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For something Harry had never heard of before he had joined the Wizarding World, he really hated Beltane. Mind you, story of his life, really. There was a lot about being a wizard to love. There was. It’s just that there were the other things, as well.
God knew he’d hated the Dursleys with all the fire in his ten-year-old heart, but they couldn’t compare to Voldemort. And Christmas, locked in a cupboard while the Dursleys ate food he wouldn’t be allowed to have and exchanged gifts he also wouldn’t be allowed to have, didn’t compare to being trotted out like a bloody show pony for some obscure hippy ritual every year.
He probably wouldn’t hate it as much if he was allowed to just be part of the day, mucking about with ribbons on the Maypole, making bondage jokes with Ron and Dean, and getting smacked upside the head for them by Hermione, getting rat-arsed on cider, and maybe having some commitment-free sex, but no. By fudging the date a little, the Ministry managed to turn a beginning-of-summer festival into a celebration of not being ruled by a fascist dictator. Not that it wasn’t worth celebrating, of course, but eight years after the fact, it was starting to feel like more of a political statement, with Harry as the gormless PR prop for Peregrine Kettletoft, the new Minister since Kingsley retired.
Every year, every damn year, Harry was asked to make a speech at the blasted Beltane celebrations (and could he please make sure to mention Kettletoft’s involvement in bringing about the happy turn of events, which was hilarious, because he hadn’t had any involvement that Harry knew of). And every year after the first time, Harry turned them down, and every year, someone showed up to break out the emotional blackmail. At least it wasn’t the Minister himself, who reminded Harry uncomfortably of a cross between Scrimgeour and Percy Weasley. So every year he pulled on his formal robes (which were getting a bit small, but he only wore them to weddings, funerals and Beltane so he couldn’t be bothered replacing them) and joined the Beltane festivities, as a member of the official delegation. (Everyone else referred to them as the official party, but Harry couldn’t think of a less appropriate term for such a bunch of long faces and wet rags.)
This year, the first of May dawned bright and clear. Harry pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, and grabbed a woolly jumper because they could call it the beginning of summer all they liked, it was still bloody cold, put his formal robes in a bag and Apparated to the site. He didn’t actually need to be there till two o’clock, but for all he loathed the whole big pantomime and pretty much everyone on the official delegation, some of the people actually organizing it were people he knew and liked, and he wasn’t going to make their lives harder, especially after the mess with herding the cattle between fires last year.
Padma was there already, as he’d expected, rushing around with a clipboard. She was wearing jeans with big boots and an oversized jersey, but her hair was all twisty and mysterious, and a brooch-like thing hung over her forehead, little beaded strands holding it from her hair, jewels catching the morning light.
“Hi Harry!” she said, coming over to give him a kiss on the cheek. “You’re here early!”
“I figured after last year, I’d give you one less thing to worry about,” he said.
Her smile made it worth the effort, and it would honestly just be nice to be doing something useful for the day, rather than standing about like a lemon.
“I like the…” He waved his hand around his forehead. “Sparkly thing. It looks nice.”
“Eloquent as ever, I see,” she teased.
“Yes, exactly. Absolutely. So if you could just see a way to getting me out of doing the damn speeches…”
“Sorry, Harry, not my department,” she said. “I’m looking forward to your speech this afternoon, though.”
“Looking forward to me making a tit of myself, you mean,” he answered, stepping back as a memo flew neatly between them to unfold directly in front of her.
“Yes, Harry,” she said, “that is exactly what I mean.” Then, apparently to the memo, or at least the person who wrote it, “Oh for goodness sakes, what part of ‘twenty large tables to the site at 11am’ was not clear? And why are you only asking about it at ten to eleven on the day? What is wrong with you?”
“So I’ll just… go over there,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of where three wizards were attempting to erect the maypole, and getting faces full of loose flying ribbon for their troubles, “And try not to break anything.”
“Yes, great, cheers Harry,” she said, turning the memo over and scribbling something down on the back of it.
The wizard supervising the maypole erection (a phrase which, even after eight years, never failed to make Harry snigger to himself), had been working the Beltane event for years, and greeted Harry with a nod and a handshake. The other two wizards were new, and immediately dropped the maypole to fall all over themselves to thank him and shake his hand.
“Still haven’t cottoned on, then?” Harry asked Balthazar quietly, jerking his head towards the two lads still failing to pass the test they didn’t seem to realise they were being given.
“Gurt vools,” Balthazar said, shaking his head sadly. Harry had never quite worked out exactly what it meant, but gathered it wasn’t complimentary. The ones who Balthazar categorised as such never lasted long in the job.
“Time to intervene?” Harry asked when Balthazar took out his pocket watch and sighed over it.
“Ay.” Balthazar was a man of few words, which was a thing Harry had learned to appreciate over the years.
“’Scuse me,” Harry said, and elbowed the two inept wizards out of the way. He detached the wheel to which the ribbons were attached, and he and Balthazar spelled the pole to standing, then floated the wheel to the top, where Balthazar affixed it with a charm.
Harry got no more than a nod in thanks, which suited him fine.
