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On the whole, no, Harry isn’t proud of where he is now. When his rational mind returns, he will be ashamed, embarrassed, and thankful that he is alone. He will not tell Ron about it, nor Hermione, nor Kreacher. He will be fine.

Only now, he is not possessed of his rational faculties. He is in a cupboard. 

It’s not his cupboard, under the stairs. Grimmauld Place doesn’t have one of those. It’s a cupboard in the hallway outside the kitchen where he supposes things like coats and umbrellas are meant to be stored, only right now it’s where Harry is stored. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been in here. He’d been trying to go outside when a car backfired, and it had sounded like a gunshot. There hadn’t even been guns during the war, only wands and spells, but Harry had blinked and found himself in the hall cupboard anyway, wheezing for breath on his hands and knees. 

He’s got his breath back, now. He’s shaking and clammy, and he presses himself a little farther into the cupboard corner, ducking his head down when it bumps the sloped ceiling. He wishes there were coats in here, then he could pull one down and bundle up in it. His cupboard had never had coats, just a ratty blanket. The cupboards in Grimmauld place ought to be spruced up, if he’s going to be hiding in them. The place is his now, after all.

These are not ideal thoughts, admittedly. Slowly, he manages to crawl back out of the cupboard, squinting into the dull light of the hallway. Kreacher sits against the opposite wall, arms around his knees, ears drooping.

“Bugger,” Harry mutters. 

“Filthy,” Kreacher says in return, referring to either Harry’s language or his blood or the state of him after being in the cupboard. 

“Yep,” Harry agrees.

Kreacher extends one thin hand, a slip of paper pinched between his fingers. “Potter’s grocery list,” he croaks.

“Ta,” Harry says hoarsely. “If I said I was just going to go back to bed?” 

Kreacher narrows his eyes. “Potter and Kreacher are out of eggs.” 

“Right. Eggs.” Harry takes the list in a trembling hand. “Be back, I guess.” 

Kreacher shadows him to the door, arms crossed in concerned disapproval. Harry’s first action after coming to Grimmauld had been to give Kreacher a jumper and a bag of galleons, but instead of leaving the elf had become an odd sort of roommate who sent Harry on grocery runs and occasionally deigned to play checkers with him.

It was absolutely frigid outside. Shivering, Harry pulled his jacket tighter about himself, tugged his scarf over his chin, and hurried off to the shops, feeling as though his body was dissipating into the air. 

There’s a mixed area a few blocks from Grimmauld, the Weft, where muggles and wizards mingle—unknowingly, on the part of the muggles. But it means he can pick up butterbeer and a box of PG Tips from the same grocer. 

In the egg aisle, he squints at the list Kreacher had given him. EGZ BROUN. 12. XXX NASTY MUGGLE TASTES XXX

The Blacks hadn’t exactly been concerned with their elves’ literacy, and Kreacher complains that the cheaper muggle-raised eggs tasted of chemicals. 

Beside the selections of muggle eggs were boxes of wizarding-raised ones, local and ridiculously expensive. Harry fumes at the price tag, considering the merits of spending nine sickles on a box of eggs, versus one on a muggle carton, but facing Kreacher’s silent treatment for three days. 

Ultimately, thrift loses out. A box of wizarding eggs, which, admittedly, do taste much richer, go in his basket. 

By the time he’d made it to the end of Kreacher’s list, his feet feel like they’re no longer on the ground. Hands numb, light too bright. He pays for everything in sickles and pounds, the teenage witch at the counter counting out his change, bored and chilly. 

No one ever recognizes him when he goes out. Everyone expects Harry Potter to be a broad-shouldered hero, striding about vanquishing evil or whatever, even almost a year after the war. No one expects a too-skinny, too-pale boy, shoulders hunched to his ears and hands shaking as he handles his coins. 

All the better. He’s never liked being recognized. He slips the groceries into a expandable grocery sack and trundles back out into the cold.

It has started to drizzle. Frigid drops slide under his scarf and down his spine. He puts his head down and starts to shuffle home.

Only to collide with someone’s frame, and the rain to abruptly stop as he slips into the radius of their umbrella charm. A hand grips his bicep and steadies him, stops him from losing his footing. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and goes to move on by. The hand doesn’t let him go. 

“Potter,” says a coldly familiar voice. A tremor goes down his spine. “Good afternoon.” 

He doesn’t want to, but he looks up. Lucius Malfoy looks down at him, steel-eyed, thin-lipped, long hair drawn elegantly back. Harry hasn’t seen Lucius since the final battle, only remembers him screaming for his son—he’d evaded Azkaban via hefty reparations, and now here he was, holding onto Harry’s arm. 

If it wasn’t already a cupboard day, perhaps he could have handled the surprise. But instead Harry’s vision greys out, the world wavering as his hands start to shake, rattling like dry leaves. 

“Oh, dear,” tuts Lucius, and then, instead of letting Harry keel over in the middle of the street and taking a picture to send to Rita Skeeter, he is leading Harry somewhere. Distantly, he notes the world going quiet and warm. He’s pushed into a seat and something very soft and very warm indeed is draped over him, and then, who-knows-how-long later, something warm is pushed into his hands. 

Lucius’ hands don’t approach his person again. When Harry blinks back to the present, breath catching up in his throat and eyes stinging, Lucius is sitting at the other side of a small table, observing him calmly. 

They’re in Miss Tisane’s, a tea shop still in the mixed area of town, next to the grocer’s. He hasn’t gone far at all. 

The warmth in his hands is a mug of tea. The warmth over his shoulders is—Harry cranes around to look. It’s Lucius’ coat, a very fine fur thing, silky soft and gleaming. 

“What the bloody fuck,” he croaks. 

Lucius narrows his eyes. “Filthy,” he remarks. 

He is so similar to Kreacher in that moment that a croaky laugh erupts out of Harry’s mouth, chapped lips stretching into an unexpected smile. 

Lucius looks mildly offended. “Drink your tea, Potter,” he orders. “If anyone finds out I let the savior of degeneracy faint away at my feet without taking action, it’ll be another half million galleons out of my pockets.” 

Harry stares into his mug. “’S probably poisoned.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lucius pushes a previously-unnoticed plate towards him with a scone on it. “Eat, now.” 

Well. Poisoned it may be, but Harry doesn’t waste food. He chokes down the scone and slurps down the tea and does feel a little better for it after all. “Thanks,” Harry says bemusedly. “This was, um, weird.” 

Lucius sneers at him. “What are you doing with yourself, Potter? You look like a waif.” 

“I am a waif,” Harry says. He folds his arms. “What are you doing with yourself, Malfoy? Thanks for the cuppa, but I never thought I’d find you in the Weft. Too—what was it you just said? Filthy.” 

Lucius’ nostrils flare. “What I do with my days is none of your concern, Potter.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, “guess not. Long as you’re not trying to kill me. Or my friends.” 

“I assure you, I am not.” Lucius stands. “Do try to make it home without fainting, Potter.” He sweeps out of the shop before Harry can respond, looking tall and proud and like he never had to pay a million galleons to get out of war crimes Harry personally saw him commit. 

