Chapter Text
Harry Potter is not obsessed with Draco Malfoy.
Despite his best friends' insistence (and annoyance), he will continue to deny it until his dying breath. He’s not obsessed. In fact, his behavior since Malfoy began working with the DMLE is in no way similar to his behavior back in sixth year when–he’ll concede–he was a bit obsessed with the blond.
But this isn’t that.
It’s just that after the Battle of Hogwarts ended and he’d testified for Malfoy and his mother at their trials, Harry hadn’t seen or heard from or about him in years. Not until he walked into the Auror office at Robard’s side bright and early one Monday morning in April, where he was subsequently introduced as the department’s new Potions Master.
And now he’s…different.
He’s not the same annoying git that he was back in school. He’s not the guy who turns his nose up at Muggleborns, who thinks himself superior for his blood status or his money, who looks down on anything Muggle. On the contrary, he seems to have embraced Muggle items, from the iPod that he uses to listen to music while he brews, to the still tattoos that peak out from beneath his clothes; from the pen and paper he uses to write (as opposed to the quill and parchment that even most Muggleborns in the office use) to the tight fitted Muggle trousers and button-ups he wears to work every day that get covered with his brewing cloak once he’s in his office–or as he refers to it, his dungeon.
Oh, and that calls to attention the…other thing.
Malfoy’s hot now. Like, properly gorgeous. He wears his hair down instead of slicked back, only putting it in a bun while he brews. It’s long, stretching past his shoulders, and wavy and shiny and beautiful. He’s grown wonderfully into his sharp bones, now looking cutting and dangerous where he used to look pointy. He’s no longer scrawny, either. He’s filled out a lot since Harry had last seen him, with lean muscles in all the right places and soft curves in all the rest. He’s impossible not to notice now, and impossible not to stare at, and it’s not because Harry’s obsessed but rather because Draco Malfoy is indisputably, unbearably, overwhelmingly stunning.
No matter how many times he tells them this, it does nothing to satisfy Ron and Hermione. They refuse to believe that his attentions to the blond are anything but a repeat of sixth year. For example, in the Ministry canteen–
“You’re staring again,” Hermione admonishes.
Harry’s eyes snap away from where he’s absolutely been staring at Malfoy for the last few minutes to look at Hermione instead. “No, I’m not.”
“Merlin and Morgana, you’re fucking stubborn,” she rolls her eyes, poking at her leftover spaghetti with her plastic fork. Ron snorts, as he always does when his wife swears. It was a funny reaction in the beginning, the first few times it happened, but Hermione swears enough now that it’s not shocking anymore. Still, Ron’s disbelief is mildly amusing, even if Hermione’s exasperation isn’t. “Just go talk to him if you’re that obsessed.”
“Not obsessed,” Harry and Ron say in unison, with Ron giving him a very pointed look that Harry (stubbornly) chooses to ignore. “For the record,” Harry continues, “I do talk to him. Quite often, I might add.”
“Saying hello to him in the hallway isn’t talking,” Ron retorts with a mouthful of pasta. Harry opens his mouth to defend himself, but Ron cuts him off. “And neither is volunteering to deliver potions orders.”
Harry feels heat rise to his cheeks, but he ignores it. “He doesn’t want to talk to me,” he mumbles, filling his mouth with a bite of his sandwich in an attempt to escape his friends' stares.
“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” Ron scoffs. Harry’s attempts to object are cut short, yet again, when Ron ignores his disgruntled look and continues speaking. “Look, either ‘Mione and I are right, and you’re being weird about him being ‘up to something’ again–”
“I’m not–”
“Or, you genuinely are just so attracted to Malfoy now–which is weird, by the way–”
“Be nice, Ronald,” Hermione interjects. Ron brushes her off.
“Or you’re so attracted to Malfoy that you can’t stop bloody staring, which–yes, love, it’s weird.” Hermione gives him a look that Harry doesn’t care to try to interpret and that Ron rolls his eyes at. “Look, I get it. We’re friendly with him now. I’ve moved on; you know I have. Got a pint with the git last weekend, didn’t I? But he was Harry’s arch-nemesis–”
Hermione makes an indignant noise, her jaw dropping in her trademark combination of exasperation and annoyance. “His arch-nemesis? Oh, please–Draco was a thorn in his side compared to fucking Voldemort. Harry, tell him–”
“No, Malfoy was definitely my arch-nemesis, but listen–” Hermione releases another sound of disbelief as Harry rushes to explain himself. “It’s like Ron said, he’s not anymore, right? He’s fine now. It’s not weird that I–”
“No, it is,” Ron interrupts. “In fact, I almost prefer you just admit you think he’s ‘up to something’–”
“I don’t–”
“You’re both idiots, and lunch is almost over, so let me just say this,” Hermione says, her voice firm in a way that forces both men to shut up and listen–a specialty of hers since they were children. “Harry, just talk to him. If you do think he’s doing something nefarious–which he isn’t–”
“I don’t bloody think he is!”
“–then maybe a conversation will help you see–he’s just trying to do his job–”
“I know that, ‘Mione, really–”
“And if you just fancy him like you say you do, you’re not going to get anywhere unless you talk to him. Flirt a bit. He is single, you know.” She says the last bit like it’s the latest bit of office gossip, her voice low and eyebrows raised almost suggestively. Harry places a carefully crafted mask of neutrality over his face that he’s developed in the years he’s spent working as an Auror. Of course, his friends know he’s attracted to Malfoy, but he doesn’t quite want them to know that he might actually be interested in doing something about it. “Now, I have to head back. Are you coming for dinner tonight? Rose would be happy to see you.”
Harry can’t help the smile that surfaces at the mention of his six-month-old goddaughter, despite having just come off a lecture from her mother. Rose is a happy baby in general, but she always seems a little extra pleased to see Harry. It reminds him a bit of when Teddy was that age–and Teddy now, if he’s honest. “’Course I’ll be there. Someone needs to spoil her rotten.”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” she admonishes, pointing a finger at Harry and jabbing it at him to emphasize each word. “You spoil her too much. You want to spend all your money on someone? Get your shit together and go on some dates–spoil someone else for a change.”
Harry would never admit, even under Veritaserum, that his eyes immediately drift to Malfoy at her words. He’s mid-laugh when Harry looks, and, okay, maybe his heart stutters in his chest, but that doesn’t make him obsessed. Regardless, Hermione’s words echo in his mind as he watches the blond. Spoil someone else for a change. That idea doesn’t sound half bad, actually.
“”
Harry spends the rest of his afternoon catching up on parchmentwork. It’s one of his least favorite parts of his job, which is saying something because he really, truly, genuinely hates being an Auror.
He didn’t mind it so much in the beginning. He had liked it, even. A big part of him had been stuck in the war, stuck in the chase and the fight and the constant battle. He had thrived in the field, and the parchmentwork was reminiscent of the school work he’d had to do in between episodes of fighting for his life as an adolescent–boring, but necessary. Head Auror Robards had even given him an office instead of a cubicle when it became clear he could barely get through a workday without being harassed by the media or even other Ministry employees.
But the more time passed and the more sessions he spent with his mind healer, the less and less he liked his job. He had finally begun to recover from the trauma he’d endured from years of abuse and neglect at the hands of his Aunt and Uncle, followed by the years of being a child soldier, and in turn, grew increasingly tired of chasing after Dark Wizards. He had been on the verge of quitting, until three months ago, when Draco Malfoy had walked into the Auror office looking like that and–
And now, Harry is working a job that makes him miserable just in the hope that he’ll see his ex-arch nemesis walking through the halls of the DMLE, or that he’ll be able to find an excuse–any excuse–to visit his ‘dungeon’.
It’s pathetic. He knows it’s pathetic. But it doesn’t mean he’s obsessed. Definitely not.
Between the misery he feels about his job and the never-ending thoughts about Malfoy, Harry’s focus is completely shot. He drops his quill in annoyance, slouching back in his chair to angle his head up to the ceiling, and pushes up his glasses to drag a hand down his face.
He should sit up. Get back to work. But he can’t be bothered. It’s an unfortunate side effect of hating one’s job, the sense of apathy. It’s not the kind of attitude someone in law enforcement should have. He really should just quit. He almost wonders, yet again, why he hasn’t already, when there’s a knock on his office door.
Harry sighs, takes a moment to fix his glasses atop his nose, and unruffles his robes before he sits up, crosses his hands on his desk, and says, “Come in.”
The door opens almost hesitantly, and–
Oh.
That’s why he hasn’t quit yet.
If Draco Malfoy is stunning from across the canteen, up close, he’s quite literally perfect–an angel sent from the heavens to grace the world with unattainable beauty. From this close, he can see the slight upturn at the end of Malfoy’s nose and the light dust of freckles across his otherwise unblemished cheeks. His grey eyes practically glow silver, framed by long, thick, blond lashes. The tip of a tattoo is visible on the side of his neck, and the top button of his shirt is–as always–undone. From this distance, Harry can see the way his throat bobs just slightly and the way his long, elegant fingers clench and unclench at his sides–
He’s nervous.
Harry–whose instinct is to stand–stays in his seat. He knows he can be a bit intimidating when he stands between the Auror posture that comes so naturally to him now and the fact that he’s gotten quite broad in the last 8 years with the intensive training and subsequent workout regimen. Additionally, he’s taller than Malfoy now. Only by a few centimeters, but there’s still a chance that his height advantage will add to the other man’s nerves.
