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“By Merlin, Malfoy” Harry groaned as he stepped into the Auror office, “must you force the entire ministry to smell your damn perfume? There has got to be a limit to how much of that is socially acceptable, even for a prat like you.”
Harry expected Malfoy to clap back at him, or at the very least throw a desk supply or two, but unlike usual, Malfoy did not rise to the occasion. Instead, he stared at Harry like a deer in the headlight.
Ron, sat in one of the free witness seats in front of Harry’s desk, dropped his sandwich, letting it spill into his lap — staining his Auror robes with a great deal of sauce. But Ron paid his sandwich no mind (a rare occurrence, indeed) his jaw slack, face so pale that his freckles stood out starkly and eyes wide, as if he had just witnessed a most horrifying event.
“What?” Harry asked.
The suspect sat in front of Malfoy’s desk— a thin, mousy, man with a large top hat, that had been arrested not an hour ago on charges of breaking and entering a private property, his sixth offense this quarter alone. Reporters. — grabbed the camera hung around his neck and took a picture of Harry with a surprising amount of zeal. By now, Harry had sort of hoped that his simple existence had stopped being big news.
More importantly though, it seemed he had missed something, for both Ron and Malfoy looked pale and horrified — or in Malfoy’s case, something vaguely off that sort but rather too posh to be so easily read.
“What?” Harry repeated.
“Tha— That — That — “ Ron stammered.
Harry spread his hands, trying to hurry Ron’s words along.
Ron’s face turned a prune red, evidently getting over whatever horror had made him so pale and instead turning to … whatever this was.
“What?” Harry repeated, getting fed up with the entire thing. When Ron still didn’t manage to give a coherent answer, Harry turned to Malfoy. “Malfoy what’s wrong with him?”
Malfoy didn’t reply for a long moment, chest heaving but the remainder of him frozen. When he finally answered, he did so slowly, “Trainee Hopkins dropped a box of evidence.” His pale throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily.
Harry was starting to be concerned. Evidence could be anything from a mundane pillow to a lethal bottle of poison fumes. Dropping a box of that stuff, would have wiped the Auror office out in seconds if not for some pretty quick spellwork. Though since everyone seemed alive — though not quite chipper — that scenario had passed them by. Good. If Senior Auror McCannon got wind of an elite team of Auror’s he had trained getting themselves killed via dropped evidence, the remaining Auror force would never hear the end of it. Not to speak of Hermione, who would likely find a way to haunt and lecture them even in the afterlife.
“So? What was in there? Is everyone alright — is he alright?” Harry gestured at Ron, who still hadn’t managed to wipe the wide-eyes expression of horror from his face, but at least had stopped stammering, instead opting for silence.
Which was something, Harry supposed, “Does he need to go to St.Mungo’s? Do you need to go to Mungos — Malfoy?”
But Malfoy ignored his question entirely. “A potion bottle broke.”
“Right.” Harry said. By Merlin, this was getting tedious! “What potion?”
Neither of his team partners answered.
Harry was starting to get quite fed up with them, when Hopkins crashed through the door, clearly out of breath. “I got rid of the Amortentia remnants as you said, Auror Malfoy, Sir!”
Harry’s brain stuttered.
“The clean-up crew should get here in a few minutes — they are still stuck down in the creature office, there was a mishap down there apparently. But they promised they wouldn’t take any longer than — “
“Amortentia?” Harry cut him off.
“Amortentia, Sir.” Hopkins confirmed. He flushed, “I dropped the box accidentally — but only one bottle broke! The others are just fine.” He nodded, as if to underline just how fine the remaining evidence was.
“Right. Amortentia,” Harry said. “Amortentia, the — “
“The Love Potion.” Malfoy interrupted him, voice hoarse. Harry ignored that in favor of figuring out what in the world was going on with his colleagues.
“So, who got love potioned?” Harry asked.
Ron made an odd choking noise. His face remained stuck as that odd prune color — which wasn’t a side effect of Amortentia, as far as Harry knew.
“No one, Sir!” Hopkins provided helpfully. “I dropped the box — tripped over my shoelace, I did — the Amortentia bottle broke and spilled, but we’ve only had to do with the fumes, no contamination beyond that! The clean up will be done in a jiffy, Sir, and Mr. Heuter from the clean-up crew said that Amortentia fumes are no danger at all, besides the smell, so there should be nothing to worry about.”
Harry blinked at him for a long moment, then peered at the prune face of his best mate and the wide-eyed Malfoy heir.
“Right.” Harry said. “Tell them that. Seems those fumes hit them real hard.”
“That’s — that’s not …” Ron said, before seemingly thinking better of it and leaning back to try and salvage the sandwich in his lap.
