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The outdoor market isn’t Harry’s idea.
It’s not Hermione’s, either. At least—Harry’s pretty sure she didn’t organise the outdoor market, then plant the leaflet on a notice board near the exit of the shop.
All Hermione does is notice the leaflet. She’s come shopping with Harry because she thinks he’s becoming a recluse.
Harry is not becoming a recluse. He goes to Sunday brunch at the Burrow at least twice a month. He’s at the shops right now, isn’t he? In full view of the public!
The public of Godric’s Hollow, anyway, and good for him, because it’s a bitter Tuesday at the arse-end of February and nobody wants to be out of arm’s reach of a fireplace.
“Oh!” says Hermione as Harry’s dropping his basket onto the stacker. Near the stacker, really, but that sort of thing doesn’t matter in Godric’s Hollow. A charm grabs the basket and snicks it into place. “An outdoor market!”
“Don’t need one, do we? We’re at, like, an indoor market.”
“No, Harry—look!”
The leaflet—handwritten on parchment—crinkles gently in the gusts from the shop door as an elderly wix comes in. A trolley wheels over to her from the corral as she unwraps her scarf from around her neck—unwraps and unwraps and unwraps. Might be the longest scarf Harry’s ever seen on a person. Miles of a bluish-green colour that reminds him of the Slytherin common room, which has nothing to do with Harry’s post-war life.
“—stall,” Hermione’s saying brightly when Harry remembers he’s meant to be looking at the leaflet. “I would, if I thought people would be interested in books.”
“They would be if you were selling them. You’re Hermione Granger.”
Hermione wrinkles her nose. Her red hat and scarf—berry more than Gryffindor—suit her medium-brown skin and set off her rosy flush from wearing both about the shop. “Such a distraction. I could use Polyjuice, but—”
“You want to sell books at the market?”
“I might, but what about you?”
“You want me to sell books at the market?”
“No.” Hermione takes his arm and pulls them both a step closer to the leaflet. “I thought you could have a stall at the market. You could sell your carvings.”
Spring is coming! The leaflet reads in cheery script in green and gold at intervals like flashes of sunlight. Magical market days will soon be here. Join us at St Jerome’s. Thursdays, 8 AM to 1 PM, 25 May to 12 October.
Harry is not becoming a recluse. Yes, he moved to Godric’s Hollow and spent a full year repairing his parents’ cottage and growing a beard as well as growing his hair out. Yes, he got rid of the beard and took up whittling when the house was done, then graduated to carving, then made a bit of a hobby of it while he mostly stayed in his cottage or in his garden. So what if he mostly carves adorable wee animals? So what if he has at least a hundred figurines?
That doesn’t mean he needs a stall at the outdoor market.
“I’m hungry,” says Harry. “Fancy the pub?”
Harry doesn’t think about the outdoor market for most of March.
Like—he knows about the market. He visits St Jerome’s most Saturday mornings, and even if he didn’t, it’s all of five minutes away from Potter Cottage. Also, he’s lived in Godric’s Hollow for, like, seven years, so Harry notices when the lane gets busier on market days.
Because he is not a recluse.
He goes out.
He just doesn’t fancy people staring at him in the weird, obvious way that most of them do, and every time he’s in a crowd—not often, these days—he can feel people’s eyes on him, which makes his skin crawl even when they’re not bumping into him, or knocking their elbows against his, or pushing too close to pass.
Harry doesn’t want that sort of touch, thanks.
If he wants any sort of touch, it’s the sort he gets from Ron and Hermione and—rarely—from the wider circle of people in their year, who don’t think Harry will shatter like glass if they put an arm around him.
And if sometimes after their Friday-night dinners Harry insists on watching a film—usually Shaun of the Dead—and insists on sitting in the middle and even drags Ron’s arms around him if he can’t wait, then it’s nobody’s business but his.
On the first Friday in April, Ron tips his chair back and starts singing while Hermione finishes scrawling some notes on a bit of parchment—some epiphany she’d had while they were eating lamb chops, apparently.
“Don’t you be afraid,” Ron sings. He’s still in the blue henley and jeans he wears under his Healer robes at St Mungo’s, but he’s got more colour in his pale, freckly skin now that it’s properly spring. Unlike Harry, Ron never grew a beard after the war, but he did grow his hair out, and his bun wobbles a bit when he tilts his head in rhythm with his tipping. “Come and take a sip…”
“Of this steamy, tasty treat,” Hermione warbles under her breath.
Harry’s about to say he fancies a film—Shaun of the Dead never gets less hilarious to Ron—when someone knocks on his front door.
