Originally written for the second wave of Slashfest 2005, for Rach, whose request was Harry/Draco: Harry runs into Draco at the twentieth wedding anniversary of a mutual friend. Things... happen. The title is from This Time Imperfect, a song by AFI. The summary is a quote by Anaïs Nin. Many thanks to Vel for the beta.
Author: furiosity"Absolutely not."
"Come on, Harry. Help a mate out."
Harry studied Seamus's face; wreathed in green flames as it was, there was no mistaking the plaintive look Seamus was giving him. "I don't understand why you can't ask Charlie or any of the other Stanza boys."
Seamus's nose scrunched up. "Because this isn't that kind of party! You're a fine, upstanding man and I would not be ashamed to be seen in public with you."
Harry snorted. "You wouldn't have said that back in '99."
"Well, that was '99 and this is two thousand and bloody nineteen. No one remembers '99 anymore."
"I'm fairly certain Rita Skeeter does," said Harry, pushing the coffee pot aside and rising.
"She retired last year," Seamus pointed out. "This is a private party, anyway, no press."
Harry walked closer to the fireplace and peered down at Seamus. "Well, I'm not invited, am I?"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course you are. Cho would love to see you -- she told me the only reason she didn't send you an invitation was that she'd assumed you'd decline. You did on the ten-year anniversary and the fifteen-year one." Seamus sneezed, sending a cloud of ash onto the kitchen floor.
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, thinking that now he had no excuse but to sweep the floors in the house. "Well, she assumed right, didn't she?"
"Please, Harry. I can't show up alone; it'll make me look desperate. Besides, you owe me. Remember the time I held the door in the bathroom at Stanza?"
Harry sighed. "Do you have to remind me?"
"I do if nothing else will get you to come along."
"Fine, I'll come. What time do we have to be there again?"
And so it was that Harry Potter ended up at Cho Chang and Michael Corner's 20th wedding anniversary; his first public appearance in three years. Before that, he'd gone to a Christmas charity function hosted by the Holyhead Harpies, and only because he'd wanted to donate. He didn't like being amongst other people; it reminded him far too often of everything that could have been.
After the war had ended, Harry had been left utterly alone. Everyone he'd cared about, Voldemort had murdered. Sirius, Dumbledore, Hermione, the entire Weasley family, Hagrid, and finally Lupin -- Harry's list was not as long as some other people's, but it was long enough for him. Bizarrely, Harry understood that had it not been for these tremendous losses, he would never have been able to muster up enough hatred to cast an effective Killing Curse and destroy Voldemort.
He'd spent five years trying to party the pain away. Drinking, gambling, booze, sex with anything that was available -- that had been Harry's life immediately after the war. He'd spent a sizeable portion of his parents' inheritance on illegal potions and alcohol. The Daily Prophet had had a series of field days reporting about Harry's latest escapades until eventually public interest died out and Harry became fourth-page material, if that.
One morning, Harry had woken up in a strange bed with three men he did not know and realised he had to change something, or he'd end up dead before thirty in some ditch beside a seedy local. The memory of his parents and everyone else who had died fighting against Voldemort would be tainted forever. At least that's what he'd told himself when he'd checked into Stanza, a rehabilitation centre for wizards who struggled with unhealthy addictions. That was where he'd met Seamus Finnigan again, along with Charlie Pickering and several other men around his age, all with a story to tell. They became the Stanza boys and even now, fifteen years later, they would still get together every two weeks or so. Harry smirked inwardly. Boys? It sounded funny in his mind at this age. He wasn't just pushing forty; forty was about to fall off a tall cliff.
Harry stared at his reflection in the oval mirror of the Chang Hall bathroom. He was still instantly recognisable as "Harry Potter" despite his greying temples, perpetual five-o'clock shadow and the resigned set to his jaw. He no longer wore the round glasses of his youth; that was another thing he'd changed after the war. The glasses tended to break during his nightly adventures and so he'd had magical vision correction done at a private clinic. Sometimes he would take out his old glasses and put them on, but instead of looking like a younger version of himself, he just looked like a middle-aged man in stupid round glasses. Harry smiled ruefully at his reflection, wondering why he'd let Seamus talk him into coming here tonight. He couldn't bear to be around these people for too long or to visit places like Diagon Alley and Hogwarts. Everywhere he went in the wizarding world, he was reminded of one of the people he'd lost and invariably ended up feeling like a ship without anchor, bumbling its way through still waters without purpose or meaning.
