Chapter Text
Harry tugged on his tie in the futile attempt to straighten it. Allowing Hermione to dress him had seemed like a good idea at the time. But he’d rather assumed that, knowing him, she’d pick something more casual, and perhaps with more room--like a comfortable set of semi-formal robes.
It never occurred to him she’d put him in a sleek, Muggle, designer tuxedo. Of course, the whole thing was Muggle-themed, so perhaps it should have.
He’d checked himself from all angles before Apparating, and could acknowledge, at least, that he didn’t look really bad. His hair was a bit useless, as always, but the inky material of the tux looked pretty nice against his skin. It was simply far too tight, particularly in seat of the black silk trousers. The fit of the waistcoat was a bit snug, as well, but Hermione assured him that showing off his “trim waistline,” it would highlight his “broad chest and shoulders,” and made him promise to take off his dinner jacket halfway through his walk on the small, modified runway. He’d rolled his eyes at her at the time, but knew he would end up doing it no matter how stupid it was; she was completely convinced that his surprise addition to the auction would put the charity to raise money for the Muggles affected by the War over the top.
Personally, Harry didn’t think he was needed. Hermione had volunteered herself and Ron, too—separately, even—for the auction, and the charity organizers estimated each of them would go for a decent Knut. And of course, there were many others: Neville had been wrangled into it, same as Harry; Luna had volunteered; Ginny had practically demanded her name be added to the list. Kingsley offered an hour from his busy schedule for an official meeting to discuss anything the winning bidder wanted, and even McGonagall had gotten over a thousand galleons for contributing a parent/Headmistress conference to the auction to discuss their child’s skills and her opinion of where their focus should be.
Still, he had agreed (though grudgingly), and it was Hermione, which was enough to make him stick to his word even as he felt the flush of oncoming humiliation as he watched the price climb on her while she walked down the elevated stage wearing an evening gown in periwinkle blue. Her face was a bit fixed—Harry supposed she minded being bid on more than she thought she would, even for a simple dinner in a public restaurant—but she smiled gamely as the auctioneer closed after the winning bid of eight thousand Galleons.
Ron was next—the organisation had saved the three of them for last—and Harry stopped paying attention as the auctioneer began his spiel to detail the circumstances of their date and praise Ron for his War efforts. Hermione walked off the stage and greeted her bidder with a warm handshake, then headed over to Harry, nudging him in the shoulder and releasing an exasperated breath.
“Well. That was more bracing than I imagined,” she admitted. Harry handed her a flute of champagne, which she took a grateful swallow from.
“It’s just a dinner, right? In public?” he asked, taking a sip of his own and slanting her a worried glance. Merlin knew Hermione was fully capable of taking care of herself, but some secret part of him (that he would never admit to her even existed after her last lecture on the subject) still worried about her, just a bit.
“Yes, mine's just a public dinner,” she said with a subtle eyeroll. “Ron’s, too. And the bidders have all signed magically-binding contracts to pledge our safety. They’re not allowed to harm us in any way.”
Reassured, he glanced at her again. Smiled. “You look really pretty tonight.”
Her complexion reddened becomingly. “Thank you." She cast him an affectionate look, her eyes roving assessingly. “People are going to go mad over you in that.”
He looked down at himself. “It’s too tight.”
Hermione gave an inelegant snort, and took another sip of her drink. “Like I said.”
The auctioneer finally finished with his promotion of Ron, who was wearing a sharp navy three-piece suit, and the bidding began. Harry's mind caught on something she'd said before. “Wait, what did you mean that yours and Ron’s are just dinners?”
Hermione stared at Ron onstage, unblinking for a moment.
“Hermione?”
She flinched a little and bit her lip.
“Hermione!”
Finally, she looked back up at him, guilt etched across her features. “It’s for a really good cause, Harry.”
Harry huffed and opened his mouth to argue, but the auctioneer rang out with Ron’s final price—8,400 Galleons, just barely edging out Hermione’s high price of the night—and the resulting applause was too loud to speak over. Hermione slid fractionally away from him, darting shamefaced glances in his direction.
The auctioneer, an older wizard named Elliot, held out hands to quiet the crowd and, after several excited moments, the buzz of noise began to fade.
“Now,” Elliot intoned, magnifying his voice with a gentle Sonorus. “I’d like to present our final auction of the night. Many of you have, I’m sure, gleaned from our little tidbit in the Prophet last night that we would have a special bachelor available to bid on and if you guessed as much—you weren’t wrong,” he announced smoothly.
Harry gave Hermione a frantic look. She smiled weakly at him and lifted her glass to her mouth.
“I hope some of you have kept solvent this evening. I’d like to remind each bidder that the bid itself is magically binding and that the winning bid amount will be transferred immediately out of your Gringott’s vault,” Elliot continued. “So, without further ado, I’d like to present to you our last bachelor of the night, Mister Harry Potter!”
A sudden spotlight blinded Harry from where he stood to the left of the stage. Then Hermione gave him a little shove. It made him stumble a bit, but also reminded him that he knew how to work his limbs and was supposed to use them. Warily, he climbed the stairs onto the stage to the sound of gasps in the crowd and the huge buzz of shocked voices.
When he reached the podium, the spotlight, thankfully, faded. Elliot turned to him to give him a practiced smile. Harry pasted one of his own over his features and nodded to Elliot, who turned back to the crowd.
“Harry Potter, like our last two generous guests, needs no introduction,” Elliot said over the noise, and the mob began to quiet again, staring up at Harry in a hungry way that made him even more nervous. “But we won't let that stop us,” he added, to everyone’s general amusement. He gave Harry an encouraging, jerked nod toward the runway and Harry began his slow walk.
“This bid includes three days and four nights at a luxury Wizarding resort in a tropical location,” Elliot recited behind him. Three days and four nights? Harry made a mental note to yell at Hermione. “The holiday will include all meals taken togetherand an assortment of activities which Mister Potter has also—very generously—agreed to join his bidder in.”
Yelling wasn’t good enough, Harry decided, even as he peeled off his jacket to the hoots and hollers from the sea of people below him. This called for murder. Obviously, it would make him sad to lose one of his best friends but the good thing about Hermione was that she was usually prepared for anything. Harry would make it quick.
He hooked the collar of his jacket over two fingers and swung it up over his shoulder as he reached the end of the stage. He looked down at a middle-aged witch; she was staring up at him with a gaping expression. At his tentative smile, she promptly fainted into the arms of her female companion, who caught her friend even as she started laughing and yelled upward, “Less competition for me!”
Harry spun on the smooth heel of his shiny, uncomfortable shoe and began walking back toward the podium as he’d been instructed.
Elliot was still talking. “…that famous scar to look at across from every meal for days! Voted by Witch Weekly for four years running to be the Sexiest Wizard Alive, the lucky winning witch or wizard will be able to partake in all planned events with the Saviour himself, and any additional activities that you both explicitly consent to,” Elliot added slyly. “You will, of course, have adjoining suites, if both of you decide you’d like to play a game of Exploding Snap in the middle of the night.”
Harry heard multiple gasps and an outright scream from behind him. His face, already warm, flamed hotter. The insinuation, he’d almost expected. The reactions were harder. He'd never get used to the idea of being thought of as... as... someone with whom people wanted to play middle-of-the-night Exploding Snap.
Harry pulled to a halt next to Elliot and turned around again, and the Elliot waggled his rather poufy eyebrows at him with glee. Harry hitched up a shoulder awkwardly, but reinforced his smile. His face muscles were starting to hurt, so he began to chant in his head to relax himself. Good cause, good cause, good cause. Kill Hermione, good cause, good cause.
Elliot held his palms up to the crowd again and after several moments, they fell silent. “So who will choose the Chosen one tonight? We’ll start the bidding at 10,000 Galleons.”
Harry blinked. He turned his head to search for Hermione and, upon finally finding her off to the side, noted that she looked just as astonished as he felt. She and Ron, the two most expensive bids of the night, had only begun at five thousand. No one was going to offer ten.
But even as that thought flitted through his mind, a loud feminine voice called out “Fifteen!” from across the hall, and raised her wand, which glowed pink. Another witch, slightly younger, countered at twenty, and then a wizard who looked vaguely familiar, like a Quidditch player he couldn’t quite place, upped the bid to thirty thousand.
