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When the list of eighth-year roommates was posted on the door beside the Great Hall, most of those who had returned to Hogwarts to complete their education rushed to see with whom they would be spending the year.
There were not enough of them to form an eighth-year class for each House. There would be only one class, and House divisions meant very little to them now anyway. So the list prompted a variety of reactions: from the delight of the Patil twins, to Ronald Weasley’s distress at having been roomed with Goyle of all people, to the complete indifference of a few.
Draco Malfoy, having spent eleven weeks in Azkaban, was simply pleased that he would not be rooming with a Dementor for a change. Besides, he was tired. He would room with whomever McGonagall, the Sorting Hat, or whatever other obscure magical artefact they had used to select their roommates had decided, and that was that.
Which was why, when a student pointed to one particular pairing and the Great Hall immediately erupted at the revelation that Draco Malfoy would be sharing with Neville Longbottom, Draco found himself quite unable to care.
“But Professor,” someone called, “Longbottom fought in the war.”
“Yes!” someone else shouted from somewhere in the mess. “Everyone knows Malfoy is a Death Eater. Neville might be in danger.”
Draco rolled his eyes.
Across the hall, Longbottom had gone red around the ears and appeared to be considering whether he could simply sink through the floor. Apparently, beheading that horror of a snake with the Sword of Gryffindor, of all things, had not cured him of being timid.
While Draco… well, the side that had been chosen for Draco had lost the war, and he had lost most of his dignity along with it. A year ago, Draco would sooner have swallowed his wand than say what came next in front of the entire school. Now, after eleven weeks in Azkaban, it barely registered. Besides, what would Lucius do with the information from Azkaban, anyway? His mother already knew. She’d always known, Merlin only knew how, but she knew. He had nothing to lose anymore.
“Oh, please,” he said. “The only danger Longbottom is in is of me trying to seduce that spectacular arse.”
The Great Hall went dead silent.
Draco looked Neville up and down.
“No offence, Longbottom. Actually, only compliments.”
Neville opened his mouth. Slowly closed it. At least he didn’t look like he was about to kill Draco.
“Er. Thanks? I guess?”
Draco mustered enough energy to wink at him. In the grand scheme of things, Longbottom wasn’t that bad. And he was hot. Like, seriously hot. Draco knew he was straight as a ruler and had been dating Hannah Abbott since the summer, but he couldn’t just not wink at the hot man.
In the immediate aftermath of his quote-unquote revelation, he was, in this precise order: called a faggot, threatened with physical violence, and finally surrounded by a gaggle of girls who angrily defended both his honour and his physical integrity.
They also all seemed determined to become his new best friend.
Shame Pansy had decided France would be more welcoming than Hogwarts. Shame the terms of his parole didn’t let him decide the same.
Well. You couldn’t win on all fronts. At least no hexes were thrown.
Across the room, Harry Potter’s eyes narrowed.
How convenient.
Malfoy came back to Hogwarts hated by nearly everyone, announced that he liked men, and suddenly half the girls in the room were prepared to defend him to the death.
If Harry knew anything at all, he knew Malfoy. He knew what he ate for breakfast. He knew how he took his tea. He knew which of the sweets his mother used to send him he actually liked and which he let Crabbe and Goyle devour… Well, just Goyle now, he supposed.
The point was: Malfoy was up to something.
And Harry was going to find out what he was up to.
“He’s lying.”
Ron looked up from his breakfast.
Despite the “no Houses” policy for eighth years, most of them still preferred to eat at their old House tables. Ron, Hermione and Harry were occupying their usual place at the Gryffindor table, which had magically expanded to accommodate the extra students, like all the others.
Harry was leaning forward, speaking quietly, as though Draco Malfoy’s sexuality were a matter of national security.
“Abut whut?” Ron asked with his mouth full of toast.
“Liking blokes.”
Ron slowly lowered his toast.
Across from them, Hermione rolled her eyes.
“Honestly, Harry! Why would he lie about that? You know that even if the magical world is more progressive, homosexuals still suffer discrimination.”
Harry looked offended by the question and especially by her reasoning.
“Because he’s Malfoy.”
Ron finished eating his toast.
“Ain’t an answer, mate.”
“Well, it’s Malfoy we’re talking about. Up until yesterday everyone hated him, now even Herm is defending him!”
“I’m not defending Malfoy. I’m stating facts.”
The paper went back up.
Harry wasn’t looking at them anymore. He was watching Malfoy across the hall. Ron watched Harry watch Malfoy. The Slytherin was eating porridge, but Harry was watching him as though he might confess to murder between spoonfuls.
Here we go again, thought Ron.
Harry Potter becoming convinced Draco Malfoy was Up To Something was not new territory. What was new was the nature of the something.
“What d’you reckon he’s trying to do?” Ron asked.
Harry frowned.
“Sympathy, maybe. You heard Herm!”
The paper didn’t go down, but they heard her loud and clear.
“Not defending him.”
Ron looked at Harry.
“By liking blokes.”
“By saying he likes blokes.”
Ron nodded slowly.
“Right.”
Ron had learned, over the years, that Harry’s mind worked like a badly trained Crup whenever Malfoy was involved. Once it got hold of something, there was no making it drop the thing without losing a finger.
And, now that he thought about it, there was also the other thing… The thing Harry still hadn’t figured out about himself.
Ron had known since Harry was fourteen and had properly met Charlie for the first time. Poor bloke had spent an entire conversation staring at Ron’s brother with his mouth very slightly open. And at one point, when Charlie had pushed his sleeves up, Harry had forgotten what he was saying halfway through a sentence.
Yep. Ron had nothing else to do, and this might be fun.
“So how’re you going to prove it?” Ron asked.
Hermione’s paper lowered again.
“Don’t encourage him.”
“I’m not, Herm. Just asking.”
Hermione narrowed her own eyes.
“You are.”
Ron shrugged.
“Am not.”