Harry goes still, planning to pretend he didn’t hear the knock, but Hermione’s eyes flicker over to him and he is not a recluse so he hops up and goes.
“Coming,” he calls, his voice all weird and strange. Harry fumbles with his own front door and throws it open too forcefully. “Sorry, I—hello? Hi?”
“Hi!” The wix on his doorstep has bronze-brown skin really similar to Harry’s and long, dark hair flowing to her shoulders and a green knitted headband that he sort of likes, actually. “I’m coming ’round with an invitation! The outdoor market is up and running in a few weeks’ time, and this year we’ve got loads of—”
She presses a leaflet into his hands—spring is coming!—and then Ron and Hermione are on either side of Harry.
“Yeah, the market,” Ron says, and then he starts in on the sort of questions Molly would ask if she wanted to find out whether—how—a person was connected to the Weasleys, and within thirty seconds Ron’s got her name and the short version of why she’s not going to have a stall at the outdoor market this summer and how they were once at the same Ministry Yule party in nineteen eighty-eight and suddenly she’s holding out a clipboard with a form on it and a quill, and Harry takes the quill because he’s not a git all the time and he is not a recluse and Hermione’s whispering his own name into his ear and he’s writing it down on the form to sign up for a stall.
“You’ll love it,” says the wix. “You sure, though? I don’t want you to feel like I led you up the garden path!”
Harry hasn’t the faintest what garden path she’s talking about.
But Hermione’s all but vibrating next to him and Ron has his arm slung over Harry’s shoulders and Harry can almost see it in this moment—a sunny morning in May. A churchyard full of people, but not too full. His carvings, like, at the market.
“Yeah,” he answers. “I’m sure.”
Why did Harry ever sign up for the outdoor market? He’s a recluse, for Merlin’s bollocks’ fucking sake. A recluse who’s sweating through his shirt when it’s not even eight in the morning.
It’s two minutes to eight in the morning, actually, and Harry’s bloody late for the market.
The churchyard—which is on the other side of the church from the graveyard—is already full of stalls, most of them with colourful canopies. A row of carts and crates waits patiently by the low stone wall dividing the yard from the lane.
Everybody else is already here.
Harry might’ve freaked out a bit. Last night, he took a full hour to sort through his carvings and decide which ones he was willing to part with. This morning, he took the carvings out of the case he’d got and sorted through them a second time, then re-packed them again. Unpacked. Re-packed. And then he couldn’t find an elastic to keep his hair out of the way and spent fifteen minutes searching before he remembered he’s a wizard and Transfigured one from a bit of string.
So Harry’s got a jumble of carvings in the Shrunken case and a Shrunken folding table.
“Fuck,” whispers Harry, and digs the packet of parchments out of his pocket. It’s got loads of tips and tricks for the outdoor market, but he doesn’t have time for tips and tricks right now. He’s got time to find his assigned slot and that’s it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
A few people call out to him, but the other…sellers? Vendors? Outdoor marketers? Whatever. They’re all putting the finishing touches on their stalls.
He crumples the parchments beyond repair, but finally finds his slot: Row 3A, Slot 7.
Right. Harry rushes around the end of Rows 2A and 2B and finds an empty patch of grass between Slot 8 and Slot 6.
“Table,” he says, and heaves it out of his satchel. His hands shake so badly he un-Shrinks it into a lopsided mess and has to charm it right again. Harry doesn’t have a canopy. He didn’t think of canopies! He didn’t think of anything.
When he un-Shrinks his case, all the carvings fall out of their places. Oh, bollocks, there are voices at the other end of the row—people! There are people coming, and he’s got an empty table.
Harry strews his figurines about in a mad jumble, grips the edge of the table, and hauls himself to his feet.
Only to make direct eye contact with Draco Malfoy.
“Oh, Jesus,” says Harry, louder than he meant.
Draco Malfoy is at the outdoor market.
Draco Malfoy has seen Harry at the outdoor market.
He’s seeing him right now.
Harry could crawl under the table, which is sat crooked in his space.
He bends his knees, but no—there’s no cloth. It won’t hide him. He shoves his hand into the pocket of his jeans, hoping for the Cloak, but no—there’s no Cloak. He didn’t plan on being invisible at the outdoor market.
He’s definitely sweating now. His carvings are in a pile on a folding table with a huge pink stain on it—punch, maybe—and Draco Malfoy has, like, a full sitting room.