After that, the increments crept up more slowly, from thirty thousand to thirty-five, then seven, then nine. But the bids continued, a rapid-fire battle over who got to go away on holiday with Harry and potentially molest him. In no time, there were only three bidders left: the younger, attractive witch, the possible-Quidditch player, and an older wizard with a close-cropped beard. The athlete’s face had twisted in disgust or anger by the time the bid reached sixty-thousand, and Harry felt a twinge of relief when he dropped out. He examined the other two carefully. The witch looked earnest and sweet; he probably wouldn’t mind being around her for a few days. The wizard looked steady and calm, raising his wand every few moments. Probably a fine option as well, as far as things went.
Releasing a little sigh of relief, Harry let his hunched shoulders come down. The bidding was circling an outrageous seventy-thousand Galleons, but was only rising by five-hundred Galleons each time, now. Harry tried to remember what Hermione’s goal had been for the night; he was pretty sure it had been fifty thousand, which the organisation had most likely met before he’d even gotten on stage.
Elliot repeated the last bid of seventy-two thousand, five-hundred, and the witch wavered, her face dropping with disappointment. The bearded wizard, noticing this, let his expression break open in excitement.
“Going once,” Elliot announced, “Going twice…”
“One hundred thousand Galleons!” a low, posh, all-too-familiar voice called out from the back of the room. Harry gulped, his blood running cold even as Elliot responded with an enthusiastic, “Sold!”
There was a flurry of gasps and a smattering of applause, and the crowd parted to reveal the person Harry knew, in the most horrified recesses of his soul, would be standing there: Malfoy.
Because, of course.
Malfoy was wearing a tuxedo as well, but he'd either loosened his tie or left it undone. It hung around his neck, a few of his buttons open at the collar to reveal his throat and collarbone and the barest hint of his chest. He lazily dangled a champagne flute down near his thigh and looked up at Harry with a slow, triumphant grin.
Harry twitched.
His mind moved sluggishly—why the fuck would Malfoy bid—why would he spend—they barely interacted since— It had to just be the strangest goddamn dream he’d ever had.
But no, Malfoy was slowly working his way through the parting crowd up to the stage. Harry could hear the swell of voices as they put together the winning bidder with his actual identity, and even Elliot looked a little sallow. He walked off the stage to the rest of the group of organisers of the charity—including Hermione—and started talking in fast, quiet tones; probably checking on the legality or wisdom of having just sold The Chosen One to a former Death Eater.
Malfoy reached the stage. Numbly, Harry walked over to the edge of it and looked down at him. “What the hell, Malfoy?”
Malfoy shrugged. His smile was a little loose around the edges, his silver eyes bright as they roamed deliberately over Harry’s body from his vantage height of Harry’s crotch. He held out a distracted hand.
Flushing when Malfoy looked again at his groin, Harry took the proffered hand—it was surprisingly warm and strong, for all its manicured appearance—and hopped off the stage.
“Potter,” Malfoy murmured, raising a single eyebrow.
“What the hell?” Harry demanded again, more firmly.
Malfoy snorted and drained the last of his champagne. “Well. Serves me right, I suppose. At least it’ll be interesting,” he said cryptically, then gave Harry a slow nod and a lingering glance before turning around and walking away.
Harry watched him go with utter disbelief. There was no possible reason for Malfoy, of all people, to want to go on holiday with him. Unless he was plotting something nefarious, which—okay, might make sense for the Malfoy at Hogwarts five years ago, but didn’t fit with the Malfoy he knew of recently.
He thought of Malfoy’s gaze, strangely warm and steady as it slid over him, and his eyes found Malfoy’s retreating form before he left the hall. They dropped, of their own accord, to the curve of Malfoy's backside, and Harry grimaced.
Well, shit.
Ron and Hermione reached his side, and Harry dragged his eyes away from Malfoy’s arguably perfect arse to look at them.
“I’m so sorry, Harry!” Hermione breathed out, brown eyes huge in her face.
Harry glanced at Ron. “You might want to make your goodbyes now, since you’re so fond of her,” he informed him, and Ron snorted.
“Because either of us have ever been able to resist her, any more than she’s denied us one of our schemes,” Ron said meaningfully.
“Because either of us have ever asked her to go on an intimate holiday with Draco bloody Malfoy,” Harry shot back, snagging another glass of champagne from a passing server.
“Point.”
Hermione looked upset. “I should have told you what your package included before you volunteered,” she said, lacing her hands together and locking pleading eyes on him. “But there are still so many Muggles—”
Harry sighed, choosing not to take issue with her loose definition of the word volunteer. “It’s okay, ‘Mione. I mean, yeah, you should have told me. At least I wouldn’t have been so damned shocked up there—”
“I thought you might not agree and we really needed—”
Harry frowned at her. “When have I ever said no to something you needed?”
Hermione smiled tentatively. “I am sorry, though. I won’t do it again.”
“Give it six months; she’ll make us pose naked in a calendar or something,” Ron muttered under his breath, and Harry flashed a smile at him. Ron grinned back. “Malfoy, though. He’d better not be planning something.”
Harry looked suspiciously over at the door Malfoy had exited from. “It seemed like… a whim. I think he might have actually been drunk,” he said, remembering the slightly wobbly smile Malfoy had given him. Remembering the crinkle at the edge of his eyes that came with it. “Or maybe he was just trying to seem it, so I’d lower my guard around him.”
Hermione made a non-committal sound. “Well, I’ve talked it over with the charity counsel, and his bid is binding. But maybe he won’t show up or something, and you’ll just get to have a nice vacation, all on your own.”
“Maybe,” Harry said. His mind churned briefly. “But Ron’s right. He must be up to something, right? We’d become—friendly, last year, and then started acting like I didn’t exist, remember? I barely see him now. The last time was weeks ago; we ran into each other at Diagon Alley. He was, well, Malfoy. Brushed me off when I asked after his mum.”
“We know, Harry,” Ron said, voice heavy with irony. Harry scowled. He didn’t talk about Malfoy as often as he used to; he knew he didn’t. Just from time to time, when he saw Malfoy, in person or in the paper. Or when Hermione mentioned running into him at work. Or when he was going over a case-file that had ties to Death Eaters or Dark Magic or purebloods.
Harry winced. Okay, so there was a possibility he still brought up Malfoy with fair frequency.
Hermione hummed a little and gave him a tentative smile. “Maybe the bid was his way of trying to make it up to you?”
“I’d have settled for a two-galleon drink,” Harry mused, then frowned. Malfoy had even offered to meet him for one, once, then hadn’t shown up. He tried not to let his mind supply him with images of Malfoy’s trouser-clad arse and other ideas of how Malfoy could repent for his rudeness. “Not that he cares what I think. And it’s not as if he doesn’t see you; he could have asked you to say something.
Hermione went quiet for a moment, considering. “Perhaps he just wants to get away.”
“How much did the vacation package run?” Ron interjected.
“Mmm. I think four thousand or so, but a lot of it was comped for the charity and because Harry’s name was attached,” Hermione said.
“Well, he could have just bought that, right?” Ron said logically. Hermione leaned against him and exhaled loudly.
She took Harry’s half-drunk champagne from his hand and lifted it to her mouth, finishing it off. “You’ll be safe,” she assured him. “There’s no possible way he can be planning something to hurt you. From the time the Portkey activates to the time you come home, the contracts state that you’re protected from any harmful activity he directs at you and vice versa. Read it—it should make you feel more comfortable. And Harry,” she added gently, “it’s not as if you haven’t been attracted to him for a long time.”
Harry cringed and his eyes shot up to Ron’s, who was looking as though a Bludger had just hit him in the temple.
“I never said that,” he defended weakly.
Hermione gave a dry little laugh. “There are a lot of different ways to say something, Harry.”
Finally Ron, made a cracked, bleating sound. His throat was working hard. “’Mione, that’s not…” He looked at Harry again imploringly. “That’s not…?”
Not knowing how to respond, Harry glared at him, then at Hermione. Then, for good measure, Elliot, who was still looking smug by the stage. His cheeks were hot again.