And because this brilliant, annoying, far too perceptive girl happened to be his girlfriend, Ron leaned over and kissed her. That distracted her from the Malfoy Thing, thankfully.
Harry was still staring at Malfoy.
“I’ll figure something out.”
Ron believed him.
More importantly, Ron intended to help him.
…
By the end of the week, Harry had taken to carrying the Marauder’s Map everywhere again. He told himself this was the reasonable thing to do. Malfoy had already used the Room of Requirement for suspicious purposes once. There was precedent. Besides, Harry was not watching him. He was just… observing. There was a difference. Malfoy went to breakfast. Malfoy went to lessons. Malfoy went to the library. Malfoy went back to his dormitory. Whenever he was in a common area, he was surrounded by girls, but Malfoy did not sneak off with any of them. Not once. Harry found this deeply suspicious. It meant Malfoy was taking this farce seriously. Harry needed to step up his game. But how?
On Friday night, Ron came into Harry’s and Dean’s room and found Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed with the Map spread over his knees.
“What’re you doing?”
“Nothing.”
Ron stepped closer, and Harry immediately folded one corner over. Ron looked down anyway. Draco Malfoy’s dot was moving along the corridor outside the library, followed closely by three girls, though he was keeping slightly ahead of them.
“You’re watching Malfoy.”
“I’m not watching him.”
“You’ve got your finger on his name.”
Harry removed his finger.
“I’m just checking something.”
“Right.”
“He hasn’t met any girls.”
Ron blinked.
“There’s three of them with him right now, mate.”
Harry finally folded the Map away and looked at Ron with that familiar manic expression on his face.
“No. There’s always a bunch of girls following him around. I mean he hasn’t sneaked off with any of them.”
“Maybe because he fancies blokes.” Harry gave him a look. Ron sat down on the edge of Dean's bed. “Still on that, then?” Harry just looked at him, very judgementally. “Yeah, you said.” Ron scratched his cheek. “Maybe he is lying. Maybe he just doesn’t fancy any bird here. No way to know for sure…”
There were moments in life when one encountered an opportunity so perfect that interfering too much would spoil it. Ron had always been good at chess. He knew when to move, he knew when not to move, but he also knew when to make your opponent move for you.
“Well,” he continued casually, “might just be he doesn’t like any of those girls. Or maybe he doesn’t want some secret escapade getting out. But if you really reckon he doesn’t fancy blokes, get a bloke to ask him out.”
Harry looked up while Ron pretended to be completely uninterested in the conversation and began inspecting a loose thread on his sleeve.
“What?”
“Yeah. Get a bloke to ask him out. Or whatever. He’ll have to say no.”
Harry furrowed his brow, considering what his friend had just said. Yes. Malfoy was serious about the lie. Harry had to up his game. Ron had, without realising it, helped him with that. But there was one question left.
“Who?”
“Dunno. Seamus? He fancies blokes, don’t he?”
“No.”
“I’m pretty sure he does, mate. Told us himself when we went out for his birthday. That Muggle pub, remember?” Harry huffed and tossed his blankets aside in frustration. All Ron saw was an opponent’s hand reaching for exactly the right piece.
“No, I mean Seamus can’t be the one to ask him out. Malfoy could bribe him. Or worse, threaten him.” Harry stopped for a moment, considering “And what if Malfoy isn’t seeing any girls because he knows I’m suspicious? He could arrange the whole thing.”
Ron nodded solemnly.
“You’d need someone he couldn’t get to beforehand.”
Harry stopped fidgeting and started thinking. Ron could almost see it happening. Someone trustworthy. Someone who could not be bribed. Someone who would not be frightened by Malfoy. Someone with a pathological inability to leave anything alone. Someone with personal stakes in proving this was a farce—what, exactly, those personal stakes were, Ron had no idea.
Harry looked up.
“I’ll do it.”
Ron looked at him.
“Do what?”
“I’ll ask Malfoy out.”
Harry said it in the same tone he had used when announcing he was going to stop “Snape” from taking the Philosopher’s Stone, the same tone he had used before going down into the Chamber of Secrets to retrieve Ginny… and so on. It was a very solemn tone.
“But, Harry,” Ron said slowly, “you don’t fancy blokes.”
“Malfoy doesn’t fancy blokes either. I won’t have to actually do anything.”
Ron nodded like Harry had just said something especially Dumbledore-ish.
“Course not.”
Harry stood up and began pacing the room as though he had just had a revelation.
“I’ll just make him think I’m interested. So interested I could not possibly be suspicious.”
“Right.”
Harry stopped, looked at Ron, and smiled.
“And when he says no—”
“Then he definitely doesn’t fancy blokes”
“Exactly.”
Mate in six.
….
Draco saw Potter coming before Potter reached him. That, in itself, was not unusual. Potter had never been particularly subtle where Draco was concerned. Even before the war, there had been a certain quality to the way Potter approached him, as though Draco were a suspicious package that might explode if handled incorrectly. Now, however, there was something different about it. Potter was walking directly toward him with purpose, shoulders set, expression fixed, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
Draco slowed. Perhaps he should turn around… No. That would look cowardly. He had survived Azkaban. He was not going to flee down a Hogwarts corridor because Harry Potter was walking at him strangely!
He sneaked a glance at Potter.
Well… then again, surviving Azkaban had taught him that ignoring obvious warning signs was generally a poor survival strategy. Maybe he should…
Potter kept coming. Draco adjusted the books in his arms and considered his options. There were students at the other end of the corridor, but not many. The library doors were behind him. There was a tapestry to his left and a suit of armour to his right. Potter was armed, obviously. Everyone was armed. Hogwarts continued to consider letting traumatised teenagers have weapons at breakfast perfectly sensible. Perhaps Potter had finally decided to kill him.
“Malfoy.”
There it was.
“Potter.”
Potter came to a halt in front of him and did not immediately say anything. Draco waited. Potter stared. Draco stared back. Potter continued staring.
