Title: Smile, You're on Camera
Author: 
bewarethesmirk
Team: Team EWE
Prompt: The Devil
Wordcount: ~14,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: A bit of Harry/Ginny but nothing serious or explicit.
Summary: Harry Potter has lost sight of what it means to listen to himself—he's depressed and confused, moving through life only to please the Ministry and the press and his friends. One day he wakes up on a train next to Draco Malfoy and that all changes.
Author's Note Thank you so much to Team Sheep and all who betaed. Thanks to other people who helped when they didn't even have a stake on this team.
Humming was bloody annoying—when one was the listener and not the hummer.
It was not the sound of rustling papers or the rattle of the track that woke Harry; rather, it was a particularly obnoxious humming that jerked Harry into consciousness.
Harry came awake roughly, his vision assaulted with fluorescent light burning from overhead and a cement tunnel rushing past at his left.
He had fallen asleep on the Tube—again. He wondered how long he had been on the train and if he had slept through his stop.
The humming continued, undeterred.
Harry glanced to his right, wondering who on earth would make such an obnoxious noise, and his question was answered upon being confronted with the all-too-familiar face of Draco Malfoy.
Harry jumped back from the close proximity. His back hit the side of the train with an uncomfortable thump.
It had been roughly three years since Harry had seen Malfoy. Since then Malfoy's hair had grown longer; the strands of his silver-blond fell below his pointed chin. He looked much the same, except his grey eyes were glinting from behind silver oval-framed glasses. Malfoy was wearing a pinstriped Muggle business suit.
Harry blinked rapidly, trying to reconcile the image before him with the reality of waking up to find Draco Malfoy beside him on the Tube. Before he had fallen asleep there had been no-one there.
Malfoy arched a delicate eyebrow at Harry. Though silent, the words resonated clearly: You're staring, Potter.
Harry closed his eyes once, then opened them again. Malfoy was still there, upper lip now curling. It seemed unlikely that Malfoy had died and was now an apparition sent to haunt Harry forevermore. In an attempt to appear somewhat sane, Harry choked out what he hoped were words: "W-what are you doing here?"
Malfoy made a show of looking around the train—at the passengers clutching briefcases, the woman grappling with two suitcases (clearly a tourist), and teenagers talking boisterously. "Travelling, it would seem." Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Harry over the rim of his glasses. "You, on the other hand, appear to have been mastering the art of drooling."
Harry's hand flew to his mouth to wipe away said drool, but his palm came away clean.
Harry looked from his palm back to Malfoy, who was smirking. Harry rolled his eyes.
In the background a stop was being announced but Harry paid it no attention. "I meant what are you doing on the Tube"—Harry lowered his voice—"in a Muggle suit? You're the last person I would—"
"Last I checked, neither my activities nor my attire are any of your business."
Harry's skin tingled with the tell-tale sign of anger. "None of my business? When I wake up to find you practically sitting in my lap?" He gritted his teeth against that disturbing image. "Tell me what the hell you're doing here."
Malfoy's eyelids lowered. "I did."
Harry gripped the edge of the seat in lieu of punching Malfoy in his aristocratic face. "If you don't want to tell me what you're doing here, fine. Just leave me the bloody hell alone."
Suspicion wavered in Harry's mind as to why Malfoy was there and part of him wanted to remain to question the other man longer. Nevertheless, he forced himself to his feet and away from Malfoy's unwavering gaze. Harry shoved past Malfoy, the other man's knees brushing against his leg as he slid by. Malfoy didn't say or do anything in the way of following him.
Harry navigated nearer to the door. Good luck seemed in store for him at least once this evening: the next stop was announced as Piccadilly station—Harry's stop. Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels, Harry tried and failed to distract himself from the fact that he was still in close proximity to Malfoy.
It was inordinately strange that you could save someone's life and then not see them for three years. He had heard that Malfoy was still living with his parents, both exonerated of all crimes, and was working in international banking—doing something, exactly what Harry didn't know, and he didn't give a ruddy damn.
The doors opened when they arrived at the station, and Harry's thoughts were lost in the swarm of people. Harry stepped out without looking behind him. If he could only get away from this train, up the escalators, get into the sunlight and away from Malfoy.
He was moving around a corner with his head down when he heard the familiar humming again. Harry could see Malfoy in his peripheral vision. "Now you're following me?"
"Only in your dreams, Potter."
"More like my nightmares," Harry murmured.
"This was also my stop," Malfoy said by way of explanation, which really explained nothing at all.
"So you say."
Harry increased his pace. He fought down the urge to go for his wand. Aurors were expected to uphold the moral fibre of the Ministry, and Harry Potter more than any other Auror.
The humming stayed steady in volume as did the annoying click-click of Malfoy's leather shoes on the cement floor. Harry pushed past several people, earning several rounds of "Watch it!" Harry went up the escalator and walked up the moving stairs at a brisk pace.
When he reached the top and had walked several feet to no humming or pretentious footsteps, he turned around.
There was no sign of Malfoy on the escalator. Harry whipped around to face the front again, and there was no Malfoy there either.
Harry wasn't sure if he should be relieved or mystified.
Harry didn't lie to his friends often, but there was something about what had happened on the train that he couldn't explain to Ron and Hermione.
After departing, he had walked over to The Fox and the Hound, a pub near the station that had a magical section in the back. Harry walked through the Muggle section and entered the other part of the pub by tapping five times on the toilet in the stall farthest from the door.
When Harry arrived, Ron and Hermione were already seated at a table. Ron was nursing a pint, and Hermione's fingers were loosely cradling a glass of water.
Both of their faces brightened with recognition upon seeing him, but as Harry neared the tension was palpable, lurking in the downward turn of Hermione's mouth and in the furrow of Ron's brow. Maybe they had been fighting again—it did come as naturally to them as breathing.
"How're you, mate?" Ron asked as Harry slid onto the chair across from his friends.
"Knackered," Harry admitted, resting his chin in his hand
Hermione extended a hand and placed it on Harry's wrist, warmth seeping through the thin cotton of Harry's shirt. "You look exhausted, Harry. You have circles under your eyes."
"'m all right. I've been having trouble sleeping."
Hermione squeezed his wrist. Her brown eyes were shining with concern. "You should take some Dreamless Sleep tonight. I have some if you're out." She bit her lip. "You might also consider a glamour."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "To preserve the youth and beauty of the Boy Who Lived Again?" He laughed for what might have been the first time that day. "You know I don't care about that stuff."
"Err..." Hermione looked even more uncomfortable and one look at Ron's face confirmed that there was something more at play here. It was obvious Hermione and Ron had talked about...whatever this was.
Harry chose that moment to go up to the bar and order a pint of his own. The barkeep grunted a confirmation of Harry's order, and he came back with his drink.
When he returned to the table, Harry looked back at Ron and Hermione, both of whom were staring at the table. Ron's fingers were tracing graffiti etched in the table, declaring "S.S. loves G.G".
When it was apparent they were going to remain silent, Harry sighed. He was not in the mood for this. Things between the three of them had become increasingly strained over the past months. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or not?"
Hermione folded her hands neatly. "Harry, we know you've let yourself go..."
"Let myself go?" Harry echoed, the words tasting weird in his mouth.
"That is to say..." Hermione's words trailed off as her eyes levelled with Harry's shoulder.
"Mate, you look like a tramp."
He could count on Ron for the truth, at least.
Harry looked down at his slightly tattered robes. He ran a hand through his ever-rumpled hair. "Well, I've been working all day, haven't I?"
"That's not it, though; you always look like shite," Ron said.
Harry's eyes searched Hermione and Ron's concerned faces for hints that this was all a joke. Before he could stop himself, he barked out a laugh at the outlandishness of the situation. "So I need some new robes? I can get some this weekend."
Hermione rolled her eyes, her friendly concern vacating her expression. "You sound like you couldn't care less. We don't care what you look like when you're at home, but you come to work looking like a—"
"A house-elf?" Ron ventured.
Ron was reprimanded by a patented Hermione glare.
Harry took a sip of his drink, cherishing the alcohol as it burned down his throat. He wished he could drown in the warm contentedness that unfurled in his belly.
Harry took a stab at defending himself in this absurdity of a conversation. "You both know I don't care what the Prophet and the tabloids say. I'm not trying to impress anyone."
"Not even Ginny?" The edges of Ron's ears were flushed.
"Ginny and I aren't really dating, Ron. We're taking things slow. And, besides, she shouldn't care about that stuff." Harry paused. "Is she the reason you're bringing this up?"
Hermione held up her hands in a defensive gesture. "No! Everyone at the Ministry is..."
She stopped, lips tightening to a McGonagall thin line.
"Everyone is what?" Harry stared at them, wanting answers.
"Er, everyone thinks you don't give a shite about your life any more. And we"—she looked at Ron, who averted his eyes—"agree. We think you're depressed."