No—it’s just the impression of a sitting room. Draco Malfoy doesn’t have a canopy, but he’s got a lacy sunshade under the back half of his space. Underneath the sunshade is a cream-coloured loveseat and a cherry-wood end table with a book resting on its polished surface. He’s also got a cherry-wood wardrobe. It’s tall and arched like the Mirror of Erised and it’s got its doors thrown open wide, and all its shelves are lined with bouquets of flowers in glass vases, each one tied with a ribbon.
And Draco Malfoy—
Draco Malfoy—
Looks like—
He’s got trousers on! And a waistcoat! And a white shirt! And he’s grown his hair out, and it’s in a plait!
And Harry!
Has never been so hard!
In his life!
He’s going to be sick.
“Hi, Malfoy,” says Harry. “So—so weird. That you’re here, also. I’ve got to—” Harry glances down at his pile of carvings. Mistake. “I’ve got to go. Best regards or whatever.”
Harry tries to escape ’round the table, but when he gets to the open grass between their booths, Malfoy’s already there, and he takes Harry’s arm like—like he knows Harry! Like he knows how firm a grip Harry prefers. Like he knows loads of things.
“No,” Malfoy says. “It’s all right. Where’s your cash box?”
“What cash box?”
Malfoy steers Harry back ’round the table and plants him there. “Stand here.”
Harry stands there.
He can’t move or else he’ll be sick, so he just stands and stares as Malfoy bustles to his wardrobe, takes out his wand, and starts Levitating things out of its drawers.
Then he crosses the space between them, sun glinting in his starlight hair, and shakes out the white tablecloth he had for some reason.
“Levitate them,” he orders.
Harry sticks out his hands and Levitates his carvings.
Malfoy sweeps the tablecloth over Harry’s table and snaps it down. “Drop them.”
Harry drops the carvings.
Malfoy casts the second the carvings touch the tablecloth. They snick into neat rows with a larger space in the centre. Harry can’t take his eyes off Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers. His hands. Oh, God. “Prices?”
“I—” Harry didn’t think of prices. He didn’t even read the tips and tricks on those parchments. “I don’t—er—I’m a recluse.”
“You’re not a recluse anymore. You’re at an outdoor market.” Malfoy looks over the carvings, his silver-grey eyes narrowed until he spots the eagle owl. Then they go wide. “Are they magical?”
Harry taps the eagle owl’s head.
It unfurls its wings and flaps them like it’s going to fly. It will fly, if he urges it on a bit.
Malfoy’s face brightens. Oh, Merlin’s arsehole, he looks delighted, all wide-eyed and sparkling and pink. Harry’s heart flaps like the eagle owl’s wings.
You can have it, he thinks madly. Take it. Put it on your little shelf. Why have you got a wardrobe? How’d you get so fit? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?
But then Malfoy shakes his head, blinking himself out of it, and pulls the table straight. “Do you want to price based on—” A wix at the next stall laughs. Malfoy darts a glance over, then leans in. “How long do they take?”
“I dunno? Like—I dunno. Half an hour? An hour? But that’s only if I’m not trying, so—”
Malfoy Summons a bit of parchment from his wardrobe, then uses his wand to write 1 Galleon each. He attaches the sign to the tablecloth with a Sticking Charm, and then he’s gone.
Well—not gone. At his own stall. Slot 7, Row 2B.
Loads of people stop at Malfoy’s stall. They step into his sitting room and linger near his wardrobe and tilt their heads close to his, and Malfoy points at this bouquet or that one like it’s serious.
But he laughs a lot, also, and Harry’s chest gets all hot when Malfoy laughs at some stranger. Malfoy tips his head back when he laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He touches the person’s elbow with his long, elegant fingers when he laughs.
Harry’s elbows ache to be touched by those fingers. Those hands.
Malfoy’s hands. Jesus.
Midway through the morning, there’s a lull in the outdoor market. Malfoy spells new bouquets onto his shelves, then looks over his shoulder at Harry, who is—
Who’s just, like, staring at Malfoy.
Now that he’s been caught, there’s no point in stopping. What else is he meant to look at, anyway?
But then Malfoy turns all the way ’round and crosses his arms over his chest and hunches over, sort of glaring at Harry, which is when Harry realises in a sunburn flash of embarrassment that he is the one who’s been scaring people off by making them think he’s glaring at them when he’s actually just observing Malfoy.
Harry drops his arms and stands tall and puts a huge smile on his face.
Malfoy lets out a high, surprised ah! and nearly falls over laughing.
