Chapter Text
Harry woke tangled up in blue sheets. He was a wild sleeper; Ginny always complained about it when she stayed over. He stretched his arms and legs, a yawn spilling from his mouth as he tried to put the world around him to rights. He’d been having a good dream, something that still tugged at the edge of his consciousness, that left his cock hard and hot against his stomach. He wished Ginny had stayed over last night – he wouldn’t mind a quickie to take care of this, although something told him the dream hadn’t been about Ginny at all.
His dreams often weren’t.
But Ginny hadn’t stayed over last night, because – because –
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, bolting upright. “Buggering fuck.” He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and checked, and yes, sure enough, the date was May 17, a Friday. Usually, on a Friday, he’d be at work already, but he didn’t have work today.
He’d taken off, because the rehearsal dinner was tonight.
Harry was getting married tomorrow.
For reasons he preferred not to ponder for any length of time, the thought made him feel dizzy. Sort of queasy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married, exactly. It was more that – oh god. It was so final, that was the thing. There were no holidays from a marriage, only an endless parade of days. Years. Forever. Forever, because Weasleys didn’t get divorced. His life would be altered for all of eternity, irrevocably. All his freedom, gone. All those seemingly endless possibilities, eliminated in the blink of an eye.
He knew it was stupid to feel this way. He hated himself for these thoughts. Ginny had always been his future. They’d been meant for each other since school, and except for that little break they’d taken after the war, they’d been solid all the way through. They were good together. Getting married was the natural next step, not something to fear. He’d always thought of Ron as a brother, and now he really would be one. And Molly was practically his mum anyway, and he loved them all so much. He did.
Happy. He ought to be happy. This was a happy day.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through his body like the world’s worst cramp. He clutched at his chest and gasped.
Motherfuck, what was happening to him?
His heart was tapping out an unsteady, frantic rhythm. “I’m having a heart attack,” he said aloud. “I’m literally having a heart attack.”
He was going to die here in his bed, on the morning before his rehearsal dinner. He threw himself back against the pillow and tried to think calming thoughts. He thought about Quidditch. About Seamus and Ron and Dean and Nev acting like tossers at his stag party last weekend. About Molly’s cinnamon bread. About Hermione’s new red tabby kitten, Dandelion.
Bit by bit, his breathing returned to normal. His heartbeat slowed.
Finally, when he was fairly certain he wasn’t dying, Harry made his way to the loo and looked at his face in the mirror, at the bright splotches of pink on his cheeks. He needed to pull it together. He was Harry Fucking Potter. He’d faced down Voldemort. He’d become the youngest Auror to ever head up a team of his own men and women. He could do fifty pushups in a row, could run a mile in seven minutes. He owned four separate sets of dress robes and had relegated his beloved collection of hoodies to lazy weekend mornings. He was a competent, functional adult man.
He wasn’t going to let one little wedding break him. He wasn’t.
He tugged his pants down, kicking them across the floor, and turned on the shower. He stepped in when it was steaming and let out a pleased sigh. And then, because the dream he couldn’t remember was still haunting him, desire fizzing through his veins, he reached down and took his prick in hand. As hot water ran trails over his chest and dripped down his thighs, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to picture nothing, nothing at all but the slick slide of his hand and the roll of his hips.
Although, he was allowed to think of Ginny.
That would be all right. Ginny and her small, rosy nipples, her soft hips, her perky arse. It was more than okay to think about his fiancée. It was downright wholesome.
The problem, as always, was that once his imagination was engaged, his traitorous brain kept pulling up other images, things he tried to keep at bay most of the time, things that nevertheless came rushing at him in solitary moments like this.
And once those thoughts, those pictures, were in his head, it all felt so good that he couldn’t quite make himself stop imagining it. He came in a hot rush, head thrown back against the tile, thighs trembling. He watched with a sinking heart as his come swirled down the drain.
He shouldn’t have let himself go there. Not today.
After a minute of guilt spiraling, he looked at his softening prick. “Could you please behave? You need to get on board with this. It’s in your best interest, you know. Getting married means there’ll be somebody there to take care of you every night if you want.”