Ron gusted out a heavy sigh and muttered, “gross,” before raising his voice and saying, “Well, Hermione says he’s different than he used to be.” He forced a pained smile.
“Shut up, Ron,” Harry growled, mad at Hermione for taking the last of his drink. For everything, really. How long had it been so obvious?
“It’ll be okay, Harry,” Hermione said after a momentary pause. “He’s good with patients, and—” She broke off; shrugged. “He really does seem different.”
Not with me, Harry thought. But he made a vague noise of assent as his eyes lingered at the empty doorway. At the very, very least, he wouldn’t be spending the whole time answering daft questions about the war and squirming out of clumsy come-ons. It had been a few years since school, but Harry felt comfortable enough dealing with Malfoy’s brand of snotty, imperious behaviour. Worst case (he hoped), he’d ignore Malfoy the entire time.
“We’ll see, I guess,” he said, giving up, then tried to put it out of his mind.
For the next two days, at least.
***
When Harry woke up, it was to the sunlight flooding over his face and a strange, twisting sensation in his midsection. He rolled over and realised that his curtain charm had faded in his sleep. He looked around curiously.
It had been late when he’d arrived in Maui the previous night and Portkey travel always left him feeling sluggish, so he had fallen face-first onto the massive bed after checking in and tumbled into sleep without even bothering to check his surroundings. The room was large and airy, very tropical in style with gauzy white curtains over the windows and wallpaper with tiny green palm fronds on them that swayed soothingly. A bit more relaxed than the downstairs indicated; the hotel seemed small and private on the outside, covered in Muggle-repelling charms, but the lobby was massive once he stepped into it, vast, with peach marbled floors and counters and crystal chandeliers that reflected light. There were restaurants and boutiques and pubs and cafes, all surrounding the cavernous hall, plush benches in the middle of it, and gold-gilt lifts at the end of each hallway.
He thought about it for a moment—perhaps that’s why Malfoy had bid; the hotel seemed like the sort of fancy place he’d prefer—before stumbling out of bed. He swallowed on the way and winced at the sour taste in his mouth, casting multiple breath-freshening charms before using the facilities and taking a quick shower.
The coil of discomfort in his stomach tightened as he dressed afterward. Confused, he cast a quick Tempus charm and found that it was almost eight in the morning. He was probably just hungry.
He glanced at the door conntecting his room to Malfoy’s and considered knocking on it for a moment before shrugging and heading downstairs. He’d run into Malfoy sooner or later, and after the note he’d left at the front desk for when Harry arrived (“See you in the morning, Potter”; only vaguely warning in tone), he’d just as soon as it be later.
The knots in his stomach began to loosen as the lift took him down to the lobby, and he made his way to the first restaurant available, a small café off to the right. His eyes immediately snagged on the white-blond head leaning down and reading something, a coffee mug raised to his mouth, and Harry realized that the tension in his belly had completely eased. For lack of anything else to do, he glared at the floor for a moment before heading over to join Malfoy.
Damn Hermione.
Malfoy looked up as Harry slid into the booth across from him. Forgoing greetings, Harry picked up his menu and snapped, “How aware were you that I’d have a physical reaction if I didn’t attend one of meals? Or, I’m guessing, the activities on the itinerary?”
Malfoy blinked. “Not at all, actually, although it makes perfect sense. I did spend a lot of money on you.”
“Yes, but why?” Harry tapped his wand on menu over a selection of eggs and bacon and toast, with a waffle on the side. As an afterthought, he added coffee as well. “You don’t even talk to me when we run into each other in public.”
Malfoy shrugged, his eyes sliding away. “Don’t you ever feel the need to just—amuse yourself, Potter? Don’t you ever get tired of doing the right thing, day in and day out, and never getting to play?”
Harry’s mouth tightened and he glared across the table. “You know nothing about me. I play with myself all the time. I mean, with Ron and Hermione. I mean, I—” He stopped. Malfoy met his eyes again, his nostrils flaring in an obvious effort not to laugh. Harry cleared his throat, reaching for some dignity. “I just mean—I like doing the right thing. Some of us don’t even need to have what that is explained to us.”
The humorous tilt to Malfoy’s mouth faded; his expression flatted out. Harry felt abruptly guilty—Malfoy had done a lot to make up for his role in the war and despite still apparently disliking Harry enough to drag him out to the middle of nowhere for no good reason, he didn’t deserve that.
“Sorry. I—I guess I’m just confused, Malfoy. The last couple of times I’ve run in to you, you haven’t been the most… friendly,” Harry fumbled out. His food and drink appeared before him with a soft pop and he grasped at the coffee gratefully.
“You try being friendly to you,” Malfoy muttered. Under his breath he added, “It’s like handing someone a pile of ingredients and telling them to make a potion with no instruction.”
“What?” Baffled, Harry stared at him. He wondered if it was an insult and, if so, why it was such a weird one. Malfoy was usually much better at them. “Why do you need to make a potion?”
“I’m not making a potion.” Malfoy rolled his eyes.
“But you just said—”
“I didn’t say anything. Nevermind. Have you looked at the itinerary?”
Harry narrowed his eyes, but let Malfoy slither away from explaining. “No, I pretty much passed out when I arrived. I’m assuming, though, that my free time is actually free when we don’t have something scheduled?”
Malfoy snorted. “I’d ask Granger, but I suppose that’s probably a safe bet. Hating my company already, Potter?” he enquired lightly.
Bizarrely enough, Harry wasn’t. It was frustrating, sure, to not know what Malfoy’s angle was, but he hadn’t really been rude yet, not even once. Just—sort of absurd.
“What do we have on the line-up today?” he asked instead of answering.
“Hiking,” Malfoy told him blandly.
Harry felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Hiking? Just—hiking? To a magical cave or something?”
Malfoy shook his head; a slip of blond hair flew into his eye. “Just hiking. To a regular waterfall.”
Harry couldn’t figure out which of his million incredulous questions to settle on first. Randomly, he picked, “Muggle hiking?” He paused. “In the jungle?” Then: “You hike?”
“I’ve been informed that hiking is actually something called walking, Potter, which I’ve been able to do fairly well for the last twenty years,” Malfoy scoffed in haughty tones. When Harry snorted in response, Malfoy smiled and casually stole a piece of his toast.
Like they were friends or something.
***
“Are you trying to tell me,” Harry said, staring down at where Malfoy was wheezing, bent over at the stomach, “That you deliberately forewent the offered guide?”
Malfoy looked up at him, his normally pale face bright red and dripping with sweat. Harry was hot and uncomfortable too, but for someone who certainly looked to be in pretty great physical shape, Malfoy seemed to have a lot of trouble traversing the uneven ground and the mild hills in the section of jungle he’d led them into. Unfortunately, his usual elegance seemed to be lacking once he’d been deposited into nature. It might be that he was wearing tasselled loafers.
“I thought you must have some experience,” Malfoy admitted, still a bit breathless. Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. Malfoy had tripped and fallen over at least three times so far, the weight of his pack apparently awkward on his shoulders. The knee of his linen trousers was torn and his skin underneath was staunchly oozing blood. But at every offer Harry made—to heal his knee; to Shrink his backpack; even, hell, to Transfigure his clothing in to something more comfortable like the cargo shorts and t-shirt Harry had picked rather than the trousers and long-sleeved button-down Malfoy had on—Malfoy stubbornly refused.
“Why? Because I spent six months lost in the Forest of Dean?” Harry asked wryly. “Does that seem like a particularly successful hike to you?”
Malfoy glared at him. “Well, from everything I’ve read, frankly, yes.”
Surprised, Harry lent a hand to help Malfoy stand upright again. Grudgingly, Malfoy took it and allowed himself to be led over to a large rock, which he collapsed onto with a grunt. Harry drew off his pack and dropped it on the ground, sitting down on the mossy, dirt path. He hunted through his bag for a moment before pulling out a bottle of water and handing it over, then watched, curiously, as Malfoy’s throat worked silently as he took long drinks from it.
“From everything you’ve read?” Harry repeated carefully.
