Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1.

It started with Ron’s idea for a thesis, and the fact they didn’t actually know a lot of people who used to be part of a white supremist cult and then left, and that Malfoy still lived in the country. In town, actually, in this crap of a flat above a chippy. Apparently the owner let him rent it for half price if he worked weekends. Apparently he did. And when Ron came back, two hours late with this strange frown, all he said was, “Whoa, mate.” And Harry decided that maybe he did sort of want to tag along after all.

Malfoy was different. Not only because he looked older, or because he sat on the floor with his legs crossed, or because of the piercings and the choker, or because he let his hair grow, wild and frizzy at his shoulders. Something… Harry didn’t know. Something hungry and a little loud about the way he kept his head down. The way he rambled one hundred miles a minute outside the interviews, the strange jokes he made and the way his eyes rounded, big and grey and startling. It was weird. He was weird. But he answered every single one of Ron’s questions, even the ones Ron hadn’t planned on asking. Even the ones that hung in the air. Even the one that made him go scary, that made him run to the loo with a hand over his mouth. He came back, half a weird smile on his face, and answered it too.

And Harry found the in-betweens interesting. Found himself asking Malfoy what he did the rest of the week (“butcher Italian art in the café across the street, you should come, it’d be horrible”); who was he still in contact with (“no one, I—don’t, ah, really, ah”); where did he get that tan (“a friend of a pal from work went bungee jumping so I begged them to take me? Never regretted anything more, apart from—well”). Found himself wanting to know. And the flat always smelled like chips, and Harry was perpetually hungry, and sooner than later he found himself going on his own, without Ron and the questions drilling into Harry’s scalp, festering in his brain.

Ron said Malfoy had actually volunteered. That he didn’t have to seek him out, Malfoy approached him through the university. It made sense, in a way, with this Malfoy: the Malfoy who couldn’t shut up for the life of him, who was constantly moving and buzzing and clicking. Would be annoying, but—Harry’s brain had been kind of quiet recently, and everyone around him seemed happy enough, or at least settled, and this heaped spoonful of Malfoy was a nice change of pace. With work, boring and safe and strangely continuous, with nights at Ron and Hermione’s or babysitting a quiet Ted twice a week, with always forgetting what kind of oat milk he liked and buying the wrong mustard. With life being, well, it. Nonstop and a bit bland. Malfoy was different, Malfoy was weird, and Harry liked it.

And there was the way he laughed. Loud, deranged, a little charming, and deranged. Like he didn’t know how to laugh. The crease between his eyebrows, like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right, the bubbling, like he didn’t care. It was a nice sort of laugh. Harry kept going.

He went sofa-searching with Malfoy when his old one gave out. Said he’d help him paint a chest of drawers Malfoy found on the street, begged him to chuck it when it proved half-eaten, roared with laughter when he tried, pink-cheeked, tongue between his teeth, to make it stand on three uneven legs. It wasn’t even funny, no idea why he was laughing. Only that there were tears in his eyes, and no breath left in his chest, and that Malfoy was radiant with something warm and weird and a little off.

“What?” he cried, flopping down on the rug. “Stop laughing, Potter! Honestly!”

But Harry couldn’t, waving his arms in big, apologetic flails. “Just throw the damn thing! You’re impossible.”

Malfoy smiled, that crooked line, small and weirdly alight. “No chance. There’s some potential there, I know it. I can almost, almost see it. Don’t you think it would look terrific right there?” pointing at an empty space on the opposite wall. Most of the flat was empty. Harry didn’t mind it so much anymore.

“I think the weevils claimed it first. Sorry.”

“Oh, no. We don’t have weevils. Potter, say we don’t have weevils.”

“What? Why?” the urgency in his voice made something stick in Harry’s throat, thick and jagged. Then an oomph as Malfoy fell on top of him, covering Harry’s mouth with a hand.

“Quick! Say it! Words are magic, we can’t take the risk! You have to say we don’t have weevils, you have to say it, say it, now,” but he was laughing like a maniac, and covering Harry’s mouth anyway, so Harry couldn’t say anything, do anything but laugh too, trying to push him off. Maybe not trying too hard. “Come on, Potter, say it, why aren’t you saying it, sayyy it—”

He finally managed a shove, and Malfoy rolled to the floor, hysterical. Harry wiped his cheeks, couldn’t get this foolish grin off his face.

“You’re barking,” he whispered, and it came out appreciative, fond. “Malfoy? Still alive?” only emitting these tiny noises, choked-off giggles, eyes closed behind a shaky hand. “Hey, you okay?”

“Wonderful,” Malfoy murmured, then swallowed. Sat up, looked around himself. Loud and a bit hollow. “Are you getting hungry? Bet you I can charm Mr. Picket into two sausage suppers.”

Harry sank against the sofa, this strange feeling in his belly. Content and fuzzy. Saturated or full of static or something.

“Yeah, I could do with some food. I can pay, though. Let me pay.”

“No need. Just sit back and watch a true master at work.” With a wink, Malfoy got up, and this sudden panic in Harry’s chest alarmed him silent. He realised he didn’t want to see Malfoy leave.

What a weird fucking thought to have.

2.

It got weirder, but mostly in nice ways. Harry was spending more time in Malfoy’s crap flat than his own house, was drawing little flowers on the edge of his papers again, was laughing a lot. Teddy saw it, the two days a week they spent together. Looked up at him with that big-big smile as if in imitation. He didn’t talk much, but Harry got it, and then they got ice cream.

Work was still work, but now he had Malfoy sending him the weirdest texts throughout the day, which at least was different. Even if the office was awfully, distressingly quiet, even if Harry was a slave to his monitor. Even if he fantasised about doing something else, something nice, something more… free. When it got a little much, or when his friends all seemed too settled, when he felt like a failure for not—not liking it all enough—he went to Malfoy’s.

It was nice there. Malfoy was hectic, and deranged, and anything but settled. His café job he traded for tending bar at this dingy pub, and that for construction work for a week and a half, that for stocking shelves in a Tesco express, that for a lobster hatchery down at the docks. For a while he even got an office job, somehow by accident. Paper supplies. Harry joked that if Malfoy lasted a month, he’d buy him a new damn chest of drawers: Malfoy lasted the full month, and an extra day, just to be an arse, but he didn’t want a new chest of drawers. Made Harry buy them a curry instead. Then quit and went to work at a mechanic’s, for a delivery service, in a nightclub, at the corner shop. 

And that thing inside him, that loud thing, the restless one. Harry saw it more and more, like Malfoy forgot to be careful around him. Or like he didn’t have the energy to hide. Harry saw it linger in his eyes when he looked away, looked lost; saw it in the tilt of his shoulders when he stood, arms around himself. And Harry thought, horribly, that it might be nice to have a friend who wasn’t perfect, someone a bit more like him. Hated himself for thinking that. Didn’t stop coming over, and didn’t tell Malfoy a thing.

One time Harry came by after work to find him on the floor. In the middle of the room, curled into a ball, and he didn’t even look up when Harry entered. The door was unlocked.

“Malfoy?” worry squeezed his throat nearly shut. “Are you—what’s wrong?”

Something clearly was. Malfoy was moving all the time, was constantly buzzing and talking and sizzling, but now it was like a switch had turned off, like he was gone.

Harry came to crouch near his knees. Malfoy’s head was hiding somewhere between them. “What’s—” then stopped, because his face came up, eyes puffy and red.

“Hi.” Scratchy, like he’d been screaming.

“Hey,” Harry whispered. Found his hand sending forward, gently stroking a knee. The rips in the jeans felt rough under his fingers, felt real. 

“There should be—” Malfoy stopped to wipe his nose on a sleeve. “There’s some fish, if you’re hungry. I think. Might be yesterday’s.”

Something squirmed in his belly, not hunger. “Are you okay?” 

