Chapter Text
Harry Potter wore nappies to bed until he was seven years old. After washing the dishes from their tea, Aunt Petunia would lock him in his cupboard until it was time to prepare breakfast the next morning. Most nights he woke before he wet himself, and stayed awake, his hands rubbing the sharp pain in his belly, listening for the rasp of the old bolt turning in the lock at 6 o’clock. But sometimes, Harry woke after. In the years since he learned that he was a wizard, Harry often wondered why his wild magic hadn’t protected him on those nights when he didn’t jolt himself awake, why his magic hadn’t kept him safe and warm and dry.
* * *
Grimmauld Place
I last an hour at the party, before I escape to the balcony. My knees feel liquid, and I sit on the narrow floor lest I collapse. I’ve not done as well as I’d hoped.
I’m hot all over despite the chilly weather, my breaths are coming out ragged, as if I’ve run a long distance, and there’s a tremor in my hands. I’d convinced myself that I was ready to see everyone again, that it wouldn’t be so different from hearing stories about my old schoolmates from Hermione and Ron. Never mind that I haven’t really been a part of the Wizarding world for ten years. Never mind that I had to wear my invisibility cloak on Platform 9 ¾ just to see Teddy off to Hogwarts in September.
I press my forehead against the wrought iron railing, hard enough to hurt, to hopefully disrupt my body’s reaction to being around so many people. So many wizards. I’ve nothing against Muggles, and actually quite like the press of a crowd of anonymous bodies against mine—on the tube at rush hour, in a club, on busy London streets—as long as they don’t know who I am. But the thought of going back into that room full of wizards makes the sweat run down my sides. I roll the cool heel of my bottle of lager against my neck, and focus on the people in the street below. I’m not sure how long I zone out, but when I come to, the bottle has turned warm, and the Muggles on Grimmauld have shifted from the after-work-harried to the pub-going-jovial.
By some people’s standards, the fact that I’m hiding on this balcony instead of celebrating with Hermione makes me undeserving of the title of Best Friend and Flatmate, and they’re probably right. I’m the last person to explain why Hermione has stuck with me all these years, but, whatever my failings, Hermione knows that I’m happy for her. We’re family, for better or worse. I might have to take her word for it that publishing a patent for a medical potion in Wand & Bone is a very big deal, but tonight I’ve let the world I tried to escape into my home. And Hermione understands how hard that is for me. After all, she’s lived here with me, in virtual isolation, for ten years and never questioned my need for privacy.
But I was wrong to tell her that I was ready to attend this party. I should have made myself scarce tonight. In the drawing room, I’d stood in the corner, using the ancient gramophone sitting atop an IKEA side table as a shield. Instead of greeting Hermione’s guests, I watched the gramophone’s Charmed crank turn slowly on its hinge until I couldn’t tell if I was dizzy from its lazy rotation or my own anxiety. Hermione must have warned everyone to keep their distance, because Padma had been the only person to approach me. Normally, she’s one of the only friends that Hermione brings round, and she’s almost as socially inept as I am, so I’m all right with her saying hello. Her hellos are always somewhat stern, perfunctory, as if she’s reminding herself to observe the social niceties rather than actually ascertaining how I am. She expects nothing from me, so I try my best.
There’s a proper English drizzle going, and though the Impervious Hermione cast on the balcony keeps me dry, I’ve been away from the stress of the party long enough to have developed a chill. I pull on my sweatshirt and flip up its hood. I swig my now-warm beer until the bottle’s empty.
My head jerks up as the drawing room’s French window is pushed open. I draw my knees to my chest to evade the frame as it swings out. Sounds of party chatter, laughter, and the Muggle record playing on the gramophone momentarily burst my quiet. I watch as Draco Malfoy squeezes onto the balcony, closing the window behind him. He looks a bit startled when he turns around and finds me already here, but the surprise is only there for a moment, before he schools his features into neutrality and stiffens his back.
“Oh, hello, Potter.”
Though he, Padma, and Hermione are research fellows in the Experimental Potions department at St Mungo’s, and have been for two years, Draco, unlike Padma, I’ve managed to avoid until tonight. It’s nothing personal, contrary to what he probably believes. He’s at Grimmauld tonight, because, though all the guests are here for Hermione, this party is really in celebration of their joint success. They wrote and published the patent for a cheaper, easy to brew version of Wolfsbane together.
“Draco.”
I take pleasure in the way his cheek twitches at my use of his first name. The fact that I feel anything besides anxiety is a surprise, and my heart beats a little faster in response.
He clears his throat. “I apologise,” he says. “I won’t intrude on your solitude for long, but I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I have to hear about Padma’s asphodel monograph one more time.”
I shrug, like his presence or lack thereof doesn’t matter to me. It hurts me a little bit not to smile when I see him twitch again. In truth, I’m curious, because the Draco Malfoy I knew in school would never bite his tongue for fear of offending someone. Of course, Hermione’s made sure that I know he’s not the same prat, but now I’m seeing the evidence for myself. I find that there’s a fair amount of annoyance mixed in with the intrigue, because the reality that Draco Malfoy’s done so well for himself in our post-war world, and I, well, I have not—it smarts.
I covertly study him as he leans his arse against the railing opposite me. I’ve seen pictures of him and Hermione at awards dinners and Ministry functions, but this is the first time since the trials, when I testified for him and his mother, that I’ve been up close. He’s so changed that I hardly recognise him, and I’m just the same scrawny boy, though I’m a man now. He was always taller than me, but wispy, almost delicate. Now his shoulders are broad, arms and legs thick. Even his face has changed, and where once his chin was sharp and pointed and his jaw smooth, now it’s squared.
I wonder if it’s magic. How else can a person change so much in just a handful of years? I doubt I’d recognise him if it weren’t for the platinum hair and cloudy grey eyes.
It does not escape my notice that he looks a lot like my last boyfriend, Carl. Except Carl was a Muggle layabout who never had enough dosh for a pint, and Draco Malfoy is a Potions prodigy, etc., etc.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “To hear Hermione tell it, Padma’s work on asphodel is riveting stuff. According to her, it’ll be flying off the shelves.” Of course, Hermione’s not said one word to me about Padma’s most likely boring as fuck scholarship.
“Well, you would know more about books flying off of shelves than I.”
I decide to play along, though I’m annoyed at Hermione for telling him that I work in a Muggle bookshop, and wonder what else she’s said about me.
“That’s right,” I say. “I am the expert on flying books.”