The doorknob rattled, and Harry sprang back from the mirror, feeling a little guilty. He definitely was no longer cut out for large parties where bathrooms had to be shared. He ran the water briefly, waited three seconds, and opened the door. It swung inwards and Harry found himself face to face with an attractive blond wizard about his age. The wizard's grey eyes went wide as they took in Harry's scar; Harry quickly ducked his head and hurried away. The last thing he wanted was to talk to some stranger just so the stranger could go home and tell his wife he'd met Harry Potter.
He wandered out into the sitting room, where a long, white-covered wooden table looked fit to break under the weight of gleaming silver food trays. Near the window, there was a lower table laden with all sorts of drinks. A bored-looking young man in dress robes lounged against the windowsill; Harry guessed this was supposed to be the barman.
The room had filled considerably since Harry and Seamus had first walked in (greeted amicably by Cho, who was still youthfully pretty despite her age). Harry didn't recognise anyone -- he supposed those not from the family would mostly be former Ravenclaws, with whom he'd had very few dealings while at Hogwarts. At this thought, he experienced a vague sense of loss, a pang of nostalgia for something he could never have again. Then it was gone as a woman who smelled like magnolias brushed past Harry.
Soft music played from a WWN device near the entrance, the sound magically amplified and modulated to suffuse through the room. For a few surreal seconds, Harry felt as though the sound waves were passing through his very blood.
"Harry!" called Seamus's voice, and Harry's unexpected sense of panic abated.
He turned to see Seamus waving to him from a squashy armchair near the back of the room. Harry walked over and sat down in a matching armchair beside him.
"Seen your prey yet?" asked Harry, accepting a drink from a waiter's tray. It was nettle wine, not bad for a local brand.
"Not yet," said Seamus, taking a glass of wine as well and casting a nervous glance towards the room's entrance. "Cho says he's supposed to be coming with his younger cousin. Would you mind occupying her while I--"
"Seamus." Harry gave him an incredulous glare.
Seamus's shoulders sagged. "Thought I'd try," he said with an impish smile. His eyes widened suddenly at something Harry couldn't see. "Draco Malfoy's here."
Harry turned around to look, searching for Malfoy's pale, pointed face and white-blond head as he remembered them. "I don't see him," he said to Seamus.
"Right over there, with Crabbe and Goyle," said Seamus in an urgent whisper.
"Why are you whispering? And I still don't see them," said Harry, looking around.
His gaze landed on the blond wizard he'd seen coming out of the bathroom. Surely that couldn't be Draco Malfoy. Harry had always imagined that Draco would grow up to be like his father, Lucius -- but this man looked nothing like the Lucius Malfoy Harry remembered. His facial features, while still pointed, were softer somehow; as though time itself had reached for him and made him look more like his mother -- there was something in his face that reminded Harry vaguely of Sirius. Malfoy was taller than his late father, with broader shoulders. His hair was short; it framed his face in a way that suggested at least an hour at a stylist's. In other news, this man was attractive, enough to make Harry's heart beat a little faster as he looked at him. There was just no way this was Draco Malfoy.
Besides, Seamus had said that Malfoy was with Crabbe and Goyle, and this blond wizard was talking to two largish women -- one of them was the magnolia woman from earlier.
Harry turned back to Seamus.
"Mate, are you feeling all right? I don't see Malfoy, Crabbe or Goyle there, just some blond bloke with two women."
Seamus looked back at Harry and squinted. "I guess I haven't told you that Crabbe and Goyle are into cross-dressing now. They're the women."
Harry snapped his head around, eyes wide. This time, Malfoy was looking right at him, eyebrow raised, and Harry knew it was him, then and there. That was one thing that hadn't changed, that expression. Feeling his face grow flushed, Harry nodded to Malfoy, uncertainly -- he didn't know what else to do. Malfoy returned the nod, smiling a little. Harry turned away.
"He's done pretty well for himself, hasn't he?" he asked Seamus, keeping his tone light.