His dick didn’t say anything in response. It just sort of hung there limply, looking sad and defeated.
The wedding was to take place at a picturesque church on the Amalfi coast. Harry’d requested a destination wedding to avoid the press (and so he didn’t have to invite every single person who considered him a dear friend because he’d talked to them once or twice) and Ginny liked beaches. Positano was Parkinson’s idea, but after visiting once, Ginny’d been sold. Harry hadn’t cared, really. “We’ll be just as married no matter where we have it,” he’d said when Ginny asked his opinion.
The Portkey was at noon. Ron, Seamus, and Dean were supposed to be here by quarter ‘till, so they could all go together.
Harry glanced at the clock when he emerged from his too-long shower in a wave of steam, and shit. It was past ten already.
He still had to pick up Ginny’s ring – it had needed to be resized and he was supposed to pick it up yesterday but forgot. And he had to pack. Oh, and his robes were at the cleaners! Merlin, he didn’t know how people did it, kept everything so organized and planned out instead of panicking about it at the last minute.
He started throwing things into his suitcase and hoped for the best.
He sprinted through the front door at 11:57, panting, his clean ceremonial robes draped over his arm and Ginny’s ring in his pocket. “I’m here!” he called. “I’m here!”
“Oh, thank Godric,” Ron said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to call you, arsehole!”
“Sorry, sorry. My phone’s in my room. With my suitcase.”
“Well, go get it!” Ron cried. Seamus snorted and Harry would’ve flipped him off if he hadn’t already been halfway up the stairs.
In his room, he zipped up the suitcase and shrunk it down, nabbed the phone, and stuck everything in his pockets. Then he hauled arse back down the stairs, leaping forward to clutch at the portkey just in time.
A few cocktails at the poolside bar later, Harry was feeling much more chill about the whole ‘getting married’ thing. Ginny and the girls had pranced by a while ago, and Ginny, clad in a skimpy bikini, had given him a salacious wink. He’d thought to himself: Ginny is amazing. Ginny is fun.
I can do this.
It didn’t hurt that the resort was awesome, posh without being uptight, with two huge pools that gleamed turquoise in the unrelenting sun, and cushy, pristine lounges scattered about. And lots of booze. All the booze.
“You should get married more often,” Seamus called from the pool, where he was floating on an enormous pink inflatable flamingo. “This is bloody fantastic!”
“I know!” Harry yelled back. He took a sip of his mojito and leaned back in his chair, face tilted up.
“Hope you cast some sun protection charms on yourself,” Ron said from underneath an umbrella.
“I never burn,” Harry said, waving him off.
“Sun’s stronger here,” Ron said.
“The sun’s the same everywhere, you git,” he replied.
“Suit yourself,” Ron said, relaxing again.
The sun was stronger here.
By the time Harry went inside to shower for dinner, he was a terrible tomato-y color. His shoulders hurt like a motherfucker, and his face felt like it was going to fall off every time he tried to move it.
“Told you,” Ron said, slipping into his jacket.
“Nobody likes a gloater,” Harry said.
“Just saying. Ginny’s going to be ticked off.”
Lord, she probably would be. “Somebody can heal it. Right?”
“Ask Zabini,” Seamus said from across the room. He was fighting with his tie, and it seemed like the tie was winning. “He can probably do it.”
Blaise Zabini was an usher tomorrow. Since the war, he and Harry had become good friends, working side by side in the Auror department. It wasn’t like school anymore – sure, Harry was still friends with his fellow Gryffindors (and Ron and Hermione were still his best friends), but for the most part, the houses had ceased to matter. Blaise was a friend, as were Pansy and Daphne and Theo. Even Malfoy was something of a friend. Malfoy and Hermione, both Unspeakables, were especially close.
In fact, Malfoy would be here tomorrow. He might have already arrived, come to think of it – many of the guests were coming tonight. The thought made something in Harry expand and settle in his throat, and it was difficult to breathe around it for a moment.