Malfoy’s face stilled. He flapped a bored hand. “It’s impossible to read anything in the Prophet without some profile on you.”
Harry frowned and thought about it. “The Prophet never talked about it except to advertise for Skeeter’s book, Potter’s Final Stand. And even then, she got most of the details wrong.”
Scowling, Malfoy looked away. “Did you or did you not successfully hide from the Dark Lord for months while you were there? Did you or did you not live off of nuts and berries and—I don’t know, twigs—when you couldn’t find any real food? I simply must have heard the rest of the details from Granger or something.”
Harry cracked a startled laugh. “Because you and Hermione stand around in the breakroom talking about me,” he said flatly. “You don’t even like her.”
Malfoy’s lips thinned. “Well, I’m no longer calling her a Mudblood and she’s no longer hitting me in the face, so I’d say we’re in a better place than we were in school. I like her fine, Potter. She’s…”
“Brilliant?” Harry ventured when Malfoy seemed to forget he was talking.
Wrinkling his nose in a way that resembled a sneer but was somehow friendlier, Malfoy finally said, “Authoritative. Smart, too, I suppose.”
Harry chuckled. “She’s your boss, right?”
Malfoy puffed up, offended. “She most certainly is not!” he objected. “Did she tell you she was?”
“No, I just—”
“Because she isn’t. She has seniority but she’s not even in my department, Potter." Malfoy sniffed. “She’s in Spell Damage and I’m in Curse Damage. Curse Damage is more intricate. Two entirely different sections of the hospital.”
“Entirely,” Harry echoed with a smirk. Malfoy’s grey eyes darkened.
“It is,” Malfoy insisted. When Harry’s smirk grew into a smile, Malfoy gave a heavily put-upon sigh and changed the subject. “So you’re telling me you don’t know how to read a Muggle map?”
“I usually just rely on Point Me,” Harry admitted.
“Oh.” Malfoy went quiet, picking at the torn knee of his trousers. “I was under the impression that you liked—did—Muggle things.”
Frowning, Harry looked at Malfoy’s knee again. He pulled his wand from his pocket and leaned forward to tap the scrape gently, then watched as the skin knit itself back together.
“I do like-do Muggle things,” he said at last, ignoring Malfoy’s swift intake of breath as his knee healed. “But sometimes it’s easier with magic, right? I’ve never said it wasn’t.”
He looked up and met Malfoy’s gaze. Malfoy’s expression was inscrutable.
“You were raised by Muggles.”
Harry snickered. “And trust me, if they had been the only example of Muggles I’d ever been exposed to, I might’ve signed up for Voldemort’s side. Well, probably not,” he allowed fairly. His shoulders tightened as he thought about it. “But they were pretty awful.”
Malfoy looked like he wanted to ask for details, his head crooking to one side. Harry braced himself for a taunt or some sort of intrusive line of questioning, but then Malfoy simply nodded to his knee. “Thank you, that was well done.”
“Just a scrape. Certainly nothing so complicated as Curse Damage,” Harry said solemnly, a flutter of surprised pleasure pitching in his stomach when Malfoy laughed. Those crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes again and his smile flashed, warm and wide.
“We can’t all be as talented as me,” Malfoy said lightly, raising one suggestive eyebrow, and Harry’s grin faded as the implications roared through his head.
“I’ve no doubt,” Harry replied, voice lower than he’d intended.
They stared at each other. The curtain of trees and vines created strange shadows on the sharp, patrician curves of Malfoy’s face, feathering him with a muted sort of light where the sun broke through. He looked good like this, Harry realised with some trepidation. Like someone Harry would actually want to know. Like someone who might actually want to know him.
He swallowed hard, trying to come to terms with the fact that he might, in fact, be attracted to Malfoy’s personality on top of his lanky form. And also trying not to think in what other areas Malfoy might be talented.
Malfoy’s chest rose and fell lightly under his button-down as he looked back at Harry. He opened his mouth, closed it promptly, then did it again. After a moment, he looked away and whatever he’d been about to say was lost to the humidity and thousands of shades of green around them.
“I think I’ll take you up on your offer, then,” Malfoy said after a moment, clearing his throat.
Startled, Harry wondered if he’d been speaking out loud. His mouth went dry. “Offer?”
Malfoy ticked him another glance, wary and casual all at once. “It might be okay if we Shrunk our bags.”
“Oh. Yeah, absolutely,” Harry agreed with relief. He made short work of it, stuffing both of the bags in his pocket. He hesitated. “Can I work on your trousers, too?”
“Feel free to do anything you want to my trousers, Potter,” Malfoy murmured. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Then Malfoy added, “Anything that will make this damned hike more manageable.”
“Right, yeah.” Harry quickly Transfigured Malfoy’s clothing into beige cargo shorts and a form-fitting white t-shirt. He maybe got a little carried away but when it was done, the shirt was tightly fitted over Malfoy’s leanly muscled shoulders. Harry bit his lip, flushing, then spelled Malfoy’s shoes into sturdy hiking boots. “Fit is fine?”
Malfoy looked down at himself, then lifted his head to give Harry a smile that curled to one side. “A bit tight, but that’s all right. I fit into practically anything.”
Harry heard more than felt his own gulp. He stood nervously. “It’s, ah, getting really thick—the air, I mean. We should probably try to find that waterfall.”
Malfoy rose from the rock and gave a shrug. He pulled his wand from his pocket, laid it flat in his hand and cast the Four-Point Spell. His wand spun briefly before halting, pointing in a direction off the wide path they were on, to a veil of hanging vines. Harry brushed it aside and looked; there was another path behind it, partially obscured by the flora, much narrower than their own. He glanced behind him and, at Malfoy’s slow nod, proceeded onward.
Malfoy followed him and, in boots, managed to keep up this time. They walked for another half hour until the sound of rushing water hit Harry’s ears. “It’s up ahead,” he told Malfoy without turning around. He picked up the pace.
“Thank Merlin,” Malfoy muttered, practically running behind him.
They broke through huge wall of palm fronds and Harry skid to a stop. He looked around in wonder.
The waterfall was small, no more than twelve feet in height, pouring off smooth black rocks into a pool of deep blue water that glittered like a jewel in the shafts of sunlight coming through. The air was immediately cooler close to the hidden lagoon and Harry felt disconcertingly like he was in a bottled Atmospheric charm. Everything was serene and lovely and soothing, from the splash of the falls into the pool to the shades of greens and blues and blacks surrounding them.
“Wow,” Malfoy said blankly, giving Harry a start. He’d forgotten about his presence for a moment.
“Yeah.”
“Worth the terrible concept of hiking, I’d say,” Malfoy mused, moving closer.
“I thought hiking was just walking, Malfoy,” Harry said, keeping in step with him until they were at the base of the mossy rocks surrounding the pool. He watched, flummoxed, as Malfoy peeled off his sweaty t-shirt, knelt down, and dipped it in the water. He lifted it to his face, then draped it around his neck.
“Feels good.”
“Wha-?” Harry said. Rather articulately, he thought, for being faced with the long length of Malfoy’s lean back, the dip in his pale spine, and the way his arse flexed under his shorts.
“The water,” Malfoy said, skimming his shirt in it again. He wrung it out with his long fingers and rubbed it over his throat. “It’s cold.”
He flicked an impatient glance up at Harry, who froze as Malfoy’s gaze caught at whatever he saw on Harry's face. Harry tried to school his expression into something neutral, but then Malfoy nodded to his t-shirt and said softly, “You should try it. You look warm.”
Haltingly, Harry stripped his own shirt off his head. Some distant corner of his brain reminded him that they were wizards and could easily perform cooling charms on their skin, but the water looked refreshing, and his shirt was clinging to him unpleasantly and Malfoy was looking at him like—
Harry knelt down slowly next to him, leaning over to drag his shirt through the water. He gave it a quick wring, letting the excess drip off, and pulled off his glasses to pat his face with it, his chest, the back of his neck.
“Better?” Malfoy said, still looking at him with that level expression.
“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. He replaced his glasses and glanced over.
Malfoy nodded. “We could go swimming in it.”
“I didn’t bring swim trunks.”
Slanting him a wicked glance, Malfoy said, “Neither did I.”