“Malfoy,” he says with a smile, ignoring the thud of his own heart. Is he nervous, too? Quite possibly. He pushes aside the thought and gestures to an empty chair on the other side of his desk. Malfoy remains standing. “It’s a pleasure to see you, though I have to say I wasn’t expecting a visit. Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” he says curtly, which makes Harry think that everything is not fine. He keeps quiet, though. It’s clear that Malfoy came here for a reason, and he isn’t about to spook him before he finds out. “I just needed to say this.” He gulps, and Harry just barely avoids cocking his head in confusion. “I’m not up to anything suspicious. I really am just here to do my job. And I know you have no reason to believe me because you were right last time, but I swear to the gods, Potter, you’re wrong this time. I’m here to work, and that’s it.”
Harry’s fingers twitch. He should’ve guessed that Malfoy would reach the same conclusion as Ron and Hermione had. It’s the logical one after all, given his history. But Malfoy couldn’t be more wrong, and it’s suddenly pertinent that Harry explains that to him.
So he smiles reassuringly, the way he does at Teddy when the boy worries that he’s about to get in trouble, and stands from his chair. Malfoy swallows, and Harry tracks the motion with his eyes–the way his jaw tenses, the jarring movement of his Adam’s apple–and his mouth goes dry as images flash in his mind unbidden of purple marks across his porcelain skin and of being the one to leave them there.
“I don’t think you’re up to anything,” Harry says finally, his voice coming out lower than he expected. Circe, he needs to get a grip. Horny in his office at 3:11 pm on a Thursday is not a good look for him, even if he does intend to quit his job at some point relatively soon.
“You don’t,” Malfoy says, eyes narrowed and suspicion dripping from his voice like honey. His voice is incessantly smooth and warm, and even though his accent is, annoyingly, quite posh, Harry thinks he would be happy to listen to Malfoy read a dictionary.
“I don’t,” Harry confirms. Before he knows what he’s doing, he steps out from behind his desk, making slow movements towards Malfoy. He doesn’t mean to, not really, but Malfoy calls to him like a magnet, and every nerve in his body is screaming at him to be closerclosercloser .
“You keep staring at me,” Malfoy accuses, though there’s no bite. Not like there was back in school.
There’s no point in denying it, not really. Hermione was right, he realizes. Malfoy is single, and Harry wants nothing more than to sink his teeth into the other man. He has very little chance, he thinks, but he has to at least try. “I do,” he answers, taking another small step forward. Malfoy is less than a meter away now.
“Why, then?” he asks, his grey eyes searching Harry’s as if he can find the answer there. Harry digs his fingernails into his palm in an attempt not to get lost in Malfoy’s eyes. From this close, he can see the specks of sky blue interwoven into the silver.
The question nearly baffles Harry. “Why am I looking at you?” he asks to clarify. He intentionally avoids the word staring. The connotations are too negative.
Malfoy doesn’t seem to care about the connotations of the word, though, as he sucks his teeth, crosses his arms over his chest in a way that emphasizes his biceps, and says, “Yes, Potter. Why are you staring at me? Because the only reason I can think of for a straight man to be staring at another man is if he’s suspicious. So why–”
Nothing Malfoy says after ‘straight man’ processes in Harry’s mind. He nearly laughs out loud at the assertion before he remembers that Malfoy was still living out his sentence in the Muggle world when the news of his coming out was splashed across the front page of every Wizarding newspaper and magazine.
“Not straight,” he interrupts before Malfoy can get any further in his rant. He lets his gaze wander across his face. He’s cute when he’s angry. His eyebrows furrow and his cheeks flush the prettiest shade of red and his scowl makes his lips look utterly kissable. Without thinking, he takes another step forward. Malfoy takes a step back, his face morphing from anger to something else as he turns Harry’s words over in his mind–shock, Harry thinks.
“I–you–what?” Malfoy stutters, and Harry bites back another laugh. He’s cute when he’s flustered, too. “What the fuck are you even talking about, Potter?”
Harry takes another step forward, and this time, when Malfoy goes to step away, his back hits the wall. Harry refuses to think, instead letting his body do what it wants. He takes another step closer, bracing his arm against the wall by Malfoy’s head. He doesn’t miss the way Malfoy’s pupils dilate or the way his breathing picks up.
“It’s important to me that before you go assuming that I think the worst of you, you understand that I am very much not straight,” Harry mutters. His eyes drop down to Malfoy’s pink lips, parted just slightly, and he smirks. Maybe he has more of a chance than he thought.
“Oh,” Malfoy finally says, so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear him. His eyes flutter closed, just for a moment, but it’s long enough for Harry to appreciate the way his blond lashes brush his cheeks. “So, you’re staring because–”
“Because I’m not straight,” Harry finishes for him with a teasing lilt. “And to be frank, you disappeared from Wizarding Society only to show up again 8 years later looking like–well, looking like that.”
“Like this,” Malfoy echoes, bemused and irritated all at once. He looks up at Harry through his thick lashes, and for a split second, Harry forgets how to breathe.
But he refuses to let Malfoy see how much he affects him because he’s nothing if not stubborn, so he smirks and pushes himself off the wall, taking a few steps back while Malfoy stays put, leaning heavily against the stone. Harry uses the space between them to lazily drag his eyes down Malfoy’s figure–fully appreciating his strong arms, the dip of his waist, his long, long legs–and then back up again. He makes dead-eye contact with Malfoy when he finally says, “Gorgeous.”
There’s a thick, intense moment where Malfoy doesn’t say anything, and Harry doesn’t know if he’s crossed a line. A moment that Harry uses to lean against the edge of his desk because Malfoy’s grey-silver-blue eyes are burning a hole in him, and he thinks his knees are going to give out beneath him if he leaves his weight on them for much longer.
A minute passes, and then another. Sometime within the third minute, Malfoy clears his throat and stands up straight, resuming the rigid posture he’s had for as long as Harry has known him. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s when he smiles politely–professionally–and says, “Thank you, Auror Potter, for this… enlightening consultation.” He stares for one moment longer, and Harry quirks an eyebrow up as if daring him to address the erumpent in the room. He doesn’t. “Goodbye, then.” He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.
The smirk doesn’t leave Harry’s face as he makes his way back to his desk chair, but Hermione’s words echo through his mind once more. Spoil someone else for a change .
Well, he thinks, no one can argue that someone as lovely as Draco Malfoy doesn’t deserve to be spoiled.
When he finally picks up his quill and turns back to his work, it’s with none of the attention that his job requires. Nearly every fiber of his being is focused on the day’s interactions and his brand-new, self-invoked objective. The one thing he has left to do at the DMLE before he quits his job.
He’s going to win over Draco Malfoy.
“”
“I’m obsessed with Malfoy,” Harry admits finally. He’s sitting in a dining chair in the kitchen of the Granger-Weasley household, halfway through his dinner–a delightful steak and kidney pie that was definitely cooked by Molly–with baby Rose seated in his lap. Hermione has already given him an earful about spoiling her too much, but he refuses to put her in her high chair when she’s perfectly happy perched on his leg.
Ron bursts into laughter, and Hermione rolls her eyes. It’s the exact reaction he’s expected from each of his friends. “Oh, Harry,” Hermione shakes her head. “You say that as if we didn’t know.”
“Honestly, mate,” Ron starts, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “What the hell changed in the–” he leans over to check the time on the clock, “–six hours since lunch?”
Harry just shrugs, shoveling the last bite of pie into his mouth. “We talked.”
“You…talked,” Hermione repeats. Harry nods, and she gives him a look that she saves for when she thinks he’s being intentionally obtuse. He might actually deserve it this time. “Any chance you want to share what you talked about that apparently changed your entire perspective? Or are you just going to continue to keep your best friends in the dark?”
Harry huffs but spills. He tells them the story of Malfoy showing up at his office having noticed Harry’s staring and the assumptions he’d made about the reason he’s doing it. And he tells them all about Harry’s very blatant flirtation. (“You actually called him gorgeous?” Ron had asked, clearly baffled. “Your first real conversation with the bloke in nearly a decade, and you just…call him gorgeous. Merlin and Morgana, Harry.”) He leaves out the part where Malfoy’s mere presence in his office left him hot and bothered.
“So, he just–just left?” Ron asks, amusement painted across his face. “And that was the final piece? That is what made you finally admit you’re obsessed?” Harry shrugs and shifts Rose in his arms when she starts to fuss. “I can’t believe he just walked out like that–I mean, I can believe it. He’s always been a bit of a prat, and you’re clearly not as good at flirting as you think–”
“Oi!” Harry exclaims in offense. Ron snorts. “I’ll have you know I’m a fantastic flirter, thank you very much. And he was very into it–or I think he was.” He pauses for a moment, ignoring the amused look on his friends’ faces. “No, no, he was. I left him a bit…ruffled, I think.”
“Ruffled?” Hermione asks, clearly not convinced. Rose fusses again from her spot in his arms, and Ron gets up from his seat to take her. “I mean, I suppose I would be, too, if I were flirted with by a man who I thought hated me 5 minutes prior. I can’t imagine the emotional whiplash–”
“Could you stop psychoanalyzing our interaction, please?” Harry groans. It’s times like these that he remembers why he never tells Hermione about people he fancies until he’s actually dating them. He loves her dearly, but the woman always has an opinion. “Look, I don’t know if he’s interested, but I’ve decided I’m gonna at least try. And if I embarrass the shit out of myself, it’s no big deal–I’ll just quit my job.”