Seamus grinned. "Are you joking? He's the Weird Sisters' songwriter! I'm surprised you haven't heard."
Harry shrugged. "I don't really follow wizarding music, as you know." Songwriter? What, was Malfoy having the Weird Sisters perform something like that jingle he'd composed back at Hogwarts -- how did it go again? Weasley is our king, yeah, that was it. Harry's heart clenched, like it always did when he thought of Ron. He stared at his nettle wine, studying the tiny bubbles gathered at the edges of the glass. Malfoy.
"Potter."
Harry looked up at the sound of the voice -- he didn't recognise it, not quite. It was deeper than he remembered, and Harry's surname was no longer akin to a curse word.
Malfoy was standing next to his right armrest, grey eyes clear and steady. Harry felt a vague displeasure, a strange tugging somewhere deep inside that told him that he was meant to dislike this man -- but he couldn't. He realised he could barely remember Malfoy from school; aside from the weird tugging and barely-there physical attraction, he felt nothing strong. How could he? All his hate had been spent in a flash of green light and the loss of his innocence.
He rose and extended his hand in greeting. Malfoy stared down at his hand for a minute, then shook it, his cold, pale fingers lingering in Harry's hand for a brief moment. Their eyes met again, but Harry looked away hastily.
"This is Seamus Finnigan," he said, turning to Seamus, who had also risen. "He was--"
"I remember," said Malfoy, extending his hand to Seamus, who shook it with a bewildered look on his face. Suddenly Seamus's eyes lit up as he noticed something Harry couldn't see.
"I'm sorry to run off like this," said Seamus, carefully stepping around Malfoy, "but there's someone I've got to see." Harry stared after him, watching as he greeted his newest love interest -- some Quidditch player Harry didn't know.
"I must admit I'm surprised to see you here," said Malfoy, sounding too close for comfort. Harry turned to face him again.
"I'm a bit surprised to be here," he said. "I haven't really been around."
"I've noticed," said Malfoy, his eyes downcast.
He hitched his robes up slightly and took Seamus's abandoned seat, glancing up at Harry expectantly. Harry sat back down and picked up his drink, looking away. "I didn't know you knew Cho," he mumbled.
"We go back a long time," replied Malfoy.
His voice was doing things to Harry that it really shouldn't have been doing. Harry wondered what it would be like to hear that voice inside as Malfoy's lips moved against his skin. He clamped down on the thought, another flush tingling up his shoulders.
"How long?" asked Harry, his own voice suddenly hoarse. He pretended to clear his throat and took a sip of his wine.
Malfoy signalled to a passing waiter and took a drink -- a Gillywater -- off his tray. He took a slow sip, closing his eyes a little, and then turned to Harry again. "Since Hogwarts," he said. "It was Cho who told me about the Protean Charm on the coins your Defence group was using."
Harry frowned a little. Coins? Defence group?
Memories -- unwelcome ones, painful ones -- trickled down to his consciousness. The contact Galleons. Dumbledore's Army. Hermione. He clenched his jaw tightly and tried not to hyperventilate as his mind raced through scores of forgotten images and sensations. "Oh," he managed. "I--"
Malfoy seemed to notice neither his obvious discomfort nor his words. Belatedly, Harry realised he hadn't actually spoken, only tried to get the words out and failed to make a sound.
"What about you? You were the subject of a lot of, shall we say, risqué articles -- Pansy showed me clippings when I came back from Azkaban." Malfoy raised an eyebrow and glanced at Harry.
Harry felt another forgotten but familiar emotion unfurling in his gut -- indignant anger. It felt as though a small but ferocious kitten was sharpening its claws inside him. What right did this man have to question him? To make him remember all these things that hurt, these phantoms, these names Harry dared not speak? "Yeah, well," he heard himself say, "that's in the past now. You try losing the only family you ever had and not--"
Harry stopped and stared, horrified, into Malfoy's eyes, which seemed to mirror the pain in Harry's mind perfectly, so perfectly.
Malfoy had lost his family in the war, too.
Harry downed the rest of his wine, set the empty glass too-strongly on the side table and rose. "I have to go."
The unfamiliar eagle owl held out its foot and waited while Harry untied the parchment.