So instead, Harry turned to Malfoy, who was staring at him with wide eyes — wider still, than they were earlier. A red flush was crawling up his neck, nearly the exact hue of cherries that Malfoy had eaten the day before and that had stained his lips for a good hour after.
“Malfoy? … are you … alright?”
“Fine,” Malfoy said, between clenched teeth.
Harry felt like he was missing something vital, but couldn’t make heads nor tail of it.
The reporter — who had faded into the background with a surprising amount of skill, quite as could be — got up, smacked a handful of galleons on Malfoy’s desk, and rushed out of the door with a quick “Paid the fine, Auror Malfoy! I will endeavor to recognize property lines, Good day!” And gone was he.
It was only when Hopkins made motions to grab the Galleons to deposit them into the proper places, that Harry realized he had forgotten to make the Reporter delete the picture of him! He had simply forgotten all about it during this mess. Ugh. Well. One picture of many. It wasn’t that important.
Harry migrated to his own desk, deciding to put the matter out of his mind.
Evidently, neither of them had been love potioned, so really this had nothing to do with Harry and he was not going to get involved in another mess — certainly not one containing Amortentia. He’d had plenty of that over the last few months, what with some crazies trying to love-potion him every now and again. This, Harry decided, Malfoy could deal with on his own.
**********
Harry stared at the Daily Prophet, rubbed his eyes and then stared some more. The article remained the same. There, under a large picture of Harry in his Auror robes — with a coffee stain he only now noticed sitting quiet prominently on his chest — was written in large letters: “AUROR HARRY POTTER — THE-MAN-WHO-CONQUERED, IN LOVE WITH PARDONED DEATH EATER AND AUROR, DRACO MALFOY? AMORTENTIA MISHAP REVEALS ALL!”
“Merlin’s sagging balls,” Harry said. “One would think that reporters would learn not to spread lies.” Or at least Harry had thought so, after spending a pretty penny on a good lawyer to sue the Daily Prophet to the high heavens and back for publishing libel and a great deal of pictures they really shouldn’t have been able to take.
Not to speak of the court case that had ensued when Witch Weekly had gotten their hands on pictures of Harry with only the bare (ha!) minimum of covering — which had only been provided by the gossip rag so that it would not run into censoring issues for flashing the general public. Needless to say, the entire wizarding world now knew that Ginny had lied about that Hippogriff tattoo on his ass.
“Have you seen this?”
“It’s fairly hard to ignore.” Malfoy said stiffly. His crisp, posh, accent made Harry’s ears itch.
“What a load of crap,” Harry chucked the Daily Prophet into the rubbish bin and pulled out a blank sheet of parchment to start penning a letter to his lawyers, but instead found himself turning to Malfoy once more. “I mean, where do they even get these ideas from?”
Malfoy hummed, eyes set an opened file. He seemed determined to ignore Harry this morning, likely because his name had been dragged through the mud alongside Harry’s. Which was understandable, but entirely unfair!
It wasn’t like Harry had been the one to put those lies into the world! He didn’t even know where the Reporter had gotten that idea from! Him? Love Malfoy? As if!
“I will be penning a letter to my Lawyers.” Harry said, raising the parchment in a vague wave. “Once I sue that reporter to the high heavens and back, they will have to print an apology. You’ll see. So don’t get your panties in a twist, Malfoy.”
“I do not wear panties, Potter.”
“Sure you don’t. Just like you don’t wear lipstick or — “
“That was one time. ONE TIME, POTTER!”
“It still counts! And hey — I’m not judging, live your truth! And it looked prettier on you than on Parkinson, that’s for sure — “
Malfoy stared at him, cheeks flushed an angry red.
Harry was distracted from his sudden inspection of Malfoy’s lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, by a despairing groan. “Please stop flirting with him, Harry.”
Ron pulled the book he had used to shield himself from the light from his face, evidently giving up on trying to nap, hair messy and face faintly green-grey, not particularly unusual after a long night-shift, but certainly not a reason to spread lies!
“I am not flirting with Malfoy!” Harry spat fiercely, face heating.
Ron sighed. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m serious — “
“I really, strongly, doubt that. On so many levels.” Ron cut him off. “For one, you don’t have a beard. For another, you don’t look nearly as fetching as him in a dress.”
Harry threw a quill at him.
“This is a serious matter!”
“I thought we just established that — “
Malfoy groaned, “Must I listen to this Gryffindorish bickering first thing in the morning? Go home, Weasley.”
“Now that sounds like a fine idea.”
“Say hello to Hermione for me,” Harry said.