“Now that’s a monograph I’d like to read.” He gives me a smile that’s a bit cheeky. It’s a handsome smile, and it’s doing something funny to my chest. I’m getting that feeling again, like I’ve been running and can’t catch my breath, except, this time, it’s not entirely bad.
“I could use another drink,” I say, but make no move to get up. He looks a bit confused, as though he’s not sure if I expect him to get me another. He shifts forward, stepping away from the railing.
“Do you dance?” I ask. I’m not sure where the question came from, whether I’m fucking with him or fucking with myself.
“Pardon?”
“I asked if you dance.”
Draco presses his lips together, and he seems to be considering me. I wonder how far off the Harry Potter he sees before him is from the version of me he’s imagined. How is a hero supposed to look ten years down the line? Stalwart? Clean cut? I look more like an underfed punk who hangs about on street corners bumming fags, though I’ve been told I have my merits. I glance down at my body, at the ratty hoodie and the old denims, a pair of Dudley’s upon which I’ve applied several shrinking charms until they cling to my bum and skinny thighs. I don’t have to wear Dudley’s castoffs anymore, but I’ve kept them with me as mementos, as a reminder that I come from somewhere. Is that what Draco sees, a castoff, a castaway from both the Muggle and the Wizarding world? Not at home in either.
More likely, Draco probably never thinks of me at all. I frown.
“I had dance lessons as a child,” he says.
“I’m not talking about the foxtrot.”
“That’s good, because Muggle dances weren’t exactly a part of Madam Villere’s repertoire.”
“Fine, then the Centaur Swing,” I say with a half a laugh.
“Well, that certainly doesn’t sound like a dance befitting a gentleman.”
“Who said anything about gentlemen?”
He studies me for a moment, and I guess he decides to keep our game going.
“I suppose I could use another drink,” he says, though he came out here empty handed.
I hop up, tossing my bottle over the railing. Hermione’s placed a charm around the house and front porch to banish empties.
“So we’re in agreement?” I say.
“I’m not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to,” he says, which isn’t exactly a no.
I can’t help but smile at him, even as a curl of dread unfurls in my belly. I feel fucked up, though I’ve only had the one lager.
“I want to go to a Muggle club.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You can buy me a drink. And maybe I’ll teach you the Centaur Swing.”
“I’m hardly dressed for a club.”
“I can fix that. Do you trust me?”
“Trust you?”
I can’t quite read his expression, but I’ll admit that the idea of trust between us is laughable. Though we have saved each other’s lives, and maybe that counts for something.
“To transfigure your jumper,” I say.
“I like this jumper.”
It is a nice jumper, but I don’t tell him that. I just wait for him to respond.
He sighs, nodding his head.
I reach out my hand, grab the soft knit of his sleeve between my fingers. I do like the baby blue colour, because it makes his overcast eyes a little brighter, so, as I push my magic from my gut, down my arm, collect it in my palm, I picture him in a blue-jumper-coloured tee shirt, tight around his biceps and strong chest. When I blink, he’s standing before me, tee-shirted and looking shocked. I know I’m showing off with my wandless magic, and it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t do magic, because I do, but usually it’s in private, or only around Hermione and Teddy. Performing this simple transfiguration in front of him—for him—makes me feel a bit giddy, like that shaky feeling I get when I’m hungry and can’t stop my body’s fluttering. I can taste the spell on my tongue, sweet and sparkling. I want more. Nothing’s happened, and, already, I’m fucked up. Why him? Why him? Fucking, why him?
I swallow the laugh I feel building in my throat, because this might be the first time that Draco Malfoy has ever worn a tee shirt, and he still looks like he has a stick up his posh chino-covered arse. He’s definitely not club appropriate, but at least I’m getting a look at his muscles.
It takes him a moment of goggling at my magic hands before he realises that his arm is exposed, and his right palm slaps over the Mark on his left forearm.
“Relax,” I say. “Muggles don’t care. In fact, where we’re going, you’ll fit right in.”
It gives me a perverse pleasure to pretend like his Mark, his crimes, his suffering under Voldemort mean nothing, when, in fact, they mean everything to me, the boy who never got over the war. When I know, because Hermione’s told me again and again, how hard it still is for him, how no matter how many accolades he receives from Mungo’s or the Ministry, people still spit on him in the street and send him cursed mail. We’re playing a game, but I don’t know what my objective is. I think that I vaguely want to hurt him, or maybe I want him to hurt me. And fuck me. Obviously. What happens after that is anyone’s game.
I unzip my hoodie, shrug it off, and drop it to the ground. I hold out my right arm, which is wrapped in black line tattoos of blooming roses. I’m wearing an old black tee shirt with the sleeves cut off, and the tattoos run all the way up my skinny arm to the closed bud of a blush-red rose on my shoulder, seemingly painted in watercolour rather than pierced into my skin. I twist my arm back and forth, as if to say, See, we match.
“Side-along?” I ask.
He looks down at his own arm, and I can’t help follow his gaze to the still-black tattoo. I suppose it’s ugly, but I realise that I feel neither disgust nor fear when I look at it.
“Nobody there will care,” I say again. I’m not sure whether I’m including myself in that statement.
He takes a deep breath, steps toward me. He grabs the soft flesh of my bicep, and I’m surprised that his hand is clammy.
“I care,” I hear him say, just a moment before I picture in my mind’s eye the alley three streets over from the club, just before I feel the press of Apparition, the iron bands around my chest.
The Dragon’s Arms
He steps away from me as soon as we land in the dark throat of the alley. I lead him to the street, and we walk the three blocks in bustling Soho in silence. Standing in front of The Dragon’s Arms, the thump of the music coursing through my body is electrifying, like I haven’t entirely lost the giddy rush of feelings that talking with Draco on the balcony brought out. I bounce on the balls of my feet and glance at Draco, who’s taking in the sign over the door, a giant, blinking neon green dragon breathing rainbow flames.
“I can’t figure out,” Draco says, “if this is some kind of very elaborate joke at my expense.”
“You got me. I’ve colluded with all of these Muggles to open a club just to make fun of you.” I laugh, because I did choose The Dragon’s Arms at least in part because of its serendipitous name. My eyes drift back to the glowing sign, and I’m suddenly feeling a lot less mirthful. The Dragon’s Arms belongs to a tender part of me, a part that, inconceivably, I want to uncover and show Draco. I turn toward him, unsure how to communicate that by bringing him here, I am sharing something that I’ve not given any other wizard. I realise that whatever game I thought I was playing has very quickly got out of my hands, except for the fact that maybe I’m toying with myself. “This was the first club I ever went to when I was eighteen,” I say. “Just after the—After.”