The rest of the morning passed quickly, and he ate lunch with everyone else, sandwiches, scotch eggs, sausage rolls, some salad he didn’t eat, absolutely nothing fancy. Padma, bless her, made sure he got plenty, because the Official Dinner for the Official Delegation was going to be all fancy this with jus of that, and mostly unidentifiable. No one had ever managed to explain to his satisfaction what a jus was, and he didn’t trust it an inch.
As the starting time approached, so did a bank of fluffy clouds. They didn’t look all that threatening, but if they blocked the sun the temperature would drop enough to need warming charms all around. He could see Padma scowling at them, but he knew she’d put up as many weather charms as she was legally allowed to in a public place.
Harry took his formal robes behind the tree line and changed into them. The neck was tight, the cuffs felt like binding, and there wasn’t enough room in the shoulders. He felt like he was trapped in them. Maybe he should get himself a new set.
The fires were lit as the first few people started arriving, and Harry was herded obediently to the area cordoned off for the Official Delegation. There was a table laid out with rings of flowers, and when he wandered over he realised each one had a name tag. With a sense of dread he looked, hoping there wasn’t one for him. Of course he wasn’t that lucky.
He had no idea what his was made of, apart from that there was a lot of yellow, and he was pretty sure the little purple ones were violets. He was squinting at the table, trying to work out if there was any way he could knock it over and make it look like an accident, when one of Padma’s team, some chap he didn’t know bounded over.
“I see you’ve found the flower crowns, Mister Potter!” the man said, his light brown hair as bouncy as the rest of him. Just his sheer enthusiasm made Harry feel tired.
“So I have,” Harry replied, trying not to sound like a complete grumpy arse, and probably failing, if the way the man wilted slightly was anything to go by.
Still, Curly was apparently not one to be kept down for long. “Here’s yours!” He said, with even more cheer than before. Harry wondered if he was cheering himself up with the notion of just how much of a tit Harry was going to look with a ring of bloody flowers on his head.
“Right. Yes. Jolly good.”
“It’s chrysanthemums for protection, rudbeckia for justice, violets for faithfulness and modesty, all woven together with agrimony for thankfulness,” Curly said earnestly. “Ours, of course. To you, I mean.”
“Um, right,” Harry said, because what the bloody hell else could he say to that? “Thanks.”
“I’ll just,” Curly said, and plopped the damn thing right on Harry’s head. Harry had Curly’s wrist in a bone-grinding grip before he could get his wand half-way out of its holder.
Both of them stood frozen like that.
“Um,” Curly said.
“You really don’t want to pull your wand without warning like that.”
“Um, no. No I see that. Can you please let go of my arm now?”
Harry hadn’t even realised he was still holding Curly’s arm. “Right, sorry. Yeah, sorry.” He let go like he was holding a hot potato.
Curly’s smile was a little tight around the edges, but still bright. “So, I was just going to use a little charm to keep it on your head, otherwise it might fall off!”
“Can’t be having that,” Harry said, and tried to keep the wistful tone out of his voice.
“Exactly! Do you mind?” Curly asked, pulling his wand from its holder very slowly and in full view.
Harry stifled a sigh. It wasn’t this poor bastard’s fault that it was his job to be excited about flower hats. “Go for it.”
Curly cast a quick charm. “There, all done! Very smart! A quick finite will take it off, no problem.”
“That’s great, thanks.”
Curly took off with a quick, “You’re welcome!” Presumably off to molest the next Official Delegate.
The Minister wasn’t there yet, but that just meant there was no one else to bear any of the brunt of the keeners who’d shown up early to maximise their schmoozing time.
Outside the Official Delegation pen, people were having actual fun. There were picnics being set up, small kids running around shrieking at each other in the way that he’d learnt meant they were having fun, kept from the bonfires by strong warding charms. There was a pen, much like the Official Delegation pen, with a small group of animals (much, Harry couldn’t help but think, like the Official Delegation pen), single representatives of several domesticated species of herd animals. Nowhere near enough in number to cause the kind of damage that happened the year before. Harry wasn’t sure who thought that crowds of people, herds of animals, and huge fires were a winning combination, but apparently it was traditional.
Eventually the Minister arrived, and after doing some glad-handing with Harry, so that the press could get photographic evidence of how ‘in’ he was with Harry-Potter-the-Boy-Who-Lived (to be The-Man-With-No-Life), he dominated attention, and Harry was finally off the hook for a while.
Hermione, Ron, Luna, Dean and Seamus were setting up as near as they could get to one side of the pen. Harry drifted casually, he hoped, towards them.
“Mate,” Ron said, a world of sympathy in his voice as he eyed Harry’s flowers.
Glumly, Harry replied, “I know.”
“I think it looks lovely, Harry,” Luna said. “Although yellow’s not really your colour.”
“Thanks, Luna.” Harry still had no idea what to say to half the stuff Luna came out with, but he was damned if he’d be an arse about it.
Being a good friend and general hooligan, Seamus slipped a hip flask from somewhere in his robes, and passed it up to Harry.
“Don’t you dare,” Padma snapped, coming out of nowhere to snatch it from his grasp. She threw herself down on the blanket and took an unhealthily large swig from the flask.
“What the hell?” Seamus demanded while she spluttered and wiped her eyes very carefully around the dark eyeliner she was wearing.
“Is everything all right?” Hermione asked her, taking the flask from her and putting it in her own bag.