Ron grabbed his cloak and stuffed some files in his bag and tipped his head in a mock salute. “Don’t forget about tea at the Burrow today, if you skip out again, I will never hear the end of it from mom.”
Harry nodded, wincing. “I will be there, might run a bit late though.”
“I will save you some treacle tarts then.”
“Ta!”
And off he went, leaving Harry alone with a positively prickly Malfoy, who had turned back to his documents with stiff shoulders.
“Now what’s gotten into your tea this morning?”
“Aside from having to spend an entire day being shadowed by Hopkins? Again, might I add.”
“Aside from that,” Harry agreed. Trainee Hopkins was enthusiastic, but as clumsy as Tonks when it came to simple coordination. The spilled Amortentia from the day before hadn’t been the first potion lost to his tender mercies. Nor the second, for that matter.
“None of your business, Potter.”
“…” Harry frowned. “Did I do something?”
“When do you ever not do something?”
“ — if this is about that article, Malfoy — I haven’t got anything to do with it! You saw the reporter yourself, he just snapped the picture and ran, how was I supposed to know that he was going to publish utter rubbish about us?!”
Malfoy grunted, clearly done with their conversation.
Harry stewed, but eventually turned back to his piece of parchment. That letter to his lawyers wasn’t going to write itself.
*******
“Malfoy, Harry? Really?”
Harry sighed into his drink. “I keep telling people, but this article is utter bull! Not even a speck of trustworthy information in it. And yes, before you ask, I have contacted my lawyers about suing for libel.” And his lawyers had laughed at him! Laughed! What did he even pay them for!
George made a face, “that’s … a bit much, isn’t it?”
“A bit much? They are spreading lies about me!”
“Yeah but — mate, hear me out. Isn’t that a bit, Merlin I can’t believe I’m saying this, but isn’t that a bit … mean, towards Malfoy?”
“Mean?” Harry repeated. “How is that mean? He is a victim of their bullshit too!”
George shook his head, “but it’s you who is going off the rails and spreading it far and wide how much of an impossibility it is for you to love, or even like, Malfoy. What if he likes you? Blimey, even if he didn’t, that has got to hurt. Not to speak of his families standing what with you being the one who got them pardoned in the first place.” George rubbed his chin, grimacing. “Look, I’m not saying that you’ve got to jump Malfoy, or something. Just maybe calm down a bit and stop telling every person you come across how much of an impossibility it is for you to like someone like Malfoy.”
Harry was stumped. Had he … really been acting like that?
… perhaps he better not tell George his very public declaration that he would prove that he was very much not in love with Malfoy, right here in Diagon Alley and with a reporter to spread the news wide and far at that. Right. Perhaps better not to mention that.
George frowned at him, “Alright, spill. What did you do?”
“I — well, it just happened, really.” Harry coughed vaguely. In the end, George managed to needle the entire story out of him anyways.
“So let me get this straight.” He said, “You agreed to drink Amortentia in front of Malfoy and the general public, and most importantly, a daily prophet reporter, just to prove that you don’t love him?”
“Because my lawyer said I couldn’t sue for libel!”
“Oh yes, now that really changes things,” George replied. “Malfoy won’t be offended whatsoever.”
Harry winced. “Yes, well.”
“Malfoy will rip you a new one, and for once, I’m inclined to let him.” George threw back the remainder of his butterbeer and threw a few sickles onto the table. “Get yourself another drink, mate. Clearly you need it.” He patted Harry’s shoulder in mock sympathy and left him to it.
“Ugh,” Harry let his head drop down onto the table with a thunk.
Was it really so wrong for him to want the wizarding world to stop gossiping about him? And gossip about his non-existent love life? Sure, maybe he had gone a bit over board with organizing a demonstration of his non-love of Malfoy in front of the general public and press, but what else was he supposed to do? His lawyer had shut down any avenues for a libel lawsuit, Hermione had hit him — hit him! — across the head with a book for even suggesting losing Malfoy on an unfortunate portkey accident to the bottom of the ocean, and not to speak of Ron, who had taken one look at Harry after the article and thrown back a glass full of Firewhiskey while on duty, and as such had gotten himself kicked straight out of the office by McCannon — all without a single word to Harry aside from a ‘blimey mate’, which he could’ve really done without.
In any case, neither he nor Malfoy actually liked each other, so there was nothing to worry about! Just a quick sip of Amortentia in front of a crowd and tadaa! All the gossip about their supposed love story was gone and done with and he could sue the daily prophet to his hearts content. Sure, the whole thing would likely be utterly embarrassing, what with them being high on a love-potion and the likelihood of them trying to woo each other in front of a crowd, but sacrifices had to be made! What did a few moments of mortification measure up to the quite of no-gossip?!