Draco swings his gaze towards me, and the look in his eyes is intense, scrutinizing.
“I’ve not been here in a few years. I guess your name reminded me of it.” I give him a sheepish smile. “Come on.” I push at his shoulder, and hold my palm there a moment longer than I probably should.
We pass through a hallway of orange flames. It must be Draco’s presence, because the walkway never reminded me of the burning Room of Requirement before, but it does now. Looking at his stiff back, I wonder if he’s thinking about that night too, but his uptight posture isn’t all that different from what I observed earlier on the balcony and what I remember about him from school. I bustle him along to the club proper, where, thankfully, the decorators mostly forgot about the dragon theme. We make our way to the bar, and I order us each a beer. I don’t bother asking Draco what he wants, because I don’t know if he’s familiar with Muggle drinks. I reach for my wallet, and Draco touches my wrist, just for a moment before he removes his hand.
“I thought I was buying the drinks?” he says.
I lean closer to him, so as not to be heard. “Do you have any Muggle money?”
“I have a credit card.”
I raise my eyebrows. There’s an entire story behind that one sentence, but I let it go for now. “Next round, then,” I say.
He frowns, and I notice that his bottom lip is very full, but pale—almost the colour of his milky skin—but then he nods, and I hand him a bottle of ale and a beermat decorated with a spiral of rainbow flames. I point him toward a nearby pub table. I swish my finger around our little spot, dimming the sound with a spell, not so much that I can’t feel the music in my feet, but enough that we’ll be able to talk without yelling. I know that I’m being reckless now, but Draco doesn’t say anything about my use of magic around all these Muggles.
“This is a gay bar, Potter.”
“Oh, shite, Draco. I assumed you knew about me. I mean, from The Prophet. They were going on about it for weeks.”
It’s been eleven years since the war, but the Wizarding papers still print regular stories about me, even though my reclusive lifestyle means they don’t usually have any evidence to prove their outlandish gossip. About a year ago, a Muggle-born saw me at a Vauxhall party and outed me to The Prophet. Never once have I addressed the previous rumours that they printed about me, but this one time I did confirm that, yes, I am gay. I didn’t want to teach Teddy that it was something to be ashamed of, and I have my suspicions about him. I almost stopped coming to the clubs after the article, but I wouldn’t let the Wizarding world take this from me after everything else I’ve given it. I’m fairly certain that we’re safe here, but I’ll feel like a complete wanker if I’ve inadvertently outed Draco.
“I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have brought you here without checking with you first. We can go somewhere—”
“Relax,” he says. “I knew about you.” His eyes flit over my body, and, again, I wonder what he sees. “But how did you know about me?”
“I suppose I just assumed. Since you agreed to go dancing with me.”
“Ah,” he says. He looks away from me, to the dance floor. “I thought maybe Hermione told you.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“Yes,” he says, his voice distant. “Why would she say anything to you about me.”
“No, it’s not that she doesn’t talk about you. She does, it’s just that Hermione’s not the type to gossip about someone else’s personal business.” I remember Draco’s quip on the balcony about my experience with books. “Actually, I amend that statement, as it appears that she, at least, talks with her workmates about me. Though I guess the fact that I work in a bookshop isn’t terribly scintillating gossip.”
“I asked,” he says.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I just say, “Oh.”
His hand darts across the table for a moment, and his fingers graze my knuckles. I’m startled, and he pulls back and grabs his beer before I can respond, though I’m not sure how I would. I meet his eyes, and I’m shocked by how earnest he looks.
“I may not be out to the entire Wizarding world, but I’m not ashamed,” he says. “About… about being gay. Not at all. I won’t pretend that it was easy growing up a Malfoy and trying to be myself. It was drilled into me from a young age that certain things were to be kept private, and a lot of that has carried over into adulthood, but it’s been a long time since I’ve worried about pleasing my father. My friends all know, but it’s just—” He stops for a moment, and takes a drink from his bottle. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I don’t have a lot of friends in the Wizarding world, but the people who are important know.”
I’m silent for a moment, and I try to suss out all that he’s saying. With the bits and pieces that Hermione’s shared, I already knew that Draco hasn’t had an easy go of it in the post-war Wizarding world. Even though I sense that there’s a lot that he isn’t telling me, it’s still a surprise that he’s exposing himself like this and to me. I remember his excuse about escaping onto the balcony at Grimmauld—Padma’s boring monograph—and wonder if he was really out there because he felt as uncomfortable as I did. There’s only one way for me to respond. “Thank you for telling me,” I say.
He nods his head, and we both drink from our bottles. We’re silent for a few moments, and I let my eyes wander over the crowd, trying to see what he sees. I’ve always liked The Dragon’s Arms, because it’s got an open-to-anything vibe. The crowd is made up of all types, from glittering twinks to bears and everything in between and beyond. It’s just so unapologetically queer. Tonight, the lights strobe red, gold, and pink over the mass of bodies as it rises and falls with the pulse of the dance song. I wonder what Draco thinks of the boys who dance on raised platforms, wearing clinging gold shorts, their chests shimmering with glitter? The burly men in leather, the drag queens? What kind of bodies do his eyes rest on? The bodies that are all muscle, glistening with sweat under the lights? The bodies that are more like mine, slightly feminine—skinny and soft, except where bones jut at the wrists and ribs and hips? I’ve been losing myself in crowds like this for more than ten years, because it’s the only place where I feel like I don’t stand out. Where I fit in.
I used to come here when I was eighteen, in the year that Ron went to the Auror Academy, Hermione and all our other friends went back to Hogwarts, and I stayed in London. Several nights a week, I’d stand in the corner and just watch, trying to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be. Coming out wasn’t something I’d ever felt safe enough to do before then—not in the Dursleys’ house, where anything different made you that much more of a freak, and not at Hogwarts, where I had the gaze of the Wizarding world trained on me. Ron says that witches and wizards don’t make a big deal about sexuality or gender, not in the same way that Muggles do. He claims that me coming out was only news because it was me. Luckily, by the time the outing had happened I had embraced that part of me. Draco may not be ashamed now, but somewhere along the line, Lucius Malfoy messed him up about his sexuality. I’m struck by the fact that, growing up, Draco and I were going through something so similar and never knew it.
“I wish I’d thought to go to a place like this,” he says. “Muggle, I mean. There’s a gay Wizarding pub that I’ve been to in Glasgow a few times, but it’s nothing like this. I guess I was nervous about venturing into the Muggle world on my own. It seems silly now.”
