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Cormac McLaggen has always considered himself a deeply misunderstood sort of bloke. It’s not as easy as people might think to be brilliant, devastatingly handsome, and a superstar Quidditch player to boot.
He’s grown up as the apple of his mother’s eye, constantly reminded that he’s been blessed with every hallmark of the illustrious McLaggen line: confidence sharp enough to cut glass, good looks he never bothers pretending he’s not aware of, and an ego sturdy enough to withstand even the most brutal of put-downs with a simple shrug and winning smile.
But what people don’t realise—largely because he’s devoted an impressive amount of effort to pretending it never happens—is that Cormac also occasionally experiences… sensations. Strange little twinges. A faint tightening in his chest when he thinks he might have pushed a flirty quip a shade too far. A peculiar, prickling itch under his skin when someone expects something of him. A low, uncomfortable swoop in his stomach when he imagines letting someone down.
He dismisses them, of course. Probably just the strain from maintaining such magnificent muscle definition, or perhaps an unfortunate allergic reaction to his latest paramour’s perfume. Nothing serious.
These twinges, however, are making his current situation agonising.
It’s not like he doesn’t want to spend time with Hazel Hopgood. She’s blonde and preppy and likes small kids and even smaller dogs, and she has the best pair of tits he’s clapped eyes on this side of the slutty blur that was last summer’s Quidditch World Cup. But what she wants from him is something he’s just not willing to give quite yet—commitment, a.k.a, a plan that sees them shacked up and engaged before the year’s out.
Cormac does want that from life eventually, of course. There’s always been this vague thought of the future looking like something straight out of Wizard & Country magazine, where he attends Ministry functions alongside a wife that can charm her way around a gala and then allow him to fuck her into the mattress two hours later. There would be a baby, cherub-like and content, sleeping next door in the nursery. Maybe even twins, golden-curled and rosy-cheeked, and Cormac would come home to have them toddle up to him with bright smiles and—
Anyway.
It’s not what he wants. Not yet. His plans for the current season are crystal clear: beat Oliver Wood to Keeper of the Year and hook up with as many groupies—women, or men, he’s not fussy, or one to limit his options—that time will allow. He’s in the prime of his life, brawny and virile, riding high on being voted #3 on Witch Weekly’s list of Fittest Sports Stars. It would be a tragic waste of both his time and his perfect bone structure to be embroiled in marriage before he’s even thirty, no matter how much his mum has been hinting that he should start looking to settle down.
Still, he feels a tiny bit of something that another person might label as ‘remorse’, as he battles through the pub to put as much distance between himself and Hazel as possible. Bobbing and weaving, muttering excuse me’s and clapping people heartily on the back as he passes, Cormac’s almost managed to reach the back door when he realises that Hazel has gained space on him by nipping stealthily round one of the high tables and is now coming at him from a different angle.
Fuck. There’s one of those twinges again. The icy dread of having to see the disappointment on her face when he ultimately has to let her down washes over him, and he panics, hand reaching out to grasp at the sleeve of the first person he recognises.
“Help me,” he pleads. “Please, play along.”
Harry Potter (annoyingly #2 on that Witch Weekly list) blinks confused verdant eyes at him, glancing down at where Cormac’s fingers are wrapped around his wrist, and says a very coherent, “Er—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cormac spies Hazel getting closer. Sweat forms at his temple, but he shakes it away with a slow wink in Harry’s direction. “There you are, love.”
Anyone would think Harry had never been forced to fake a relationship in his life, not with how he splutters and coughs as Cormac steps towards him. Harry runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair and looks wildly around. “I—er—what—”
“Didn’t realise you were hiding back here,” Cormac continues, keeping his words smooth and light. “Been searching for you all evening.”
“Have you?” Harry clears his throat and then drops his voice. “McLaggen, what the fuck—”
“Yes!” Cormac interrupts, voice rising. “All night.” He fists his other hand in Harry’s hoodie and yanks him closer, just as Hazel arrives breathlessly next to them.
“Oh!” she exclaims quietly, eyes darting from Cormac’s death grip around Harry’s arm, to the fingers clenched tightly in his top. “Cormac. I didn’t realise—is that Harry Potter?”
“No,” Harry says tightly.
