if he moved at all, there would be nothing he could do to prevent himself from rubbing himself raw against that all-too-willing hand. From turning around to pin Malfoy to the mattress and immersing himself in every manner of perverse and unnatural acts. He hated the thought, didn’t want it on a mental level any more now than he ever had, but his body evidently had other priorities.
His shorts were growing damp both in the front and the back. His cock was seeping precome no matter how hard he was trying not to let this happen. Malfoy could surely feel his silent battle, feel him shaking with barely-controlled lust. Harry was clenching his jaw, straining not to make a single sound, either. Malfoy bit the back of his shoulder and Harry’s restraint flew apart; he was gasping.
He didn’t know whether he had turned over or if Malfoy had wrestled him around, but suddenly he was on top of Malfoy and two pairs of hands were pushing the shorts down. Harry couldn’t even be bothered to get his all the way out of the way - his cock was poking through the front pocket, thick and hard and he felt Malfoy’s against his palm before he ever saw it. It felt strangely satisfying to hold, not that hold was the word for the frantic rubbing. He was half thrusting himself into Malfoy’s hand and half being jerked off by him, his own fist flying along Malfoy’s cock. Malfoy was panting beneath him, eyes boring into Harry’s, burning, and Harry thought that the look alone would force him to come. He wasn’t fighting it now. He was fighting for it, every movement an inevitable, unpreventable, grasping demand for it, and Malfoy was going to give it to him. Had to, at this point. It was going to happen. It was upon him. It was -
Harry came cursing, his cock spurting thickly into Malfoy’s fist, onto his pale, bare belly, his thighs clamped around Malfoy’s. He forgot to move his hand and Malfoy grabbed it, holding it in place with a grip of steel and fucked it with force, his hips rising off the bed to meet it. He came, and it was hot and wet and made Harry want to come again.
Or kill himself. One or the other. La petite mort, forsooth. Groaning, Harry felt deflated and rolled off Malfoy, still breathing hard. Malfoy’s breath echoed his and they lay in silence that way for several moments.
Malfoy spoke first. “Fuck, Potter.”
Harry was belligerent, or would have been if he hadn’t been so very satisfied - physically. “What?”
“If I’d known it would be like that…”
Harry looked at him, but Malfoy’s eyes were closed. “Then what?” he asked, less belligerently.
“I might have asked you to stay over sooner, that’s all.”
“And tricked me into this sooner,” Harry said stiffly, feeling as though he had been manipulated.
Malfoy made a contemptuous sound. “No one said you had to do anything. No one invited you to get hard over me. That’s not my issue. And if you hated it, you could have stopped whenever you wanted to. But you didn’t. Don’t take your issues out on me, Potter.”
Sleep receded. Eyes on the ceiling, Harry said, “I don’t even get why you would want to do that with someone you don’t like, who isn’t gay, and who’s already…” Harry stopped. Ginny. Good God. He had forgotten her entirely. Since he’d been awake, he had not thought of Ginny even once. All he’d had thought for was Malfoy.
Malfoy was quiet. “You might need to do some thinking,” he said. “And I still don’t want to talk about yesterday. I’m going back to sleep.”
Harry looked at him. Malfoy turned on his side, facing away from Harry, and appeared to get comfortable - though Harry suspected he wasn’t altogether easy with what had just happened, either. The temptation to stay and just sleep some more was terribly alluring. At the same time, he was terrified to face his own mind, very much afraid to think about any of this. A steady monologue of self-flagellation had already started chanting in his brain, and Harry was fairly certain that it was not about to go away.
With great reluctance, he sat up and forced himself to get out of the bed. His shorts were covered in Malfoy’s come and his own. He tried not to think about it, instead pulling on his jeans and socks and shirt. His wand was on the dresser. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. At the door, he stopped.
Without opening his eyes, Malfoy said, “You’re leaving.”
It wasn’t much, but it had the effect of making Harry feel unreasonably guilty. “I have to get going.”
“Figured out what to tell the wife?”
The taste in his mouth was bitter. “Not exactly,” Harry said tersely. “As you said. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
Malfoy nodded, eyes still closed. “Right. Well, you know where to find me.”
Harry nodded, too, forgetting that Malfoy couldn’t see him, and said, “Yeah. Uh, take care.”
“I will.”
Harry closed the door behind him.
* * *
He went home. It was very quiet when he opened the door. He made his way quietly into the flat, leaving his shoes by the door. Perhaps she wasn’t home. There was no sound. The television, miraculously, was off. Harry let out his breath and went quickly to the bedroom.
“Not so fast.”
Harry swung around, startled, heart pounding in his ribcage. She was sitting in the armchair, but was so low down in it that he hadn’t seen her. “You scared me,” he said, trying to sound like it was just a case a minor start, not the guilty shock it had been.
Her eyes bored into him. “Where have you been?” she asked, very coolly.