“Oi!” Seamus objected before subsiding beneath Hermione’s best sphinx face.
“You know the rules, Flanagan,” she said. “If you can’t keep it hidden discreetly, you can’t keep it. This is a family event until after seven.”
Padma sat up, and carefully straightened her dress-possibly-a-sari, Gryffindor red for Parvati, just like every Beltane. Her flowers were red as well, except for a few white ones. “I don’t understand what’s so funny about the flower crowns,” she said, looking genuinely upset. “Jasmyn and Gretchen were the ones who suggested it in the first place, and now they keep looking at everyone and laughing.”
“Kids today, eh?” Dean said, drawing attention away from where Seamus was surreptitiously tucking something into his pocket.
“Oh look!” Luna said. “It’s Draco. I didn’t realise he was going to be back so soon.”
There was a mix of reactions from, “So it is,” to, “What the hell is he doing here,” to, “Shit, I’d almost forgotten all about him.”
It took Harry a minute to spot him, but it was definitely Malfoy. The years had been kind to him – he carried himself with a sense of ease, not the desperate cockiness of his youth, but a sense of comfort in his own skin. Harry actually envied him that a little. He was being offered a flower hat, to his apparent amusement. Whatever the joke was, he seemed to be in on it, and took it in his stride, selecting a ring that was mostly blue flowers, with a few spots of white.
“He’s got a nerve, showing his face around here,” Seamus growled, looking around for support. “Oh come on, Harry. You were always convinced he was up to something. Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind now?”
“Well he usually was,” Harry replied. He looked over again to where Draco was now shaking hands with an older couple Harry didn’t recognise. “He doesn’t seem to be now, and he’s as much right to be here as anyone else.”
Luna smiled up at him. He never could work out what was going on in her head, but he was pretty certain that whatever it was was beyond him, and that she was probably right.
“Luna?” Seamus asked. “They kept you in his house, are you really going to just let him-“ he broke off in frustration.
“It’s a lovely house,” Luna said. “I always thought it was a shame they turned it into a prison.”
“Seamus, relax,” Hermione said. “You know he was pardoned, and it’s been a long time. We’ll keep an eye on him, but there’s no reason to suspect anything amiss. I know you never liked him – who did? But there’s no reason to ruin the day over it.”
Seamus scowled, but shoved half a sandwich in his mouth, and Harry suddenly realised what had been bothering him about what Luna said.
“Luna, what did you mean, you didn’t realise he was going to be back so soon?”
“Oh, well I knew he was planning to come back, just not that it would be just yet, is all.”
“How did you know that?” Ron asked, braced like he expected the answer to be, ‘The nargles told me’ or possibly, ‘Astral projection’.
“Of course I knew, we’ve been writing to each other for years,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Seamus made a noise of protest through his mouthful of sandwich, and Luna turned to look at him disapprovingly. “He was as much a prisoner in that house as I was, Seamus, and I won’t hear otherwise, so you just eat your sandwich.”
“That’s you told, mate,” Dean said, and threw a strawberry to Harry. Then, “Uh oh.”
“Harry! There you are!” the Minister said, clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Damn. “Do come over here, there’s someone I want you to meet.” There always was.
“Of course, sir,” Harry said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster which, to be honest, wasn’t a lot. “See you later, guys.”
The rest of the afternoon was a hazy blur of smarmy suck-up speeches, and his wasn’t going to be any better, and he kind of hated himself and everyone else. He didn’t want anyone to forget – not the damage Voldemort did, or the way the world created him, but this circus wasn’t about remembering anyway, not really. It was just another platform for Scrimgeour’s ilk, and one day, one day Harry was going to take the podium they gave him and tear them all down. One day when he wasn’t quite so tired.
The Official Delegation Dinner was about as much fun as he’d expected. He caught Ron’s eye for a moment as Ron carried a pile of food back to the blanket – sausages cooked over one of the bonfires from the looks of it. He looked down at his own plate of salad and something that could be vegetable or fish, or somewhere in between, and sighed.
It was early for dinner, about five o’clock, scheduled for families to feed their kids and leave by dark, when the more… adult activities usually started. From what Harry heard, anyway. The Wizarding press really liked to put the Public in Public Relations, so there was no chance of him sloping off to quietly get some in the usual course of the evening.
Over the shrieks and yells of kids having a great time, the band that had started up around four, and the general hubbub of hundreds of people and some livestock in a field he heard a deep roll that sounded like thunder. It seemed out of place in the bright day until he looked south to where the bank of fluffy clouds had turned dark and threatening.
He glanced guiltily over at Padma, who was nodding and smiling at some over-fed big-wig’s under-fed wife, while he hoped that it would rain hard enough that his speech would be called off. Sadly, he’d seen the charms being put in place and, while they were limited by what was allowable in a public space that Muggles could possibly wander into, it would still take a hell of a downpour to get through enough to really mess up the evening.
There was an old saying about being careful what you wished for.
The next roll of thunder was loud enough that everyone else noticed as well, because it was that much closer. Even in the sun the temperature dropped sharply, and it was only a couple of minutes before a flash of lightning briefly split the clouds. The boom was almost instant and so deep Harry could almost feel it in his ribcage.