Hazel’s brow furrows. She feigns confidence with a bird-song giggle, but the uneasiness in her eyes betrays her. For one (extremely) brief moment, Cormac feels like the worst person in the world.
“Cormac,” she says casually. “I was just wondering if you wanted to buy me a drink.”
He knows what she means by drink, and it certainly doesn’t mean consuming any sort of beverage. The temptation is there, his cock happily perking at the prospect, even as he holds Harry close. He hesitates, just for a stretched-out heartbeat, until the sound of Harry scoffing under his breath brings him back to his senses.
“I’m so sorry, Hazel, but I promised Harry here that we’d spend the evening together.” He flashes her his most sincere, apologetic smile as he leans towards her conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret. “He’ll say otherwise, of course, but he’s been really missing me.”
Harry snorts. Cormac gives his wrist the smallest of squeezes.
“Yeah,” says Harry flatly. “So much.”
Cormac bites his lip to hold back the laugh threatening to spill over.
“Right,” Hazel says, edging backward. She has the put-out expression of someone who has just had their whole evening ruined. “Of course. I’ll just go and find my friends. It was nice to see you, Cormac.”
“You too, have a good night,” he replies, keeping his most charming smile plastered on his face, the one that has never failed him in all his twenty-six years.
With one last wistful look she turns away, disappearing into the crowd, and Harry shoves him away with a disgusted grunt.
“Jesus, McLaggen. That was painful to watch. You’re such a dickhead.”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. She’ll be alright.” Cormac runs a hand over his face, checking to see that Hazel truly has gone. If he just gives it a week and a saucy smile, she’ll be up for another night of no-strings sexcapades, no bother.
“And you wonder why you have the rep you do,” Harry sniffs. He leans back against the wall of the pub, arms folding across his chest, looking deeply miffed.
“I’m doing her a kindness, not stringing her along. It wouldn’t be fair to her to act like we’re something serious.”
“The kind thing would be to actually tell her straight that you don’t want a relationship with her.”
Cormac gives a light shrug. “She wouldn’t keep coming back for more if she was that fussed.”
Harry grabs a pint from the table beside him, muttering something under his breath that sounds a lot like fucking infuriating. He’s a head shorter than Cormac, all lean strength and Seeker’s precision—the very things that make him such a force on the pitch. For two seasons now they’ve played as teammates for the Wimbourne Wasps, Cormac guarding the hoops while Harry darts rings around the opposition. They get on well enough, their rapport normally easy, though always threaded with Harry’s perpetual exasperation at Cormac’s laid-back charm. Cormac doesn’t mind. In fact, he can’t help but enjoy it, finding it thoroughly entertaining to see which careless quip will have Harry stalking off the pitch, flushed pink and rolling his eyes toward the stands.
Harry lingers with his pint, tapping a finger against the cool glass. Cormac watches him, although not subtly—Cormac’s never had a subtle moment in his life—and Harry pointedly refuses to look back.
Game on.
“You know,” Cormac says, leaning his elbows on the table, “for someone who claims to be irritated by me, you spend an awful lot of time in my company.”
“We play on the same team. Sort of difficult to get away from you, no matter how hard I may try.” Harry doesn’t look up as he says it, but there's something just there, smack in the middle of annoyance and amusement. A small little twitch of the side of his mouth. Cormac knows that movement well, seeing as it’s become something of a personal mission to earn it recently.
Cormac hums. “Still, most people manage to at least pretend they’re thrilled to be around me.”
Harry snorts into his pint. “I’m not one of your groupies. Also, most people haven’t spent two seasons listening to you narrate your own saves.”
“They’re magnificent saves,” Cormac says, perfectly serious.
“They’re acceptable saves.”
“Acceptable?” Cormac puts a hand to his chest, wounded. “Potter, you know I’ve been up for Keeper of the Year twice in a row.”
Harry glances up sharply. “Yeah? And exactly how many times have you won, hm?”
Damn. Harry’s got him there with a clean hit, no room to dodge, although Cormac doesn’t let the smile slip. Time to regain the upper hand.
“No one can ever accuse me of not being persistent.” He leans in just slightly, enough to make Harry’s fingers pause against the glass. “The thing is,” he continues, voice dipping lower, “when I want something, I don’t give up easily.”