“Potter, you look—” Nobody’s ever been in fits over Harry. Not in, like, a good way. “You look deranged!” Malfoy says in that same shocked voice, then has to take himself off behind his wardrobe to get himself together.
The wardrobe doesn’t Muffle Malfoy’s giggles.
“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy says from behind the wardrobe, completely breathless. “Oh, Merlin, help me.”
Harry catches himself trying to fold his arms again and doesn’t. His heart’s an owlery now, full of flapping wings. That laugh. That laugh! It’s as warm as the sun on his skin and, like, new. It’s like stepping through the bricks onto Diagon Alley for the first time or seeing Hogwarts from that little wooden boat.
It’s like discovering a whole world was just here, waiting for him.
Malfoy comes out from behind his wardrobe in time to meet a wix who’s got seven shopping bags dangling from her arms already. He shades his eyes with his hand to keep from looking at Harry, but it doesn’t hide how he’s biting his lip, obviously trying hard to keep more giggles in.
Honestly, Harry hadn’t known he could make anyone laugh like that. He’d come to Godric’s Hollow in the first place because when people looked at Harry after the war, they mostly cried.
Now that he does know, he’s got to get better at this outdoor market.
Malfoy might be delighted by it, and that would be—
That would be good.
Harry spends the whole next week building himself an actual wooden stall with a canopy and thinking about Malfoy and his little sitting room and his waistcoat.
The next Thursday, he packs up his stall and his tatty carving chair and gets to the churchyard forty-five minutes early.
Malfoy’s already there, Levitating his sunshade onto posts.
“Malfoy,” says Harry, and nods to him.
“Potter,” Malfoy says, sort of absently, then seems to realise it’s really Harry who’s spoken to him. “Oh! Potter. I should hope you—”
Harry pulls his Shrunken stall out of his satchel and hurls it at the ground.
It pops open in midair and settles onto the grass, not crooked. His green-and-grey canopy with silver scalloped edges unrolls as a finishing touch.
“I brought a canopy,” Harry says loudly, trying to make light of it. He might pass out, actually, because on second glance, his canopy is all wrong for the outdoor market. It’s, like, too much. People don’t have scalloped edges trimmed with silver.
But Malfoy’s eyes are all big and bright. He looks astonished, and also pleased.
“So you have,” he says. “Well done.”
“Well done!” Harry says to himself that night as he’s coming to terms with the fact that he’ll have to wank if he has any hope of sleeping. He’ll have to wank about Malfoy. But it was well done, wasn’t it? Harry even chatted with the wix who sells pots of honey and miniature biscuits from the stall to the left of Harry’s. She told him about the magical outdoor market circuit. Grainsby near Grimsby on Fridays, Childwickbury near St Alban’s on Saturdays, that sort of thing. Harry slides his hand into his pants. “Well done.”
On the third outdoor market week, Harry nips to the church loo during the midmorning lull.
When he comes back out, one of Malfoy’s bouquets is sitting dead-centre in his stall, holding down the corner of his price sheet.
Harry gasps, reaches for it, and snatches his hand back.
Why is there a bouquet?
He can’t breathe. He can’t even think. It takes him ages to have one single thought because his lungs don’t work. What’s happening to him? It’s so, like, fierce. It’s so much!
Harry gets some oxygen into his bloodstream, and a word pops into his head:
Delighted.
He’s bloody delighted.
He didn’t know he could be delighted by flowers. By, like, white roses and yellow peonies.
“Malfoy,” says Harry, but Malfoy’s not in his sitting room.
Malfoy reappears a minute later carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. His cheeks are really pink.
“Malfoy,” Harry calls as Malfoy’s tucking the parcel into his wardrobe.
“Hmm?” Malfoy answers, not looking at him.
“Thanks for the flowers.”
“Oh, you’re quite welcome, Potter, it was—” Malfoy waves his hand. “The breeze was too much for your Sticking Charm.”
Harry wakes in the middle of the night like the realisation shook his shoulder and shouted his name.
That Thursday morning had been windless. No breeze at all.
On the fifth market day, Harry turns up an hour early. It’s a game, now, to see who can get there first. He spends most of his winning hour carving an elephant that can fit in his palm.
He hears Malfoy before he sees him—oh, hello and yes, what a morning and the weatherwix hasn’t called for rain, has she? all down the row.
Malfoy doesn’t so much as glance over at Harry’s stall. He just sets about spelling his things out of his bag, wardrobe first, his back turned.
Harry keeps rocking in his chair.
He finishes the elephant and puts it on the cloth-covered surface of his stall.
He opens his case and Summons some of his latest out of it.