He hears Ron cackle from the living room, where he’s taken Rose to change her nappy. Harry furrows his eyebrows and looks at Hermione as if asking her to do something about her husband’s rudeness.
She doesn’t.
“Can you blame him?” Hermione asks, looking at him with sympathetic eyes. Pity. He hates pity. “We know you hate being an Auror, Harry, but you’ve been insisting that you’re going to quit for months. It’s very…boy who cried wolf by now, isn’t it?”
Harry puts on his best pout, but if he’s honest with himself, she has a point. Really, until this afternoon, he hadn’t quite believed it either. But, as ridiculous as it is, Malfoy truly was the reason that Harry didn’t quit three months ago. And he has been the reason every day since. For three months all he’s wanted is to know Malfoy, this new Malfoy who listens to Muggle music and wears tight-fitting trousers that make his arse look otherworldly. All he wants is to have Malfoy in any way he can. It’s just that, until this afternoon, he was so sure that the only way he could have him was polite nods and muttered ‘hellos’ as they passed each other in the halls of the Ministry, or brief visits to the dungeon for Potions orders.
Malfoy’s visit today changed everything. Maybe he was just trying to protect his job from Harry’s perceived attempts to screw him over. But if that was the case, why had he been so anxious? Why did his eyes widen and his breath speed up when Harry got close to him? It all felt…personal. Personal in a way that nothing with Malfoy had ever felt before. As if he wanted Harry to know that he was on the straight and narrow, not because he was worried for his job, but because he was worried about what Harry thought of him.
When Malfoy walked into his office this afternoon, it gave Harry the opening he needed to make his move. Whether or not it goes well, all he needs now is a few weeks–a few months at most–and he’ll be able to quit with no regrets. If it goes well, he won’t need work as an excuse to see him anymore. And if it goes poorly…Well, Harry would rather not think of that possibility.
He voices none of this to Hermione. Instead, he ignores her question in favor of cleaning up the kitchen, which earns him a knowing look. For once, though, Harry is sure that she doesn’t know quite as much as she thinks she does.
“So, what are you going to do, then?” she asks, moving away from the topic that Harry is obviously avoiding as Ron walks back into the kitchen with Rose on his hip. The little girl makes grabby hands at Harry and coos as soon as she sees him. Harry takes the excuse to ditch the dishes and lifts his goddaughter from her father’s arms. Ron laughs and moves to Harry’s spot in front of the sink.
Harry has often wondered why Ron and Hermione do dishes the Muggle way, but every time he asks, they just shrug and answer, “We just do.” It’s a recent development, so Harry thinks it might have something to do with teaching Rose about her Muggle heritage or the value of hard work. Either way, Harry has stopped asking.
“I’m gonna take your advice,” Harry answers, before lifting Rose over his head to blow raspberries into her tummy. She squeals in response, and the sound makes Harry grin.
“My advice?” Hermione asks.
“I’m gonna spoil him,” Harry says plainly like it’s the most obvious thing in the world before he goes back to tickling Rose. He’s so focused on the laughing baby in his arms that he misses the incredulous look that his best friends share.
“”
When Harry goes home after Rose is tucked in on Thursday night, and he’s had one beer too many, the only thing on his mind is Malfoy. Not that that should come as a surprise. For three months his thoughts have revolved around the other man, but after their conversation, after getting close enough to feel his whole body buzz with the proximity, after his promise to spoil his way into his heart, Malfoy feels less like a person and more like a drug that’s been directly injected into Harry’s veins. He can feel him coursing through his body, only to lodge himself into Harry’s heart.
Well, and his cock.
That night is certainly not the first time he masturbates to thoughts of Malfoy, but it’s the first time he does so after having been close enough to know what he smells like–cedar and bergamot and, beneath the smell of his cologne, the salty tang of sweat–close enough to discern the blue specks in his eyes and make out every single freckle on his cheeks.
The shower is scalding against his skin as he leans against the cool tile, one arm holding him up just the way it had earlier in the day. He closes his eyes and pictures Malfoy in front of him, the way he stood in his office only 8 hours prior. He imagines him leaning against the wall of the shower, looking up at him through hooded lids, lips parted, this time in an invitation for a kiss. He can almost see it–the way his bare, porcelain skin would look under the spray of the water, turning red from the heat of it.
Harry is already fully hard just from the mental images by the time he wraps his fingers around his cock. He imagines they’re Malfoy’s–long and delicate and clad with silver rings on nearly every one. Merlin, the things he would give to have Malfoy’s fingers on him. He strokes himself languidly, already panting, and focuses on the fantasy he’s conjured of Malfoy’s hands, of Malfoy’s skin glistening with water. Fantasy-Malfoy’s lips are red and puffy and shiny, and Harry knows–he knows–that that’s exactly what he’d look like post-snog.
He starts to feel a bit dizzy as heat pools in his gut, and he knows he’s close, knows it won’t take much longer. Fantasy-Malfoy sinks to his knees and drops his jaw open, letting his tongue hang out. Rather than take him into his mouth, he continues to work Harry’s cock with his hand. Harry tightens his fingers and bucks his hips, thrusting into his fist, slowly at first, but more and more frantic as the minutes pass.
His orgasm comes then, hits him like a train, knocking the air out of his lungs. He strokes himself through it, the mental image of Malfoy’s face and open mouth still at the forefront of his mind. Streaks of cum land on fantasy-Malfoy’s face, on his tongue, in his hair until his motions stutter to a stop and Harry can finally breathe again.
When he opens his eyes, it’s his own calloused fingers wrapped around his cock, and there is no Malfoy on his knees before him, painted white with cum.
Harry pushes down his own disappointment, sends it down the drain with the rest of his release, and reaches for his hair potion.
“”
Any hope that Harry has of seeing Draco the next morning is squashed when he wakes up to a glowing panther Patronus at the foot of his bed an hour before his alarm is set to go off.
“I need you at the office–now,” Robards’ voice echoes through his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Harry groans, spends about 20 seconds weighing the pros and cons of sending in his resignation in place of actually showing up to work, and then drags himself out of bed.
He goes through the abridged version of his morning routine–he uses the loo, brushes his teeth, and changes into his Auror robes–before grabbing a banana from the kitchen to stuff into his pocket for when he inevitably gets hungry in an hour and flooing straight to the Ministry.
Being in the Ministry outside of working hours always creeps Harry out. It’s one of the reasons his night shift is his least favorite day of the month. Hallway upon hallway of empty, black marble from floor to ceiling makes his footsteps echo. They bounce off all of the walls, duplicating the sound again and again, giving the impression of a dozen people walking behind him, but when he turns, he’s alone. Still, he walks, ignoring the shiver that goes up his spine at the creak of the elevator door when it closes behind him and the groan it makes as it moves him down.
How does a lift powered by magic make such horrid noises?
The DMLE is slightly busier than the rest of the Ministry. There are two Aurors on the night shift, along with a half dozen Hit Wizards. Robards is there, too, Harry knows from the light shining through the crack at the bottom of his office door. Harry wonders if the Deputy Head is behind that door, too.
He prays the man isn’t here, in part because he desperately hopes the call isn’t urgent, but mostly because he bloody loathes John Dawlish. He’s a hateful, sadistic bastard who’d rather see people thrown in Azkaban than reformed. He’s well-known not just for his position as Deputy Head Auror but for a piece he wrote for the Daily Prophet two years ago, rebuking the Wizengamot for the ruling that removed dementors from Azkaban, having declared their presence as psychological torture. According to Dawlish, criminals deserve psychological torture. He makes Harry sick.
Harry only has to knock once on Robards’s door before he’s let in. The Head Auror is sitting with his fingers laced together under his chin and elbows propped up on his desk. Nothing too serious, then. If it were, he’d be burning a hole through the rug with his pacing.
“Sir,” Harry greets.
“Auror Potter,” Robards responds. His posture relaxes slightly when the door clicks closed. “I’m sorry to call you in so early. I’ll make sure you can leave early today.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Harry says, and it’s true. He may hate his Auror job, but Gawain Robards is a decent boss. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m going to be honest with you, Potter, you’re not going to be happy with me for this,” Robards sighs. Harry tenses slightly but nods. After 8 years, not just as an Auror, but as one of the best in the department, Robards assigns him almost exclusively to cases he knows Harry won’t hate. That doesn’t mean he won’t give him such an assignment if he’s the best one for the job. “Prisoner transport.”
It’s not as bad as he’d expected, but it's not great, either.
As a general statement, most Aurors either can’t be trusted to transport prisoners across Azkaban, whether it’s because of a track record of brutality or incompetence or they flat-out refuse. Most prisoners who require transport across the facility are the most dangerous ones, and the majority of Aurors aren’t willing to go near them. Just last month, Rabastan Lestrange was transported to a different floor for an escape attempt. Not that he would’ve succeeded, but still, it was better to move him to a part of the prison with higher security.
“Who is it this time?” Harry asks, crossing his fingers behind his back for someone inoffensive.
But, of course, that would be asking too much of the universe, wouldn’t it?
“Malfoy,” Robards says. Harry sucks in a sharp breath. Lucius Malfoy has already been transported a dozen times since the end of the war. And he’s a right pain in the arse. And to top it all off, he’s the estranged, supremacist father of the man he had, just last night, decided he’s going to win over. “Weasley should be here any minute. He’ll be assisting you.”