Harry swallows. A small thing, but Cormac notices. The tight set of his jaw, the faint flush rising, the stubborn refusal to look away. All the signs Harry gives when he’s trying very, very hard not to react.
Cormac enjoys every second of it.
“Well, as fun as this has been, Potter, it’s time for me to go and get some beauty sleep.” He winks cheerily, straightening up. “Not that I need it, obviously.”
“Lord.” Harry responds with his standard eye roll.
Cormac claps him heartily on the shoulder, letting his touch linger. “Thanks for the help with Hazel, it’s much appreciated. Happy to repay the favour if you ever find yourself in a pickle.”
“Not likely,” Harry huffs. “But I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. See you at training.”
Cormac pushes away from the table, turning on his heel with a spring in his step and feeling inordinately pleased with himself. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Harry will be watching him in a way that he thinks is surreptitious.
He always does.
****
The next morning, the pitch is damp with a gossamer mist that clings to Cormac’s hair and eyelashes, the moisture wicking into his shirt before he’s even exerted enough energy to break a sweat. He’s in a disgustingly good mood as he waltzes out of the changing rooms with his broom over his shoulder and gloves tucked under his arm, whistling a cheerful tune.
Emma Fielding, one of the Chasers, raises an eyebrow when he passes. “You’re chipper,” she says. “That’s suspicious.”
“Just well-rested,” Cormac replies with a grin. “Beauty sleep and all that.”
“Right,” she says. “Try not to blind everyone with your glow.”
Impossible, he thinks, but instead just laughs and heads toward the pitch, scanning automatically for one particular Seeker. Sure enough, Harry’s already there, hovering a few feet off the ground as he warms up with sharp, precise turns. His hair is a windblown disaster, his expression focused, his posture tense.
Cormac waits until Harry slows, dipping lower to adjust the strap on his glove, before sauntering across the grass like he owns the place.
“Morning, Potter.”
Harry stiffens atop his broom, just barely, but Cormac catches it. He wipes a hand across his forehead. “McLaggen.”
“Sleep well?” Cormac asks, all pleasant innocence, exuding his famous golden charm.
Harry looks warily at him. “Fine.”
“You sure?” Cormac tilts his head and flickers his eyes over the entirety of him. “You look a bit… distracted.”
Harry turns his broom in one quick movement, like he needs an escape. “I’m focused. Something you should try sometime.”
Cormac laughs, mounting his own broom. “Focused on what, exactly?”
Harry doesn’t respond, floating a few feet further away.
Cormac follows—of course he does—rising through the mist until he pulls level beside him. Harry pointedly doesn’t look over.
“How’s the shoulder?” Cormac asks casually. “That was a nasty collision you and Jones had at the weekend.”
“It’s fine,” Harry snips.
“Mm.” Cormac’s smile widens. “And the ego?”
Harry shoots him a sideways look. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re staring at me again.”
“I—!” Harry nearly swerves. “I am not.”
Cormac hums, smugness practically radiating off him. “Whatever you say.”
From below, their manager’s gruff voice echoes across the pitch. “Oi! If you two are done flirting, some of us would like to start practice!”
Harry goes scarlet, choking on thin air so dramatically that he almost pitches sideways off his broom. Cormac beams. This is the best morning he’s had all week.
Harry regains control of his broom with a mortified splutter, gripping the handle tightly. “We were not— I wasn’t—”
Cormac tips into a lazy back-lean, hands loose at his sides, the picture of effortless balance. “Careful, there. Wouldn’t want you taking a fall. People might start thinking I’m a bad influence.”
Harry glares at him with an expression that might have been intimidating if his ears weren’t still pink. “You are a bad influence.”
“Funny,” Cormac says, drifting just close enough that Harry’s broom tilts in the resulting breeze. “I could say the same about you.”
“Potter! McLaggen!” the manager roars again. “MOVE.”
Cormac clicks his tongue. “Duty calls.”
He shoots upward in a smooth streak of yellow. Halfway to the hoops, he glances back over his shoulder.
Harry’s still frozen in place, jaw clenched, every muscle tense, failing spectacularly at smoothing his expression into neutrality.
Cormac gives him a slow, perfect wink.
Harry nearly drops his broom all over again
Training begins, and he lays off Harry for a while, just enough so that Harry starts to relax again. He focuses on the hoops, on keeping the Quaffle firmly out of them, the ever-perfect professional.