“Hmm? Of course. We should go. Find, ah, should get you something to eat. Something better than day-old fish.”

“What is it?”

Malfoy blinked long eyelashes, like he didn’t understand the question. “You must be hungry. You’re always hungry. They don’t even have,” sniffle, “don’t even do lunch in your office, and—”

“Malfoy.” Harry took one shaky hand in his. “Tell me what happened.”

He sucked in a breath. Looked away. “Nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. Every single morning I wake up, and I’m still me.”

“You,” Harry repeated, understanding far too close for comfort. It throbbed under his skin. “Maybe—let’s get off the floor. I’ll put on the kettle. Come on.”

This resolutely miserable line between his eyebrows, but Malfoy obeyed, got up with Harry’s hands’ gentle prompt. Followed him to the sofa, sat down when Harry gestured. Empty, he seemed empty, and still loud although he was quiet. Harry opened his mouth and closed it and opened it again and had nothing to say. Outside, sunset cleared way for night, humming orange from the streetlights.

“You shouldn’t have to,” Malfoy said to the floor, inexplicable and too low. “Shouldn’t have to be here. Not with—not for me. It’s not right.”

“Shut up,” was all Harry’s heart let him say.

“I’m serious,” as if Harry didn’t already know, from his tone, from that look on his face. “I’m not your problem. I shouldn’t be.”

“You’re not,” and he meant it too. “You’re not a problem.”

A sharp inhale. Malfoy closed his eyes, hung his head down. Chest heaving, like he wanted to say something, like he was crying, but nothing came out. He was loudest at that moment, when he was silent, when Harry was close enough to feel the trembling in his hand. Then it all stopped.

“God, I’m being ridiculous. We should go get you something to eat. Something healthy, not fried, for a change. We should, we should go.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he couldn’t think fast enough. Malfoy was already on his feet, looking anywhere but at him.

“There’s this place downtown. Fancier than, ah, but I used to wash dishes there for a bit, think I can convince—I mean, think they’d give us a decent price. If I blink pretty enough.”

There was no doubt Malfoy could convince anyone, if it half-worked on Harry. Still he came close, put his hand on Malfoy’s cheek, just to make him look. Emboldened by the warmth, by the slight gasp, Harry charged on.

“We don’t need to go anywhere. We can sit here and—talk, something, I dunno. You’re… Malfoy, you’re hurting. We can talk.”

He didn’t answer right away. Swallowed like it was an effort, blinked at Harry’s face, very fucking prettily. “I just get a little lonely sometimes,” he said. “Get a little. Ah. Stuck in my head.” Like a gut punch, but worse, because it was Malfoy, and he was so sad. And Harry liked him, he did, liked his laughter, and how deranged he was, how utterly different and still the same and how, how, how he made life less bland, how he made it brighter.

“You don’t have to be lonely. Maybe you could get a flatmate, or, something, anything.”

Malfoy titled his head, leaning into Harry’s palm. Brought a finger to tap his temple, once, twice, like he was saying something Harry couldn’t quite catch. Looked at him, just looked. Sad and so pretty.

“I get lonely too,” Harry confessed, a huge rush of it. “I get so lonely it feels like I’m choking on it, like it’s terminal.”

Malfoy’s hand twitched in the air. “You shouldn't feel lonely, Harry. Not you. Not ever.”

A beat of silence. A spark of something. Then, “Come live with me,” before he could think better of it. “You could quit the weekend shifts. Or, hell, keep them if you want. Come live with me.”

Malfoy laughed, low, like it was a joke. The edges of his eyelashes glistened. “Let’s go. If we hit tea-time rush hour, even my charm won’t…” shrugged, apologetic, and set off.

But the idea stuck in Harry’s mind. Mad and impulsive and possibly wonderful.

3.

Eventually Harry managed to wear Malfoy down—to convince him, that is, to move in. He didn’t bring a lot of things from the crappy flat: just the chest of drawers, a bunch of scratchy old records, and a pile of books. Mr. Picket tried to convince him to take more, any of the furniture, the photos on the walls, even the new sofa he's bought, all to Malfoy’s staunch refusal. “Don’t want to rely,” he started, then stopped, mouth twisting like he said something stupid. Grabbed the bin bag of his clothes and an empty tube of toothpaste and raced down to the rented van. Was silent the whole drive, buzzing at Harry’s shoulder without ever moving. But he relaxed by the time they got to the house, smiled when he saw Teddy’s drawings on the fridge door. Settled in unnervingly quick. And then they were housemates.

Oh, god, they were housemates.

This sudden existence taking space where Harry was usually quiet, usually by himself. It made everything feel more real, somehow. Less blurry. And moving in with Harry helped Malfoy too, Harry thought, released this tight line of his shoulders, rounded the sharpness of his frown. His laughter was still wild, still unhinged, and Harry liked that he could hear it more and more, and more, and more.

Work was still work. But Harry was constantly doodling on his notes, flowers and birds and trees, half-formed, disproportionate faces, big eyes with heavy eyelashes. Malfoy did the interviews with Ron a couple of times a week, and they all went to the pub together sometimes, with Ginny and Luna and Nev and the others. It was weirdly, weirdly, nice.

Malfoy was an interesting addition to the house. He worked awful hours, sometimes disappeared for days on end. He always left cups of half-drank tea everywhere, as if expecting to come back for them at some point. He insisted on buying and using a fabric softener that smelled, of all things, distinctly blue. He broke the coffee maker and always left the lights on in the hall, he chucked all of Harry’s cereal and got them Weetabix, was obsessed with fruit, mostly apples, sometimes oranges. He brought men to the house, gorgeous men who wanted to make him breakfast, who never somehow stayed. And he cleaned in the middle of the night, and monopolised the telly, and played his music far too loud and obnoxious, and Harry liked it so much he felt sick.

Most magnificent added bonus to the new living situation: Malfoy met Teddy. Or rather Teddy met Malfoy. Quiet, smiley Ted who never spoke much around Harry, who couldn’t shut up around him. As if something in Malfoy’s restless energy struck a chord, lit up something previously unknown inside him. Malfoy was baffled, spent a lot of time flushed, checking himself in the mirror, as if expecting to see someone else. Never did. And he made sure not to stay with Teddy on his own, only with Harry in the room, like he too required adult supervision. 

Autumn came as it usually did, too tight and all of a sudden. September was uneventful, but then it turned October, and Harry felt every heckle in his body rise. It didn’t help that Malfoy was so loud, that there was no escaping him. It didn’t help that he followed Harry around the house like a duckling, always asking his questions and talking about nothing at all, about everything. It didn’t help that Harry sort of wanted him there, and dreaded it.

Things were getting quite tense by the end of the month. A week before Halloween Harry came back to the whole living room covered in fabric, and Malfoy in—

“The hell is this?” Harry managed weakly. Malfoy turned around, wearing a frown and nothing but tatters of linen, wrapped distressingly loose around his torso, gallons of body glitter on his exposed skin. It looked like someone who’s never seen a mummy before had a weird sex dream. It looked comical. Also very much not.

“I got a new gig. We sell perfume, I think. Down in the shopping centre beside the game shop, the one with the troll.”

Harry grunted in recognition. “And they want you dressed like that?”

“They have this promotion, bugger if I know. The pay’s terrific.” To Harry’s scowl, not letting up: “Do you—disapprove?”

“It’s,” Harry choked, and couldn’t make himself say a word more. Everything in his head was tight and, he suspected, entirely too petty to say out loud. He wasn’t a child, and this wasn’t—shouldn’t be a problem. Malfoy could have whatever job he wanted, prance around in the most revealing non-clothes, Harry didn't care. But—

“It’s Halloween,” he admitted through his teeth. “I don’t, don’t really like it.”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

“Just don’t. Never did. I’d, erm, usually go to Sirius’s, or Ron and Hermione’s, and it was never… I mean.”