When Harry finally musters it in himself to stand, he feels heavier than usual—and realizes he is still draped in Lucius’ fur coat. 

Hmm. Hesitantly, he tugs it around himself, then slips his arms through the sleeves. He’s drowning in it, but very warm indeed.

Hadn’t he just been thinking he needs a coat for his cupboard? 

When Ron and Hermione come over the next day, Harry is still wearing the coat. It’s not his fault! It’s very cold in Grimmauld place, even with the fire lit, and Kreacher even complimented it, the first-ever compliment he’s ever paid Harry. Apparently the coat is mink. 

“The fuck is that,” Ron says flatly, stepping out of the fire. 

“Fur, Harry?” Hermione asks distastefully. 

Harry sticks out an arm. They dutifully come feel him up, and make reluctantly impressed noises at the feel of it. “It’s Lucius Malfoy’s.” 

Ron squints at him. “Please tell me you killed him and took it off his corpse.” 

“Nah,” Harry said. “He gave it to me, or something.” 

“Fucking tosser,” Ron snorts. “What, does he think you need his charity or something? You could buy, like, fifty million mink coats if you wanted to.” 

“But I didn’t buy this one,” Harry says. He tugs the coat closer around his shoulders. “He bought me tea.” 

“Probably he spat in it,” Hermione says crossly. She takes today’s puzzle box and dumps the pieces over the kitchen table. This is who they have become, in the wake of the war: puzzlers. They cannot be together without gnawing over some problem like dogs at a bone, and so Hermione came up with this solution, to give them something to focus on while they’re together.

Today’s puzzle is a two-thousand piece fruit basket. Ron lunges for the first corner piece he sees. 

Kreacher wanders into the kitchen in a terrycloth robe, giving Ron and Hermione his habitual squint of greeting.

“Hello, Kreacher,” Hermione says, as she and Harry flip pieces over on their backs. 

“Hiya, Kreacher,” Ron says, already building his corner out. 

“Weasley and Granger are here,” notes Kreacher stiffly, and carries on to the fridge, where he retrieves a muggle soda from the bottom shelf, ears flicking as he pops the tab. He wanders back out. 

“Malfoy the lesser git is on the continent now,” Ron muses. “Maybe Malfoy the greater git is bored and looking for trouble.” 

“Careful of him, Harry,” Hermione says, putting two halves of an apple together. “Don’t go getting obsessed.” 

“He’s wearing the bloody git’s coat,” Ron says in exasperation. “He might as well have a weirdo conspiracy board tacked up.” 

“I don’t do those anymore,” Harry says crossly, beating Hermione to a pomegranate segment. “It was one time.” 

“Yeah, one time I’ll never forget,” Ron says. “If I give you a coat will you wear it instead?” 

Harry burrows down into the mink.

“Yeah,” Ron sighs. “Didn’t think so.” 

Their conversation twists in comforting loops as they demolish the puzzle with matter-of-fact efficiency. Ron, working at the joke shop with George, is now managing to get his brother down into the shop a minimum of three days a week. 

“Still sleeping on his floor, though,” he grumbles. He fits a section of basket handle into Harry’s portion. “My back’ll never be the same.” 

Hermione, to the astonishment of everyone except Ron and Harry, is working for a while as a cashier in a muggle corner store. To get some “sense of perspective back into her head,” as she put it. She fills Ron and Harry in on the ongoing workplace dramas she observes, but never interferes in. 

“Katrina asked Colin out,” she says, rolling her eyes, “except everyone knows Colin’s gay, except Katrina. She got so upset and quit before he could even explain, so now we’re down a body.” She eyes Harry. “You could fill in, Harry. Get you out of the … house.” 

“Are you trying to matchmake me with your muggle coworker Colin,” Harry says flatly. “Or are you fishing for if I’ve been in the cupboard lately.” 

“Erm,” Hermione says, scrunching up her nose. “Sort of both.” 

“Massive subterfuge skills,” Ron says in admiration. “Great work, ‘Mione.” 

Harry scowls and inspects the loose puzzle pieces. Not looking up from them, he says at last, “I’ve been in it a bit. And I don’t want to date Colin. Last week you said he smells like cat piss constantly.” 

Hermione wilts. “Well. Yes, there is that. Harry, won’t you come stay with me and my parents? Or go to the burrow with Ron and George?” 

“We do worry about you,” Ron adds. “Big old house. Lots of cupboards to get lost in, if Kreacher doesn’t find you.” 

“The last thing I need,” Harry says resolutely, “is an audience for my—my episodes. Kreacher is bad enough.” 

Ron and Hermione trade obvious worried glances. 

“I get out into the Weft,” Harry says defensively. “I go for groceries.” 

“Swear to go for one walk a day,” Hermione says, “or I’ll tell Molly on you.” 

“What!” Harry turns to Ron. “You can’t let her do that!” 

Ron connects two corners of the puzzle. “I’m not the boss of her, Harry. Go for your walkies, or it’s mum.” 

“Fine,” Harry says, slumping onto the table. At least he has a warm coat.

“Come on, Kreacher,” Harry coaxes, waiting at the foot of the stairs to Grimmauld Place.

Kreacher stands in the doorway in galoshes that go to his thighs and a muggle children’s puffer jacket. He squints into the overcast light, hands clenched around the doorframe. “Kreacher can’t,” he croaks.

“Kreacher can,” Harry says encouragingly, burying himself in the mink coat. “It’s just the park; you’ve been before.” 

It’s not that Kreacher still feels bound not to leave Grimmauld. It’s that after so many decades of not being able to do it, he’s got a case of agoraphobia to rival Harry’s. Hermione says the only way for them both to recover is exposure therapy. She reads a lot of pop psychology magazine articles at the counter of her convenience store. 

“Kreacher can see enough from here.” Kreacher sways slightly in the doorway.

“Come on, Kreacher! Those old fuckers never let you leave when they were alive—don’t let them keep you in now they’re dead. Think of it this way.” Harry points to the sky. “Every step you take under the sun is another nail in their coffins.” 

“Kreacher sees only grey clouds,” Kreacher says cantankerously, but he steps outside and pulls the door closed, then yanks the hood of his puffer jacket up, flicking his ears through the holes Ron had cut in. He hurries to Harry’s side, shoulders hunching up so much he’s almost folded in half. 

“Good on you, Kreacher,” Harry says. He takes Kreacher’s hand when the elf offers it, and they set off for the park. 

It’s only a few blocks away, but when they arrive they both sit gratefully on a bench, facing a fountain where a few children are tossing knuts in, trying to reach the highest tier. 

“There,” Harry says, short of breath. “Walkies accomplished.”

“For today,” Kreacher says grimly.

“Right.” Harry sighs and tilts his head back to the cloudy sky. It’s too big out here. Too bright, too much. He wants to be closed in and safe, to stop pieces of him from flying away into the sky. 

Hermione and Ron say this is understandable, but should probably be avoided as much as he can bear it. 

“Kreacher wants a knut,” croaks Kreacher abruptly. He’s staring at the fountain, glittering with coins. 