Eventually, the session comes to a close. Cormac watches Harry from a few metres away, pretending to adjust his gloves while keeping an eye on every twitch of his movements.
“Try not to burn yourself out before lunch, Potter,” Cormac calls, voice loud enough for him to hear over the light wind.
Harry glances over a shoulder, eyebrows raised. “And you? Don’t want to run out of hot air mid-save?”
“I’ve got stamina. Unlike someone who relies entirely on speed and—what is it—reflexes?”
Harry shoots him a flat look. “Reflexes win games, McLaggen. Remember that.”
“Oh, I remember. I also remember you nearly face-planted into the hoops last week because you were too busy showing off those so-called reflexes.”
“I did not—”
“You did,” Cormac interrupts with perfect cheer. “And everyone saw it. The stands will never let you forget. There will probably be a chant and everything next game.”
Harry huffs, but Cormac catches the quirk at the corner of his mouth, the one that says he’s half-amused and half-annoyed.
Cormac floats closer, keeping pace beside him as they start their descent. “Stop pretending like you’re not enjoying this.”
“I’m not—” Harry starts, then realises he’s grinning despite himself. “For fuck’s sake.”
“It’s alright, Potter.” Cormac beams. “Many a man has wilted underneath my charm, you’re far from the first.”
“Give over,” Harry says, and he accelerates away to land smoothly on the grass below.
He knows he’s been laying it on thick, but riling Harry up like this has been the most fun Cormac’s had in ages. It had started to bore him how predictable the chase had become, Wix falling at his feet with nary more than a wink and a lopsided smile. Where’s the banter? The pushback? The thrill? It had all been lacking, just a string of easy victories devoid of an essential spark.
Harry—with his scowl, his reluctant blushes, his stubborn refusal to look away despite all of his effort to maintain composure—is everything Cormac has been missing. Every eye-roll, every muttered insult, every begrudging laugh is a small victory, and it makes the chase delicious again.
Finally, Cormac thinks as his feet brush the grass and he dismounts his broom. The game feels worth playing.
****
The pub is heaving two nights later, and Cormac slips in well into the evening, just as the crowd appears to hit its stride. Chatter and laughter ripple through the room, warm and inviting, and Cormac meanders through the swell with ease. For the first half hour, he works the room, accepting back slaps and handshakes from people in various stages of drunkenness, exchanging the occasional boast or exaggerated story. It’s all good fun, but beneath it, he’s scanning, eyes flicking to the tables where the quieter patrons nurse pints and watch the chaos unfold.
Harry’s there, tucked into a corner with a pint half drunk, sleeves rolled up, people watching. Cormac can’t help the grin tugging at his lips. He slips through the crowd with easy confidence, pretending not to enjoy the sight of Harry so utterly focused on everyone else, yet completely unaware of how thoroughly he’s being observed himself.
Sliding into the booth opposite him, he lets out a casual, “Potter,” loud enough to startle him, just a little.
“McLaggen,” Harry says, voice layered casually.
Cormac leans back, stretching his arms out across the back of the bench seat, grin widening. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Harry rolls his neck. “What a surprise. Almost like we never attend the same pub, right?”
“And now here we are, in this cosy little corner. How quaint.”
Harry sips his pint, watching Cormac carefully over the rim of his glass.
“So what have you—”
A tinkling voice interrupts him. “Cormac!”
It’s Hazel, eyes bright, her hand coming down to lay on Cormac’s shoulder.
“Hazel, hello.”
“You’re with Harry again,” she says, eyes flicking between them both in the booth.
“I am,” Cormac replies, and he lowers his own hand to the tabletop, sliding it forward so his fingers graze the tips of Harry’s ever so slightly.
Harry shifts, and their knees bump under the table. Cormac captures one of Harry’s between his kneecaps, applying a small bit of pressure in a silent plea for Harry to play along again.
Harry stills, and then slowly his hand moves on top of Cormac’s, warm and calloused atop Cormac’s own. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re on another date.”
“Oh!” Hazel giggles, hand going to her mouth in surprise. “So you really are seeing Harry Potter!”
“For my sins,” Cormac says, flashing her a cheeky wink.
Giving a small defeated nod, she steps away. “Right. Some other time, then.”