“I remember you were never around for the parties back in school. Possibly had this intention of shocking some reaction out of you, younger years. Wore some truly inspiring outfits. But that’s not really an answer, is it? What exactly is the issue I’m obviously missing here?”

“Who said there had to be an issue?”

“Your face did. Quit pouting.”

Harry didn’t pout, because he was an adult, who didn’t pout. “It’s just my face. Was born with it and everything.”

“To the general dismay of all, yes, we know. Now tell me what’s wrong or I’ll be late for my shift, and you will have to explain it to my acne-riddled, angsty teenaged boss.”

“Your boss is a teenager?” Harry frowned, and Malfoy rolled his eyes with a groan so loud it was almost funny.

“Of course she is. Are you trying to stall? Just tell me. I’m not a fucking wizard, I won’t know if you don’t—”

“My parents,” Harry said in this tiny voice he didn't even recognise. “It’s when they, er. It was the thirty-first, so, I don’t really celebrate or anything.”

Oh, god. Stupid, that was such a stupid thing to say. Harry regretted it, regretted saying anything at all in his life. Wouldn’t it be better if he'd been born mute, if he learned to keep his mouth shut and was just bloody quiet for one miserable time—

“I,” Malfoy said, and swallowed. Quiet, and also loud, in that weird, hectic way.

“Don’t,” pathetically, idiotically. “It’s fine.”

Malfoy's frown deepened. “I,” he said again, and stopped. Then: “Should have known that, actually.”

Harry rubbed his eyes till they sparked. “How would you? Not like I went and made a big deal of it. It’s not. A big deal, I mean.”

“Harry,” in this awful, low tone, possibly Malfoy's attempt at gentle. “I’m so—” hardening, hardening. “I can quit. I will. This is so silly and I never would have, ah, I'm being an absolute tosser about it anyway. No, quite right.”

The way he was standing, tall and firm and buzzing, roaring with it. “Just,” desperately, “stop, okay? I won’t even be here most of the week. Going to stay with Ron, Hermione’s out on this field research gig and—honestly, it’s fine. You don’t need to—I’m not a child.”

Malfoy made a rather horse-y sound. “That's not—” stopped once again. “All right. Fine. I’ll still quit, though. Teenage bosses in general I have no issues with, but Jenny is a bit too much for my tastes. She won’t even let me wear the nose ring. It’s basically like being in a cult.” Then snorted, a horrible, echoing sound. “Not that I’d know anything about that, would I.”

“Malfoy,” Harry tried.

“Wonderful. Truly, what am I even on about. News flash, Draco, this isn’t about you. You have… we can talk about it, if you’d like, about your parents. About all of it. I could listen.”

“No,” with this crackly, panicked laughter, “no, that’s fine. I’ll be away Thursday, so, really. I’ll see you again after—in November. Don’t quit, okay? Not for me. It doesn’t matter.”

Malfoy’s pretty nose scrunched. “What an utterly ridiculous thing to say.” Shook himself, a bit less stiff and a bit more himself. “That job wasn’t for me, anyway. I’ve already texted in my resignation.”

“What?” grinned, helpless. “When did you even have the time?”

“I’m a very prudent texter, Harry. You should know that about me. It’s what I always say when people ask: Draco Malfoy, twenty-six, prudent texter.”

This thing in his chest, the block of maybe-ice shifted, started to, not melt but, become more bearable. “You should add, arse.”

“Of course, it’s next on the list. Draco Malfoy, twenty-six, prudent texter, absolute arsehole. Unemployed but in a sexy way. Proficient in French, Latin, Hebrew, Russian and Greek, tragically underdeveloped interpersonal skills.”

"Git." Against the wall, against his better judgement: “And me? What should I tell people, if they ask?”

“Oh, that’s an easy one. Harry Potter, twenty-six, workaholic. Graceful evader. Not graceful anything else. Gifted artist but only in secret, horrible taste in tv series, best godfather, arms of a Greek god. A wanker of stellar proportions. Too big a heart.”

God, god, help him, save him from all this Malfoy all the time. The corners of his mouth ached. “I’m—hey, I’m sorry about being weird before. It’s just, the… maybe I’m just hungry or something.”

Malfoy perked up. “I made lentil soup. Heat some up for you? It’s not half bad.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” His stomach grumbled with it, or with something else. “Are you really not going to work? That’s a lot of wasted body glitter.”

Even his shrug was elegant. Was weird. “Perhaps not entirely a waste. There’s the whole night ahead of us, you know.” But he mostly just sat in front of Harry in the kitchen and made bad jokes about cutlery and shed glitter all over the chairs, the floor. It was possibly one of the best nights Harry’s had in a while. It was sort of awful.

4.

Halloween passed unremarkably like the previous one, and the one before it. Sad, a little claustrophobic, smelling mostly of Ron’s cider and stuffy old jumpers. But it passed anyway, then Harry went home, where Malfoy was back to being his normal self, meaning his weird self, meaning himself, and life went back to being it. To being winter, and slow, and a little predictable. A little not.

Harry had a small plastic tree he put up most Decembers, mostly for Teddy, but Malfoy went and got them a real one. Huge, slightly lopsided with a big broken branch at the back. It looked ridiculous in Harry’s living room. It looked perfect. They spent an entire evening throwing tinsel and lights at odd angles at it, until something stuck, until they had a gruesome red-and-green monster in their midst, so bright it made eyes tear up and breaths hitch. Until the lop-sidedness seemed like a statement, like it was on purpose, until it wasn’t even visible. Harry sort of liked it. He sort of liked it a whole lot.

Christmas itself was usually iron-clad: dinner with the Weasleys (stuffed with Molly’s Yorkshire puddings), then drinks at Andy’s cottage (plied with leftover mash and cold turkey). They’d raise a toast for all the dead people in Harry’s life: for Tonks, and for Remus, and for Sirius, and for Harry’s parents, and by the time the evening’s through, he’s normally too drunk to even stand, crashes in Andy’s spare room.

But this year he had a Malfoy to look after. To consider, at least. And what seemed very easy to begin with (it just didn’t occur to Harry that Malfoy might not be wherever he was), turned, well, complicated. The way Malfoy went so pale when Harry mentioned it, went so rigid and terrified—made it all pretty clear. Things just had to change.

He remembered that day when he found Malfoy on the floor, yellowing cards strewn all around him, sitting there all quiet and blinking. Remembered how glassy-eyed and still Malfoy had gone when the letter arrived from his dad. How he curled into a tiny ball of himself, weirdly, painfully huggable, and how he said: suppose I truly don't have, and when Harry asked what, he just shrugged. So when Malfoy argued, shoved Harry, said he was a grown man and an adult, even, that he would manage just fine, Harry just shook his head. Decided, already. That he was going to take it seriously. Take it and mean it too.

Christmas ended up a lot nicer than he’d expected. He dropped off presents at the Burrow in the morning, then a quick tea at Andy’s, where Teddy was chattering happily, practically demanded she set up a meeting. Back at the house Malfoy tried his hand with fruit cake and mulled wine, succeeded only with the wine, and they drank and laughed all afternoon until they were exhausted, until they were hoarse. Malfoy wore a hideous jumper, so tight it seemed uncomfortable, and this headband with reindeer antlers riddled with tiny golden bells. Made quite the picture like that, the edge of his nose pinked, little hiccoughs making him jump every couple of minutes, making the bells jingle.

He got Harry cologne. A really nice one, sharp and clean, probably expensive. Harry brought it up for a sniff every couple of minutes. Kept imagining a special occasion to which he would wear it, like a date, or a christening, or a date. Not that he went on any: Hermione said he’s been hiding, stuck in his house with Malfoy. Which… well. Wasn’t hiding, what he was doing. Couldn’t tell exactly what it was.

(He also got him a pack of colouring pencils from Aldi. It still had the price sticker, £2.99, and a note that just said, wanker).