“Er.” Honestly, there was no way of removing his shorts right now without embarrassing himself.
Malfoy laughed. “Or we could just eat. It’s what we came here for, remember?”
Unsure whether he was disappointed or relieved, Harry blew out a breath. He scrambled off the rock and pulled their packs from his pocket, Unshrinking them. The hotel had provided a full spread, all of the food carefully packaged in warming stasis bubbles. Harry began pulling out the selections as Malfoy hunted through his own pack and pulled out a red and white checkered blanket that seemed to be imbued with cushioning charms. He spread it out on the flat face of the rock at the edge of the pool and unloaded plates and utensils and napkins.
“Merlin, I’m starving,” Harry said, hunting through the food before picking roast beef with carrots and mashed potatoes. “Hermione says lunch is the most important meal of the day.”
Malfoy nodded, selecting the rosemary chicken and squash. “Because sleep helps you through the first few hours, and food picks you back up when you begin to lag.”
Harry choked on a mouthful of beef. Malfoy had not only managed to repeat the rest of Hermione’s advice, verbatim, but had done a pretty good impression of her bossy tones, as well. “Is that something they teach you when you go through Healer training?”
Malfoy hesitated. “It’s common sense. Although I may have overheard her taking Weasley to task in the cafeteria for not having lunch one day.”
“That doesn’t sound like Ron,” Harry said, tucking into his food again. Malfoy shrugged.
They ate in silence for a while, looking out over the water. Eventually, Malfoy Banished his plate back into his pack with a replete sigh and leaned back on his hands. He spread his legs out in front of himself, crossing them at the ankle. They were pale, like the rest of him, Harry noted, but the coarse hair covering his shins and calves was more golden than he would have expected. Malfoy shifted and Harry looked away, finishing his meal and Banishing his own plate.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you bid on me?” Harry asked at length.
Malfoy cast a slightly drowsy look in his direction that made Harry’s heart speed up. “I needed a vacation. It was a good cause.”
“Right, but you could have bid on anyone—anything they offered. Or donated it outright. Or just taken a vacation, for a lot less than you spent. Or—”
“Relax, Potter. I’m not planning on murdering you if that's what you're worrying about.”
“I didn’t really think you were,” Harry admitted.
“But you assume I’m up to something,” Malfoy said in that same lazy tone.
“Aren’t you always?”
Malfoy’s mouth drew up at the edges. “I will say the Sorting Hat got one right, with me,” he acknowledged. He fell silent again but held onto his maddening little grin.
Frustrated, Harry scowled at him. “Why me, though? What do you want?”
Malfoy looked at him, surprise writ across his normally composed features. He started laughing in a humourless sort of way. “I should have thought that’d be obvious by now, Potter. Buying you for the weekend isn’t entirely subtle. And I’m willing to bet that you’re not quite as oblivious as I’ve always assumed.”
Harry bristled at the whole concept of being bought, but felt heat start to climb up his neck again. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a Basilisk attack,” Malfoy said, sounding far grimmer than his smile indicated.
Sputtering, Harry threw his hands in the air. “We’re not even friends.” He frowned. “You didn’t want to be.”
Malfoy hesitated. “That’s a prerequisite for you?”
Harry scoffed. “N-no. Maybe! Well, I don’t know, do I? I’ve haven’t dated that many people yet. Friend-ly, at least!”
“But you like men,” Malfoy stated with a quirk of his eyebrow.
“Everyone knows that now,” Harry said. This had to be one of the stranger conversations he’d ever had.
“Everyone’s known it for a while,” Malfoy murmured. "You're remarkably brazen about your orientation for someone who can blush like you are now." He looked toward the water again. He went quiet for a long moment. Harry continued to stare at him, unable to drag his gaze elsewhere until this was settled. In profile, Malfoy’s face lost most of its sharp edges: the bridge of his nose was long and even; his chin looked softer; his forehead was high and furrowed in thought. Even his slender lips seemed fuller, pursed in contemplation as they were.
“I thought it would be interesting,” Malfoy said at last. “We’d either get along or we wouldn’t. Either way, I’d come out of it entertained.”
Harry thought about that. It sounded honest enough, but he still felt like Malfoy was leaving something out. Possibly a great many things. “How did you know I wouldn’t just hex you?”
Malfoy spared him a pitying look. “The auction contract. Neither of us can hurt the other. ...non-consensually, of course.”
“I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Harry mumbled, even as a dirty little thrill went through him.
“Don’t. You should think about it,” Malfoy told him. His face was calm but there was an unsteady tremor in his voice. “I know you Gryffindors are the sort to rush to a conclusion right away, but we have a few days. I can wait for an answer.”
“But which part am I supposed to answer?” Harry asked sardonically. “The part where you didn’t actually ask me to have sex with you or the part where you didn’t actually ask me to engage in BDSM?”
Malfoy snorted, but he looked a positively delighted. “Frankly, I’m surprised you even know what that is. There’s hope for this trip yet, Potter. We should go.” He reached out his wand toward their shirts, drying them off, then twirled it a bit to send their remaining food and place settings back into their bags before Summoning their shirts. He caught his own while Harry, still stunned, felt the fabric of his hit him in the face.
He jerked it on quickly. “I think we should stay and talk about this more.”
“Of course, you do,” Malfoy said, smirking. “Do you mind if we Apparate? I’m too full to walk. I think I’d like a kip.”
“Malfoy,” Harry blurted. Malfoy paused in the act of gathering and folding their blanket with his wand.
“Nap, Potter. Like I said, we have a few days. And dinner. We have dinner tonight. Every night, actually.”
“You’ll answer my questions then?”
Malfoy gave a non-committal shrug. “If they’re remotely interesting.”
Harry heard himself make a furious sound as Malfoy finished gathering everything and stepped close to him. Automatically, Harry tilted his chin up, feeling a jolt at seeing Malfoy’s cheek so close to his face.
“Malfoy,” he said again, but Malfoy refused to meet his eyes.
He simply took Harry’s arm and, without warning, Disapparated them back to the hotel.
***
Harry woke up from his nap feeling slightly groggy, alerted into consciousness by a strangled noise.
After watching Malfoy stride away from him on long legs, catching the lift before Harry had reoriented enough to even begin walking, Harry had made his way to his room. He hesitated for a few moments outside of Malfoy’s door, then proceeded to his own and had taken another quick shower before climbing under the covers naked and falling into a deep sleep.
Harry laid in place, blinking the bleariness away from his eyes and listening intently for whatever had woken him up. There. Again. A muffled—something. Voice. Malfoy’s voice, through the wall. It didn’t sound like he was talking and anyway, who would he talking to? No, that was definitely a—
With dawning horror, he listened as Malfoy’s hushed groan seeped through the wall. Harry climbed up onto his knees, looking at the wallpaper with indecision. Should he knock and let Malfoy know he could be heard? Should he go take a shower and get rid of the problem that was quickly developing in his groin? Whatever he did, Harry knew he should most definitely not be—not be listening.
He pressed his ear to the wall.
Malfoy’s voice came in a bit clearer, low and rough. A grunt, then another groan. Guiltily, Harry let his hand wander down his stomach. He gave his rapidly swelling erection a couple of quick pumps as Malfoy let go of a particularly long, breathy whimper.
Oh, Merlin, what if he wasn’t in there alone?
But Malfoy’s was the only voice he could discern, and Harry’s hand started moving faster over his skin, as if of its own volition. He rose up higher on his knees, gripping the headboard to steady himself as his prick throbbed under the tight strokes of his dry hand. And then Malfoy muttered, “Oh, fuck,” rather loud, and pleasure spiked through Harry; he came fast and hard, spilling over his fingers and onto his pillow case, his headboard thumping noisily into the wall as his arms tensed and jerked.
Silence fell from the other room. Harry scooted away from the wall, slightly panicked. He spelled himself clean and wandlessly Summoned some clothing from his bag and dressed in a hurry, almost falling over as he stuffed his legs into his trousers.
He’d barely gotten his shirt on when a soft knock sounded at their adjoining door. Harry shoved his glasses on and took a quick glance in the mirror. His face was still a little pink and his hair and eyes were wild, so he took a couple of deep breaths and headed over, opening the door.