Then he crosses the grass between his slot and Malfoy’s.
Malfoy’s very busy at his wardrobe, turning vases a tiny amount to the right, then to the left. He takes loads of little breaths like he’s going to say something, but doesn’t.
“Happy birthday,” Harry finally says, too loud.
Malfoy startles. “It’s not my birthday, Potter.”
“It was, though. Two weeks and three days ago.”
“Yes, I—yes. Thank you.”
“I said happy birthday, Malfoy.”
“You’ve been staring at me for over a month,” Malfoy grouses, still not looking at Harry. “Would it be at all possible to move on from calling me by my—”
“Draco. I said happy birthday. You’re meant to look. But fine.” Harry takes two big steps to Draco’s side and blows across the carvings hovering above his cupped palms. Three wooden butterflies flutter out of Harry’s hands. Each one flits to a different bouquet.
“Oh,” says Draco. “Their wings.”
Harry had strategically carved the wings quite thin. The butterflies could fly with thick wings, but that wouldn’t have looked nearly as, like, magical, so Harry made them nearly translucent.
Draco holds out his hand, his index finger extended. One of the butterflies bobbles over and lands on Draco’s last knuckle, and Draco shivers.
“They’re made of hawthorn?”
“Yeah,” Harry answers. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I haven’t the faintest what you’re talking about.”
“You gave me flowers and now you’re, like, avoiding me.”
“I am not avoiding you.”
“You won’t even look at me!”
Draco faces Harry so suddenly that Harry jumps back. He locks eyes with Harry, and Harry might faint. Draco’s so red. His cheeks. The tips of his ears. Even the bit of his throat above his collar.
“Ah!” Harry squeaks. “Jesus bollocks, okay, okay! I said I liked the flowers, didn’t I? I said—”
The butterfly, which had clung stubbornly to Draco’s finger, lifts off again. “Well, you might’ve changed your mind!”
“About the flowers?”
“Yes!” Draco tugs at his left sleeve, then crosses his arms over his chest. He looks a bit tired, with pale shadows under his eyes. “You might’ve decided they were…undesirable.”
“Why would I decide that?”
“For—” Draco glances about like a crowd might’ve gathered around his sitting room to listen. “—obvious reasons, Potter.”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest. “You didn’t grow them with a Dark Mark or anything. I would know. They’ve been on my bedside table for a week.”
“Your bedside table?”
“Never mind the table!” Harry’s hot all over, but at least he can blame it on the weather. It’s at least as dry and never-endingly sunny as the summer before fifth-year. “I spent the week, like, liking them, and carving a bit. Weren’t you busy?”
“Busy with what?” Draco narrows his eyes, but he’s still staring at Harry, which Harry can feel everywhere in his body and especially in his cock.
“At the other markets!” Harry gestures at the empty square of grass where the honey-wix will set up soon. Bollocks—that won’t help. Draco wasn’t there for that conversation. “You know! The circuit.”
Draco watches him, expression blank, like he’s never heard of another magical outdoor market.
“Ah, yes,” he says, not convincing at all. “Yes.”
Harry’s starting to feel like a massive twat. He’s starting to feel a bit ill, actually. His stomach turns. Of course he’d got the wrong idea with the butterflies. When have Harry’s ideas turned out to be right?
“Forget it.” He Summons the butterflies with a bit of wandless. Two of them come, but the third sits on one of Draco’s roses, ignoring Harry. “I’ll just take these—”
“No.” Draco shoots his hand out, his palm hovering over Harry’s wrist but not quite touching. “No, don’t, Pott—Harry. I like them.” Draco’s eyes have gone wide. Worried? He’s even redder than he was before. “I like them,” he says again, and touches Harry’s wrist.
The butterflies flap their way out of Harry’s hands. “You sure? Because you’re being really weird about them. And I—”
Harry doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s got that feeling in his chin like it’s about to dimple and a matching burn in his cheeks like he might cry. And that is not going to happen at the magical outdoor market.
“Thank you,” says Draco, soft and urgent. “Really. I—” He hesitates, his tongue flicking to the roof of his mouth. “They’re wonderful.”
“Yeah! They are!” Harry snatches the nearest vase from Draco’s shelf. “I’m taking these. You’re welcome.”
Harry goes back to his stall and thumps the vase onto his custom-fit table runner.
That’s when he actually, like, sees the bouquet: red roses and sunflowers. Gryffindor colours.
The rest of June is hot as blazes, and the first week of July is hotter.