“If you’re trying to intimidate me,” Draco said at last, “you should know the effect is somewhat diminished by the fact that you’re squinting.”
“I’m not squinting.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m looking at you.”
“Yes, Potter, I had gathered that.”
Potter’s mouth tightened, and Draco felt his suspicions increase. There was definitely something wrong with him.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Draco glanced around the corridor.
“Is this where you demand I confess to something I haven’t done yet?”
“What?”
“Just trying to establish the genre.”
Potter frowned.
“I just want to talk to you.”
He said it in a very, very strange voice, like he was trying to impersonate Gilderoy Lockhart. Maybe it was part of the intimidation tactic.
“You are talking to me.”
“I have something to say to you. I want to go somewhere private.”
Draco went very still. His first thought was that Potter had finally decided to murder him. His second thought was that it was rather rude of Potter to do it before dinner. His reaction was to tell him exactly that.
“I’m not going to murder you, Malfoy!”
Draco narrowed his eyes. So a murderer would say.
“No? Then why do you look especially murder-ish?”
“I do not look murder-ish.”
“You do.”
“What does that even mean?”
Draco just huffed. Potter opened his mouth, then shut it again. Draco shifted his books higher against his chest. Perhaps this was a trap. Not murder, necessarily. Potter had never seemed especially creative about revenge, but Weasley was, and Granger could probably devise something involving seventeen laws Draco had never heard of. Maybe Potter wanted him alone so he could say something incriminating. Maybe there was a recording charm. Maybe Aurors were waiting around the corner. Maybe this was part of his parole.
No, that was absurd. Probably. Draco had learned not to dismiss absurd possibilities too quickly.
“Look,” Potter continued in his pretending-to-be-Lockhart voice, “I just want to talk to you. In private.”
Draco stared at him like he was crazy. Maybe he had gone crazy. Merlin knew Draco himself had his moments. War did things to people. Or so the Muggle book Pansy had sent him said. It had also recommended breathing exercises, journalling, and something called establishing healthy boundaries. Draco liked the journalling.
“Potter, I’m not going to a second location with you.”
“A second location?”
“Yes.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you read the pamphlets about personal safety?”
Potter stared at him.
“What pamphlets?”
“Never go willingly to a second location. Basic rule. Well, I don’t know why I’m asking. You’re you. You’re always going to second locations with dubious people.”
“What?”
“The pamphlets for avoiding murder, Potter. Do keep up.”
“I never read any… I already told you I’m not going to murder you!”
“So why are you screaming at me? And I’m sure that is exactly what murderers say before people follow them to second locations.”
Potter looked briefly offended. Draco found this unreasonable.
“So you don’t want to?” Potter asked, thankfully at a normal volume.
Draco frowned.
“Go somewhere alone with you?”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Potter’s expression changed. Only slightly, but Draco noticed. Of course he noticed. Draco had spent months learning to catalogue shifts in guards’ expressions, footsteps in corridors, changes in the temperature before a cell door opened. Potter’s eyes sharpened, and there was something almost satisfied in his face. That was worrying.
Draco took a step back. Potter stepped forward. Absolutely not. Draco took another step back. Potter stopped. They stared at each other.
“What are you doing?” Draco asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re following me.”
“You moved.”
“Away from you.”
“Yes.”
“And then you moved toward me. That’s the definition of following.”
Potter seemed to consider this. Draco’s grip tightened around his books. He might kill me in this hallway, of course. He’s Harry Potter. No one will bat an eye. There would probably be a plaque.
Here lies Draco Malfoy, finally murdered by someone socially acceptable.
His mother would hate the font.
Potter was still looking at him strangely, eyes half-shut as though he were trying to see Draco without his glasses, except his glasses were very much still on. Draco had had enough.
“Potter.”
“What?”
“Are you having some sort of episode?”
Potter’s brows drew together.
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because I have some experience with episodes now, and this feels like one. Have you tried the breathing exercises? I particularly like the journalling.”
“Breathing exer— I’m fine!”
“Wonderful!”
Potter said nothing. Draco waited another moment, just in case there was an actual point to this conversation. There wasn’t.
“Good talk, champ!” Draco said, patting Potter on the shoulder, since he was so close. Pansy called him champ and patted him on the shoulder a lot when she was done with him. It was apparently a Muggle thing. Maybe it would work on Potter too.
He turned and started walking away. After three steps, Potter called after him.
“Malfoy.”
Draco stopped but did not turn around.
“What?”
A pause.
“Nothing.”
Draco closed his eyes. Definitely an episode. Well, Potter wasn’t his problem. Good luck, Granger. Good luck, Weasley. He continued toward dinner.
Harry returned to the Eighth-Year Common Room feeling considerably more satisfied than a person who had just been accused of attempted murder probably ought to feel. But Malfoy had said no. Very emphatically, in fact. There had been a great deal of nonsense about pamphlets and second locations and breathing exercises, but underneath all of that there had still been a very clear no. Harry had made an advance. Malfoy had rejected it. The test had worked. Malfoy was lying about liking blokes.
Ron was exactly where Harry had left him, stretched across his bed with a chess magazine propped against his knees. He looked up when Harry entered, took one look at his face, and set the magazine down.
“Well?”
Harry smiled like he had just won the Quidditch Cup.
“He said no.”
Ron’s eyebrows went up.
“Did he?”
“Yes. Immediately. He also said a bunch of crazy things… but the important part is that he said no!”
Ron made a contented noise, and then asked, innocently:
“How did you ask him out, anyway?”
“I asked him to go somewhere private with me.”
Ron was quiet for a moment.
“And?”
“And he said no.”
“No, I mean what else did he say? You said he said a bunch of crazy stuff.”
Harry frowned. Ron waited. Harry knew that particular silence. It was the same one Ron used whenever Harry was explaining something and Ron had already spotted the flaw but wanted Harry to walk into it himself.