Harry fishes a coin from the pocket of the mink coat, which by now is full of stuff. Knuts and sickles and a handkerchief and muggle snack bars, which he has slipped into the pockets of everything he owns that have pockets. Kreacher has his own knuts, but Harry won’t ever deny him anything. He hands the elf a few and Kreacher sidles across the park to the fountain, where he doesn’t throw the coins, but stands looking at the water for a long while. 

Harry tips sideways on the bench and huddles under his coat, pulling his trainers up from the cold ground. They’re Dudley’s old ones and barely have any soles left, but he doesn’t know how to buy new ones. Hermione would probably show him. But Hermione has enough of her own shit to deal with. 

He’s staring out at the fountain, watching Kreacher watching the water, when a familiar form strides to a stop in front of him. He looks up, up, and sees Lucius Malfoy sneering down at him, looking absolutely affronted. 

“Malfoy,” Harry mumbles. “Back for your coat?” Achingly, he levers himself up, wrapping his arms around his knees on the bench. 

“Are you homeless?” Lucius demands. 

“No.” Harry scowls. “I live nearby.”

“Then why is the savior of the realm sleeping on a park bench?” 

“I’m not sleeping,” Harry protests, “I’m dozing. While Kreacher makes a wish.” 

Lucius turns to the fountain. Kreacher is in the water, well-protected by his thigh-high galoshes, sleeves pushed to his shoulders and fishing for coins. 

Harry narrows his eyes, real rage suddenly sparking through him, the memory of Dobby’s grave by the seaside hitting him of nowhere. “If you so much as look at him wrong, Malfoy, I’ll turn your head into a dandelion, and not a soul would dare say a word about it.” 

Lucius’ lips spread in a snarl. “Your elf is stealing charity for a children’s hospital, Potter.” 

“He’s not my fucking elf,” Harry spits. He stands up, battered trainer toes to Lucius’ polished boots, craning his head to meet Lucius’ eyes. “He’s my bloody roommate, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants. If anyone in this world deserves charity, it’s him.” 

Lucius eyes him for a moment. And then: “Stand down, Potter. I’m not here to rehash old battles—or to take my coat back.” He raises a supercilious eyebrow. 

“Then why are you here?” Harry demands. 

Lucius’ nose wrinkles. “I genuinely thought you might be living in this park, Potter. Forgive even me for taking an … interest.” 

“Ha,” Harry says, flopping back down on the bench. “What, were you going to take me to a shelter?” 

“More likely, to Weasley,” says Lucius mildly. 

“To Ron?” 

Lucius flicks his hand irritably. “To Arthur, you imbecile.” 

“Oh. Well. Thanks, I guess. But I’m just on a mandated outing.” 

For some godforsaken reason, Lucius feels it is appropriate to sit beside him on the bench, whipping his long coat—wool, not fur—around him in a dramatic manner, clasping his gloved hands over a crossed knee. “Mandated?” he asks mildly. 

Harry tugs his feet up on the bench again to wrap his arms around his knees. “Yeah, don’t tell the Prophet but I’ve gone a bit barmy and Hermione says I have to take one walk a day or else. You remember Hermione, she was tortured in your house one time, and also you called her a bunch of slurs and let a basilisk loose that almost killed her when she was twelve?” 

“I remember Granger,” Lucius says, and does not acknowledge the other statements. “I have also been encouraged to … embark on the occasional excursion.”

Harry tips his face towards him. “By who?” 

“By whom,” Lucius corrects coldly. “And that is none of your concern.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” Harry breathes on his hands and slides them between his knees for warmth, wishing he had a pair of gloves like Lucius’. He has a lot of money, right? But he doesn’t know where to get anything. “Where’d you get your gloves?” he asks curiously. 

Lucius extends his hands in front of himself, long, elegant fingers. “They were tailor made by a French glover. Merino wool.” 

“Merino wool,” Harry echoes. “I don’t know any glovers. Guess I’ll look around Diagon.” 

Lucius snorts softly. “I’d donate my gloves as well as my coat to your apparently mendicant lifestyle, but I’m afraid these wouldn’t fit you. It would be a shameful waste.” He reaches into a pocket of his wool coat and pulls out a a box, delicately wrapped in golden ribbon. He pulls one glove off with his teeth, and opens the box. It is full of delicate, flaky pastries, which steam in the cool air, kept magically fresh in the box. 

“I was going to present these to Narcissa as a token of having left the house, but I think they would better serve us now.” He tilts the box to Harry. “Chaussons aux pommes.” 

Harry hasn’t a clue what that means, but he snatches a pastry and attempts to eat it neatly. Unfortunately, it flakes all over him, getting on Lucius’ mink coat. He feels himself blush in embarrassment, trying to eat quickly and get the crumbs over with. 

Lucius’ reaches over with his gloved hand and sweeps the crumbs off of Harry’s collar. Then he eats his own pastry like it had been nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Erm,” Harry says, wrong-footed. “Erm, can I save one for Kreacher?” 

Wordlessly, Lucius closes the box and hands it to him. “Have the rest. Narcissa’s sick of my trying to ingratiate myself, in any case. The box will keep them fresh for three days.” 

Harry takes the box. It feels like too much to accept so much from an enemy, but Harry cannot refuse food. His body won’t let him. 

Lucius stands. Pulls his glove back on his hand. “Good day, Potter.” 

“Erm. Good day.” 

And he sweeps off. 

Kreacher comes over a few minutes later with dripping fistfuls of sickles. He drops them onto the bench and takes a pastry when Harry offers. 

“There’s a non-zero chance they’re poisoned,” Harry informs him. “Just so you know.” 

Kreacher takes another pastry. 

The next day, an owl shows up at Grimmauld place. Harry is in the living room, fire blazing, tidying up for the others to come over—Ron and Hermione, and also Ginny, George, and whoever of the others manage to make it. He’s got a stack of new puzzles on a table and Kreacher has helped him sort out a sideboard of drinks, hot cider and butterbeer and tea. 

The owl is an unknown one, but it wouldn’t have gotten this close to the house if it was carrying anything ill-intentioned. He cracks the window to let it in, and it stays only long enough for him to untie the small box from its leg. Then it wings away. 

Puzzled, Harry examines the box. It is a deep burgundy, stamped with a thick gold V. He lifts the top off, unfolds the seven or so layers of tissue, and catches his breath. 

A pair of rich brown leather gloves lie nestled on a bed of golden tissue. He picks them up, running his fingers across the surface—they are soft and supple, with fur-lined insides. An embossed card informs him that it is rabbit fur. Slowly, he pulls them on, flexing his fingers. They are the most comfortable things he’s ever felt. 

He turns the box over and over in his gloved hands. There is no note, but there doesn’t need to be, he supposes. He puts his palms to his cheeks, pulling the soft leather against his skin, inhaling the smoky scent of the hide. 

Please,” Ron says from the doorway. “Please, Harry, tell me you did not steal Malfoy’s gloves and that you’re going full-on stalker. I can’t deal with it, after everything.” 

Harry looks up, blinking out of a daze. Ron is frowning at him over a stack of puzzle boxes and tins of cookies from Molly, in a Weasley sweater and colorful knit socks. 