The words were slow and sarcastic as they left Harry's lips: "You think I'm depressed because I don't dress like, say, Lucius Malfoy?"
Ron snorted. "We're not suggesting you spend hours in front of the mirror, mate, but it wouldn't hurt to try just a bit, y'know? Some days you wear Muggle clothes to work."
Their words festered in Harry's mind. He could just imagine people at the Ministry, staring after him and whispering pointed comments.
"And this has been a popular topic of conversation, has it?" Harry felt anger bubbling underneath. He was always under someone's microscope. He didn't care what he wore. Why did it matter? He no longer wore Dudley's oversized clothes. He had his own clothes, ones he had purchased, and that, for Harry, was enough.
But apparently not for everyone else. When had Ron and Hermione bought into the "Harry as the face of the Ministry" mentality?
Harry visibly relaxed but his clutch on his glass was tight. "So, what would you have me do?"
Hermione's shoulders relaxed slightly and she sipped her water. "Take regular showers, make some attempt with your hair. Yes, I know it won't lie flat. You could go shopping this weekend."
Harry shrugged, one-shouldered. The best way to end this conversation was to appear to give in. A thought teased at Harry's mind, an idea forming.
"Okay, I'll go look around this weekend," he said. "And I'm not bloody depressed. Maybe I'm a in a rut"—that he wouldn't deny even to himself—"but it's not depression. If I were going to be depressed I think it would've happen some time ago, yeah?"
His thinly veiled suggestion was received without further hinting. Hermione had the grace to blush and she offered to pay for Harry's drink. Ron began hinting that Ginny had been worried about him and perhaps she would go shopping with him that weekend.
Harry liked Ginny well enough, but he would've rather gone down in a broomstick crash than go shopping with her.
But, rut or no rut, allegations of depression or not, the Ministry wouldn't know what to do with Harry Potter next week. Tomorrow was Friday. He'd make an effort to look like a house-elf tomorrow just to heighten the shock he'd bring next week. Hell, perhaps he'd borrow a pillowcase from Kreacher.
It was with a smile that Harry tapped on the bricks to enter Diagon Alley early on Saturday morning. He had dressed himself in clean clothes, khakis and a black jumper, and was well-scrubbed.
Contrary to Ron's pointed suggestion, Harry had not asked Ginny along. A twenty-year-old was been well-equipped to buy and wear his own clothes without commentary from the wizarding world at large.
Since the war had ended and Harry had begun helping the Ministry recover the magical world's collective life, he had been residing at number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Harry had at times questioned whether he wanted a new start, but there was comfort in living somewhere where he felt close to Sirius. Harry lived alone with Kreacher and spent most of his time at his home, perusing the library and languishing in the memories held within the walls of the house. He had completed Auror training in recent years. Ron had helped out at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for a few years, and he was recently beginning Auror training of his own. Hermione worked in the Department of Magical Creatures doing banal work, but she was secretly, Harry knew, hoping to find loopholes through which she could grant house-elves, werewolves, and other magical creatures their rights.
Sure, Harry loved his friends. They ate lunch together regularly and went out together. He spent many evenings in front of the fire at Ron and Hermione's flat playing Wizard's Chess with Ron, while Hermione sat nearby by the fire, her nose stuffed in whatever hefty tome she happened to be consumed by at the time. Harry's time with his friends was plentiful and well-spent. There were still a bounty of laughs and new experiences (just last week he and Ron had got staggeringly drunk and had been told off by a Muggle policeman when they'd attempted to sleep in Hyde Park).
But ever since Ron and Hermione had become engaged, approximately a year ago, they had become inseparable and had acquired their own set of inside jokes—some of them brought a flush to Hermione's nose and Ron's ears—that Harry wasn't sure he wanted to understand. He wasn't shut out from their lives explicitly, but implicitly there was a barrier that had been erected which Harry didn't know how to traverse. He wasn't sure if it was the inevitable move from adolescence to adulthood, but he wasn't entirely sure he liked it.
What he did like was being able to rely on himself. Criticism came at him from every angle, specifically from the Ministry. Harry Potter was constantly being expected to do something. The tabloids expected him to have a steady girlfriend and to soon be married with promises of multiple children on the way. The Ministry expected him to work around the clock and to have, by now, captured every last Death Eater who had eluded Azkaban. Molly Weasley wanted Harry to join the family soon via marriage to Ginny. Everyone expected him to give endless Galleons to charity.
And now he was expected to be a bloody fashion model.
Harry was accustomed to being in the media's eye, but if there was anything that did depress him, it was the pressure to live up to the endless expectations. What he wanted for himself was drowned out by the rest.
Harry shook his head, bringing himself back to Diagon Alley and to the sky, effervescent in its blueness. It was a beautiful day, and the street promised to be busy. Not yet eight on a Saturday morning, there were already women out with their children in tow and a few disgruntled wizards hastening towards some unknown location.
Gringotts was closed on Saturdays, but it was no matter—Harry's money bag was clinking with gold and would have weighted down his pocket were it not for the weightless charm he'd cast on it.
Normally Harry went to Madame Malkin's for his robes. He had been going there since starting Hogwarts. Harry was, however, breaking that tradition today.
He walked far down Diagon Alley, passing shops—some old and some new—and wasn't surprised to see that the door to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes stood open. He promised himself he'd go there, after he finished his own shopping, to see George.
Harry reached Enchanting Fashions and nearly scrunched up his nose at the silken and velvet robes adorning the mannequins at the front. The magical mannequins had their hands on their hips and were sashaying around the windows. They had no eyes, but they possessed wide, smiling lips which made Harry shudder.
Stepping through the doors before his commonsense got the better of him, Harry entered the shop. He was immediately accosted by a waifish sort of woman in robes of black silk. To Harry's surprise, her head was shaved.
Her turquoise eyes challenged his presence before she had spoken a word. She grabbed his wrist and moved him out of the view of the door. Her grip successfully cut off his circulation.
Her voice was deep and throaty yet somehow dangerous. "Welcome to Enchanting Fashions. We specialise in the best for the best—robes of the finest woven silk and crushed velvet to tantalise the softest of skins, and genuine leather for all your footwear needs. Our boutique is the only in all of Europe which offers dressrobes spun from fine Kneazle fur."
This extraordinary pronouncement was apparently supposed to stun Harry into silence, but instead he allowed a smile to curve his lips. "Then I've come to the right place."
The woman looked down at his clothes and then back to his face, where her eyes fell upon his forehead. Her frown halted and her eyes widened. "Mr Potter?"
"The one and only," came a drawling voice from somewhere behind and to the right of the shopkeeper.
Every urge to the contrary, Harry barely resisted smacking his palm against his forehead.
Why? Why was this happening to him?
The pretentious woman twirled around in a flurry of robes to face the even more pretentious expression on the face of the owner of the drawling voice, one Draco Malfoy.
Harry's instincts burned with the coincidence of seeing Malfoy first on the train and then seeing him in this shop. But this encounter was certainly much more believable. Malfoy was the type to shop here, and indeed Harry could see that Malfoy was dressed in a set of grey silken robes that had been displayed on one of the eerie mannequins in the display window. The grey matched Malfoy's eyes, complementing his fair colouring.
Harry looked away to the next thing in his line of sight: the back of the woman's oval-shaped bald head. He saw she had a tattoo on the back of her neck of a figure Harry recognised from Luna Lovegood's tarot card deck as the Devil. Why anyone would want the Devil permanently etched on their skin, Harry did not want to hazard a guess.
"You know Mr Potter?" The woman's voice shook slightly as she addressed Malfoy.
Malfoy's eyes were cool as he met Harry's around the woman's head. "Unfortunately."
The woman released a high-pitched giggle and Harry felt his skin crawl. Was she attempting to flirt with Malfoy? Disgusting.
To circumvent this strange situation, Harry moved to the woman's side and stuck out his hand. "Harry Potter," he said.
The woman looked at his hand warily, as if it might be contaminated with Merlin knew what, but she took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip and shook it once. "Madame Depuis."
"Pleasure," Harry lied.
"I apologise, Mr Potter," Madame Depuis said with a slight bow, "I was merely taken aback by your attire. You see, most of my patrons do not wear Muggle dress when shopping at my establishment."
Harry smoothed a hand over his khakis as if to comfort them against the shopkeeper's rebuke against his Muggle clothing. He felt Draco's eyes follow the gesture. Malfoy was undoubtedly taking inventory of his Muggle clothing. And it wasn't just Malfoy: here he was, again, being ridiculed for his clothing; after he had made an effort to look nicer today. "No big deal," he said, in what he hoped to be a nonchalant voice.
"Well, then, now that that minor misunderstanding has been properly resolved, let us get to business." She took out her wand to take measurements. "How may I help you?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak but balked when seeing that Malfoy was still watching him in the way a warder eyed a prisoner. Feeling more than slightly uncomfortable, Harry turned back to the woman in hopes she'd get the point.