Harry was sure that Malfoy would understand his reasoning. Eventually. After the fact. Most likely. Honestly, there was a reason for why Malfoy was the one who did the planning for their missions. Harry was more of a brute force sort of guy, but this time he strongly doubted that Malfoy would want any part of this, especially if it involved reporters. Be that as it may, Harry would simply have to make up for the troubles (and embarrassment of making a fool out of themselves in front of a crowd) after the fact. In the end, it would be good for both of them! It would sort matters out right away. And wasn’t that a good thing to know: Amortentia only worked when faced with a person you weren’t in love with, which made it the perfect proof all for their dilemma!
Now how would he get Malfoy to go along with it though …
*******
“Er, you must’ve wondered why I asked you to meet me here,” Harry said, pressing the bottle of prepared butterbeer in his hand.
“It was a bit of a — surprise,” Malfoy offered, looking at him with blatant curiosity. “But weirder things have happened.”
It occurred to Harry, that George had been right about this being a horrible idea, but it was too late to change course now, the butterbeer was in Malfoy’s hand and matters were proper on their way now.
“So why did you want to meet, Potter?”
“Er — I, that is to say, … Malfoy, you remember the Amortentia that Hopkins dropped, right? I mean, of course you do, but — “
Malfoy laughed, a bright and rare sound, that Harry had only heard once before — and never directed at him. He suddenly felt utterly foolish. Really, what was he doing? Harry made a grab for the bottle of butterbeer in Malfoy’s hand, nearly dropping his own as he did so, but Malfoy had already turned away to take a gulp of it and with a drop in Harry’s stomach he realized there really was nothing to be done but go ahead with the plan now. He would simply have to make the embarrassment up to Malfoy after the fact!
Harry grabbed Malfoy by his arm, and with a squeeze and pull, PLOP, they disappeared from the pub and appeared on the steps leading to Gringotts, right in front of a crowd of curious onlookers and a group of reporters.
Malfoy’s face crumbled, eyes flickering from the crowd and reporters to Harry.
“You — “ Malfoy dropped the bottle, the butterbeer spilled — a sweet scent of steamed apples and French perfume flooding the air, just as it had done two days prior in their office. He didn’t seem to be acting different than usual at all, no lovesick glances or swooning and certainly no inappropriate jumping of Harry in front of a crowd (which had been a bit of a worry).
Harry felt like a complete and utter fool.
“How could you — “ Malfoy cut himself off, glancing towards the crowd just as a Reporter took a picture. Malfoy’s face paled further, his body swayed, eyes impossibly wide with an expression Harry couldn’t recognize for a long moment. Betrayal.
Malfoy disapparated with a CRACK. Another flash of light. The Crowd’s hushed voice exploded into noise.
Harry disapparated, only realizing his own butterbeer-Amortentia mix had been dropped alongside Malfoy’s on stage, untouched and forgotten.
His plan had utterly failed on all fronts.
*******
The next day, Harry slunk into work after procrastinating as much as he possibly could by chatting up the old witch down at the coffee counter in the atrium, trying and failing to ignore the gossiping ministry workers peering at him over the rim of their coffee or from behind their copies of the Daily Prophet. Harry had taken one look at the ever-replaying image of Malfoy’s face crumbling into betrayal, and was ready to go back home.
One particularly daring witch had even gone as far as telling him how ‘good of a job he had done beating that posh death eater down a peg’, which nearly had made him throw his coffee at her. Of course, she wasn’t wrong. Harry had messed up, utterly.
Even worse, Harry had practically been what he hated most — a bully! If he had just talked to Malfoy, and gotten his input on matter or if he had just kept his mouth shut and ignored the gossip then perhaps he wouldn’t feel as horrible as he did. Undoubtedly, Malfoy felt even worse. Having been drugged by his auror partner of three years, and humiliated in front of the general public — who largely, still didn’t like him very much, no matter how much he had done to improve himself.
Of course, how awful he felt before coming into the auror office, was nothing on how awful he felt when he was in it.
“You’ve gone and done it now, Potter.” Head Auror McCannon said once he spotted him shuffling to his desk.
“Sir?”
“Auror Malfoy has requested a reassignment to a different Auror unit.” McCannon said.
Harry felt himself go pale, an awful pit forming in his stomach.
“He — he has?” he felt himself ask.
“Yes.” McCannon frowned at him from under busy eyebrows. “I don’t give a lick about your private business, Potter, but if you are going to ruin my best Auror unit because of your thick scull, then we have problems.”
Harry swallowed.
“You will fix this.” McCannon stated.
Harry nodded.