The rain came minutes later, cold and hard, even though the black clouds hadn’t yet blocked the warm sunlight. The weather charms absorbed the worst of it, but couldn’t hold it all back. There was no pause between the next lightning and thunder - the storm was on top of them, and all over the field people started scurrying about, packing up picnics, and blankets, and whatever they’d brought with them.
Then the hail started. It was just small pellets at first, but it quickly became lumps of ice hurtling from the sky. All around him people were casting hurried shielding charms, small children were crying in terror. Everyone was totally distracted, and Harry had always been one to seize an opportunity.
There were a few copses and spinneys of trees about the place, and Harry dashed for one, hoping no one would see him go, and wishing for his old cloak. It wasn’t likely that no one else would think to seek actual shelter, but as long as he wasn’t sharing space with Ministry big-wigs and the people they wanted to impress, he wouldn’t complain.
You always had to be careful what you wished for.
There was some low-lying brush beneath the trees, enough to trip him as he reached the shelter of the tree line. He had time to think, ‘Dammit,’ as he tripped, knowing he was about to get a faceful of something and hoping it wouldn’t be brambles or nettles. He wasn’t expecting the full-body catch and lift of a levitation spell.
He was set down gently on the ground and cast a quick charm to clear the rain and fog from his glasses before turning to thank his saviour, who was lounging against a tree trunk, wand in hand and smirk firmly on face.
“Still the epitome of grace and elegance, I see, Potter,” Draco Malfoy drawled.
The words were similar enough to their school days to set Harry’s teeth on edge, but there was an edge of malice lacking in the tone, so Harry just sighed. “I suppose I should have known it would be you,” he said.
“It does seem rather inevitable, now that I consider it, but I was genuinely not expecting to be personally graced with your company today.”
There was still nothing nasty in the tone, but the way Malfoy’s lips kept twisting like he was trying not to laugh sent him straight back to his teenage years, and his jaw and fist both clenched in desire to punch Malfoy in the face.
He was also apparently not very good at keeping it a secret. Malfoy dropped the smirk and instead eyed him warily.
“What’s the matter with you, Potter?”
“I don’t know what’s so funny,” Harry said in his best, calm, ‘being an adult’ voice, “but I’d really appreciate it if you could stop laughing at me. Or at least let me in on the joke, yeah?”
The flash of pity on Malfoy’s face was almost worse.
“Well it’s just,” Malfoy said, and waved a hand towards Harry’s face. “Saint Potter in a flower crown. You do know it’s only funny if you do it ironically.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy.” To be fair, he had sort of forgotten about the flower hat, although Malfoy had got rid of his at some point. It was soggy now and felt limp, much like the rest of him, and it wouldn’t come off his head when he tugged. It took him a moment to remember Curly’s charm, and to cast a quiet finite on it. He hoped like hell Malfoy hadn’t noticed, and tried not to be embarrassed that, despite being a wizard since he was eleven, magic didn’t always come naturally to him.
If Malfoy did notice, he had the decency to pretend otherwise.
“It’s a meme, Potter,” he explained. “It’s a muggle thing - a running joke. People contest with each other to see how far they can take it. This is pretty spectacular, I must say. The only thing more ironic than you in a flower crown would be You-Know-Who in a flower crown, and while that sort of thing’s fine on the internet, no one wants him alive even long enough to stick a flower crown on.”
Harry could feel himself staring dumbly, and didn’t know how to stop.
“Carnations, I think,” Malfoy continued, apparently to himself. “And roses. All in pink and white.”
“Malfoy, have you been smoking something medicinal? And if so, can I have some?” Maybe then the conversation would make some kind of sense.
Malfoy actually laughed, and it was such a strange feeling, to be sharing a joke with him that didn’t hurt anyone.
“Sadly, no. I’m not sure enough of my reception yet to risk a public outing whilst chemically compromised,” Malfoy said, but there was something shifty about the way he said it, and somehow, unexpectedly, there was a flow, a back and forth that had Harry folding his arms, flower crown still in one hand, and scowling back at Malfoy, saying, “Don’t think I can’t still tell when you’re up to something, Malfoy. You’re holding out on me.”
Malfoy glanced out from the cover of their copse, where the hail had let up, but the rain was still torrential. A few stragglers were still fleeing, blankets and charms over the heads in vain attempts to hold off the deluge.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Potter, why don’t you piss off back to your friends?” It was a lofty dismissal, but the slight curl at the corners of his mouth made Harry less inclined to take it seriously.
“OK fine, be a selfish git,” Harry said. “See if I care. But aside from the fact that it’s still tipping it down, I have managed to escape the clutches of the Minister and his toadies, and I’m buggered if I’m turning myself back in now.”
“Well I’m not going anywhere.” Malfoy crossed his arms.
Harry rolled his eyes in return. “Given that we’ve managed to be in the same space for several minutes without hexing or punching other, we could probably manage to do it for a bit longer, don’t you think?”
Malfoy opened his eyes wide and gave a dramatic gasp. “Goodness Potter, that’s pushing the boat out a bit, don’t you think?”
Harry laughed. It was startling and a bit worrying, actually, how unfamiliar it sounded in his ears. “Honestly,” he continued, “I don’t mind sharing, so long as you don’t want me to make a speech or to tell me about your spoiled brat grandchildren and your rare orchid collection.”
