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The first time Harry escapes his office is during a thunderstorm.

“Escapes” is a rather dramatic way to put it, but he doesn’t really know what else to call the series of events preceding it.

He tells Daisy—his beloved, apathetic receptionist—to go home early, then puts a do not disturb ward on his door, casts a camouflage Glamour, commando-crawls past Kingsley’s office, and sprints through the empty Ministry to the Floos.

Once there, he realises he has no idea where to go at two on a Tuesday, and says the first place that comes to mind: a place he went last weekend with Hermione and Ginny.

‘Camden Market.’

He tumbles head-first onto the floor of Señor Serrano’s vintage sweater stall, mercifully empty save for a parrot that gives him a beady look and chirps in an eerie not-quite-human voice.

‘Mr Harry Potter arrived by Floo. Two oh five.’ It nuzzles at its feathers and Harry makes a mental note to bring it a cracker next time.

Christ. He’s already thinking about next time.

It certainly isn’t the first time he’s avoided work; he’s spaced out his sick days carefully, storing them up like tokens, saving them for those days when going into his huge, fancy office, with its huge, fancy salary, and huge, fancy nothingness feels impossible.

Recently, it always feels impossible. So here he is.

The market itself is quiet; Harry adjusts his coat (Burberry, Hermione insists it gives him a professional edge) and stuffs his hands in the warm pockets, smiling vaguely at stall owners and looking at leather jewellery and homemade candles and retro t-shirts that he has no intention of purchasing. 

Last weekend, it had been much busier; they’d come here looking for presents for Ron’s birthday. Ever since he started working at Wheezes full time, he’s found a deep love of craft— stranger things have happened, I guess, Hermione shrugged one night as she and Harry watched Ron create a paper crane wall for their flat—and so they got him expensive, pretty paper and rounds of soft wool and a candle making set. They ordered overly fancy burritos and ate crepes with Nutella and went to Hampstead Heath afterwards to walk it all off.

Now, it’s all quiet and half the stalls are closed, which suits him fine. When he leaves the undercover area, he’s greeted by torrential rain, soaking through his brogues and making it impossible to see through his glasses. It’s freezing, and Harry closes his eyes and lets it drip down his forehead, his nose, his chin.

He knows that he’s doing okay, by the standards of most twenty-three year olds. He has a job that does some sort of good to society; he has great friends; he’s even joined Luna’s book club and reads experimental fiction now.

The gnawing sense of emptiness and boredom is probably a result of being forced on death-defying missions every year of his adolescence. That’s what Hermione would say, that it’s some sort of war trauma to work through with his therapist. Ron would tell him to take up cross-stitching. Ginny would tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself. Neville would offer him a new plant to inevitably kill. Luna would blame Nargles. 

With a furtive glance around, Harry casts a Water-Repellent Charm and starts walking away from the stone buildings and across the river. 

The shops are eclectic and bright, graffiti covering the stone walls, and Harry takes his time admiring it all; he stops at a coffee shop to order a soy latte and some sort of vegan baked good, rummages through a record shop before remembering he doesn’t own a record player, and spends twenty minutes in a pop-up gallery staring at a mannequin covered in used tissues with the vague hope of discovering a cultured, artistic side of himself.

He steps out of the gallery feeling distinctly not cultured nor artistic. He sighs and tips his head up toward the slowing rain, and thinks about finding a safe place to Apparate back to Grimmauld when he sees it.

Sanctuary Tattoo Parlour.

It’s just across the road; a tiny shop tucked between an arcade and a Tesco, but it’s the little rainbow flag displayed in the window that catches his eye, next to a handwritten sign: All gender identities welcome.

It’s not as if Harry doesn’t still experience the odd moment of dysphoria or imposter syndrome; sometimes he still hears Petunia’s voice, the whispered freak that comes when he least expects it, or feels Vernon’s backhanded slap in his nightmares. 

But for the most part, he’s been Harry for so long, and only Harry, that he doesn’t often think about whether he’s welcome or not anymore; he’s the Boy Who Lived, the Saviour, and the world treats him as such.

He has no reason for the tug in his stomach, the way it pulls him across the quiet, sodden street and towards the dark tinted windows. He doesn’t stop to think about pushing the door open and entering the shop in his Burberry coat and expensive brogues and white button-down. 

Immediately, he regrets his impulsivity. 

He’s greeted by a bemused looking girl hunched over the front desk, with spiky short hair and black lipstick and every inch of her skin covered in tattoos. 

‘You okay, mate?’ she asks carefully, chewing her gum slowly and looking Harry up and down. Her accent is peculiar; not quite British, something broad and easygoing.

‘Um.’ He looks around the parlour. All the walls are painted black, covered in posters of bands he has never heard of before, and pictures of frankly terrifying designs; snakes eating their tails and skulls with roses growing out of them and naked ladies that Harry cannot imagine someone wanting to get imprinted on their skin for life. Speakers reverberate electric guitars and drums across the room.

And I'll pull your crooked teeth
You'll be perfect just like me
You'll be a lover in my bed
And a gun to my head

Harry is absolutely not meant to be here. He’s in bed by eleven most nights. He’s been on two dates in four years. He can’t eat spicy foods because they trigger his acid reflux, and he’s Indian, so that’s just plain embarrassing.

But he’s in too deep now, and he can’t just leave.

‘Um.’ He looks down at the price list on the counter. ‘I was…er…’

‘Tattoos or piercing?’ the girl says, popping her elbows on the counter. 

Piercing. That sounds less permanent than a tattoo. 

‘Piercing?’ Harry says, and it comes out like a question. She smiles at him.

‘Alright. Where?’

‘Er. Here.’ He vaguely fumbles a spot on his ear that matches one of hers. She nods. 

‘Helix? That should be easy.’ She scribbles something down. ‘Just let me grab our piercer.’

‘Yeah, cool, easy.’ Harry nods, uncomfortably aware of the sweat gathering under his armpits. How is he going to explain this? I walked into a tattoo parlour and was too awkward to leave. I can defeat homicidal maniacs and stop a genocide, but crumble in the face of goths.

Merlin help him.

Although, there’s something quite exciting about it, he supposes. He can take it out if it’s awful. He probably will, and this can just be a funny story, a weird memory, and no one has to know—

‘Potter?’

It takes Harry a moment to place the voice, because it’s deeper than the last time he heard it; still unmistakeable, though, the posh drawl, the way the ts are popped, the way it sends a prickle up his spine.

And when it does click, Harry’s still in disbelief, because surely that’s not Malfoy.

It can’t be Malfoy in a Muggle tattoo parlour, in black Converse and torn skinny jeans and a band t-shirt. It can’t be Malfoy covered in tattoos, Malfoy with piercings everywhere, Malfoy looking at Harry like he’s a ghost.

‘Malfoy?’ Harry says, because he’s in far too much shock right now to say anything else, and the girl looks between them, bemused.

‘Draco? You know him?’

‘We went to school together,’ Malfoy says, blinking rapidly. 

‘Oh,’ she responds, then turns to Harry. ‘He’ll take care of you, then.’

The masculine pronoun falls like a weight between them. 

Malfoy looks pale as a ghost, and Harry’s brain short circuits, so he just nods.

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks, Bianca,’ Malfoy says, then turns on the ball of his foot and heads out the back. Harry follows.

He’s barely made it through the curtains before Malfoy has his wand out and points it at the entryway, settling a Silencing Charm over the room, and his eyes are molten pools of rage.

Harry winces.

‘Why the fuck’— Malfoy steps forward so his wand is in Harry’s face, just at the tip of his nose—‘are you here?’

‘Christ.’ Harry holds his hands up, fighting a smile, because despite the fact he’s being held at wandpoint, there’s something quite funny in all of this. It’s not boring. ‘I didn’t realise you worked here!’

‘Bullshit,’ Malfoy hisses. Harry inhales. 

‘Seriously. I saw the signs in the window, I—’

‘The signs?’

‘Rainbow flag. Trans thing. You know.’

Malfoy’s jaw clenches, and he lowers his wand slightly, throat working. His hair is thrown back in a bun, and he has two studs beneath his lip, rings in his nose and eyebrows, and his ears are stacked with at least a dozen various silver trinkets. His arms are covered in surprisingly tame designs, compared to what Harry saw on the walls of the parlour; roses and narcissus flowers, birds, a mountain range, a compass. On his other arm, a snake twists around his forearm and up his bicep, swallowing the Dark Mark in its entirety.

Harry likes it.

‘What are you even doing here?’ Malfoy asks, his eyes following Harry’s as they trail over the tattoos. ‘In this area?’

Harry shrugs. The music changes, a new song drifting in from the waiting area.

Alcoholic kind of mood
Lose my clothes
Lose my lube
Cruising for a piece of fun

‘I’ve never heard this type of music before,’ Harry says, and something flickers in Malfoy’s expression. He sighs, and with apparent great difficulty, lowers his wand.

‘Yes, well. You don’t look like someone who has.’ Malfoy huffs, pressing his palms against his eye sockets. His fingernails are black, paint peeling at the edges. ‘Look, Potter, as long you don’t tell anyone where I am, you can go out the back—tell the Aurors or whoever that I’m not a threat—’

‘Wait. So I don’t get a piercing?’

Malfoy looks dumbfounded.

‘You actually want a piercing?’

‘Uh. Yeah?’ 

Harry finds, to his surprise, that he means it. He’s not sure whether it’s some sort of quarter-life crisis or his carefully repressed impulsivity making a reappearance, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave without doing this. ‘Yeah, no, I told you, I didn’t come here to—find you, or whatever.’

Malfoy clearly still doesn’t believe him, arms crossed tightly in front of his chest, scowl in place. Harry fights back another grin. It’s all just so familiar.

‘You want your helix pierced?’ Malfoy says, gesturing to Harry’s coat and brogues and shirt. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep,’ Harry confirms, with much more confidence than he feels, and looks over to a battered reclining chair. ‘Do I sit there?’

‘For fu—yes, fine.’ Malfoy sighs, something deep and long suffering, and Harry shucks off his coat to sit on the chair, legs dangling over the side. The room is fairly plain compared to the front, just white walls and various tools on long metal tables. Malfoy moves around with practised ease, washing his hands in a tiny sink, pulling on plastic gloves and pulling out a tray of various bars and studs in small plastic bags.

‘Can I pick any of these?’ Harry asks, leaning over the tray.

‘Is this your first piercing?’ 

‘Yeah.’

‘And you’re starting with a helix?’ Malfoy rummages through the jewellery and pulls out a plain gold bar. ‘Go with something like this. Small and simple.’

‘Cool. Should I do gold or silver?’

‘Gold,’ Malfoy says instantly, his cheeks going faintly pink. He clears his throat. ‘It’s the best for your complexion.’