“Malfoy? Did you need something?”
“No, I—” Malfoy’s brows knitted in a small frown. He had obviously showered as well, and had exchanged his cargo shorts and t-shirt for casual trousers in dark grey and a burgundy polo shirt. He looked good in red; Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen Malfoy in it before. “I heard a noise. Are you all right?” He peered into Harry’s room curiously.
“I’m fine,” Harry said quickly. “Banged my head when I woke up. Dream, I think. Is it time for dinner?”
“Just. We have a few minutes. Would you like to join me for a drink? We could head down together.” He opened his door wider.
Harry hesitated. “I’m barefoot.”
Malfoy looked down, then rolled his eyes and pulled his wand, pointing it over Harry’s shoulder. “Accio Potter’s shoes and socks.” Harry turned in time to catch them. “Come on. My room has a refrigerator,” he said, enunciating carefully like he’d just read the word off a card. “It’s fully stocked. It even has some Muggle snacks. I quite like the Snickers.”
Harry followed him, eyes widening as he glanced around. The bookshelves looked askew, and the bed was in the middle of the floor. “What happened to your room?”
“Oh. I’ve been rearranging it,” Malfoy said blithely, walking over to the small fridge in the corner. He pulled a miniature bottle of Firewhiskey and held it up for Harry’s inspection. Harry nodded and Malfoy tossed it to him. “I prefer to sleep facing East. Unfortunately, the hotel has some rather strong sticking charms; the furniture doesn’t seem to want to move unless I force it physically as well as magically.”
Blankly, Harry stared at him. “You’ve been... rearranging your room?”
“Yes.”
“Just now,” Harry clarified. “You were rearranging things.”
Malfoy gave him an odd look, twisting the cap off his own miniature bottle and taking a long draw of the amber liquid. “Yes. As I said. Why? Do you want me to do yours?”
Apparently, I do, Harry thought, mortified at the realisation that he’d just wanked to... not his former nemesis, no, he knew how to handle that. But it felt slightly less acceptable to wank to one’s former nemesis moving furniture.
“No, thanks. I don’t care which way I face,” Harry said, then shot a pained glare at Malfoy when Malfoy snickered and said, “Good to know.”
“Shut up.”
“Haven’t thought about it at all then?” Malfoy asked smoothly.
“I fell asleep,” he said, wondering why he was making excuses. It wasn’t as if he owed Malfoy consideration of his proposition. Except, well—
He had thought about it, hadn’t he? Years ago, in school, fleeting, shameful little thoughts about wrestling Malfoy onto the damp grass of the Quidditch pitch or accidentally walking in on him in the showers. And then when things had gotten rather friendly between them after the trials; whenever they’d run into each other in Diagon Alley, they’d spend a few minutes talking as if they didn’t have a scorched-earth history trailing behind them. He’d even thought about it when Malfoy had invited him out for that drink that he’d never shown up for. Harry had, even though he’d started that short-lived and disastrous thing with Ernie--he’d been curious, even assuming Malfoy was straight at the time. Although Harry hadn’t been out with too many wizards, he knew definitely had a type, and somehow that type always seemed to have blond hair (though never pale enough) and a tall, slender form (though never lanky in the exact way he liked, and usually just a touch too tall or short).
He'd never consciously thought about Malfoy as a real option, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking he hadn’t been attracted to Malfoy for much, much longer than he was comfortable admitting. Long enough to wait on a barstool for two bloody hours feeling stupid.
But the logistics of it... It was an awful idea, the two of them. Malfoy would probably end up making fun of him in bed and then Harry would end up accidentally pushing him off a cliff.
Or he could just fuck you, an insidious little voice whispered in his mind.
Harry shifted uncomfortably and realized that he’d been staring at Malfoy in silence for a couple of minutes. Malfoy’s face was patient but amused.
“I’m thinking about it,” Harry clipped out. Malfoy’s brows flew up so high they were hidden by the tousled silver-white strands of hair falling over his forehead, but he gave Harry a slow and almost tentative smile before clearing his throat.
“Shall we head to dinner?” he asked.
Harry nodded, twisting the cap off his bottle of liquor and swallowing it in two burning gulps. He followed Malfoy out the door.
***
Dinner was a quiet affair. Malfoy seemed to realise that he’d pushed Harry as far as Harry was willing to allow, because he steered the conversation into generally mundane topics as they ate. He politely asked about Harry’s work, even remembering key details about his last case from what had been written about in the paper; he answered Harry’s queries about Narcissa with a wry little smile; he even segued into talking about Quidditch when the conversation lulled.
“You were one of the best flyers I’d ever seen,” Malfoy said, refilling Harry’s wineglass with a flick of his wand. “I hated you for that.”
“I know you did,” Harry said smugly, and Malfoy chuckled. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ve never flown against anyone as good as you.”
“Ah, but you had the opportunity, didn’t you?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows, tracing the rim of his glass with a steady finger until it began vibrating with a clear, high note.
Harry realised he’d been asked something and wrenched his gaze away from Malfoy’s finger. “Uh, yeah. Reserve Seeker for the Falcons.”
“Why didn’t you take it?”
“I get enough publicity,” Harry said, shrugging. His face felt hot.
“You don’t like it, then,” Malfoy mused. “You never seem to mind when you’re—out in public.”
Harry drained his wineglass and Malfoy dutifully refilled it. “I don’t mind the people, I guess. I wish they wouldn’t follow me around. It makes things weird. And the stories in the paper are just bizarre; that took some getting used to, but it’s not as if I haven’t dealt with it for the last ten years.”
“Your publicity is mostly complimentary now, though,” Malfoy pointed out, looking off the veranda where they were seated toward the ocean. “I thought, maybe, that’s why you became an Auror. To keep it that way. Your reputation. And of course that nasty streak of heroism you seem to have.”
“No,” Harry said, looking at him thoughtfully. “Is that why you went into Healing? Your reputation?”
Malfoy hummed a little. “Probably at first. Not that it’s helped much. But I enjoy it immensely, now.”
“Hermione says you’re very good.”
“Hermione shouldn’t be telling tales out of school,” Malfoy said.
Harry grinned. “I’m going to tell her you just called her by her first name.”
Malfoy gave a strained laugh. “No doubt she won’t believe you. Are you finished? Would you like to go for a walk?”
Harry stared at him for a moment, considering. He was incredibly relaxed from the wine, more than a bit drunk actually, and the beach looked rather pretty in the moonlight. And Malfoy wasn’t asking him for anything but a walk. In fact, their whole dinner had been nothing if not wildly platonic. But—
“I think I’d rather go back to my room.”
“I see,” Malfoy said, face flickering with quickly-concealed disappointment.
“You’re welcome to join me,” Harry said, hearing the words as if they were coming from a distance.
Malfoy exhaled hard through his nose, his expression completely inscrutable. Then, with a speed that left Harry both astonished and breathless, Malfoy threw down his napkin and grabbed Harry’s wrist, standing and hauling him to his feet. The world spun around Harry for a moment and he blinked dizzily as Malfoy yanked him through the restaurant, through the lobby, and into the lift.
He turned on Harry as the doors closed, and pressed his lean body close so there were only centimetres between them. Harry, catching up, held himself still as Malfoy nosed along his temple. He just stood there, trapping Harry against the wall, and breathed against him for long moments, not moving, and for some reason it was the hottest bloody thing ever, even better when Malfoy’s hand snaked up to tangle in his hair and give it a gentle pull.
Harry heard himself make a little ‘eep’ of a sound. He closed his eyes. His prick swelled uncomfortably fast but for some reason he didn’t allow himself to shift closer to seek bodily contact. He could feel the gentle puffs of Malfoy’s breath against his skin—warm, cool—and then Malfoy released his hair to slide his hand down and fan it out against Harry’s jaw, thumb resting against his pulse point.
“Merlin,” Malfoy muttered in a voice Harry had never heard from him—or anyone—before.