“He said he wouldn’t go to a ‘second location’ with me because he thought I was going to murder him,” Harry admitted.
Ron’s mouth twitched.
“Harry, you asked a bloke who’s just spent eleven weeks in Azkaban and who spent the last seven years antagonising you to follow you somewhere no one could see you, and he thought you might kill him.”
Harry threw his arms in the air.
“I told him I wasn’t going to.”
“Oh, well. That settles it.”
Harry glared. Ron went back to his magazine, though he did not actually turn the page.
“Just saying, mate. If you’re trying to work out whether Malfoy fancies blokes, you’ve got to give him a chance to turn you down, not turn down getting murdered.”
“He did turn me down.”
“He turned down being alone with you.”
“Same thing.”
Ron just lifted an eyebrow at him.
Harry hated when he did this. Usually Hermione was the one who insisted on distinctions Harry considered entirely irrelevant, but Ron was worse because Ron only bothered when the distinction was so obvious even Harry could not completely ignore it. It had only gotten worse since he and Hermione had got together.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
Ron shrugged.
“Dunno.”
“You were the one who suggested this.”
“I suggested getting a bloke to ask him out. Didn’t say anything about luring him into a deserted corridor.”
“I wasn’t going to lure him into a deserted corridor… just an empty classroom.”
“Yeah, mate. That’s much better.”
Harry opened his mouth. Closed it again. Ron finally turned the page.
“If you want a proper answer, you have to make it obvious.”
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“Obvious how?”
This time Ron did look up.
“You really need me to explain flirting to you? Because I’d rather not, mate. Not sure how I landed Herm myself.”
Harry rolled his eyes and finally sat beside Ron, not willing to look him in the eye anymore.
“No, you don’t need to explain flirting to me.”
“Thank Merlin for that.”
“I know how to flirt.”
Ron was silent for several seconds. But it wasn’t an “agreed” silence. It was a disbelief silence. Harry had known him for almost eight years now; he knew the difference. His glare deepened, even though he wasn’t facing Ron anymore.
“I do.”
Ron just kept his disbelief silence.
“I dated Ginny!”
That finally made him talk.
“Ew. Don’t bring up my sister. That was all her, anyway.”
“And Cho.”
Ron winced.
“Wouldn’t use that one as evidence.”
Harry threw a pillow at him.
The problem, Harry discovered the next morning, was that knowing what flirting was in theory and deliberately doing it to Draco Malfoy were two entirely different beasts. He had, obviously, flirted before. Probably. Ginny had certainly seemed to think so. Or else she wouldn’t have kissed him after they won that game. Had Ron been right about that being all her? There had been kissing. There had been dates.
With Cho there had been considerably less successful kissing and one extremely confusing date involving tears, Cedric and Madam Puddifoot’s, but Harry did not think that counted against him. He knew perfectly well what people did when they fancied each other. He had fancied plenty of girls before and dated two of them.
Malfoy, as always, was the problem.
Finding Malfoy was the least difficult part of the whole ordeal. He was sitting halfway down the Ravenclaw table at lunch, because apparently the old House loyalties only mattered until someone wanted to copy someone else’s Transfiguration notes. He was surrounded, as usual, by girls. Susan Bones was on one side of him, Padma Patil on the other, and two Ravenclaws Harry vaguely recognised were sitting opposite. Malfoy was saying something that made all four of them laugh. Harry found that irritating for reasons entirely related to the investigation.
He himself was sitting in his usual spot at the Gryffindor table.
“What are you doing?” Hermione asked.
“Eating.”
“You’ve been holding the same forkful of potatoes for nearly a minute.”
Harry put it in his mouth. Hermione looked toward Malfoy, then back at Harry.
“Harry!”
“What?”
“Telling you to leave something alone never works. I wish just once you would listen to me.”
She picked up her goblet. Ron, beside her, was suddenly very interested in his plate.
Harry ignored both of them. This was actually ideal. There were plenty of witnesses. Malfoy could not possibly think Harry intended to murder him in the middle of lunch. If Harry made his intentions unmistakable here and Malfoy rejected him again, that would settle it.
He stood.
Hermione closed her eyes and Ron coughed into his fist.
Harry walked across the Great Hall.
Malfoy noticed him when Harry was still several feet away. His expression changed immediately from amusement to suspicion. Interesting. This might be evidence that he was suspicious of something.
“Potter.”
“Malfoy.”
The girls around him all looked between them. Malfoy leaned back slightly.
“If this is about the second location, I’m still not going.”
“It isn’t.”
“Good.”
Harry had planned this. He had spent most of History of Magic planning this. There had been several possible opening lines. He had rejected You look nice today because it sounded stupid, Is that a new shirt? because Malfoy was wearing school robes, and something Ron had suggested involving Malfoy’s eyes because Harry had suspected, correctly, that Ron was taking the piss.
Unfortunately, every prepared line disappeared the moment Malfoy looked at him. Suddenly, he really wanted to say something about Malfoy’s silver eyes. But he managed to avoid it. Instead, Harry improvised.
“Your hair looks good.”
Malfoy blinked and looked at him the same way he had when talking about the “second location”. Padma slowly lowered her fork.
“What?”
“Your hair.” Harry gestured vaguely at it. “It looks good.”
Malfoy’s hand rose automatically to touch it.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It… It looks good.”
“Why in Merlin’s name are you commenting on my hair?”
“Because I like it. It seems very… soft”
Now that Harry had said it, he realised it wasn’t a lie. It did look very soft. He kind of wanted to touch it… Right. Mission. Focus.
Another silence. Harry could feel half the table watching them now. This was excellent. There could be absolutely no confusion about the circumstances, but Malfoy looked genuinely alarmed.
“Did Weasley dare you to do this?”
“No.”
“Granger wouldn’t do something like this… Is there some sort of potion involved?”
“No!”