I wonder for a moment about his Muggle credit card, but I suppose that there are a lot less scary uses for it than going clubbing by oneself.
“I’ve been to all the clubs in London. The Muggle ones, anyway,” I say, leaning an elbow on the tabletop and resting my cheek on my palm. I observe him for a moment, before I just say, Fuck it. “I can show you around. If you like.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, though that’s not entirely true. It makes no sense, but even though I know that I really, really shouldn’t be, I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him. “I want to.”
He doesn’t respond, and instead tips his head back to finish his beer. He turns his empty bottle upside down. “Want another?” he says.
I’ve not even finished my first drink, but I shrug. “Sure,” I say.
As I watch him walk to the bar, running his palms against his thighs, I wonder about everything that Draco’s not saying. There’s a whole other conversation happening in his silences. Talking with Draco makes me feel alternately hopped up with excitement when he shares something personal, and twitching with nerves each time he avoids my questions. I need to get to the dance floor, to let myself be touched by the throng of moving bodies, to push the excitement and the nerves out until the physical takes over. I lower the power of the spell around our table and let the music fill my body. I’m moving up and down and feeling giddy again when he comes back with a saltshaker tucked into the pocket of his tee shirt, lime wedges between his fingers, plus two shots of tequila and two pints of lager all balanced precariously in his hands.
Gingerly, he sets the drinks upon our table. He seems to be studying the limes in his palm, and his face crunches in confusion.
“I confess,” he says, “that I’m not entirely sure what to do with these.”
I laugh, and he levels me with a scowl. It’s a familiar look for him, and I find that I’m relieved to see a glimpse of the old snarly Malfoy.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say, holding up my palms. “But how did you even order these drinks if you don’t know what they are?”
“I asked the bartender what to get,” he says, pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow as if daring me to tease him.
I pluck one of the lime wedges from his hand, and balance it between my left thumb and forefinger. He studies me for a moment, before doing the same. I bite the inside of my cheek, and swallow a laugh. “Now lick the back of your hand.”
“Pardon?”
Instead of answering, I keep my eyes on his as I raise my left hand to my mouth and slowly drag my tongue over my skin. I’m not sure if he’s aware that his own tongue darts out and wets his lips. “Now you,” I say.
“I feel ridiculous, Potter.”
“Relax, Malfoy. Muggles aren’t born knowing how to do shots either.”
His gaze is intense, but he nods and follows suit. I hold out my hand to him. “Now sprinkle the salt where we licked.” I gesture with my chin to the shaker still in his pocket. After we’re both salted, I say, “Now we lick the salt, drink the shot—that’s the tiny cup—in one go, fast as you can, then suck on the lime.”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“I’m doing it too, aren’t I?” He picks the shot glass up between two fingers, and it takes something fierce for me not to laugh. “Come on, now, on three.”
He counts under his breath. “Bottoms up,” I say, with a cheeky grin. I lick my hand, dip my head back, and down the shot. Straightening, I find that his glass is empty and his face squeezed in disgust. “The lime, the lime!” I say, this time not holding back the laugh. He rushes to comply, and I ignore my own chaser as I watch his full, heart-shaped lips wrap around the wedge of lime, his eyes closed. “Now drink some of your beer, quick.” His hand gropes for his pint, and I push it towards his fingers. I shift in place; my tight jeans are uncomfortably tighter just at the sight of an uptight Draco Malfoy doing a shot of tequila.
His exhales, blowing air out through his lips. His pale skin is pinking up, probably from the alcohol, and I have to fight the urge to press my fingers to his cheek. “That was foul,” he says.
“You ordered it,” I laugh. He laughs too.
I watch the lights turn his pale skin and white hair red, then gold, then pink. I can’t seem to stop smiling, and I realise that somehow, I am comfortable. As terrible as I felt in my own home surrounded by a group of wizards who used to be my friends, in this gay bar, I have always been myself and, for whatever reason, I want to share this place, this me with Draco.
“I want to dance,” I say. “Come with?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll watch.”
I take a few sips of my pint. “Okay,” I say, and then step away from the table.
When I dance, I usually try to fit myself as close as possible into the centre of the crowd, to subsume myself in the throng of bodies. Tonight, however, I stick to the edges, facing outward, toward Draco. I close my eyes as my body responds to the music. Raising my hands, the buzz that’s been building since Draco stepped onto Grimmauld’s balcony rushes into my palms. The music is bubbling pop, but it hardly matters—I’m dancing to a feeling. Other bodies connect with mine—with my shoulders, my arse, my hips—but, tonight, I hardly notice these Muggles. They’re not pretty eyes or wet lips, they’re not a cock to suck in the loo. They’re not Draco.
My eyes are still closed, but I know that he’s looking at me. More than that, I can feel his magic touching me, tracing the dark lines of the bramble of roses winding up my arm. I remember reading in one of the gay Wizard romance novels that Hermione picks up for me from Tomes and Scrolls whenever she’s in Hogsmeade, that soul mates can feel each other’s magic. I know those books are rubbish, and that I’m probably imagining it now, but my body tingles at every lick of his magic on my skin. I’m hot, this time pleasantly so, and I pull my shirt over my head and tuck a bit of it into my back pocket. Down the right side of my chest and wrapping around my hip is a splash of bright paint, a gem-hued watercolour Pollock out of which burst branches of pink cherry blossoms and stems of purple lavender. Draco’s magic curls around my waist, resting there like a warm palm, before trailing over my belly, ghosting over the cherry blossom petals and lavender spikes blooming on my chest. You’re beautiful, his magic says.
I dance and dance and dance.
A real hand slips around my waist, resting over my belly, fingers touching the band of my jeans. The hand’s body presses up close behind me. It’s just a Muggle, but I keep my eyes shut and pretend it’s Draco dancing with me. We move together. I am boneless, melting into the body’s hard chest as I let him pull me into him, our bodies thrusting to the pulse of a thrumming song. Suddenly, fingers and magic dig into my slick, soft side, wrenching me away from the man so that I fall into Draco’s chest. I take a small step back, but steady myself with hands on his shoulders. I can’t quite read the look in his eyes, but he’s breathing hard. His fingers flex their grip possessively before pulling me a little closer so that we’re chest to chest. Not entirely sure if I should, I slide my arms up his shoulders and around his neck. His arms encircle me, and he places his hands in the dip of my lower back, fingers grazing the curve of my arse.
