Chapter Text
Harry stands in a little shop squeezed between a bakery and a florist, unable to take his eyes off the scarf.
It’s taken on a sort of magical quality. The shop is a Wizarding one, so it would make sense if the scarf were also imbued with a warming charm or Impervius or whatever the shop owner fancied, but that’s not why Harry can’t stop staring.
The scarf is beautiful.
It’s green and grey, with silvery threads running through, and Harry wants it.
He wants to wrap it around his neck. He wants to wrap it around his hands and bury them in fabric that looks so, so soft. He wants to bury his face in it just to feel…
Something other than this.
His hands hurt. His shoulders hurt. His neck hurts. It’s a bruising ache, just about everywhere in his body, and it’s crushing him.
“I’m just tired,” he murmurs to himself, though it doesn’t soothe him. “It’s been a long day.”
A long two days, actually. He stayed overnight at the DMLE, pulling a double-and-a-half-shift. Harry spent most of it in meetings with Robards, the Head Auror, who keeps Harry’s desk swimming in paperwork and his back aching from floating to whatever team needs a high-profile Auror in attendance. He’s lost count of how many hours the shifts last. What Harry does know is that it hurts.
It hurts to be awake this long. It hurts to be squinting at paperwork this long. He rolled out of the way of a hex at some point in the wee hours of the morning, landing hard on his shoulder, and he’ll have a bruise, no doubt.
He left his office to get something to eat and nap for a little while at home, where he feels like an infrequent visitor, always slightly out of place.
Harry’s not sure how he ended up in this shop, to be completely honest. He has a vague memory of seeing silver and green through the front window and feeling inexorably drawn to it.
And…
Now what?
His chest gets heavy at the sight of the scarf, his heart aching as deeply as his body, and Harry has no idea why. Exhaustion, obviously, but there has to be a better reason to feel so emotional over a scarf. His hands are stained with ink from filling out miles of parchment and dusty from filing the evidence from the previous night’s raid and dirty from landing on the cobblestones on Knockturn Alley.
He did wash his hands, didn’t he?
Harry casts a murmured Scourgify at his hands, then has to bite back a hiss. He has scrapes there he hadn’t noticed. They still feel dirty. He feels dirty. He feels worn to the bone. Unworthy of the scarf, much less the shop, much less his life.
Because he still hasn’t made up for it yet. The second chance he got the night of the Battle of Hogwarts was a gift he hadn’t anticipated and didn’t know how to receive. He hadn’t volunteered for his position as the Chosen One. He hadn’t done any of it out of bravery or nobility. So why should he, of all people, get to live when Sirius and Remus and Fred and—
Merlin, he is not going to cry. Not because of a scarf. Not because of anything. Harry is grateful for what he has. He is grateful for his job, and he will spend every minute he can making people’s lives safer and better until he’s evened the scales with whatever force or God sent him back to his life when he should have died.
Harry lets out an unsteady breath. The bell on the shop’s door jingles, but he faces the scarf resolutely, squaring his shoulders. It is a scarf, for the love of Merlin. It doesn’t match his maroon Auror’s robes. He’s not going to buy it. Harry would only rip it, or dirty it, or otherwise destroy it in the course of working himself to the bone.
But…
He can’t seem to leave.
One touch couldn’t hurt, could it?
Harry lifts his knuckles toward the scarf, his heart in his throat, tears stinging the corners of his eyes for absolutely no reason.
“You should buy it, Potter.”
The voice in his ear is utterly familiar and utterly strange at the same time. He yanks his hand away from the scarf, pulse racing, and whirls to face—
Draco Malfoy.
“Malfoy.” Harry has been an Auror for six years and is widely known to be Robards’ pick to replace him when he retires. His hand flies up to his chest anyway. Malfoy’s standing as close as a friend would, as if he and Harry are sharing some secret. “Circe’s tits. You scared me.”
Malfoy’s eyes sparkle, and the amused smile on his face turns to a conspiratorial expression. “Someone had to step in. You’re obviously embroiled in an unrequited love affair with a scarf, and there is no need. Buy it and take it home with you.”
“But I—” It’s not as if Harry’s hurting for money. What he doesn’t want to say to Malfoy, or anyone else, is that he doesn’t deserve things like soft, lovely scarves that don’t go with the uniform he spends more than seventy hours a week in. “I’d never wear it.”
Malfoy purses his lips, and Harry is struck, absolutely struck, by how beautiful he’s become in the seven years since school. Malfoy’s bone structure has gone from pointy to elegant. He’s grown into his face, but there’s something delicate about him, too. White-blond hair falls across his forehead, perfect and shiny in a way Harry’s will never be, not when he spends thirty hours at a stretch at the DMLE.
Suddenly, inexplicably, he wants to bury his face in Malfoy’s hair like he wanted to bury his face in that scarf. He wants to lean closer and let Malfoy’s silver-grey eyes keep studying him until, finally, Malfoy can pronounce him worthy.
Or unworthy. Probably unworthy.
Definitely compared to Malfoy, who looks perfect, and not at all ragged. He wears a navy wool coat with a grey scarf tucked into it. Hints of silver pick up the similar shades in Malfoy’s eyes, and the blue makes them look rich and gorgeous.
The pink flush of his cheeks from the cold is also lovely.
Not that Harry notices.
“You should buy it.” Malfoy’s voice is low and confident. “It would bring out your eyes.”
Harry’s face burns. Not only has Malfoy caught him in a moment of weakness, he’s encouraging Harry to be frivolous and self-centred. What has he done to earn the scarf? Nothing. Nothing. His head throbs. His knuckles, too.
He lets out a laugh that feels like gravel in his mouth. “My eyes aren’t important. See you later, Malfoy.”