Harry sighs in relief. This assignment is awful enough; the last thing he needs is some Auror who doesn’t know what they’re doing. He’s glad he’ll have Ron by his side. “Does Malfoy know? I mean–Draco. Does Draco know?”
“He will by the time you get back,” Robards answers, and Harry relaxes just a touch more. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell Malfoy about his father’s transport. He has no idea how he’ll react, and he’s not too keen on finding out. “I’m sorry again for calling you in so early, Potter. It’s better to get these types of things done when there’s no one in the office. Especially with a son of a bitch like Malfoy.”
That, at least, Harry has to agree with.
A moment later, Ron walks in, and in the time it takes for Robards to give him the rundown, Harry eats his banana and drinks the cup of tea that Ron had brought for him, knowing from experience that he hadn’t gone through the trouble of making some himself.
“What’d he do this time?” Ron asks. A part of Harry doesn’t want to know the answer–it’s why he himself hadn’t asked. But his curiosity outweighs his trepidation, and he listens attentively while Robards explains.
“You know Melanie Osiris?” he asks, and Harry and Ron both nod. She’s a new Hit Witch, only 20 years old. She joined the force straight out of Hogwarts and actually asked to be placed as a prison guard, which is practically unheard of. Despite her tiny stature, she’s damn good at it. “She’s one of Malfoy’s guards–we just moved her to that wing after her last eval. I mean, she’s one of the best damn guards Azkaban has seen in decades. We figured she was perfect to handle Malfoy, but, er…”
“Maybe I don’t want to know after all,” Ron groans, suddenly looking a little worse for wear.
“Are we really surprised?” Robards asks. “Not the first time he’s offered a female guard sexual favors for an early release–as if the guards have any say in that. But this time it gets worse.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Harry mutters. The banana he ate is not sitting well.
“She handled his…proposition well,” Robards continues, as if unaware of Harry and Ron’s discomfort. “But she didn’t report it because she didn’t want us to move her, said she likes working in the North wing. But anyway, when she wouldn’t give in to Malfoy, he memorized her shift. Started masturbating when he knew she was going to be walking by.” When Harry looks over at Ron, he sees his own disgust reflected back at him. “As your boss,” Robarts adds, “I have to ask you not to injure the prisoner. As a man with morals, if your foot slips and lands on his testicles, well…accidents happen.”
At this, Ron beams. “Mate, I think we just got permission to kick Lucius Malfoy in the nuts.”
Harry can’t help but snigger at his friend’s enthusiasm, which turns to full laughter when he sees Robards roll his eyes. “That’s not a no,” Harry says to Ron, pointing at their boss.
“Alright, you fools, get out of my office,” Robards shoos them off, face contorted in something akin to a grimace. Harry and Ron share a laugh at his annoyance as they leave his office. That is one thing he’ll miss when he quits eventually–teaming up with Ron to bug the shit out of Robards.
“So,” Ron starts as he and Harry beeline toward the lift, both itching to get this transport started so they can get it over with. Even without the dementors, Azkaban isn’t a pleasant place to be, especially in the company of a grade-A douchebag like Lucius Malfoy. “I’ve invited Malfoy to come tonight. Don’t know if he’ll show, but–”
“You what?” Harry asks. Not that he wouldn’t be glad to have Malfoy’s company, but it’s a pretty big group that meets at the Leaky Cauldron every other week, and he’s not exactly sure all of them will be cool with having an ex-Death Eater join, no matter how clear it is that he’s not the person he used to be. He also can’t help but think that being surrounded by a bunch of Gryffindors isn’t exactly how Malfoy wants to spend his Friday night, even if it has been nearly a decade since their school days.
“He’ll be fine, Harry,” Ron insists. “Ginny will be there, and she and Malfoy get along swimmingly. And Theo, too. They’re always having lunch together. Plus, he’ll have us.” Harry shrugs, still unsure that it’s a good idea, and Ron sends him a look, eyes filled with mischief. “ And, if anyone does hurt his feelings or piss him off or whatever, I’m sure you can find a way to make him feel better.” Ron wiggles his eyebrows, and Harry can feel himself blushing.
“You can fuck all the way off,” he grumbles as they step up to the floo. “Let’s just get this over with.” He reaches for the pot of floo powder and throws a handful of it into the flame, ready to get this done so he can, hopefully, never see Lucius Malfoy again. “Azkaban,” he states clearly, and then flames roar green, and he steps into the grate.
“”
The trip to Azkaban goes about as expected, and by the time Harry and Ron floo back to the Ministry, they’re both exhausted and annoyed and ready for a real breakfast. The two men step into the lift, and, just as it’s about to close, a third person approaches with a shout of, “Hold the door!” When he realizes who it is, Harry’s day gets a whole lot better.
“Morning, Malfoy,” Ron greets him with a smile. It’s not a friendly hello-to-my-coworker kind of smile, though. No, it’s a menacing I’m-about-to-meddle-in-my-best-friend’s-love-life kind of smile. He reaches out an arm just in time to stop the doors from closing. “You know, I just remembered–I have something to do on this floor. See you both later.”
He steps off the elevator with a cheeky grin. And then there are two.
Harry takes a deep breath and sends a small smile in Malfoy’s direction. “Good morning,” he says. Malfoy smiles back. It’s a delicate thing, the slightest pull of the corners of his pink lips, but it makes his eyes sparkle Harry’s stomach turns.
“Morning,” Malfoy replies, his voice as soft as his smile. “I, er…I heard you transported Father this morning.”
The last thing Harry wants to talk about right now is Lucius, but with all the restrictions about what information Aurors are allowed to share with the families of prisoners, he can only imagine how badly Malfoy is itching for answers. Fortunately, Harry’s never been big on following rules. “I did,” he says. “Or–well, Ron and I did.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with him,” Malfoy cringes. His distaste for the man is clear on his face, and it lifts a weight off of Harry’s shoulders that he hadn’t known was there. He knows Malfoy has changed in his time living amongst the Muggles, Harry had no way of knowing if he still felt any sympathy for his father. He wasn’t sure how he’d have felt if he did. “How was it?”
“Honestly?” Harry asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Yeah,” Malfoy answers. He draws his lower lip between his teeth to bite at the sensitive skin. Harry isn’t sure whether he wants to ease his worries or push him against the wall of the lift and suck that lip into his own mouth.
“Not a very pleasant way to spend a morning,” he eventually answers, which is completely true, if a massive understatement.
Malfoy’s response is nothing like what he’s expecting. He doesn’t make an anxious face or ask him to elaborate. He doesn’t apologize or look embarrassed. No, bafflingly, Malfoy throws his head back, and he laughs. It’s a gorgeous sound, one that Harry’s only ever heard across the canteen at lunch on the odd occasion that Theo Nott says something funny enough to break the carefully crafted mask Malfoy wears to work every day. To be the cause of such a wonderful sound, such a boisterous showing of joy, is…exhilarating. Harry’s heart pounds, and he can’t help but laugh along because nothing in the world has ever felt this good.
It's not just the sound of his laughter that sends Harry’s heart racing–the look on his face, the wide smile, and the crinkles around his eyes are so pure, and Malfoy looks beyond gorgeous like this. And with his head thrown back, it’s easy for Harry’s thoughts to drift somewhere less innocent, to a place where the pale column of his throat is revealed not in laughter but in pleasure. He has to press his nails into the flesh of his palms to stop himself from lunging forward and leaving marks across the unmarred skin.
“Imagine spending every morning with him for 11 years,” Malfoy jokes, but there’s something dark behind it, and suddenly, Harry doesn’t feel much like laughing anymore.
The lift comes screeching to a halt as if it senses the mood shift. A ding sounds, and a female voice rings out, “Level two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” Harry worries that their conversation is close to an end, but when they step out together and he follows Malfoy in the direction of his dungeon rather than turning toward the Auror offices, he doesn’t stop him.
“Merlin, I can’t believe that man raised you.” Harry shakes his head softly, a soft smile playing on his lips to reflect Malfoy’s. “It’s a miracle you turned out as well-adjusted as you did.”
Draco laughs again, this time a soft chuckle that makes Harry feel warm inside. Circe’s tits, when had he turned into such a sap?
“Not for lack of trying on his part,” he intones before he finally asks the question they both know he’s been waiting to ask: “What did he do this time?”
Harry takes a deep breath as he tries to think of a way to soften the blow. There isn’t one, not really. Better to just come out with it, he thinks. As they come to a stop in front of the door to the dungeon, he answers, “Sexual harassment.”
Malfoy grimaces, eyes narrowing in disgust. “Lovely. As if I needed another goddamn thing to be embarrassed about. What a truly despicable excuse for a human being.”
Harry bites back a smile. He isn’t sure what pleases him more–hearing the Muggle curse escape so easily from his pretty lips or the way he truly despises his father for his actions. “True,” Harry agrees, letting the smile that he’s holding back show on his face. “But he does have one redeeming quality.”
“Oh?” Draco asks, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “And what would that be?”
“He has a pretty wonderful son,” Harry says lowly, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he can muster. Sure, he’s flirting, but he needs Malfoy to know that he means it.