The feel of his skin against mine sends another rush through my body. The music soars, and I soar with it. I keep my waist angled away from him, because I don’t want him to know that I’m hard. I’m confused because I want him, but I’m also not exactly sure what it is I want. A fuck in the loo? More? The fact that I don’t know the answer to that question scares me. For me, the answer has never been more complicated than sex. I rest my cheek on his warm, soft shoulder, press my nose into his neck and inhale the musky, spicy scent of him. I focus on the fluttering movement of my heart and the way Draco’s chest moves rapidly up and down. We’re standing there for a long time, mostly still, but I can feel the music vibrating through my body, pumping. Occasionally, we’re pushed closer together by the pulsating crowd. Finally, when he seems to have got his breathing under control, he says something into the shell of my ear.
“I want to get out of here.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling against his skin. I press back against his hands that rest possessively over my bum.
“I want to see where you work. The Muggle shop.”
“Huh?” I blink, looking up at him. “It’s closed.”
“I figured. Can’t you get in after hours?”
“Um, yeah, I suppose.” I’m confused, though I remember Draco bringing up the bookshop when we were back at Grimmauld. It makes no sense, but I can’t help wonder if this was somehow on his agenda all along—if he actually has an agenda. It occurs to me that, while this has stopped feeling like a game for me, perhaps Draco is still playing. I shrug. There’s only one way to find out. “Yeah, okay,” I say, “let’s go. We can Apparate from the loo.”
I take his hand and pull us towards the toilets, which, for once, are unoccupied. We could have just gone back to the alley three blocks over, but I want the image of us pressed together in a tiny stall for later, when I’m alone.
I grab onto Draco’s shoulder. “Ready?” I say.
He nods, and with an audible pop, we are gone.
Torch Books
I drop us directly into the front room of Torch Books. I breathe a sigh of relief that the lights are off, as it means that Aggie, my boss, isn’t here after hours doing inventory or avoiding her girlfriend. I’ve never even performed magic at work, and now I’ve risked violating the Statute of Secrecy by Apparating into the shop. I duck behind the counter to shut off the alarm system before it has a chance to sound. I realise that I’m still shirtless—which is just about as bizarre as the fact that I’m here with Draco Malfoy—and swiftly pull on my tee.
“Where are we?” Draco asks as he flicks his wand, which I haven’t seen all night, and says, “Lumos.”
“Put that out!” I say. He mutters nox and the room is dark again. I’ve worked in this shop for six years, and can easily navigate it in the dark. I take his wrist in my hand and lead him through the labyrinth of tall shelves that make up the shopfront and down the step into the children’s reading room, my favourite place in Torch Books. I click on the lamp next to the overstuffed red couch, and push him into the seat.
“Where are we?”
I look around the small, cosy room, each wall lined with colourful books, and try to figure out the answer to that question. Sanctuary. The one place in the Muggle world—other than the clubs—that offered me escape in the years after the war. The children’s reading room is small and stuffed to the brim with books and comfortable furniture, but warm and bright in a way that the cramped room I lived in as a child never was. Perhaps that’s why I like it so much—because I can sit in here and imagine that I had a close, safe retreat as a child that was the opposite of my cold, dark cupboard. I realise that I can’t tell him that. I’ve given him too much tonight already, and I’m not used to giving myself at all. I don’t know how I ended up here. The club was my idea, but, coming here, I think I’ve lost control of the situation. I’m suddenly feeling very tired. “Torch Books,” I say instead of the more complicated answer. “Camden Town. London.”
“I know where Camden Town is,” he says.
“Good for you.” I sigh. “Budge over.” I squeeze next to him on the little red couch, and look at our legs, which are almost pressing together. Mine, skinny in faded denims with a tear in the thigh, and his much wider in neat, starched slacks. I feel an urge to put my hand on his thigh and run it down his leg. Instead, I toe off my trainers, draw my knees up to my chest, wrap my arms around my legs, and bring my feet to the edge of the couch. I roll my eyes at myself, because I’d forgotten about my socks, which are light blue and decorated with red hearts. At least they don’t need darning.
“Nice socks,” he says. I wiggle my toes for him. “What’s a torch book?”
I laugh. “They’re two separate things. A torch and a book. A torch is a Muggle portable light, like a candle or a lumos.” I point to the swinging sign that hangs in the archway dividing the children’s reading room from the rest of the shop. The wooden placard depicts a child inside a sheet-tent reading by torchlight. It’s the same logo that hangs outside the shop and decorates our business cards.
“Did you use a torch to read when you were a child?” he says.
The simple answer to his question is yes, but the more honest answer leads us onto a path that I’m not sure I’m ready to go down.
“I don’t know what you want from me, Draco.”
“Want?”
“Yes, want. Earlier tonight, I thought that you happened upon me on the balcony. But you said you asked Hermione about me, and seemed bothered by the fact that I hadn’t asked her about you.” I turn to him. He’s staring at his knees, his fringe fallen down into his eyes. I’m struck by the fact that his changed appearance, his looking so much like a man rather than a boy, has made it easy until now for me to separate this Draco from the one I knew at Hogwarts, to set aside all the things that he did at school. But right now, his cheeks pink and hair ruffled, there’s something so boyish about him, and I can’t quite distinguish between the two people. I’m not sure what Draco wants from me, but I realise that I still want him, and I’ll have to deal with the terrible history between us at some point. “I don’t know, Draco, I guess I’m wondering if you came out to the balcony looking for me. If you’re just making small talk now, or whether there’s something specific that you want?”
I watch him as he turns his arm so that his Mark is on display, before tucking it into his side.
“Nothing. I don’t want anything from you, Potter.”
“I don’t believe you.”
His blush spreads to his neck, and he’s clenching his hands into fists.
“I want to know you,” he says.
Even though I’d guessed as much, his confession still seems improbable. It’s been such a long time since anyone new has expressed an interest in really knowing me. He looks embarrassed enough that he must be telling the truth, though, so I decide to take him at face value.
“Does that go both ways? What if I want to know you?”
“Do you?”
Yes. “I don’t know.”
He seems to deflate, but looks resigned. He nods his head.
“You want to know about this place?” He nods again. “Fine. Tell me something about yourself first.”
“Like a bribe?”
I roll my eyes. “Not like a bribe, idiot. Like sharing.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
“I came out onto the balcony looking for you. Now your turn. Why do you work here?”
“Not so fast.”
“Fine.” His hands clench around his knees, his knuckles white. “Fine. Tonight isn’t the first time I’ve come here. Hermione told me the name of the shop about a year ago. After the article.” He raises his brows a little, eyes flitting to mine, confirming that I know exactly which article he’s talking about. His eyes drop back to his hands in his lap. “I’ve been six times. I stood outside, and could see you through the window at the till, but I never came in.”