The lift came to a halt and the doors opened. Malfoy pushed off the wall behind him and grabbed Harry’s wrist again in that tight grip, tugging him out and taking long strides down to their rooms, where he came to an abrupt stop before spinning Harry to face him. His eyes were narrow and flinty grey as he leaned in and ghosted his breath over Harry’s mouth. He said, “Potter,” in a low, needy way that sent Harry’s already erratic pulse into overdrive.
Harry gulped in a lungful of air. He was unbearably aroused and he waited for that first touch of Malfoy’s lips against his, wanting nothing more than to feel the weight of his body and the heat of his skin. He wanted to reach out, wanted to grab Malfoy, or—no, wanted to be grabbed by Malfoy, to be shoved into his room and stripped and taken while looking up at that fierce expression on Malfoy’s face, but Malfoy wasn’t fucking moving and Harry felt the first flutter of unease even as Malfoy inhaled again, sharply, and took an abrupt step back.
He had the oddest smile on his face, cold and vaguely taunting, and Harry blinked rapidly, trying to acclimate Malfoy’s recent warmth to an expression he hadn’t seen since before the war.
“All right, Potter,” Malfoy gritted out, cruelly formal, “Sleep well, then.”
Harry scoffed in furious disbelief as Malfoy spun on his toe and entered his own room, shutting the door not-quite-hard-enough to qualify as a slam. His whole body thrummed with frustrated want and he sagged a bit, vaguely nauseated from drink and the anger beginning to course through his veins as the chant of I should have fucking known caught chorus in his brain.
He stomped into his own room, and didn’t bother to not slam the door.
***
Harry woke up hungover and still livid. He stumbled to the bathroom where there was an array of complimentary potions set up on the back of the counter, and hunted through them until he found something for hangovers. He swallowed it down quickly, shuddering as the taste increased the pitching in his stomach for a moment before it eased off.
He avoided looking in the mirror. Hermione always said he looked a bit frightening when he was angry, which should have been reason enough. But the truth was, the way his eyes glittered and the way his jaw bunched when he was in a temper usually unnerved him enough to calm him dow. Right now, he just wanted to nurse his grudges.
He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to think that Malfoy actually wanted to do anything more than humiliate him. And he was furious with himself for the time with which it had taken; that was, none at all. No, Harry had been ready to bend over and spread after over a decade of varying degrees of animosity and one single day of Malfoy behaving like a normal human being.
More than normal, even- Harry had liked the bastard. He could have sworn that, at the very least, Malfoy had wanted to take him to bed. Why not embarrass him afterward? Was it just so goddamn funny to see how tightly he could wind Harry up before leaving him high and dry?
Harry showered and stomped back into his room, stuck for what to do. Soon enough, he was sure, he’d feel that tug that indicated his presence was due for a shared meal, and he contemplated seeing what would happen if he ignored it but knowing Hermione, it would be no use.
He dressed as quickly as possible and grabbed a piece of the hotel parchment and a quill from the desk, scrawling a quick note.
YOU OWE ME SO MUCH FOR THIS ONE. I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING.
Harry
He sealed and addressed it, then slipped it into the slot in the desk, where it promptly vanished to the hotel’s onsite Owlery.
The coiled tension began building in his midsection then and, with a sigh, Harry made his way downstairs. He unerringly followed the strange pull to a different breakfast café at the far end of the lobby. Malfoy was sat in a little booth in the back, hidden by shadows. He looked up with a frigid gaze when Harry slid in across from him.
“Apparently,” he sneered after a moment of silence, “both of us are required to come to meals and activities.”
“Tried to leave, did you?” Harry tersely, picking up his menu. He looked at it with deliberate interest, not really seeing anything. “Well, you’re not the only one who wishes he could.”
“I gathered,” Malfoy muttered.
“You know what, Malfoy—” Harry began hotly.
Malfoy rolled his eyes, looking weary. “Just—shut up, Potter. We have two more days of this before we can escape, and neither of us are allowed to use our wands on each other.” Harry clenched his hand and Malfoy’s gaze flicked to it. “Or our fists. I’ll leave you alone if you do the same for me.”
As the wronged party, Harry found that insufferably unfair. He gritted his teeth and leaned forward. “You’re the one who keeps bothering me,” he hissed. “You spent a hundred thousand Galleons all just so you could—could… All I ever do is leave you alone.” Even though you don’t deserve it, he managed not to add.
Face stony, Malfoy glared at him. “And I’m saying that’s just fine with me. And I’ll participate if you will, you giant wanker.”
“For once,” Harry ground out.
“Yes,” Malfoy responded snidely. “For once.”
Suddenly deflating, Harry leaned back against the booth. Either the hangover potion hadn’t fully worked, or the argument had given him a tension headache. He put a hand to his temple and rubbed it with a heavy sigh. “What do we have to do today?”
“Something called snorkelling,” Malfoy said flatly. “It’s Muggle.”
“Isn’t this a wizarding hotel?” Harry said under his breath, exasperated. “Who came up with this itinerary?”
Malfoy folded his arms across his chest; his forearms flexed. “I did.”
Harry snorted. “Right.”
“They gave me a selection of things to pick from, and I picked hiking and snorkelling and a spa treatment and something called base jumping, which is the way Muggles fly,” he said, as if challenging Harry to believe it.
Appalled, Harry stared at him. There was no fucking way he was base jumping, Gryffindor or not. “It isn’t, actually.”
“They had pictures,” Malfoy said mulishly. “They didn’t move, but I got the idea.”
“Malfoy—”
Malfoy’s breakfast popped out before him on the table. He cast a dark look at Harry. “Order. Eat. Or we’ll never get out of here.”
Harry’s mouth went tight at the command—everything did, really—but he did as Malfoy said.
Anything to get this over with, faster.
***
Only four major things went wrong during their snorkelling lesson.
The first was that Malfoy was somehow under the impression that he was supposed to wear his fins even out of water. And, though it was a Wizarding hotel with a wizard instructor, every other witch and wizard in the class seemed to think the same thing. Everyone refused to listen to Harry’s objections.
It led to a lot of people falling over as they trudged through the little forest path on the way to the beach lagoon.
“Just take them off until we get there!” Harry demanded, exasperated, when Malfoy toppled to the side for the thousandth time.
Malfoy gave a derisive sniff. “No one else is. The instructor said we had to wear them.”
Harry cast a look at the instructor. He wasn’t wearing swim-fins as he lingered at the front but seemed too delighted to disabuse the rest of the group from the notion that they needed to. “He’s not.”
“He’s the instructor.”
Harry rolled his eyes and reached for a modicum of patience as an elderly witch in a bright swimming costume ahead of them tripped and started a domino effect of falling amongst her group of friends. “C’mon, Malfoy. I was raised a Muggle.”
“Yes, but have you ever been snorkelling before?” Malfoy asked. He walked like a strange bird, carefully lifting his feet high in front of him for each step.
“No, but—”
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?" Malfoy said coolly.
“I know you’ve fallen over a dozen times.”
“Part of the experience,” Malfoy muttered, obviously trying very hard not to do so again. They edged forward about another ten centimetres over a small trail of pebbles on the path--which, of course, caught the front of Malfoy’s fins. He flailed his arms, windmilling them wide, and just barely managed not to fall into Harry again. He gave Harry a smug glance as he righted himself.
He looked absolutely deranged.
“Of what?” Harry demanded, bottling his enjoyment. It was already after ten and the class was only supposed to last until lunch. They had been on this twenty-meter path for fifteen minutes.
“Of being Muggle,” Malfoy informed him.
“Muggles fall down a lot, do they?”
“One would assume,” Malfoy said snottily. At Harry’s raised eyebrows, he huffed. “But probably only when they’re wearing these shoes,” he allowed.
Harry sighed. He latched his hands around Malfoy’s forearm in a tight grip and hauled him—sideways—through the stumbling group of people, up to the instructor. He took a deep breath and pasted on his best earnest face. “Hi, I’m Harry Potter.”
The instructor looked startled. “Akamu,” he said. “Thanks for joining the class. I’m going to be answering questions once we get to the beach.”
Harry smiled at him easily. “I figured. But as you can see, most of the people in the class,” he gave a wave behind him and nodded at Malfoy, “are unaware that they don’t actually need to put their fins on until they’re in the water. And we might be able to get to the lesson if everyone reaches it without breaking any bones.”