She’s just about to slip back into the crowd when Cormac calls out, “Wait! Hazel, I’m—” He sighs, hand falling away from Harry’s as he twists slightly towards her. Harry was right the other night, he can’t let this keep happening. As much as he hates the look of disappointment, he knows he needs to be honest. “The thing is that I don’t think we should see each other any more. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you this a while ago. I’m just not looking for anything more.”
She blinks at him, stunned, and then her mouth breaks into a slow smile. “Merlin, you’re full of yourself. I was just hoping for a shag, but you know, you’re absolutely right.” She gestures to Harry. “You’ve obviously got something serious going on here, so I’ll leave you to it. Owl me if you’re ever single again. See you around, yeah?”
She disappears into the swell of the crowd in a cloud of floral perfume, leaving Cormac gaping after her.
Across the booth, Harry breaks into a fit of laughter.
“Wow,” Cormac says, tipping his head back against the back of the bench. “Seriously.”
Harry covers his face with his hands, and Cormac bites his lip at his reaction. Harry’s eyes are bright, cheeks flushed, as he shakes his head.
“This is brilliant.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cormac sighs. “Go on, get it all out. Not often you get the chance to lord something over me.”
Harry’s still grinning. “I think I love her.”
Cormac snorts. “I can put a good word in with her, if you like?”
“Nah.” Harry shakes his head. Underneath the table their thighs are still twined together. “I’m alright. She’s not really my type.”
“Oh?” Cormac flicks an eyebrow upwards. “And what’s your type, Potter?”
“Insufferable tossers, apparently.”
Cormac almost falls off his chair. He was expecting a splutter or some sort of vague, measured reply, not Harry leaning forward in his chair looking far too pleased with himself.
“Aha,” Harry says, voice low. His gaze flickers, lingering on Cormac’s mouth for a fraction too long, and then slides back up again. “Got you.”
Cormac clears his throat, jaw twitching, a shiver running through him despite the heat of the busy pub. There’s something there, the tension coiling warm and electric between them.
“And do you happen to be seeing any insufferable tossers at the moment, Potter?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, I see. Keeping your cards close to your chest?”
“One of us has to maintain an air of mystery.”
Cormac smiles, all teeth. “I can be mysterious, if that’s what you’re into.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about you,” Harry says with a faint laugh. He’s still holding his thigh firmly against Cormac’s. “All of this bravado, you—”
“Oi! Lovebirds!”
Both of them jolt in surprise at the words tossed their way.
Jack Fraser, one of their Chasers, is weaving through tables toward them, grinning like he just won the World Cup. He wolf-whistles loudly, causing the customers nearby to grumble a complaint.
Harry jerks upright so fast he nearly spills his pint. “We’re not—What—Jack, what do you want?”
Jack throws himself into the empty seat beside Harry, and he wrenches his knee away from Cormac’s so quickly that it smacks the underside of the table.
“Merlin,” Jack says. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Just wondered if you wanted to play cards with the rest of us.” He tilts his head back the way he came. “Harvey’s wasted, so if you want to make a quick Galleon, best to get your bets in now.”
“Thanks, but I’m calling it a night,” Harry says, jumping to his feet and sliding awkwardly around Jack. “Had one too many, I think.”
“Boo,” Jack jokes, flicking Cormac’s bicep. “Boring. You’ll play won’t you, McLaggen?”
Cormac’s too busy watching Harry quickly shrug into his jacket to parse what’s being said. “What?”
“Come play,” Jack whines. “We’re crying out for someone decent to play."
Harry bids them an off-handed wave, turning to push quickly through the crowd. He blends in, and Cormac cranes his neck to watch him go.
“Shit,” Jack gasps, gawping at Cormac. “I was only joking about the lovebirds thing. You’re not actually—”
“No. Of course not.” Cormac shakes his head before schooling his features into his well-practiced mask of calm confidence. “Come on, let’s go win some of Harvey’s daddy’s money.”
****
Steam curls around him, the heavy beat of the shower spray pounding down onto his sore muscles. Cormac leans a hand against the tiles, content to soak in as much warmth as he can. Today’s training session had been brutal, the icy tailwind of a storm seeing to it that they were all wet through and frozen after just ten minutes of work. He’d even stayed out longer than the others, the Keeper coach wanting to run through a few tips before the weekend’s game.