She did.
"Mr Malfoy, I thank you. You have the rest of the robes to look through, yes? And then I shall help fit them to you."
Malfoy looked at her through lowered eyelashes and allowed several tense seconds to elapse before gracing her with a slight smile. Obviously, Malfoy was still a little sycophant.
"So lovely to see you again, Potter," Malfoy stated, voice dripping with sarcasm as he turned away before Harry was given a chance to retort.
"So, Mr Potter...may I help you?" Madame Depuis ventured.
"Yeah." Harry coughed. "I hope so. I'm in need of appropriate robes for work...I'm an Auror."
Madame Depuis clapped her hands together. "Of course, Mr Potter. Would you like silk?"
"Er, perhaps something more...."
She helped up a flippant hand. "So you're not a silk man. Not harm done."
Harry was given another once-over. "Let's get busy, Mr Potter. You need all the help you can get."
Harry sighed.
Several hours later, with the help of Madame Depuis, Harry had purchased an extravagant new wardrobe, costing a medium-sized fortune. Surprisingly, Malfoy had stuck around for the two hours or so it had taken Harry to complete his shopping by, not-so-surprisingly, complaining that all his robes were fitted wrong. The shopkeeper, however, had taken a liking to Harry. She had ignored Malfoy in favour of him.
During his shopping trip, he had tried to figure out what Malfoy was up to. Malfoy watched him too closely and too often, but aside from his staring problem, and the fact he was present at all, Harry didn't pick up anything. Madame Depuis had been present the entire time, and there was no time to question Malfoy further.
After he had paid Madame Depuis and tipped her well, he left the shop, hoping to be rid of Malfoy once and for all.
They had not been left alone once, and for that, Harry was pleased.
Harry never would have expected it, but he was getting off on being able to wear all these fancy clothes. It wasn't so much that he cared about fashion, but knowing that he would show up at the Ministry dressed like a king after all their recriminations made him giddy in his revenge.
More often than not everyone else controlled Harry's image, as if Harry were a mere puppet on a string. This time Harry got to exert some power of his own.
Monday morning, Harry had strolled into the Magical Law Enforcement office with a casual gait that belied the jitters in his stomach doing the conga. Clothes weren't that big a deal, no, but it wasn't everyday Harry wore emerald green velvet robes.
At least they weren't aquamarine and at least he wasn't named Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Oh, my God."
Harry turned, surprised to see Hermione in his office, but she had the market cornered on surprise. She looked him over, hand to her mouth. He could see her jaw working but words seem to be beyond her reach.
Ron chose this moment to walk through the door himself, carrying a Cannons coffee mug that was bright orange. The mug shattered as it hit the ground, and Ron's face looked at breaking point, too. He turned red, then white, then opened his mouth, and surprisingly no steam emerged.
"What in the name of fucking Merlin are you wearing?" Ron took a step back, as if burned by Harry's billowing robes and perfectly fixed hair.
Hermione appeared to sober. That, or what was more probable, she decided Harry need a champion. He was a recovered house-elf look-alike. Harry barely controlled his grin, and found himself rubbing a thumb over his own sleeve.
"They're robes, Ron," Hermione said.
Ron rolled his eyes. "I know that, Hermione. But he looks like a bloody poofter."
This shocked Harry out of his inward gloating. "I—what?"
Ron turned red again. "You're wearing green silky robes."
"They are not silk," Harry said.
"Might as well be," Ron murmured.
Harry threw up his hands. He looked around the office to see two witches studying him as they passed, their eyes spiking with something not safe for work. Apparently his wardrobe was something of a spectacle.
Cogsworth, one of the junior Aurors, hobbled into the office. He didn't look surprised at Harry—he merely came forth and stroked the fabric of Harry's robes with two fingers.
"Velvet." His voice was a rich purr that made Harry feel oddly shaky. "Sexy." And with that, he walked away.
"Speaking of being bent..."
"Ron!" Hermione swatted Ron on the arm and looked back over to Harry, who was by now confused and feeling oddly drunk.
"Er, the robes are actually really flattering," Hermione said. "They're just, uh, different for you."
"Yeah?" Harry said on default. "Well, different's good, right?"
"Er, sure," Ron said, appearing quite unsure.
Harry decided he'd had enough of the attention. "I'm going to read the Prophet before starting on that Glasgow case."
"You mean you haven't—er,"—Hermione winced—"you haven't seen it, I mean read it yet?"
"No..." Harry had wondered why his newspaper hadn't been on his desk that morning, and wondered where it was....
Cogsworth sauntered back into the room and pushed the Prophet in front of Harry's face. He winked at Harry and walked away.
A very generous corner of the Prophet's front page was dedicated to him. A headline emblazoned in multicolored bright letters enthused "Potter: Closet Fashion Aficionado." A picture from the corner of the newspaper showed Harry dressed in lavender robes.
Hermione and Ron peered over his shoulder—Ron standing farther away then he usually would've done. "Guess the Prophet was tipped off about your new clothes. What'd you do this weekend, go out wearing them to show off?"
Harry whirled around, furious. "I'm not showing off. You're the two who told me that I needed to stop dressing like a house-elf. I went to get nice clothes."
Harry left out the fact that he'd tried on each of his new robes again in the privacy of Grimmauld Place over the weekend.
"You didn't have to get such...flamboyant clothes," Ron said.
You're just jealous you can't afford them, Harry didn't say. "If I'm not a house-elf, you're insinuating I'm g-gay."
"Well..." Hermione looked doubtful.
"I'm dating Ginny, for fuck's sake," Harry said. Hermione winced at his language.
"Oh, fuck it," and Harry walked off, leaving his so-called friends to stare after his robes.
Harry didn't hear Hermione whisper, "But if he didn't go out this weekend, how is there a picture of him in the Prophet?"
By Thursday, Harry was contemplating figurative suicide.
He had thought that buying wearing nicer clothes, he would shut people up rather than increase the stares and whispers. He now had a feeling he was the laughingstock of the Ministry. Why he'd listened to Hermione and Ron in the first place, he didn't know.
His robes weren't that bad. A lot of wizards wore colourful robes; it was just that Harry Potter didn't, and the difference between his current attire and what he used to wear was staggering. His dating prospects were looking better—but every Floo address and phone number he'd received were from men. And Harry was not, not, not queer.
It seemed he lived to discount the rumours the magical world spread about him. First, he had to make null and void the impression he dressed like a house-elf. Now he had to show the world he wasn't a Lockhart wannabe in desperate need of some loving male attention.
He had owled Ginny earlier on Thursday and she had eagerly agreed to go to dinner with him, if he promised not to wear lavender or blue or green robes.
Harry settled for looking nice in Muggles clothes. Ginny had never really cared what he wore, and for that, he felt a flash of appreciation for her.
Despite the pressure from Molly Weasley and Ron, Harry and Ginny had not declared their everlasting love for each other, but rather, had been dating on-and-off. Currently, they were more friends with benefits than a steadily dating couple. They had tried to be serious after the Battle of Hogwarts, resuming their relationship from prior to the battle, but Harry just hadn't been the same. He had cared for her—still did, even—but his feelings for her had seemed muted. He also reckoned he might've been distracted, from the battle, the mourning of those who had fallen, and being pulled instantly into the Ministry to begin reconstruction of the magical world, post-Voldemort.
Harry hadn't had time to himself or to think through what he wanted. He'd been tossed between people of varying personal agendas, like a man thrown overboard in the torrential waves of a sea, without a single idea of how to swim.
The Prophet had been quiet about Harry for the rest of the week, but Harry was not lulled into believing that he'd heard the last of things. Even though he had planned to go get some less colourful robes this weekend, if only to stop falsely advertising to men—he didn't see the connection between wearing stylish colours and taking it up the arse, himself—he knew tabloids would be all too happy to play off the "Potter is a Raging Homosexual" stories.
In order to thwart these rumours, Harry had decided to see if Ginny wanted to resume dating more regularly. He knew she saw other people from time to time, and he didn't care exactly, but he thought a monogamous relationship would be more legitimate in the eyes of the press. And if there was any woman Harry was currently attracted to it was Ginny. At least he knew she wasn't after him for his money or name—at least he hoped.
Not a romantic expert by any means, Harry still thought he'd done well enough with setting up the date for the evening. He was already waiting at the Palace of Sins and Sweets, which, in name, sounded quite a bit like a sex shop or a brothel or, more innocently, a sweetshop. In reality, it was a rather picturesque Italian restaurant that specialised, also, in sweet wines and chocolates. Ginny was rather fond of the sweet wine, hating regular wine for being too dry or bitter, and Harry's palate had a delight for the fettuccini alfredo. Luckily for Harry, Ginny was perfectly fine with Muggle restaurants and with wearing Muggle clothing. Harry, dressed in jeans and a blue jumper, was more comfortable and felt more himself than he'd been all week. Here, away from the rest of the magical world, maybe he'd finally get a break.
