The next week passed quickly, quietly, as May slid into June. Draco and Harry were very careful around each other. Mostly, Harry didn't know what to say to him, and it seemed like Draco felt much the same. At least, Draco kept starting sentences and then not ending them, and Harry wasn't sure if he was frustrated by this or relieved. Who knew what Draco might say, after all?
Harry went to work, and he tried much harder to only work his scheduled hours. He didn't always manage it, and he didn't always manage to stay at his desk when he was at work either. But he tried to owl Draco when he knew he'd be late. He didn't owl Draco to let him know when he was out in the field, though. Every time he did it, he felt guilty, but he couldn't help it! Ron hadn't handed his notice in yet, but he was starting to get twitchy every time Robards entered the room, hand creeping towards his pocket, and Harry suspected he was working up to it. It would be any time now, so they needed to clear as much work as possible, in preparation for that dread day.
Harry still wasn't entirely sure what Draco did all day, though when he asked him, Draco seemed willing enough to share. "Read," he said, waving his hand at the pile of Muggle books he'd bought. "Have people over. Astoria, for example," he said, a glint in his eye, his voice hardening. "Sulk," he added thoughtfully. "Prepare elaborate traps for you, just in case." OK, so maybe he wasn't that willing to share, Harry thought, dropping the subject. Astoria? He really wanted to be over the feeling that spiked at him whenever he heard her name, and found he really wasn't.
Most nights now, in bed in the dark, they brought each other off with their hands, their movements hurried. It was always fast, explosive. As if they didn't have any choice in the matter, their bodies leading the way. Harry ached for more, even as he ached for . . . well, less. He wanted to peel Draco's clothes off slowly, kissing every part of him. Kissing him. And being kissed back. He didn't want to just be a hand in the dark. Did Draco feel the same way? Harry wasn't sure, didn't dare ask in case he found out he did. Or he didn't. Both were terrifying.
Do you still not want to complete the bond? Draco asked in his mind, every time he closed his eyes. Even if was just for a moment.
Harry visited the Unspeakable department almost daily now, just for a few minutes, to glower at Kevin, and at Zabini when he could find him. There was still no progress. There was never any progress. Would there ever be any progress? Kingsley seemed to be avoiding Harry, whenever Harry came across him in the hallway, as if he knew he couldn't keep his promise about fixing the bond and so couldn't look Harry in the eye. Harry could feel his future looming at him, uncertain and awful, with choices to be made that weren't choices at all.
At the end of the week, just before Harry was about to step out of the front door and go to work, Draco stopped him, handing over a large Tupperware box with a scowl. "Cookies," he said, which was both an explanation and no explanation at all. And then: "It's my birthday tomorrow."
"Oh," Harry said, feeling a sudden terror about what he was meant to get Draco for a gift. He didn't have any bloody time to go shopping! Why had Draco left it so late to tell him?
Draco rolled his eyes, taking a step back. "If you panic-buy me a present I'll hex you," he said. "I didn't tell you because I want something." Then he hesitated. "Well, actually, I do want something," he said, and stared at the floor, and then the wall.
Harry wanted to be nice, in the face of this hesitation, but he didn't get it, and he was going to be late for work. He tucked the box of cookies under his arm and said, "Well? Spit it out. I'm sure I can do it, whatever it is that has your knickers in a twist."
Draco scowled at him. "I'm not wearing any knickers." And then raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't want to be late for work?"
Harry tried to remain calm, in the face of Draco Malfoy trying to distract him with his penis. His bare, uncovered penis, hanging beneath his robes. Allegedly. "Stop avoiding the subject," he said. "What did you want to say about your birthday?"
Draco folded his arms. "Mother and Father have asked me to go for lunch."
"All right," Harry said slowly, still not seeing the issue. So they weren't technically meant to spend time that far apart, but presumably Draco's parents could slum it in a London restaurant or something, rather than their stately pile in Wiltshire, couldn't they?
Draco seemed to be waiting for something, and as he waited, a terrible suspicion dawned on Harry. Draco . . . didn't want him to go with him, did he? Bloody hell. There was no way he'd want Harry to go with him. Harry hated Lucius, could barely tolerate Narcissa, and the reverse was equally true. It would be the worst lunch in the history of forever.
Still. "Do you want me to go with you?" Harry asked, because he was a glutton for punishment, obviously.
Draco raised his head; he'd been staring at the chequerboard floor, as if there was a secret message written on the black and white tiles. "Yes," he said. "Yes, please."
Oh, bloody hell, Harry thought again. And then remembered he was going to be late. "See you later, then," he said, and before he thought about it too hard, he leaned forward and brushed a very light kiss on Draco's cheek.
Draco's hand snapped up to touch his cheek as soon as Harry had moved away, as if he couldn't quite believe what had happened. Harry wasn't quite sure he could believe what had happened. Had he caught some sort of affectionate, mushy plague, or something? "Ah, sorry!" he said quickly, half-regretting making his feelings so plain, and then turned to leave before he could make things worse.
The sight, however, stayed with him all day: the look in Draco's eyes as he'd held his hand to his cheek, after Harry had kissed him. It had been almost one of fear.