‘Alright.’ Harry grins, and Malfoy scowls. Harry watches as Malfoy fusses over all the equipment, sterilises the needles and the piercing, as he lays it all out meticulously on a little tray. ‘So how long have you been working here?’

Malfoy’s lips purse slightly, his eyes flashing up towards Harry.

‘A while.’

‘Do your parents know?’

‘No.’

‘Where do you live now?’

‘London.’

Well. That’s something, at least. Malfoy draws a small mark on the inside of Harry’s ear, has him approve it, and lines up the needle. Harry hisses as the needle quickly breaks through his cartilage, a sharp sting that he doesn’t quite expect, and then Malfoy is stepping back.

‘Are you okay?’ Malfoy mumbles the words, fumbling for a spray on his little tray.

‘Uh, yeah,’ Harry says, reaching instinctively up to touch his piercing, and Malfoy slaps his hand away.

‘No touching. Number one rule. Hands are disgusting, and I only want you going near that piercing to spray disinfectant.’ Malfoy holds out a small bottle. ‘Try not to sleep on it too much.’

‘I sleep on my stomach, so that’s fine.’

Malfoy grimaces. ‘Sleeping on your stomach isn’t good for you.’ Harry shrugs, and Malfoy holds up a mirror. ‘How’s it, then?’

It is rather small, and plain compared to the shiny jewels and chains that flash in Malfoy’s ears, but Harry likes it. He really likes it, actually—it’s snug in the top curve of his ear, a little shine that marks him out as someone. 

He hasn’t felt like a someone for a while.

‘It’s cool,’ Harry finally says, hand absentmindedly floating up to it, and Malfoy slaps it away again.

‘Merlin. You’re still an idiot.’

Harry laughs, and Malfoy looks surprised, that faint pink coming back to his cheeks. ‘Yeah, probably.’

‘Right.’ Malfoy clears his throat. ‘You can pay Bianca on the way out.’

‘I really won’t tell anyone, Malfoy.’

‘Alright,’ Malfoy says, arms crossed, expression shuttered. ‘I’m not—part of it, anymore. That whole world.’

Harry nods, and burns with curiosity, but despite what his friends say, he does know how to stop when he’s ahead. Sometimes, at least.

He pays and leaves a probably too-generous tip. Bianca raises a pierced eyebrow at him.

‘Maybe we’ll see you again then, Harry.’ Behind her, Draco coughs and mumbles something about cleaning up the back, and when Harry steps back out onto the street, he’s smiling.

…

When Harry walks into the office the next morning—fifteen minutes late, and holding two large iced coffees—Daisy does a double take.

‘I got us triple shots with extra cream.’ He slides the coffee across to her.

‘Dude.’ Daisy calls him dude, bro, or Haz, depending on how she’s feeling. She never calls him Mr Potter, and he adores her for it. ‘Dude.’

‘It’s a dude morning?’

‘You got a fucking helix piercing.’

‘Erm. Yes.’

‘You skipped work to get a piercing?’ She’s looking at him with something close to reverence. 

‘Sort of? It was unplanned.’ He perches himself on her desk, and she flicks her dreadlocks over one shoulder, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘Does it look okay?’

‘It looks sick,’ Daisy says, and Harry smiles. Daisy immigrated to the UK the year before after graduating from Ilvermorny; as far as Harry can tell, she likes skateboards, her pet ferret, and not much else. He hired her on the spot after she walked into her interview half an hour late with the most unbothered expression he’d ever seen.

‘High praise indeed,’ Harry says, and she hums. 

‘Er, so, far as I can tell, no one noticed us gone yesterday—big fucking surprise there—but the Minister wants to see you about the new centaur legislation, and I think Robards wants your opinion on some…I dunno, photoshoot for the Aurors or something…and that’s it.’

Harry stares at her. ‘We have no other work today?’

‘Nope.’

Harry sighs, and Daisy smirks into her coffee. ‘You should bring Kelvin into the office. That’d make things more interesting.’

Daisy lights up. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Anyone who wants a meeting with me has to go through the ferret first.’ 

Later that morning, Daisy saunters triumphantly through the office door, a ball of fluff in her arms.

‘It worked!’

‘Wait.’ Harry looks at her. ‘You actually went back home and got the ferret?’

‘You said I was allowed.’

‘I didn’t mean go home today and get him. You’re not supposed to leave your desk.’

Daisy scowls at him. 

Fair enough.

‘Wait. What do you mean, it worked?’

‘Oh, someone from the media tried to come through to see you. Took one look at Kelvin and scampered.’ Harry looks at Kelvin. He’s grey and white and nestles into Daisy’s arm, chewing contentedly on her robes. ‘He’s not really the brightest ferret, but he’s harmless. People are just dumb.’

Harry pulls out the sandwich he didn’t really want to eat for lunch from his briefcase and tentatively offers up a plastic-y slice of cheese. Daisy brings Kelvin over to his desk, and when Harry places the cheese in front of him, his little ears twitch. He sniffs at it, and, as quick as a flash, he snatches it up and runs back into Daisy’s arms.

‘Not so boring round here anymore, huh?’ Daisy says, grinning at Kelvin as he delightedly gnaws on his snack. ‘Pets allowed and the boss is becoming punk.’

‘One piercing does not make me punk.’

‘Whatever you say, dude,’ Daisy says, breezing out again. 

…

‘You’re back,’ Bianca says when Harry walks into Sanctuary. 

It’s exactly one week since he was last here. Sunday was Ron’s birthday, a small family lunch at the Burrow. Within ten minutes of him arriving, Molly had asked if he was having any mental troubles, and Hermione had cast fifteen diagnostic charms to check for infection. Bill gave him an approving nod and Percy looked mildly horrified. It was all about as expected.

‘I think I want my lobe done,’ Harry says, because he does, and also because he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the way Malfoy said I’m not a part of it anymore, that whole world, and how Malfoy looked like Malfoy but not at all like Malfoy, and how Malfoy is a him now, and something about the two of them both being hims—well. Harry had to come back.

Kelvin’s doing an admirable job of keeping any potential meetings away anyway, and Harry’s already sparse schedule has dwindled down to nothing. He’s been astonished by the amount of fully grown wixen unable to cope with a tiny domesticated mammal who enjoys belly rubs and stealing Harry’s lunches.

‘You know, we normally require bookings in advance,’ Bianca admonishes. ‘You’re lucky Tuesday afternoons aren’t generally our peak time.’

‘Mmm.’ Harry strains his ears. ‘What’s this song, then?’

Will you make it in the end?
Through all the twists and bends?
Will you fulfil your dreams?
Not as easy as it seems

‘Killing Heidi,’ Bianca explains, and then at Harry’s confused expression, ‘they’re an Australian band. You Brits and Yanks don’t have the monopoly on good music, you know.’

‘I know!’ Harry says, too quickly, and then, ‘they’re great, yeah.’ 

Bianca beams. She’s in layered, torn up t-shirts today, her short hair pinned back with dozens of bobby pins. Harry has a distant, interesting thought that she might be just Luna’s type. 

‘I’ll get Draco,’ she says, walking through the curtain to the piercing room. Harry grimaces a little; he imagines Malfoy won’t be overly excited about seeing him again. Oh well. 

There are a couple of older men in the waiting room today, too; old biker types, but Harry notices the easy way their knees knock, the way their fingers brush slightly as they talk in low murmurs, gesturing at a magazine. 

A little lump forms in his throat.

Sirius and Remus would have liked it here, he thinks, though their music taste was a little more old school; Sirius loved the Ramones and the Sex Pistols and the Clash. and Remus liked punk too, but he also liked Fleetwood Mac and Paul Simon and Joni Mitchell and all that fucking treehugger shite, as Sirius described it once, grinning affectionately across the dining table at Grimmauld Place.

The bikers get up when a bearded man Harry hasn’t seen before pokes his head out of a door at the other end of the room. ‘Hey boys, back again?’

Yeah, Harry thinks, Sirius and Remus would have liked it here.

‘Potter.’ Harry’s attention is snapped back towards the counter, where a surly-looking Malfoy stands slightly behind Bianca. ‘You’re back.’

‘I am,’ Harry says. ‘Are you free?’

Malfoy narrows his eyes. ‘I suppose.’

‘We normally pride ourselves on our customer service,’ Bianca tells Harry, and Malfoy huffs and gestures towards the back.

‘She would have been a Hufflepuff,’ Malfoy says immediately after he closes the curtains, and Harry laughs. 

‘I like her.’ 

‘Of course you do.’ Malfoy folds his arms and looks at the ground, scuffing his worn Doc Martens against the wood. He’s in ripped jeans again, and an oversized black hoodie. His hair is in a low ponytail, strands escaping around his face, and Harry notices the way he hunches; the way Harry used to hunch, before his surgery, back when he was binding all the time. 

He hasn’t had to think about that in a while.

‘How’s your week been?’ Harry finally asks, and Malfoy shrugs.

‘Fine. Yours?’

‘Fine.’ Harry looks at the way Malfoy’s playing with his rings; twirling back and forth, feet tapping against the floor, and his chest clenches. ‘Weird, actually,’ he adds quickly, ‘my assistant has started bringing in her ferret.’

Malfoy’s head snaps up. ‘She has a ferret?’

‘Yeah.’

Malfoy stares at him. 

‘I genuinely cannot tell if you’re being serious or just fucking with me.’

‘I’m not fucking with you.’

‘Right.’ Malfoy still looks sceptical. ‘So, who knows about me?’

‘Hmm?’ Harry stops staring at Malfoy’s three eyebrow piercings and refocusses. ‘Knows what?’

‘Potter. Who have you told?’

‘Oh. No one.’

‘No one?’ Malfoy scoffs. 

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘What do you mean, why?’

‘Potter.’ Malfoy looks very pissed off. ‘You must have told someone. Granger and Weasley? They’d be fine, I suppose, and I’m sure you told them to be discreet, but I just want to know—’

‘ Malfoy,’ Harry parrots back at him. ‘I haven’t told anyone. I don’t know whether you’re ready to come out.’

That shut Malfoy up, Harry thinks smugly. And it’s true—not wanting to out him is a large part of the reason he hasn’t mentioned Malfoy at all. Harry could never bring himself to misgender someone, not after the way the Dursleys treated him; but he’s also acutely aware that Malfoy has separated himself from the wizarding world for a reason, and he doesn’t know where the line is. 

The other reason is much more selfish, and it’s that Harry likes that he finally has a secret again; a little thrill just for him, away from the press and the Ministry and his very loving, very intense family. 

‘Well,’ Malfoy finally says, grey eyes flickering. ‘That’s decent of you.’

‘Malfoy. Of course.’

Malfoy swallows. ‘Yeah, I know. I know you wouldn’t.’