Akamu had the grace to look a little sheepish. He peered around Harry in an exaggerated fashion and winced as Harry heard another crash behind him. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. “I’m sorry for anyone who’s gotten the wrong impression, but swim fins don’t need to be put on until you’re in the water,” he called out, then looked at Harry apologetically. “You’re Muggle-born?”
Harry tried not to laugh. “Don’t get many of us?” he guessed.
Akamu smirked. “I sometimes have a bit of fun with my classes,” he confided to Harry’s amusement and Malfoy’s general outrage. “But I don’t ever let anyone get hurt.”
Malfoy leaned into Harry—he smelled clean and spicy—as he lifted one leg and then the other to remove his fins, glaring at the instructor the whole time.
The second problem of the day arose from the fact that Malfoy refused to take the option—given by Akamu under Harry’s watchful eye—for the participants to use a bubble-head charm. Akamu did add, mischievously, that it wouldn’t be technically ‘snorkelling’ without the provided mask.
After getting a quick tutorial in the basics of snorkelling, Akamu had paired everyone off in groups of two and directed them to different areas along the hidden expanse of the lagoon to begin. He and Malfoy got a semi-isolated spot at the base of the sandy curve out to sea, near some trees that hung far out over the water, and they put their fins on and headed in.
Harry immediately spelled the bubble over his head, as had half the class feeling his first pinpricks of excitement for the activity. The water was an incredibly clear turquoise, with brightly-coloured coral reefs and interesting shadows moving under the surface.
Malfoy, however, said that he was going to do things, “the right way,” and slipped the mask on over his head.
Instead of a bird, this made him look like some sort of insane, Polyjuiced fish, his eyes magnified behind the clear plane of plastic, his patrician nose flattening slightly behind the dark blue rubber cover. His hair, though dry, stuck out in odd directions, shoved up in the back by the mask-strap. He popped the snorkel into his mouth, his lips stretching widely around the mouth piece. Harry wished he’d brought a camera.
“Fare,” he announced, “’ow ee an oh ii.”
Harry looked at him blankly. “What?”
Malfoy tried again. “’Ow,” he emphasised, “ee an oh ii.”
“I know you speak like three languages, but I hope you know that isn’t one.”
“IFE,” Malfoy said.
Harry couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Malfoy,” he said with far more affection than he intended, considering he was still angry about the previous night, “how did I really not know what a nerd you were?”
Malfoy gave him an offended look and pulled the snorkel out of his mouth. “Now we can go in,” he explained, as if Harry was supposed to have been able to understand him all along. “And I speak five languages.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to speak any of them with something like that in your mouth,” Harry chuckled.
Malfoy stared at him from behind his mask, blinking slowly. Harry’s face went hot and his throat ran dry, so he did the only thing he could think of: dived below the surface to cool off.
It worked for about half a second until Malfoy joined him. For the first time since they’d set off from the hotel, Malfoy actually looked graceful, snorkelling mask notwithstanding. His hair floated around him like an angelically pale halo and he moved with an easy rhythm in the water, his muscles tensing and relaxing as he swam over to some coral reefs. Harry stared after him with equal parts lust and dismay.
Until about thirty seconds later when Malfoy started choking. He kicked up to the surface in a panic, almost hitting Harry in the face with one of his fins. Harry was starting to believe that one could breathe solely in sighs. He followed Malfoy up.
Malfoy was still coughing, his mouthpiece dangling by his cheek.
“You okay?” Harry asked dutifully, giving him a couple of hard thwacks on the back.
“I couldn’t breathe!”
“Well, no. You were underwater.” Harry pointed to his own charm, still intact. “That’s why, with this…”
Malfoy ripped off his mask and looked at it in disgust. “He said you’d be able to breathe with this on!”
“Face in the water, not head under.”
“No, I distinctly remember hearing him say that if we put our heads underwater, we needed to tip the nozzle back to clear it of water,” Malfoy said, glaring at the tiny dot that was their instructor, down the beach. “Which I did.”
Harry paused. “But you did it while you were underwater, Malfoy!”
“So?”
“So…!” Flummoxed, Harry looked around, as if the ocean itself could explain things for him. “So, when you breathe underwater, you drown!”
“Honestly, how do Muggles even survive?” Malfoy demanded.
“Well, I’m pretty sure one of their methods is to make sure they don’t inhale fluids,” Harry said with a snort.
Malfoy’s cheeks darkened. “Fine,” he muttered grudgingly. “I’ll take the charm.”
Relieved, Harry cast a wandless charm, encasing Malfoy’s head in a clear bubble. They ducked back under the surface.
The third problem of the day was maybe actually the first, because it accompanied the rest of them, but it was so tangled with the fourth that Harry was having trouble figuring out how to catalogue all of them. (Hermione would know, but Harry was still irritated enough not to ask her when he got home.) And anyway, the third problem was really only a problem for Harry, until the fourth problem hit, and then it was a problem for both of them.
It was just—Harry had no idea how to maintain any kind of distance when Malfoy wore a swimsuit like that.
It wasn’t entirely indecent, or anything. Not a thonged speedo like the man down the beach was wearing. But—well, it showed a lot. It was basically a set of black nylon boxer-briefs, only much shorter, coming down to about an inch below Malfoy’s groin—which it cradled almost lovingly, every ripple and curve and outline on display. Harry could make out the soft edges of Malfoy's cock, positioned down over his bollocks, which emphasised the most delectable bulge Harry had ever seen in his life. Below the suit were two strong, long—extremely white—legs. Above were the subtly defined plains of Malfoy's stomach, the ‘v’ of his hipbones, and a skinny trailing of golden hair from his belly button which disappeared into his suit. His chest, which Harry had gotten to drool over yesterday, was lightly furred with hair on the expanse across his pectorals, and his shoulders weren’t overly-wide, but they looked strong, and capable, and gorgeous.
It was basically like seeing Malfoy walk and swim around completely naked but for body paint. Which was more than a little distracting.
However, if he noticed that Harry was sending body-regulating charms to himself every couple of minutes, he was at least gentleman enough not to comment on it.
Once Malfoy had accepted the bubble-charm, they had a pretty good time. Their voices were muffled in the water, but they managed to communicate fairly well; one of them would take turns picking something to look at, then the other. By doing this, they managed to see some beautiful rock formations with tiny caves inside of them that probably housed sea creatures, crabs scuttling on the sandy bottom of the ocean floor, a school of trumpet fish, and even a small octopus peeking out from behind some coral.
When they finally came up for lunch, Harry was tired and enough impressed with the beauty of the place that he chatted with Malfoy easily for a good long while. Surprise of all surprises, Malfoy really liked fish—he had an aquarium at his flat, he told Harry—and could list most tropical species. He blathered on about it for so long and with such enthusiasm that Harry—who was primarily fascinated with how pretty they were—found himself interested and ended up asking loads of questions, all of which Malfoy answered with a smile on his face.
Even after the rest of the group packed up and headed back to the hotel, Malfoy sat with him, answering questions about fish—and then, slowly, about how he had come to love them (the Mind-Healer he’d seen after the war had suggested he get some), and then he’d somehow segued into what he’d liked and disliked about work. He talked using his hands and every expressive muscle in his face, and Harry stared at him helplessly, feeling as though he was in the bottom of the sand pit, waiting to get buried.
It was the worst thing, ever, discovering that he liked Malfoy so much. Because he was an arse. And Harry couldn’t trust him. And for some reason, he’d thought it would be funny to drag Harry out here just to make him feel foolish and not even give him an orgasm to show for it.
Still. It was only when all of their food was gone and the beach had been empty but for the two of them for over an hour, and Harry realised that he suddenly could describe what it felt like to have your eyes shine at someone, that that it occurred to him that he was pretty done for. Sitting on the beach with a nearly-naked Malfoy and basically only looking at his face for a really long time were not good indicators of getting out of the situation intact.
This led them, unerringly, to the last problem of the day. Which was that Harry really hadn’t been staring at Malfoy’s body as they’d sat together in the sand. Because, if he had been, he would have noticed the beginnings of a pink tinge that was a near-certain death-knell to someone with such fair skin.