^^^^^^
The only positive thing about Draco's birthday lunch with his horrible parents, Harry reflected afterwards, was that it hadn't taken place in Malfoy Manor. Instead, they'd hosted it in one of the swankiest, most stuck-up wizarding fine dining restaurants in Muggle London. Except, they hadn't hosted it, had they? Harry wasn't sure the name of 'Malfoy' would get a reservation at all these days, unless the one that preceded it was 'Draco'. Lucius had booked the table at the last minute in Harry's name. Harry never, ever capitalised on his name to get small, pathetic concessions like this. But now, because of Lucius Malfoy, it seemed he did.
Because his name was on the booking, it appeared to have been public knowledge that he'd be there, and at what time. As soon as he and Draco had arrived at the restaurant, the press were popping up to take their photos, and once inside and seated at a table near the window, plenty of flashbulbs had gone off too. Harry wished he'd worn a slightly grubbier robe, rather than the smart one Draco had lain out for him that morning. If he had to appear in photos with Lucius Malfoy – and it appeared that he did – Harry wanted to look as rough as possible, he thought.
To add insult to injury, the menu had all been in French. Harry didn't speak French. He'd ended up with plates of unidentifiable things he didn't fancy, which looked animal in origin but not ones he recognised. Happily, though, this ruse had backfired on Lucius, because Draco had simply shared his own food with Harry, pushing his plate towards him without a word.
Not that Harry had felt very hungry. Lucius had held forth for a while on two fascinating topics: on the incompetence of the Auror department in general, and on the incompetence of the Aurors in particular. They couldn't catch Draco's poisoner, Lucius pointed out. And then he also helpfully pointed out that Harry was an Auror. Narcissa joined in occasionally, to add that it wasn't Harry's fault he was an idiot, although she said it in a charming, polite tone that almost hid the fact she was insulting him.
Harry, who presumed by this that Pansy hadn't confessed her part in things to Draco's parents, held his tongue, and Draco squeezed his knee under the table. It wasn't adequate recompense. Particularly when Narcissa said that perhaps Lucius had made himself clear, and then she moved the subject on to the Greengrasses, and how Astoria was such a lovely girl, and did Draco know she'd got seven Os in her recent NEWTS?
"She'll make a fantastic Auror. I can't wait to train her up," Harry had said, just to piss Narcissa off, and Draco had choked back a laugh. It made him feel better, but only just.
At the end of the meal, Narcissa had given Draco an enormous heap of presents, which she produced from out of nowhere, and then asked Harry, voice sweet and cool, what he'd given Draco. Harry wanted to say that he'd given up all his dignity, by attending this meal, but he just shrugged and said, "Nothing," and then had to suffer Narcissa's pale disapproval for the next half hour as Draco opened box after box of expensive fripperies.
Then, just when he'd thought the whole thing was over, and he could go back home and kick the wall, Lucius announced that tomorrow Draco and Harry would be giving an interview to the Prophet. And as Harry started to splutter – no, he bloody wasn't – Draco just kicked him, under the table, and said, "Yes, Father," as if Harry didn't have a say in it at all.
The press outside the restaurant had grown in numbers as they left through the front door, and they snapped away happily at the unlikely group of them: Harry, arms stacked high with the presents Draco had impolitely shoved at him to carry, surrounded by Malfoys.
All in all, by the time they got back home it was mid-afternoon and Harry was steaming with suppressed rage. After dropping the presents in a heap, he kicked first the door, and then the wall, and then he had to take his boot off and massage his toe for a while because it hurt, blast it.
"Should I have got you a present?" Harry asked Draco, after he'd tracked him down to the living room. Draco was in his usual spot on the sofa, and the sight of him filled Harry with a warm, content feeling. Well, underneath the rage.
Draco turned his head. "I am your husband," he said without interest, then rolled his eyes. "No. I told you not to." He seemed twitchy, shifting restlessly on the seat, as if he was expecting an argument.
Harry sat down heavily, and then tugged at Draco's legs, heaving his feet into his lap. Draco allowed himself to be shifted like this, although he narrowed his eyes. "I don't see why you wanted me to come to that lunch," Harry complained, leaning his head back on the sofa and closing his eyes.
"Don't you?" Draco asked, as if Harry was stupid.
Harry didn't open his eyes. Maybe he was stupid, after all. "I really don't like your parents. And they really don't like me. What was that nonsense about an interview? I presume we're not going to do it."
There was a short silence. Harry could hear the ticking of the hall clock, from far away. "Of course we are," Draco said.
"Why?"
"To please my parents," Draco said – in Harry's opinion, spinelessly.
"All they want is for you to boost their miserable reputations!" he protested, opening his eyes again to glare at Draco.
Draco glared back. "Which I am happy to do," he said. "They're my parents. I love them. I'm sick to death of everyone disrespecting my father. If I can do anything to help him get his reputation back, I'll do it."
Harry started to carefully push Draco's feet off his lap, but Draco snatched his feet away as if Harry had given them a violent shove.
"Your parents still seem to think you're straight, and that you're going to marry Astoria when the bond is ended," Harry said loudly.
Draco's mouth went very pinched. "I beg your pardon? What business of that is yours?"