Harry still remembers when Hagrid came to pick him up that night on his eleventh birthday, when his proper name and pronouns were finally used, when this wonderful, magical world saved him from the black hole sucking him under in Privet Drive.

We can give you potions, Hagrid had said, Dumbledore’s insisted, you see. Great man, Dumbledore.

The potions worked much faster than Muggle options. By the time Harry got on the train that September he was Harry, and the Dursleys couldn’t do anything about it. He was Ron’s best friend, he was in the boys’ dorms, he was the Boy Who Lived. He remembers thinking that first night that he’d do anything for his new home, anything for the man who had made this possible for him; and Dumbledore knew it.

Harry blinks back to the present. He looks down at his hands.

He tries not to think about it much anymore; tries not to remember he was only ever intended by Dumbledore to be a boy, not a man. A gift that always had a price.

‘How long have you known?’ Harry asks, because he’s desperate to know; he’s desperate for someone else to share this part of him that no one else understands. That they can’t ever understand.

Malfoy sits back on the bench. ‘I came out a year ago. I wasn’t like you—I didn’t always know. And I’m not a woman, but I’m also not completely a man either. It was confusing for a while.’

‘But he/him is okay?’

‘Yes.’ Malfoy cocks his head. ‘And Draco is gender neutral, so I decided to just keep it.’

‘Do your parents…’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

Malfoy looks down, twisting his rings again. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Lobe piercing.’

‘Potter.’

Harry inhales. ‘I’ve always been the only one.’

He doesn’t have to clarify what he means by the only one.

Malfoy stares at him. ‘Okay.’

Harry leaves with a stud in his left lobe, gold to match his helix.

…

When he comes back a week later, Bianca is expecting him.

‘Harry! I told Draco, I popped you in for three o clock. You’re not supposed to get so many in a row, you know?’

Harry grins. ‘I live life on the edge, Bianca.’

‘Crazy, you,’ she says, eyeing his outfit today: the usual brogues, pressed grey slacks, blue shirt, sensible tie. ‘Where do you work?’

‘Government.’

‘Gross.’

‘Yeah.’ Harry slumps a little. ‘My job is really boring.’

Bianca hums in sympathy and Harry smiles at her as the song playing picks up.

Tell me, tell me what you really want from me
You've got to let me know
I'm falling off and I need you terribly
One down and one to go

‘I like this a lot,’ Harry tells her, and she grins.

‘Veruca Salt. You don’t listen to a lot of this kind of music, then?’

‘Not really.’ Harry smiles apologetically. ‘I have terrible taste.’

Bianca laughs. ‘Draco and I, we’re going to a gig tonight, seeing some local bands. You should come.’

Harry blinks. ‘Huh?’

‘I know the owner. Please come.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Draco doesn’t have that many people, you know?’

Harry had guessed as much, but he doesn’t tell Bianca that. 

‘Can I bring a friend?’

‘Bring a friend where?’ Malfoy has slunk out of the back, and is leaning on the far end of the counter, eyeing Bianca with a beady glare. She looks unruffled.

‘I was thinking Harry could come with us tonight.’

‘No.’ Malfoy looks at Harry. ‘You should just make a standing weekly appointment, at this rate.’

‘That’s what I said,’ Bianca says, and then, ‘why can’t he come?’

‘Because’— Malfoy grits his teeth—‘Potter and I don’t even like each other.’

‘Ouch,’ Harry says, and Malfoy’s acerbic expression only makes him grin. ‘We’ve had our past differences,’ he says to Bianca, who looks amused.

‘Understandable. Draco’s a dividing personality.’

‘You are a traitor,’ Malfoy tells Bianca flatly. ‘Potter, you really don’t have to come tonight.’

‘I’d like to,’ Harry says, and Malfoy’s lips flatten. 

‘You can definitely bring a friend,’ Bianca says.

Out the back, Malfoy prepares his piercing tools with a bit more force than necessary, mumbling as he does.

‘Just—why on earth —you don’t even know the bands—invading my privacy—’

‘I won’t come if you really don’t want me to,’ Harry says, and Malfoy looks at him, as if only just reminded that he’s still in the room.

‘It’s not that, it’s just—’ Malfoy rubs an alcohol wipe over a needle and huffs. ‘I don’t understand you at all, you know that?’

‘Mmm,’ Harry responds, and they don’t say anything until his other lobe is pierced, and Harry smiles a little as Malfoy mutters an extra Healing spell. 

Malfoy steps back and crosses his arms. ‘Who are you going to bring, then?’

Harry ponders this. ‘Someone cool.’

…

Luna is delighted, of course.

She turns up at Harry’s flat a full hour early. She’s in a low-slung maxi skirt, tie-dyed oranges and pinks, and a little orange crop top. Her long hair is braided back with flowers and her arms are packed with bangles. 

Harry doesn’t quite know whether she’ll fit in at a grunge gig or not, but if Luna’s not fussed, neither is he. 

She’s been getting her certification in Magical Creature handling, and she tells Harry about her recent month in Bolivia with the feral Kneazle population there as he runs around Grimmauld, trying to find an outfit. Finally, Luna stops talking, and looks at him contemplatively as he tucks and untucks a shirt into his jeans.

‘I don’t think that’s quite right, do you?’ She climbs the stairs, walking straight into his bedroom and to his closet, rifling through his clothes. ‘Strange.’

‘Strange?’ Harry repeats, out of breath and perturbed by the door. 

‘You never dressed this nicely in school.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Harry huffs a laugh and rubs a hand over his face. He definitely won’t get a chance to shave. ‘’Mione got me most of that.’

‘Hmm.’ Luna looks between him and the closet. ‘May I?’

‘Sure,’ Harry says, and Luna points her wand at his sensible blue jeans until they fade darker and tighten around his arse and ankles. She does the same to his shirt, and it becomes a simple black t-shirt, and then she rummages through his coats until she finds Sirius’ old jacket and throws it at him.

‘There you are,’ she says, pleased. ‘That’s more you, don’t you think?’

Harry looks at himself in his bedroom mirror. The t-shirt is straining slightly across his chest, and he feels oddly exposed, vulnerable with his tight clothes and the petrol-leather scent of the jacket in his nostrils. 

His ear piercings glint, just visible underneath his curls.

‘I don’t know who that is,’ he admits to Luna, and she pats him consolingly on one shoulder.

‘You will soon, I think.’ 

…

When they arrive at the pub, it’s already buzzing and overflowing with people infinitely cooler than Harry: guys with mohawks and painted nails; girls in platform sandals and chain chokers. He struggles with the feeling that everyone is looking at him, until he realises they’re probably looking at Luna, who looks more fairy than human, weaving effortlessly in and out of the crowd.

‘Oh hello, Draco!’ Luna sings across the din, and Malfoy looks up.

He’s in a mesh top, chest taped underneath. He’s too thin, Harry notes absently, looking at the pelvic bones peeping above his usual ripped jeans. He’s wearing black eyeliner and chunky silver chains around his pockets, and his expression quickly shifts from apprehensive to bemused as he takes in Luna, who hugs him without preamble.

‘You look very alternative,’ Luna informs him, and Malfoy looks at Harry with such bewilderment that Harry can’t help but laugh. Bianca’s in thigh-high patent platform boots and a leather minidress, and she ogles Luna with an expression that can only be described as enchanted.

‘Hello,’ Luna smiles, hugging her too, and Bianca gulps when Luna steps back. ‘I’m Luna. It’s so nice to meet you.’

Bianca blinks at her. Malfoy looks at Bianca, rolls his eyes, and gives her a sharp elbow.

‘Oh! I’m Bianca.’

‘Would you like to get some drinks with me?’ Luna’s already walking towards the bar, and Bianca practically trips over her own feet running after her. 

Harry snorts and tilts his head back to Malfoy. Malfoy’s looking at him, lips slightly quirked.

‘Someone cool, Potter, honestly.’ Malfoy sighs, but it’s not malicious. ‘I hope Bee doesn’t fuck it up too badly. She’s a bit clumsy around cute girls.’

‘You call her Bee?’ Harry asks, suddenly and incomprehensibly endeared. Malfoy rolls his eyes.

‘Only when she’s not pissing me off.’

‘Pissing you off. How Muggle.’

‘For god’s sake,’ Malfoy mutters, but he’s still smiling a little. Just a little. ‘I can’t believe you came.’

‘Of course I did.’ Harry gestures to his piercings. ‘I’m very hip now.’

Malfoy winces. ‘Please do not use the phrase hip again.’

‘Luna told me my outfit was extremely hip.’

‘It’s…’ Malfoy’s eyes flick over him, and he goes a bit pink, the tips of his ears flushing, ‘fine.’

‘Just fine?’

‘Not exactly original, but it does the job.’ Malfoy looks away, across the swathes of people and towards the stage. ‘You’re not going to know any music tonight.’

‘I never know any music when I come to the shop. It’s all about learning.’

‘You’re so weird,’ Malfoy mutters. 

‘Yeah, because you’re completely normal.’ 

Malfoy narrows his eyes at Harry. ‘I don’t try to be normal.’ His gaze darts towards the floor. ‘Anymore. I don’t try to be normal anymore.’

‘I know,’ Harry says, and he shuffles just a little closer to Malfoy, pressing his back against the table. The leather jacket feels weirdly comfortable despite the muggy air inside the pub; like  protective armour. Harry folds his arms across his chest, imagining Sirius here, imagining doing something like this together. ‘How did you get into all this anyway? It’s not just Muggle, it’s like… fringe Muggle.’

Malfoy, to Harry’s surprise, snorts. ‘Fringe Muggle?’

Harry shrugs. ‘A subculture. I don’t know.’

‘For fuck’s—’ Malfoy exhales, his lips still quirking, and then crosses his arms in front of himself. ‘Bee introduced me, I suppose.’

‘And how did you meet her?’

‘You ask a lot of questions, Potter. Should I have a lawyer here?’

‘Old habits?’ Harry offers, and Malfoy doesn’t quite smile, but it’s there in his cheeks, his eyes. 

‘You’re so annoying.’

Harry shrugs. Malfoy huffs.

‘I got drunk in a shitty Muggle pub. Bee looked after me. Now I can’t get rid of her.’

Harry mock gasps. ‘That sounds like a best friend, Malfoy.’

‘How juvenile,’ Malfoy mutters, and clears his throat. ‘I started listening to her music, started dressing in her clothes, came out to her, moved in with her, got a job at Sanctuary. All part of her evil master plan, probably, to completely invade every part of my life, so that I never get a moment to myself—and honestly, she’s a complete mess, her shoes are everywhere over the flat, and her dating life is even worse—really I’m there for her, I could move out, but—’

‘Merlin,’ Harry whispers, ‘she really is your best friend. You have a best friend.’