Harry brushes past him and goes out into the brisk November cold. Merlin’s arse, what is wrong with him? There’s a hollow pit in his chest now. He already misses that scarf.
Or maybe he misses the silver-grey parts of it. The ones that remind him of Malfoy’s eyes a little.
Not that he’s thinking about Malfoy’s eyes. Not that he’s thought about Malfoy’s eyes since he caught him by the elbow after his trial and gave him his wand back. He’s heard of Malfoy in passing over the years, and Harry never once considered Apparating to the gates of the Malfoy Manor and yelling until Malfoy came out to talk to him. He’s never had the right to know if Malfoy’s okay.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his robes, a sharp pain curling around one of his shoulder blades. The pain crawls up the back of his neck. He needs to get to the Apparition point before anything else happens that would—
“Potter!”
Malfoy calls his name, and for a split second, Harry wants to sink down to the pavement. He’s so relieved.
And then he’s mortified. Malfoy, following him? Did he drop something? Harry pats his pocket. He has his wand, so…
“Malfoy, I—” Harry finishes his turn and nearly bumps into Malfoy, who’s right behind him, the green and grey scarf in his hands and a smile on his face that seems…pleased? Almost gentle? Malfoy holds out the scarf to him, and Harry peers at him, bewildered. “Did you buy me a scarf?”
“Yes, I did. I know longing when I see it.”
Harry feels a different sort of longing now, as a stiff breeze ruffles Malfoy’s hair. He wears gloves the same dark grey as his scarf, and Harry’s scarf—the one held carefully in his palms—looks like it belongs with Malfoy.
He wishes he belonged with Malfoy. Whatever world Malfoy’s stepped out of, Harry wants that one instead.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Malfoy glances at the sky, exasperated in a way that seems almost affectionate. Then he steps forward, into Harry’s space, and wraps the scarf around his neck. Harry’s eyes flutter closed in spite of himself, and he snaps them open. In Malfoy’s capable hands, the scarf becomes a neat twist. Harry can’t breathe. Malfoy’s face is both sweet and serious, his mouth set in a frown of concentration as he finishes arranging the wool and tucks it into Harry’s robes.
“I can’t say Auror maroon does you many favours, Potter, but my days.” Malfoy pats the scarf, his eyes coming up to meet Harry’s. “You should have been in Slytherin for the green and silver alone.”
“Er…” Should he blurt out the fact that he almost was in Slytherin? No. He shouldn’t. “That good, huh?”
Malfoy put his gloved fingertips to his lips in faux astonishment. “The improvement is drastic. You already look happier.”
Harry’s shoulders round under the shame of not having earned whatever happiness Malfoy’s talking about and his strange disappointment that Malfoy’s not touching him anymore. He definitely doesn’t mean to slouch in front of Malfoy, who’s a little bit taller and has flawless posture and makes Harry feel like a half-melted Chocolate Frog. Oh, Gods, here come the tears. Again.
“Oh, no.” Malfoy’s hand goes to Harry’s shoulder. “You’re not happy. What’s the matter, Potter? Have I upset you?”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Malfoy?”
Malfoy laughs, the sound as bright and lovely as a bell. “If you must know, I killed him off and replaced him with a version that’s less of an unholy twat.”
Harry can’t help but laugh, too. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Malfoy’s expression sobers. “I find life is rather too short to spend it being a git and wallowing in cruelty.”
“Well, that’s…” What is Harry supposed to say? He wants desperately to know what gave Malfoy this change of heart, but he’s not supposed to want anything. He hasn’t worked for the privilege yet. “Good? You must be…er. You must be happy.”
Malfoy takes him by both shoulders, turning him this way and that. “Why aren’t you?”
“I am,” Harry says, too quickly.
“Oh, Potter, you never were a very convincing liar. You are desperately unhappy, but you don’t have to be.”
“What d’you mean?”
Malfoy leans in closer, and Harry’s going to fall right into his eyes. That’s what’ll happen, and he’ll never return. But he can’t do that. He owes a debt to the world.
“I can teach you to be happy. All you have to do is give me a month.”
“A month? What month?”
Malfoy smiles. “How about this one? You can be my November.”
“Your November?” The way Malfoy says my November seems to imply that there are other people for other months, and Harry doesn’t love that idea, but—
“Look.” Malfoy’s hands are still on Harry’s shoulders, and he never wants him to let go. His silver eyes get soft and guilty. “I know how I was before, and I regret it. I’m sorry.”
“I am, too.” Harry has no earthly idea how looking at a scarf turned into this conversation. “I meant to say. For the bathroom. That was—”
Malfoy puts a finger over his lips. Oh! Harry’s heart is going to beat out of his throat. That’s how he’ll die. With Malfoy shushing him. “I was a git for longer than a single argument in a bathroom. Let me make it up to you. Give me November, and I’ll teach you to be happy. There’s only one condition. You must swear on your magic that you won’t fall in love with me.”
Harry’s so tired. His whole body hurts. If Malfoy can teach him how to be happy, then…
“Okay.”
“Okay?” Malfoy’s eyes light up, and longing flashes through Harry like it did when he saw that scarf. “You agree?”
“A month, yeah?”
“That’s right. And you promise not to fall in love.”
“I…promise?” Where did Malfoy get the idea that Harry fell in love so easily, anyway? “But—” What happens in December? Before Harry can ask, his stomach growls so loudly that Malfoy’s eyes go wide.
“You’re hungry!” Malfoy drops his hand, loops his arm through Harry’s, and sets off at a brisk pace. Harry allows himself to be pulled along. Not having to make the decision feels as good as the scarf around his neck. “First things first. We’ll get you some food, and then we’ll get started.”