"I just wonder why you're so spineless that you can't tell your parents you don't want to marry her!" Harry shouted.
Draco's eyes went wide with shock, and then his face closed down. "But who would marry me instead?" he said sarcastically. "You won't."
Harry couldn't say anything. He couldn't move, couldn't think. Did . . . Did Draco want to marry him, then? For real? Harry knew he wasn't always quick on the uptake, but he didn't know why Draco would sound so bitter, so hurt, if he didn't feel at least a small amount of genuine affection for Harry too.
"So, until we get out of this mess, and I get to marry Astoria, I'll do everything I can to help my father. All right?" Draco said firmly. His eyes were hard, but his chin was quivering.
Harry hated him when he was like this. He made Harry feel so mixed up, so conflicted, he didn't know what to do with himself. And even as bile rose up in his throat, a sudden horrible thought occurred to him. I'll do everything I can to help my father, Draco had said. It would help Lucius Malfoy very much if he was photographed in public with the Boy Who Lived. Enjoying a meal together. Leaving the restaurant together. Part of the family.
He'd – he'd eaten off Draco's plate. It occurred to him with growing intensity that he'd been used. And he'd been so caught up in Draco, he hadn't even noticed.
"Draco," Harry said very slowly, because he had to be sure. "Did you know all those photographers would be at the restaurant today?"
"Yes, of course," Draco said, and he raised his chin very high. "Father – we invited them. What would have been the point of the lunch, otherwise?"
What would have been the point? Celebrating Draco's birthday, maybe. Harry'd thought that that was the point. He was so naïve. "Merlin," Harry said, and heard his voice come out raw, filled with disgust. "Now you're not just on your way to looking like your revolting father, with your hair like that, but you sound like him too."
Draco looked at him for a moment, his stare completely blank, and then he heaved himself off the sofa and slammed out of the room, leaving Harry sitting on the sofa alone.
It was Draco's twentieth birthday today, Harry thought, feeling dazed. He couldn't even remember if he'd wished him a happy one.
^^^^^^
An hour later, Harry felt like he'd calmed down enough to go and find Draco. He didn't want to apologise. He didn't think he had anything to apologise for. All he'd said, really, was that Draco was like his father. OK, so he hadn't meant it as a compliment, but he was still surprised by how wounded Draco had looked by it. Didn't Draco still worship his father, despite his inherent foulness? It was one of things about Draco that tied Harry up in knots: his love and obedience to someone who was just wrong, on so many levels.
But at the same time, Harry thought uncomfortably, he didn't want the fight to stretch out any longer. He found himself trying to explain his anger away, even as he looked for Draco. He wasn't in any of the usual spots. Harry supposed . . . even if Lucius hadn't tipped off the press about their lunch appointment, they would have found out anyway. And if they'd lunched somewhere more private, someone would have undoubtedly taken grainy snaps of him and Draco arriving, even if they hadn't managed high-quality ones of Harry moodily pushing food around his plate. The end result would have been the same, he told himself firmly. It didn't feel the same though. And the words of their argument ran round and round in his head, infuriating him all over again.
He fucking wasn't doing a cosy interview with the Prophet, to talk about how amazing Lucius Malfoy was. How Draco had ever imagined he'd agree to that, he had no idea.
He finally found Draco in the largest of the formal drawing rooms. For a moment, though, he thought he was being burgled, because he didn't recognise him. Draco was sitting on one of a pair of navy-blue chaise longues in the far corner of the room, his back to Harry. And he'd . . .
Harry gaped. He appeared to have shaved all his hair off.
Draco, head oddly smooth and alien, turned towards Harry and said, his voice a sneer, "Different enough from my father now for you to associate yourself with me, am I?"
It took everything Harry had in him to suppress the laugh that threatened to bubble out. It wasn't a laughing matter. Draco had been so angry at what Harry had said, so enraged about Harry comparing him with his father that he'd – shaved all his hair off? It was the most amazing tantrum Harry had ever seen.
Or was this an attempt at apologising . . .? Was Draco planning on attending the Prophet interview like this, to fuck off his father?
Harry pressed his lips very firmly together, feeling his nostrils flare. Draco really did look peculiar. It wasn't that he felt less angry, exactly, but somehow Draco's act of ridiculousness had taken away some of the hot tension, like a balloon with a sudden slow puncture.
They stared at each other for a while: Draco bald, indignant, haughty; Harry . . . Harry was just trying not to wet himself, even as he scrabbled for his anger. A snort of laughter escaped his lips.
"Go on, laugh it up," Draco said disagreeably.
Harry sniggered, coming to sit on the other of the two chaise longues. "Thanks, I will. I deserve a laugh after that jolly lunch."
"Yes, well, sorry about that," Draco said, in the arsey, sarcastic voice of someone who wasn't sorry at all. He was staring at his hands though.
Harry suppressed another snigger at the sight of his head. He wondered why he'd never shaved Draco's hair off at school. They might actually have ended up friends, if he'd done that; he couldn't take any of the horrible things Draco said seriously, when he looked like that. "I didn't mind the horrible lunch," he said. "Come on, I expected it to be horrible. It could have been a lot worse, in all honesty. I just . . ." He sighed, and found he could feel angry, even with the hair thing; it was a disappointed, flat anger though, that sat heavily in his stomach and was worse than simple rage. "You set me up," he said. "I thought we were friends, and you set me up."