“Why?”
“I’m a coward. Your turn. Why do you work here?”
I could push him, but decide not to for now. I draw in my breath, and say, “I don’t exactly know where to start.” I look around the room, at the books, hundreds of which I’ve read—many of them here, in this room. My eyes fall again on the sign hanging in the archway. “Maybe with your question about the torch. You might not know this, but I lived with Muggle relatives, my aunt and uncle, before I came to Hogwarts. They were pretty strict, and my aunt used to remove the light bulb from my cupb—from my room before bed. So I wouldn’t stay up past my bedtime. Sometimes, when I was able to get my hands on a book, I’d read by torchlight. When I found this place and saw the sign, I liked it. It reminded me of something good from my childhood, those stolen moments in the middle of the night. Plus, it had a rainbow flag hanging outside, which is a kind of Muggle symbol for queer people. It seemed like I should go in.”
“That’s very important to you, isn’t it? Going to queer places. Like the clubs? This shop?” Draco looks a bit nervous. He’s not meeting my gaze, and his finger is tracing a circle in the arm of the couch.
“Yes. I said that my aunt and uncle were very strict, and that extended to most areas of my life. If I couldn’t choose my clothes, then I especially couldn’t ‘choose’ to be gay. When I found out I was a wizard, I thought that suddenly everything would be different. My first time in the Wizarding world, I went to Diagon Alley. When I met you, actually. In Madam Malkin’s.”
“That was your first time seeing other wizards?”
“Yes,” I say. It strikes me for the first time that Draco was there for such an important moment in my life. “Anyway, it just seemed so weird to me, in an awesome way. All my life, my aunt and uncle told me that anything weird or different made you a freak, but here I was in a place so weird, so freaky, I couldn’t even have imagined it.”
“But you left the Wizarding world…”
“Yeah.” I put my head on my knees, and study Draco’s face. His brows are drawn together, his eyes crinkled at the corners in confusion. He looks like he’s trying to figure me out, but finding me a conundrum. “Turns out, my aunt and uncle’s expectations of me were nothing compared to those of the members of the Wizarding world. Of Dumbledore.”
At the mention of Dumbledore, Draco’s shoulders become rigid, his neck taut. I wonder if he’s going to ask me about him. “And the clubs, this shop… you don’t feel the pressure of those expectations here?”
“It’s complicated, because those pressures don’t exist in the Muggle world. They don’t know who I am. I can be whoever I want.”
“Except a wizard.”
“Yeah, except a wizard.” Back on the balcony, I’d wondered if Draco saw me as fitting in neither the Muggle nor the Wizarding world. It’s something that I’ve thought about for a long time without ever coming up with a solution. “But I didn’t know how to be queer in the Wizarding world. Or, openly queer, and that was more important.”
“But you came out in The Prophet.”
“After ten years of being out in the Muggle world. I wouldn’t have been able to right after the war, not when I couldn’t cope with even the memories of being ‘The Chosen One.’ If that article had happened when I was eighteen, if Rita Skeeter had taken that from me then… I don’t know what I would have done.”
“But it’s important to you now, to be out? People knowing that you’re gay?”
“For me it is. I spent a lot of time in the clubs after the war, figuring myself out. Where I fit in, how I wanted to look, how I wanted other people to see me. The first time I put Hermione’s eyeliner on and went to The Dragon’s Arms, I looked at myself in the mirror in the loo. It was like a different person was staring back at me, but at the same time, I also looked more like me than I ever had before. Every time I go to the club, it’s like I’m saying fuck you to those expectations, even if no one from the Wizarding world sees me.”
“I admire you, Harry. You’re a very brave man.” Draco’s face is melancholic, and the implication behind his words is clear—if I am brave, then he is not. “But I’ve always known that. I wish…”
“Draco,” I start, but I’m not exactly sure what to say without pushing him in a way that I sense he’s not ready to be pushed. “Everyone comes out in their own time. When it’s right for them.”
“Yeah.” He gives me a sad smile, shrugs. “But it’s important to you.”
“I didn’t mean that you—”
“Anyway,” he says, cutting me off. One corner of him mouth tilts up in a half-smile, which I take as an apology for changing the subject. “Your childhood, Harry, the way you talk about it… It doesn’t seem like you have a lot of happy memories.”
I look into his eyes. They’re clear and wide, nothing like the calculating stare he wore at Hogwarts. I see concern in the small crease between his brows, in the slight purse of his lips. I remember how he mentioned his own childhood, how it had seemed like we shared similar experiences. The idea that Draco feels the same connection between us makes me want to trust him. “I don’t,” I say. “Your turn to share.”
He leans forward, angling his body toward mine, and opens his mouth as if to object, but then nods. “Okay,” he says. He takes a breath, stalling. “Okay. Wanting to say ‘fuck you’ to the expectations of the Wizarding world. I can relate.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I’m not sure how much you know about my position in the Wizarding world these days.”
“Um, Hermione mentioned that you’ve had a difficult time.” I blush at admitting that Hermione and I have talked about him, but he just nods in response.
“It hasn’t been easy,” he says. “And at first, I didn’t expect anything different. I knew that I was lucky not to be locked in Azkaban, and I deserved whatever hexes or insults I got. But even four years after the war, when I started my Residency at Mungo’s, it wasn’t much better.”
His eyes search mine, perhaps trying to figure out if I think the crimes he committed during the war justified hexes in the streets. The idea that I’d ever be okay with that kind of treatment hurts. I mean, I died to stop that prejudice in the Wizarding world. But then I remember the animosity between us in school. Draco was a bully, sure, but I’m not proud of my own behaviour. I did testify for him and his mother. The events of our terrible sixth year had shown me that he’d stopped thinking of being a Death Eater as a privilege; I knew that he wasn’t his father and didn’t deserve Azkaban. But there was still a lot of bad blood between us. It’s not as if that blood is all washed away, but it would be ridiculous to pretend that I’m not interested in moving on now. I give him a small smile of encouragement, and his eyes widen.
“Go on,” I say.
“Okay. So, um, while I was at the Derwent Academy, I lived in a flat in Muggle London. I tried to keep my head down as much as possible. I didn’t socialize with any classmates, except Hermione and Padma, and even then never in London. I just wanted to do something good with my life for once. But when I started at Mungo’s, and patients refused to have me in the room or I was hexed entering the building… I’d had enough. I moved from my hideaway in the Muggle world to the most conspicuous place I could think of, High Street in Hogsmeade.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. “I didn’t think of it in these terms at the time, but I guess it was my own ‘fuck you’ to the Wizarding world. I realised that they were going to hate me no matter what, so I might as well make them as uncomfortable as possible. Saying that out loud… It feels wrong. It’s not like they owed me anything.”