Have dinner with me.
--D. Malfoy
Harry blinked at the letter. There was a slight buzzing noise in his left ear, like a miscast Muffliato spell. He didn't know what to do. He knew deep inside that he should refuse. It had taken him three days to recover from the anguished flood of memories his prior conversation with Malfoy had caused; that wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat. But there was something else there, a longing Harry couldn't name, and a quiet whisper telling him to accept.
He cast a suspicious glance at the eagle owl, which was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response. Harry sighed and picked up a quill.
Hearing the doorbell and knowing who stood behind the door made Harry nervous, more nervous than he should have been. He pressed a palm against the cool surface of the door and counted to three, then swung it open.
"Good evening," said Malfoy, his tone cordial as you please.
"Evening," said Harry. "What, no flowers?"
Malfoy flushed, two scarlet spots blooming on his cheeks. "I didn't realise it was that kind of dinner," he said slowly.
Harry grinned. "Neither did I," he said, and immediately felt blood drain from his face. "Er, I mean -- I didn't -- I was -- oh, bloody hell."
Malfoy chuckled and glanced down at the floor, then back at Harry. "Are you ready or--"
Harry, completely flustered now, nodded. "I just need to grab my cloak," he mumbled. "The place is just down the street; we can walk there. Too many Muggles around to Apparate." He'd agreed to have dinner with Malfoy on the condition that they went to a place of Harry's choosing. Harry hadn't wanted to end up at the Leaky Cauldron or some other wizarding place.
"We're going to a Muggle place?" asked Malfoy, stepping aside to let Harry out.
Harry took out his keys and set about locking the door. "Yeah, that a problem?"
"Well--"
Harry's heart was sinking faster than a lead paperweight. Did Malfoy still hate Muggles, despite everything that had happened? Was he still a--
"I just haven't got any Muggle money," finished Malfoy. Harry exhaled and turned to him.
"Don't worry about that," he said. "I've got it. I made you come all the way up here anyway."
Malfoy gave him a slightly bemused look. "I was the one who asked you to dinner in the first place, so this is a little strange."
"Nothing strange about it," Harry mumbled. "It's this way," he added, pointing to the dusty path that led into the village.
"I guess I'll just have to take you out some other time, too," said Malfoy softly as he moved past Harry.
Harry's stomach did a back flip of a sort Harry had forgotten. "Don't speak too soon," he said quietly.
After a brisk ten-minute walk, they arrived at the restaurant -- immigrants from the former Soviet Union ran it. The menu featured dishes from places like Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan; Harry liked it here because it was unknown, fairly quiet and the food was excellent. The interior was quite rustic -- roughly hewn wooden chairs and tables, oil lamps hanging off the walls. The place always smelled like cooking meat but there was a hint of burning oil and wet hay just under that smell, probably more strongly identifiable by someone who didn't eat here every week.
"These guys would make a fortune in London," said Malfoy, looking around. "Very authentic."
"That's because they're not trying to be authentic," said Harry, motioning to a table near the back corner. "Hi, Martha," he added, smiling at the rosy-cheeked waitress, the eldest daughter of the owners, who was already waiting by the table.
Martha smiled and cast a quizzical look at Malfoy. Harry grinned. "This is Draco Malfoy, we went to school together." He noticed Martha's disbelieving look at Malfoy's robes and hastened to add, "he's a judge."
"Good evening," said Martha, curtsying a little, seeming impressed now rather than alarmed. "Anything to drink?"
Harry hung his cloak on a wall peg and turned to Malfoy, who was smiling to himself in an intensely private way. He looked up at Harry. "What would you recommend?" he asked. "And shouldn't you be saying 'your honour', hmm?" he added under his breath.
Harry smiled. "Red or white? Your honour?"
Malfoy sat down in the wooden chair and folded his hands in his lap. "White, I suppose."
Harry turned to Martha. "Mtsvane, then -- from last year's stock if you've got it."
Martha nodded and hurried away.
"Well-played," said Malfoy. "How many judge friends have you got?"
"Just you. Seamus is an actor who plays a judge on TV," said Harry, looking away as he realised he'd just called Malfoy his friend, indirectly. "So tell me, Malfoy. What did you do after Azkaban?"