"Friends." Draco seemed to try out the word and not like it.
"I . . . more than friends, maybe," Harry said, chest feeling very tight. He was staring at his hands now. He didn't want to look at Draco. "You should have told me that you just wanted the photo op."
"You wouldn't have agreed," Draco said. His voice sounded odd.
Harry didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry, all right?" Draco said, sitting upright with a snap. He still sounded arsey, sarcastic. "I'm . . . sorry."
Was that a genuine apology? Harry looked over at him. Draco's mouth twisted wryly, and he shrugged a shoulder, as if to say, What? "That's the least convincing apology I've ever heard," he said sternly.
Draco raised his chin and looked down his nose at Harry. "I'm not in the habit of saying sorry."
Harry snorted, but felt a tension in his shoulders relax, his neck unclenching. Draco hadn't said he wouldn't do it again, a warning voice said inside his head, but he didn't want to push it right now. It was earth-shattering enough to hear a basic apology from the wanker.
"I don't look like my father," Draco suddenly said, and he reached up with a hand and ran it over his head tentatively. He seemed half-surprised to find he didn't have any hair.
"No," Harry agreed. "I only said that because I was mad at you. You look more like your mother, out of the two. I . . . I liked your hair."
Draco was still running a hand over his head, a distant look in his eye. "Yes," he said, his voice now suffused with embarrassment. "I know."
A strange understanding dawned on Harry. Draco hadn't shaved off all his hair because he didn't want to look like his father, or because he wanted to annoy his father either. OK, maybe there was some of that in there, but in essence: Draco had shaved his hair off because Harry had liked it. And Harry had upset him, so he wanted to upset him right back.
That couldn't be it, though, could it? That would be really, really stupid.
"I really liked your hair," Harry said, to make Draco feel worse. Draco was a sod and he deserved it.
Draco's face went red even as Harry watched, colour boiling to his cheeks, his neck. And . . . to his head. He made an attempt at looking relaxed, unmoved. "Honestly, are you broken in the head?" he said, and turned a smile of pity on Harry that was almost convincing, but not quite. "Have you forgotten we're wizards? I can just grow it back."
"You'd grow it back, just because I like it?" Harry asked bluntly. Just to make it clear at the outset. He might like Draco's hair a bit longer, fuck it, but it was Draco who was the one who was to be embarrassed by this, not him.
This seemed to take the wind out of Draco's smug sails for a moment, but he finally just rolled his eyes, as if Harry's question was beneath his dignity to answer. He pointed his wand at his head and muttered a spell, swishing his wand as he did so. He knew the spell already. He'd looked it up in advance. God, Harry thought, he was such a tosser.
It was creepy to watch at first as tiny hairs sprouted out of Draco's head, as if he was growing some kind of fungus. It grew quite slowly at first, his whole head filling out, and then faster, springing up into the air and then collapsing in on the weight of itself, flowing first past his ears, his cheekbones, his chin.
"Enough?" Draco asked with a smirk, and Harry shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. So Draco kept the spell in place as the hair fell down, down, hitting his shoulders and spilling down his back, then continuing on, to pool around his backside on the chaise longue. Draco snorted as it covered his left hand, resting on the surface of the seat, and swished his wand to stop the growth. "I'm a fairy princess now," he said sardonically. "Do you like me?"
Harry started laughing, and once he'd started he found he couldn't stop. Draco joined in reluctantly, soon falling into genuine giggles.
"Would your father be more hacked off if you turned up at the Prophet interview thing like this, or with no hair at all?" Harry asked, when he'd calmed down.
Draco shrugged, but he was still smiling. "I make all my hairstyle decisions for you, darling, not my parents," he said, his smile turning into a smirk.
Harry couldn't resist. He got up from his seat, took the couple of paces necessary to reach where Draco was sitting, and then sat down next to him. On his hair.
Draco jumped, and then said, "Ow!" and the look of pure outrage he turned on Harry had him cracking up again, with Draco close behind him. Draco, still laughing, shoved him off his hair, and bundled it up, sticking the pile in his lap and smiling down at it. "I suppose I look ridiculous," he said, and sounded like he didn't mind.
He did look ridiculous. And yet Harry preferred him like this, smiling and relaxed, and faintly apologetic through the spikiness, than he had earlier at lunch. Then, he'd been in his formal robes, with his formal manners, and though he'd looked handsome, it had been somehow cold and horrible. Harry supposed that Draco had been feeling guilty, back then. "You look like a really ugly princess," Harry said, and Draco snorted in amused outrage.
Harry reached out and ran a hand through Draco's hair. It was smooth, and soft, and thick. And then he gave a strand of it a sharp tug, because it was Draco, and he deserved it.
"Owwww!" Draco said, and whacked him.