“I didn’t,” Harry says, shaking his head. “But I think he bought them for me. Come feel them before you say anything else.” 

Sighing, Ron goes over and lets Harry put his gloved hands on his face. His eyes widen. “Oi, mate. Those are buttery.” 

“Do you two have something to tell me?” Hermione asks, coming with a bag of knitting. Wordlessly, Ron takes Harry’s hands and puts them on her face. Her mouth drops open.

One by one, he feels up George, Ginny, Luna, and Neville with his new gloves, until they are curled on sofas and armchairs with drinks, two puzzles on the tables between them. 

“It’s an evil scheme,” Ron says, leaning his head on Hermione’s shoulder. “He wants you to help him get back into good standing.” 

“It’s an eviler scheme,” Ginny says. “He’s luring you into a false sense of security before he murders you to resurrect Morgana.” 

“He’s just bored and fucking with you,” George drawls. He is curled into an armchair, scowling. “Try the cruciactus next time he approaches you and see if he does it again.”

George’s suggestion is ignored.

“I think Ron’s probably right,” Neville puts in. “Trying to get in your good graces, get photographed with you for the papers.” 

“Ellen,” Hermione says with an air of superiority, “thinks he’s looking for a sugar baby.” General uproar follows this. Ellen, Hermione’s coworker, is often the source of many outrageous claims and muggle trends. So far, Ellen has educated them, through Hermione, about BDSM clubs, veganism, polyamory, and pacifism. 

“Harry’s rich as god,” Ginny protests. “He can’t be a sugar baby.” 

“I dunno,” George drawls meanly. “He does need looking after.” His lip curls. “You want Daddy Malfoy to spank you, Harry?” 

George’s commentary is ignored. 

“Actually,” Luna puts in, “He’s probably just lonely. Narcissa says they’re divorcing but trying to keep it quiet. She’s keeping the manor.” 

This sends a shockwave across the room. “How d’you know that, Luna?” Ron asks. 

Luna blinks at him. She is completing one of the puzzles upside-down, matching the pieces by fit alone. “Narcissa and I take a gardening course together, Ron, you know that.” 

“Well, yeah,” Ron says. “But …” 

“And we get pedicures afterwards,” Luna adds. “I would say she’s a close friend now.” 

George wrenches himself upright. “How can you live with yourself, Luna? That bitch kept you in her fucking dungeons for half a fucking year! And will all of you stop fucking ignoring me!” 

“Maybe when you stop being a total cunt we will,” Ginny snaps. “Luna can heal how she pleases.” 

“Narcissa gave me a sincere apology, two thousand galleons, and promised me a life debt,” Luna says mildly, fitting another upside-down piece into her puzzle. “I said, instead of a life debt, I could use a friend. I don’t have a mum, you know, I’ve never had someone to give me advice like that. Narcissa’s been filling in a bit.” 

“Yeah, mother of the year,” George says sharply. “Housing a psychopath murderer and getting out of war crimes. Have you all gone round the fucking bend?” 

It’s a good question. The answer seems: more likely than not. 

“I’m keeping the gloves, anyway,” Harry says stubbornly. 

“Of course you are,” Ron says. “You’ve been wearing them for an hour. And the way you’re stroking your neck is a bit weird, mate.” 

Harry scowls at him and does not stop running the gloves across his collarbone. 

So, here’s the thing. George is full of spitting ire, and no one can blame him for it, and most of the time you have to ignore what’s coming out of his mouth. But Harry can’t quite forget that he’d asked if Harry had wanted Lucius to spank him. 

Because he sort of also hasn’t been able to forget how Lucius’ long fingers looked in his gloves, or the way he had casually tugged one off with his teeth to offer Harry a box of very expensive pastries. 

Curled in his bed, curtains drawn down to make a little cave, Harry presses his face into his pillow, stifling his own helpless whimpers. He’s on his knees, ankles crossed tight together behind him, and the supple leather of his new gloves on his cock is the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. He strokes himself slowly, decadently, as much to feel the leather as to bring himself pleasure. It feels so good he’s drooling into the pillow. 

You want Daddy Malfoy to spank you, Harry? croons Lucius’ cultured voice in his imagination. Harry’s never been spanked before but he wants it, bad. He pushes his arse in the air for it; if Lucius thinks he needs it then he’ll take it. 

But this is a fantasy and he can’t exactly spank himself. Instead he creeps one gloved hand between his arsecheeks and rubs them against his hole. He can’t put them in, doesn’t want to get the gloves too dirty—they’re self-cleaning but he doesn’t want to risk it. So instead he just rubs hard at his hole and his taint, whimpering into the pillow and pulling at his cock until he comes, trying to imagine the smack of Lucius’ palm against the meat of his arse. 

He falls to his side and brings the gloves to his mouth, sucking lightly on the tips of his fingers. He tastes like leather and his own slick. He slides his fingers along his tongue, pushing it down, wishing it was Lucius here to hook his fingers into his cheeks. 

Eventually, the buzz fades. The gloves shimmer and the scum of his wank disappears, leaving them fresh. His legs are twitching a bit.

This is good, he thinks foggily. He hasn’t been able to get hard in a while. Ron says that’s normal. He’s been reading pop psychology magazines too, while he waits for Hermione’s shifts to end. He feels grounded in his body for once. Not like he’s going to float away if he doesn’t crawl into a cupboard, but like he’s anchored right here in his bed. 

Lucius probably doesn’t want to be his sugar daddy. He’s just a lonely old man who’s made it through a war but lost his family in the process. He’ll buy Harry gloves because he thinks he’s homeless, but he is unlikely to spank Harry until he comes. It’s probably better that way, anyway. Lucius can get what he’s looking for out of some misplaced philanthropy and Harry can inch his way back into the real world fantasy by fantasy, re-learning his body and desire after the war. 

It sounds like a win-win. 

Dear Lucius,

Dear Malfoy,

Lucius,

Malfoy,

Lucius,

I received the gloves. Thank you very much; they are extremely comfortable and I have worn them all week. With the coat. I’m pretty well winter-proof, now!

I hope you don’t mind, but Luna told me about the divorce. She and Narcissa are friendly these days, you see. Anyway, I reckon you might be a bit at odds. If you want to get food or something let me know. 

Sorry if this is weird and you actually still hate me, I suppose. 

Harry Potter

There. He shows the note to Kreacher. “That’s normal, yeah?” 

Kreacher glares at him. “Kreacher is not a big reader.” 

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Harry reads the note aloud. “What do you think? Normal?” 

“Potter is never normal,” Kreacher says archly. “Potter wants Malfoy to buy him food.” 

Harry bites his lip, re-reading the note. “No I don’t! Well, I mean, I do. But he won’t know that, right?” 

“No. He doesn’t know Potter like Kreacher does.” Kreacher sniffs. “Hiding food everywhere.”

“I’ve stopped that,” Harry says firmly. 

Kreacher points at Harry’s jeans pocket.

“The trail mix bars don’t count. They don’t go bad.” Harry stomps over to the owl he’d ordered from the post office and ties the letter on. “Malfoy Manor, please. Er, I assume he’s still there.” The owl hoots and flies off. 