They were on the sofa, late in the evening, warm on mulled wine and Malfoy’s endless chat. Malfoy’s socked feet tucked under Harry’s thighs, head tilted back, Adam’s apple strangely sharp, strangely animate. Everything about him was, buzzing and vivid and bright.

“Never have I,” hic, “ever—eaten a banana.”

Harry snorted so loud he hurt something in his throat. “Bullshit.”

“Honest to our Lord Jesus and all His angels in heaven forever Amen. Bananas are slimy and awful and I’ve no idea why anyone would—” hic. “Drink up.”

Malfoy was such a cheat, and the worst was, he was telling the absolute truth. It was only too obvious in anything he said, in that fucking face and those fucking eyes. Harry lifted his cup and took a big gulp for show.

The mulled wine was terrible. It was far too sweet and ridiculously strong. Harry’s head was spinning, and the room was warm. “Never have I ever…” biting his lip in thought. “Never been abroad. Does that count?”

“Certainly,” Malfoy tipped his head, and drank. “Never have I…”

“Wait,” Harry said. Wine and recklessness and this desire to know hot in his veins. “You have, right? Been.”

The light caught in the golden bells on his fucking antlers. He was the most ridiculous thing Harry's ever seen. “Yes. Well. Recently, that is, in the last eight years, the farthest I’ve gone was probably Ireland, for a stag do. But when I was, ah, with my,” so miserable he wasn't even hiccoughing anymore, “then a few places, yes. France. Austria. Norway, once. But I was young and quite sullen, barely even left the car, I’ve been told.”

“Can’t imagine,” Harry said into his mug.

“You'd be shocked. I had a complete meltdown to do with a bee and refused to go on a northern lights tour with my father. He was raging, but I was five, and would not budge. Threw up on purpose all over his fancy shoes. He didn’t take me anywhere for a long while after that, which we’d both considered a win.”

Harry gulped something that wasn’t quite wine and proceeded to die choking on it. When he re-emerged, and finally, when he could breathe: “I’d like to see the northern lights one day.”

“Really,” with a hint of a smile on this sharp thing Malfoy’s face was doing. “Would you also like a turn soiling my father’s clothes.”

“Fuck yeah,” Harry said, none too gently. “But the northern lights—I just think it would be, erm, sort of cool? I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Right,” Malfoy said. Not mocking, but something. Harry drank some more. “Why have you never gone, then? If you want to so much.”

“Oh, that’s not… with the, school, then Sirius and everything that—and then Teddy, and this house, mortgage, and work. I just never really had the time. And it’s a lot of money, which, y'know. I’ll go one day. When it’s… one day.”

Malfoy hummed. Opened his mouth, then closed it. Hummed again. “What else? What are Harry Potter’s one day dreams?”

“Erm…” scratching his nose, a little too tipsy and too warm for proper resistance. “One day I’ll fix the bike. The one in the shed, the old one. Sirius’s—that one. When I have the time to do it properly. Take it up north, maybe do NC-500 with it. And… maybe visiting the place where my grandpa grew up? I dunno, there’s lots. See an active volcano. Eat the spiciest dish on Spice of Life's menu. Get married, just so Ron has to give a best-man’s speech, like I had to do for his wedding, and…” stopped when the goofy smile on Malfoy’s face slipped. “What? Are they not good? Sorry, do you have better dreams?”

“Probably,” Malfoy said. Shook his head. The bells on the antlers jingled. “No, that’s not what I meant. These are—they’re all good, Harry. They're wonderful.” With a sort of sigh that felt itchy under Harry’s skin. With this tragic fucking look on his face, like Harry was the sad one between them.

Mostly as an attempt at distraction, partly because everything about Malfoy had always been interesting, always been sort of addictive and wine and warmth and yeah: “You? What are the big Malfoy's one days?”

Between his eyebrows, the never-wavering line of misery twitched. “All rubbish, I assure you. It's just the sort of life I’ve led. Apart from the one—but I fear it’s too embarrassing to admit out loud.”

“What is it?” panicking now. What could Malfoy possibly want, and why did he make this face? Was it something bad? Was it something Harry couldn’t give him?

“I don’t think you really want to know.”

“Malfoy—”

“It might change how you see me for good,” he said, so serious all of a sudden and so, so frightening. “You might never like me again. Kick me out, the whole thing, and it's not a risk I'm willing to,” so bloody ridiculous, with his jumper and his face that Harry just wanted to squish and pat and soothe and—

“What? Just tell me, you prick. Tell me and I promise I won’t… just tell me!”

A huge sigh, his whole chest caving on it. Misery, misery, misery. His feet were so warm under Harry's thigh, and he was so silly it physically ached, it was a nightmare. “One day,” Malfoy said, leaning his head back against the sofa with dull eyes directly at the ceiling, “I’m going to eat an entire banana.”

Harry laughed so hard, he'd started hiccoughing himself.

5.

Now that the holidays were over, there were other catastrophes to worry about. Andy, for example, who came down to the house, dragged by the sleeve by an overly-enthusiastic Teddy. The dreaded reunion. Malfoy had been out of his mind for hours, constantly changing his shirt, constantly checking his hair, constantly swallowing his words. Hasn’t seen anyone from his, pause, family, ever since, pause, well… and Harry so wanted to comfort him, to hold him tight and say everything was going to be okay, but. But he didn’t know. Couldn’t tell how Andy would react, could only rub Malfoy’s back and say he’ll still have a place to live and a friend in Harry, no matter what horrific consequences he was seeing in that brilliant head of his.

It went better than Harry dared hope. Andy was suspicious, Harry was anxious, Malfoy was scary-pale, but as soon as they came through the door, Teddy gave this high-pitched squeal, and ran to him. Malfoy wrapped his arms around Ted, instinctive, shoulders rising and falling in silent apology. Andy ogled, similarly flustered. Then nodded. Sent a hand out. Stared Malfoy down until he shook it, until he mumbled something loud enough for her to actually hear.

Then it went better still. Andy suggested, a few weeks later, that maybe Malfoy wanted to spend more time with Teddy. He agreed before even thinking about it, then seemingly regretted, rejoiced, regretted, and bravely accepted, all in the space of ten seconds. Fixed his ever-changing schedule so he always had Wednesdays off for Ted. Harry’s heart kept expanding, kept growing, until it became quite uncomfortable.

Everything was, actually. Uncomfortable. His skin felt too tight and his belly was always rumbling. Like he was hungry, like he was starved, and it didn’t help at all when he ate, didn’t alleviate this… weird, empty feeling inside.

Weird. Weird, weird, weird. And like anything else that was even slightly off, Harry blamed it on Malfoy.

One night Harry came back late, terrible week, got stuck at the office in a useless meeting till his eyes nearly popped out. Took the bus home with his face scrunched, the beginning of a headache simmering behind his eyebrows, miserable and tired and utterly depressed to think that tomorrow would be the same, and the day after, and the day after it.

Walked in the kitchen and had to rub his eyes. Rubbed them again for good measure. The image didn’t change; all the bowls he owned stacked one on top of the other on every available surface, counter caked with flour, fingerprints in butter on all the cupboards, and in the dead centre, Malfoy, wearing an apron and his slanted, weird smile.

“Harry!” like this was the most normal thing in the universe. “You’re back! We thought you might never return. I set out to make my grandmother’s wonderfully simple biscuits, but, alas, as you can tell, the endeavour’s not been entirely successful. Yet.”

Too many questions and not enough air. The nearly-headache swirled in blacks and golds behind his eyelids. “Malfoy,” trying to breathe it out, “what… who’s we?”

“Hmm?”

“You said we were worried. Who’s here? Is it Ginny?” because he’s going to bloody—

“Oh! No, no one's here. I meant me and Crumpet.” He picked up something small and silvery and waved it about, weird smile trickling slowly into something else, unsure. “I named him Crumpet. Hope you don’t mind.”