"Sorry," Harry said untruthfully. "Are you going to cut it off now, or shall I plait it? I could use it to lead you round the house," he said, hundreds of ways he could use this to torment Draco with springing into his mind, "or I could tie you to the furniture, or—"
"You can tie me to the furniture later," Draco said peacefully. "We have dinner arrangements with Ron and Hermione tonight, unless you'd forgotten?"
Harry had forgotten. Right now, he might have forgotten his own name. He didn't want to tie Draco up to anything, he told himself firmly. His cock half-rose in his trousers, agreeing that this was a very heroic decision.
Draco's eyes glittered. "Hmm, I don't know how I'm going to cut this bloody stuff off though," he said, returning the subject to his ridiculous hair. "Do you happen to be a talented hairdresser, to add to all your many other accomplishments, scarhead?"
"No," Harry said facetiously. "But I'm happy to have a go."
Draco's lips quirked. "All right," he said.
All right? All right? Bloody hell.
^^^^^^
When Harry and Draco arrived at Ron and Hermione's for dinner, Ron started laughing. And he was still laughing half an hour later, when Draco excused himself to the bathroom for a moment.
It was pretty funny, Harry thought, impressed that Draco was now willing to be the butt of a joke. Harry had proved a really terrible hairdresser, just as he'd suspected he would. Draco's hair was now back at sort-of chin length, but hugely uneven. One side was longer than the other, and although he'd tried hard to use his wand to refine his initial hacks into something level, as Draco walked away Harry could see yet more long strands he'd missed.
Hermione, who'd been trying to restrain Ron from asking the obvious question and had only managed it because he couldn't stop laughing, turned to Harry and raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, I, er," Harry said, unable to think how to explain it without making either himself or Draco look like a pair of ten year olds.
"Don't," Ron gurgled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes and grinning broadly. "Finding out the truth will only spoil it. He looks so—" He started laughing again. "So stupid." He slapped his thigh hard, choking. "And it's his birthday too! It only makes it better."
Harry suddenly felt a bit less amused, and a bit more cross. Yes, Draco did look stupid, but he also knew he looked stupid, and yet he'd gone out in public like that. The only reason he'd have done that was to amuse Harry. "It's not that bad," he said, and shifted on his chair uncomfortably.
"Ah, no, I suppose not. He's the same ugly tosser as ever," Ron said, still grinning.
Ugly? Harry hadn't thought of Draco as ugly for a long time, if ever. Since he'd woken him up from his enchanted sleep, he'd thought of him as – well, extremely attractive, if he was honest. He'd expected the feeling to wear off, the enchanted glow to disperse, but it was still there, even now with the awful hair. He was just . . .
"Don't you think Malfoy looks a bit different these days, though?" Harry said, trying not to sound embarrassed.
Ron's eyes widened, but it was Hermione who answered. "No, not really," she said, her eyebrows drawing together as if she was giving this proper consideration. "I mean, I did think he was a bit . . . prettier when I first saw him asleep, but in hindsight I think it was just how unexpectedly vulnerable he looked. It shocked me."
"Oh," Harry said, and then unwisely continued. "So you don't think he still looks a bit, well . . ."
"What?" Hermione prompted, while by her side Ron's mouth hung open in good, honest horror.
"I dunno," Harry said, wondering how he could put the odd, ethereal sensation he sometimes felt when he looked at Draco into words. "Elfin?"
Ron started to laugh. "Like a house-elf, you mean? Big ears and a pointy nose. I can see the similarities."
"No, don't be a tosser," Harry said. "I mean, like the fairy."
Ron laughed all the harder. "Maybe a garden gnome? A face like an arse, and a mouth like a potty."
Even Hermione was smiling now, though she was trying not to. "He still looks pretty much like the Draco we went to school with, Harry," she said apologetically.
It was a bad moment for Draco to return from the toilet. He frowned, suspicious, as he entered the room to Ron's laughter. "What did I miss?"
"Harry was just telling us how you're just like an elfin fairy lord," Ron said with great hilarity as Hermione frantically tried to smother him.
Draco tripped over something that wasn't there and nearly fell on his face, only managing to remain upright with a heroic effort. This made Ron laugh all the harder.
"I didn't say 'lord'!" Harry protested as Draco sat back down, very stiff. His upright dignity contrasted with his terrible hair. "And I only meant . . .!" What had he meant? Sort of what he'd said, really.
"What? What did you mean?" Ron teased relentlessly, and then held up his hands in surrender as Hermione waved her wand threateningly at him. "Yes, all right, I'm sorry," he said unconvincingly. "Don't worry, Malfoy, I still think you're an ugly tosser."
"Thank you," Draco said politely, and didn't look at Harry.
"You're welcome," Ron said, with an enormous shit-eating grin, and then tilted his nose in the air. "Now, shall we repair to the drawing room to partake of a light repast?"
Hermione snorted. "A light repast? We're having roast lamb and potatoes. I'll serve you a small portion, shall I?"
"Nooo!" Ron said, and dropped to the floor, catching her by the calves and hugging her legs. "Forgive me, my lady."
Hermione rolled her eyes and kicked him.
Draco still wasn't looking at Harry. Not in a pissed-off sort of way, Harry thought, sneaking a glance at the side of his head. But in a fidgety, embarrassed way, as if he'd overhead something he shouldn't and didn't know what to do with his hands, or where to put his face.