“Draco, you were acquitted by the Wizengamot.”
“That doesn’t mean that I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not saying that…” There’s an angry look in Draco’s eyes, but I can tell by the way he grips his left forearm, fingernails digging into his Dark Mark, that his anger is directed at himself. Very slowly, I place my hand over his. His fingers relax, but he doesn’t release his arm. I wait for him to look me in the eye before continuing. “You were a teenager during the war.”
“Yes, but I should have—” He breaks off, letting out a frustrated sound. “I can’t, Harry. I can’t.”
“It’s okay.” I give his fingers a gentle squeeze.
“Can I ask you another?”
“Sure.”
“I see why you came into this shop as a customer, but I still don’t understand how you ended up working here.”
I sigh. I release his hand, and drop my head against the back of the couch. I stare at the mottled ceiling. Unless I stick to half-truths, I can’t answer him without talking about the Dursleys, about what went on in their house. How much more of myself do I want to give him? I stretch my legs out, and push myself from my seat. I know exactly where the book is, and move without thinking to retrieve it from its place on the shelf. I hand him the worn copy of Grey Mouse and the Boy. I sit back on the couch, curled up on my side facing him, my knees touching his thighs.
“This is a book I read as a child. My favourite book.”
I watch as he gently, almost reverently runs his hands over the cover of the book, as if trying to glean something about it—or me—by touch. “Why?” he says. I can’t help but smile a bit at his question, because anyone else might ask what the novel is about, but Draco’s question is aimed at what the book can tell him about me.
“I suppose it’s because I never read the ending.”
“A book you never even finished was your favourite?” He raises a brow at me. “That explains a lot about your marks in school.”
“Har har.” I roll my eyes. “You’ve no idea what my marks were, unless Hermione’s been gossiping about more than my job. She does have all of Ron’s and my school reports memorized, after all,” I say with a laugh. “For your information, I would have loved to finish the story, but the book had been my cousin Dudley’s first, and he didn’t like the ending. He tore it in two pieces, and I only managed to rescue one half from the bin before my uncle found me going through the garbage.”
“You had to go through the bin to find something to read?”
I shrug. Draco twists in his seat, placing the book on the cushions between us. “When we met,” he says. “In Madam Malkin’s. Your clothes were about three sizes too big, and they were patched all over.” He leans closer, and his fingers ghost over my shoulder. “And that never changed when we were at school.”
“No, it didn’t.” I close my eyes, turn my head away, into the crook of my arm. I feel naked in front of him, watched and understood in a way that makes me feel special and uncomfortable at the same time.
“Harry,” he says. My name on his lips feels like a spell, and I can’t help but look at him. I reach out to grip his upper arm, feel his triceps jump under my palm. “Please, tell me why you loved that story so much?”
“It was about this lonely boy whose only friend was a little grey mouse. The mouse could talk, but the boy was the only one who could hear him. Even the other mice who lived in the walls of the boy's house couldn’t understand him.”
“The mouse was his familiar,” Draco says. “Like wizards have.”
I smile, think of Hedwig for a moment. “Yes, I suppose. Except even wizards don’t have talking mice.”
“You can talk to snakes. Maybe some wizards can talk to mice.”
“It’s a nice thought,” I say, though I’m suddenly feeling incredibly sad. I imagine what my childhood might have been like if I’d had a pet snake to chat to. I don’t say anything, but Draco seems to understand, or he’s at least able to read the downturned corners of my mouth. He moves his hand to the nape of my neck, squeezes gently. “Anyway, I don’t know if the boy was a wizard, but his mouse talked a lot. He especially liked to tell stories. Every night, he’d climb onto the boy’s pillow and whisper his stories into the boy’s ear for hours. I envied them both. Having someone to talk to and listen to…”
“You were lonely.”
It’s not a question, but I nod my head anyway. Draco is the first person that I’ve told about this book, and I wonder if I’ve still never found that closeness I longed for as a child, even with Hermione and Ron. I think about going home, putting my head on my cold pillow. There’s never been a warm mouth there to whisper into my ear. I feel tears welling in my eyes, and Draco slides his fingers into the cropped hair at the base of my skull. I feel agitated, like I need to lean back into his touch and also get away. He seems to sense my distress, because he removes his fingers from my hair. He’s still close, but I breathe a little easier.
“Are you messing me about?” I say.
“No. Gods no, I’m really not.”
“Okay,” I say. I want to believe him, want to trust him, but I don’t know if I can. I draw in a deep breath. “Yeah, so, I found this shop about four years after the war. When Teddy started school, and I suddenly had my days free.”
“My cousin Teddy.”
I know that Hermione’s told Draco about Teddy, but I answer him as if he’s asked a question. “Yeah. He’s my godson.” I study him for a moment. I know that Draco has never met his cousin, but his face is suddenly blank, so that I can’t tell how he feels about it. “When he was a baby, I used to watch him most days. Your aunt would bring him ‘round my place, and he’d stay with me through tea. He lives with me now, though he’s just started Hogwarts.”
I pause a moment, waiting to see how Draco responds. I imagine him asking me to introduce him to Teddy over winter hols, and then I realise how ridiculous I’m being. That’s two months away. This is just one night, I tell myself.
“Go on,” he says.
“I’d been frittering my days away as a customer here for a few months when I found the book. I hadn’t been looking for it. Actually, I’d forgotten all about it. But I sat on this couch, and read the thing, start to finish this time.”
“And you were disappointed?
“In the final chapter, the boy takes Grey Mouse to the park, and they meet a little girl who can also understand him. The mouse decides that he’d like a new friend, one who hasn't heard all of his stories already. So he goes off to live with the girl.”
“And then what? The boy finds a human friend?”
“No, that’s it. The boy never sees Grey Mouse again. He goes home alone and cries. That night, he asks his stepmother to tell him a story, and she says no.”
“Harry…”
“I couldn’t believe it. As a kid, I'd read the first half of that book over and over again, and then... No wonder Dudley tore it in two pieces. I can’t imagine if I had read that when I was locked all alone in my cupboard.”
Draco’s body seems to snap to attention. “Your cupboard?”
Shite. “I didn't mean to say that.”
“You don't have to tell me about it, but you can.” My eyes drop to his hand where it hovers between around my elbow, not quite touching. “I want to hear.”