Ginny showed up right on time, and Harry thought for the first time in a while he might be attracted to her. Her brown eyes were shining and her red shirt accented the flaming red of her hair, combed straight and hanging nearly to her elbows. Harry sometimes wondered if that's how his mother's hair might've looked, and then, feeling disgusted, pushed it away.
"Hi, Harry," Ginny greeted him as she walked from the revolving doors to where he stood, hands in his pockets.
"Hey," he said. He ducked down to brush his lips against her cheek. "I've already reserved a table for us. Should be ready now."
Ginny nodded her assent. "Great. I'm starving." She pushed past Harry and made her way to the greeter's stand to claim their reservation.
Harry and Ginny were led to a table and their drink orders were taken in short order—Ginny's favourite Italian sweet wine and water for Harry. Harry wanted to drink, yes, but he when he did, he wanted to get sloshed. He settled on water for the time being, thinking that the wine would only serve in unfairly tempting him.
"I hear you have the makings of a fashion model." Ginny grinned against the rim of her glass.
"Shut up."
She only grinned wider, but obliged him with a nod, and segued into talking about the next game. Harry allowed himself the distraction discussing Quidditch provided, and he barely remembered ordering his food, until it came. The conversation continued between bites of pasta. Harry felt at home—good food, relaxed conversation—here, with Ginny's hair sparkling in the dim candlelight and her lips glistening from her wine. His pants were tight against his zip and his mind felt fuzzy despite having not consumed alcohol.
Harry was a bit taken aback when Ginny interrupted his talk of the Glasgow case—which he had solved that week successfully—with mention of Ron and Hermione.
"You're still ignoring them," she said, disapproval evident in her voice. Her lips had that Molly Weasley "I'm about to scold you" look and Harry wanted to nip it in the bud before Ginny got on a tirade and pissed him off.
"Yeah, because they ranted about my clothes and then all but called me queer."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. Her lips curled into a secretive smile, and Harry could've sworn that in that moment, she would have gotten under the table, then and there, and sucked him off. "Well, at least we know that part isn't true."
"Tut, tut, Weasley, wishful thinking will only get you so far."
Harry's head spun around, and there behind him stood the very last person he wanted to see. The very fucking last person.
Where Harry's mind was sluggish, Ginny's reflex was fast.
"Malfoy?"
Indeed, it was Malfoy. He was standing in the middle of the aisle at the restaurant, his arms crossed over his chest. Obviously dressed to impress—although the person who'd be impressed by this arsehole, Harry didn't know. He was wearing all black—black shirt that buttoned down and black wool trousers, topped of with black boots. The only colour was a silver belt buckle, partially hidden by Malfoy's untucked shirt. The glasses were back again, and Harry wondered if Malfoy thought they were sexy or if they made him look intelligent. Harry would be pleased to inform them they were neither sexy nor intelligent.
"I'm so very pleased to see that your memory is intact, even if your judgement in partners is lacking." Malfoy smirked at Harry and brushed a flyaway stand of blond hair back behind his ear. He leaned against a table where there was a woman seated. She looked up at him—at first in irritation, then in approval upon mentally undressing him with her eyes.
"It's not very hard to forget scum," Ginny responded, and Harry's lips quirked. But his amusement was transitory. What in the name of all that was satanic and unholy was Malfoy doing here? This made the third chance encounter in less than a week! And of those encounters, this was the second time that Harry had seen Malfoy in a Muggle location, wearing Muggle clothing like he had invented it, and not like he had spent the entirety of his school years cursing and blaspheming against everything Muggleborn and Muggle-made.
"Weasley, you'd think your wit may have been sharpened, but I guess too much riding a broomstick"—Malfoy's eyebrows rose suggestively—"has numbed your mental capacity."
Ginny's cheeks were flushed. "And what are you doing these days, Malfoy? Devoting your life to spying on couples in restaurants and making juvenile retorts for fun?"
Harry did wonder what Malfoy was doing. He hadn't suspected, before recently, that Malfoy lived in London, or at the very least, spent so much time here. Harry wondered where Malfoy lived, where he was working, why he was wearing those glasses.... No, no, Harry most certainly did not. It was just odd for Harry to have known Malfoy for so many years and to have known quite a bit about him, and then in sixth year, even going to the point of trailing Malfoy's every move. Now, he knew nothing about Malfoy and it was slightly disconcerting. It seemed wrong, but until seeing Malfoy on the train, Harry would have never realised. He wished he could un-realise it.
"As I've told Potter rather recently," Malfoy said, "my activities are none of your business."
"Oh, I see. We can't ask you a damn thing, and yet you feel free to just waltz up and stick your ferret nose in our conversation?"
Harry thought back to the conversation and wanted to get under the table, himself, when he recalled just what they had been discussing. Harry's cheeks must've heated because Malfoy's grey eyes were tracing Harry's face a bit too carefully.
"That's right, Weasley," Malfoy said, his attention still on Harry. "And what an interesting conversation."
A server came down the aisle with a platter of food, and Malfoy didn't bother to make more room for her. She squeezed past Malfoy with a "hrmph."
"Potter, have you not told Weasley yet?" He tittered and shook his head in the mockery of a shameful bout of scolding. "It's not fair to lead on people, you know. You might break her heart." Malfoy's upper lip was twitching.
Harry had had enough. He jumped from his seat and faced Malfoy. "I know you think you're Merlin's gift to the world, Malfoy, but you're disillusioned." Harry stuck out a finger and poked Malfoy in the chest, roughly. "I want you to leave me alone. Leave Ginny alone."
Malfoy shrugged, just as aloof as ever. "I don't give a fuck"—the woman next to Malfoy gasped—"about your sordid little tryst. I was on the other side of the restaurant with my date and saw the two of you over here, and I couldn't resist."
Harry was gobsmacked. "You're on a d-date in a Muggle restaurant?"
"Yes, I do believe I mentioned that before, Potter. Are you somehow mentally deficient?"
Harry's finger poked deeper against Malfoy's shirt, and underneath, hard muscle. "Shut up. I didn't see you come in."
"I, unlike you, can afford the private room."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Then what did you want? Just to take the mickey?"
"Well, yes, partially. I also wanted to give you some advice."
"You. You want to give me advice."
Malfoy nodded, and before he spoke, reached up and took Harry's wrist and pulled it down, away from his chest. The skin on skin contact was disorienting, and Harry couldn't find air to breathe, let alone speak. The candlelight was glinting off those damnable silver glasses and those damning grey irises. Harry must've stood stock still for some time. Behind them, Ginny's voice sound panicked. "Let go of him, Malfoy!"
Malfoy dropped his wrist with a shrug. He leaned in close to Harry, who was still immobile. "My advice," Malfoy breathed, "is to lay off the gaudy clothes. They don't suit you."
With that, Malfoy looked over Harry's shoulder to where Ginny still sat, fuming. Their server was coming down the aisle, face set in stony determination, eyes on Malfoy. "I suggest you rethink Potter, here. He's not as...forthright as he appears to be."
Ginny's mouth opened on an unvoiced question, and Malfoy turned and walked away down the aisle and disappeared.
Harry sat in his seat, wrist still tingling from where Malfoy's thumb had brushed the tender skin there. Ginny was looking at him oddly, searchingly.
"I have no idea what he's talking about," Harry said.
"I know," she said, softly.
Their server came to their table. "Was that man bothering you?" she asked.
Ginny answered. "He's an annoyance, but he's gone."
"Or buggered off to the private room," Harry said, scowling. Malfoy still prided himself on his money, apparently.
The server looked confused. "What private room?"
One second Harry was surrounded by seduction personified: warm, smooth skin sliding against his bare body with a determined goal, unintelligible words murmuring against his ear—all except for one word he did understand, repeated over and over until it burned into his mind and body, his limbs quaking as the chant continued: Harry, Harry, Harry
The next moment, the warm bedclothes cocooning Harry were ripped away from him, leaving him shivering in nothing but his cold, damp boxers. Harry opened his eyes as gooseflesh erupted over his skin,
"'s going on?" he murmured as he opened one eye to see a pair of huge gold eyes staring back at him. Kreacher was standing beside the bed, his head almost reaching the top of the mattress.
Being awakened by a house-elf was not on Harry's top ten ways to start a rejuvenating morning. Harry closed his eyes again, curling into a ball in hopes of shutting out Kreacher.
"Master must awaken this instant, Kreacher commands!"
Harry groaned and burrowed his face into his pillow. It was a weekend; why couldn't Kreacher bugger off? He deserved his rest after the shite he'd endured last night.
Kreacher grabbed Harry's hair and pulled hard.
"Oooow, fuck. Oi, stop!"
Harry made it a habit to be as nice to Kreacher as possible, but Harry's threshold on patience was being tested, to say the least.