‘I have never had best friends—’

‘Best friends?’ Bianca is weaving back through the crowd, holding a pint in each hand. ‘Are you talking about us?’

Harry laughs. Malfoy glares at him.

‘I tolerate you,’ Malfoy says to Bianca firmly, and she laughs and kisses his cheek.

‘I love you,’ she replies, easy and uncomplicated, and Malfoy’s eyes crinkle. Luna appears next to Harry, handing him a lager.

‘Did you two bond?’ Malfoy asks Luna, smirking.

‘Oh, yes,’ Luna says, beaming at Bianca. ‘Bianca was telling me about your flat. How are you coping with an induction hob, Draco?’

Bianca looks far too amused. ‘Just how posh was your upbringing, Dee?’

‘Very posh,’ Harry says, and then, ‘so you call each other Dee and Bee?’

‘No,’ Malfoy says desperately, just as Bianca says ‘yes.’ 

‘That’s so sweet,’ Luna trills, and Malfoy looks like he wants to die.

‘I am not sweet,’ he says firmly, and Bianca rolls her eyes. ‘The bands are about to start.’

As predicted, Harry does not know any of the bands, nor any of the songs, but it doesn’t really matter. The bodies are packed tight on the sticky wooden floors, and the dim lights make him feel a little like he’s in a dream. Harry, uncomfortably aware he’s by far the wealthiest out of them, insists on paying for each round, and before long, they’re all quite drunk. Bianca and Luna start dancing together, and Malfoy convinces Harry to try something called absinthe, which is beyond repulsive. As Harry gags and tries desperately to get the taste out of his mouth, Malfoy starts talking about the music—mostly covers played by amateur bands, nowhere as good as the originals, Malfoy insists, but god Potter, if you heard the original of Come As You Are—I have to show it to you soon, it’s unforgivable that this is your first experience, really—and Harry doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s fine, because he can’t really hear the music, and he’d prefer to just have Malfoy tell him about it anyway.

And then a new song starts playing, and Malfoy’s attention snaps back to the stage.

‘Oh this’—his hair falls across his face, long blond strands plastered across his cheeks and nose, sweat glistening under the lights—‘this is a favourite of mine, actually.’

‘Yeah?’ Harry tilts his head towards where Luna and Bianca are still shyly jumping together. ‘Do you wanna dance?’

Malfoy nods, finishing his shot, and Harry takes his hand without thinking. Malfoy looks at curiously but doesn’t protest; just follows Harry as they push through the crowd, his hand cool and clammy, fingers gripped tightly around Harry’s palm. 

Sucker love is heaven sent
You pucker up, our passion's spent
My heart's a tart, your body's rent
My body's broken, yours is bent

Malfoy starts moving, and Harry tries to move with him, but it’s hard; alcohol has made Malfoy less stiff, more graceful; like he’s meant to be here, swaying underneath the lights. Harry’s limbs feel heavy and useless, so he just stares. Malfoy moves into him.

‘Placebo,’ Malfoy whispers in Harry’s ear, ‘I really like the lead singer.’

Harry laughs, and Malfoy grins and spins him around. A man tries to move closer; a tall, handsome guy with tattoos and rings, and he reaches a hand to Malfoy’s waist. Malfoy scowls and slaps it away.

‘Not interested?’ Harry asks, heart hammering, and Malfoy shrugs.

‘It’s because he thinks I’m a girl.’

‘You’re not a girl,’ Harry says immediately, the alcohol making him hazy, obvious. ‘You’re really not a girl.’

In the shape of things to come
Too much poison come undone
'Cause there's nothing else to do
Every me and every you

Malfoy gazes at him, hand still in Harry’s.

‘No,’ he finally says, ‘I’m really not a girl.’

‘Mm,’ Harry responds. Malfoy’s eyelashes are so fair that they’re barely visible. He has a mole next to his left eye. He’s gazing at Harry so softly, brittle layers chipped away by the beer and shots. 

‘I—’ Malfoy swallows. ‘I like your jacket.’

‘Me too,’ Harry responds.

All alone in space and time
There's nothing here but what here's mine
Something borrowed, something blue
Every me and every you

‘I really like this song,’ Harry says, and Malfoy smiles—soft, so bloody soft.

Harry doesn’t feel empty anymore.

At the end of the night, they’re all tumbling into a taxi, and Bianca’s giving the driver directions to her and Malfoy’s flat. Luna has her arms slung around both Draco and Harry, forehead resting on Malfoy’s shoulder, and Malfoy looks gently pleased. Bianca is chatting to the driver about his night, and Harry feels incredulous, in absolute disbelief that he spent his night like this, and so happy that he thinks he might faint. 

Bianca and Draco’s flat is an absolute disaster; pizza boxes and unopened mail litter every surface. Piles of dirty laundry are in the corner of the living room. The whole flat can’t be bigger than a classroom. It’s lovely nonetheless, lived in and obviously loved, the walls covered in posters and Polaroids and drawings. Draco makes them all drink two glasses of water each, and he and Bianca drag their mattresses out to the living room, and the four of them pass out to Placebo playing from Bianca’s boombox in the corner of the room.

‘You’re right,’ Harry mumbles, sleepy and still drunk.

‘Mm?’ Malfoy is on the other side of the mattress, Bianca curled into his arm, while Luna is squished between her and Harry. 

‘The original’s better,’ Harry says, and Malfoy smiles.

‘Goodnight, Potter.’

…

Harry has to get up earlier than everyone else for work. Bianca and Malfoy don’t start until midday, and Luna does her job whenever she feels like it, so Harry leaves a note and Disapparates from a side alley next to their building.

His hangover only really hits by the time he’s in the office, and Daisy is more than happy to task Kelvin with warding off meetings. 

‘I’ve never seen you hungover. You’re going off the rails, dude.’ Daisy slides across his coffee. ‘It’s sick.’

Harry grunts in response. ‘I am never touching that green stuff again.’

‘Green stuff?’

‘Some sort of liquor. Tastes like the devil.’

‘Haz. Do you mean absinthe?’

Harry snaps his fingers. ‘That’s the one.’

Daisy cackles. 

Harry doesn’t wait another week. He’s had an idea, and he’s never been good at waiting out his ideas.

So he goes back to the flat on Friday evening, and a bewildered Malfoy answers his knocks.

‘Hello!’ Harry holds up a tub of ice cream. ‘Thought you’d probably still be recovering from Tuesday?’

‘That…may be correct,’ Malfoy says, eyeing the ice cream beadily.

They sit cross-legged on the red tartan sofa, surprisingly comfortable for something so tattered, and Malfoy grabs the tub. 

‘You know, Potter,’ he says, taking a spoonful, ‘most people would ask before turning up unannounced on their arch-enemy’s doorstep.’

‘Sorry, but you kind of lost the title of arch-enemy during the war.’

‘Voldemort ruined everything.’ Malfoy scowls, and Harry laughs. Malfoy’s expression turns pleased, almost smug.

‘So.’ Harry manages to swipe a spoonful with cookie dough in it. ‘I have a question for you.’

Malfoy raises one eyebrow. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Are you on hormones?’

It’s a tricky question, and it’s not something Harry would ask if he didn’t know there was a reason for him asking it. Malfoy frowns at the ice cream, pushing his hair behind his ears, but he doesn’t look annoyed.

‘No,’ Malfoy finally says, and Harry nods.

‘Would you like to be?’

Malfoy smiles, but it’s bitter, resigned. ‘It’s not that simple, Potter.’

‘No,’ Harry agrees. 

‘Healers aren’t bound by confidentiality towards family members. I don’t want my father to find me.’

Harry notices how he says father instead of parents.

‘And,’ Malfoy continues, ‘I’ve tried the Muggle way, and it’s—’ He falters, staring at the ice cream. He won’t look at Harry. ‘It’s too expensive.’

Harry works very carefully to keep his expression neutral, but he’s imagining Malfoy at twelve, Nimbus slung over his shoulder, and how entitled he’d been; convinced the world was his birthright.

It breaks Harry’s heart.

‘Well,’ Harry says, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him, soothe him, do anything to make that look leave Malfoy’s face, ‘I sort of thought that might be the case. And I…have a surplus.’

Malfoy’s head snaps to him. ‘What?’

Harry shrugs. ‘I’ve been on the potions since I was eleven. I only need to take a vial every other month now, but I have a prescription for one a month. I have like, twenty spares, and they don’t expire.’

Malfoy’s mouth goes a little slack, and he looks back to the ice cream, then back to Harry.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, and abruptly leaves the room.

Perhaps in school, Harry would have followed him. But Harry has grown since then, and so has Malfoy. Harry has learned that sometimes, people need time to process their feelings; that not everyone can trust their instincts the way he trusts his own.

So he sits, and waits, and pushes around the melting ice cream until Malfoy storms back into the room fifteen minutes later.

‘Why?’

Harry looks up. Malfoy’s eyes are slightly red, and his hands are shaking.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Potter. Why?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

Malfoy’s lips thin. ‘Because I am me, Potter, and you are you, and we don’t just—this isn’t how we are.’

‘It could be.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Malfoy’s face is red now, and his eyes bright and blinking very rapidly. ‘Have you forgotten— I did the most terrible— and I don’t want your fucking pity, I’d rather live my entire life like this than have that, so—’

Harry huffs. ‘I don’t pity you, Malfoy.’

‘Then why?’ Malfoy all but screams it, fists clenched by his side, and he looks so familiar and so new all at once. Harry doesn’t know how to tell him that, doesn’t know how to articulate this feeling in his chest; like if he doesn’t help Malfoy, if he doesn’t keep seeing him every week, then he might slip away again, and the emptiness would seep back into Harry’s life; that for some reason Malfoy makes him feel like he doesn’t have to be anyone else, and that Harry can breathe around him, and that everyone else, even the people he loves, expect so much of him, and Malfoy doesn’t expect anything.

But Harry can’t say that, so he just takes a deep breath, and puts the ice cream on the table.

‘Because I just want to, okay?’

Malfoy lets out a little shriek. ‘Why?’

‘I dunno! I just want to .’

‘Because you pity me! Because you have some weird saviour complex thing and—I don’t know, you think I’m so pathetic here in my tiny flat with my bizarre flatmate and badly paid Muggle job and—I know nothing about you, Potter, nothing except you’ve made yourself weirdly at home in my life, so please, for the love of Merlin, why?’

‘I—’ Harry blinks, and to his surprise, a lump rises in his throat, unbidden. ‘I like your flat. And your job. And Bianca.’ He runs his hands through his hair. ‘I like you. As a person. I care about you.’

Whatever Malfoy was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. He opens and closes his mouth, then walks out of the room and back in to sit down beside him. ‘You’re very annoying,’ he informs Harry, and Harry grins.

‘Yeah?’