"Is this going to be dinner or an interrogation?" asked Malfoy sharply, a dark frown crossing his features briefly. It looked like Harry wasn't the only one with things to forget.
Harry didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to that sort of tone -- he hadn't heard anyone speak to him that way in more years than he cared to remember. He sighed.
"This is weird," he said.
"Isn't it, though," said Malfoy, and picked up a menu.
Martha arrived with the wine, poured them both a glass and left after Harry told her they needed some more time to decide on the food.
"Look, I'm not used to this," said Harry.
Malfoy looked up from the menu. "To what?"
Harry held his gaze. "I keep to myself. I'm not-- I'm not very good with people."
"You never were," said Malfoy, closing the menu and setting it aside. "I spent a year in the Azores to get the cold out of my blood. That was where I started writing songs. I just didn't know they were songs until I met Grogan Starkey in Hogsmeade, shortly after returning."
Harry gestured to Martha, indicating that they were ready to order. "Grogan Starkey?"
"The Weird Sisters' manager. He was at the Three Broomsticks, saw me writing, looked over my shoulder, and asked me if I was interested in selling that song to him. The rest, as they say, is history."
Martha arrived, took their dinner order and hurried away. Malfoy picked up the glass of wine and sipped, his eyes widening a little. "This is really good. I've never tried it before, where is it from?"
"Georgia. The country, not the US state."
"I'm glad I ordered chicken, this wouldn't have gone well with the pork. So what about you? I'm surprised you live in such seclusion."
Harry took a sip of his wine. "Why are you surprised?"
"I suppose I had certain preconceptions about you and attention-seeking," said Malfoy lightly. "I told you I had seen the articles--"
"Please, Malfoy. I don't like to talk about that," said Harry, setting his glass aside. "It's in the past." He tried to fight the embarrassment that was creeping up on him; had Malfoy seen that picture, too, the one where Harry was naked and tied to a bed and--
"So we've established that neither of us likes to talk about the past very much," said Malfoy, lifting his glass a little. "Here's to progress." He sipped the wine, smirking a bit. "What do you do now?"
Harry, who was still attempting not to think about Malfoy's reaction to that picture, sat up a little straighter. "I'm a professional slacker," he said, trying to keep a straight face.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A professional slacker. My days are occupied by doing absolutely nothing."
"Indeed? You and Zabini should get together sometime, I think you'd find him fascinating, since you're colleagues."
"I'd rather not. I tend to avoid most people from the wizarding world."
"Really. What is it that made you accept my invitation?"
Harry glanced at Malfoy, whose head was tilted slightly to one side as he studied Harry. "I'm not sure, to be honest," he lied. What was he supposed to say? I was curious? A gut feeling told me to do it? I want to fuck you through this table?
"I see," said Malfoy, in a tone that suggested that actually he didn't see.
The food arrived and they made their way through it, saying nothing. With each passing moment, Harry's heart sank further and further -- this had been a bad idea. He couldn't wait until it was over and he could go home and try to forget his acute embarrassment. In a few weeks, he'd be all right again.
They walked back to the house in silence. The night air was still, with a hint of pine and earth. A lone cricket chirped ceaselessly somewhere deeper in the woods, and Harry was torn between wanting to sink through the ground and saying something to make Malfoy smile again. Or something to make him angry, just as long as there wasn't this cold, impersonal wall between them, like they hadn't known each other as lads, like they hadn't both lived through the war, albeit on opposite sides at first.
"Do you ever wish things were different?" Harry blurted as he saw the end of the path approaching.
Malfoy glanced back at him. "How so?"
"You know. If there hadn't been a war, if maybe we were friends at Hogwarts--"
Malfoy stopped. "You know that wouldn't have been possible. My views at the time were, shall we say, rather exclusionary."
"Are you saying you don't have those views anymore?"
"To hold the same views at forty as we held at twenty is to have been stupefied for a score of years," said Malfoy. "Robert Louis Stevenson," he added.
"You've read him?"
"Who hasn't?"
Harry felt it then -- a barely perceptible shift of time and circumstance. Malfoy didn't look distant anymore, and Harry didn't feel so awkward. It was still weird, being here with him, but it wasn't a bad sort of weird anymore.