Malfoy’s face softens, his quicksilver eyes, which shimmer as brilliantly as stars, widen slightly and his cheeks turn pink under Harry’s gaze. He looks incredible like this–touched, unguarded, flustered. “Oh,” he whispers. Then he blinks and blinks again, clearing the shine from his eyes, and his cheeks darken further. “I have to–work, it’s time for work,” he stutters, reaching for the door handle. His hands are shaking slightly. Harry smirks, not hiding how pleased he is by the effect he has on the other man.
“Oi, what’s with you running every time I compliment you?” he asks as Malfoy steps through the door. He turns his head slightly, enough to see that his face is bright red and he’s chewing his lip in a failed attempt to hide a smile.
And then he closes the door in Harry’s face.
Despite that, or maybe because of it, Harry cackles as he turns on his heel to head to his office. He spends the rest of the day with the memory of Malfoy, flushed and smiling shyly with stars in his eyes, on repeat in his mind.
It’s a pretty damn good day.
“”
Despite all of his worries from the morning, it would be a lie to say he doesn’t hope to see Malfoy at the Leaky Cauldron tonight. So, Harry uses his afternoon after Robards lets him go home early to take a long, overly thorough shower before spending far too much time attempting to tame his wild curls and pick out just the right outfit. Both endeavors fail somewhat miserably, which is why he now stands naked with still messy hair in the center of his bedroom, surrounded by piles of clothes and only 10 minutes left to decide what to wear before he has to leave.
One of his first ‘assignments’ from his mind healer when he started seeing her a year after the war was to buy himself clothes that fit and that were in a style that he liked. The wounds from the war had been too fresh, and Harry had taken to talking about his childhood instead. Healer O’Malley had been quick to assert that the lack of agency he’d felt in his childhood still impacted him into adulthood and would continue to do so if he didn’t take some control for himself. The easiest first step, according to her, was to dress the way he wanted to.
So, he took himself on a shopping spree, bought a whole new wardrobe full of clothes, and donated everything he hated. It’s an annual tradition, now, to get rid of clothes he doesn’t like anymore and replace them with items he does like. Healer O’Malley had been right, which had come as a shock at the time, but it had helped to stand in front of a mirror and appreciate what he saw. After that first raid on his closet, it became easier to make choices regarding his appearance, and now, seven years, seven new wardrobes, and a dozen tattoos later, he feels truly in control of how he presents himself to the world.
None of that control helps him, though, when it comes to choosing an outfit capable of impressing Draco Malfoy.
There’s a voice in the back of his head screaming at him: “They’re just clothes! He’s just a guy! He needs to like you for you, not for the clothes you wear. Get a grip, Potter!” The voice sounds suspiciously like Ron. It’s true, of course, but he still wants to look good. Just in case Malfoy shows up.
He eventually settles on a pair of jeans that are just a touch too small but that make his arse look incredible, his red Converse, and a red button-down that hugs his arms nicely. He rolls the sleeves up to his elbows and slides on Sirius’s old leather jacket before inspecting himself in the full-length mirror on his closet door.
Hot, he thinks, reaching a hand up to ruffle his hair. It looks better messy, he decides. With a wave of his wand, all the clothes go flying back to their hangers and drawers, and when Harry finally apparates to the Leaky Cauldron, he’s only 10 minutes late.
It ends up being a good day to be late because only a few of his friends are there when he arrives. Ron is there, having got permission to leave early like Harry had, and so are Neville and Luna, Dean and Seamus, and George and Lee, each set of couples curled in on each other as they always are. But Hermione isn’t there yet, and neither is Ginny, Parvati, Padma, or Theo.
Malfoy isn’t there either, but Harry tries not to dwell on it as he slides into a seat next to Ron and across from George and Lee and greets everyone at the table. Ron, bless him, has already been to the bar and ordered Harry a pint and a Firewhisky.
“The pint’s for courage in case he shows up,” Ron smirks, though he keeps his voice low to stop their friends from overhearing. “The Firewhisky to drown your sorrows in case he doesn’t.” Harry flips him off and throws back the Firewhisky like it’s a shot.
“You look good,” Lee says, but it’s not a compliment so much as a question. Harry never thinks much about his appearance for pub night, and he certainly never wears a button-down. “Finally planning to pick someone up for the first time in–how long has it been, Georgie?”
“Months,” George moans. “Harrikins desperately needs to get laid. Look at how tense he is.” He tuts and then smirks. “Maybe if he can’t get lucky, he’ll finally accept our invitation to come home with us–”
“Keep dreaming,” Harry laughs. He laughs a bit harder when he sees how red Ron is. He thinks perhaps he should feel offended or called out. It has been a long time since he’s had sex with anyone, the last being a Muggle woman he'd met in a club on Valentine’s Day, which was five whole months ago. But he takes George’s teasing because a dry spell is a much easier way to explain the tension in his shoulders than the truth is–that he’s so wound up because he hopes Malfoy shows up tonight. Not even that he talks to him, just that he shows up.
“Oh please, love,” Lee teases, brushing a strand of red hair from their husband’s face. “One of these days, you’ll have to accept that Harry’s never gonna join us. He’s a relationship man through and through.” They turn to Harry with an eyebrow raised and a hand still in George’s hair. “How many people have you hooked up with since the engagement ended?”
Harry hates that he doesn’t even have to think about it. “Seven.”
“And how long has it been?” Lee asks.
“Nearly five years,” Harry admits before taking a long drink of his beer to hide his blush.
Lee smirks and turns their head back to George. “Told you.”
“Merlin,” Ron grumbles. “Nearly five years.” He shoots Harry a sympathetic look, one that seems to say, I really hope this thing with Malfoy works out because five years is a long fucking time, mate.
Harry shrugs. The longer this conversation goes on, the more his confidence seeps out of him. It’s not a good feeling, especially when he tried so hard to look good, and Malfoy could be here any minute.
So could Theo, for that matter.
“Look, I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says after another long drink. “It’s not like I’m single because I want to be; I’m just…waiting for the right person. And I’m not gonna meet them if you lot make me feel like shit.” He hopes Ron reads through the lines: Don’t remind me of my past romantic failures when Malfoy could–quite literally–pop in at any moment.
Slowly, their friends trickle in one by one until the table is full, and laughter bounces off the walls, their conversations echoing loudly across the dingy pub. An hour in, and the only chair left empty is the one to Harry’s left; the one Harry had pulled up to the table–even under the scrutinizing gazes of George and Lee–in the hopes that Malfoy would show.
Two hours in, the raging fire of hope in his chest dwindles to a candle’s flickering flame as Harry orders his fourth Firewhisky.
Three hours and six glasses of Firewhisky in, Harry finally concedes that Malfoy isn’t coming.
Harry slumps forward in his chair, leaning heavily on the table in front of him. He sips his drink–number seven now–and ignores everything around him; his friends, their attempts to joke with him, the way the room tilts when he lifts his gaze to meet their eyes.
He feels foolish. The moment Ron had told him he’d invited Malfoy, he’d known there was very little chance he’d show. But what had he done? Gone and gotten his hopes up. Typical. Just like Harry, to make himself miserable.
The moment his glass is empty, he braces his hands on the table and tries to push himself to stand, but his arms feel like wet noodles, and his stomach lurches when he moves, so he resigns himself to lay his head on the table instead.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he shifts his eyes just enough to see Ron staring down at him sadly. He wonders bitterly what on Earth Ron has to be so sad about, but then the redhead’s lips thin and he says, “I’m sorry, mate. I didn’t think you’d take it so hard.”
Harry sighs. There are about a million things he wants to say–It’s not your fault, I didn’t think he was coming anyway, maybe next time, I didn’t think I’d take it so hard, either–but his head is swimming and the only coherent thought he has is made up, not of words, but of the memory of what Malfoy looks like when he laughs. “He’s just–” he chokes out, “–pretty .”
Ron chuckles, and although Harry knows he’s laughing at him, he can’t bring himself to care. “I know, mate, I know.”
“You still think it’s weird,” Harry accuses. He draws his eyebrows together, hoping he looks mad, but Ron just laughs again.
“Yeah, mate, that’s because it is weird,” he says. Harry wants to feel upset at his friend’s words, but he quickly calms when he starts to rub circles on his upper back. The friendly touch feels nice. “Come on, Harry, let’s get you home.”
“No,” Harry protests, drawing out the ‘o’ until it sounds less like an argument and more like a whine. “What if–what if I leave, and then Malfoy comes?”
“I’m sorry, Harry, but I really don’t think he’s coming,” Ron says gently. Harry huffs. He knows Ron’s right, but acknowledging it makes his eyes all wet. “Awe, don’t cry, mate, I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.” Harry hears a thud and a voice that sounds like Hermione, though she’s too far away for him to understand anything she says. “Yeah, yeah,” Ron grumbles. “Look, even if he does show up, do you really want him to see you drunk and teary?”
Begrudgingly, Harry shakes his head ‘no.’ The motion makes him dizzy, and then there’s bile rising in his throat. He reckons he has about 10 minutes before he starts vomiting. Maybe home isn’t such a bad idea.
“Home,” he whispers. He’s worried that Ron won’t hear him, but he must because a moment later, his best friend is dragging him to his feet, bearing most of his weight with an arm wrapped around his waist, and helping him through the floo to Grimmauld Place.
As soon as he steps through, he feels a burning in his chest, and then Hermione is in front of him with an empty pot. Without further warning, he empties the contents of his stomach while Ron holds him steady and Hermione brushes her fingers through his hair. He doesn’t realize tears are streaming down his cheeks until Hermione wipes them away with her thumbs.