“And you will fix it soon. Before Malfoy returns from his leave.”
His what?! “His leave, Sir?”
“Came in this morning. A sick note, with a request for a week of leave attached. You’ve really done a number on him this time, Potter. Really, drugging him in broad daylight?”
Knowing McCannon, he would have likely recommended drugging someone under the cover of darkness in some pit of an alley and making sure they didn’t remember a damn thing about it afterwards, pragmatist that he was. Though McCannon, Harry thought, would never have gone and drugged a member of his Auror unit in the first place — because doing so was basically begging to be stabbed in the back at the next best opportunity and also the move of an utter dick, like Harry. He wilted a bit.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Alright then,” McCannon waved his hand at him. “Get out. You’re on unpaid leave until you fix your mess. And I expect a 10 page paper on why drugging your unit partner is a horrible idea.”
“Yes, Sir.” Harry shuffled back out of the office, keeping his head down until he made it back to the atrium and through the floo to Ron and Hermione’s flat. It was empty, and would remain so for a good few hours yet, so Harry shed his Auror robes, got himself a drink and curled up in the squashy armchair to wallow in self-loathing and self-pity, and perhaps a bit of self-disgust too: the holy trinity of a good wallow, really.
Hours later, he blinked awake from his horrible nap with a crink in his neck. The whoosh of floo flames flared before fading, giving way to the click-clack of Hermione’s heeled shoes.
“Oh Harry,” Hermione sighed as she came spotted him in her living room.
“Yes, thank you, Hermione,” Harry said, trying to drown in the squishy armchair.
Hermione sighed again, which was enough of a prompt. Harry had a good few hours to stew upon the matter after all.
“I really hurt him, Hermione.” Harry said. “And — I mean, I knew I would hurt him. I thought that was fine in the great scheme of things, because I’m not supposed to like Malfoy and because — because … I just really wanted people to stop gossiping about me for once. I don’t even know. I’m a complete and utter arse, who can’t see what’s right in front of his eyes.”
Hermione hummed, “you know, it was fairly obvious. You’ve been obsessed with him for years. I figured that you would get a clue about it eventually, what with all the stalking and obsessing and ‘Malfoy is up to something, Hermione’.”
Harry groaned. “How was I supposed to know that that means I like him? I thought that was a hate thing — because he was a suspicious little prat.”
“Of course, not at all related to how well he grew up during the summer before 6th year.” Hermione added.
Harry grunted. He wanted to defend himself, but maybe … it had been a tiny bit related to how fit Malfoy looked that year, even with all of the stress and sleepless nights. His hair had gotten longer too, and … well, Harry had just ignored it at the time (as an ‘everyone wants to check how well their hits landed on their rivals’ sort of thing), but in hindsight he supposed it wasn’t exactly the mark of rivalry to want to push aside those pale-blond strands to be able to see Malfoy’s eyes better. To run his hands through his hair and check if it was as soft as it looked, even after years of being confined with hair-gel. Harry kicked the squishy armchair.
“What am I going to do now, ‘mione?”
“How about apologizing?”
“ I humiliated him in front of the majority of wizarding Britain! Worse, I drugged him in front of the majority of wizarding Britain. What good does an apology do in the face of that.”
“Well, it’s certainly a start, and an awful lot better than not apologizing.”
Which was a fair point, but how could any apology measure up to the utter cruelty he had committed? An apology wouldn’t fix the situation, nor stop the horrible gossip that had been spreading about ‘the-chosen-one rejecting pardoned death eater turned Auror, Draco Malfoy’. Worse, he didn’t even know where Malfoy was! He couldn’t have run off to his château in France again, right? Surely not.
*******
Malfoy had not run off to his château in France.
Or so Kreacher had told him after Harry had asked him to check. Was that bordering very closely on being like some of those stalking incidents where some crazy witch or wizard would sick their house-elf on him? Yes. But Harry consoled himself with the knowledge that he had already reached rock-bottom, so what did a few more inches matter, really. And it wasn’t like he had asked Kreacher anything about Malfoy. He had just checked on his whereabouts.
Harry lamented his descends into criminality, but let out a sigh of relief at the news nonetheless.
Malfoy was still in England.
Harry’s plan could work, and everything would be just fine.
Or it would be, if Harry ever got to get started on his plan!
“You never mentioned you were going to drug, Malfoy.” George accused, stepping in beside Harry into the phone-booth just as it was about to drop down to the Ministry.
“Yes, well.” Harry said, feeling rather cross. “It was a last minute addition to the plan, and I am already feeling utterly horrible about it, no need to rub it in. I’ve seen the error of my ways and am trying to make up for it. Now if you will excuse me — “
George stepped out beside him, keeping pace. “But really, Harry, drugging him? I know you claim to hate the bloke, but that’s a bit harsh.”