^^^^^^
When they got back home it was late, and Harry found he was exhausted after his long day. Despite the relaxed dinner, he was still a bit wound up about the lunch, and being back at home made the feelings rise again. He was just about to suggest they turn in for the night, because he had an early shift the next day – something that was true, and not just a convenient excuse – when Draco gave him a level, almost nervous look and asked if Harry wanted to have a nightcap in the living room.
Harry could feel the butterfly wings of an awkward conversation flapping in the air, but he wasn't a coward, so he nodded, and then made sure Draco poured him a large one, because he wasn't that brave.
They sat next to each other on the sofa, Draco's thigh a long warm press against his own, and Draco cleared his throat. "I did mean it before, you know," he said, his voice tinged with something disagreeable. He always sounded like that when he was nervous, Harry realised. How had he got to know Draco well enough to know that? "About being sorry," Draco clarified.
"Yes," Harry said, and took a small sip of his drink. It was a spiced spirit he didn't recognise, and it slid down, sweet and smooth and delicious, before punching him in the throat with an alcoholic burn.
Draco shot a sidelong glance at him. "I love my father very much," he said, tone firming up.
"Yes," Harry said, the alcohol tasting sourer.
"But . . ." Draco said, trailing off. He took a sip of his own drink. "Sometimes I feel ashamed of him," he continued, very quiet. He sighed, a small gust of air. "I don't expect you to understand, exactly. I don't want to feel that way about my own father. I try to fight it, when maybe I shouldn't. Like . . ."
"Like today?" Harry suggested, leaning back against the back of the sofa and taking another sip of his drink to dilute the awkwardness.
Draco shrugged. "Yes, I suppose," he said. "Not about the press thing," he said more firmly. "I want him to be happy, and he can only be happy if people respect him again." And just as Harry was about to splutter something angry, he added: "I meant about what he said during lunch. He was very rude to you. And I let him be."
"Your mother was too," Harry pointed out crossly.
"Yes," Draco said, voice small. "I . . ."
"Look," Harry interrupted, "I know you love them. I don't. I am never, ever going to get on with either of them. But I'm not asking you to not love them. It would just be nice if you didn't nod along, blindly, when they ask you to manipulate me into something for their benefit. All right?" The words flowed out of him in a rush, and he followed them up with a rush of liquid. It tasted delicious, and although the words had come out bluntly, he thought they pretty much summed up how he felt, so he didn't want to take them back. The Malfoys were terrible people. But they loved Draco. And Draco loved them. That was all there was to it.
Strangely, his words seemed to make Draco relax. "Yes, all right," he said comfortably, and leaned back against the sofa too, head half-falling on Harry's shoulder.
"I didn't wish you a happy birthday," Harry remembered. "Er, happy birthday."
Draco snorted out a laugh. "Thanks. Where's my present, arsehole?"
"Hey!" Harry objected. "You said you didn't want one!"
"I never say what I mean," Draco said, and stuck a bony finger into Harry's side, making him yelp. "I . . ." Draco continued after a while, settling back against Harry's side. "I bore myself sometimes, going round in circles about what I did, what I didn't do, during . . . you know."
The war, Harry supplied silently. They'd been on different sides, even when in the final months – maybe longer – Draco's heart had switched teams. His fucking body hadn't, though. It was still so hard to forgive. "Yeah?"
Draco nodded against him. "I wonder if it ever gets easier. To forgive yourself, you know," he mumbled. "Or I suppose you don't," he added sardonically. "Perfect Potter never does anything he needs to be forgiven for."
Harry clenched his jaw and let this go.
"I want to blame my parents," Draco burst out. "It was their fault I turned out this way. But . . ." He sighed, disgust at himself bleeding through every word. "I could have chosen differently, I suppose. Done things differently."
Again, Harry had that odd mental image of Draco, the man whose courage only showed itself in the gaps. Unwilling to embrace the darkness, but too scared to reject it.
"Yes," Harry said simply, because simple cowardice was no excuse. Draco should have been better. He ached for him to be better. "You could."
"Helpful," Draco said, tetchy, but he didn't move away.
"Mm," Harry said, and shifted, to put his arm around Draco's shoulder. Draco settled easily back against him, as if they were just two people who liked each other, cuddling on a sofa. Would it ever be that simple, Harry wondered.
"I suppose that's why I still feel like I need to be punished," Draco said, the words coming out hesitant, and grim. "Wow, I really said that out loud," he added. "Ugh."
Harry reached up and stroked a hand through Draco's butchered hair.
"Sometimes," Draco said, very low and soft, the words sounding dragged out of some huge depth. "Sometimes I dream of surrendering. But no one ever asks me to. Do you know how tiring that is?"
Draco's hair was very soft against Harry's hand, his whole body a warmth against him. "Don't be daft," Harry said awkwardly, not sure how to respond to this. It didn't sound like something that should ever have been said out loud. He hoped Draco wouldn't remember it, the next day, and regret it. "Who would you surrender to, anyway?" he said lightly.