Harry was starting to become a bit exasperated. Didn’t Malfoy understand how flirting worked? Had that been the reason he hadn’t sneaked off with a girl?
“Have you hit your head?”
Harry considered that one for a moment.
“Not recently.”
Malfoy narrowed his eyes.
“That qualifier is doing a lot of work.”
Harry remembered that compliments alone might not be enough. People complimented each other all the time. Hermione complimented Ginny’s clothes. Ron complimented food. None of that meant anything. He needed to make it clearer. Harry leaned one hand against the table beside Malfoy.
Malfoy looked at the hand. Then at Harry. Then at the hand again.
“Why are you looming?”
“I’m not looming.”
“You are absolutely looming.”
Harry leaned a little closer. Malfoy leaned away. There. Again. Harry felt a burst of vindication. Malfoy didn’t want a man in his personal space. He smirked, just a bit. Malfoy noticed anyway.
“Oh, good,” Draco said, shifting as far away as he could. “That expression again.”
Harry looked at him, bewildered this time.
“What expression?”
Malfoy took a deep breath and finally looked at Harry.
“Like you’re having an episode. I already told you…”
Harry didn’t let him finish his nonsense about pamphlets again.
“I’m not ‘having an episode’, Malfoy. And I’m not going to hurt you.”
Malfoy looked at the ceiling of the Great Hall as if contemplating why him. Well, because he was a treacherous liar, that’s why.
“So you keep insisting.”
Harry tried his best to look reassuring.
“I mean it.”
Draco looked at him again, incredulous.
Harry could see Ron over Malfoy’s shoulder. Ron had both hands over his mouth, probably trying not to laugh at Malfoy. Harry turned his attention back to the task.
“You know,” Harry said, lowering his voice because that seemed like something people did when flirting, “you don’t have to be scared of me.”
Malfoy just stared harder.
Then Susan Bones made a strangled noise. Harry thought that was probably a good sign. Malfoy slowly looked around the table, apparently checking whether anyone else was hearing this. He quickly concluded that everyone was. Harry had no intention of being discreet this time.
“What,” he asked carefully, “are you doing?”
“Talking to you.”
“No. Yesterday you were talking to me. Badly, but recognisably. This is something else. You’re trying something on me. Oh my God. Are you distracting me so a gallon of pig’s blood falls in my hair like I’m Carrie? Is that why you said something about my hair?”
Draco really, really made no sense that year. Who the hell was Carrie? But Harry’s confidence soon returned. At least Malfoy had noticed.
“You said I looked murder-ish yesterday.”
Draco nodded as though Harry were particularly stupid.
“So I’m trying something different today.”
Malfoy went very still and Harry smiled. He had practised that too, but Malfoy just looked horrified.
“Don’t do that.”
Harry’s smile vanished.
“Do what?”
“That.”
“Smile?”
“At me, that way. You realise you look like the Joker, right?”
Finally, a reference Harry could sort of understand, thanks to his cousin’s hand-me-downs.
“How do you know about the Joker?”
Harry stared at him. Malfoy stared back.
“Muggle correspondence is the only thing permitted in Azkaban. Pansy sent me a lot. But what did I do to you? This year, I mean. Is this revenge for everything else?”
Harry felt a flicker of panic. That was not the plan at all.
“No. I just want to ask you a question. I wanted it to be in private, but you didn’t, so I’m here, in the Great Hall. For you.”
Padma abruptly stood.
“I’ve just remembered I promised Hermione something.”
“You did?” Susan asked.
“Yes. You were there. In fact, you said you’d help us. Let’s go.”
“What?”
But she grabbed Susan by the arm, and by the time they were near the Gryffindor table Susan apparently understood whatever silent communication had just occurred, because she was no longer being dragged.
The two Ravenclaws exchanged a glance and followed them. Within seconds, Malfoy was sitting alone. With Potter looming beside him.
“Well,” Draco said. “You’ve frightened off my entire lunch.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You came over here, complimented my hair, started looming and then smiled at me like a villain from a comic book. Forgive me for assuming.”
Harry bristled.
“I know how to smile.”
Malfoy stared at him.
“Obviously. I’ve seen you smile at your gaggle of admirers. That’s why that smile was particularly terrifying.” Then he noticed something. “Why are you sitting?”
Harry looked at him, trying his best to resemble the leads from those romances Aunt Petunia had liked so much.
“I thought we could talk.”
Draco inched away.
“We did that yesterday. I found it unrewarding.”
Harry suppressed the urge to sigh. This was supposed to be easier, but Malfoy was apparently bonkers now.
“You’re avoiding the point.”
“And what, pray tell, is the point?”
Harry hesitated. This was the moment. He needed to make the proposition obvious enough that Malfoy could not possibly misunderstand it, but not so obvious that Harry would actually have to do anything if Malfoy unexpectedly said yes. That balance was proving surprisingly difficult.
“You know I’m not seeing anyone,” Harry said.
Malfoy’s expression became blank.
“Yes?”
“And you’re not seeing anyone.”
Draco looked around as though expecting someone to explain why this was happening to him.
“Potter. Are you trying to ask me out?”
Harry’s brain, which had spent hours arranging precisely this outcome, stopped functioning. Malfoy waited. Harry became aware that Ron had gone completely still across the room.
“Yes,” Harry said finally.
Draco stared at him. Harry stared back.
There. No murder. No secluded corridor. No ambiguity. Just the question. And soon, the obvious answer.
Draco’s face did something complicated. For one horrifying second, Harry thought he might say yes. Then Draco pushed his plate away.
“No.”
Harry’s heart gave a strange little jump of triumph.
“Why not?” he asked, trying to appear broken-hearted for the sake of the audience.
Draco’s eyebrows shot up.
“No, not ‘why not’. Just no. Potter, yesterday you approached me looking like you were about to drag me into the Forbidden Forest and dispose of the body. Today you’ve complimented my hair, frightened away four perfectly pleasant women and asked me out in front of half the school.”