"Harry Potter must be waking up, Kreacher is declaring!" Kreacher flourished something that had been hidden by the bed. He waved the object around in the air, and it made crinkling sounds that only a much-read copy of the newspaper could muster. "The scoundrels at the Prophet are making a mockery of Harry Potter's name! I has seen Dark Magic, Harry Potter, sir. I is knowing how to use it! I can stop those half-breeds at the Ministry where they stand!"
Harry, alight with panic over what the Prophet was reporting about him now and pride that Kreacher would defend him so heartily, found the motivation to sit up. It was then that he looked down at his boxers, destroyed from his dream, and felt a flush creeping up his neck.
"Er, Kreacher...." He was unsure of how to subtly command the house-elf to leave so that he could go to the lavatory and clean himself up.
Kreacher waved an impatient, gnarled hand. "I is not caring about that! Kreacher wants to desecrate them to smithereens!"
This sounded serious, so Harry tried to get over his modesty.
He held out a hand for the paper, and Kreacher placed the abused copy of the Prophet in his hand. Harry wondered idly if Kreacher hand been trying to punish it in order to avenge Harry's name.
Harry's name had been drug through the mud so much recently that he couldn't imagine what the paper would be saying now. Usually the Prophet's reports were based in truth—to a certain extent—and the tabloid rags were the ones that claimed Harry had a perverse longing for cows, and other unthinkable rot. Most of the magical world had long stopped believing Harry loved to be called "pretty, pretty princess" by his closest friends, or that he fostered a longing for world domination.
Feeling better, he looked at the paper. His name occupied the main headline and what he read made his stomach turn over. "Potter Spills his Secret to Long-Time Girlfriend." A picture below the headline displayed Harry and Ginny on their date the night before, sitting across the table from one another. The picture Ginny was frowning and Harry looked impatient. Harry squinted: the replica of himself in the picture was mouthing a word that looked suspiciously like "queer". The moving photo replayed the scene over and over, and thus the Harry in the picture kept repeating over and over what now resonated in Harry's head: "queer, queer, queer."
This was preposterous. He was not queer. This must have arisen from his newly acquired clothing. Harry's entire date with Ginny last night had been planned in part to pre-empt just this sort of rumour-mongering.
Last night, Harry's mind cued. If there was a picture from their date last night that meant that there had been a reporter or someone at the Palace of Sins and Sweet. But Harry hadn't seen anyone, no-one out of the ordinary except...
His heart stopped.
Malfoy.
And that little creep had showed up just when he and Ginny had been discussing Harry's ignoring of Ron and Hermione because of their accusations. And Harry had even said the word "queer", hadn't he?
Someone had taken a picture of this, and the only likely suspect was Malfoy.
Why would Malfoy bother doing something on this level? Harry shook his head furiously. Malfoy didn't need a reason.
"Master, they is slandering your name."
Harry nodded, and knew that he needed to read the article, skim through it at least, to ascertain what angle the paper was taking.
Surprisingly, there was no mention of Harry's new clothes. The paper merely reported Harry and Ginny dining at the Muggle restaurant and that they had looked happy until Harry had broken the news that he was queer. The paper went on to wonder what all of Harry's female well-wishers would do upon learning of this saddening news. The Prophet ended with: "This reporter wonders why we didn't expect it all along. No word yet on any mystery lovers Potter has kept hidden, but we will unearth every secret to keep you apprised of the salacious details."
Harry snorted, wondering just when the Prophet itself had morphed into a tabloid rag. It wasn't exactly the most reliable of sources, no, but just when it had become a stack of utter rubbish, Harry wasn't sure.
"Is you knowing who is sullying Master's name?" Kreacher asked.
Harry turned back to the front (the article had continued onto three separate pages) and read the by-line: Jenna Robertson. He didn't know that name, but it didn't matter anyway.
He was sure who was involved.
Even though Malfoy had found him on three occasions now, Harry wasn't sure how to find him.
Well, he was an Auror, was he not?
One shower and a change of clean clothes later, Harry felt vastly improved and ready to take on these ridiculously rumours, and more specifically, to hunt Malfoy down like a dog.
Kreacher had found some black robes for Harry that looked old but were certainly expensive. Harry deeply hoped they were a pair of Sirius' old robes—or Regulus'—and ardently hoped they didn't belong to some of the more frightening Blacks. He had no desire to go looking for Malfoy dressed in lavender.
Ready to leave, Harry decided he would walk for a bit instead of Apparating directly. He needed to decide where to begin his search for Malfoy. He assumed have to begin by going to the Ministry, since he didn't know anyone with close contact to Malfoy, and those he knew from Hogwarts (Pansy Parkinson came to mind) he'd rather avoid.
He opened the front door after waving goodbye to Kreacher, who was looking at Harry with clenched fists. Somehow, it still amazed Harry how loyal Kreacher was to him, almost as much as Dobby, but in his own way.
Harry opened the door and almost collided with someone on the step.
He looked up—at Luna Lovegood. Had he transformed into some kind of magnet, attracting people, loved and loathed, to his person, and now his doorstep?
"Luna?"
The woman on his step looked down at herself, from her yellow jumper to her purple gauzy skirt and black knee-high boots, and then her blue eyes locked back on Harry's. "...Yes."
"What are you doing here?" Then he remembered something important. "How are you here?" He gestured around, indicating the house. "It's Unplottable."
"You invited me here."
Harry eyebrows crept upward towards his hairline...
"Christmas Party."
..and then lowered again.
"Oh," he said.
"I can come here at any time," she explained.
"Uh, yeah, I got that."
She nodded and looked over his shoulder into the house.
"I was actually on my way out," Harry said. "Did you need something? I mean—if there's an emergency...?"
Luna's shoulders slumped and she looked down at the ground as if puzzling out the situation for herself. Harry waited for Luna to look back up.
When she didn't, he repeated her name three times.
"I was only trying to help, but—oh, Harry, I've found out something horrible."
The tension already present in Harry's body wound tighter till he thought he might implode with stress. "Come in?" he offered, willing to put his own troubles aside for Luna, who was a good friend even if she was at times a bit loopy.
"All right," she said, "but I can't stay long."
That worked well enough for Harry. He had a Malfoy to catch.
Harry held the door open, and they walked down to the kitchen, which was still dank and poorly lit despite the efforts he'd made to make it more hospitable. At least the pantry was stocked with good food...chocolate, tea, coffee, alcohol to boot, and all the creature comforts that Harry relied on a bit too much when times got tough—which was to say nearly all the time. Luna took a seat at the long wooden table, stained and abused from so many Order meetings, but Harry preferred things which showed life had once existed in this house—good life, and not the bigotry and insanity of its other predecessors. At such a large table Luna should have looked out to sea, but she always looked out to sea, so Harry thought it was quite all right.
Luna agreed to tea, so Harry put on a kettle (he'd told Kreacher, despite the creature's wishes, to allow them privacy). Once the tea was prepared, he sat across from her and attempted to get comfortable in one of the highback chairs. Comfort and these chairs was a paradox, though, so Harry settled for sitting forwards, worried and attentive to Luna's bright eyes.
Since Harry had come to the table, Luna had pulled something out of the band in her hair, which served to keep her hair off her forehead. She revealed five cards, which were now facing upwards. These cards looked vaguely familiar. All five cards had the same insignia, the same picture on each—five eerie figures (far more eerie than any mannequin) glared up at him. He had the feeling he had seen this image in particular somewhere before, too, but where he did not remember.
Harry took a sip of tea for willpower. It was hot and scalding and burned his throat. As Harry grew older he learned his patience was a bit frayed whenever he was stressed, and so he attempted to temper himself. "Er, Luna, what are these?"
"Root of Life cards," she said, staring down at the cards which lay on the table between them. Her pale fingers were trembling around her cup, rocking the china of the cup against its saucer.
Harry attempted to remember where he had seen such cards—it was brushing the back of his brain, this stray thought, like the wings of butterflies assaulting his mental senses.
Ah, then he remembered. Arthur Weasley had acquired these from a raid and Ginny had picked them up, thinking they were quite ingenious. They were supposedly a Muggle form of Divination that was taken quite seriously by some. Harry thought most forms of Divination were woolly at best. He was not about to tell Luna that.
"This is the Major Arcade," Luna explained, abandoning her tea altogether and gesturing down to the cards.
"Why are they all the same?"
Luna's lower lip wobbled; this matter was apparently at the crux of her concern. "I have no idea. I've done readings for people where two of the same card might appear, but this is unusual."
Harry kept silent that he thought all the cards were supposed to be different—at least they had been when Ginny had done a spread, or whatever they were called.
"So, you got all of these"—Harry peered down to read, frowning—"Devils?"
"I got them for you." Harry opened his mouth to ask, but Luna barrelled on. "I've been following the news about you, especially that story in the Secrets Revealed about the orgy with the spoons. Then, I saw the Prophet this morning and decided to do a Root of Life reading for you."