Harry stared and stared and still got nothing. “Is that… what is that?”

“I think they’re for serviettes,” Malfoy presented the offending object on a flour-covered palm; a tiny, dog-shaped… thing. “Possibly cutlery. There’s a set of six in the bottom drawer, I was looking for a sieve. Is that okay?”

Must have seen something in Harry’s face, because he came closer.

Harry choked on nothing. “Didn’t even know we had them. Must’ve been my parents’. Or Sirius’s, maybe. I have a lot of crap all around that I never really get to… erm.”

Malfoy’s hand did a funny little dance, like it wanted to touch him, then remembered it was covered in butter and goo. Ended up scratching his nose, leaving a fine smudge behind.

“I shouldn’t be sneaking around, using your things. I can get my own, should get my own utensils.”

“Don’t be daft,” Harry rolled his eyes, tried to get this silly fizzing in his belly to stop. “You can use anything that’s in here. I wouldn’t even know we had them if you didn’t… so that’s Crumpet, then? Did you name them all?”

Malfoy’s bottom lip was between his teeth, one pierced eyebrow hiked up. “No, not yet. We had some serious business to attend to first, Crumpet and I. The third batch is actually meant to be ready soon, so why don’t you grab a shower and come back for some—hopefully, biscuits? Worst case, Asda’s own?”

He laughed, couldn’t help it. “Third batch?”

“Ah,” did Malfoy just wink? “Such the detective, Mr. Potter. The first batch we won’t even mention, the consistency was the single most disgusting thing I’ve seen, horrifying to think I made it with my own two hands. Apparently Gran forgot to mention some pretty crucial details when relaying the recipe—that, or the ever simpler answer, my mother is a cunt.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s expression sharpened around the edges, devilish and handsome, and he ran a floury hand through his hair.

“Then came the second batch. Did you know, Harry, that baking requires absolute precision? And if, say, one was to go, ‘ah, fuck it’, then baking soda can become quite the vindictive arse?”

Harry tapped the corners of his grin. “And the flour explosion? What happened there?”

“That,” Malfoy tutted, “is the result of some poor training on my part, I’m afraid. You see, Crumpet wasn’t quite ready for all the tricks—”

“You’re not seriously going to blame a three-inch placeholder for this, are you?”

“Aha!” finger pointing up in victory. “I knew you’d know what these are! Placeholders, then. How fancy. We shall have to throw a feast to display them.”

Laughing, laughing, what else could he do, rubbing the wispy remains of a headache from his forehead. “You’re an idiot. And you’re going to clean this, Malfoy, or so help me.”

“Of course, of course,” in a tone that suggested he had absolutely no intention to, not a chance. “They are good, though. The biscuits. In theory. Mother would always make them when she knew I’d—used them as bribes, probably, to be honest. But I thought, might be nice, seeing as your week is so disgustingly busy. It’s the only one of her recipes I remember. And poorly, at that.”

Harry’s eyes were still tingling, but he could see the look on Malfoy’s face. Recognised the feeling, he thought. This weird drop in your belly when you realise how very lost something is to you.

“Hey. They better be good. I mean it, Malfoy. Crumpet and I will be very disappointed in anything less.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re now in cahoots with my three-inch placeholder pet.”

“Pretty sure Crumpet’s still my three-inch placeholder pet, ta very much.”

He gave a little bow, then came closer. “My apologies for the disrespect, Mr. Potter. Master? Sir Potter. Please accept this as token of my most genuine regret.” When he unclenched his hand, there was only a second or two to realise what was happening and try to escape. Harry didn’t.

Ended up with his face full of flour, pinched from the counter. “Malfoy!” indignant and shaky on laughter, “you fucking bastard, come back here—”

Chased him around the kitchen, like children, like idiots, tackled him behind the table to smear his face full of—caster sugar, flour, whatever he could find, and Malfoy was squirming in his hands, roaring with laughter, fighting tooth and nail to push Harry back, and when that didn’t work, to lick him away (“UGH!”), laughing, laughing, laughing.

They only let up when the timer went off. Both disgusting, breathless, and Harry was still panting when Malfoy pushed him out to the corridor, yelled at him to take a shower. Rushed back down to find the kitchen still a mess, and two cups of tea, and a trayful of cooling biscuits.

Malfoy snuck a tub of them in his work bag the next day. They really were quite good.

6.

Work was back to being work, to being normal. Harry didn’t feel as chuffed about it as he’d expected. Work was—safe, and boring, and awfully continuous, and no matter how rigidly Harry sat waiting for an emergency to shatter everything, it never came.

Strange, how it all went down. Harry’s spent years in that office, and there should be comfort in that, right? In routine. All his friends certainly thought so. (All his friends, except for one, but Malfoy wasn’t really an example for anything. Even if Harry was growing sort of obsessed with him).

It’s just, around him, everything was calming into some sort of order. Ron and Hermione were talking about having a baby, Neville took a supervisor position, Teddy was graduating from primary already, and. Harry was fairly stable too. Managed to keep his head up for a long stretch of time. Managed not to fall asleep with his eyes open. To pretend, maybe, managed to bullshit his way through, and it was fine, or at least okay, or just fucking bearable, before… Malfoy.

Malfoy, who came back sopping wet from a cruise he never planned to go on. Malfoy, who danced to the sound of the hoover, who made little paper crowns for every appliance in the kitchen, who kissed the basil in apology when he gave it too much water. Who made everything smell like vanilla extract, or his rancid fucking cigarettes, or even worse, that sharp, tangy smell of his cologne. Who was terrific, and disastrous, and full of this buzzing, buzzing, always constantly terribly buzzing, and it filled Harry’s head when he was awake, filled his dreams, filled him with this weird, warm sort of dread, was so excruciatingly perfect. Excruciating, because up close Malfoy was really fucking pretty, and when he laughed it felt like missing a step. And Harry kept thinking about it, about him, about the way his eyebrow and his nose and his lips and his—didn't know what it all meant, what to fucking do with it. Was…

Wasn’t, actually, anything, so everything was fine. Fine. Better than fine. Like the opposite of bland, an explosion of colours and feelings and flavours, of Malfoy. But he was doing a great job hiding it, he thought. He hoped. He tried.

When Malfoy came home one night, louder than usual, Harry was doing such a good job of it that he didn’t even look up from his notes. Couldn’t read a single word more, but he kept pretending. Was getting really good at pretending.

“Hey,” Malfoy said, somewhere above the buzzing. It was almost audible, nearly palpable in the air between them. “Hungry? I brought some sandwiches. Michelle was about to throw them all out, but I—oh, you’re busy. Pardon. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Words so rushed they felt sharp. Harry looked up, startled. “You alright?”

“Yes. Yes, all right. I’ll just go and make myself useful somewhere else.”

“Don’t be a git,” Harry said, bit his tongue, tapped the place next to him on the sofa. “Come sit down. What’s got you all wired up?”

Malfoy came as bid, although his knee kept jumping. “Hmm? Nothing. What are you reading? That’s pretty, the flowers. Lilies? Do you always draw—oh, what, what are you doing?”

To Harry’s hand on his knee, stilling it. “You know you can talk to me, right? If you want.”

“Like you ever talk to me,” Malfoy murmured, eyes a bit panicked. “When you’re—” then stopped, seemed to regret it. “It’s nothing. Truly. Nothing bad, I mean. I’ve had an… interaction, a strange one, and I’m just not sure what to do now.”

Something lodged in Harry’s throat, heavy and crushing. “Interaction?”

“With a man. An acquaintance. A professor, which is funny, I suppose. With me dropping out and everything.”

“An interaction,” Harry reminded him, itching to hear and dreading it at the same time. “What kind of interaction?”