Harry was perfectly baffled.
“So?”
“So I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not playing it.”
“I’m not playing a game.”
(He was technically conducting an investigation)
Draco gave him a long look.
Harry held it.
Something in Draco’s expression shifted. Not belief, exactly. If anything, he looked more confused.
“You’re telling me Harry Potter, hero of the Wizarding World has suddenly developed an incurable crush on Draco Malfoy, evil death eater? Oh, please.”
He stood, gathered his things and left.
Harry watched him go. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sight, all things considered.
But the important thing was that Malfoy had said no.
Again. And this time there had been no possibility of murder. Harry smiled.
Across the Great Hall, Ron put his forehead down on the table.
Harry found Malfoy alone three evenings later. That had required considerably less use of the Marauder’s Map than Harry was willing to admit. Longbottom had gone to see Hannah Abbott, Malfoy had returned to his room after dinner, and there had been no suspicious cluster of girls following him upstairs. More importantly, Malfoy was in his own room. His territory. Harry could hardly be accused of luring him to a second location when Malfoy was already at the first one. It was, Harry thought, a flawless correction to the methodology.
Ron had explained to him that Malfoy’s latest refusal wasn’t a valid point on the “Malfoy doesn’t like boys” tally, but it was a valid point on the “Malfoy doesn’t trust you” tally, and that, really, he ought to have asked Seamus. Unfortunately, it made an awful lot of sense. So Harry had come here for one last attempt. If this one didn’t work and Malfoy still didn’t expressly admit that he didn’t like blokes, Harry had decided to do something he rarely did: admit defeat.
He knocked. There was a pause before the door opened. Malfoy looked at him, then at the corridor behind him, then back at Harry.
“No.”
Harry put his foot in the doorway. Draco tried harder to close it. Damn, it hurt. But Harry didn’t move his foot.
“I haven’t said anything.”
Draco sighed. He sounded exhausted, and not from lack of sleep.
“Why did you come here?”
Harry frowned.
“Can I come in?”
“I already said no.”
“Malfoy.”
“Potter.”
He tilted his head to the side, the way Ron did when Hermione was being especially rigid about her “no copying my assignments” rule.
“I just want to talk.”
Malfoy closed his eyes.
“Are we doing this again?”
Harry hesitated. He had come here for an answer. A complete answer.
“Yes.”
Malfoy made a noise that suggested profound spiritual fatigue.
Harry’s foot pressed on.
“I asked you out properly this time, and you said no. But your reason wasn’t that you don’t like men. Then you said you didn’t want to participate in any ‘games’.”
Malfoy slowly opened his eyes.
“What?”
“You said you thought I was playing some sort of game.”
“I do.”
“But suppose I’m not.”
“I’m begging you not to make me participate in whatever thought process led you here.”
Harry ignored that.
“If you were sure I wasn’t playing a game, would you still say no?”
Malfoy stared at him. Harry stared back. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Malfoy stepped away from the door.
“Fine.”
Harry blinked.
“What?”
“Fine, Potter.”
“What does fine mean?”
“It means come in.”
Harry did not move. This was not the expected result. Malfoy was still holding the door open for him.
“For fuck’s sake.”
“What?”
“Come in.”
Harry carefully entered the room. Malfoy threw himself onto what was probably his bed.
“Come in, debauch me, murder me, curse me, frame me, whatever it is you’ve been trying to accomplish all week. I don’t care anymore.” Harry just stared. “I have survived a war, a trial, Azkaban, and three separate conversations with you about this. Whatever happens next cannot possibly be worse.” He looked at Harry. “Well? You asked. I’m waiting.”
Harry’s mind had gone completely blank. This was a problem. Malfoy had been supposed to say no. Not immediately, perhaps. Harry had allowed for hesitation. Suspicion. Sarcasm. Another lecture about personal safety. He had even accounted for Malfoy accusing him of psychological warfare.
He had not accounted for fine. He had not accounted for Malfoy in his nightclothes, sprawled across a bed.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow.
“Oh.”
Malfoy sounded delighted.
Whereas before he had been lying like a starfish, arms and legs spread, he was now propped against one of his many pillows, looking directly at Harry.
Harry looked at him.
“What?”
Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a smirk.
“You were bluffing.”
Harry took a step towards the bed without realising he had.
“I wasn’t.”
Draco laughed, for real this time.
“Of course you were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Potter, you have spent the better part of a week approaching me like a man attempting to seduce someone based entirely on written instructions, and now that I have called your bluff you appear to have forgotten how your feet work.”
Harry took another step towards the bed.
Malfoy’s expression faltered.
Only for a second, but Harry noticed anyway.
Malfoy recovered quickly. He grabbed his wand, and the door shut behind Harry.
“There. Congratulations. You’re alone in a room with me.”
Harry looked around. The room was neater than the one he shared with Dean, though Harry suspected that was mostly Neville’s influence. One bed had a stack of Herbology books on the nightstand and a jumper thrown over the chair. The other was unmistakably Malfoy’s. His trunk was open at the foot of the bed, his shoes lined up underneath it, and a black notebook sat beside a bottle of ink.
Harry recognised it immediately.
“The journal?”
Malfoy followed his gaze.
“Yeees.”
“You actually use it?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes from the bed.
“I told you I liked the journalling.”
Harry nodded and Malfoy stared at him.
“Was that what you came here to ask?”
This was it. This was his chance to prove he was right about Malfoy.
“No.”
“Shame.”
Harry looked back at him. Malfoy was still leaning sideways in the bed, looking tired and irritated and entirely too calm considering the situation. Harry suddenly became very aware that they were alone. Actually alone. In Malfoy’s room. With Malfoy on a bed. With the door shut.
This had been the objective. Hadn’t it?
Harry had planned for this. Sort of.
“Potter.” Malfoy’s tone snapped him back into reality. “You wanted something.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Harry opened his mouth. And nothing useful came out.