The return letter arrives a few hours later, when Harry and Kreacher are cleaning out the attic. They are in a state of perpetually cleaning out the attic, because there is so much shit stuffed up here they’re unlikely to get through it at this pace in a decade. It’s equal parts worthless junk and priceless heirlooms, and sometimes not even Kreacher can tell it apart. 

“Ah-hah,” Harry says, holding up a silver spoon, decorated in the bowl with—surprise—a snake. “Now this is definitely an heirloom.” 

Kreacher glances at it. “No.” 

“No?” Harry frowns down at the spoon. “It’s silver.” 

“Poor silver,” Kreacher sniffs. “Trash.” 

Sighing, Harry chucks it into a “donate” bin they’ve set up in a corner. 

Kreacher perks up. “Potter’s owl is back.” He snaps his fingers, and the return letter appears in his hand. Without handing it to Harry, he picks up an antique letter opener and slits it under the wax, then squints at the contents.

“Hey!” Harry says, outraged. “That’s my letter!” 

Kreacher rolls his eyes. “Kreacher can’t read it anyway.” He throws it at Harry. 

My dear Harry,

Harry’s heart flutters. He doesn’t know if it’s the “my” or “dear” that does it. 

I see my dirty laundry has been aired. Indeed, I am in somewhat of a transitional stage, and am, as you so eloquently put it, “a bit at odds.” 

While we have been enemies in the past, I am following my soon to be ex-wife’s attempt to lay new ground. Meet me for dinner at the Houndstooth tomorrow night at seven. The dress is semi-formal, but knowing what I do of your wardrobe … do your best. 

I am pleased you enjoy the gloves.

Yours,
Lucius Malfoy

“Right,” Harry says. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and goes to call his friends.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sit around a five hundred piece dalmatian puzzle with small cups of mulled wine, passing the letter between them. After three read-throughs, Ron sighs. “I wish George hadn’t fucking said that.” 

Harry winces. 

“Honestly, Harry,” Hermione says, rapidly fitting together the dalmatian’s paw. “You’re not subtle. Ron and I started making contingency plans when you started wearing that coat. Incidentally, you’re wearing it now.” 

“I’m aware of that, thanks.” Harry scowls into his wine. 

“Don’t act like you don’t have a history of—of—” Hermione sputters off, face heating.

“Of daddy issues,” Ron puts in grimly.

“Ron!” Harry says loudly.

Ron puts his one finger out, ticking it aggressively. “Remus was your sexual awakening, mate. Remus. The ultimate surrogate dad.” 

“Remus was handsome,” Harry says stubbornly. 

“Followed by … drumroll … Sirius. Literally your godfather.” 

Harry puts his head on the table. “I hate that we had to share a room that summer.” 

“Me too, mate, me too,” says Ron grimly.

“We’re not judging you, Harry,” Hermione puts in. “It makes sense, okay? It’s normal for you to seek out father figures. But this isn’t Remus or Sirius, two men who had somewhat functioning moral compasses and could deal with teen crushes. It’s Lucius Malfoy.” 

“I’m aware it's Lucius Malfoy,” Harry mutters into the table. 

“Listen,” Ron says. “We’re not going to badger you to death. Just … keep us updated, all right? Follow your instincts, but don’t shut us out.” 

Harry sits up. “I won’t shut you out,” he promises. “Never again.” 

Hermione reaches out and takes his hand, tears pricking her eyes. Harry swallows down guilt. He had shut them out, just after the war, and spent two dismal months locked in Grimmauld Place, hiding in various cupboards and slowly growing wan and emaciated. It had finally taken Kreacher bringing Ron and Hermione inside the wards for them to pull him back into sanity, both of them dealing with their own post-war repercussions, PTSD and mourning family and dealing with the world’s expectations. 

Never again. He’d promised, and he’d keep that promise.

“And you tell us where he takes you,” Hermione says fiercely. “Use the coin. Anytime you change locations, got it? And if we don’t hear from you for three hours at any point, you’d better expect all of us to show up, wands blazing, whether you’re in flagrante delicto or not.” 

“Hermione,” Ron groans. “Don’t speak it into the world.” 

Harry just tucks his chin onto his arms and smiles at them. “You’re good friends. You’ll help me pick out clothes for tomorrow, right?” 

“Absolutely,” Hermione says. “You can’t show up to Houndstooth in your ratty jeans!” 

“All his clothes are ratty,” Ron says. “Maybe Malfoy will buy him a whole new wardrobe. That’ll be the only good thing to come of this, mark my words.”

They can’t quite cobble together semi-formal, but at least he doesn’t look like a vagabond. He’s in his school boots and a pair of black pants, a green blouse from Hermione and a set of Arthur’s black robes. And over it all is Lucius’ mink coat and the supple leather gloves, his hair as brushed as it gets, falling intentionally over his forehead. 

“Be honest, Kreacher,” Harry says on the step, as he prepares to disapparate. “Do I look like a fool?” 

Kreacher evaluates him. “No,” he says finally. “Potter looks like Potter, but happier than usual.” 

Harry grins at him. “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” And he turns on his heel and spins away.

He turns up a few blocks away from Houndstooth, in a ritzy area of wizarding London that he doesn’t frequent, mostly because he feels horribly out of place. Harry may have money now, but he grew up stealing clothes from charity bins and nicking food from shopping bags and grocers’ stalls. 

Lucius, surprisingly, is waiting for him outside the restaurant. In contrast to Harry’s rather cobbled-together outfit, he looks like he just stepped out of a distinguished gentlemen’s magazine, in his long woolen coat and shining boots, an appropriately houndstooth scarf around his neck. His cane has made an appearance for the first time since he reentered Harry’s life, his gloved hands—black leather tonight—curling comfortably around the snake’s head handle. Harry’s mouth goes dry.

“Mr. Potter,” greets Lucius. “Good evening.” 

“You can call me Harry, like in your letter,” Harry says. 

“Very well.” Lucius’ gaze flicks down to Harry’s hands. “I am so very pleased the gloves were well received.” 

“Oh, erm, yes.” Harry fidgets, rubbing his fingers together, telling himself Lucius cannot know how many times they have been wrapped around his cock. “They’re so soft.” 

“Indeed.” Stepping aside, Lucius opens the door for Harry, who scuttles in. The restaurant is low-lit and themed around old English fox hunting, murals of running dogs and fleeing foxes on the walls. The servers are dressed in formal colours, red coats and golden buttons. 

They don’t even ask for Lucius’ name, just lead the two of them to a table by a wide window, which displays a dusky English countryside. They drape their coats over their chairs and settle in, close but not intimate. It’s not a date, Harry tells himself firmly. It’s a social dinner. 

“No one has looked twice at you, Harry,” Lucius notes curiously. “In your youth you couldn’t stay out of the public eye.” 

“No one recognizes me anymore,” Harry says, laughing slightly. “I still look like a skinny kid. They expect a conquering hero.” 

Lucius tilts his head. “You do not look like a child. You look like anyone who has come out of a war.” 

“Well,” Harry says, flushing. “They don’t expect me to look like that.” 