“Oh. He, ah, asked me out. On a date. Came to the bakery this afternoon. Said he’d like to take me somewhere, if I’d be so inclined. Was so formal about it too. It was a little bit funny.”

“A professor,” Harry frowned. “Old?”

Malfoy smiled distractedly. “Not really. By far not, ah, not too old, no, that’s not it.”

“What is it, then? You’ve been asked out plenty of times before.” He’s seen it happen, in pubs, in restaurants, at the farmer’s market that one weekend. With Teddy in the bloody park. And all the men Malfoy brought to the house, the gorgeous men who never lasted longer than a night.

“Well, yes.” Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. “I’ve had several relationships in the past. They were all fairly crap. The men I chose. They weren’t—good.”

Harry knew that, on some level. Didn’t mean he could control the snarl, this anger inside at the thought of someone being not good to Malfoy. “And you think he’d be crap too?”

Something moved in his forehead, the resolute line of misery twitching. “No. I think he might not be crap.”

“Okay, so, what’s the—” a struggle to bring the words out. “What’s the problem?”

Malfoy turned to him, face creased in question. “That’s the problem, Harry. I think he might be all right. That he might be good. And he’s interested. In me.”

“You,” Harry agreed. Didn’t understand when Malfoy took it not as a roaring reassurance, but as a hit. Curled around himself.

“Which, obviously, ha, must point out to some severe underlying issues—"

“Not funny.”

Malfoy sighed, closed his eyes. “It started plain enough. But now he wants an actual date, he wants the effort, and you know me. I can’t deal with good. How can I…”

Harry’s hand, he discovered with a pang, was still on his knee. He could feel the warmth seeping through the fabric of Malfoy’s trousers.

“I have to say no, right? I mean. I should. It would be best if I just said no and nipped this whole thing in the bud. I should say no.”

The worst part, the absolute worst part of it, was the hopeful edge to Malfoy’s tone. Like he hoped Harry would tell him to back down, or—or encourage him. Like he needed it, needed him to step up right now, to be a good friend and not this unbearable creep that sort of wished Malfoy would stay like this, here, with him, for always.

It didn’t matter. Whatever it was Harry wanted, this thing he couldn’t even put into words, it didn’t matter. Malfoy’s brittle, careful look—Harry coughed himself to near death and forced the words out. “You like him, don’t you?”

He flinched. “I hardly know him. Only met him once, twice, well, three times. And he’s a prat. And too handsome. Might, ah, trigger something, you know how my self-worth is entirely reliant on—” he shut up when Harry’s hand moved from knee to thigh.

“You like him,” Harry repeated, like it didn’t bother him at all. “And you think he might not be crap. I think you should go for it.”

“Go for it,” Malfoy said, disgusted. “Go for it. Like it’s ever going to be that easy.”

“What’s making it hard? You have his number, yeah?”

“Yes,” a hiss.

“Well?”

Malfoy sat silent for a beat, and another, and another, face twisting, before—head dropping on Harry’s shoulder.

“Fine. All right. I’ll send a bloody text and we’ll go on a bloody date and it will be bloody wonderful, and you will have to scrape me off the floor when I inevitably fuck it up. It may get real ugly, Potter. I can be really fucking ugly sometimes.”

Harry made himself smile. “It might also be good. And you know I’ll be here, if you need. If it gets bad. I’ll be here.”

“I don’t want you to be,” Malfoy murmured, half to himself. “It’s not… I don’t want to be your problem.”

“You’re not,” Harry said, and meant it from the bottom of his confused, stupid little heart.

7.

Harry told himself it’d be all right when Malfoy curled on the sofa next to him, mobile in hand, face scrunched on a frown and his mouth moving, like he was trying out the words in his head. He told himself it’d be okay when Malfoy paced the room, waiting for a reply—stopped for a ping, breathless—commenced the pacing, a thousand percent more hectic. Told himself it was absolutely fine when Malfoy spent the entire day on pins and needles, when he stood in front of the mirror for an hour and a half, when he used all the hot water on a shower. When he came out of his bedroom, hair slightly tousled, tight jeans with the rips Harry’s fingertips still remembered, with that look on his face.

It was going to be fine. Even if Harry’s heart was doing this panicky little dance in his chest. Whatever the hell he had for Malfoy was nothing, small and meaningless and coincidental and small. Far more important was this giddy excitement in Malfoy's eyes before the Prat picked him up. He seemed louder, but in a quiet sort of way. Still very nervous, so Harry took his hand, squeezed it. Told him, and himself, out loud three times, how everything was going to be absolutely fine.

Then the Prat arrived, smiled at Harry all benevolent-like. A lot younger than he thought, and as handsome as Malfoy threatened, and sort of nice. He shook Harry’s hand, and Harry… didn’t hate him, but… it came close. Then they left, for Thai food or something lovely or other, and Harry was alone, in the house, left to stew.

And stewed, and stewed, and nearly fell asleep, and stewed. Didn’t even know what he’s huffing about. He and Malfoy were friends, for god's sake.

Still. Stewed. Till midnight and the door opening and Malfoy, flushed-cheeked and loud.

They had a brilliant date, he said. Looking anywhere but at Harry. Prat took him to a museum, gave a lecture on impressionism, probably, Harry didn’t ask for details. They walked for hours till all the restaurants had closed, then got kebabs from the takeaway place down the street (Malfoy’s hand came up to wipe invisible tahini from the corner of his mouth as he told him, this dreamy look on his face). Then like shutters had closed: never mind. Probably won’t see him again. Blinked very fucking prettily until he was smiling. And what did Harry have for his tea?

But he did see him again. And again, and again, and again. The man really was a prat: he was pernickety, and condescending, and a real, actual prat. But he did think Malfoy was the cat’s pyjamas, did look at him like he hung the moon, like he was a revelation. And Malfoy, who didn’t hang the moon, last time Harry checked, and who didn’t wear pyjamas to bed (Harry once—never mind, it was creepy and purely by accident)—Malfoy who really was a revelation, he deserved that. To be adored. So Harry bit down all his harsh words and his worries and his objections, and concentrated on being a good friend. Like Malfoy needed him to be.

It wasn’t tragic that Malfoy didn’t need him so much anymore. Was a relief, mostly, probably. Cleared so much time Harry didn’t realise he’d spent on, with, him. So, yeah. Good.

Malfoy came back one day in spring with a bouquet of flowers larger than his head. “Robert,” he shrugged in apology, or in explanation, and checked it against every vase in the house, found that none fit. “Oh, this is ridiculous. Truly. Where does he think I live, in a manor or something, ha ha?”

Harry didn’t laugh. “Good day?”

“Pleasing enough, yes, and yours?” Malfoy tried to hide his beaming face behind a table. Then gave up, twirled on the spot, and crashed down next to Harry on the sofa, eyes big. “Harry, he’s—wonderful.”

“What a surprise,” failing the attempt at not-bitterly. “It’s only been, what, two months?”

“And a half. Apparently we celebrate those. Isn’t it outrageous? Who celebrates half of anything? I told Robert he’s the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met. The bastard just laughed and gave me this.” A shrug towards the flowers. Harry’s cheeks felt hot, unbearable.

“So it’s going well. With him.” As if he didn’t know, didn’t hear in excruciating detail every last thing Robert did. Somehow it wasn’t enough; for whatever sick, sick reason, he needed to know more. Like tonguing a painful tooth and prodding a scab, he needed to know everything about Robert, about Malfoy, about them.

“It’s going passably well, yes,” with a demure flutter of eyelids so put-on it was almost funny. Harry nearly managed a smile. “No, it really is. I can’t thank you enough for convincing me to go for it. I never would have… but he’s terrific, and somehow he hasn’t found out yet what an absolute wretch I am, so.” Winked. Serious, though.

“You’re not a wretch,” Harry said, angry all of a sudden. Tried to swallow it.