Harry had no idea whether Malfoy had mellowed over the years, or if Harry had just never been on the receiving end of the softer side of his sense of humour, but his whole face lit up with genuine amusement.
“Well, I haven’t any grandchildren, spoiled brats or otherwise, and I killed the only orchid I was ever allowed anywhere near, so we’re probably safe. I might ask you about my cousin though, if that’s alright?”
“Teddy? Yeah, of course,” Harry said, as he relaxed into his first real smile in hours. “He’s brilliant.”
“All right then, I suppose you can stay,” Malfoy said. “Why don’t you dry yourself off?”
Harry undid the buttons on his robes and peeled them off, then threw a couple of drying charms at his jeans and shirt, then two more at his shoes, which were unpleasantly squelchy. When he looked up, Malfoy was eyeing his robes with disfavour.
“Potter, did those things shrink in the wet, or are you actually wearing robes two sizes too small?”
“Oh, Merlin,” Harry sighs, “I need a couple of drinks before we start on how I should take more care about looking nice, et cetera, et cetera.”
“You’ve heard that one before, I take it?” Malfoy said, looking around on the ground for something.
“Only every time I wear them.”
“Which is how often?”
“Weddings, funerals, and Beltane,” Harry said. “Luckily there are fewer funerals these days. On the other hand, I suspect christenings are going to start being a problem fairly soon.”
Malfoy made a non-committal sort of hum, then said, “Potter, I want you to understand that I am doing you a favour – this is tough love.”
“What?” Harry got out, before Malfoy waved his wand in Harry’s direction, and his robes – suddenly dry – expanded in his arms until he had to drop them.
“What?” Harry said again, staring at the sofa on the ground amongst the undergrowth, navy blue with gold piping, just like his robes. “You- Those were my robes!”
Malfoy sprawled across one half of the sofa. “They were a crime, Potter. You know you need new ones, I’ve just taken away your excuse not to do it. Now stop scowling, we’ve got more than enough thunderclouds already.”
“But those were my robes.”
“Oh, stop whining, sit down and have a drink.”
Harry looked at Malfoy, who looked back, totally without remorse.
“I don’t have a drink. I wish I did, it would make this whole thing a lot more bearable.”
Malfoy looked sly as he reached into a pocket tucked inside his robes. Given that he’d already pointed his wand directly at Harry and cast only harmless charms (leaving aside the transfigurative ruin of his robes) it was stupid to tense up. He did it anyway.
And then he felt really stupid, because Malfoy just pulled out a worn and slightly battered looking hip flask, which he waggled at Harry.
Harry shut up and sat down, and looked at Malfoy hopefully.
He didn’t drink a lot usually. A few beers out with friends, the odd glass of firewhisky in the evening. Beltane just really, really made him want to get very drunk. And if you couldn’t want to get pissed on the anniversary of your death, when could you want to get pissed?
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting in flask, and he probably should have asked, but he was surprised by the warm sweet burst of flavour. It was thicker than firewhisky, and had none of the explosive burn. A second drink let him taste honey, and something that tasted a bit like Christmas smelled.
“What is it?”
“Now you ask. Honestly Potter,” Malfoy chided. “I’d forgotten your complete lack of self-preservation instinct. It’s spiced mead. Now pass it back.”
Harry did, and once Malfoy had had a drink as well, he asked, “So what, is it made by centaurs on a mythical island, or something?”
Malfoy’s expression was amused and slightly embarrassed. “Actually, I picked it up from a muggle brewer not far from Swindon.” He chuckled a bit at whatever Harry’s expression was. “Never buy alcohol from centaurs, Potter, it tastes like horse piss.”
It was surprisingly companionable, sitting with Malfoy, passing the flask back and forth and watching the rest of the world from the safety of the treeline. They talked about Teddy, because it was an easy place to start – Harry loved the kid to bits and, whatever he might have thought eight years ago, Malfoy was expressing nothing but interest and a desire to get to know a member of his family. He asked after Andromeda, then the Weasleys, and however hard Harry listened for it, there was no disdain in his voice. So Harry asked about Malfoy’s mum, though he couldn’t bring himself to politely ask after Lucius Malfoy, who could continue to rot in Azkaban forever, for Harry’s money. But they steered around that particular rock in the road by unspoken agreement, and Malfoy ended up telling Harry about years between Hogwarts and now.
“Durmstrang was amazing – totally different from Hogwarts. Aside from anything else, they didn’t stick a quarter of their students in the ‘evil’ House, let alone act surprised and disappointed when the students behave the way they were expected to. Revelatory,” he said, throwing his hands up. Harry hadn’t even known it was possible to be sarcastic with your hands.
“I thought Durmstrang was full of-“ Harry broke off, brain catching up with mouth. Criticising the school Malfoy was praising wasn’t going to do anything for the easy back and forth they were enjoying.
“Full of Dark wizards and witches, just champing at the bit to take over the world at the least opportunity?” Malfoy suggested. On the bad side, he clearly knew exactly what Harry was thinking; on the good side, he seemed more amused than offended by it.