Draco puts out a pitcher of iced tea on his sitting-room end table and gets a parade of customers. Harry carves two waist-high pinwheels and charms them to blow cold air and sells loads of his figurines to people drinking Draco’s iced tea.
“I’m surprised at you,” says Draco. “Here I am, bringing twice as much tea to preempt your thievery, and you don’t thieve.”
Harry shrugs. “Iced tea isn’t my favourite.”
“What is your favourite, then?”
Looking at you, Harry wants to say. How you bring me flowers every week even though you were so weird about the butterflies. How you look in a waistcoat. Your hair in that plait. Your face.
“Lemonade’s my favourite.”
July is a fever dream, and a waking fever, too.
Harry hides a different figurine in Draco’s wardrobe every week when he’s not looking.
Draco leaves a new bouquet at Harry’s stall every week when he’s not looking.
Harry watches Draco’s hands.
Draco watches—
Well, Harry’s not sure what Draco watches. He always looks like he’s studying Harry’s stall. Maybe he likes the canopy.
On the market day before Harry’s birthday, he arrives ninety minutes early.
Draco’s already there, stood in Harry’s patch of grass, a plate in his hands.
There’s a cake on the plate.
There are candles on the cake—a 2 and a 6—each one of them lit with a tiny rainbow flame.
And then Draco starts singing.
To Harry.
He flashes through about a hundred emotions, starting with oh bollocks fuck I should hide and sprinting through help help what do I do and finally touching down on I love this I love this I love this. This is, like, the most intimate thing Harry can imagine, besides shagging or maybe kissing, and he’s got to actively remember to breathe because he keeps getting overwhelmed with excitement and holding his breath.
“And I’ve been here since five, so you’d better like it, you irritatingly fit muppet,” Draco finishes, and holds out the cake a bit more.
Harry blows out the candles.
“Well done,” Draco cheers. “Do you want to have it now, or take it home?”
He whisks the cake away before Harry can answer, so Harry’s left to sling his satchel onto the grass and follow Draco into his sitting room. His heart is going mad.
“Did you say I was irritatingly fit just then?”
“I’ve decided for you.” Draco Levitates two plates onto his wardrobe shelf and gets forks and cloth napkins from one of the drawers. “We’ll eat it now. It’ll dry in the heat if we don’t, and that would be a terrible shame.”
“I’m irritated about how fit you are, too.”
“Are you really?” Draco says, like he’s not paying attention. “Oh! You’re welcome, Potter. I’ve brought lemonade as well.”
August decides it’s sick of the sun and pulls a sheet of clouds over its head, drawing the sky down close to the tower of St Jerome’s. Draco refuses to keep getting up earlier and earlier, so they make a pact to arrive at the same time, which still feels early because of the cloudy weather.
When it looks especially ominous, Draco comes over to Harry’s stall to stand under his canopy and peer up at the clouds. “Not until one,” he’ll say. “Not until everyone’s packed—is that understood?”
When it’s especially muggy, Harry comes over to Draco’s sitting room, slumps dramatically on the loveseat, and whinges until Draco brings him lemonade and pretends Harry’s too far gone to hold his glass himself. Then he holds Harry’s head up with one of his elegant hands and tips the glass to Harry’s lips with the other, and Harry dribbles lemonade on his shirt half the time because he can’t stop himself laughing.
It wouldn’t be so hard to ask Draco to the pub, would it?
Harry would just have to, like, say it.
He could do it in the gap between when Draco Shrinks his wardrobe and tucks it into his bag and when they leave the churchyard together.
Someday.
On the third Thursday of August, the air is clingy and damp under a steely sky.
That’s what Harry’s got a canopy for, isn’t it?
He gets to the churchyard exactly at seven, and Draco’s not there.
“What in Merlin’s bollocks,” Harry says to the stone wall. “Where is he?”
Draco rushes down the lane two minutes later, his eyes down and his lips in a thin line.
“You’re late,” calls Harry.
Draco glances at him. “Oh, Merlin, help me.”
“Help you with what?”
Draco’s answer is a sharp exhale, which is not Harry’s favourite.
He decides to be mature about it.
Harry tosses his stall and canopy and pinwheels out onto the grass, flicks them upright with some half-arsed wandless, and plants himself in his spot, arms crossed. He’s got more space than usual. The honey-wix isn’t here, and neither is the potion-wix who’s usually on Harry’s other side.
Draco’s a jittery butterfly in his slot across the aisle. He tries to put up his sunshade with only one post, then un-Shrinks his wardrobe facing the wrong way.
What did Harry do?