Malfoy titled his pretty face to the side. Gave him a look, and his mouth twisted. “What is it? Your boss again? Don’t tell me he wants you to work another weekend.”

“What?” blinked for so long he felt near-catatonic. “No. It’s not—it’s nothing. I’m fine. Where did you and Robert go?”

“The botanical gardens. It was gorgeous. Why are you pouting? You must tell me right away, or I won’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” Harry said. “There’s nothing to fix,” corrected.

“Right. Right, because you’re fine.”

Did manage a thin, reedy smile. “Exactly. Did you have lunch at the gardens?”

“No, we…” Malfoy's bottom lip disappeared between his teeth, “this Italian place. His suggestion. Supposedly had great reviews, but honestly it was a little pretentious and I’ve had better lasagnes before. Robert did order a ridiculously-expensive bottle of wine, which I had to drink mostly on my own, seeing as he drove. Why is your face doing that?”

“My face isn’t doing anything,” Harry said with some difficulty. “So you ordered lasagne?”

“No, he did. He let me share, although he needn’t have bothered, it wasn’t great. My pasta was decent enough. I brought some back, if you’re hungry.” Then, brightening: “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Harry said, wasn’t sure. “Maybe. I don’t want your pasta.”

Malfoy made a face, like he was insulted, and Harry’s heart went wild in his chest—then he rolled his eyes, went back to smiling. “I can make you a cheese toastie, if you’d rather. Simple classics are often better than some pretentious dish from a fancy restaurant. Something I’d learned, what, only five-hundred times in this life?”

He did make a great toastie. Harry wanted it so much his mouth watered. “No,” he still said, and heard his own tone with some hard disbelief, “no, I mean, it’s fine, I’m not hungry. Maybe later. Why are your toasties so much better than mine?”

“A secret I’ll take to my grave,” and he was serious, too. Harry’s chest was too tight for whatever was happening in there.

“So you’ve had a. A good time. Today, with Robert, it was good.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said quietly. His feet came up on the sofa (mismatched socks, what a fucking surprise, one blue and ankle-length and the other bright green, nearly up to his knee). “It was… the gardens are brilliant, and lunch was great, and Robert is fantastic. I have no idea what he sees in me.”

Harry snorted, and looked. Saw: Malfoy, chin resting on his knees. With the choker and the piercings, the long hair, frizzy, with the odd socks, the tight jeans with the rips, an excuse for a shirt that revealed too much, too-pale skin. With his eyes, huge, with his lips, thin, with his cheeks, sharp.

No, he absolutely did see.

“Maybe I’m getting a little hungry after all.” Not as a concession. Just, a truth, something he’s worked too hard to bury only to find it wasn’t really required. He could say it out loud and there’d be no scoffing, no punishment, there’d be nothing. Bar for maybe a cheese toastie. “Do you think—”

“On it,” Malfoy jumped to his feet, gave a huge stretch, infuriatingly cat-like. “Won’t be ten minutes. Would you, ah, do you think you could—” eyes back to the flowers, sitting on the table in a huge heap.

“Sure,” Harry said with something so bitter and so hard in his throat he nearly gagged. “No, I’ll… maybe separate it to a few vases? I’ll figure it out.”

“Never doubted you will,” Malfoy said, strangely warm.

Harry had never been less certain, about anything, in his life.

8.

Spring stretched until it was unbearable, until it was summer. Harry got a major case at work, and spent a lot of time in his office. A lot of time at Ron and Hermione’s. A lot of time with Teddy and Andy in their cottage: anywhere that offered a bit of relief, a bit of escape. Then every night he went back home to an onslaught of Malfoy, of radiant, of buzzing, buzzing.

Malfoy was Malfoy, was a whirlwind, a hurricane, a natural disaster and a distraction and a magnetic force. He cooked and baked and sang, he danced and shouted and cried, he broke all the glasses in the house and spilled red wine on the carpet, he spent whole evenings staring into nothing in silence. Curled into himself, small. Harry would wrap him up in a blanket and sit next to him, and wish, and wish, and wish. It was sort of lovely. It was heartache.

Summer was hot, was nice. They took Teddy to the beach one weekend, with Ron and Hermione and Robert. It was such a disaster, Harry couldn’t wait to do it again: shivered a bit every time he smelled sunscreen, thought of Malfoy in his hilariously-short shorts and the honestly staggering expanse of leg that stretched, free, for miles in the sand.

His doodling became a bit psychotic. A lot of shapes he had no name for, and a lot of eyes. From all his colourful pencils he only used the black and white, and the eyes were always grey: always frightening, like he recognised them from somewhere. Refused to find meaning in that. Refused, refused, refused.

They celebrated Malfoy’s birthday at the pub with everyone (even Luna came from Norway): he wore a paper hat the whole night and didn’t smile even once. Seemed a bit startled, like a prey animal caught. Harry took pity, then took him (and Robert) to the chip shop next door, to escape for a bit. Malfoy breathed for the first time when they got their order, and was his normal self by the end of the night.

Harry’s birthday was even weirder. They threw a small party at Ron and Hermione’s house, and everyone came (Luna stayed in the country, and even Oli took the train down from Glasgow). Malfoy smiled so radiantly, he was mesmerising: singing and topping up drinks, shouting and shoving people to dance, being an absolute menace the whole night. Harry was the one who needed rescuing then, and Malfoy delivered: took him to the roof, where Ron said they really shouldn’t go, and fed him beer after beer till his heart stopped hammering in his chest. It ended up a really good night, somehow.

And then… and then. More days, pretty much more of the same. Malfoy changed three jobs in a week, then kept the same one for two months. Kept seeing Robert, and it kept going well. Good, Harry thought, very good, overall, even terrific. He deserved to be happy. More than anything intangible in Harry’s future, he discovered he wanted this: Malfoy, happy.  

Alone in the house tonight. Harry took another bite, pasta, he’s been trying to cook more. Malfoy was always so pleased when Harry was well-fed, always badgered him about it. But he never really learned how to cook, never enjoyed it either, and it didn't feel the same, doing it himself. Didn't like how pathetic that felt. Didn't acknowledge it, half on purpose.

Then Malfoy came back, usual buzzing heightened by a hundred, bouncing on tip-toes, hands fisted at his sides. Harry couldn’t swallow anymore.

“What’s up?” careful.

“Hi, Harry. Yes, a good evening. What? Excuse me. What?”

Took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“Pardon? No, no, nothing. I have, ah, I’ve just been to Ronald’s. He had some good questions for me. Truly remarkable ones. Such a, ah, such a good researcher. Creative and, exhausting.”

“Exhausting?”

Malfoy blinked. Still pretty, even when it was slightly manic. “Hmm? I mean exhaustive. Very exhaustive. Did he tell you, he’s won that award, the fancy one. He’s very good. I’m very lucky to, ah, to have the opportunity to, to take part in.” Sentence hanging unfinished, although he didn’t seem to notice. Blinking and blinking. “Robert wants to take me to France. Has to go for a couple of days, this convention. He wants to bring me. Make a holiday of it.”

“That sounds… nice.”

“Nice,” Malfoy laughed. Closed his eyes, and the buzzing intensified, went super-sonic. “Nice. Oh, it will be grand. We could walk around fields of lavender and drink brilliant wine and he would have to figure out all on his own what a spectacular piece of shit I am. And there’ll be no-place to hide, no-one to blame, only me, always fucking me, it always has to be—”

Didn’t realise he was on his feet before making contact, before his hand took Malfoy’s chin. Fear rushing through him, urgent and hot and freezing cold. “Maybe you should… maybe you shouldn’t do this thing anymore. With Ron, the interviews. If it makes you feel—” stopped when he saw the look on Malfoy’s face. Actual disgust. Made him take a step back, made him falter.