Malfoy’s expression grew smug.
“There it is. The bluff.”
“It isn’t a bluff.”
Malfoy tilted his head just so, and his absurdly fancy sleeping robes slid down, exposing the line of his neck to his shoulders. His skin was creamy white, and, like his hair, seemed very soft.
“Then do something.”
Harry froze.
Malfoy froze too, but recovered rather quickly.
“I meant speak.”
Harry took a step closer.
Malfoy straightened.
“There you go again.”
“What?”
“Looming over me.”
Harry took another step.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed.
“If you murder me now, I’m haunting you.”
Harry smirked.
“Didn’t you say I could do anything I wanted?”
Harry stopped directly in front of him. Malfoy looked up at him from the bed. His expression shifted. Not fear this time. Something else.
Harry’s pulse kicked.
This was still an investigation, obviously.
Harry reached out and caught Malfoy lightly by the wrist and Malfoy looked down at Harry’s hand. Then back up.
“You’re touching me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Harry swallowed.
“To make the point.”
“What point?”
“That I’m serious.”
Malfoy stared at him for a long moment. Then laughed. Not loudly. Not kindly, either. Just one exhausted little breath of disbelief.
“Merlin, Potter. You actually are.”
Harry’s grip loosened, but Malfoy did not pull away. That was unexpected. Harry could not say he was displeased. His eyes dropped to Malfoy’s mouth.
Malfoy noticed. Of course he noticed. He sighed.
“Fine,” he finally said.
“Fine what?”
“You clearly need assistance, Potter.”
“With what?”
“This.”
Before Harry could ask what this meant, Malfoy reached up, caught the front of Harry’s robes, and pulled him down onto the bed with him.
The kiss lasted perhaps two seconds. Possibly three. Harry stopped thinking entirely. He did not think that, had it been up to him, he would have had the strength to pull back.
Malfoy did it instead.
“There.”
Harry stared at him and Malfoy stared back.
“That should satisfy whatever deranged curiosity brought you here.”
Harry said nothing. Malfoy’s mouth twitched.
“You can go now.”
He said it like he was dismissing a servant, in a haughty tone Harry learned meant Malfoy was feeling vulnerable.
So Harry kissed him instead. This time Malfoy made a startled sound against his mouth. Harry heard it. Felt it. Ignored it. He had meant to prove something. He could not, at that exact moment, remember what. Malfoy’s hands came up to his shoulders. For one second Harry thought he was going to shove him away.
He didn’t. He pulled him in. Malfoy kissed him back.
Harry inched closer. Malfoy made another sound, quieter this time, and Harry felt something low in his stomach twist hard enough to make thinking difficult. This was still fine. This was still part of the test. Probably.
Malfoy broke the kiss first and looked at him with the expression of a man who had just opened a door and discovered an unexploded curse on the other side.
“Potter.”
Harry was breathing too hard.
“What?”
Malfoy stared.
Then, very carefully:
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? Because if you don’t, you’d better go now.”
Harry thought about that.
“No.”
Malfoy closed his eyes.
“Okay then. Goodbye.”
Harry kept kissing him.
Some time later, Draco rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Harry — he had stopped being Potter somewhere between the kisses and… other things — did the same. For a while, neither of them said anything. The room had gone quiet in that strange, heavy way rooms did after something had happened that neither person had particularly planned for. Draco was tired enough that his bones felt heavy. Harry, beside him, seemed to be thinking very, very loudly. Draco closed his eyes. Merlin knew he was tired. He wished to sleep. He wished Potter would stop thinking loudly and sleep too.
“Okay,” Harry said out of the blue. Had he never heard of afterglow?
Draco did not open his eyes.
“What?”
“You fancy blokes.”
Deep breaths, Malfoy. Deep breaths.
One eye opened.
“The word you’re looking for is ‘gay’, Potter, and yes, I am.”
Harry was still staring at the ceiling.
“Right. Gay.” He said the word like he was tasting it on his tongue. Draco really tried not to find it adorable. “And… I might also be a little bit gay?”
This time Draco turned his head.
Harry looked genuinely troubled.
“Can one be half gay?”
“You have just spent a significant portion of the evening having sex with a man.”
“I’m aware.”
“With enthusiasm.”
Harry frowned.
“That doesn’t answer the question. I still fancy birds. I dated Ginny for a while, and that was real.”
Draco closed his eyes again.
Oh, joy. Bringing up his ex in our bed. Then Draco recalculated. My bed.
“Bisexual.”
“What?”
“The word you’re looking for is bisexual, Potter.”
Harry turned his head toward him.
“What does that mean?”
Draco opened his eyes again.
“It means you can fancy men and women.”
“At the same time?”
“Generally not literally at the same time… unless you’re Blaise. But yes.”
Harry was silent. Draco watched something happen behind his eyes. It was not difficult to guess that Potter was mentally rifling through approximately eighteen years of memories and finding several things he had apparently misfiled.
“Oh.”
“Quite.”
Another pause.
Then Harry’s eyes widened.
“Ron knows. He knew this whole time!”
Draco blinked.
“What?”
“Ron knows.”
“How could Weasley possibly know?”
“Charlie.”
Draco stared at him.
“Who the fuck is Charlie?”
“Ron’s brother.”
Draco rolled his eyes. Typical Potter. Ruining everything from breakfast to fucking afterglow. He was never ever having sex with him again. Maybe. Probably.
“That does not explain anything.”
Harry turned to look at him, suddenly very serious.
“If you saw Charlie, you would understand. It explains everything.”
Draco decided he did not have the strength for whatever that meant.
“Must you bring up all of the Weasleys in this bed while both of us are still very much naked?”
Harry looked offended. Then he turned back to the ceiling and went silent for long enough that Draco thought he was asleep. But then…
“Are we dating now?”
Draco sat bolt upright.
“POTTER!”
Harry flinched.
“We’ve been at it for hours. Let me sleep.”