Harry made his way through the hotel towards Blaise’s room. He knocked and heard a muffled reply from the other side. Figuring that it had been a ‘Come in,’ Harry swung the door open; it hadn’t been closed all the way anyhow. “Hey, I wondered if you could –” Harry began, and then stopped dead.
Two non-Zabini faces swiveled towards him. Harry didn’t recognize one of them, but he sure as hell knew the other one. Malfoy.
“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so – I’m, oh my god,” Harry stammered, backing up. “I didn’t realize – I never meant –”
“Sweet Salazar, get the fuck out of here, Potter!” Malfoy cried.
“Oh, god,” Harry said, unable to stop staring at Malfoy. One of his shoulders was bare, a loose white button-up hanging off it, trapped in the crook of his arm. The lean, muscled lines of his back were caught in slanted sunlight, which made some of his creamy skin gleam like ivory and cast other places in soft shadow. He was naked except for the shirt, and what was worse, he was in a completely naked man’s lap. Malfoy’s lips were red, his face flushed as he tossed his head, flicking his hair back from his eyes.
“Potter!” he yelled in his clipped, posh accent. His grey eyes were bright, his pale brow furrowed.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Harry said, and finally unfroze. He closed the door behind him and hurried down the hall and pulled into an alcove with a vending machine.
Of all the things to witness today, of all days, he thought, leaning back against the machine and closing his eyes. Why’d it have to be that?
“And do you, Harry, take Ginevra to be your lawfully wedded wife…”
Harry swayed a little on his feet. It was probably the heat. He gulped. “I do,” he said, sounding like a thousand-year-old man. His throat was very dry. Because of the heat. And the sunburn. Which Ginny had not, as suspected, been thrilled about.
“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride,” finished the white-haired constable, smiling benignly over them.
Harry kissed Ginny briefly on the mouth and looked out at the crowd, trying to gauge everyone’s expressions. Had he done it all correctly? Molly and Arthur were beaming. Ron gave him a thumbs up. That was good.
“And that’s all there is to it,” said the constable. “You’ll kiss, then I’ll ask everyone to rise for the new Mr. and Mrs. Potter. The two of you will walk the aisle and greet your guests on the way out.”
“Should we run through it again?” Ginny asked.
Harry grimaced, but thankfully, the constable was shaking his head. “No, no. You seem to have everything in order. I want you to have time with your guests tonight. I know they’ve all come a long way to be here with you.”
The constable was nice. All of this was nice. It was going to be a gorgeous wedding, and there was nothing – nothing – to be panicking about.
“Why don’t we head to the restaurant then?” Ginny asked.
“Sure,” Harry said, because the restaurant would have wine, and Harry needed some, stat.
The wine was excellent. Blaise chose it – he was the expert of their wedding party. It was Brunello, something Harry’d never had before, but was thoroughly enjoying.
“Harry, you better slow down!” Seamus called down the long table. “You’re going to be hungover on your big day!”
Ginny laughed, because Ginny was the best. Harry was lucky to be marrying her. She was so easygoing and fun.
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’m probably going to be hungover, too,” she whispered.
He snorted. “I noticed. What’s that, your fourth glass?”
She nodded and giggled, and he kissed her cheek.
Lucky. He was lucky.
So, really, it made no sense that he felt tight and trapped, like he was being pressed in from all sides.
Molly and Arthur and Andromeda and the rest of the older guests called off after dessert. “Let’s go back to the pool,” Ginny said. “It’s open until one.”
“Fuck yes!” cried Seamus. “Pool bar!”
“Let’s do limoncello shots! Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do here?” asked Padma, who was one of Ginny’s bridesmaids.
“I don’t know about shots,” Hermione said, grimacing.
“Oh, c’mon, ‘Mione,” Harry said, slinging his arm around her. “Please?”
She gave him a grin. “Fine. If I sick up on you tomorrow, it’s your own fault.”
“Fair,” he said, and they all made their way up the narrow, zig-zagging streets and stairways that led through town towards the resort.