The showers had been emptying out when he finally got inside, and now he can just make out the last few stragglers taking their leave over the steady cadence of the shower above him. Finally alone, he tips his head back, rubbing his hands over his face and scraping mud from his hair, and then turns around. His eyes flicker open.
Harry is there.
He’s in his own shower cubicle, and through the light steam Cormac can see where the small tiled divide hides Harry from upper-thigh to mid-chest, blocking the most tantalising of views from Cormac’s roving gaze. Not that what he can see isn’t mouth-watering enough. Water sluicing down tanned, lean muscle, the trickle disappearing behind the low divide. Cormac doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Harry looks straight at him, the stream of water sending his dark hair flat against his scalp.
Cormac’s unable to tear his eyes away, and he inhales a sharp breath, almost swallowing a lungful of water in the process. Harry blinks, rubbing water from his eyes, and maybe he doesn’t actually know Cormac is there because he’s without his glasses. His vision is shit, isn’t it? Cormac doesn’t dare make a sound, staying stock-still as the shower cascades down around him.
Harry squeezes a blob of shower gel onto his hand and starts the slow task of sending Cormac to an early grave. Hands roaming, suds gathering over every peak and valley of his body—Harry runs a hand down, down, down, and Cormac may not be able to see through walls but he knows exactly what Harry’s now cupping in his palm.
Heartbeat rabbit thumping in his throat, Cormac doesn’t even realise he’s followed the same path with his own hand until his cock gives an interested little twitch inside his fist.
“Fuck.”
Was that Harry or himself? The curse is drowned out by the rush of the water. Harry’s arm starts to pump, the movement unmistakable, and Cormac’s eyes flutter shut as he grips himself tightly to stave off some of the pressure.
He can’t. He can’t, not when he’s unsure whether Harry actually knows he’s there. His fingers curl still, an agony ripping through him, as his eyes graze on Harry’s slow, deliberate movements.
He needs to touch himself. Just once. Just to take the edge off.
His palm runs from root to tip, an over-exaggerated slide of his hand that only sees him wanting more. He almost laughs to himself—how did he ever think that just one would be enough?
Harry’s arm quickens, and Cormac’s unconsciously moving his own hand, pumping himself, a little tighter, a little faster. It feels glorious, pleasure spiking through him like lightning.
There’s a sound, a small punched-out groan, wrenched from Harry’s throat that Cormac feels straight in his cock. He’s close, so close, he just needs—
In the cubicle across from him, Harry jerks, muscles taught, bending forward slightly as his arm comes to a sudden stop. His face is twisted in pleasure, mouth hanging open as he tries to catch his breath, and then he slowly looks up, staring straight at where Cormac has his own cock gripped in the vice of his fist.
Cormac can’t help it, tipped over the edge of his own release just from their gazes catching, pulsing into his hand and over the shower floor. His eyes screw shut and he half-collapses back on the tiles, his legs threatening to give way, lungs burning.
Icy realisation of what they’ve just done washes over him, quite literally, as the shower finally runs out of hot water, and he jolts out of the spray with a yelp, eyes flying open.
Harry’s gone.
****
Cormac leans against the high table in the Leaky, chin propped up on one hand, drumming the fingers of the other hand impatiently against the wood. He’s been nursing a pint for an hour now, lurking in the back corner well away from anyone’s attention.
He feels… different.
Ever since the shower incident, he’s been restless. Thoughts of what happened have plagued him, replaying on an endless horny loop inside his mind. He can’t concentrate, he can’t focus, and he hasn’t had the energy to muster a cheeky wink for two whole days.
It’s not like Harry Potter, of all people, would actually be interested in him. The saviour of the whole wizarding world, and him, Cormac McLaggen? It just doesn’t make sense. And, just to top it all off, those pesky twinges are back in full force, twisting his stomach in knots. His heart even feels a bit achy, if that’s at all possible. It’s ridiculous—things have gone too far.
Merlin. Is this what Hazel felt like? What all his casual hook-ups felt like? Waiting around in hope of just a scrap of attention, or constantly fretting about what might happen next? He feels pathetic, and for a second resents Harry for making him feel like this, when it’s really just a Bludger-sized ball of karma thrown frustratingly his way.