“I don’t hate, Malfoy — and I didn’t know it would be like, like — that,” Harry huffed, shoving his hands into his robe pockets. “What are you doing here anyways?”
George shrugged, “I’ve got a meeting about some international collaborative shops during the next Quidditch Worldcup.”
Harry turned to him with wide eyes, “and you mention that now?! Since when? That’s amazing, George — “ Harry frowned, catching himself. “You will have to tell me all about it once I’ve managed to drag myself out of the pit of idiocy I’ve thrown myself in.” He clapped George on the shoulder, “but that sounds great!”
George waved him off with a laugh and a stern wish of ‘good luck’, which Harry decided he needed desperately, as he was about to sneak into Auror territory while on unpaid leave, dressed in his Auror robes and while hopefully avoiding Hear Auror McCannon.
For once, luck seemed to be on Harry’s side, for the Auror Office was short-staffed — likely some sort of emergency that had the on-duty staff out in the field and only the bare minimum was left to wander the Ministry. He made a bee-line for the evidence rooms.
What were rules if not guidelines? He was sure that McCannon would see sense in this time sensitive decision of kind of, sort of, thievery, and thus he waltzed into the evidence room with a sharp eye out for the Head Auror — Harry wasn’t above throwing his invisibility cloak over himself to avoid McCannon if need be. The Evidence room consisted of rows upon rows of filled shelves with tags corresponding to the case related evidence lots. It was a matter of just a few minutes to find the one he was looking for: potion evidence tended to be double locked, after all.
Harry opened the love-potion, suddenly very curious — nearly desperate — to smell it once more. To confirm, just in case, he told himself.
The sweet smell of steamed apples mixed with French perfume itched at his nose and made his cheeks flush, but it was the twitch in his pants that had him closing the potion bottle in a hurry. Well, at least he was now certain that the potion was legit.
******
Stalking was one thing, but kidnapping Malfoy with the help of Kreacher went, perhaps, a bit too far.
Even so, since Harry hadn’t been able to come up with any plan that was any less criminal, he had stuck with it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Thus, Harry found himself on the steps before Gringotts once more. A crowd of people murmuring below him, and a reporter or three with their fingers set above their shutter button and a quick-quote quill floating note ready by their side. Harry took a deep breath, patting his breast pocket and smoothing down his jacket for the umpteenth time. Then he checked his wrist watch. It was really about time for Kreacher to —
With a loud, POP, Kreacher appeared with Malfoy, the pure-blood stumbling and twisting out of the little elf’s grasp.
“What — Potter?!” Malfoy’s hair was out of the usual order, likely from the fight to dodge Kreacher.
Harry went ahead with his apology straight away, keeping an eye on Malfoy’s twitchy wand arm. “Really, sorry about this whole stalking and kidnapping thing, Malfoy, but I swear it was for a good reason.”
“It better — “ Malfoy had finally caught sight of the crowd of curious shoppers and reporters, a clearly unwelcome and familiar image, for he turned an awful shade pale green.
“Potter — “ he bit out between his teeth, and this time Harry saw the betrayal and hurt in his eyes straight away.
“It’s not what you think,” Harry said hurriedly. “I swear. Just — give me 5 minutes. Please.”
Malfoy looked unconvinced, a split-second decision away from disapparating and likely running away to his château in France indefinitely.
Harry leaned towards him. “I’ve been an utter arse, Malfoy, but if you have even the smallest amount of trust in me left, please stay. I made a mistake, and I hurt you. I want to make up for it, if you will let me.”
Two patches of pink blossomed on Malfoy’s cheeks.
The image was so startling, that Harry fumbled, nearly forgetting just where they stood. Thankfully, Kreacher had caught sight of Harry’s gaping jaw, and gave him a little kick in the shin to help him get a grip. (or perhaps simply for the sake of kicking, one never knew with Kreacher, especially since Harry had upset ‘missy cissy’s’ son and thus the last proper remainder of the Black family line.)
The kick did manage to remind Harry of his plan of action, so with a decisive nod to himself (and Kreacher), Harry cast the Sonorus charm on himself, cleared his throat to check whether he could be heard loud and clear and once thus confirmed, pulled out the bottle of Amortentia that he had appropriated.
It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment that Malfoy caught sight of the familiar bottle, for his hand flinched to his wand — and was caught by Harry in turn.
“I swear I’m not doing anything stupid this time,” Harry said, voice carrying across the alley. Malfoy stared, and stared some more, but made no further move towards grabbing his wand. The pulse beneath Harry’s fingertips was racing, and he couldn’t help but smooth his thumb over Malfoy’s wrist to soothe him much as one would a startled cat.