The waiter comes, and Lucius orders a bottle of wine and a bruschetta plate to start. Harry remembers the pastry crumb incident and resolves to eat neatly, though he’d liked when Lucius had brushed off his collar. 

Hermione and Ron have him absolutely dead to rights, and he knows it, okay? He’s long been aware that he’s got some signals crossed about being cared for, but it never seemed like such a big problem in the face of all the other massive problems he was actively expected to solve. 

His friends are his barometers, he supposes. He can rely on their reactions for a reality check. His infatuation with Remus had been indulged, a schoolboy crush. His obsession with Sirius merited a stricter response, and oaths that he would never act on it, or attempt to convince Sirius to act on it. Ron and Hermione had found Lucius’ letter acceptable enough not to mount an intervention, and so he felt reasonably confident that how he was feeling was … if not great, then not actively harmful. 

“You look pensive, Harry,” Lucius says.

“Just thinking, I suppose,” Harry says. He fiddles with his fork. “I’ve never been to a restaurant like this. Not sure what I’m supposed to get.” 

“I can order for us both,” Lucius says smoothly. “The venison medallions are divine.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Harry agrees, pleasure bubbling up in his chest. “I’ve never had venison before.” 

“This is an acceptable starting point,” says Lucius. The wine and bruschetta arrives, and Harry manages to eat one, then another, without spraying crumbs everywhere. After two he fists his hand in his robe and makes himself wait until Lucius has had two as well, trying to appear normal and sipping on his wine. 

“Where are you moving?” Harry asks, as Lucius wipes balsamic vinegar from his fingertips onto a cream napkin. “Luna told me Narcissa is keeping the manor? Which surprised me.” 

Lucius shrugs elegantly. “I am not in a position to refuse Narcissa anything at the moment. And furthermore, I am quite sick of the manor. I have a London townhouse not unlike your own, and several countryside properties. Narcissa has great plans to turn the manor into some sort of … charitable institution. Don’t ask me for details; I’m staying well out of the way.” 

“I see.” Harry takes another bruschetta. Tries to emulate Lucius’ classy way of eating, fails dismally. “A country house sounds nice. Peaceful.” 

Lucius inclines his head. “I have several abraxan stables as well. I may find myself in husbandry, who knows.” He snorts, as if the prospect is ludicrous. 

The server returns to take their orders. Lucius smoothly orders for them both, and Harry feels warmth flush through his chest. So he doesn’t give himself away, he distracts himself. “Is it rude to ask where you got your boots? Only, I want to get some of my own, but I don’t know how to shop at places like that.” 

“Places like that?” Lucius asks. 

“You know.” Harry waves a hand around. “Nice places. All my clothes are hand-me-downs. I’ve only ever gone to Madam Malkin’s. I get the feeling if I tried to walk into a nice store, they’d chase me out—that’s what my aunt always said, anyway.” 

Lucius traces one long finger around his mouth. “No one would dare chase Harry Potter from a shop.” 

“They don’t recognize me,” Harry reminds him. “And I’m not comfortable flashing my name around.” 

“No, I suppose not.” Lucius takes a sip of wine. “You have wealth, Harry, and I can show you how to spend it, if you like. We’ll go to a cordwainer after dinner.” 

“A cordwainer,” Harry repeats.

“A shoemaker,” sniffs Lucius. 

“Will they be open?” 

“For me, certainly.” 

Pleased, Harry grins at him. Lucius looks a bit startled, and doesn’t smile back, but does look a measure less severe. 

The venison arrives, seared medallions drizzled in blackberry sauce, a small bed of greens and crusty bread on the side. It’s the best meat Harry’s ever tasted, and he has to control himself so he doesn’t do something grossly improper like moan around it or ask Lucius to hand feed it to him. Lucius spots his enjoyment, and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. 

“It’s really good,” Harry says, wiping his mouth. “I never would have come here on my own.” 

“I see that you’re unaccustomed to the finer things in life,” Lucius notes. “If you were sincere in your letter, I would be happy to introduce you to town. Restaurants and clothiers, how to find the things you need. I believe Draco implied to me once that you had a somewhat … unconventional upbringing. Raised by muggles, I believe.” 

Harry frowns. “Before you start on your blood purist shit, I’ll let you know that my upbringing was unconventional by muggle standards as well.” 

“I wasn’t going to,” Lucius says sharply. “I’m not a complete fool.” 

“Right.” Harry eats another medallion in silence. The sheer rich taste of it melts away his anger. “But you’re right, I don’t know how to do … a lot of things, in the wizarding world. And probably Hermione would count it as part of my excursions. So I’d like that.” 

Lucius looks pleased. “Wonderful. I’ll have to make a list. What else do you need, besides shoes?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “Ron says I need a whole new wardrobe.” 

Lucius’ eyes flash over his cobbled-together outfit. He very politely says nothing, and eats a bit of salad. 

Dinner finishes too soon, Harry telling himself sternly not to scrape up the last of the blackberry sauce with his fork. He’s having an internal war with himself, staring at his plate—the need to not waste a scrap versus the look of disgust Lucius would probably give him, when Lucius delicately places his crusty bread on Harry’s plate. 

When Harry glances up in surprise, Lucius is calling the server over. Harry mops up the sauce with his bread, something light and pleased in his chest. 

Lucius pays, Harry makes half-hearted protesting noises, and he is waved away. “It’s hardly a burden, Potter. Harry.” 

“Well, thanks,” Harry murmurs. “This was really nice. And I still get to go shoe-shopping afterwards.” He knows that Ron would kill him if he saw, but he can’t resist pulling on his leather gloves and letting his hand sweep his hair behind an ear, settling against his jaw. Lucius tracks the movement for a moment, but seems to make nothing of it. Ah, well. 

The cordwainer is a shoe shop down the street called Ashmole’s. It looks like someone’s private residence, but for the sign on the front. Lucius gestures for Harry to enter first, and a bell chimes as he pushes the door open. 

It smells of leather and spice inside, and Harry tugs the mink coat closer around himself, like the aura of Lucius’ wealth can make him stand out less. Extremely fancy shoes rest in shelves, from tall buckled boots to low cushioned loafers. 

“Good evening, Mr. Malfoy,” says the proprietor, coming into the main room from a door in the back. He’s a small man in a dark tweed suit, leather loafers on his feet and a pair of reading glasses propped on his head. “And Mr. …?” 

“Potter,” Lucius says smoothly. 

The proprietor stops short and blinks at Harry, obviously reorienting himself. “Ah—Mr.—Mr. Potter! Welcome, welcome, please, my name is Ashmole.” 

Harry shakes the man’s hand, grimacing a bit.

“Very good, Ashmole, we’re only here for shoes,” drawls Lucius, taking Harry by the shoulder and guiding him to the shelf of shoes. “Mr. Potter is in need of a pair. Boots, Harry? Take your pick.” 

Hurriedly, Ashmole shrugs off his initial hero worship and begins to demonstrate the attributes of each shoe. Lucius asks leading questions that Harry takes as cues for what he should be thinking about—how long the soles will last, what it will cost to replace them, the magical qualities of the leather: is it waterproof, will it grow with him, does it repel dirt? 