Draco didn't say anything, and Harry could have kicked himself. But – no way. He didn't want anything like that from Draco. Ever. He wanted . . . he wanted to respect Draco. And be able to respect him right back. To be equals, standing together, side by side, facing the world. And OK, maybe he wanted to change Draco a little more, to scrub out the prejudices he still held, but he only wanted Draco to bend, not to break.
Harry wrapped a strand of Draco's hair around his finger, and then he tugged it. Hard.
"Ow!" Draco said, shooting up and glaring daggers at him. The odd mood broke instantly, to Harry's deep, fervent relief. "What was that for, you arsehole?"
"Punishment," Harry said. "You said you wanted it. Want me to do it again?"
"No!" Draco said, and reached over to tug at Harry's hair too.
They fought, briefly, and Draco got in a few hard, stinging yanks, but Draco had clearly been lazy and indolent over the last couple of years, while Harry had been doing regular Auror training and building up his playground-tussle muscles. Harry managed to roll him on his back, on the sofa, pinning him down, and taking another tug of his hair.
"Owwww!" Draco yelled, struggling.
Harry didn't let up. "Surrender?" he taunted.
"Never!" Draco yelled, even more loudly. "As if!"
Harry let go, panting, feeling a flood of relief at his childish victory. "Good," he said, with satisfaction.
Draco's face did something complicated, but Harry decided to ignore that. Surrender, indeed. As if he'd ever want that. "You still deserve a smacking though," he said.
Draco raised his eyebrows. "You wouldn't dare."
"I would," Harry protested, because that was what he did. He spoke without thinking, like an idiot.
"You're crushing me to death," Draco said sweetly, as Harry realised he was half a conversation away from something he wasn't sure was arousing or off-putting. "You've been eating too much cake."
Harry rolled off, letting Draco sit up. "You baked it."
"Don't blame me for your gluttony," Draco said cheerfully, and then raised an eyebrow. "I seem to remain unsmacked. What a shame. I felt sure you'd want to fling me over your knee immediately."
Harry snorted, even as he felt himself go red. "You'd like that, would you?"
"Of course not," Draco said, just as cheerfully. "It's a punishment, isn't it? And on my birthday too! After you didn't even buy me a present. How heartless you are."
Harry blinked at this, trying not to squirm. "Draco . . ." he warned. "Are you trying to wind me up?"
Draco grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Well, maybe a little. You're so easy to annoy. You can't blame me."
"It would serve you right if I did give you a spanking," Harry said evenly, and the smile slid off Draco's face, to be replaced by something more . . . tense. Expectant.
"Oh?" Draco said, and tilted his head slightly, a sheet of unevenly cut hair swinging to one side of his face. "Would it?"
Harry felt his blood rush to his head. "Yes."
"If you were doing this properly, you'd put on your Auror uniform," Draco said, his tone teasing and yet somehow also thoughtful.
Harry snorted. "That would be weird."
"Yes," Draco said. And then: "Spoilsport."
Harry was no longer entirely sure if they were joking. He patted his lap and raised his eyebrows. "Go on then. Assume the position," he said, half-expecting Draco to throw something at him.
Draco gave him a tense stare, and then stood up, shucking off his outer robe. "Well budge up a bit then," he said grouchily, "or I won't fit."
Harry's heart did a kind of flollop in his chest. Did Draco actually mean it? Surely not. He shoved down the sofa a bit, anyway, just in case, watching in half-terrified expectation as Draco kicked off his shoes and then his long-line formal under-robe. He was only wearing boxers, and he was already a bit hard.
Draco snorted and shot him a half-amused look. "You look like it's you who's being punished, scarhead," he said as he approached the sofa again. "I'm hardly quivering in my boots."
Harry moistened his dry lips. "You're not wearing any boots."
Draco rolled his eyes, kneeling on the sofa cushion next to Harry, then leaning forward to lie face down. The sofa was a bit too short, so he ended up supporting his face on his folded arms, his calves raised up on the sofa's arm. His arse, however, was perfectly positioned for Harry's right hand, his cock a hard press against Harry's thighs.
"Well?" Draco said, a bit muffled by his arms.
How the fuck did he get himself into situations like this, Harry wondered, panicking a bit. He slid a hand gently over the curve of Draco's arse, clad in soft cotton, and Draco let out a soft sigh. Draco really did have a nice arse, Harry thought, trailing his fingers over it and down the backs of his thighs. Firm and neat and lightly muscled, the skin, when he pushed his fingers under the line of Draco's underwear, warm and smooth. His upper thighs, too, were smooth, with only a smattering of fine, almost invisible hair.
"Mmm, I feel so punished," Draco said, a warm gust of sarcasm.
"Yes, all right," Harry said. "Impatient, aren't you?" He reached over to tug at the waistband of Draco's boxers, and after a small hesitation, Draco raised his hips obligingly, so Harry could tug them off.
Draco settled back carefully into Harry's lap, his cock trapped between his belly and Harry's legs. He wiggled a bit and let out a small, unwilling groan.
Harry felt very hot, with Draco there, spread out in front of him, hard and in his lap. He resumed stroking the skin of Draco's backside, his upper thighs, trailing his fingers over and following with the flat of his hand. Draco made a relaxed sigh, and then let out a surprised grunt when Harry gave his arse a light, experimental swat. He didn't say anything though, so Harry did it again, caressing the skin, before repeating the action.