A laugh was teasing the back of Harry's throat, but he kept a hold on it. "And you got this Devil card five times?"
"Yes," Luna closed her eyes, but opened them again. She examined Harry for a long time before reaching out her hand to clutch Harry's, much as Hermione might. He let her. "A lot of people misinterpret this card as a demonic omen. It can actually be more synonymous with an internal struggle one has to overcome. This card in particular references the hero, the Fool, who has to go to the castle and rescue a princess."
Harry couldn't help it. He laughed. "I don't think I'm going to be rescuing any princess."
Luna looked sly and opened her mouth to respond—
"Don't even say it!" Harry wanted to grin and scream, all at once. "Not a prince, either."
"Well, typically if the Fool—not to call you a fool—has to overcome personal bondage, something inhibiting his personal development. If he can do this and learn, he can rescue the princess, or the treasure, or whatever it is...and sometimes situations arising from this card call for a unification of the Fool and the princess, which is a direct reversal of the differentiation of the two in the Lovers card—"
Harry bit his bottom lip. "Er, Luna? No offence, but I don't actually understand a lot of this."
"Sorry. Main thing to remember is to overcome your internal struggles and not to revert to materialism or lust or co-dependency or drugs or greed or —"
"I get it." Harry really didn't get it at all and thought it a pile of hippogriff shite, to be honest, but something, instinctively told him to pay attention. "So this Devil, who might it be?"
Luna blinked slowly, and she removed her trembling hand from the table and brushed it through her hair. "In your life?"
"Yeah." Harry's mind flashed in sequence from the Prophet, to the Ministry, Ginny (at times), and then to Draco Malfoy.
"Honestly, I'm not sure, but what's important to remember about the Devil is that it's more about you and what you need to overcome."
Harry put a hand to his forehead, his finger accidentally brushing against the faint line where he could still feel his scar. "It's always about me."
Luna coughed delicately, with intent, and Harry removed his hand so that he could see her clearly in the dim light. Her hair was long, past her elbows, and her pale yellow jumper hugged her snugly. Harry had a fleeting thought that Luna might be attractive. He'd never really noticed...
"Ginny told me about the other night. About Malfoy ruining your date."
"Yeah," Harry said. He looked at the table.
"She's not happy about the Prophet. This makes her look like a fool."
"I know." Harry scratched his nose. "We aren't even really dating...but that's what I was trying to do the other night. See if Ginny wanted to date."
"Because you love her?"
"Um."
"Harry, she loves you a lot, but she learned a while ago not to wait for you." With that, Luna stood up and left the cards peering up at Harry from the table. Her teacup was still full, steam still curling in tendrils from the cup's depths.
"Stop thinking about your image, Harry. Think about yourself—what you want."
"I don't know what I want," Harry murmured, but Luna had already left the kitchen to go upstairs.
Luna turned around to look at him one more time. "Ginny is very curious about who took the picture last night, y'know." Her voice was sing-song, almost prophetic in its own right.
"The Devil," Harry joked.
Luna did not smile.
Harry tapped the counter to get the barkeep's attention.
"Another 'un?"
Nodding, Harry looked down at the counter which was quite blurry. Another shot of Firewhiskey was slammed down in front of Harry, and he knocked it back methodically. He had lost track of how many drinks he'd had.
He was in a seedy pub in Knockturn Alley for the anonymity it might afford him. People might recognize him as Harry Potter, sure, but he wouldn't be assaulted by questions from people whom he did know. He could hear it now: "Why didn't you tell us?"
He was lucky he hadn't run into Cogsworth when he'd gone to the Ministry earlier. Cogsworth had flirted with him before, at levels bordering on obscenity, and Harry didn't want to imagine what it might be like now.
The Firewhiskey burned the corner of his eyes, and Harry slumped against the bar, unable to sit upright on his stool. He felt dizzy with loss of sobriety and with his dismal failure.
The Ministry had provided Harry no information. He'd looked at the Magical Law Enforcement's records of the Malfoys and the records showed that Draco still lived with his mother and father at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire, which didn't add up with Malfoy's repeated occurrences over the last week in London. The records also showed that Malfoy was free of charges since his trial after Hogwarts, in which his family had paid a hefty fine, and was apparently working as a financial consultant for an international conglomerate.
There was something very strange going on and that had been confirmed when Harry had been sitting in his office, blessedly alone since it was the weekend, and the Floo had come to life.
"Harry?"
Harry dropped the files he'd been studying at the time and had looked to the Floo to see Hermione's face floating there, eyes concerned and lips tight. Her hair looked disastrous.
"What do you want?" Harry asked, the coldness in his tone directed more at his situation and less at Hermione herself, but at the time he couldn't bring himself to care.
"Now is not the time to be petulant, Harry. Look, Ron and I are sorry that we made you feel bad about your clothes. We don't actually think you're gay, Harry, and we won't until you tell us otherwise. You know we don't believe that rubbish in the Prophet." A few sparks fired around Hermione's face, appearing to singe her right eyebrow, but she carried on, unaware. "I've been talking to Ginny—no, nothing bad! We were just talking about you and thinking about the picture from last night. And then I remembered how there had been a photo of you wearing your new clothes even before you'd come to the Ministry Monday. Someone must've taken them that weekend."
Without much thinking, Harry knew that weekend the only person who had seen him trying on his clothes had been Madame Depuis, the shopkeeper, and Malfoy himself. It didn't take a rocket science to figure out which one was the more likely suspect.
"I think I know who —"
"But then Harry, I remembered something else!" Hermione's face shone with an epiphany, and Harry realized she'd spent long hours worrying about him and putting all this together. "In the past few months the tabloids have had pictures of you in different situations before they should have known anything."
"No, they haven't!" Harry interrupted. Those tabloids were utter insanity, Hermione should know that.
"Harry, you don't read those papers, though, do you? Ron and I tell you of the more amusing headlines, but you don't actually read them." Harry was silent, so Hermione continued. "But in the past months they've known things about you they shouldn't: places you're going, cases you've solved, dates with Ginny, even."
Harry's brain was rushing with Hermione's words. He was inclined not to believe her, but he recognised that he should trust her. Hermione wouldn't be saying these things without reason and research. "D'you think the same person who's been tipping off the tabloids is feeding info to the Prophet, now?"
"Yeah, Ginny and I both think so. Ron thinks we're both off our rockers with superstition." Harry mustered a half-smile. That wasn't surprising.
"Hermione, listen." He stood from his desk and walked closer to the fireplace, burning brightly in his office. He kneeled down so that they were face-to-face. "I think I know who's behind this." Hermione opened her mouth to ask what Harry imagined to be a million burning questions, but there wasn't time. "No, not now. Just trust me, all right? I need to get moving on finding some information."
Hermione sighed. "Fine, but let me know as soon as you found out something."
"I will," he said, and then Harry turned away back to his desk, where he had found absolutely nothing.
Nothing.
And now, here, he sat in this sham of a place. There were a few more people at the bar, but he didn't even bother to look at him.
On the walk from the Ministry to Knockturn Alley, Harry had been thinking about Luna's words from earlier. Everything he had been doing all week, and much longer than that, had been in response to public opinion and the Ministry. When he'd attended Hogwarts, he had been able to hold his own well enough, but working at the Ministry was a suffocating environment and somewhere along the way Harry had stopped trying to please himself. These days all his thoughts were focused on someone else. What will they think of me if I wear these clothes? What happens if everyone thinks I'm queer? What if I tell the Ministry I don't want to be an Auror right now? What if people find out Ginny and I aren't exclusive
On and on the questions went and Harry realized, quite emphatically, he was everyone's bitch. More importantly, a part of him had become a bitch to an unwieldy, insecure part of himself. He was sick of it, sick of everyone and himself.
He was still no closer to finding Malfoy, and so right now there was probably pictures being snapped of him sloshed off his arse at this sketchy bar. He could see it now: Potter Drunk in Knockturn Establishment, Suspected of Wrongdoing.
Harry leaned his forehead down to the bar, sticky with spilt alcohol and who knew what else. His hair was stuck to his forehead and to the nape of his neck. The pub was too crowded, intoxicating with its smell of sick and smoke. If Harry breathed in deeply enough, he could smell sex, and realized he really didn't want to know, but knowing his luck, he was going to find out.
His thoughts were just as suffocating as his environment, and he tried desperately to drown out the grunts and voices around him. A witch cackled in an annoying way and some idiot was humming. Inebriated or not, Harry could sharply recall just how much he loathed humming.
Harry Potter's thoughts were as serene as they could be with his forehead to a filthy bar, drunk, virtually alone, and reputation and identity screwed—not because he thought queer was so horrible, but because he knew the informant wouldn't stop until Harry's name was slandered beyond repair.
Hot breath brushed against his earlobe a moment before the words drifted into his ear, muzzy as if coming from faraway and somehow still close, resounding directly into Harry's ear. "Hit the bottom of the barrel, have you, Potter?"