‘And stubborn. Even more stubborn than you were in school. You still have no common sense. For some reason you charm people with your complete lack of logical thought. And if Hermione Granger wasn’t dressing you, I’m fairly certain you’d be turning up to your useless, overpaid job in joggers.’ Malfoy sniffs, and picks up the ice cream—basically soup, at this point, but he doesn’t seem to mind—and pokes at the remaining lumps of cookie dough. He inhales. ‘I don’t know why I like you, Harry.’

Something in Harry’s chest softens and loosens, a knot he didn’t know was there. He stares at Draco, at the long blond hair and the way he’s cradling the ice cream, the way he refuses to meet Harry’s eyes. Harry’s stomach does something complicated; he reaches up absentmindedly to fiddle with his newest piercing, and Draco slaps his hand away.

‘Idiot,’ Draco says, and then, ‘we should give you second lobe piercings next.’

…

Harry gets both his second lobe piercings done on Tuesday, and then on Thursday he turns up with Daisy and Kelvin.

It’s not that Daisy had blackmailed him, exactly—more that she’d hinted she’d be able to cover for him a lot better if she knew where he snuck off to every Tuesday, and Harry couldn’t see any reason not to show her—she’d probably want a piercing, anyway.

When they show up, Draco is busy with other clients out the back, and Bianca squeals a little when she sees Kelvin.

‘Oh he’s so cute! I have some leftover chicken from lunch!’

This is, apparently, all it takes to win Daisy over; Harry is starting to suspect there’s not a single person in the world, not even his misanthropic receptionist, who could dislike Bianca. 

As Bianca feeds Kelvin little bites of chicken and chats easily to Daisy about her tattoos, Harry suddenly wonders what Draco has told her about his past.

Probably something vague; Bianca doesn’t seem like the type of person who would dig if it wasn’t wanted. But even as Draco’s best friend and  flatmate, she wouldn’t be permitted to know anything under the Statute of Secrecy.

Draco has been lonely for a long time, Harry realises. 

When Draco appears, ushering his clients out with bottles of disinfectant spray and aftercare instructions, he looks surprised but not unhappy to see Harry. His eyes flicker to Daisy, then widen when he spots Kelvin.

‘Harry,’ he says, and the way he says Harry is deliberate, ‘you actually weren’t fucking with me about the ferret.’

‘I told you,’ Harry says, and Daisy coughs. ‘This is my receptionist, Daisy, and that’s Kelvin.’

‘Hi,’ Daisy drawls. ‘Can I get pierced now?’

‘Well, bookings are technically closed for the night…’ Bianca trails off and looks at Draco, who waves a hand at her. ‘Go in.’

Daisy grins and all but throws Kelvin into Bianca’s arms. Ten minutes later, she emerges with an eyebrow piercing, followed by an amused-looking Draco.

‘She’s a character,’ Draco mutters under his breath to Harry, and Harry snorts.

‘Mmm. Sorry to spring her on you, but I figured she doesn’t know or care who you are, and my ability to ditch work depends on her.’

Draco rolls his eyes. ‘She spent the entire time telling me about all the people she hates in the Ministry.’

‘What did she say about me?’

‘That you’re growing on her.’ Draco smirks. ‘Like cancer.’

Harry bursts out laughing, and Draco looks pleased. Daisy finishes paying at the till and scoops up Kelvin from where he’s nestled in Bianca’s arms.

‘See you tomorrow, Haz,’ she says, which immediately prompts a snort from Draco. ‘You sure you don’t want to say hi to Kelvin, Draco?’

Draco looks at the ferret with disdain. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Loser. Bye.’ Daisy leaves the shop without a backwards glance.

‘What an interesting person. I like her,’ Bianca says, resting her face in her hands.

‘Of course you do,’ Draco replies. ‘Don’t you have plans tonight?’

Bianca blushes and hurriedly finishes counting the till. Harry looks over at Draco and mouths Luna?, to which he receives a smirk. Bianca runs out a few minutes later, and Draco locks the door behind him and Harry.

‘So is the bearded guy the owner?’

Draco laughs, tucking the key into the pocket of his jeans. ‘Angus?’

‘I dunno his name.’

‘Well, the bearded guy is Angus. And yes, he owns the parlour. He does tattoos.’

‘Including yours?’

‘Some. Bianca’s done some of them. He trained her.’

‘Is he nice?’

‘Nice enough,’ Draco says, walking them towards the tube. ‘Don’t see much of him, to be honest. Bianca runs everything. He gives us lots of alcohol at Christmas and sometimes pats my shoulder awkwardly and says good job, kid.’

‘Sounds like an ideal boss.’

‘Yeah,’ Draco smiles, and they turn into the station. Draco pulls out his Oyster card and Harry pays for a single fare ticket. They haven’t talked about it, but Harry knows he’s welcome, somehow; that Draco would have made it clear if he didn’t want Harry trailing after him like some sort of lost puppy.

Harry feels a bit pathetic, but it’s fine.

On the tube, Draco pulls out a battered iPod and a set of earphones. Harry raises his eyebrows.

‘I’m very knowledgeable about Muggle things now, Potter.’

Harry snorts and takes one of the earbuds offered to him. Draco presses the play button and leans back on the seat, closing his eyes. 

Is something wrong, she said
Well of course there is
You're still alive, she said
Oh, and do I deserve to be
Is that the question
And if so…if so…who answers…who answers…

Harry watches Draco as he leans back; hair spilling over the back of the seat, his mouth slightly parted, his pointy chin and cheekbones highlighted under the fluorescent light. He’s mouthing the words, tapping his fingers against his knees. The volume is far too loud for Harry, but he’d rather die than ask Draco to turn it down. 

Across from them sits a young woman with a gently dozing toddler; down the carriage, two older men in business suits are sharing a packet of Maltesers. 

Harry remembers the summer he turned sixteen, long hours spent drawing circles around London, passing from one train to the next until he’d gone to a place so obscure that surely no one would find him. 

Of course, he always eventually had to go back.

When they reach their stop, Harry hands Draco his earbud back, and follows Draco up and through Walthamstow Station. Draco pauses at the top of the stairs, then turns to Harry, an odd look on his face.

‘We could have just Disapparated.’ Draco laughs, a short, humourless thing, and Harry shrugs.

‘The tube is fine.’

‘I’m just’—Draco passes a hand over his face—‘so used to always making this trip with Bee. I forgot. Sorry, that’s so weird of me—’

‘Draco.’ Harry takes his shoulders. ‘It’s fine. I like trains.’

Draco’s lips twitch. ‘ I like trains?’ He—annoyingly—sounds exactly like Harry, deep and mumbled.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ Harry says, and Draco smiles, and lifts one hand to gently clasp Harry’s where it holds his shoulder. 

‘The flat’s just around the corner from here,’ Draco says, and twists around to lead him out of the station, those long, soft fingers still wrapped around Harry’s palm. Draco lets go once they’re out of the station, but his pinkie keeps brushing against Harry’s as they walk. 

His touch feels so different like this; in the piercing room, clad in plastic gloves, Draco’s hands are efficient, capable, confident. Here, under the dark sky and streetlights, they’re shy, but still steady, deliberate. 

Draco’s hands ask questions. Harry’s hands want to answer them.

In the flat, Draco immediately puts on a CD, and Harry surprises himself by recognising the first song.

‘This was playing at the pub, right?’

Draco hums in agreement. ‘Bikini Kill. They’re Bee’s favourite. Do you like scrambled eggs?’

Draco burns the toast, explodes the beans in the microwave, and the eggs resemble more of an omelette than a scramble, but it’s still edible, and they eat on the couch, cushions in their laps and plates balanced precariously on top. 

Before long, Harry is cackling at Draco’s awful, off-key singing, descending into hysterics at the line how punk fucking rock my pussy smells. 

‘You’re the worst singer ever,’ Harry gasps, wiping his eyes, and Draco swats at him. ‘Also, there’s a hair in my eggs.’

‘No there’s not,’ Draco immediately says, and his eyes widen in horror when Harry pulls out a long blond strand from his plate. ‘Oh, fuck.’

‘That’s what you get for not tying your hair back, vain bastard.’ Harry says it lightly, but Draco flushes, and bites his lip.

‘I lost my hair tie. It’s not like I like having it down.’

‘Really?’ 

Draco sighs. ‘I look too much like my father with it down.’

Oh. Harry puts his plate on the table.

‘Do you want long hair?’

Draco pushes around his eggs. ‘I feel like once I do it…that’s it. I’ll be visibly him. Somehow it feels bigger than the potions. I don’t know.’

‘Do you want to be visibly him?’

‘Yes. I just…I don’t know how to be yet.’

Harry looks at Draco’s hands; the long, pale fingers, the ones that had touched his fingers before, and he thinks about how maybe he can answer some of those questions now.

‘I’ll cut your hair for you,’ he says, and Draco laughs a little.

‘Really, Harry?’ He sounds doubtful, eyes pointedly flicking up to Harry’s wayward curls.

‘Mmm.’ Harry reaches out, hesitating only a fraction before taking the strand of Draco’s hair covering his eye, twining it around his finger. Draco’s breath hitches. Harry’s heart is hammering. ‘I—yeah, I have clippers at home. I could give you the potions, too.’

Draco smells like antiseptic and burnt toast, and he’s in the same ripped jeans he always is, and the angry feminist music in the background is almost hilariously incongruous with the moment, but somehow also perfect, and Harry’s heart feels too big for his chest.

‘Okay,’ Draco whispers. ‘Tomorrow?’

Harry nods, his fingers still in Draco’s hair, and he’s not sure what to say, but then Draco speaks again. 

‘You don’t have to leave tonight, though.’

Draco finds him a spare toothbrush, and gives Harry a soft, oversized Foo Fighters t-shirt to change into. It feels weirdly comfortable, padding down the corridor and into Draco’s bedroom, where he’s hurriedly putting clean sheets on a double mattress. 

Being in Draco’s bedroom feels unbearably intimate; the walls are bare, but lined with piles of tattered books and CDs, and his clothes are stacked neatly in a closet without any doors, and when they turn off the lights and climb under the duvet, Draco’s face is lit gently under dozens of glow-in-the-dark stickers.

‘Did you copy the actual constellations?’ Harry asks, examining the ceiling, and Draco nods.

‘Despite my family, I still like the stars.’

‘I’m glad,’ Harry says. Draco’s face is maybe four or five inches away, and he looks suddenly, unbearably young. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you still talk to your mother?’

Draco shakes his head.

‘Do you miss her?’

‘Yes,’ he whispers, and Harry moves his hand into the space between them and across to where Draco’s hand rests on his pillow. Neither of them say anything as Draco lifts his fingers slightly so Harry’s can slide underneath, and they fall asleep like that, underneath the stars.