Finally, Harry selects two pairs of low boots to try, and takes a seat on a chair while Ashmole retrieves a pair roughly in his size—though his ultimate purchase will be tailored to his precise measurements. 

He slips off his school boots, trying not to let Lucius or Ashmole see how faded his socks are, but has to present his foot when Ashmole sits on a pouf in front of him to slip them on. Harry tries to take them and do it himself, but Lucius pointedly clears his throat and he sits back again. 

“Walk around a bit,” Lucius suggests, when Harry has the first pair on, ankle boots with gleaming gold toe and heel caps. He does a turn around the room, glancing at himself in the mirror before looking away, slightly embarrassed at himself. What on earth’s he doing, shopping for shoes with Lucius Malfoy? 

Which reminds him. Coming back to the chair, Harry retrieves his old DA coin from his pocket and sends Hermione and Ron a quick update: SHOES. 

“What’s this?” Lucius asks. 

“Ah.” Harry laughs slightly, running a hand across the back of his head. “Letting Hermione and Ron know where I am. They made me promise, you can understand why.” 

“Indeed.” Lucius indicates the second pair of boots. “Give those a try now.” 

“Right.” 

But when Ashmole leans forward with the boots, Lucius clears his throat and takes them from him. “Allow me.” 

Harry swallows. 

Taking a firm grip on the back of his calf, close to his Achille’s heel, Lucius slides the second pair onto his feet, doing up the laces with swift, firm movements. Harry is sure his cheeks are bright red, so he keeps his face down-turned, already sure that these are the boots he will be purchasing. 

He circles the room anyway, admiring how comfortable they are and how much nicer they are than his school boots. “I’ll take these,” he tells Ashmole. 

“Excellent!” the man exclaims, and has him sit down again so he can tap Harry’s foot with his wand. A quill on the counter begins scribbling down a long list of measurements. “They’ll be at your home within the week, Mr. Potter, I’ll move you up and get to them immediately in the morning.” 

“No need for that,” Harry says hastily. “Whenever you get to them is fine.”

Ashmole waves him off, hurrying over to the counter to take a look at his scroll. “And how will you be paying today?” he asks.

“Ah …” Harry says. He doesn’t even know how much the shoes cost, but he’s sure he won’t be able to cover it with the ten galleons in his pocket. 

Lucius steps up to his side. “You could have them send the invoice to your bank account,” he murmurs, “but this time, allow me.” And he slides a card across the counter.

“Oh,” Harry says, “no, I can’t—” 

Lucius puts a hand on his shoulder and steer him away from the counter. “Thank you, Ashmole. We look forward to the final result.” 

“Good evening, sirs!” 

“Lucius,” Harry protests, as Lucius guides him down the stairs, heading for a nearby apparition spot. “I don’t even know how much those cost, you already paid for dinner—” 

“Enough, Harry,” Lucius says mildly. “We are both men of a certain wealth now. Part of that is accepting others’ generosity.” 

Harry falls silent. He scuffs his boot across the flagstones and makes a note never to do that in his new boots. “Well. Thank you, then. For dinner and the boots. For showing me around.” 

Lucius nods. “I’ll be in touch. If you haven’t changed your mind.” 

“I haven’t,” Harry murmurs. He steps through the apparition barrier. “Good night, Lucius.” 

“Good night, Harry.” 

He spins, and appears on the steps of Grimmauld place, beaming.

Harry messages on the coin that he’s home, checks in on Kreacher who’s drinking a tiny brandy in the living room, and pleads tiredness to get up to his room quickly. 

But after he locks his door, he toes off his shoes and falls onto his bed, dragging his pants off over his ankles, socks still on, mink coat and gloves still on. He feels Lucius’ phantom fingers taking his calf to put on the shoe, imagines instead that it was to push his legs up over his head. Flashes of the night buzz through his mind: Lucius paying for dinner, paying for the shoes, sliding him a piece of bread, steering him with a hand on his shoulder. 

In his fantasy, he crawls into Lucius’ lap at the dinner table and eats blackberry venison off his gloved fingers. He licks them clean afterwards, swathed in mink with soft leather filling his mouth.

He comes across his stomach and moans into the coat, clapping a hand over his mouth, laving his tongue across his leather-clad palm. He whispers Lucius into his fingers, not quite brave enough to whisper the other word dangling on the tip of his tongue.

Unfortunately, all the sweet bedtime thoughts in the world can’t keep the nightmares at bay when they’re scratching at the walls of his mind, picking holes in his dreams with bright colored spells and the sickly grasping hands of dementors. 

His bedroom doesn’t have a cupboard, so he stumbles his way to the one in the bathroom, not sure of who or what or where, not knowing how old he is, whose house he’s in—he crawls under the low shelf that holds the towels and uses his fingertips to close the door behind him. There’s hardly enough room in here for him, but that’s better, in a way, because the walls cradle him as he puts his arms over his head and sucks in sharp, painful breaths. 

His brain is filled equally with the dead bodies of those he has known and the snapping teeth of dogs. He could never let Sirius know that he hates dogs, it would have been too much a betrayal—but he does, he has tooth marks from Aunt Marge’s pit bulls on both ankles. Here in the dark time is muddled, he’s eight and eighteen, hiding from basilisks and bullies and Aunt Petunia’s frying pan. 

By the time his cupboard door is pulled open a crack, he’s slipped into a hazy state, exhaustion sticking at his eyelids, pulling at his cheeks. Neville peers at him, crouching on the ground, eyes gentle, small smile pulling at his lips. Kreacher’s bulbous eyes peek out from over his shoulder. 

“Hey there, Harry,” Neville says softly. “Kreacher called on the coins; I was up working in my garden.” That explains the fresh mud stains on his coveralls. 

“Hey, Nev,” Harry mumbles. His lips don’t want to pry apart to let words through. “I think I had a bad night.” 

“Let’s get you out of there,” Neville coaxes. With his help, Harry unfolds himself from the cupboard, back cramped painfully, hissing as he stands upright and stumbles into Neville’s hold. “It’s about six in the morning at Grimmauld Place,” Neville informs him. “December 3rd, 1999. You went out with Lucius Malfoy last night.” 

“Yeah,” Harry croaks. “I remember.” 

“Bed or coffee?” 

“Coffee,” Harry says. 

They make their way downstairs. Harry remembers how to walk on his own, but Neville insists on holding his arm on the way to the kitchen. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other while Neville questions Kreacher quietly: what time did Harry get home, did he look okay, did it look like Malfoy did anything to him. Kreacher mumbles negative responses. 

“He didn’t do anything,” Harry says tiredly. “Just bought me dinner and some shoes. It was just … a bad night.” 

“Wish you wouldn’t stay here,” mumbles Neville as he bustles around the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. “It’s not good for your mind, Harry, all cooped up and dark and cold. Kreacher would move if you did, wouldn’t you, Kreacher?” 

“Kreacher would,” affirms the elf, uncharacteristically forthcoming—but then, he likes Neville the most of Harry’s friends. 

“Nev,” Harry sighs. Grimmauld Place—it’s all he has left of Sirius. The only connection he has to his family, the only place he can step where he knows his family stepped—even if they weren’t very happy about it. 