And with one hand curled around Malfoy’s wrist and the other holding the bottle of Amortentia, Harry uncorked the potion bottle with a flick.
He took a deep sniff of it, smelling the sweet aroma of steamed apples and French perfume and the leather polish he knew Malfoy had been using since their 3rd Year.
“I like you, Draco Lucius Malfoy. And I was an utter idiot for not realizing it sooner and I’m sorry that my idiocy hurt you.” The crowd gasped as one, the wrist in his hold trembled.
Harry drank the bottle in two big gulps.
It tasted as heady as it smelled, a burst of hot-warm, joy on his tongue. Like drinking hot-chocolate on a cold winter day, the taste filled him. First his stomach and then his limbs, until he could feel it touch every single part of him. He sighed blissfully, enjoying the sensation for a moment. Any previous love-potions he had been forced to ingest had certainly never felt like this.
And with that thought sweetening his mind, he opened his eyes and looked at Malfoy. Really looked at him. At that pointy chin and that sharp nose, those stormy eyes and the pale lashes that looked so fetching against flushed cheeks. He took in Draco Malfoy, from top to bottom, and wished he had allowed himself to do so before, because Malfoy was that sort of person that was unfairly pretty in everything he did. Be it flushing in delight or anger, or throwing fists or cutting words or spells, or or or. He was fascinating. A bright light Harry had never been able to look away from, even in the darkest of times — or perhaps especially then.
“I’m really sorry, Malfoy. I did something unforgivable. You have every right to hate me for it — but please know, that I was speaking the truth, earlier. I like you, Malfoy. A lot.”
The hush over the crowd lifted to give way for a swell of whispers, everyone wanting to gossip to their neighbors but straining their ears to not miss a single word. Flashing lights prophesied the next day’s title page. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to feel annoyed by it, this once, they would be publishing the truth after all!
Malfoy had given up on tugging his wrist free. Instead, he stared at Harry with wide eyes, a rising flush in his cheeks — which was enough for Harry. He dropped the empty potion bottle, canceled the sonorous and reeled Malfoy in by his wrist.
Harry disapparated. The hustle and bustle of the crowded (and fairly shocked, he imagined) Diagon Alley, disappeared in favor of the quiet of Grimmauld Place.
“Potter.” Malfoy hissed, pulling away.
“Malfoy,” Harry said. “I am so, so, sorry about. I’m a complete and utter prat and you have every right to go and punch me in the face, but — before that, just — “ Harry fumbled for words. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know that you liked me. Or — or that I like you — “
Malfoy bristled, then flushed once again as he realized what Harry said.
“You — “
“Yeah,” Harry said. “It appears I should send Hopkins a fruit basket. Without his mishap I might never have realized that I like you — what with my thick scull and all that.”
Malfoy looked as if he swallowed a snort in favor of a frown. He tugged his wrist free from Harry’s hold.
“You humiliated me,” Malfoy said. “You tried to drug me.”
Harry swallowed. “I did, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry because you like me?”
“No,” Harry said quickly. “No — I mean, kind of — but I shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Even if I didn’t like you. It was wrong and cruel and selfish, and I’m really, really, sorry, Malfoy. I — you don’t have to forgive me. I understand if you don’t. But just, — I really am sorry for hurting you.”
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. Harry didn’t dare to squirm under his gaze, but found it nearly impossible not to.
“Fine.” Malfoy said. “You’re sorry. So what now?”
“What — what now?” Harry repeated dumbly.
“You go and force me to confess in front of the public, you go and confess in front of the public. The papers won’t ever shut up about this, Potter. What exactly, was your plan?”
Harry stared at him some more. “Uhm, to try and make up for being a dick and for letting everyone drag you name through the mud and — and, and …” Harry swallowed. “I don’t want to have a different partner, not when I could have you.” McCannon had it right, they were the best Auror unit in the service — and for the life of him, Harry couldn’t, didn’t want to, imagine coming to work without seeing Malfoy by his side every day.
Malfoy flushed in an instant, starting in his cheeks and spreading to the tip of his fine ears and neck. This time, it was Malfoy who reached out to grab hold of Harry’s wrist, reeling him in until they were standing chest to chest and Harry couldn’t hear anything but his own thundering heartbeat rushing through his ears.
He stared at Malfoy, who stared back, and suddenly those pink petal lips that Malfoy tended to purse at him, were on him, kissing him.
When Malfoy pulled back, Harry swayed after him as if tethered, wanting to never stop kissing him. Malfoy pressed a hand to his chest to keep him back, and Malfoy must have felt the racing heart under his palm, for he flushed more deeply.