“Fuck you,” Malfoy ground out. “Fuck you, Harry. Do you think I need Ron’s questions to remind me what I am? Do you think I don’t already know, that I don’t always know it, that it isn’t always—” stopped himself, looked away. Torpedo-speed panting breaths, blinking, blinking. “You were the one who said. How important it was. To have it all out there, how it could help, how I could help. But you think I’m such a coward, still, that I can’t even face—no, that’s not it. You never got it. I’ve always been fucked up, far before Riddle, before everything that, everything that happened. Everything I did. And no matter how much you want to, there’s not a thing you can do or say that will magically fix—”

Stopped with a groan, buried his face in his hands. Harry’s heart was rampant in his chest, threatening to choke him. “Words are magic,” he said, stupidly. “Words are magic, remember?”

“What?” anger brought Malfoy’s head back up. “What?”

“You said. That words are magic. That we… Malfoy, I know that there’s a lot, that it’s shit. I’m not trying to fix it, I don’t know how. I wish I did. But I don’t think you’re a coward, not for a long time now, and you’re not fucked up. Or, maybe you are a little, but you’re also wonderful. Truly, just, so, so wonderful.”

Silence. It reverberated in the air, pressed on his eardrums. The way Malfoy was quiet and loud at the same time. Harry expected some shouting, a hit, something angry and sharp, but Malfoy just closed his eyes, sagged into himself. Powerless and tired and buzzing.

“Why don’t you ever make it easy,” he said to his hands, accusatory. “You should hate me. Why don’t you just hate me? This is so much worse.”

“Sorry,” Harry croaked.

“Sorry.” Crouched into himself like he was imagining a shell, like he was trying to hide. “Now you’re sorry. Terrific. Great fucking job, Draco.”

Harry coughed around the splinters in his throat. “D’you want some tea? Anything? There’s pasta, but it’s not very good.”

He frowned at the remains of Harry’s plate. “Thank you, no. I could make—better yet, I could get someone who’s actually worth a damn to cook for you. Antonin is always on me to come try his new place. Get dressed, we’re going.”

So sudden, but Harry half-expected it. “I’m not hungry. Why don’t we sit down and, er…” you let me take care of you this time, he wasn’t brave enough to say. Malfoy seemed to hear it all the same, and grit his teeth in protest.

“Antonin's, then. It’s supposed to be this modern take on French cuisine, but…” a flash of hurt on his face, and Harry winced in sympathy.

“You don’t have to go. To France, I mean. You don’t have to if you don’t want. But, if you kind of do, then it could be…”

“Wonderful,” Malfoy said. Dry. Harry made himself nod.

“Could be fun, yeah. You could do with a break. Might be good for you.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything, but as they got in their shoes Harry thought he heard him mumble under his breath. All he caught was the word good, huffed, like it was an insult. All he knew was that he didn’t hate him, far from it. That he might actually sort of, erm, maybe loved him.

Shit.

9.

Malfoy went to France, and sent Harry photos of the hotel and lovely vineyards and himself in a sun hat, and Harry—

Realised he had a problem, yeah, a big one. Thankfully, he was well used to accepting his due with grace by now. Shouldering it and carrying on. Being a good boy, a big boy, a whatever. Pain ebbed and flowed and it was mostly great, because he got to have Malfoy around, because Malfoy was magnificent and a bit of a revelation and the strings that kept him so tightly wound kept loosening, and loosening, and loosening.

But there was no denying that everything around him was becoming tasteless. Between work and babysitting and failing at cooking and seeing his friends, Harry always found himself alone in the house, crunching on Malfoy’s Weetabix (didn’t even like the damn thing). Wishing—nothing, wishing for nothing. Withdrawing from anything that required even the tinies modicum of commitment. Ron told him he’s being a dick, which was probably true. That he should go out more, put himself out there. But he couldn’t force himself to go on date after useless date, not when everything he wanted was one door down, naked under a thick duvet, sighing tiny little sounds in his sleep.

(Harry wasn’t actively listening, but the walls were thin, and his heart felt like someone pressed it to a metal grater, shredded small-smaller-smallest every five damn minutes.)

It ached. It was brilliant. It was: sitting in uncomfortable chairs in Robert’s garden, closing his eyes and just listening, to the sound of birds, to the wind in the grass, to Malfoy babbling in light speed about spiders, or ants, or something. Breathing it in. Swallowing a smile.

It was: bringing in take-outs, plastic bag shrivelled with rain, getting yelled at about catching his death. Sipping piping-hot soup or having biscuits by the fire, watching the odd glint of it on Malfoy’s skin, on the ever-sharp point of his Adam’s apple. Breathing it out. Trying not to cry.

It was: waking up in the middle of the night, alarmed by the thumping of his heart in his ears. Sliding all the way to the kitchen, where a cup of half-drank tea stood in silent, sullen company, till he felt he could breathe again. The pad of socked feet, a flash of light: “Harry? What are you doing up?” sitting on the kitchen floor with a packet of crisps. Breathing it in. Choking on gratefulness.

It was: spending the end of October in the house, with Ron and Hermione and Malfoy. The smell of old jumpers he refused to throw, the perpetual sting in the bottom of his throat, in his eyes. Being handed mug after mug of tea, and biscuits and cakes he couldn’t hope to swallow, Malfoy’s long fingers in his hair. Breathing it out. Splintering with relief. 

It was: Christmas at the Burrow, missing something, then at the cottage, missing something, then drinks at Robert’s place, missing it even worse now that it was on the tip of his tongue. And Malfoy with the antlers, the jingling fucking antlers, swinging his head from side to side and laughing that deranged, brilliant laugh, just laughing, laughing, laughing. Watching him, wide-eyed and grated so thin. Not managing a breath. Not managing at all.

And it was only getting worse, only getting worse. In the evenings, wordless in front of the telly, high on his citrussy cologne. Every Wednesday, watching Ted leave and the look on Malfoy’s face. Early mornings, before and after coffee, Malfoy’s lips open on a yawn, gleaning the faintest hint inside—yeah, yeah, Harry knew he’s going mad, didn’t know what to do about it. Realised he had to do something.

But what he had now was too important. To lose the easy way Malfoy greeted him after work, his laughter from the other room when Harry was trying to concentrate, damn it, the irritated huffs and the—all of it, even the sharp sting of wanting, even the bright pain of it, blooming every time Malfoy said Robert or, once, got a delivery of flowers that left him frazzled and stuttering the whole day. Harry couldn’t risk losing all that, not even if. The grater. Shredding his own heart in tinier and tinier bits. Harry was trying, and Malfoy was—happy. That’s all that mattered.

He did seem it. Happy. Quieter, in a weird way: still rambling a thousand miles an hour, still buzzing, less frantic about it. And Harry thought to himself, miserably, that if Robert really made such a difference, then he was glad for it. For him. That he would just have to adjust and adapt and maybe at some point he would even be all right with it. Take it and shoulder it and all that crap. That he would make himself all right with it.

Then Malfoy dumped the prat.

No: then Malfoy dumped the prat, and everything became infinitely worse. Because now that Robert was no longer the problem, Harry found that maybe… maybe he was.

Couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe when he thought about it, and all he ever did was think about it. At work, scribbling mindlessly on every piece of paper; with Teddy, shuffling his feet; in the pub, staring at his pint, not getting it, not getting it. Suppose the question was: why wasn’t he making a move? Now that he finally could. Couldn’t—discovered himself paralysed.

Maybe he liked the hurt of it more than he liked Malfoy?

What an utterly idiotic thought to have.

And Malfoy—fuck, Malfoy was beautiful. Laughing a lot more, moving a lot more, hectic and deranged and marvellous. Harry wondered if anyone ever died of loving somebody this much: this much, this volcano, this earthquake of it in his chest.

Harry wanted him so badly. Wanted everything. Mostly just wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t know how.

Didn’t know how. The days passed. It was a nightmare. It was wonderful.