It was a gorgeous walk, the flash of moonlight on the ocean below, the lights of the town twinkling on the mountainside. It was early enough that the streets were still crowded, people making their way home from dinner, stopping for gelato. Some of the shops were still open, bright clothes and colorful artwork on display in the windows.
Harry and the wedding party tumbled through the gates of the resort, which were draped in flowering vines, in a whirlwind of chatter and laughter. When they reached the poolside bar, Padma ordered limoncello shots for them all.
“To Harry and Ginny!” she cried, holding up her chilled glass. “To being happy together forever!”
Forever, Harry thought, and let the icy shot slide down his throat.
There was a DJ next to the cabana, people dancing in the space between pools, most people sporting bathing suits or slinky coverups. The night was warm and soft, and the alcohol was making Harry feel loose and indulgent.
Ginny pulled him over to the dance floor, but after a while, she and the bridesmaids were all clustering up together. Harry stepped away, moving back towards the bar, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He ordered a gin and tonic with extra lime and took it to a quiet alcove along the side of the bar. All around him was noise and music. The day had gone by so fast, whooshing past at a whirlwind pace, and he couldn’t seem to hold onto it. He wished everything could just stop for a minute. Just a minute, so he could think.
“Why are you over here brooding, Potter?”
Harry knew who it was before he looked up; he’d know that voice anywhere. Just one syllable in that low, precise tone, and Harry would’ve recognized it. “Malfoy,” he said, looking up into grey eyes and feeling his cheeks heat. “Look, I’m really sorry about earlier. I had no idea –”
“Shut up about it - it’s fine,” Malfoy said, coming to stand next to him.
“Yeah, okay,” Harry said. He could smell Malfoy’s cologne, the kind he always wore now. After the war, he’d worn something spicier, sexier. Harry could still remember it. His new scent was clean and subtle instead, but also quite nice. And he looked nice, too, although he always looked nice. Tonight, he was wearing a pale linen suit over a white shirt, his hair gleaming and impeccable.
Harry watched as Malfoy took a sip of his drink, which appeared to be whiskey. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Why are you hiding out here instead of on the dance floor with your bride-to-be?”
“I’m not hiding.” Just having a crisis. Possibly a breakdown. No big deal. “I needed a minute to cool down.”
“Hm,” Malfoy replied, but the look in his eyes said he didn’t buy it. He swirled the ice in his glass, silent for a moment. Harry tried not to look too closely at Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers where they circled the drink, or worse, meet his shrewd gaze.
Finally, Malfoy spoke again. “Are you all aflutter about tomorrow? Ready to dive headfirst into marital bliss?”
“Of course,” Harry said automatically. “It’ll be great. It’s great that everyone came, and the weather’s supposed to be great tomorrow, and the resort’s great, and everything’s just so, uh…”
“Great?”
“I mean, yeah.” And lovely, now he felt like an idiot.
“Cheers, then. To everything being great,” Malfoy said, one side of his mouth inching up. It was nearly a smirk, but not quite. His eyes weren’t in it. They seemed strangely sincere and almost sad.
Harry raised his glass to Malfoy’s. They looked at one another, then lifted their glasses to their mouths. After taking a swig, Harry turned to the still-busy pool.
“Are you happy?” Malfoy asked.
Harry frowned. “What? Of course.”
“Do you swear it?” Malfoy said, taking a step closer. He was extraordinarily close now, closer than he’d ever been. Harry saw flecks of blue in his grey eyes, saw a trace of his pale, soft-looking stubble.
“Do I swear? That I’m happy?”
“Yes. Swear to me that you’re happy. I need to know. It’s important.”
“Why?” Harry asked, too dazzled by his proximity to think straight. “Why would that be important?”
“It just is,” Malfoy said, looking determined.
“I –” Harry swallowed, and looked down at his drink, at the condensation dripping onto his fingers in the warmth of the evening. “You can’t just –” He looked back up at Malfoy, at the stubborn set of his jaw.
“Well?”
“I – I’m – ” Harry began. His eyes caught on Malfoy’s and held. “I don’t know,” he finished quietly.