Once the drawling words had resonated with Harry, he jerked his head up and twisted around to be nose-to-nose with the person he had sought, unsuccessfully, all day.
Harry knew banter would get them nowhere, and neither would direct questions because Malfoy would field them as he had in their previous encounters. Harry was already well and thoroughly fucked; he had nothing to lose, not really. "Yeah, I'm here. Bottom of the barrel." His words were slurred around the edges.
Surprise registered on Malfoy's face—only before he covered it up with a mocking smile. Behind his glasses, Malfoy's eyes strayed down the bar and back to Harry. "Hoping to pull tonight, are you?" Malfoy's voice was somehow enchanting, pitched low and suspiciously determined. Malfoy's face was swimming close in front of him, and Harry wondered if Malfoy was really that close or if the alcohol was distorting his vision.
"I might be," Harry said, jesting, but there was an interesting reaction in Malfoy's eyes. They were liquid silver, hot. Harry studied his face: he was all blond eyelashes, sharp cheekbones and strong jaw.
Harry moved his elbow and knocked over three shot glasses. Malfoy looked over Harry's shoulder and his eyes widened perceptibly.
"You're drunk off your arse, Potter."
Harry wasn't quite drunk yet, he decided, but he was on the way there. "Why don't you just take a picture, Malfoy? I'm sure the papers would appreciate it."
Malfoy froze, his shoulders rigid and back straight. His panicked eyes searched Harry's face. It was all the reaction Harry needed for a confirmation. It had been Malfoy.
"No need to deny it," Harry said, defeated. Harry didn't know why Malfoy had been tailing him for months and following his every move. Just in case, Harry's hand was on his wand, hidden in a pocket underneath his robes.
"Well, Potter, I'm impressed." Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest. "I never would've expected you to put it together."
"I'm not an utter idiot. I figured it was you, and then Hermione puzzled the rest of it together. She usually does."
Malfoy looked doubtful, but held his tongue.
"Look, I don't know why you've been doing this, other than the fact you hate me. If you're supposed to be some top-tier banker..."
Quick reflexes, Harry thought, when before he realized it Malfoy's fingers were clamped over his lips. "Not here," he hissed in Harry's ear.
Harry tried to talk against Malfoy's hand, his lips working ineffectively, brushing against the smooth skin of Malfoy's hand. He felt more sober than he had in some time and found the coordination to pull the confining fingers away from his mouth.
"We need to talk, if you're amenable to that. Somewhere private," Harry said. It seemed this would work well with Malfoy, who obviously didn't want his occupation discussed in public, unpopular pub or not.
"Fine. We'll go to my flat." "What?" Malfoy had to be out of his fucking mind if he thought Harry fancied going back to his flat after everything he'd done.
"Potter, you're not in any situation to compromise," Malfoy said, eyebrows raised and lip curled, the epitome of haughtiness, even though he'd just confessed to stalking Harry with nefarious intent.
Harry knew he was being reckless, and perhaps he was underestimating Malfoy, but he didn't think the other wizard was going to hurt him per se—not physically, at least. "I'll go with you, but if you try anything—and I mean anything—I'll be sure to bring you in for questioning on the spot."
Malfoy waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go."
Mustering his dignity, Harry stood and prayed for balance. He faltered when dizziness seeped into his vision.
"God, Potter, you're such a lightweight." Before Harry could do anything to rebuke him, Malfoy's arm was around his shoulder, and he was being led out of the pub.
What the fuck? Harry thought, but let Malfoy support him—if it meant his questions were going to be answered.
Malfoy led him out of the pub and then he squeezed more tightly on Harry's shoulder.
"Hey, hey, no hugging." Harry shuddered in disgust.
"I'm attempting to get enough of a hold of you so we can Side-Along Apparate." Malfoy turned to Harry and lifted one eyebrow. "And I'm not exactly the snuggling type myself."
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, everything was squeezing in on the sides. Harry felt like he was being sucked into a small box, breath being forced out of his body, until he was gone, Malfoy holding him close all the while.
When Harry's knees hit the floor he realized something he should have remembered in the first place: don't Apparate when intoxicated.
He felt sick rising to the back of his throat and he concentrated hard on keeping it down. He was not going to be sick all over the floor to Malfoy's flat. He was notnotnot. Harry concentrated on the floral pattern of the rug he was kneeling on.
A bucket was placed in front of him, and Harry shook his head as he got his nausea under control. "'m not going to be sick," he muttered.
"Thank Merlin for small favours," Malfoy said, and Harry was raised up from the floor by his elbows and placed onto a sofa. Harry wondered why Malfoy was touching him when he could've used a Levitation spell.
The sofa was velvet and comfortable behind Harry's hot neck. Closing his eyes, Harry felt exhausted and drunk and sick. He wished he was home, in his own bed, and not here with Malfoy who could do any number of things to him, each one more horrific than the next.
Something was pressed to Harry's lips, and Harry jumped, shaking his head "no".
"Damnit, Potter! It's a Sobering potion. I'm not going to poison the Ministry's Golden Boy."
Harry opened his mouth and allowed the bitter substance to trickle down his throat. Something wiped his lips, and Harry's head jerked up when he realised it'd been Malfoy's fingers. Harry knew his eyes were wide, wild, confused.
"What the hell? I'm not into that!" Malfoy was mocking him, that was it.
Malfoy was looking at Harry with something strange lurking in his eyes, until his face, again, became inscrutable. Harry sighed, not understanding what was going on. He looked around the flat, vision finally clearing, to see a fireplace, various portraits—some suspiciously looking like Muggle art—adorning the walls. The floor was covered in a floral rug. There were two leather armchairs. To Harry's right was a table that could seat four and a door into what looked like a kitchen—Harry thought he saw a dishwasher of all things.
Then there was the stark realization. It occurred to Harry for the first time that he didn't know Malfoy at all.
"Just explain," Harry said, resigned.
Malfoy started pacing on the expanse of rug in front of the sofa, and began to speak, his voice melodious, no longer drawling and pompous.
"After the war, I lived with my parents and Father used his connections to link me with a job."
"The banking one?"
"Yes. I see you've combed the MLE records. I was a banker for about a year or so. It was boring, tedious and mind-numbing work, and I wasn't satisfied. I wanted a job where either I had to think, or where I'd be worshipped and could sit around doing nothing. Preferably both."
Harry rolled his eyes. God, he hated Malfoy.
"I quit," Malfoy said.
"Just because you didn't like your job?"
"Yeah." Malfoy shrugged. "What I hadn't anticipated was the amount of money we'd have to pay to the Ministry."
Malfoy licked his lips and stopped directly in front of Harry. "I came to London to get a flat. I Transfigured enough Muggle money to get this place." Malfoy looked around. "It's modest, downright plebeian for Malfoy standards...but it's hospitable enough for living."
"We're still in London?"
"Yes, Potter. I did say 'this flat.' We're near King's Cross."
Harry's eyebrows shot up. He lived near Malfoy. God, the world was crumbling and he was surely descending into Hell. Maybe that's where the Devil resided, after all.
Malfoy was amused at Harry's expression. "I'm fully aware you live near here, Potter. In the house that should belong to me."
"Ha, right."
"That's a matter to be debated later. Anyway, I moved here without any money to my name."
"Draco Malfoy without money? Bollocks."
Malfoy looked at his shoes as he said, in a low tone, "My father disowned me."
"What?"
"Oh, shut up, Potter. I know this is wonderful, giddy news to you. But these last years have been difficult for me."
"And that's why you're trying to ruin my life then, eh?"
"Fuck, Potter. Be quiet.
"My father disowned me and there went what was left of my inheritance. I was already eighteen, almost nineteen, so he shouldn't have been able to take the money, but he has too many ties to Gringotts and the other banks. I didn't have shite. Mum felt bad and sent me money when she could..."
Malfoy trailed off, and Harry noticed he was breathing heavily. Malfoy's blond hair was sticking up everywhere, and Harry did not find it appealing.
"I applied for jobs—at the Ministry, even..."
"I never heard that!"
"It was kept quiet. No-one wanted to hire a former Death Eater."
"So you started stalking me."
Malfoy shrugged like it was no big deal. Harry's fists clenched. "I lived near you, saw you all the time from under Disillusionment charms even though you didn't see me. I've been watching you for over a year and a half. I followed you everywhere."
Harry's stomach was doing summersaults. How hadn't he noticed?
"And here you call yourself an Auror, Potter." Malfoy smirked.
"Arsehole. So, when'd you start selling pictures and stories?"
Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, tangling it further, and attracting Harry's eyes. "I became a freelance Paparazzi member of sorts. I followed you and Weasley around, you and your little friends, kept up with your cases."
"So you've been selling to tabloids for years."