He glances down at himself.
The only thing different is his T-shirt. He usually wears a shirt with the name of a Muggle band on it as a bit of a joke, but today he couldn’t find the shirt he wanted, so he put on a plain white shirt instead.
Gusts of wind buffet Harry’s canopy. Draco’s sunshade swells like a balloon, nearly lifting his posts out of the grass. A mist of cooler air blusters over Harry’s nape.
So what if there’s a breeze wafting about? Harry’s not bothered. His figurines will be fine, and so will his pinwheels.
The elastic in Harry’s hair might not hold all of it together, but it’ll be enough.
Across the aisle, Draco goes still, both hands around one of his vases, face tipped towards the sky.
Draco’s hair is coming out of his plait.
Quite a bit of it’s coming out of his plait, actually. For a beat or two, it’s the only part of him that moves.
Then Draco snaps back into motion. He pushes the vase to the back of the wardrobe, shuts both doors, and Shrinks it down. He’s got his wand out the next second to Summon the sunshade. Draco Shrinks the posts and the loveseat and sends it all sailing into his bag.
It’s so fast. Draco’s fingers are so elegant on his wand. Why’s he being so weird? Harry can’t stand it!
In the middle of his show-offy packing—he’s quitting! He’s leaving! For no reason!—Draco turns ’round, his eyes landing on Harry, who’s still glowering.
“Potter,” he shouts over the wind and the snapsnapsnap of people’s canopies. Harry’s canopy, too. “Get your—”
A huge thunderclap drowns out whatever Draco was going to say. Lightning cracks above the church tower, bright and blinding. The hiss and drum of the rain comes right on its heels, rushing towards them from the stand of trees on the other side of the church.
Harry dives out of his stall ahead of the rain and shoves his hands together hard, then again, Shrinking all his stuff with an arseload of magic. His satchel reaches his hands in time for Harry to catch everything else.
“—church,” Draco’s shouting at him as more thunder rolls overhead.
It’s too loud for Harry to say no, not the church, it smells old in there and if it’s going to storm like this I’d rather be at mine, so he grabs Draco’s hand and runs.
The rain’s much faster than they are. It catches up to them at the kissing gate. Harry’s soaked in five seconds flat. The only dry part of him is his palm against Draco’s.
They sprint down the lane. Harry wants to scream from the wet clothes touching his skin and from holding Draco’s hand. He’s exhilarated. He’s out of his mind. There’s a bloody storm chasing them.
It’s dark when Harry takes a sharp right onto the path leading to Potter Cottage, dragging Draco with him. The front door throws itself open as they get close and slams itself shut behind them.
Draco drops his bag. Harry drops his satchel.
There’s no sound other than the thunder and the lightning and the rain rattling on the roof and Harry’s ragged panting and Draco’s quieter panting.
They’re, like, much closer together than Harry thought they’d be.
“This entryway’s really bloody narrow,” Harry says. “What’s wrong with you, by the way?”
Because Draco’s staring at Harry with his lips, like, parted. And even in the dimly lit entryway of Potter Cottage, his eyes glitter.
“Potter,” Draco starts, poshly strained and still panting a bit. “Your nipples are entirely visible through your shirt.”
Harry looks down.
Oh.
His soaked shirt is barely a shirt anymore.
Harry picks his head back up. “You’re angry about my nipples?”
Draco covers his mouth with his hand, breathing even harder. “I’m not angry about your nipples.”
“You sound sort of—”
It’s only a step—Harry’s entryway is really narrow—but Harry’s shocked at how fast Draco moves. He’s in Harry’s space in an instant. Draco doesn’t touch Harry with his hands, but he does touch Harry with the rained-on heat of him and his frantic magic.
“I’m not angry,” Draco says again. Either it’s the rain on the roof, or his voice is nearly shaking. “I want to touch you. I want to—” He makes fists of his long, elegant fingers and squeezes. “I want to—”
Harry takes two fistfuls of Draco’s sodden waistcoat and drags him closer and slightly down to kiss him.
Their wet clothes are going cold, but Draco’s mouth is hot. He pushes his long, elegant fingers into Harry’s hair and uses it to tilt Harry’s face this way and that way so Draco can lick into his soul.
Harry makes an animal sound into it. Draco crushes him harder against the wall, his hips pinned to Harry’s, and usually Harry would hate the wet clothes but this time—with their cocks rubbing together through layers of cloth—it’s, like, a contrast. It’s a contrast Harry needs, otherwise he’s going to come in his pants right now.