"Oh . . ." Draco gasped, sounding so embarrassed he wanted to die.
Draco was relaxing into him, his legs parting helplessly, although he tensed a little with every light smack. Harry paused to run his hands over Draco's soft, pink skin, sliding his fingers up the insides of Draco's thighs and over the warm bulge of his balls, before skimming a gentle touch up the line of Draco's crack with his left hand.
Draco made a low noise when Harry touched his arsehole, so Harry left his finger there, a gentle pressure moving in small circles, as he resumed lightly smacking Draco's arse cheeks. His skin was starting to redden very slightly, and he whined, under his breath, when Harry gently stroked where he'd hit.
Harry cleared his throat, and then cleared it again. "Do you feel properly punished yet?" he said, trying to sound firm. He could feel Draco's arsehole relaxing and clenching under his finger as he moved it gently, could feel Draco's hard cock digging hard into his leg. Draco was pressing his groin into Harry as if it was that or die.
"No," Draco said, his voice like gravel. "That all you've got?"
Harry, goaded, gave the flesh of Draco's arse a smack with a bit more force to it, and Draco yelped.
"Sorry!" Harry said, immediately stopping and pulling his hands away.
Draco snorted, "Ow!" he said, and started to laugh, which wasn't very sexy, Harry thought, grinning down at his naked back, but made him feel a bit better about this bloody weird situation. "I forgot to mention," Draco said through his laughter, sounding a bit more normal now, but his voice still rough, "I'm not actually a massive fan of pain."
Harry found he was laughing too. "Isn't that the point of a punishment?"
"Mmm," Draco said, relaxing back down. "It is my birthday though."
Harry rolled his eyes, even though Draco couldn't see him, and gingerly reached back down to carefully stroke Draco's pink backside.
"What – what you were doing before," Draco mumbled. "That felt good."
"All right," Harry said. Time seemed to slide out into infinity as he played with Draco's backside, his cock a tight, painful throb that he tried to ignore. Draco seemed to like having his arsehole teased much more than he liked to be hit, however lightly, so soon Harry left off with the punishment. He thought though, one hand between Draco's parted thighs, gently stroking his balls, and the other between Draco's cheeks, gently stroking his arsehole, that this was punishment enough. Draco was clearly going mad with the effort of not grinding himself against Harry's thighs, every breath a frustrated sob. When Harry looked back at Draco's raised feet, his toes were clenched.
Harry, who was going pretty mad himself at the sight, at the sounds, thought it served him right. He'd asked for it, after all. And – if he wanted to get off, he could, couldn't he? He could just . . . grind himself against Harry. While Harry sat there, fully clothed, his finger teasing Draco's arsehole. It wasn't so embarrassing, was it?
Harry waited for Draco to first work this out, and then to lose his inhibitions enough to actually do it. It didn't take that long. With a grunt, he raised himself half to his elbows and ground his hips, very slowly, against Harry's thighs, shifting to get the angle right. The back of his neck was very red.
Harry removed his hands from Draco's skin, then reached out with just his right hand to cup the bottom of Draco's bum as he started to rock, making very small movements. Draco looked obscene. Delicious. Stupid, yes, with his badly-shorn hair, but it didn't matter. He was so sexy Harry was going to die. "Harry," Draco choked, sounding annoyed.
"What?"
Draco spread his legs a bit wider, shoving his arse up into Harry's hand for a moment. He didn't say anything though, just went back to his rocking motion as he sank back into Harry's lap, tiny noises falling out of his mouth.
Harry took the hint, heart pounding. He gently pressed Draco's arse cheeks apart with one hand, running the tip of a finger over the trembling pucker of his hole, then back, until all of Draco was trembling under him. He carried on stroking, round the edges of the circle of muscle and over them. Draco sighed and gasped as Harry's finger worked, his hips jerking as he rubbed himself against Harry's leg.
Draco started to make noises that suggested he was close. His whole body was jerking more frantically now, and Harry replaced his finger with his thumb, not moving it now, the pad a firm pressure against Draco's arsehole as he rocked against Harry.
Draco came with a loud grunt, his come smearing Harry's trousers and shooting out on to the sofa. He collapsed again into Harry's lap, breathing heavily. "Bloody hell," he mumbled, into his arms, and then heaved himself up, a naked, sweaty mess. "Right," he said, twisting in Harry's lap until he was straddling him, then undoing his trousers and reaching for his cock.
Harry came in under two minutes. Frankly, as he panted against Draco's chest, after, he was surprised it hadn't been quicker. He reached up and yanked on Draco's hair again.
"Ow! What was that for, you fucker?" Draco said, sounding so relaxed he was nearly asleep.
"Are you feeling punished now, hmm?" Harry asked.
Draco let out a snort. "Barely," he said, a smile in his voice. "Inadequately."
"Oh no," Harry said, letting the sarcasm flow. "I do apologise."
"No need," Draco said with great dignity. "You'll just have to try again."
Harry tugged at Draco's terrible hair again, making Draco splutter, and decided that he would heroically bear his role as punisher without complaint.