"A year and a half or so. A few months ago, I was contacted by someone at the Prophet, telling me they were interested in my work, wanted to know if I'd sell some interesting stories to them. They blackmailed me, told me if I didn't give up my work, that they'd make sure I was convicted for stalking you, so I obliged them." Malfoy sighed. "I was paid well for it, too."
"I'm sure," Harry said. "So, that day on the train—you were following me?"
"Of course," Malfoy said.
Harry was going to have to ask everything. "And you showed yourself because..?"
For the first and only time Harry could remember that evening, Malfoy's cheeks flushed. "I thought it was time."
"Time?"
Malfoy did something completely unexpected. He put his head in his own hands, shoulders drooping. After a few moments, he moved to Harry's side and sat down on the sofa.
"I know you rather well, Potter."
Harry opened his mouth to deny this, but Malfoy was faster.
"I've followed you everywhere, constantly, day in and day out." Malfoy's tone was serious and intense. "I know you are a slave to society's expectations. You work too much and don't get the credit for it. I know that you go to Granger's flat all the time, and you'd do anything for those idiots you call friends, but they're too wrapped up in themselves."
Harry's mouth was agape. Was Malfoy complimenting him?
"You've lost track of yourself, Potter. You're a fucking doormat, and it's disgusting. I couldn't deal with it any longer, so I had to do something. Had to"—Malfoy made an expression like he might wretch—"help you."
For some reason, this set Harry off. He jumped to his feet, blood rushing to his cheeks. "You think you can fucking stalk me for months and months, ruining my name to gain your living, and probably taking pleasure in it all along—and then sit here and proclaim to want to help me?"
Malfoy's hands were shaking as he looked down at them from where he sat on the sofa.
"Look at me, damnit."
Malfoy did, and Harry sucked in a breath at what he saw there. The world tilted slightly, and Harry felt himself, against all odds shaking, too.
"You don't know me." Harry was seething. "I don't even know me. My closest friend is a house-elf. I've spent my life living up to the caricature other people have built in their mind of the great Harry Potter, and you contributed to that! You are the one who made me look like a ponce, dressed in those new robes, and then you spread those rumours that I'm bent."
Malfoy was silent.
This time, it was Harry who began to pace.
"Yeah, I have lost myself. I may not really want to date Ginny. I may actually be depressed. My friends may not give a shite about me, but I do know one thing, Malfoy."
Silence.
"You've used me to raise yourself up, and not just financially. All through school you wanted nothing more than to bring me down, and now you've done it." Harry, now panting, stopped to catch his breath. "You don't give a shite about me."
Malfoy stood from the sofa in one swift movement, and in several footsteps had Harry backed up against the wall. Malfoy's eyes were burning, furious and needy. He placed his hand to either side of Harry's head. Harry didn't think to go for his wand.
"I have lived and breathed you for months, Potter. I know you better than anyone."
Malfoy leaned forward and took Harry's mouth into a devastating kiss. Lips crushed to Harry's once, twice, and then Harry opened his mouth to protest. The hot tip of Malfoy's tongue brushed against Harry's teeth, and then his tongue. A loud moan escaped Malfoy's mouth, escaped into Harry's and, unwittingly, Harry felt heat coil low his stomach.
Malfoy pulled away, breathing harshly into Harry's face. "Potter—I'm sorry. I—"
What Harry had read in Malfoy's eyes earlier was back again. "You fell in love with me."
Malfoy dropped his head, resting his forehead against Harry's shoulder.
"Oh, God," Harry whispered. "Oh, God."
Malfoy tilted his head so his words were muffled against Harry's neck. Harry shuddered at the contact. Malfoy's body pressed so close to his, too close, and yet not close enough. "You want me to be queer, so that's why you spread the rumour?"
"You are queer," Malfoy said, and his teeth grazed along the sensitive skin of Harry's neck. Harry gasped at the sensation and thought the heat in his stomach might erupt.
"How can you know that?"
"Besides the fact you're panting, with me pressed tightly against you, right now?" Malfoy whispered. "I've seen you watching men. The way you don't look at Weasley and other girls. Potter, you're rather dense, you know."
"Huh?"
"See?" Malfoy raised his head so that he could look Harry in the eye. "Potter, I know what it's like to be queer."
"You—you. You're..?"
"Yes, Potter, I am gay. Very, very gay."
Harry's licked his lips, unbelieving. Malfoy's eyes watched the movement and trembled visibly.
As reckless and Gryffindor as ever he'd been, Harry broke down the voices in his brain saying "no", the bondage tying down his inhibitions, and for the first time in forever, Harry Potter listened to himself—really listened.
"You're serious, then. You wanted to help me?" This sounded insane to Harry's ears, still, even though Malfoy was pressed against Harry, and every limb of his body as shaking horribly, frighteningly, and something stirred in Harry that he wished he could push away, but feared he never could again.
Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered as he closed his eyes. "Yes, but I didn't know how. So I started letting you see me, trying to ingratiate myself into your life somehow."
"If you want to help me," Harry said, "you have to stop." He didn't need to clarify.
"I'll leave you alone."
"That's not what I meant."
Malfoy looked up, eyes wild.
"Stop stalking me, stop selling pictures and false stories."
"I can take a tawdry picture of you and Weasley to counteract the other story..."
"Malfoy?"
"What?"
"Do you promise to stop selling pictures of me?"
"Yes, I promise, but—"
Harry kissed Malfoy into silence.
It was chaste, but Malfoy moaned anyway, and Harry thought, giving way to insanity, he could get used to that sound.
Harry pulled away and looked at Malfoy. It occurred to Harry, consciously, for the first time, Malfoy was beautiful when he was shaking and wanton and silent, looking at Harry as if he were a prince.
"You think I'm queer?"
"You know I do."
"Suck me off, Malfoy."
Malfoy visibly balked, but didn't delay as his knees hit the floral rug.
"Thought you were straight, Potter."
"Harry."
Malfoy parted Harry's robes and undid the fly to his jeans with eager and nimble fingers.
"I thought you were heterosexual, Harry. You know, I did see you and Weasley in that alley that time."
Harry was silent for a moment, and then he said, more than a little breathless, "Did it make you hard?"
Draco's eyes flashed behind his glasses. "I fucked my hand while watching you. Only took two strokes."
"Mmm."
Malfoy got Harry's jeans down to his knees, pulled down his pants, allowing his stiff cock to spring free. Precome was already collected at the tip and it dribbled down, hitting Malfoy's knee.
"God. I've wanted to make you scream forever."
Malfoy gobbled Harry down in one smooth move, convincingly Harry quite thoroughly that Malfoy was a skilled cocksucker. Harry's head hit the wall as he was consumed in hot, tight, wet heat. His cock hit the back of Malfoy's throat and he knew he wasn't going to last long. Breathing didn't seem to give him adequate oxygen supply, so he settled for gasping and moaning loudly. He soon lost tracks of the sounds he produced, when Malfoy grabbed his arse in two hands and began to bob his throat like he was born to suck cock.
"Oh, oh, fuck."
Malfoy pulled back, letting the head of Harry's cock trace precome all over his light pink lips. He licked them away and hummed. "You taste wonderful, Harry." Harry couldn't help it, he moaned, at the picture of debauchery before him—Malfoy on his knees, pink lips glistening, and those fucking sexy glasses....
"Make me come," Harry said, surprising even himself.
"Say my name," Malfoy said. Malfoy stuck his tongue out and licked a long swipe from base to tip, stabbing his tongue into the slit there. Malfoy squeezed his arse.
"Malfoy."
"Mmm, not quite."
Malfoy gathered in his head in his mouth and sucked.
Harry let loose a low scream.
"Draco, God, please—"
Malfoy, no—Draco smiled and took Harry down again, fucking him in earnest, and making squelching noises that were so disgusting they made Harry's cock twitch one last time. Draco backed off him and sank his teeth into Harry's inner thigh, and Harry cried out, coming, coming all over Draco. He came so hard, quaking and spurting and saying nonsensical words.
Malfoy made a small cry as Harry fell down the wall, and they collapsed into a heap on the floor. Harry kissed Draco, deeply this time, tasting himself on the other man's mouth. When Draco pulled away, he whispered Harry's name, over and over: Harry, Harry, Harry.
Harry decided then he was too far gone to deny he wanted Draco and set to the task of taking care of Draco's own erection—quite thoroughly.
If he was going to be queer, he was going to initiate himself by shutting Draco up, once and for all.
Lying in bed later, sheets tangled around their heaving chests and sweaty bodies, Draco whispered against Harry's damp hair, "I told you that you were queer."
Harry smiled sleepily. "Suppose so."
"Are you leaving in the morning?" Draco asked.
Harry turned to face him in the bed. "You want to continue this?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Potter."
Harry flung his arm around Draco because he thought it would feel nice, and it did. "'m not going anywhere. You love me, remember?"
And when Draco swatted his bare—and still slightly bruised—arse, Harry chuckled, boneless and content.
Harry was finally free, rest of the world be damned.