Malfoy’s face did something strange then, almost a grimace, but his eyes seemed feverish, excited. “Fair enough,” he said, taking another sip from his drink. Harry watched his mouth move, pink lips on cut glass. “Not knowing is understandable. It’s a complicated question.” He turned away.
“What the fuck?” Harry said, catching his arm. “You’re going to ask me that and just leave?”
“Yes,” Malfoy said, glancing down at Harry’s hand on his sleeve.
Harry quickly let go and looked into those eyes once more, bright and laser-focused, like they could see into Harry’s soul.
“What else would you have me do?” Malfoy asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Harry whispered, and all of a sudden, he felt like crying.
Malfoy let out a sigh. Then, unfathomably, he reached up and brushed a lock of Harry’s fringe from his face with cool fingertips. It was hardly anything, but it made every cell in Harry’s body snap to attention, like he had been slapped.
“Look, Potter,” Malfoy said. “It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be happy. You deserve to be happy, if any of us do.”
Harry nodded, swallowing past the thickness in his throat. Malfoy walked away then, setting his empty glass on a table before Harry lost his broad shoulders and blond head in the crowd.
After that, Harry proceeded to get rip-roaringly, stupidly drunk. It didn’t take much – he was already well on his way. When he could no longer walk a straight line, he kissed Ginny goodnight and wove his way to the room he was sharing with Ron. His hand touched the door handle but he didn’t turn it.
Instead, he turned around and stumbled back in the direction of the elevators, eyes bleary, squinting at room numbers. “Why’d you fucken say that to me tonight, you wanker,” he grumbled. He knocked on Blaise’s door, and Blaise answered in a white bathrobe, a flash of blond hair behind him. Malfoy, Harry thought for an instant, before he realized it wasn’t the right shade of blond at all – too dark by far. “Where’s he?” he asked.
“Well, hello to you too, Potter,” Blaise replied. “Why are you not in bed, hm? Your fiancée is going to kill me if you sleep through the ceremony tomorrow. She’ll kill you, too, but I’m more worried about my own well-being.”
“Where’s Malfoy?” Harry demanded.
“I assume he’s in his room.”
“This is his room!”
“Nope.”
“But he was fucking someone in here,” Harry pointed out quite reasonably.
“What?”
“Fucking someone in your chair!” Harry cried, then hiccupped so forcefully he nearly fell over.
“Oh, dear,” Zabini said, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “We really need to get you to bed. Here, I’ll walk with you.” He gripped Harry’s forearm, making to steer him towards his room.
Harry shook him off. “No. I’m jus’ down the hall.”
“Well…” he hedged, glancing back over his shoulder to the blonde, who was, now that Harry looked at her, a girl. “Okay. Promise you’ll go right to sleep?”
“Yes mum,” Harry grumbled. He started off down the hall. “I still love you, though, Zabini!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here!”
“Love you too, you messy bastard!” Blaise called, laughing.
Harry turned the corner and collided with a wall.
“Ouch.” Then he realized it wasn’t a wall at all. It was Malfoy. “You,” he hissed.
“Me?” Malfoy echoed, frowning. “What did I do?”
“You assed me that – asked me – that question, an’ it really wassn’ cool. Why’d you do that?”
“How much have you had to drink since I last saw you?” Malfoy said, one eyebrow shooting up.
“Lots,” Harry said.
“Merlin’s tits. Okay, come on.” He took Harry’s arm in his, and Harry leaned against him, almost making them both collide with the wall.
“’M kinna drunk,” Harry said.
Malfoy just laughed, shaking his head. “Which room is yours?”
“Over here,” Harry said, guiding them in the general direction. He flicked his hand at his door and it swung open.
“Can hardly walk he’s so pissed, yet he’s casting wandless spells,” Malfoy remarked, sounding incredulous.
“Jus’ opened a door, ‘s not rocket science.”
Ron wasn’t back yet. Probably outside trying to get a snog from one of the bridesmaids. “Wan’ a drink?” Harry said, flinging open the mini fridge. “Lots of ickle fings in here!” He held up a tiny bottle of something and waggled it around.