"Are you married?" Harry asked as they resumed walking.
Malfoy looked sideways at him. "No. Why do you ask?"
Harry ignored the question. "I was sure you'd marry Pansy Parkinson," he said.
"And have many blond, pug-nosed children? Afraid not."
Harry snorted. "She wasn't that bad." They were almost at the doors to Harry's house now, and he wondered if this was it, if--
"Well, I guess this is it," said Malfoy. A streetlamp shone down on the two of them, casting half of Malfoy's face into shadow. He looked like a spirit, an apparition, and Harry wanted to know if he'd ever see him again.
"Why, Malfoy?" he blurted. He was doing a lot of blurting around this man. "Why did you want to see me?"
Malfoy stepped closer to him and leant forward, so that Harry could smell the Mtsvane on his breath, could feel its warmth on his ear. He's going to kiss me went through his mind, and his eyes closed at the sweet ache that began to spread across his thighs at the thought.
Malfoy whispered, "I'm not sure, to be honest."
Harry's eyes flew open but it was too late; with a crack, Malfoy Disapparated.
Harry drew in a deep breath, realising he was smiling, in a way he hadn't smiled for a long time. Malfoy was playing with him, but Harry didn't mind. It had been a while since someone refused to walk on eggshells around him. But was Malfoy's game serious or was he just playing?
With a feeling of mild trepidation, Harry turned on the WWN device he'd bought that morning. Celestina Warbeck, who sounded more like an out-of-tune piano than anything else, was crooning one of her ballads. The song ended on a low, contemplative note and immediately an announcer's voice burst in.
"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for! The Weird Sisters have been in all our lives for many years but it was only 15 years ago that they arrived at their apogee, after Ippolita Merryweather resigned and the group signed a new -- and unknown, but controversial -- songwriter. I am, of course, talking about Draco Malfoy. Reviled in some circles for his dark past and idolised in other circles in spite of -- or sometimes because of -- his dark past. Ladies and gentlewizards, I give you tonight's Flash Interview -- Draco Malfoy!"
Harry's heart began to race.
"So, Draco. Tell me about your dark and controversial past!"
"Really, Duncan. You've got to find a new way to start these interviews," said Malfoy's voice. There was a hint of amusement in it and Harry could picture Malfoy's face, with that tiny smirk curving his lips.
"Can't blame a wizard for trying, can you? Well, let's talk about your new song. It's very different from your usual offerings, are you concerned it will alienate fans?"
"Well, Grogan thinks it's just what the group needed, so I'm optimistic."
"I know this is another one you hear all the time, but what inspired it?"
"This is actually the first song I wrote. I just haven't wanted to share it with anyone until just recently."
"I'm going to be selfish here. The listeners haven't heard it yet but I have, and I'm just ever so curious. It's a very touching song -- did you write it with a specific person in mind? Perhaps someone from your dark and controversial past?"
Malfoy hesitated for a moment; Harry could hear a soft sigh. "I'd rather not say."
"You realise people will be placing bets, don't you?"
"Probably. Let's just say that this song influenced both Blood Magic and Faraway Land. In fact, I had originally wanted to rewrite it to a more up-tempo beat and change some words around, and that's how Faraway Land was born, except I ended up rewriting all the lyrics." Laughing.
"Well, I for one am glad you've finally released this song. I think it's going to be a hit. Yes, I hear your teeth gnashing, merry wizards of Britain -- just give us the song already! Your wish is my command, dear listeners. This is Duncan Whitby and I give you the Weird Sisters' new song -- Green-Eyed Boy! You heard it here first."
It was a slow rock ballad that sounded like it was going to be a love song, but it wasn't. It was about child abuse, betrayed trust and broken promises. It was about having to grow up too fast and trudging through snow on a lonely mountain, towards a shining beacon of hope that moved two steps back whenever you took a step forward. It made Harry's heart ache and his mind flood with bitter memories, but bizarrely, he didn't mind, because the song ended on a high, hopeful note, and with a feeling that someone out there knows what it's like.
Harry sat there, staring at a spot on the wall, long after the song ended and the programming went on with some story about the adventures of a wizard named Marshall who misplaced his wooden leg.