“I accept, Potter.” Malfoy said.
Harry hadn’t the foggiest about what was being accepted, but was too blissfully happy to want to question it, so he simply took this as an excuse to lean in and steal another kiss, to press his lips against those swollen pink petals and taste them once more.
Malfoy smacked his shoulder.
“Ouch,” Harry complained as he pulled back.
“I wasn’t done speaking, Potter.” Malfoy declared.
Harry looked at him fondly, stomach tumbling all over itself once again. He really … really liked Malfoy. Him and his fussy behavior and pretty face and demanding attitude.
“Alright,” Harry said. “You accept. What do you accept?”
Malfoy frowned at him, “the request to be your partner.”
Oh. Oh.
McCannon could stuff himself, Harry decided. Forget the Auror corps, Harry would quit the service today if it meant he could have what Malfoy offered — what Malfoy thought that Harry had wished for, which he had, but hadn’t thought to actually dare to voice, because it hadn’t occurred to him that that was a possibility. Them, together. As partners. The thought sent a warm shiver down his back and made his fingertips tingle. Harry hadn’t thought much further ahead during his plan than: state his feelings in front of the public, apologize profusely to Malfoy, and hope for the best — primarily, that Malfoy would feel less hurt because of him and that he would take back his request for a different Auror unit partner.
“Yes,” Harry said hoarsely. “I — that, yes. Please.”
Malfoy’s face softened again. Evidently satisfied.
But Harry was not satisfied in the least, how could he be, with Malfoy finally in his arms but the entirety of him still so unknown to him even after years of observing.
“Can I — can I kiss you now?” Harry asked, because Malfoy had yet to remove his palm from Harry’s chest, effectively holding him in place.
“I don’t know, can you?” Malfoy asked.
Harry groaned, grabbed that hand on his chest with his own hand and leaned in to kiss the Malfoy heir once more. He slipped his fingers between Malfoy’s, rubbing the soft palm with his thumb. A cut off noise escaped Malfoy, nothing more than a quick inhale, but it was enough to set Harry aflame.
Later, Harry couldn’t recall how they had lost a good chunk of their clothing or how they had made their way to his bedroom, but he distinctly remembered the heat of Malfoy’s lips against his and the heady happiness thrumming through his entire body, as if he had been dunked in a love potion.
Of course, it was then that he made a most delightful discovery.
“HA!” Harry said full of glee. “I knew it! You do wear panties.”
Malfoy turned his nose high into the air, sniffing like the posh bastard that he was. “They are comfortable. Sue me.”
Harry rubbed a line along the lace edging, watching Malfoy’s pale skin peak through the sheer fabric. “Comfortable,” Harry agreed. “They sure look the part.” He nudged the growing prick through the lace, the tip of it poking out of the panties as it hardened.
“And pretty.” Harry added. “Do you like looking pretty, Malfoy?” Malfoy’s prick twitched against his finger. “Or do you just like the feel of it? The lace rubbing against you? Or do you just like knowing that you’re wearing this, hidden under your robes, without anyone knowing?” Malfoy’s breath hitched as Harry pressed against his prick again, rubbing up and down the hard line of flesh hidden under the lace. “Were you hoping I would notice while you’re taking a piss? Bend you over and pull your pretty panties down, right then and there?”
“You clearly like it.”
“Hearsay,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his cheek against Malfoy’s shoulder. “I plead the fifth.”
“You’re British.”
“You’re way too stuck on the details, Malfoy.”
Malfoy huffed.
“I have a given name, you know, my mother fought very hard for the right to choose it for me.”
Harry blinked at him. “Draco,” he said, eventually. It tasted strange on his tongue, a bit like steamed apples and French perfume and pale skin flushing under him.
Draco’s face flushed, from the tips of his ears to his chest, dipping even his nose into a pretty pink that made Harry’s stomach tumble until he had to hold his breath because he thought he might say or do something utterly embarrassing if he did not.
Of course that was when Malfoy decided to bury his flushed face against Harry’s shoulder, which tilted his hips just so, and rubbed that hard bulge in his pretty panties against Harry’s leg — and really, who wouldn’t take an invitation like that.
Once they had calmed, and Harry had rubbed and kissed every flushed part of Malfoy’s body. Harry nudged him with his nose.
“I really do like it though. Your pretty panties and that damned perfume you keep using.”
Draco made a pleased noise in the back of his throat, “Good.”
The next morning, Harry sent Trainee Hopkins a fruit basket as a thank you for dropping the Potion bottle. (behind Malfoy’s back, of course)
THE END.