When he finishes, Hermione vanishes the sick from the bowl, and she and Ron lead him up to his bedroom. Some part of his alcohol-soaked brain is conscious enough to be glad he spelled his clothes back on the hangers before he left. He already feels pathetic enough without his friends knowing how much time he spent choosing a damn outfit.
As quickly as they can without jostling him, Ron and Hermione help him out of his clothes, not bothering to put him in pyjamas. They know from experience that he’ll just get hot and sweaty overnight in his drunken state, so they help him into bed wearing only his pants.
He thinks, maybe, that he should be embarrassed for them to see him like this, but he knows they’ve seen him in much, much worse states. Still, he can’t stop himself from mumbling, “I’m sorry,” as they tuck him into bed.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione says softly. She reaches to push the sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead, and Harry loves her all the more for it. “I know it’s hard, but try not to take it personally, darling. These things are hard for him.”
“I know,” Harry whispers. He does know, and the last thing he wants is for Malfoy to be uncomfortable, but that doesn’t make it any less disappointing.
“And, well…it was Ron who invited him,” Hermione continues. Her nails scratch against his scalp, and his eyes flutter closed. “You should be the one to invite him to the next one. Maybe he’ll show up if it’s you.”
It’s a nice thought, but aside from blushing and smiling when Harry flirts, he’s shown absolutely no interest in Harry. He has no reason to think that his invitation would elicit a different response than Ron’s. But even as the world spins around him and Hermione’s voice drifts in and out, he still knows that all she’s trying to do is comfort him, so he responds, “Maybe,” in the hopes that she feels like she helped.
“We should go,” Ron says from the doorway. “We need to get Rose from Mum and Dad.”
It’s quiet for a moment, and then Harry feels Hermione’s cool lips against his warm forehead. “Goodnight, Harry. Send an owl when you wake up, so we know you’re okay.”
Harry barely has the chance to notice her stand up before sleep claims him.
“”
Harry dreams of starry eyes and silver dragons and skin as pale as the moon. And when he wakes, he knows three things for certain.
First, he drank far too much last night. His head is pounding and the sun shining through the curtain makes him feel like he’s been stabbed in the eye, and within 20 seconds, he’s in the bathroom, bent over the toilet. He thinks he probably hasn’t been so hungover since his breakup with Theo five years ago. The thought sends another wave of nausea through him, and he picks his head up off the cool porcelain of the toilet seat to throw up some more.
Second, he has the greatest friends in the world. The first thing he sees when he drags himself back into his bedroom is a hangover potion on the bedside table. He nearly cries tears of joy as he unstoppers the bottle and swallows the whole potion in one go. Once that’s down, he notices the glass of water, which he gulps down greedily, and a note in Hermione’s neat penmanship: Harry, I hope you’re feeling better this morning. Don’t forget to eat some breakfast and drink lots of water today! Send an owl when you can. After so many years of being her friend, he knows it’s best to do as she says, so he fries himself up some eggs and sausage and drinks another full glass of water while he eats. Then, he writes a note, (Just had breakfast. Thanks for the potion. Love you both lots. Give Rosie kisses from me.) and ties it to the ankle of Ginger, the tawny owl he got about a year ago at Healer O’Malley’s encouragement, and sends the bird off to Ron and Hermione.
Third, the best use he can imagine for his excessive inheritance is to spoil Malfoy rotten, and he knows exactly what he wants to buy him first.
There’s only one problem.
“Is it weird to buy jewelry for someone you’re interested in from the same place you bought an engagement ring for your ex?” Harry asks Lee and George. The jeweler he wants to visit is in Diagon Alley, just a few shops down from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The convenient location makes them the perfect friends to bother with his romantic qualms.
“Is this about Malfoy?” Lee asks with a smirk.
Harry’s heart gets stuck in his throat. “What do you mean?”
Lee and George share an amused look and then laugh in unison. “I hate to break it to you, but you wouldn’t shut up about him last night,” Lee informs him.
George puts on an overly dramatized sad face and blubbers, with his voice up an octave, “Oh, Malfoy’s so pretty, he’s so beautiful and smart and funny, oh I wish Malfoy was here so I could snog him silly, oh I’m so sad Malfoy doesn’t love me enough to come to pub night–”
“Alright, alright,” Harry interrupts his mocking. His face is hot, and he knows without a doubt that he must look like a tomato. “I get it. I’m pathetic. Will you just answer my question?”
“Why are you looking for a jeweler?” George asks, and his tone is more serious now, but his face is still lit up with mischief. It’s a look he rarely gets since Fred died, although it happens more frequenty when Lee’s around. “A bit too early to propose, don’t you think?”
“I–rings aren’t the only thing a jeweler makes, you know,” Harry huffs. He turns his gaze to Lee, who shoos away their teasing husband before turning their attention to Harry, who still feels the need to defend himself. Instead, he says, “Your husband’s full of shit.”
“Yeah,” Lee agrees with a smile that’s a bit too dreamy for a comment that was meant to be an insult. Really, Harry thinks it’s the word ‘husband’ that gets them all gooey, rather than the rest of the sentence. The wedding was only two months ago, and they’re both utter saps. They’ve been swooning at every reminder that they’re married since the night they got married.
“For the record,” Lee says, finally coming back down to Earth, “I wouldn’t say it’s weird, per se, but I wouldn’t do it myself. I can give you the name of the the jeweler that made mine and George’s rings, if you like? He’s just as good as Nighweather, if you ask me, he just takes a bit longer to get orders filled.”
“Yeah, alright,” Harry agrees. Lee smiles and goes to the checkout counter for a piece of parchment to write the jeweler’s information, and then with a wave to Lee and a middle finger to George, Harry turns on his heel and apparates to the alleyway in Holyhead that Lee listed on the parchment.
The jeweler’s name is Humphrey Norfurt, and he’s a short, spirited old man and, based on what he displays in his case, a damn fine craftsman. He sketches as Harry describes his idea, offering suggestions to make the design prettier or more durable, and in the end, the design is exactly what he wants.
Mr. Norfurt is happy to inform him that it should only take until Thursday to finish and that he can pay when he goes to pick it up, to ensure maximum satisfaction. Harry pays him the entire fee upfront anyway. He can’t imagine it’ll be anything less than perfect.
“”
For the first time in what might be years, Harry is excited to go to work on Monday morning.
Scratch that.
Harry is excited to see Malfoy on Monday morning.
Once he’s showered and dressed, he’s eaten breakfast and his teeth are brushed, Harry checks his appearance in the bathroom mirror, playing with his curls to get them charmingly messy. “No chickening out,” he tells himself. “Be a Gryffindor. C’mon, man.” He rolls his shoulders back, determined to look poised and confident, before walking downstairs to floo to the Ministry.
In the past three months of watching Malfoy, he’s learned a fair few things. Firstly, he always arrives at work early. It’s why Harry leaves home a half hour earlier than he usually would. Secondly, Malfoy loves mochas from the cart on the Ground Floor of the Ministry, but he only buys them on Fridays. So, the first thing he does when he arrives at work is step in line at the little coffee cart. Thirdly, Malfoy gets started on his work as soon as he arrives, not stopping to chat until he has time to break for lunch. It’s how Harry knows when he approaches the dungeon door that Malfoy is inside alone.
Mocha in hand, Harry knocks three times, strong and confident.
It takes a minute for Malfoy to get to the door, but Harry isn’t deterred. He imagines he doesn’t get many visitors first thing in the morning before most people have even arrived at the office. When he finally does open the door, the sight of him takes Harry’s breath away.
He looks different in his lab than he does in the hallway, but no less handsome. He dons his all-black brewing cloak, which covers every inch of skin from his neck to his ankles, but he isn’t wearing his goggles or gloves, so he must not be working on anything too volatile. Even though the cloak fits loosely, covering the intricate curves of his body, he looks beyond gorgeous in it.
His hair is pulled back into a low bun, not a single strand out of place, and Harry wants nothing more than to wrap his fingers in it and use it to drag him forward, to angle his head up towards his so he can press his lips against Malfoy’s–
“Mocha?” he interrupts his own train of thought before it gets out of hand.
Several emotions flit across Malfoy’s face–annoyance, confusion, surprise–only to finally land on something that Harry can’t quite name, something with soft eyes and a softer smile and pink patches over his freckled cheeks. The closest word Harry can think of is fond , but he’s not about to fool himself into thinking that Malfoy feels anything akin to fondness for him.
“I–mochas are my favorite,” Malfoy says quietly. His gaze drifts from the coffee cup to meet Harry’s eyes, but the soft look in them doesn’t change. “I usually only get them on–”
“Fridays,” Harry finishes for him. He holds out the cup and is almost surprised when the other man slowly wraps his fingers around it and accepts the gift. “I know they’re your favorite. You’ve ordered one every Friday since you started working here.”
“So, all the staring does come with perks,” Malfoy teases.
Harry’s heart stutters in his chest. He can’t help but think about the necklace he just bought that cost him a ludicrous amount of money, just because Harry couldn’t get Malfoy’s eyes out of his head. The eyes that are currently looking at him with that silver sparkle that makes him want to hand the world over to him.
“You have no idea,” he finally says. He watches intently as Malfoy sinks his teeth into his lower lip.
“Thank you,” he whispers, even though there’s no one else around. It sends a shiver up Harry’s spine. “For the coffee. And…I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the pub on Friday. I heard you were a little…disappointed.”