“I've never told anyone about this. Not even Ron and Hermione. They know it was bad, but not the details. Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't even understand it. I want to tell you something that I've been too ashamed to tell the people I'm closest to in the world.”
“You can trust me.” I feel a nervous laugh bubbling in my chest at the idea that I can trust Draco Malfoy—the boy who sold fake stories about me to The Prophet when we were in school—with one of my biggest secrets. I look into the serious eyes of the man before me, so close that I can feel his breath on my lips, and the laugh bursts out though I’ve forgotten what’s supposed to be funny about this situation. He gives me a wry smile. “I know, I can hardly believe it myself, but you can trust me, Harry. You can.”
“Okay,” I say. I shift as away far as I can on the couch, still facing him, but with my legs pulled to my chest as a barrier. My toes touch his knees, and he moves his palm to my foot.
“Can I?” he says.
I nod, and he wraps his warm fingers around my bare ankle. I focus on that touch, rather than his face. “As you’ve probably gathered, my childhood wasn’t great. My aunt and uncle didn’t love me, didn’t even like me. I was little more than a House-Elf to them. They fed and clothed me, but just barely. I slept on a mat in a cupboard under the stairs, where they locked me every night. They’d leave me in there so long, that sometimes I’d wet myself. They were so angry about the little that they were compelled to do for me… They told me that my parents were drunks who killed themselves in a car wreck. And that they nearly killed me in the same crash.” I push up the wave of curling fringe that covers my forehead, touch the lightning bolt scar.
“Harry…”
“No, let me finish,” I say, but I’m not sure where to go from here.
All the way back to the shame that I felt upon entering the Wizarding world, thinking that everyone could see that I’d never been loved just by the look of my shabby clothes and scrawny body? To the food that I’d wrap in a cloth serviette after each meal in the Great Hall to squirrel away in my trunk in the dorms? Do I explain how I slept with my wand lit, resting on my pillow, for the first three years of school, because the small space inside my closed bed hangings felt too much like my cupboard? Should I tell him that the first hugs from an adult that I remember were all from Mrs Weasley? Or that Dumbledore, who’d made me feel so special, favoured, had been teaching me to die?
Dumbledore said that the power I had over Voldemort was love, but he was wrong. I was able to defeat him, to walk to my death, because I knew that my life didn’t really matter. And I’ve been hiding from that knowledge ever since. I’ve found love, of course. Hermione and I love each other fiercely, like a brother and a sister. And I love Teddy more than life itself. But I've never known what it's like to be truly admired as more than a soldier, a symbol. I've never been the most important person to anyone. Never a lover. Just a body to fuck—rarely more than once. I want to tell Draco these things, but I don’t know if it’s me or the lonely boy in the cupboard who needs to confess. More than anything, I’m afraid that I’m still the boy in the cupboard and that won’t be enough for him. For anyone. I put my face in my hands, and my cheeks are wet. I don’t know how I’ve got to this point, crying my eyes out in front of Draco Malfoy in my place of work. I wonder if it’s too late to go back to The Dragon’s Arms and offer to suck his cock in the loo.
“The truth is,” I say, “the boy in the story reminded me of myself in that cupboard without a friend in the world. I finished the book, sitting on this couch, and burst into tears. Aggie, she’s my boss, came over, handed me a tissue and a cup of tea, and asked me if I wanted a job, though I've never understood why. That was six years ago. I think that answers your question? Also, I get a really good discount on books, which comes in handy when buying for Hermione.” I try to force a laugh, but my voice breaks.
Draco leans a little closer, but hesitates, as though he wants more physical contact but isn’t sure if he’s allowed. “Thank you for telling me,” he says.
His words remind me that I said the same thing to him in The Dragon’s Arms, when he talked about his father. “Do you want to tell me anything?” I say. “You mentioned earlier about your father, making you keep things private? About being gay?”
“Harry, I—” He removes his hand from my ankle, straightening up and facing forward. He suddenly looks as tense as he did when he first came out to the balcony, when we first entered the club. A shiver of fear runs up my spine. “My childhood, it wasn’t… That is—” He breaks off again, looks at me with a desperate gleam in his eye. I bring my palm to his cheek, and he closes his eyes for a few seconds before continuing. “There are things that I have to tell you, if we are to keep going. I mean, if you want—”
“I want.”
“Okay,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “Okay, good. But I just want this one night, before I tell you. One perfect night. I don’t want my… I don’t want him to be a part of it at all. Is that okay?” I nod, though I wish he’d talk to me. This night feels surprising, important, but perfect? I’ve got tears on my face, and Draco has a secret big enough that he thinks it will make things worse than they’ve already been. I don’t see how anything can be perfect between us if he can’t give me the trust that I’ve given him, but I can wait for perfect. “I’ll tell you, I promise. Maybe tomorrow? Or we can have dinner next week?”
“Tomorrow’s good.”
He smiles, and lets out a relieved sounding sigh. “Can I kiss you?” he says. “I really want to.”
“Yes,” I say.
He pushes me back against the arm of the couch, and brings a hand to my cheek, his index finger rubbing a gentle circle into the soft spot behind my ear. I lean into his touch, and realise that my eyes are still leaking. What are you doing to me? I wonder. I drop one foot to the floor and he kneels in the space between my legs, arching his long torso over my body, one hand bracing against the arm of the couch. He presses his nose to mine. It’s so tender. I bring my hands to his shoulders, dig my fingers into his flesh. Are you real? He shifts his face so that our lips are touching lightly. I dip my head back, pull him to me, open my mouth to him and he kisses me hard, hard, hard. My lips burn from the scruff on his face, and I know that I'll feel this kiss tomorrow. His hand drops to my shoulder, and a crackle of warm magic rushes through his palm to my skin. Draco’s lips still, and he pulls away. I groan in protest, slipping my arms around his waist to hold him to me.
“Harry, look…” I twist my neck to see my shoulder, where his fingers are running over my skin, sending curls of warmth tingling down my arm. “Your tattoo…”
I blink, sure that I must be seeing things. The closed bud of my blush-red rose has opened—bloomed—the now-vermilion petals quivering each time that his fingers caress my skin. It's a Muggle tattoo—it shouldn't be affected by magic. “That’s impossible.”
“You're impossible,” he says. Draco takes my face in his hands, which are trembling. He kisses the corners of my eyes, the line of my jaw, the tip of my nose to the spot between my brows. He leans into me, hard, pressing his lips to my lips. I breathe him in, pull his tongue into my mouth.
His chest is heavy against mine, and the feeling of being weighted down is glorious. I can't run anywhere; I can't hide.