Harry hesitated. “Well - I - ”
Ginny’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “Don’t even try to claim work. I called Kingsley.”
“You did what?” Harry forgot his guilt in favour of anger. “Ginny, you had no right. You cannot just call my boss!”
“Harry, I was worried,” she snapped. “You could have been called on an emergency assignment. You could have been attacked.”
“You could have been checking up on me,” Harry retorted. “I sent you a text!”
Ginny rolled her eyes. “Right, an extremely vague text after ten at night. No explanation, nothing. You could have called.”
“I thought you might have been sleeping,” Harry said. He thought of a time when she had abruptly changed her mind about sex on a particular occasion, opting instead to go to bed early, and the memory made his tone nasty. He knew she would recognise it as the dig it was intended to be.
She did, and her white cheeks flushed with anger. “You’re actually doing this. Trying to change the topic about where the hell you were last night to that time when I didn’t feel like indulging you.”
“Which time?” Harry shot back.
Ginny shrugged. “I have the right to refuse if I want to.”
“That’s hardly the point,” Harry said, trying to keep the topic away from his absence. “It’s not as though anyone ever made you in the first place. In fact, as I recall, this entire relationship was your idea.” That was true. He had dragged his feet and stalled and thrown up roadblocks about dating, and then again about moving in together for months until Ginny had finally talked him into it.
Ginny looked away. “Straight answer, Harry. Were you with someone else last night?”
Harry paused. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“Who was it?”
“Malfoy,” Harry said tersely.
“What?” Her head snapped around to look incredulously at him.
He knew it wasn’t the whole truth, but he had to say something. “He’s got a drinking problem,” Harry said heavily. “I went to the office to check on him, because he was drunk and making a wreck of the place. And then I took him home.”
“And stayed the night?” Ginny said dubiously, though much quieter.
“Right.” Harry didn’t meet her eyes.
There was a long silence. “You left me waiting all night for you so that you could spend the night at Malfoy’s. You’re not even friends with him.”
“I guess I sort of am now,” Harry mumbled.
“That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard,” Ginny said curtly, and got up and went to the kitchen.
It appeared that the conversation was over, so Harry took himself to the bedroom and stripped off his clothes, wanting a shower in the worst way. He was sticky. He had to wash Malfoy off himself, his smell, his come. He kicked his clothes into the corner near the laundry hamper and got a towel from the closet. Wrapping it around himself, he went to the bathroom and closed the door, relieved to have the barrier in place.
He had to tell her. It would be horrible, but he had to do it. He took a very long, very hot shower, and was both miserable about his unfaithfulness and his apparent gayness, but beneath that, somehow strangely content about the fact that it had been Malfoy. The act itself, in isolation, he could not make himself regret. Were he there again, he would still do it. Harry faced this thought rather soberly, rinsing the shower gel off himself, the stickiness finally dissolving, and knew for certain that his days in this flat were numbered.
* * *
Ginny went out and did not say where she was going. Harry puttered around the flat, doing what he normally did on weekends. Little, in other words. He vacuumed the carpets and did a few dishes and otherwise lounged in front of the television, read his current book, made himself a late lunch. How soon should he tell Ginny? How should he do it? He was genuinely fond of her between the fights and didn’t want it to hurt her. It wasn’t about her.
Harry thought this, and slowly the realisation began to dawn. It had never really been about Ginny. Not since they had been sixteen, anyway. But this time around, it had everything to do with going with what made sense. His best friend’s sister. Harry had always ignored the whispered comments that occasionally came his way about all things Freudian and resemblances to long-dead mothers and so forth, but it had bothered him privately nonetheless. Was that really it? Was he looking for a mother substitute - and a convenient place to stick it on a regular basis? It sounded very ugly. But the truth was that he had never felt the level of arousal he’d felt with Malfoy that morning. He hadn’t known that he could genuinely be that attracted to another person. He had never been unhappy; it was just that it had not dawned on Harry that it was possible to feel that. And what had it even been? An early morning hand job. Nothing glamorous, nothing particularly exciting. They hadn’t even kissed. Not then, at least. But Harry craved more of it. Much, much more.
The fact that it was Malfoy was troubling on the conceptual level, but it was not the greatest of his problems. He wasn’t gay. He just really wanted to spend a little more time with Malfoy and his cock and on his terms, next time. Harry knew he wanted a next time. It was a problem. Gay. He said the word aloud. Did being gay mean having to come out? Having everyone know and talk about it and give him even funnier looks when he came into a room. He didn’t want that.
He thought of Malfoy. Did Malfoy actually feel the same way, or had he just been looking for a quick way of getting off? Was it worth destroying his relationship with Ginny over, or should he talk to Malfoy more first and find out whether it was even worth pursuing?
He thought of Malfoy’s drinking, and the thought was sobering. That was a problem, too. A rather large one.
Harry slept on his side of the bed that night, close to the edge, and slept fitfully.
* * *
Go on to the last chunk
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