Malfoy snatched the bottle from him. Harry tried to nab it back, but his reflexes were irritatingly slow.
“No,” Malfoy said firmly. “No more drinking, Potter. We’re going to play a little game instead, okay? It’s called ‘Go the Fuck to Sleep’.”
“Uh-uh,” Harry said, shaking his head back and forth. “You gotta sit down an’ talk to me, Malfoy. You have to. I’m the groom!” He hiccupped. “I get what I want ‘cause I’m the groom!” Another great hiccup shook his body and he started laughing. Then he yanked at Malfoy’s arm, proceeded to trip over something on the floor, and sent them both tumbling onto the bed, Malfoy crashing down on top of him. “Hello,” he said, looking up into Malfoy’s eyes, which were so close he could see the blond tips of his long eyelashes.
“Potter,” Malfoy said quietly.
“Malfoy,” Harry said in his most serious voice. Then he giggled again and sniffed at Malfoy’s neck. “You smell so good. Why d’you always smell so good?”
“Harry, come on,” he said.
“Come on what?” Harry said, lifting his hips a little.
Malfoy let out a rough sound. “Let me up,” he said, shutting his eyes tightly.
“You’re on top of me,” Harry pointed out.
“Yes, but you’re holding me.”
Harry hadn’t realized he was, but sure enough, his arms were wrapped tightly around Malfoy’s waist. He let go.
Malfoy opened his eyes. He didn’t move, though. Just kept looking down at Harry, those clear grey eyes going darker and darker the longer he stared.
Malfoy’s hair looked like it was glowing, the bedside lamp behind him lighting it all up. “Pretty,” Harry said, looking at it as he slid his fingers through pale strands. “It’s so pretty.” He sighed. “You never talk to me anymore.”
“Anymore? We’ve never talked very much,” Malfoy said. Harry felt the breath of his words on his lips.
“Well, why not?” Harry asked.
“Why not? Are you joking?”
Harry shook his head. “We should’ve.” He could feel his eyelids drooping. “I don’ want it to be morning. Les’ have a drink, yeah?”
“Shhh,” Malfoy said, and Harry felt a cool hand in his hair, on his cheek. He couldn’t open his eyes. They weighed too much. “It’ll all be fine. Just go to sleep.”
“Feels so good,” Harry murmured. It felt like he was floating on a cloud, everything soft and cool and lovely. “Don’ leave, kay?”
He felt a brush of something soft against his mouth, but was too far gone to make sense of it.
Harry woke tangled up in blue sheets. He stretched his legs and arms long and let out a huge yawn. He’d been having a good dream, a really good dream, and it’d left his cock hard and aching. He reached for his glasses and looked around the room for a moment, trying to put the world to rights. And then he leapt up, scrambling out of bed.
He was supposed to be in Positano.
Why was he here when he was supposed to be in Positano?
God, he’d been so fucked up last night. So drunk. Really, really drunk. He vaguely remembered stumbling back into the hotel, heading for his room. Had he taken a Portkey home for some reason? Had he apparated all the way to fucking London in that state?
He glanced down at himself, taking inventory of his parts, which all seemed to be there. He probably hadn’t apparated, then.
He must have done something colossally stupid, though, to be here.
He also must’ve hit himself with a sobering charm before falling asleep, because he felt much too clear-headed for someone who’d consumed his weight’s worth in alcohol the night before.
He needed to get to that fucking resort. He needed to get an emergency Portkey, call Ginny, call Ron, and get himself there before the ceremony, which was at two.
He reached for his phone and froze.
It was May 17. May 17.
The day of the rehearsal dinner.
But that couldn’t be right. He turned his phone off and then on again. It still said May 17.
He looked down at himself, at his deflating morning wood underneath black pants.
Only, he hadn’t been wearing black pants last night. He’d been wearing the joke pants that George got him, the ones that said ‘Groom’ on the arse, with two gold bands that looked like handcuffs.