Finally, Harry rose from the sofa and walked over to the desk by his window. Altair, his eagle owl, blinked at Harry from his perch and let out an inquisitive hoot. "Yeah, I need you to deliver a letter," said Harry to him. He tied the parchment to Altair's leg. "Take it to Draco Malfoy," he said, and watched the owl fly away. He still missed Hedwig, who was buried in the backyard, but there was nothing to be done about the passage of time.
The doorbell rang, and Harry rose swiftly from the sofa and went to open it. Malfoy was wearing a Muggle suit this time, looking very proper with his hands behind his back.
"Hi," said Harry, stepping aside to let him in. Malfoy walked inside and moved one of his hands to the front. He held a single blood-red rose. Harry's throat closed up as his heartbeat drummed against his ears and temples.
"Is it still not that kind of dinner?" asked Malfoy, his voice soft as butter.
Harry reached for the rose, letting his fingers brush against Malfoy's as he took it from him. "If you want it to be," he said, the words echoing hollowly in his head.
The door slammed shut with a loud bang and Malfoy pulled Harry close with his free hand, and kissed him until Harry was dizzy and empty of all thought. Harry felt a sharp pain in his finger and broke away to look down. One of the thorns on the rose's long stem had gone through his thumb; blood dripped onto the hardwood floor. Malfoy lifted Harry's hand to his mouth and drew his tongue across the puncture, licking away the blood; it sent a shiver of longing up Harry's spine.
The rose fell to the floor.
Harry backed Malfoy against the door and kissed him in turn, shuddering at the furious need that was overtaking him as their tongues slid against each other, as Malfoy moved his hips up and forward against Harry, as Harry fumbled with the buttons on Malfoy's shirt.
This was no time for words or declarations of intent; Harry's mind was clouded with lust that was at once terrifying and glorious. Malfoy was everywhere, all pale smooth skin with just a breath of age across it. Harry ran his hands down Malfoy's sides, burying his nose in the juncture between Malfoy's neck and shoulder. Malfoy's fingers twisted in Harry's hair, tugging; his other hand scrabbled at Harry's zip until Harry's cock sprang free. When Malfoy's fingers closed around it, there was only so much Harry could do not to scream.
He took Malfoy right there against the door, hard and fast. Malfoy's thighs clenched and unclenched against Harry's sides in time with Harry's thrusts. It was mad, it made no sense, but it fit, they fit, like two pieces to some grotesque puzzle where "hate" was just a fancy word for "love". It felt like Harry's insides were liquefying and evaporating through his skin, little bubbles of pure feeling bursting in the air around the two of them. Draco was whimpering, writhing; his cock spurting white and warm onto Harry's belly. There was a short moment when everything was comfortably dark and perfect, and Harry came, crying out and shutting his eyes to keep out the painful light, and nothing mattered then, because he wasn't alone anymore.
"That was pretty impressive wand-work with the lubrication charm," mumbled Draco into his shoulder, sliding come-slippery fingers against Harry's belly as he tried to push him away.
Harry laughed weakly. "I guess I'll never forget some things I learned. Would you like some tea?"
Draco stared at him with disbelief, a genuine but bemused smile on his face. "Never a dull moment with you, is there?"
"What? I was being polite."
Draco snorted. "By offering me tea? I'd rather prefer a shower, thanks."
Harry seized his wrist and rubbed his thorn-pricked thumb across the warm surface, feeling Draco's pulse echo in his own heartbeat. "I think I might prefer that, too."
Draco was standing at the window with his back to the bed, his arms folded. He was naked except for a pair of Harry's pyjama bottoms he seemed to have found. Harry wasn't sure whether to be insulted that Draco went through his drawers while he was asleep or gratified that Draco was... making himself at home?
Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then untangled his legs from the sheets and swung them down, shivering as his feet hit the cold floor. He padded over and stood behind Draco, placing an open-mouthed kiss on the side of his neck. Draco jumped a little, but didn't turn around. Harry balanced his chin on Draco's shoulder and stared out the window. The dawn had just broken, bathing the horizon in burnished gold and scarlet hues.
"You know something?" Draco's voice was clear, as though he hadn't even slept.
"Mmm?"
"That song's about you."
"I know."
[end]