“I suppose,” Harry answered, a bit reluctantly. He was relaxing so much that it was becoming obvious how wound up he’d been getting, waiting for Beltane, and he really didn’t want to muck it up now.
Malfoy just shook his head sadly. “Ahh, Potter. British nationalism at its finest, I’m afraid.”
Harry must have looked as confused as he felt, because Malfoy continued.
“Loudly reminding everyone about Grindelwald, and wasn’t he east European, gosh aren’t they a bunch of bad eggs, and hope everyone forgets that the last Dark Lord, the one who came after him, was as British as they come. They’re actually terribly nice people, as a whole. And far better at interacting with muggles. It was quite eye-opening.”
“Oh,” was all Harry said, but it felt in his head like something he would have to think about, like he might have to rearrange his worldview to make room for that knowledge in his head. But right now he was warm and dry and comfortably sozzled, and Draco was a solid presence along his side, so it would have to wait for later.
“So you decided to stay there?”
“Well, why not?” Malfoy asked. “I may have been acquitted - I don’t think I ever said thanks for that, by the way - but there was no one in the country who’d give me a job I’d want to have. And then I got an apprenticeship with a potions company in Estonia for a year that turned into a real job. I’m actually studying to become a Potions Master.”
“That’s brilliant,” Harry said. The conversation paused while Harry tried to decide if he should actually ask what he was wondering, before deciding he may as well. “I just- I mean, it sounds fantastic, and you probably travel a lot and, I guess I just can’t work out why you’d come back here.”
Malfoy took the flask away from Harry, and it was only then that Harry realised he’d been hogging it a bit. Malfoy took two long drinks – how much booze could it fit, anyway? – before he answered.
“I realised I was avoiding it. It wasn’t just that I was enjoying myself where I was, I was actively avoiding coming home, and I couldn’t let myself do that, so here I am.” Malfoy took another drink. “At least no one’s spat at me in the street yet, so it’s going better than I thought it might.”
It was sort of funny, Harry thought, that of the two of them, Malfoy was turning out to be the braver.
“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, you know,” he said.
Draco actually seemed a bit stunned, and Harry took advantage to steal the flask away. “I- Thank you, Potter. I appreciate that. But you’re not quite right. I have to prove it to myself, that I can come here and still be the person I made myself, and not who I was.” Draco laughed a little at that, and Harry realised that he was a bit sloshed, too, the usual crisp tone of his words starting to blur just slightly. “It’s a bit stupid, I suppose, but as much as I worry about being shunned and hounded back out of the country, I’m scared that the person I’ve become is just a pretty bit of make-believe, and it’ll all fall away back in the real world.”
“So, you decided that a public outing at a major event was the way to start?”
“Do or die, Potter. No way out but through. I should think it would appeal to your Gryffindor tendencies.”
“I think maybe those were a, what did you say? A pretty bit of make-believe,” he said, and what was wrong with him, that he couldn’t say this to Ron or Hermione, or even Luna with her warm acceptance and gentle smile, but he could sit on a sofa in a thunderstorm and say it to someone he’d spent seven years violently at odds with?
Draco quirked an eyebrow at him. How did he do that? Whenever Harry tried, both eyebrows went up and he just looked surprised. “You’re rather the quintessential Gryffindor, Potter.”
Harry stared at the ground, last year’s fallen leaves and the delicate shoots of new things growing. He wanted to say it, but he couldn’t meet Draco’s eyes while he did.
“I hate Beltane.” It felt good to get it out, to say the words, so he said it again, more certain this time. “I hate it. I try to get out of it every year, but they make me.” Having started, he couldn’t stop. The words came out, more brutally honest than they’d been even in his own head. “Or I let them make me. They try to make out like it’s honouring the people who died and celebrating that we won, but it’s a joke. All anyone wants to talk about is the bright new future we’re supposedly building that looks a lot like the same old future we always had, minus the threat of a violent dictator, and no one talks about how the Great Hall was full of corpses, and they sure as hell don’t want to talk about a seventeen year old boy being sent out to die so that everyone else didn’t have to.”
Draco was silent, and Harry still couldn’t bring himself to look up from where a woodlouse was working its way along leaf.
“I thought,” Draco said. “They said you didn’t actually die?” It was a question, not a challenge, tentative, and Harry let out a sigh that seemed to take months of stress and anger with it, leaving him feeling wrung out, like it had been all that was holding him up.
He sat back against the soft back of the sofa, head tilted back to see the rain trickling down around the shielding charm he hadn’t even realised that Draco must have cast within the copse. “Felt like it,” he said. “And I walked out into the Forest thinking I wasn’t coming back, so.”
“I always thought it was some sort of trick,” Draco said softly.
Harry laughed a little, toying with the flask, running his thumb along the worn edges. “It was. But it was on me as much as it was on Voldemort - oh come on,” he said, as Draco flinched at the name.
“He lived in my house, Potter, I’ll flinch if I want to.”
That made Harry meet Draco’s eyes. The moment hung between them, then Harry said, “Fair enough,” and handed him the flask.
Harry couldn’t help staring at the long line of Draco’s throat as he drank, the angle of his adam’s apple. There was a mole just below Draco’s ear that he’d never noticed before.
“How have we not managed to empty that, anyway?” Harry asked, partly just to distract from his own thoughts.