…

They sleep in a little late the next morning; Harry wakes with Draco’s body curled around him, mellow April sun peeking in through the curtains. This is what spring feels like, Harry thinks, as the arm around his waist tightens ever so slightly.

Draco has to be at Sanctuary by ten, so he hurriedly gets dressed while Harry makes them tea, Transfiguring some bowls into travel mugs, and stirring a teaspoon of sugar into Draco’s.

‘Alright?’ he asks when Draco takes a sip, and he receives a slightly puzzled nod in response.

‘Perfect.’

Harry buys them croissants on their way to the station, a mix of chocolate and almond, and Draco’s already licking frangipane from his fingers by the time they’re sitting on the tube back to Camden. Draco offers him an earbud again, and Harry leans his head back on the seat.

Forgot my woman, lost my friends
Things I'd done, where I've been
Sleep in sweat, the mirror’s cold
See my face, it's growin' old

There’s not many people out yet, but enough that it’s obviously a weekend; parents with buggies and tote bags, old women in leggings and trainers gossiping about their walking group, tired students with rucksacks full of books. 

Harry wonders if he could have ever been one of them. If he’d never been rescued by Hagrid that night, if he’d never been special. Maybe he would be like the waitress opposite him, fiddling with her apron, looking far too young for employment; perhaps she escaped somewhere too, and now she pays her rent by pouring coffees, and perhaps she’s getting her A-levels so she can study teaching, or medicine, or something else useful, and perhaps she’s okay despite everything that came before.

Perhaps doing it all herself will mean she’ll never settle for a huge, fancy job full of nothingness, or a huge, fancy house full of memories, just because it’s convenient.

Perhaps, Harry thinks, perhaps she’ll be like Draco, and everything she gets will be because she wants it more than anything.

Draco’s eyes meet his and flicker down towards Harry’s mouth; he lifts up a thumb, and carefully swipes it across Harry’s chin.

‘Chocolate,’ he explains. ‘You slob.’

Harry rolls his eyes and Draco wipes his thumb on the paper bag still in Harry’s lap, and then he rests his palm on top of Harry’s.

Bianca is already at Sanctuary by the time they arrive. Draco looks at her, smiling wickedly, and she clears her throat.

‘So, Dee, you’ve got a full schedule today—’

‘You didn’t come home last night.’

‘Maybe I did, and you just didn’t notice it.’ Bianca looks pointedly at Harry.

‘Hmm, or maybe you had a sleepover.’

‘A sleepover?’ comes a gruff voice, and Angus strolls through from the back room. He’s huge, completely covered in tattoos, and must be at least fifty. ‘Don’t you kids live together?’

‘Not last night, apparently,’ Draco quips, head flicking to Bianca, and Angus looks deeply uncomfortable.

‘…right. Appointments today?’

‘You’re full up,’ Bianca tells him, and he nods, turns to go, then half-swivels back. 

‘Great week, by the way. You’re both getting bonuses this month.’ He gives them a thumbs-up as he goes, and Draco and Bianca high-five.

‘Nice,’ Bianca says. ‘Does that mean we can get a dog now?’

‘No,’ Draco tells her flatly, and Bianca turns to Harry.

‘Please tell him we need a dog.’

‘You need a dog,’ Harry says to Draco, and Bianca beams.

‘I should never have let you two meet,’ Draco sighs.

Draco’s schedule truly is packed, and he forgoes his lunch break to squeeze in some walk-ins. Harry watches Bianca with her clients and goes through the shop’s truly impressive record collection. He finds Fleetwood Mac in there, and tries not to think of the way Remus’ shoulders would relax whenever Songbird came on.

‘Have you ever wanted a tattoo?’ Bianca asks after they’ve popped out to get everyone sandwiches and juices. Harry bites into his cheese and relish and hums.

‘I dunno. Am I a tattoo person?’

‘Everyone’s a tattoo person with the right tattoos,’ she says, and Harry considers this.

‘I had a’—he stops himself just in time—‘I really like owls. Could you do an owl?’

Bianca nods, her face lighting up. ‘I prefer stick and poke for the moment, if that’s okay?’

‘I have no idea what that means.’

Bianca laughs. ‘Alright.’

‘I trust you.’

Bianca pulls out a sheet of paper and a pencil, asking Harry questions as she sketches— how big? What kind of owl? In flight?

Harry briefly considers throwing up as she pulls out her needle and ink, but Bianca talks easily and constantly, keeping him distracted as she pulls up his sleeve and positions the design on his forearm.

‘Just breathe,’ she says, and Harry does.

An hour later, Bianca dabs a cool, thick ointment across his skin, and she smiles.

‘All done.’

Harry can’t remember the last time he cried. He’s never been much of a crier; it always seemed like a waste of energy. But he sees Hedwig, somehow, staring back at him as he lifts his arm up, and he starts sobbing right there, in the chair, and Bianca wraps her arms around him, and he can hear people coming into the store, but also he can’t stop.

‘You go take care of them,’ comes Draco’s voice, and Bianca kisses Harry’s temple before Draco replaces her arms around him; so, so familiar. Draco pulls Harry into his chest, so that Harry can feel the outline of his collarbone, his binding tape, his ribs, and brings one hand up to thread through his hair. ‘Harry, Harry, you’re okay, Harry, you’re okay, I’m here.’

Harry cries harder at that, and Draco just holds him tighter, and Harry presses his forehead into Draco’s shoulder.

‘I’m here, Harry, I’m here.’

As the tears start to slow, Draco lifts Harry’s glasses from his face to clean them, and wordlessly hands Harry a box of tissues. Harry blows his nose, already embarrassed, and then Draco gestures to his arm.

‘Can I see?’ He hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder, and Harry twists his arm so he can see the design fully.

It’s stunning; a simple, geometric snowy owl in flight, wings stretched above her head. In between them rests a crescent moon, and around her stars twinkle.

‘Oh,’ Draco says, and he looks at Harry with more softness than Harry’s ever seen on him. ‘Oh, Harry.’

They Apparate to Grimmauld Place from the piercing room after Bianca and Angus have left; Draco laughs a little as Harry takes his hand.

‘Back to my ancestral home, then.’

Grimmauld’s in alright shape nowadays, even if absolutely nothing of Harry exists in it; the kitchen and living room are, at least, comfortable, and his bedroom is about as cosy as Kreacher has been able to make it, with piles of blankets and a fireplace that he keeps roaring during winter.

It’s only ever meant to have been a temporary place, really, somewhere for Harry until he’d figured out where he actually wanted to live.

Kreacher is all too delighted to see Draco, and makes a particularly delicious pasta appear in record time, which Draco appreciates to no end; Harry vaguely wishes he were watching Draco absolutely butcher scrambled eggs instead. Afterwards, Harry leads him to the bathroom, and takes out his scissors and clippers, but Draco is looking at the claw-footed tub in the corner of the room. ‘I can’t remember the last time I had a proper bath.’

As Harry fills the tub with lavender and eucalyptus scented water, he wonders if there’s anything he wouldn’t give Draco, if given half the chance; whether there’s any part of himself he wouldn’t offer up willingly.

Draco strips to his pants, and he’s so beautiful it’s difficult to look anywhere else; his tape is fraying at the corners; he pats at it self-consciously, and takes out his bun. His hair falls down his back. 

‘Are you ready?’ Harry asks, stretching out his hand, and Draco nods and takes it; lets Harry help him into the bath, watches as Harry strips off his own top, eyes focussed and hungry.

Harry doesn’t get into the bath, but kneels behind where Draco’s head rests, gathers his hair so it hangs over the edge of the tub.

‘I’ll cut off the bulk here,’ Harry says, pulling the strands back into a loose ponytail, ‘but we’ll have to wait to do clippers until you’re out.’

Draco nods, and Harry sees his fingers clench and unclench, his pale eyelashes fluttering. Harry slides his fingers under Draco’s neck to hold him there, rubbing his fingers under the jut of his skull, and Draco exhales and relaxes into him.

‘You’re okay,’ Harry repeats Draco’s words back to him, thinking of how tightly Draco had held him in Sanctuary. ‘I’m here.’

‘I know,’ Draco says, eyes still closed. ‘You’re always there.’

That makes Harry smile. He Summons a small towel to prop under Draco’s neck, replacing Harry’s hand. Draco sighs and settles, his breaths evening out, and Harry picks up the scissors.

‘Okay?’ he asks.

‘Okay,’ Draco says, and Harry cuts off the ponytail. 

‘The rest is easy,’ Harry says. 

He gently massages shampoo into Draco’s scalp, coating each short strand. He smooths on conditioner, lets it sit for a few minutes while he draws circles on Draco’s forehead, and Draco hums contentedly. He lets Draco dip his head under the water to wash it out, and tries not to look while Draco scrubs his chest, carefully avoiding the tape, and then his legs, his arms, his armpits. 

It’s almost unbearably intimate. Draco doesn’t seem to mind.

Finally, Draco lets out the water, and Harry offers him a huge, fluffy towel, which Draco just sort of— steps into, letting Harry wrap the rest around him so Harry’s arms encircle him. 

Draco’s body goes soft, leaning into him, and Harry rests his chin on Draco’s shoulder. 

‘You liked my hair,’ Draco finally mumbles. ‘You were always touching it.’

‘I wouldn’t say always,’ Harry huffs. He feels Draco smile into his chest. 

Harry turns to let Draco change underwear, then Draco sits on the floor, cross legged, arms around his knees. Harry kneels behind him with the clippers.

‘I was thinking an undercut, almost,’ Harry says, combing through the strands. ‘Longer on top. Like Ginny’s is now, maybe a bit shorter.’

Draco snorts. ‘Ginny has an undercut?’

‘It looks great, but Molly’s not happy about it.’ Harry sections off the top of Draco’s hair, tying it out of the way. ‘It’s very practical for Quidditch, though.’

‘I can’t even imagine her with an undercut,’ Draco says, almost wistful, and Harry is hit with yet another wave of empathy at how cut off Draco has been from the wizarding world.

‘Er,’ Harry starts, already cursing his own lack of eloquence, ‘so, I have plans tomorrow.’

‘Oh.’ Draco stiffens. ‘Of course—I thought you’d probably have plans at some point this weekend—I can leave after this, if you have an early start—’

‘Actually, I’m, er, going to Sunday lunch with my family. The Weasleys. And Hermione, and Neville, and Luna—you can come. If you’d like to. I think they’d like to know that I’ve—I have someone.’

Draco is very, very quiet, and Harry thinks that perhaps he’s finally pushed a bit too far, asked a little much of him, but then all Draco says is—

‘I’m your someone?’ 

Harry puts his hand to the back of Draco’s neck, underneath the freshly cut hair there. He pushes up onto his knees and takes out the clippers.