Harry’s mouth goes dry. The idea of someone telling Malfoy that he got drunk and cried because he didn’t come to the pub is a whole new level of embarrassment that he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before–and he’s experienced a lot of embarrassment. He vows to himself to find out who spilled, and how much they said.
In the meantime, he swallows thickly and pushes down whatever embarrassment has arisen and whatever disappointment still lingers. “It’s alright,” he smiles. He hopes he looks like nothing’s amiss. “Another time, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Malfoy agrees. He smiles softly, and wrinkles form around the corners of his eyes. Harry wants to kiss them.
Instead, he says, “Have a good day, Malfoy.”
And Malfoy says, “You too, Potter.”
Harry turns and walks away before he can do something stupid.
“”
And so, a new routine is born.
Every morning, Harry arrives at the Ministry 30 minutes early. He gets in line at the coffee cart and orders a mocha for Malfoy and nothing else. He gets in the lift and rides down to Level Two, and instead of turning left toward the Auror offices, he turns right toward the dungeon. He knocks sharply three times on Malfoy’s door, and when Malfoy opens, he hands over the coffee, they chat for 10 minutes, and then Harry leaves for work before his resolve weakens enough for him to throw caution to the wind and kiss him.
Every morning, Malfoy’s eyes soften when he thanks Harry for the coffee, and every morning their fingers brush when he takes the cup from Harry’s hand into his own.
They talk about something new every day.
On Tuesday, Malfoy has his earbuds around his neck when he opens the door, and they talk about music. Malfoy, Harry finds out, loves Muggle music. Prefers it, even, to Wizarding music. His favorite is Coldplay, though his guilty pleasure is NSYNC.
(“Justin Timberlake is just so…you know?” Draco asks dreamily.
Harry laughs, but he can’t help but agree. “Justin Timberlake is just so,” he nods, and Draco smiles.)
On Wednesday, they talk Quidditch. There had been a preseason game the night before–Puddlemere versus Falmouth–and, as both Harry and Malfoy are avid Falmouth Falcons fans, they had both listened to the game on the wireless while they ate dinner.
(“We should listen to the next game together,” Harry suggests. “I hate listening alone. Maybe you can come ‘round to mine. We’ll get takeaway.”
Malfoy blushes at this, and Harry feels a surge of affection. “That sounds fun,” Malfoy says, his lips upturned in that small smile of his that drives Harry up the wall.
“Next Tuesday?” he asks.
“It’s a date,” Malfoy answers. His face turns beet red. Harry thinks maybe he didn’t mean to phrase it that way, but it still makes his stomach flip.)
On Thursday, Harry is a mess of nerves. The necklace should be ready by that afternoon, and Harry plans to apparate straight to Holyhead as soon as he gets off work to pick it up. And then tomorrow…well, tomorrow, he’ll finally get to give it to Malfoy.
It sort of makes him want to sick up all over the floor, but he holds his composure, and if Malfoy notices anything amiss, he doesn’t say anything.
That morning, they talk about the dragon that Hagrid tried to keep all the way back in first year before their conversation evolves into something…more.
Harry has absolutely no idea how they managed to get onto the subject, but he bursts into laughter at the self-righteous look on Malfoy’s face when Harry confirms that he and Hermione did indeed sneak a dragon off Hogwarts grounds.
(“I knew it!” he all but shouts between fits of laughter. “Oh, Merlin, I’ve been second-guessing what really happened for years. I bloody knew it, you absolute wanker, you made me think I’d made it all up!”
Harry is so lost in the way Malfoy laughs that he nearly doesn’t answer. “Nope, it really did happen.”
“How the hell did two 11-year-olds even manage to smuggle a fucking dragon?” he asks, looking at Harry incredulously.
“Honestly, Malfoy, we’d been dealing with your feistiness for months at that point, so we were pretty well equipped,” Harry teases. “A baby dragon has nothing on you. Talk about an accurate namesake.”
Malfoy’s eyes soften in that way that’s almost-but-not-quite fond. “Draco.”
“Er…yeah, your namesake Draco,” Harry agrees, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I don’t–”
Malfoy rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “No, you berk. Call me Draco.” Harry’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. He certainly hadn’t expected that. “We’re not in some schoolyard rivalry anymore, Potter. We’re…friends. Right?”
Harry swallows. More than friends, hopefully, he wants to say. But not yet. The thought of saying it out loud makes his stomach churn. That’s what the necklace is for. Instead, he nods. “Yeah. We’re friends.”
“Right,” Malfoy–no, Draco–clears his throat. “So, we can be on a first-name basis, now.”
“I completely agree,” Harry smiles. “Draco.”
“Harry.” The sound of his name coming from Draco’s lips, the way it rolls off his tongue in that posh accent of his, makes Harry dizzy.
“For the record,” Harry’s grin widens, shifting from adoration to mischief. “We were not schoolyard rivals–you were my arch-nemesis.”
“I–you–what?” Draco sputters. He rubs his face in exasperated disbelief. “I feel like maybe–just hear me out–maybe you should consider your arch-nemesis to be Lord fucking Voldemort and not some nasty kid spewing idiotic shit in the courtyard. I mean, honestly Harry, your arch-nemesis? And why the fuck are you smiling, you big, dumb man?”
Harry shrugs. He really has been smiling at Draco this whole time in a combination of amusement and awe. He can’t seem to stop himself. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”
Draco’s entire face goes red, and his eyes widen. He quickly wipes the shock from his face, replacing it with a mask of curious skepticism. “Is that why you spent so much time in school provoking me?”
“No,” Harry answers casually. “I provoked you because you were my arch-nemesis–”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Draco groans, and Harry barks out a laugh. “You know what? Just–” He looks down at his watch. “It’s already past 8, you’re late for work. Get out of my dungeon.”
“It’s worth being late if it means talking to you,” Harry says, even though it’s the cheesiest line on the planet. Still, he laughs when Draco shoves his shoulder, and then Draco laughs, too, and Harry’s heart feels two sizes too big for his chest.
“Go!” Draco laughs. It’s bright and free, and Harry wants to trap the sound in a jar so he can listen to it every day for the rest of his life. “Get out of here. I’ll see you later.”
“Promise?” Harry asks cheekily as he walks backward away from the dungeon door.
“Go,” Draco demands, but his cheeks are pink, and he’s still smiling, even as he shakes his head and turns around to go back inside the dungeon, closing the door softly behind him.)
On Friday, the routine changes. Harry doesn’t want to give Draco the necklace in person. He can’t explain why, but he feels deep down that the right move is to leave it on Draco’s desk before he shows up for work and to let Draco come to him.
He picked it up from the jeweler, just as he had been planning, the previous day after work. It turned out exactly how he wanted it to. The Draco constellation. The stars are represented by diamonds with thin lines of silver connecting them, hanging on a silver chain. It’s gorgeous. Perfectly suited for someone as lovely as Draco Malfoy. And sure, it cost a small fortune, but it’s hard to care when he can picture with perfect clarity exactly how elegant it’s going to look against the porcelain skin of his slim throat and sharp collarbones.
Harry wakes up extra early that Friday morning, arriving at the Ministry nearly an hour before he expects Draco to be there, just in case. He stops at the cart, which is opening for the morning as Harry approaches it, and orders a mocha. He goes down, as always, to Level Two and then to the door of the dungeon. The door that, per Ministry policy, is always left unlocked in case of emergency.
Harry’s heart rushes, pounding against his chest as he opens the door. Once he’s in, he sets the coffee on Draco’s desk and casts a stasis charm on it so that it doesn’t cool before he arrives. Out of his pocket, he pulls the small, black, velvet box. He opens it one last time, just to make sure all is right, or maybe just to get one last glance at it before he commits to the gift. Satisfied, he shuts the box and places it next to the coffee.
Once more, he reaches into his pocket, this time pulling out a folded slip of parchment, where he’s written a short message–
Draco,
I’ve always liked the Black family tradition of naming children after stars. If you ask me, it’s only fitting that you’re one of the rare few named for a whole constellation. After all, one star wouldn’t be nearly enough to hold all of your light.
Love,
Your Not-So-Secret Admirer
He places the note under the corner of the box, and then Harry leaves the dungeon and goes to his office to start his working day.
“”
The knock comes at 7:42 am. Except it’s not so much a knock as it is a constant hammering on his door. Harry swallows. Here’s the moment of truth. He stands from his desk, rolls his shoulders back, and goes to open the door.
The moment he does, Draco pushes past him into the office in a frenzy. The black velvet box is in his hand, and the look on his face is nearly indiscernible. His whole face is pink, his eyebrows are raised, and his eyes are wide and shining. He’s breathing heavily, and Harry wonders if it’s from the necklace or if he hurried to his office so quickly that it wiped him out.
Harry closes the door.
As soon as he does, Draco snaps open the box and thrusts it toward him. “What is this?” he demands. His voice shakes on the last word. Draco doesn’t seem to notice, but Harry does.
“A necklace,” Harry answers calmly. He still can’t tell quite how Draco feels about it, whether he’s angry or upset or nervous or hopeful. Until he figures it out, he needs to stay as neutral as he can manage.
“Yes, obviously,” Draco snips and makes a face that Harry can clearly tell is of aggravation. It softens almost immediately, and his hand drops to his side. He bites at his lower lip. “Why?”