It backfired when Draco flopped back against back of the sofa and turned his head to face Harry. They were suddenly very close. Draco opened his eyes dramatically wide and whispered, “Magic.”
Harry had had quite a bit to drink, and lunch had been a long time ago. That was what he told himself when the next words out of his mouth were, “I never even get a chance to get laid at these things.”
Draco went very still, and Harry winced, trying desperately to think of way to take it back, turn it into a joke and not let it ruin what was turning into a really nice afternoon.
“Harry Potter,” Draco said, sitting up very straight, and enunciating very clearly in that way that quite tipsy often did. “Are you flirting with me?”
A tiny objective part of his brain cringed in embarrassment as he stammered and stuttered and failed to answer, positively or negatively.
“I always assumed,” Draco continued, “from the rather enthusiastic and public displays of affection with Ms Weasley back in the day, that you were straight.”
It was a statement, but the slight uptilt at the end made it enough of a question that Harry put his hands over his face and muttered, “Bi.”
“Huh,” Draco said, considering. “Well, I must admit, I can’t think of a better representation of new beginnings, can you?”
Harry took his hands off his face and turned to stare at Draco, who continued, “I don’t know if I fancy sleeping with you - I expect to be bought dinner first, at the very least, and I’m damned if I’ll have my arse hanging out in the woods – but…” The sharp, calculating look in his eyes was familiar, but the heat as he looked at Harry’s mouth was entirely new, and it made something in Harry’s belly feel warm and tight with anticipation.
“But…?” Harry prompted, feeling hopeful for the first time in, God, he didn’t even know how long.
Draco smirked, and for once Harry didn’t want to punch his mouth. Instead he wanted to know the taste of it against his own, and he realised he was leaning forward.
“But,” Draco said, “I could probably be persuaded into making out in a thunderstorm on Beltane.” His eyelids drooped, and he should have looked a bit ridiculous, but he really didn’t. “If you were of a mind to be persuasive.”
“How persuasive would I need to be?” Harry asked, even though it was pretty obvious, even to him, that at this point the answer was, ‘Not very’.
Draco rolled his eyes though, and said, snide as he could, “Well, Potter, I would recommend starting with putting your mouth on- hmph!”
As kisses went, it wasn’t Harry’s best work, but for all that Harry knew he was attracted to blokes, he’d never actually got to the point of doing anything about it. So of course the first bloke he did kiss was Draco Malfoy, because he just never could do things the easy way. Surprising Draco mid-sentence probably wasn’t helping him either, but taking him by surprise was well worth it.
After an uncomfortably awkward couple of moments, Draco laughed against his mouth, which was something new, and surprisingly charming, and then leaned in to meet Harry half-way. From there it got good - really good. Malfoy’s mouth was firmer than any of the girls he’d kissed, and there was an extra thrill to the light scratch of stubble against his lips.
Draco brought his hand up to cradle Harry’s face and it was- Harry had never in his life thought about kissing Draco Malfoy, but if he had he wouldn’t have expected it to be gentle. He licked Draco’s lower lip, and then caught it very lightly between his teeth. The noise Draco made was extremely rewarding, as was the way it escalated everything. Draco pushed his hand back into Harry’s hair and held him, while his tongue pushed into Harry’s mouth. It was slick and sensual and everything Harry had been missing for a long time, for one reason and another, and it was so good to just let it happen.
Of course, letting it happen was maybe putting it too strongly. They’d spent too many years competing for Harry to not push back. He stroked his tongue against Draco’s, and trailed his fingers up his neck, eliciting a satisfying gasp against his mouth. When they broke apart for breath, they were both grinning. Draco had a light of challenge in his eyes, and Harry suspected he did too.
Harry licked his lips, slow and deliberate. The way Draco’s eyes followed the movement was pretty gratifying.
“I should have known you’d play dirty, Potter.”
Harry grinned back, the tightness in his chest now anticipation rather than anxiety, and a warmth in his belly. He felt oddly light. “Only for you, Malfoy.”
Draco was laughing as he leaned back in and licked Harry’s mouth, exactly as Harry just had.
Harry never could turn down a dare.
Perhaps he was a little out of practice, but Draco didn’t seem to mind, if the sounds he was making were any indication. Draco’s hands went back to his hair, stroking and tugging, and Harry may have made some sounds of his own.
Not one to be idle, Harry put his hands on Draco’s face, fingertips stroking his cheekbones, running his thumb over the sharp point of Draco’s chin. He took a mental note of Draco’s gasp when he ran his fingers lightly over the shell of his ear, to remember for later, when his mouth was less busy with Draco’s tongue.
When they started to get breathless Draco pulled back a little way. Eyes bright, lips red and wet and smiling, he nodded once, like he was conceding a point, then leaned in to scrape his teeth gently over the hinge of Harry’s jaw.
He’d never been with anyone who bit before. He liked it.
Draco’s attention to Harry’s neck gave Harry the perfect opening, and he carefully licked around the rim of Draco’s ear. One girl had been horrified when he’d done that to her – had pulled back, rubbing her ear and grimacing, and he hadn’t seen her again after that. Draco huffed like his breath had gone from his lungs and pressed closer, hands moving to clutch at the front of Harry’s shirt. Sucking his earlobe was even better.