He can feel the goosebumps as they ripple over Draco’s skin. 

‘You are,’ Harry finally says, and anything else is inadequate, he decides; he just wants to do this for Draco, for Draco to be exactly who he is, and they can figure out the rest later.

Harry starts at the base of Draco’s scalp, working the clippers up his head, then repeating until there’s a clean line from temple to temple; then he tries to tidy the top as best he can with scissors, the way he taught himself as a small boy, taking chunks and cutting into the hair so it’s not too harsh. 

Harry shuffles around to face Draco, taking the strands around his face to make sure they’re even, and all the while, Draco stares at him, mouth slightly parted, cheeks still flushed from the bath. 

‘Okay,’ Harry eventually says, Summoning a small mirror. ‘What do you think?’

There’s a lot of ways you can know someone, Harry thinks, as he watches Draco watch himself. 

You can know someone by the way they say your name, or the way they laugh. You can know someone by the way they look and the way they dress. You can know someone by the things you love about them and the things you hate about them.

It’s quite another thing to know someone by knowing yourself.

And Harry knows him, from the way Draco touches his hair, from the way he furiously blinks away tears, from the way he sets the mirror down and reaches for Harry; Harry knows him, from the way Harry’s own heart is racing, from the way Harry’s own skin lights up at their touch, from Harry’s own terror at how much he wants; from the way they both exhale and settle when Draco crawls into Harry’s arms—Harry knows him.

…

They fall asleep early and wake up late; Draco is curled around him again.

‘Are you sure about today?’ Draco mumbles, and Harry squeezes the hand around his waist.

‘Yeah. I’ll send them an owl now.’ 

Draco yawns okay and Harry gets up; Kreacher is already making them coffee, mumbling something about the most beautiful Black heir back in his rightful home. Harry laughs a little, and finds a crumpled piece of parchment next to the fruit bowl.

Hi Molly,

I’m bringing Draco to lunch today. He uses he/him pronouns now. Please make sure everyone is nice to him. He’s important.

H x

P.S. He doesn’t speak to his parents anymore so please don’t bring them up.

Harry manages to coax Draco out of bed by eleven and does his hair for him, combing mousse through it and making sure the front pieces are sufficiently tousled. 

‘Will Molly mind my clothes?’ Draco asks, looking anxiously over his Docs and ripped jeans in the mirror. 

‘Not more than she minds anyone else’s,’ Harry says honestly, and then, ‘Just be yourself.’

Draco nods and changes his t-shirt at least twice more before they leave.

Molly is waiting outside when they Apparate into the front yard, and she immediately sets upon them.

‘Harry and Draco, oh dears, so pleased to see you—let me have a look at you, Draco, my, what a handsome young man you’ve become—’

‘He’s actually not really a—’ Harry begins, and Draco cuts him a warning look.

‘Thank you, Mrs Weasley,’ he says, and his tone is almost comically formal, ‘and thank you for letting me into your home.’

‘Oh dear, that’s not a problem at all.’ Molly taps his cheeks, beaming, then ushers them inside. ‘Everyone is already here, except for Luna, she couldn’t make it today—and Neville is just out the back taking care of the gnomes—he’s a good boy—we’re having roast lamb for lunch.’ Her expression changes to concern, and she looks anxiously at Draco. ‘You’re not one of those vegetarians, dear, are you?’

Harry muffles a laugh into his sleeve and Draco shakes his head, aiming a kick at Harry as he does. Molly beams again and gestures to the living room, bustling off in the other direction toward the kitchen.

Immediately, Draco’s hand finds Harry’s, and he moves closer as they take in the room from the threshold; Ron in his corner armchair crocheting some new stuffed toy, Hermione and Ginny talking on the couch, Arthur holding up a rubber eraser and gesturing emphatically to it while George pretends to listen, Bill and Fleur watching Victoire play with Percy and Oliver. 

Harry looks at Draco, who swallows and nods, and Harry clears his throat.

‘Er, hello.’ Everyone pauses to turn and look at them, but Molly must have had stern words with them all, because everyone stays unnaturally calm.

Except for Arthur, who completely ignores Harry and hurries over to shake Draco’s hand. ‘Ah, Draco, hello! Nice to see you.’

‘You too, Mr Weasley,’ Draco says. George winks at them from the fireplace, and Hermione gets up to hug Harry and then Draco.

‘I’m really glad you’re here,’ she says to Draco, and he flushes. ‘You look well.’

‘Thank you,’ Draco stammers, and behind her, Ginny gives him a thumbs up.

‘Nice haircut, copycat.’

‘It’s Harry’s fault,’ Draco immediately blurts, and flushes when Ginny and George start laughing. Ron looks genuinely torn between putting down his crocheting and saying hello to them. 

‘Get over here,’ Ron eventually says, resting his needle and what looks to Harry like half a lion on his lap. ‘Hello, Mal—Draco.’

‘Ronald.’ Draco squeezes Harry’s fingers a bit tighter. ‘Is that a…toy?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Ron says, straightening his shoulders a little bit. ‘D’you crochet?’

Draco shakes his head, bemused, and Ron looks over his outfit. ‘You look kind of like a character from that Muggle movie ‘Mione showed me.’

‘Which one?’ Hermione looks at him. ‘I’ve shown you a few.’

‘You know,’ Ron sighs, ‘the one with the new kid trying to impress a girl, and they hire that hot Australian guy for her sister, and they listen to that weird music—’

‘Are you…’ Draco’s eyes widen. ‘Are you talking about 10 Things I Hate About You?’

Ron snaps his fingers. ‘That’s the one. Do you know it?’

Draco blushes. ‘My housemate showed it to me. The music’s not even that weird, Weas—Ronald.’

Twenty minutes later, Ron has dragged Draco down the driveway so they can listen to Letters to Cleo on Draco’s iPod without magic interfering, and Hermione is dragging Harry down the hallway and pushing him into the nearest bathroom.

‘You and Ron are both very pushy, did you know that?’ Harry grumbles, and Hermione tuts impatiently.

‘Tell me everything, Harry James Potter, or so help me Merlin—’

‘Alright! Alright.’ 

And so he does; badly, and haltingly, struggling to find words for everything, but it all somehow coming together—Sanctuary, and piercings, and Bianca, and Daisy and Kelvin, and how Draco lives in a tiny flat, and how he likes angry music and black clothes, but how he’s also very soft, and how he held Harry after his tattoo, and how they’ve slept in the same bed and held hands and how Harry’s heart has never felt like it’s too big for his chest before but it is now, and Hermione starts crying at that, and she holds him very tightly, and kisses his temple.

‘You deserve love,’ she says eventually. ‘You deserve everything.’

And it really is that simple for his family, it seems—Percy asks Draco with hilarious earnestness about the intricacies of body modification, eyes widening as Draco describes the process of lobe stretching; George asks about nipple piercings, to Molly’s horror; and Arthur makes some very pointed comments about how family should always accept children for exactly who they are and how it’s a right shame that not everyone feels the same and then forces Draco to explain the concept of headphones to him over sticky date pudding. 

Draco looks overwhelmed, but happy; he keeps looking over at Harry with wide eyes, as if to say this is okay? I’m doing okay? 

After lunch, Oliver does squats in the corner while rocking Vic to sleep, Neville and Fleur pick flowers in the front garden, Hermione falls asleep on Ron’s shoulder (who’s humming I Want You to Want Me under his breath as he crochets) and Molly and Arthur are slow dancing in the kitchen. Harry laces his fingers with Draco’s and pulls him out the back, through the overflowing spring garden, through the orchard and down to the river running behind the property. 

Harry loves it here, loves the openness of the country, loves the way they can only hear frogs and the trickling of water as they sit on the bank of the river, not minding the damp grass.

They’re still holding hands.

‘I was nervous about today,’ Draco says, looking up as a bird chirps somewhere overhead.

‘It would have been weird if you weren’t nervous,’ Harry replies, and Draco snorts.

‘Even taking out our history, that’s a big family.’

‘Yes.’

‘And they love you.’

‘Yes.’

‘Unconditionally.’

‘Yes.’

Draco turns his head towards him, sunlight reflecting off his nose and eyebrow piercings. ‘Harry…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I think—I think I know where this is going.’ Draco’s voice cracks. ‘I know it’s probably obvious to you, but I need—things spelled out, sometimes, I mean, we haven’t even—’

Harry kisses him.

He was going to wait for this; wait for Draco to initiate it, to take the next step, but he wants it so badly he can barely think. Draco tastes like dessert, toffee still on his mouth, the cold of his tongue piercing flicking against Harry’s lips. 

He’s perfect, Harry thinks, so perfect.

Draco immediately presses against him, and Harry’s almost surprised at how hungry he seems, until he remembers how Draco curls around him each night, and how he’s always reaching for Harry’s hand, and how he stared at Harry from the bathtub, and perhaps Draco has needed this for a long time.

Draco pushes Harry against the grass, crawling on top of him, hands threaded through his hair. His kisses are so forceful they almost hurt, desperate and hungry, and Harry fists his hands into Draco’s t-shirt and pulls; wraps his arms around Draco’s waist, holds his slight body against his own broader one, marvels at the way they fit together. 

‘Harry,’ Draco murmurs, mumbling against his lips, ‘Harry, fuck—’

‘I think you’re perfect,’ Harry says, and Draco kisses him again.

…

Daisy is so thrilled to find out about Harry’s tattoo on Monday that she orders them lunch from Harry’s favourite Indian place in Diagon.

‘Have to celebrate you becoming cooler, bit by bit,’ she reasons, dumping the bag of garlic naan and rice and vindaloo on his desk. ‘You have your antacids, right?’

‘Fuck off,’ Harry says, narrowing his eyes in determination. ‘I can eat curry without my antacids.’

Daisy flicks her dreadlocks back and gestures to the bag. ‘Be my guest.’ 

He definitely can’t, and experiences violent heartburn for the rest of the afternoon, at one point sneaking out of a policy briefing to gulp down milk in the staff break room, where he zones out for a few minutes thinking about how Draco had pulled him into the kitchen before leaving and kissed him against the cupboards and had pressed his knee between Harry’s thighs and whispered if it wasn’t already so late—

When he comes back to himself and heads to his office, Luna is sitting on his desk, reading one of his files.

‘Oh, hello Harry,’ she trills, popping it back on his desk.

‘You really shouldn’t be reading that,’ Harry sighs, looking at the file. It’s about neo-Death Eater activities in France. 

Luna looks unbothered. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Busier than usual today.’

‘Which means not very busy,’ comes Daisy’s voice from next door. 

‘It won’t take long. I just want to tell you something.’

‘Alright,’ Harry says absently, flicking the rest of his files into his cabinet. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Bianca and I got married.’

Harry slowly turns around. ‘Luna.’