The question catches Harry off guard. “…Why is it a necklace? A bit existential for eight in the morning, but–”
“No, you berk,” Draco huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. The insult, oddly enough, only makes Harry smile. “Why did you give it to me?”
His voice cracks as he says it, and his eyes do that thing–the look that’s something close to fondness, but maybe not quite. It’s the tell that he’s been waiting for, the tick that tells Harry that he likes the gift. He wants it. But before he can accept it, he has to understand. It gives Harry the confidence and assurance he needs to be flirty about it.
So, he smiles at Draco, a twist of the mouth that’s almost a smirk, and he takes a slow step toward him. Draco takes a slow step back. It’s reminiscent of their first conversation. Harry almost can’t wrap his mind around the fact that it’s only been a week. He feels like he’s been falling into Draco’s orbit for far, far longer than that. “Because I wanted to.”
This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy Draco. His face turns the sweetest shade of pink, and his eyes narrow accusingly. “I don’t–I’m not–I didn’t ask for a–a sugar daddy or something. If that’s what this is, I don’t want it.”
Harry raises an eyebrow and chuckles. He takes another step closer to Draco. Draco takes another step away. This time, his back hits the wall. “Did I offer to be your sugar daddy?” Harry asks. Draco goes from pretty pink to dark red. There’s still a foot of space between them, and all Harry wants is to close that gap, but–no. Not yet. “It’s a gift, Draco. Most people say thank you.”
“I–yes, well,” Draco stutters. His eyes dart across the room to avoid meeting Harry’s. “I’m not most people. Why did you do this?”
“I already told you,” Harry murmurs. His voice comes out low and husky. He shuffles a bit closer to Draco and watches the bob of his Adam’s apple rapturously when he swallows. “I wanted to.” He leans forward to brace himself against the wall, forearm propped against the stone next to Draco’s head, just like it had been a week ago.
Draco’s eyes finally find his. Harry wants to drown in the mercury pools, in the liquid starlight that dances around his pupils. “Why?” he whispers.
Harry acts without thinking. He reaches a hand up and tucks a piece of hair, not yet up in a bun, behind Draco’s ear. He lets his fingers wander, tracing along the sharp curve of his jaw and down to his pointed chin. And then he hooks a finger underneath it to angle Draco’s face toward his. He nearly loses his nerve when he hears Draco’s breath catching in his throat. They’re close now–too close. Harry can feel Draco’s body heat through too many layers of clothes. His warm breath fans gently across his lips. He can just make out the blue in his eyes past his long, blond lashes.
Harry’s heart is pounding, but he knows he can’t back down. Not now. Not when Draco is looking at him with a reverence he’s never known, practically melting under Harry’s fingertips. In a moment of weakness, he moves his thumb from Draco’s chin to his bottom lip and swipes gently across the soft, plush skin.
“Because pretty boys deserve pretty things.”
Draco gasps, his eyes fluttering closed. Harry takes a moment to commit this to memory. His face is as close to pleasure as Harry’s ever seen, as close as he’s ever been to having Draco beneath him. Harry shudders at the thought, arousal coursing through his veins. He never wants to look away.
For a moment, he considers kissing him. He’s so close, all he has to do is lean forward–just an inch. Maybe two. But he’s already unloaded a lot on Draco today, between the necklace and the note and the compromising position they’re in at this very moment. So, instead of kissing him, he pushes himself off the wall and takes a step backward, and then another.
When Draco opens his eyes, they’re shimmering, his pupils blown wide. One simple glance down confirms his suspicions–Draco is just as turned on as he is.
It only takes a moment, though, for the blissful, fucked out look on his face to morph into one of mild panic as he remembers where he is and what just happened. Harry can’t blame him. His skin is hot and itchy, from arousal, yes, but also from the realization that he just nearly jumped Draco’s bones at work.
“I have to–I’m late. I have to go,” Draco stutters. His face is pretty pink again, and the sight of it renders Harry unable to regret any of what just happened. He only hopes that Draco feels the same as he pushes past Harry to pull the door open.
He has one foot out when he freezes. He turns ever so slightly, a shy smile pulling at his lips. “Thank you,” he whispers, so quietly that Harry almost doesn’t hear. And then he turns back, and just like that, he’s gone.
“”
“I can’t believe you almost fucked Malfoy in your office,” Ron guffaws. Hermione smacks him on the arm in place of a lecture.
Harry, frankly, isn’t paying much attention. Certainly not enough to correct his friend–he did not almost fuck Draco, thank you very much. (At least, that’s what he’s telling himself.) As soon as the trio sat down in the canteen for lunch, he gave them the abridged version of what had happened that morning, and the moment he was done telling it, he mostly spaced out. Now, he’s staring at the door, just waiting for Draco to walk in.
It’s not unusual for the blond to take his lunch at a different time than the trio. As Aurors, Harry and Ron’s lunch hour is unpredictable. It ends up being a coin toss most days whether Hermione is able to join them.
Usually, Harry isn’t quite so obsessive about when Draco enters the canteen, but the stakes are higher today. He has to know–he has to know –if Draco is wearing the necklace. If he isn’t, Harry might genuinely have to go into hiding. It’s the only way he’d be able to cope with the humiliation.
“Are you even listening to us?” Hermione asks, though she sounds more amused than upset, so Harry answers honestly.
“Not even a little bit.” He reaches blindly for the food on the plate in front of him and grabs the first thing his hands land on–a chip–not even looking down as he brings it to his mouth.
Ron snorts. “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Absolutely whipped.” Harry raises a middle finger at him, and both he and Hermione laugh.
“I thought you weren’t listening to us, oh, Loverboy,” Hermione teases. Harry waves her off, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees her roll her eyes at him before she turns back to Ron and starts up a new conversation–something about Rosie, or maybe a law she’s trying to push through the Wizengamot.
Harry works his way through a few more chips before the canteen door opens, and Draco steps through. Just like that, the room softens. The bright white, almost clinical lights turn to moonlight, and the accompanying starlight comes from his shining silver eyes. Silver eyes that dart across the room, looking for something, looking, looking, until they freeze on Harry. A small smile forms on his soft pink lips.
For a moment, Harry’s heart stops. The world seems to tilt on its axis because there, on the pale expanse of skin beneath his collarbones, lies the silver pendant of a necklace, inlaid with diamonds. Draco’s namesake constellation sparkles almost as much as he does.
He doesn’t even realize he’s wearing a huge, stupid smile until he drags his eyes back up to meet Draco’s, and he finally notices that the other man’s face is painted entirely pink. Harry bites his lip in the hopes it will rein in his smile, and then, in a moment of bravery, he raises his fingers to his lips and blows Draco a kiss.
His face darkens and his eyes widen slightly, but not a second later, in what must be a moment of bravery for Draco as well, he blows a kiss back.
Harry’s heart stutters in his chest as he watches Draco turn his red face away and walk to his usual lunch table, where he sits with Theo and a few people from other departments that Harry doesn’t recognize.
“I’m gonna end up falling in love with him,” slips out of his mouth unbidden.
A hush falls over their table, and when Harry finally tears his eyes away from Draco to look at his two best friends, they’re both staring at him with wide eyes and gaping mouths. And, okay, that’s fair. He just dropped a pretty big bomb on them. But he doesn’t take it back. He doesn’t think he can, even if he wants to, because it’s completely true. It’s the truest thing he’s said in a long, long time.
And it scares the shit out of him.
It’s been five years since his breakup with Theo. Five years since he faced the agonizing, soul-crushing heartbreak that he thought would never dissipate. The heartache that ground him down into the earth and that refused to relent for years.
Even when his broken heart finally sewed itself back together a few years later, he could never deny that there would always be a piece of him missing. A piece that belongs to his first love. It was why he believed he’d never fall in love or be happy again. It was why he wasted three months on passing ‘hellos’ in the halls of the Ministry before Draco finally came to speak with him. It was why Draco had to come to him before the feelings that had been burning under the surface of his skin, just low enough for him to ignore, could boil over.
And now that he knows it, he can’t unknow it. He can’t go back to nine days ago, before Draco inserted himself in his life and unfeel these feelings. He can’t go back to pretending that what he feels is little more than obsession or infatuation. He is going to fall in love with Draco Malfoy. It’s inevitable, like the collision of two stars that have been orbiting each other for hundreds of thousands of years. Harry is going to fall in love with Draco Malfoy, and it’s going to create a supernova. It’s going to be big and beautiful and outrageously terrifying, and yet–and yet .
There’s a voice in the very depths of his soul that tells him they were always destined for this. From the moment that Harry first saw him in Madame Malkin’s when he was 11 years old, they were always headed here. Because years and years of fighting and arguing and pissing each other off can create hatred, sure. But it can create more. It can create passion and fire, and it can draw two people closer than they ever thought possible.
It feels like destiny, this thing he’s started with Draco. It feels like it was always meant to be this way. And the thought of that shakes him to his core. He can’t stand to have his heart broken again. He barely survived it the first time. But he knows now that he has to take the risk. He’s going to fall in love with Draco Malfoy whether he wants to or not. Whether he’s trying to or not. There’s no universe in which he doesn’t. And isn’t it better to have his heart broken because he tried and failed rather than because he was too afraid to try in the first place?
So, Harry swallows his fear, swallows his anxiety, swallows the minuscule voice in the back of his head telling him that, even after all this time, to fall in love again is a betrayal. He straightens his shoulders and stares the truth head-on.
Because if he’s going to fall anyway, he might as well dive in head first.