He tapped on his text messages. The last one was from Ginny, at 9:38 p.m.: Goodnight, love! Early bedtime for me. See you tomorrow in POSITANO! Woo!
He called her in a daze. “Hey babe,” she said, picking up. “What’s up?”
“I’m in London,” he blurted out.
“Yes, and?” she asked, confused.
“I’m in London,” he repeated.
She laughed. “Your Portkey’s not until noon, you goof,” she said. “Did you think you missed it?”
“My Portkey,” he repeated.
“Yes, your Portkey. Harry, are you okay?”
“I’m taking a Portkey to Positano at noon. Today,” he said.
“That’s the plan,” Ginny said. He could hear her moving around, probably packing. “And you need to pick up your robes from the cleaners, too,” she said. “Don’t forget!”
“Right,” he said, falling down onto the bed. “I won’t.”
“Good,” she said. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Couldn’t be better. I’ll see you soon,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“See you soon. Love you!”
“You too,” he said, and hung up. He dropped the phone onto the bed and dug his fingers into the sockets of his eyes. This didn’t make sense. This didn’t make any fucking sense.
He’d done this. He’d done all of this already.
Unless it had all been a dream. It hadn’t seemed like a dream. It definitely hadn’t. But maybe it had been really vivid, or something, because of stress.
It was pre-wedding jitters, maybe. He’d had weird, unsettlingly vivid dreams because he was stressed out. That made sense. A lot more sense than the alternative.
He walked to the shower in a daze, cleaning himself quickly and mechanically. The robes, he reminded himself. The robes. And the ring. And he had to pack.
He washed, and tried to scrub away the remnants of the dream as best he could.
At noon, Harry and Dean and Seamus and Ron gripped the trowel that was serving as their Portkey and found themselves in sun-drenched Positano, on the grounds of the wizarding resort.
He’d almost managed to convince himself that it’d definitely been a weirdly long and realistic dream when the girl at the front desk of the hotel showed him a map of the property. “You’re here,” she said, circling the lobby on the map. Just as she had in the dream. “And here’s your room,” she said, making a second circle, just like she had in the dream. “Room 738.”
Which was, of course, the same room number. Harry knew exactly where Room 738 was located, because he’d found it yesterday. Yesterday, which was today.
It wasn’t a dream.
“You okay?” Ron asked, looking him over.
“Fine,” Harry said.
The day rushed by in a blur of activity. It was all the same: the two pools, the pink flamingo inflatable, the sunburn. Harry went to Blaise’s room to see if he’d find Malfoy there with some random bloke, and sure enough, there they were, Malfoy’s white dress shirt hanging off his shoulder. Harry closed the door faster this time, all the hairs on his arms standing on end. He was so spooked he hadn’t even spared a moment to stare at Malfoy’s back or bare thighs.
Later, he and Ginny and the rest of the wedding party walked down to the small, whitewashed church. They ran through the ceremony once and Ginny asked if they should do it again. The constable said no. The constable was nice. Ginny was annoyed at Harry’s sunburn.
Blaise picked out the wine at dinner. It was a Brunello, just as Harry had known it would be, even though he knew less than nothing about wine. He and Ginny drank too much, and Seamus teased him about a hangover, and Ginny whispered that she’d be hungover too.
They made their way back to the resort, and Padma bought them all limoncello shots from the poolside bar. Harry danced with Ginny for a while before retreating to a quiet spot by the bar. Malfoy approached him and they talked. Then Malfoy asked him if he was happy. “Yes,” Harry said. “I’m happy.”
There. That was different. He’d changed the trajectory of the day. Some part of him hoped this would fix things. Would fix whatever was happening to him.
“Good,” Malfoy said with a nod, and then he left Harry standing there.
Harry proceeded to get completely annihilated and eventually stumbled to his room. He hesitated at the door. Had he gone directly into his room last time? He couldn’t remember. He considered going after Malfoy, demanding to know why he’d asked that question. But in the end, he opened his door and fell onto his bed, passing out almost immediately.
Harry woke tangled up in blue sheets. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he said, scowling up at the ceiling.