Harry wasn’t sure how long they spent on the sofa that used to be his robes, making out like a pair of horny teenagers under the trees in a thunderstorm, but it was the best afternoon he’d had in ages. His jaw was sore, his lips stung and he was pretty sure he had bruises on his neck. He felt great.
Eventually they pulled apart. Neither of them were looking to take this further, just yet or just here. They sprawled side by side on the sofa, pressed against each other, waiting for their breaths to slow. Out beyond the treeline the sun was shining as though the storm had never been, and a handful of people were coming out from shelter, many of them clutching clothes – couples smiling and holding hands, a few people scurrying and looking sheepish, one or two clearly trying not to be seen before Apparating away. Harry watched it all without taking anything much in, just sitting there, feeling present in his body, aware of it in ways he hadn’t felt in too long.
Next to him, Draco shifted, fidgety. “You haven’t even mentioned the possibility of me running off to the Daily Prophet with stories of your deviant debauchery.”
“I don’t think you would,” Harry said, turning his head against the back of the sofa. He couldn’t imagine why Draco would think Harry would do this with him at all, if that was what he thought of him.
Harry felt Draco’s ribs expand and fall on his sigh. “Your tragic lack of self-preservation,” he said mournfully. “For the record, it’s pretty much mutually assured destruction on the gay thing, and I’d prefer not to increase the likelihood of being spat at when I leave the house.”
“OK,” Harry said. “But I just don’t think you would.”
“You do remember the Triwizard Tournament, don’t you? Rita Skeeter? Ringing any bells?”
Harry thought of Hermione putting Skeeter under the thumb and chuffed a little laugh. “Yeah,” he said. Then, “It’s nice that there’s something that’s changed for the better. But seriously, mutually assured destruction?”
“Oh come on, it never even crossed your mind that this could be a honey trap.”
Harry laughed, louder than he’d intended, and hoped there was no one left outside to hear him. “Draco, mate, I hate to tell you this, but I have known you since we were eleven years old, and I can tell you right now, you’d make about as good a conman as I would.”
“You’d be a dreadful conman.”
Harry fixed him with a firm look. “Exactly.”
“Oh piss off,” Draco replied, folding his arms with a scowl.
Harry laughed, and poked him in the side until he joined in, and it all somehow devolved into a tickle fight.
Seamus was going to murder him for sure, and he couldn’t be certain about Ron, but it was the best Beltane he’d had since he’d known it was a thing, so he couldn’t bring himself to regret a thing.
Coda
“What the hell is wrong with you? You’ve been grumpy for days now, and it’s pissing me off,” Draco said, arms crossed and shoulders set for a fight.
Harry was about to tell him to piss right off home then, before he realised that meant Draco was probably right.
“I don’t- oh.” Harry rubbed at his scar, an old habit he’d never quite been able to shake when he was stressed, however much he wanted to.
“Well?”
“Sorry. I’m just. I’m sorry.”
Draco came up and wrapped an arm around him. “Come on, Scarhead, tell me what’s going on in what passes for your brain.”
Harry elbowed him half-heartedly in the ribs. “It’s February.”
“Well done, you’re right, it is. Now do you want to explain what it is about February that turns you into a raging arsehole?”
Harry sighed. “It’s February, and any day now they’re going to start harassing me about speeches for Beltane and I don’t want to. He knew he sounded petulant but that was basically what it came down to.
Draco stared off into the distance, thinking something through, and a tendril of hope stirred in Harry’s chest. “And you’ve already proven that you’re not good at saying no to them and sticking to it… Well. There’s another solution.” Draco looked him in the eye. “You’ve been talking about it for a while, in fact.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.
“Well don’t hold back, share the fruits of your genius with me.”
Draco stuck his tongue out at him. “Cheeky. When I’m about to solve two dilemmas for you in one fell swoop, too. I don’t know why I put up with you.”
Harry leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Go on then, smartypants, dazzle me with your brilliance.”
“Come out.”
That was not remotely what he expected to hear, and his shoulders stiffened. “What?”
“It’s simple, really. You don’t want to keep having to hide us and pretend we’re just mates, but you’re worried about causing an awful scandal by announcing that you’re a bisexual, currently in a homosexual relationship with a Malfoy, and all that that entails. But you don’t know how to make it known whilst avoiding the mess that would inevitably follow.”
Harry nodded, because they’d been talking around the problem for months now with no answer.
“So we don’t!” Draco said, like it was all perfectly obvious.
“No, I’m still not with you.”
“We don’t avoid the mess, Harry. We cause a merry old scandal, make it as messy and public as we can, and watch how fast the Beltane organising committee decide it’s time for a change, nothing personal, hope you understand why we’re asking someone else to step in, et cetera.”
Draco’s smile was very pleased with himself.
Harry’s stomach churned a little at the idea of all the attention, at the idea of deliberately making it worse, but. But he was going to have to do it sooner or later – he loathed publicly pretending Draco was just a casual acquaintance, loathed feeling like he was being a coward. And this way he could own up to it, and get out of the whole dog and pony show.
“And we can always go shag under a hawthorn tree somewhere, if you still fancy celebrating the day somehow.”
Harry smiled. His future Beltanes were definitely looking up.