Then Draco’s mouth leaves Harry’s. He should go back to St Jerome’s and lie down in the graveyard. It’s not fair!
But then Draco’s moving him a few feet down the hall. Harry doesn’t know where they’re going until his arse hits the bench he built to store his winter things, and Draco goes to his knees between Harry’s spread thighs, and then Draco’s hot mouth is on Harry’s T-shirt, and also on his right nipple.
Harry’s vision flashes like lightning, then darkens into stormy shadows.
Nothing—not even wanking—has ever felt this good.
His nipples are apparently directly connected to his cock, and every time Draco moves his tongue—oh, fuck, he’s moving it so much—a sort of blissful heat shoots from nipple to cock and back again. Harry’s hips thrust without his permission.
Draco pulls off Harry’s right nipple, looking astonished. Looking delighted. “You could come like this, couldn’t you?”
Harry fumbles for Draco’s head and pulls him directly down to his left nipple. “Harder,” he gasps. “Harder, please.”
“Yes,” Draco says, his breath warm on Harry’s nipple, and then he closes his mouth over it and sucks.
It goes on forever. Forever. Harry didn’t know a person could lick his nipples for all eternity, but Draco’s doing it. He laps at them through Harry’s shirt. Teases them with his teeth. Sucks harder. Licks harder. Teases harder.
Harry doesn’t know which one of them undoes his zips and pulls his jeans and pants down far enough to free his cock. He keeps his hands on Draco’s head and doesn’t touch himself.
Because he will come immediately.
He’s probably going to come anyway, because his tip keeps brushing against Draco’s waistcoat, and it’s driving Harry mad.
Draco pushes Harry’s T-shirt up and up and up until both nipples are fully exposed, then stops, his face inches from Harry’s and slightly blurred from the raindrops on Harry’s lenses.
“If you do it again, like, with no shirt…” Harry’s really proud of how many words he’s able to say at once. “I’m going to come on your waistcoat.”
Draco puts on a solemn expression. “I should hope so.”
Then he wraps his long, elegant fingers around Harry, lowers his head, and drags his tongue straight over Harry’s right nipple.
Harry’s not sure if he screams or if his nerves all sing at once like a choir of angels or something. He has no thoughts except hot and hand and fuck.
When he can see again, there’s a lot of come on Draco’s waistcoat.
Like…loads.
Draco’s still there between Harry’s thighs, still pinning him to the wall.
“If we went upstairs,” Draco says conversationally. “I think I could come again. What about you?”
The storm lasts and lasts. It’s the sort of storm that stops time. It stays grey all morning.
They stay in bed all morning.
It’s afternoon, or maybe night, when Harry flops onto the pillows, Draco’s chest to his back, Draco’s arms tight around him.
“What are you thinking about?” Draco murmurs into his nape.
“What you said.”
“When?”
There’s a laugh in Draco’s question. They said loads of things to each other while they were shagging. But a different thought came to Harry’s mind, actually.
“When you said I’m not a recluse anymore,” Harry starts. “I mean—anymore?”
“Oh,” says Draco. “Well. You weren’t a recluse anymore. You were at the outdoor market.”
“But you said anymore.”
“…yes?”
“So you knew. You knew I was becoming a recluse.”
“I didn’t know. I had a sense.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on your complete lack of public appearances. People do notice your absence, Potter.”
“Are you going to notice it tomorrow?”
Draco spreads his long, elegant fingers out on Harry’s chest. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. At your Friday market.”
The pattering rain fills most of the silence.
And fills it.
And fills it.
Until Harry turns over to see Draco’s face.
“You’re a garden,” Harry says. “You’re, like, red as a rose. I could go with you, you know. To your Friday market. Unless…”
Draco clears his throat. “Unless what?”
“Unless you haven’t got a Friday market. Maybe you’re only a Thursday-market person. Maybe you only come to the market at Godric’s Hollow. Where I live.”
“Ah!” says Draco. “Perhaps you’re right. I suppose there’s only one way to be sure.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Stay with me until next Thursday. See if I visit any other markets.”
“Or…you could stay with me. See what I made for you.”
Draco’s eyes light. “Tomorrow?”
“Actually, you should see them right now.” Harry sends too much wandless magic in the direction of his stuff from the market. Takes longer than usual, but after a minute, two figurines fly in through the bedroom door and circle above their heads. The snowy owl chases after the eagle owl. They trade places, then land on the bedside table, next to last week’s bouquet.
Draco turns Harry’s face back to his to kiss him, smiling and smiling.
“Well done,” Draco whispers. “Well done.”