He drains the last of his pint, pushing upright and ready to call it a night, when out of the blue his sleeve is snagged by a blur of a person launching themselves his way.
“What the—”
“Cormac!” It’s Harry, breathless, frantically yanking his wrist. “Remember that favour you owe me?”
Cormac blinks in surprise, before he realises what Harry means. “Oh, yeah? Really?”
Harry’s nodding, glancing back, obviously checking if someone’s there still watching. Cormac sees it as a sign from Merlin himself, and narrows the gap between them quickly, curving his hand around the blade of Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s breath quickens as they’re forced close, and there’s a small hitch in the sound as Cormac lowers his mouth to Harry’s ear.
People tend to forget Cormac fought in a battle, that he has red and gold layered down to his soul. That he can confidently make his way through any situation necessary and come out the other side very much on top.
“The thing is, Harry. I’m not very good at pretending—”
Emerald flutters up at him, fingers flexing on his forearm, heat branding the sliver of skin where his sleeves are pushed up.
“—so I’m going to kiss you now, and there’s going to be nothing fake about it.” Cormac keeps his gaze steady, voice hushed. “I suggest you stop me now if you don’t want that to happen.”
Harry curls a fist into Cormac’s t-shirt and in one quick display of those famous reflexes, has them pulled flush and mouths slotted together.
Stumbling a step forward in surprise, Cormac’s free hand comes to rest against Harry’s jaw, and Harry makes a little groaning noise as his back hits the wall.
“Merlin, Harry—”
“Don’t you ever stop?” Harry sighs, and then kisses him again, this time with purpose.
Maybe it is time to be quiet, for once in his life. He focuses on the heat of Harry underneath his palms, and the delicious slide of their mouths against each other. He forces another needy little sound from Harry, and pulls slightly back with a wide grin.
“Shut up,” Harry says.
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“No, but I know what you were thinking just from your face.”
Cormac laughs. “So now I’m even getting in trouble for my thoughts.” He nudges his nose just below Harry’s ear, ghosting his next sentence across his skin. “Although I can tell you that my thoughts are outright indecent at this moment in time.”
“Jesus—” Harry gives a minute shake of the head as if to ground himself. “This is only going to get worse, isn’t it?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t absolutely love it.”
“Your ego’s out of control.”
“It’s called confidence.”
“It’s called being a cocky bastard.”
Cormac laughs again, drawing their mouths back together, getting lost inside another kiss that seems to stretch for eternity.
“Who were you hiding from, anyway?” Cormac asks once they’ve swayed apart once more.
Harry looks dazed, eyes kiss-drunk behind his glasses, and lips swollen and glossy. “What?”
“I’m just thinking they’ve seen quite a show, whoever it is you were trying to shake off.”
“Oh.” Harry bites his lip, looking embarrassed, eyes darting over Cormac’s shoulder. “No one.”
“No way, you’re not getting away with that. Who is it?” Cormac tries to turn but Harry holds him with an iron grip.
Harry grumbles. “It was Malfoy, alright.”
“Malfoy! And you say I’m insufferable.”
“Yes, yes, I know. Let’s please never mention it again.”
“Well,” Cormac says with a smile. “At least we know you have a type.”
“Annoying?”
“Persistent.”
“Smug?”
“Self-assured.”
“Cormac,” Harry sighs. “Seriously. Shut up.”
“Only if you come back to mine and keep my mouth full.”
Harry practically jerks off the wall in shock. “You can’t just say things like that.”
Cormac looks at him flatly. “Harry. For the hundredth time, you love it. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.”
A wry, disbelieving smile lights up Harry’s face. “You’re really something, McLaggen.”
“Yeah,” Cormac agrees, because he’s a lot of things. “That’s what they tell me.”
He lets his fingers slip down until they find Harry’s, weaving their hands together. The moment their palms meet, something tightens beneath his ribs, and his pulse skips in a way he can’t pass off as the aftermath of Quidditch training or the fizz of the pint he downed earlier. That would’ve been yesterday’s excuse. But the Cormac standing here now, shoulder to shoulder with Harry Potter in a dim corner of the Leaky Cauldron, feels bold enough to recognise the truth of it, even if the words refuse to trip off his tongue just yet.
I like you, too, he admits silently. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.