‘Yes, Harry?’

‘Did you just say—’

‘We eloped over the weekend. It was quite romantic, actually.’

‘Married?’

Luna smiles. ‘My tarot cards have been telling me for months now that my future wife was about to appear.’

‘Yeah, but…’ Harry can’t quite find the words. ‘You’ve been dating for…a month? A month and a half?’

‘My mother proposed to my father after four days,’ Luna says, unbothered. ‘Lovegoods are very decisive. It’s our Seer blood.’

‘Okay, well—’ Harry rubs at his stubble, exhaling. ‘Well, obviously, I’m delighted for you. That’s wonderful.’

‘Yes, I’m rather happy about it.’

‘Wait.’ Harry sits up straight. ‘Does that mean—can Bianca know now? About Draco?’

‘Yes!’ Luna beams. ‘They’re talking right now. Also, are you free on Saturday, because we were thinking of a dinner—’

Luna’s words wash over him, and he’s so happy for her, he is, but all he can think about is Draco, how relieved he must be, how it must feel for him to finally be able to tell his best friend who he is, and Harry feels so relieved for him that it’s almost painful; like the first breath after drowning.

‘—and then I’ll move my things tonight, I don’t have too much, but now that Bianca knows about wizards, Draco and I can probably do the place up with some charms, maybe give it an extra room or something—’

‘You’re moving in?’ Harry interrupts, and she nods.

‘It’s better.’

Harry thinks of the six-person flat Luna shares with Dean and Seamus and their Muggle art school friends and is inclined to agree.

Then he thinks about his very big, very lonely house, and something twists in his stomach. 

It takes him a moment to place it, before he realises it’s jealousy.

Luna and Bianca and Draco—they all love their jobs, and they’re going to live together in a home they’ll all create together, and Harry will still be here, in this place he hates, doing work he can’t stand, then going back to Grimmauld Place and trying to make a home out of that haunted Pureblood nightmare and—

Harry blinks. ‘I’m so sorry Luna, I’m so happy for you—I’ll come by tonight, but I have to do something.’

As always, Luna doesn’t push him; just waves goodbye, still smiley and glowing, and leaves towards the Ministry Floos.

Harry waits a few minutes, steeling himself, then heads out of his office, past Kelvin and Daisy, and down the corridor.

But he doesn’t go to the Floos. He goes to Kingsley’s office.

…

Kingsley is surprised, of course.

‘Are you sure, Harry? You know your role isn’t one we can replace?’

‘I know,’ Harry says, and then stops himself from saying sorry, and instead says: ‘I appreciate all you’ve done for me. You’re a great Minister.’

Daisy looks at him quizzically as he re-enters the office.

‘I just quit,’ Harry says. ‘I want you to be the first to know.’

‘Fuck,’ Daisy says, then looks at Kelvin. ‘Well then, I have to quit too.’

‘What? No you don’t.’

‘Harry.’ Daisy looks at him witheringly. ‘If anyone but you were my boss, I’d be fired within a week.’

This is undeniably true, so Harry just sighs and sits down on the edge of her desk. ‘Then what are you going to do?’

Daisy shrugs. ‘I dunno. Find a job at a pet store, maybe?’ She pats Kelvin. ‘Sell my body on the streets?’

‘Don’t do that,’ Harry says, strained, and then, his second lightbulb idea of the day hitting him like a sledgehammer. ‘No, you don’t have to do that at all.’

…

When Draco opens the door, his eyes are red.

‘Oh, thank god,’ he croaks, and he hits Harry’s chest with a thud, pressing their bodies together. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘Er.’ Harry looks over his shoulder to where Bianca sits on the couch with equally red eyes. She smiles at him. ‘How are you two?’

‘Very overwhelmed,’ Bianca declares, and then, ‘Draco, not me. I’m fine. Always knew something was off about him but thought it was the childhood trauma.’

Harry laughs, and against his chest, so does Draco. 

‘Well,’ Harry concedes. ‘There’s that too.’ 

‘Anyway.’ Bianca picks up her bag. ‘I’m going to go help Luna pack.’

‘Congratulations, by the way,’ Harry says, and Bianca’s eyes crinkle in a smile. She kisses his cheek on the way out.

‘You’re here,’ Draco says against his chest, and then, ‘Wait, why are you here? Luna said you were coming over later.’

‘Er, well.’ Harry pushes Draco back by the shoulders a little, manoeuvring them inside the door and shutting it behind him. ‘I quit my job.’

‘What?’ 

‘Yeah, I just quit this afternoon. Because, er, of you, really.’

‘Because of me?’ Draco’s brow furrows and he looks a little worried. Harry smiles and touches his forehead, smoothing out the crinkles there.

‘Because you have this life, Draco. You made this life for yourself with a job that you love and a housemate that’s also your best friend and you go to concerts and you listen to interesting music and you have—you have built this for yourself, and you’ve made me want to do the same.’

Harry puts his hands either side of Draco’s face, and Draco stares at him, mouth gaping. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘Well, Daisy and Kelvin are going to move in with me and help renovate Grimmauld instead of paying rent, and I’m pretty sure they’ll hinder more than help but honestly? I’ll just be really fucking happy to have someone else there. Also, I think I’m going to get a dog. And I’m planning on hanging out with you, and my friends and family, and er, I dunno, it’s probably selfish, but I just want some time to rest— mmph.’

Draco all but attacks his mouth, flinging his arms around Harry’s neck, and Harry instinctively kisses back, nearly tripping as Draco crowds him against a bench.

‘Woah,’ he laughs between kisses. ‘Where’s this coming from?’

Draco pulls back and looks at him, pupils blown black. ‘I’m so fucking glad you’re being selfish.’

It should be funny, Harry thinks. It should be funny that, of course, self-preservation is Draco’s thing; that he’s so turned on by Harry dropping the saviour complex.

But it’s not really funny. Draco’s kisses are desperate, his hands all over Harry, like he’s trying to keep him here, and with a sudden, vivid clarity, Harry imagines what it would be like to watch someone you love constantly sacrifice their happiness and wellbeing out of—duty? Habit?

Painful, he realises. It’d be really painful.

He has the bizarre urge to hug Ron and Hermione. Maybe say that he’s sorry.

And then he’s pulled back to the present by Draco’s lips on his again, and he decides to think about all of this later, because Draco is dragging him back to his bedroom, and shutting the door, and taking off his top.

Harry’s breath hitches, even with his familiarity of it all now—binding tape, scars, skin so pale it’s almost translucent.

He feels so lucky. He’s so, so lucky.

He yanks off his shirt, slips off his shoes, unzips his trousers. Normally this is where he’d tell his lover that he hasn’t had bottom surgery, that they need to be okay with that. Perhaps apologise a little bit.

But he doesn’t do that with Draco—instead, he says, ‘Call it my cock.’ 

Draco nods, says ‘Same’, and leaps on him again, legs going around his waist. He’s forceful and intense and everything Harry knew he would be; a thunderstorm of a person.

On the bed, they take their time. 

Harry sucks Draco’s cock until he’s convulsing and swearing, and then Draco fucks him with three curled fingers and a hand on his chest, and Harry bucks so violently he nearly sends them both off the bed. Harry kisses Draco’s neck, his collarbone, around his tape, along his stomach, down his thighs, all the way to the bony jut inside his ankles. Draco hooks both knees over Harry’s shoulders, eyebrows raised in a challenge, and Harry flips him over with one arm to eat him from behind, Draco burying his face into a pillow to muffle his groans.

When he’s got Draco begging for it, Harry pulls him up with one hand splayed across his chest, the other steadily pumping two fingers in and out of him, Draco’s back pressed up against Harry’s front.

‘God, you feel so good,’ Harry whispers, and Draco whimpers, his entire neck and face flushed and sweaty. ‘You have such a good cock. Such a good hole.’

It’s obscene, and filthy, and necessary, because Harry doesn’t know if Draco’s ever heard it before; that his body, no matter what changes about it from now on, is perfect.

‘So good,’ Harry whispers again.

Draco wrestles Harry onto his back, licks the sweat from his temples and clavicle and armpits, then turns around and shuffles up so they can suck each other at the same time, his tongue piercing cold against Harry’s cock.

Harry can smell Draco’s arousal, his sex, his sweat, and it’s maddening; he’s never been this gone, has never wanted another body this much.

He grips Draco’s buttocks and pulls him down, losing himself in the warmth and pressure and pleasure. At some point, Draco sits up, riding his face, grinding down against Harry’s tongue, and it’s perfect, and Harry doesn’t want it to end, but it does, when Draco cries out and he gets so sensitive that his thighs start to shake.

Draco uses his vibrator on Harry until Harry’s finished twice and can’t feel his cock, and they lay draped over each other, sweaty and sore and delirious with pleasure.

‘I’ll never get enough of you,’ Harry whispers to Draco’s temple.

‘Good,’ Draco replies, and holds him closer.

…

Bianca and Luna have made late night carbonara, and the smell tugs Harry and Draco out of their sex daze; they throw on oversized t-shirts and pants, and the four of them sit cross-legged around the coffee table with their pasta.

‘…and I figured, yeah, this is definitely love of my life type-stuff, and Luna seemed so sure— I know why now.’ Bianca looks at Draco and reaches out her hand. Draco takes it and squeezes. ‘Sorry you couldn’t be my best person, Dee.’

‘I’m already your best person, Bee.’

‘Hmm.’ Bianca looks at Luna, a smile playing on her lips. ‘Tied for best.’ 

‘Traitor,’ Draco mutters, but there’s no malice to it, and when he looks at Harry, his eyes are sparkling and his expression is open, easy, happy. 

Harry knows him.

After dinner, Draco curls into him on the couch, their limbs tangled together as they watch Luna stick an eclectic variety of shells and bottle caps and leaves onto the walls, claiming protective properties, and Bianca watches her with a dopey smile until Luna points at the stick-and-poke kit next to the boombox, and Bianca carefully tattoos black lines across both of their ring fingers.

Afterwards, when they’ve all said goodnight and Harry and Draco have stumbled back to bed, bleary-eyed and overwrought, Draco inhales deeply and reaches into his bedside table.

‘Tonight’s the night?’ Harry asks, already tucked beneath the duvet. Draco nods.

‘Yes. It feels right.’

‘I’m so excited for you.’

Draco huffs a laugh. ‘Me too.’

He opens the vial—the first of the many Harry has given him, the first of the many he’ll take for the rest of his life—and he downs it in one go.

‘Tastes foul.’ Draco winces, and Harry laughs and tugs him into his chest, and they lie like that, Draco’s stars shining overhead.

In the living room, a CD is still spinning in the boombox, words floating through the wall.

All alone in space and time
There's nothing here but what here's mine
Something borrowed, something blue
Every me and every you

Every me and every you