“So… no?”
Draco dragged a pillow over his face.
“I am going to kill you, and unlike Snake-Face, I will succeed.”
Harry considered that.
“Is that a no in general, or just until morning?”
Draco removed the pillow very slowly.
“Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into a problem that must be solved immediately.”
Harry frowned.
“No.”
Draco stared.
Harry thought about it.
“Maybe.”
“Just go to sleep.”
Harry did not. Draco could feel it. There was a particular quality to Harry Potter’s silence that made it obvious he was still thinking.
Sure enough:
“I just think there are expectations.”
Draco made a strangled sound.
“What sort of expectations?”
“I don’t know. Dating ones. You’re the pure-blood.”
“You don’t even know if you want to date me.”
Harry turned toward him again.
“Well, I wanted to have sex with you.”
Draco looked at him. Harry frowned slightly, as if correcting himself.
“Well. At first I wanted to prove something.”
Draco went still.
“What?”
Harry looked away from him.
“What were you trying to prove?”
Harry hesitated.
Draco’s exhaustion vanished.
“Potter.”
“That you were lying about fancy blokes… being gay, I mean. But after the first time it was fairly obvious you weren’t lying.”
Draco just stared at him.
“So the rest was more personal.”
There was a very long silence. Harry looked almost pleased with the clarification. Draco was trying to decide whether murder remained legally actionable if committed under extreme provocation.
“You spent a week trying to sleep with me because you thought I was pretending to be gay?”
Harry winced.
“I thought you’d say no right away and I wouldn’t have to do anything. I thought I only fancied girls, remember?”
“Straight. And why on earth would I pretend to be gay?”
“You were suddenly getting all that sympathy.”
Draco stared harder.
Harry seemed to realise this was not helping.
“And the girls.”
“The girls.”
“They were defending you.”
“So naturally you concluded I had invented homosexuality.”
“I didn’t say invented.”
“Thank Merlin. I was worried we might lose all contact with reality.”
Harry sighed.
“I thought you were using it.”
“For what?”
“Sympathy. I said so. All of those girls circling you…”
Draco sat there in silence. Then something clicked.
“The first time.”
Harry looked wary.
“What?”
“When you asked me to go somewhere private.”
“Yes.”
“You were trying to seduce me.”
“Yes.”
Draco started laughing, hard.
“That was your seduction?”
“I was being subtle.”
Draco laughed even more.
Harry scowled. He hated the way Draco threw his head back and exposed his collarbone, full of the bite marks Harry had left there.
“I was.”
“You looked like you were going to murder me.”
“I know that now.”
Draco could barely speak between fits of laughter.
“And that voice… I thought you were trying to imitate Lockhart.”
Harry sent him a particularly offended look.
“And then at lunch?”
“Second attempt.”
Draco dropped his hands.
“You complimented my hair.”
“Yes.”
“You loomed over me.”
“I did not loom.”
“You absolutely loomed.”
Harry crossed his arms.
“It worked eventually.”
Draco stared at him.
“That is not the lesson you should be taking from this.”
Harry considered that.
Then:
“But you did say yes.”
“I gave up.”
“That still counts.”
“I said you could debauch me or kill me because I was too tired to care.”
“And then you kissed me.”
“You were standing in my room looking like a startled deer.”
“You kissed me.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. Harry looked unbearably satisfied.
“You kissed me first.”
Draco lay back down.
“I hate you.”
Harry settled beside him.
“That also doesn’t sound like a no to dating.”
Draco closed his eyes.
“Potter.”
“What?”
“If you ask me one more question tonight, I am smothering you.”
Harry was quiet.
Draco waited.
For once, Potter listened.
Then, after several seconds, it was Draco who couldn’t resist.
“So, how was your first time with a bloke?”
Harry hesitated.
“It was my first time.”
Draco frowned.
“Yes. With a bloke.”
“No.”
Draco turned his head.
Harry suddenly found the ceiling very interesting again.
“Ever.”
Draco stared at him.
“Your first time ever?”
“Yeah.”
“And you used it to prove a point?”
Harry frowned, as though Draco were being unfair.
“Well, it was a point about you.”
Draco stared at him.
Harry stared back.
Something in Draco’s expression shifted.
Then he picked up the pillow and hit Harry squarely in the face with it.
“Ow! What was that for?”
Draco lay back down and turned to him, caressing the face he had just hit with a pillow.
“Go to sleep, Potter.”
Harry pulled the pillow away. For once, he seemed to decide that continuing the conversation was not worth the risk of being suffocated with bedding. Draco was still caressing his face.
Several seconds passed. Harry was almost dozing off.
“Fine.”
Harry turned his head.
“What?”
“We’re dating.”
Harry blinked.
“We are?”
“Yes.”
A smile started spreading across Harry’s face.
Draco never stopped caressing his face, but he still managed a threatening tone when he said:
“Don’t make me say it twice.”
Harry’s smile widened.
Draco immediately regretted giving him anything to smile about.
“Go to sleep.” He waited a bit. “And for the record, Potter, do you want to sleep with all the girls at Hogwarts because they are girls?”
Harry settled back against the pillow.
“Of course not.”
“Yes, you idiot. I wouldn’t want to sleep with… say, Seamus, just because he happens to be gay.”
A beat passed.
“Does this mean I can tell Ron—”
Draco hit him again. But after that the caresses were back, so Harry assumed he could tell Ron.
...
Ron was sprawled across one end of the common-room sofa with Hermione tucked against his side, reading. He had been pretending to read too, though he had not turned a page in some time.
Eventually, he glanced at his watch. Harry had gone to “confront Malfoy” quite a while ago.
Ron smiled.
“Checkmate,” he whispered.
Hermione looked up from her book.
“What?”
Ron’s smile widened.
“Nothing. Just won a match, Herm.”
Hermione looked around the common room. They were alone; there was no one else there. And, more importantly…
There wasn’t a chessboard in sight.