“Harry,” Neville retorts. He sets a cup of heavily creamed and sugared coffee in front of Harry, and hands Kreacher an elf-sized one. “I’m not saying sell the house. But find an apartment, move into the Burrow or Hermione’s place, or, hell, mine. You can come back to Grimmauld and keep working on it whenever you want.” 

Harry sips his coffee tiredly. He’s too exhausted to fight. Too disappointed. Last night had been so nice. 

“Have Malfoy help you,” Neville says suddenly. Harry looks up at him in surprise—Neville’s mouth is twisted in distaste. “Yeah, I know, I hate the fucking bastard and I always will. But I know none of us can tell you anything, so you might as well get something productive out of it. Tell him you need a new home. He can help you find one. Us old families have noses for property, it’s like a sick genetic inheritance.” 

“Not you,” Harry points out. 

Neville’s eyes narrow in humor. “You’ve never gone shopping with me, Harry. I could probably give Draco a run for his money if I put my mind to it.” 

Harry shudders in mock horror. He turns to Kreacher. “You really want to leave?” 

Kreacher looks around the kitchen. “Kreacher has never been elsewhere. But … Kreacher would go. With Potter.” 

“Hmph.” Harry puts his head on his arms. “Well … I’ll mention it to Lucius, I guess. But you have to help find somewhere, Kreacher. It’ll be our home. You have to tell me what you want.” 

“No cupboards,” Kreacher says instantly. 

Harry feels a shiver of dread. “What would we put things in?” 

“Open shelving is an option,” Neville says lightly. “Though I doubt Malfoy will go for that.” 

Neville trades off Potterwatch, as they call it, sometime around mind-morning. Hermione’s on her shift but Ron comes through the floo with a tray bake from Molly. Neville settled Harry in the living room before he went, tucking him into a chair like a child, but he can’t bring himself to mind. He doesn’t like feeling like this—weak, defenseless, childish—but he likes knowing his friends will take care of him. 

“Right, let’s see it,” Ron commands, serving them both slices of nutty cake. 

“See what?” Harry asks from within his blanket cocoon.

Ron shrugs, forking cake into his mouth. “Dunno. Your watch? Boat? Thousand-galleon broom? Whatever Malfoy bought you last night.” 

Harry’s face flames. “Erm. Well—they haven’t gotten here yet.” 

Ron gestures with his fork for him to elaborate. 

Harry sinks into the blanket. “He bought my shoes for me. I have no idea how much they even cost.” After another forkful of cake, he adds, “He’s going to show me how to shop for things.” 

Ron’s face darkens. “Yeah, I guess you’re even more bloody rich now, with all Sirius’ money.” 

Harry’s too tired for Ron’s old jealousy. “I think every time you make a comment about my money, I’ll have Lucius help me pick something out for you. I’m finding you a fox fur-lined cloak first.” 

“Don’t you dare,” grumbles Ron. 

In any case, the Weasleys aren’t very poor these days. Every single one of them had received a hefty reward from the ministry for services rendered, as well as the money to rebuild the Burrow in its entirety. Harry had given his own reward to Andromeda and Teddy. 

Harry dozes the afternoon away, and when he wakes back up, Ron and Hermione are setting up the television in the living room. Since starting her corner store shifts, Hermione had been watching programmes with her parents that her coworkers recommended. It had inspired her to figure out how to enchant an old television to play inside Grimmauld Place. They can’t get cable connection, but it plays tapes. 

“What’re we watching?” Harry asks groggily. 

“My Fair Lady,” Hermione says briskly. “As a cautionary tale. Ron’s told me all about your shoes and whatnot.”

“Ugh,” Harry groans, hanging his head off the armchair. “’Mione, I’m ill.” 

“Not too ill to complain,” Hermione sniffs. Ron sets out a puzzle and Harry moves over to the couch to reach it—this one is of outer space, lots of tiny stars and identical black pieces. Kreacher shuffles in as the movie starts with one of his muggle sodas, sitting on the ground right in front of the television, huge eyes reflecting the the show. 

“Okay,” Harry finally says, about halfway through the movie. “I think I’m offended by this.” 

“Mate,” Ron says, as the credits roll, “I think you should definitely be offended by this.” 

Kreacher, in front of the telly, is crying, slow tears rolling down his face. 

“Oh, Kreacher,” Harry says. “What’s wrong?” 

Kreacher looks at him through red-rimmed eyes. “Potter does not understand the themes.” 

“Probably not,” Harry agrees. “But I understand ‘Mione thinks Lucius is going to give me high society lessons while I get attached to him and then leave me in the dust.” 

“Yes, I do,” Hermione says staunchly. “Look, Harry, he’s throwing his galleons around and using you to get back into the limelight, and then he’ll be where he wants again and ditch you. I’m sorry, but I ran it by Ellen and Colin and they agree.” 

“Ellen and Colin don’t know everything!” Harry protests. He groans, slumping down. “Look, all right, I get it. Objectively it’s not … my best idea. I’ll try not to—not to get my heart broken.” 

“Again,” Ron mutters. Because so far, Harry’s been in love with two people and they’ve both been hopeless dreams for one billion reasons, each worse than the last, and then they died anyway. 

Kreacher clears his throat. “Lucius Malfoy came to Grimmauld Place. Long ago.” 

“Oh?” Hermione asks curiously.

Kreacher nods. His nose wrinkles a bit. “Lucius Malfoy used to meet with Regulus. In private. For a long time. Often. Very … loudly.” 

The three of them fall quiet. 

“He put my shoes on for me yesterday,” Harry blurts, face boiling. 

Ron and Hermione stare at him.

“At the shoe store,” Harry babbles. “I mean, that’s not a normal thing, really, right? So maybe … I’m not saying—I mean I’m not—”

“Ah, fuck it,” Ron says. He sticks the last galaxy puzzle piece in. “Lucius Malfoy is literally scum, he’s tried to kill all three of us, but if Harry wants him to buy him shit and whatever else—well, mate, I’m on your side.” He nods resolutely at Harry. “We all deserve to have whatever we want, after all the shit we’ve been through. So, as long as he doesn’t fuck it up and and make us have to kill him, mate, I’m okay with it.” 

Harry smiles tremulously at him. “Thanks, Ron.” 

Hermione sighs. “Fine,” she says. “But Harry, the moment he puts a toe out of line …” 

“You can murder him,” Harry agrees. “I love you guys.” 

“We love you too,” Hermione says crisply, and comes over to hug him.

The shoes arrive a few days later. In a second package alongside them are a dozen pairs of ribbed cashmere socks in dark colors. Harry sits on the ground and strips off his holey pair, The new socks are buttery soft, and the boots, pulled over them, fit his feet like they were made for him—which they were. He runs his hands along his calve, wishing it was Lucius here putting his socks on for him, then gets up to write a letter. 

Dear Lucius,

I’m sorry for not writing earlier. I’ve been a bit ill. But I got the shoes and socks and I love them. I wish I could give you something in return, but I wouldn’t know where to start.

I think I’m in the market for a new home for me and Kreacher. Is that something you can help me with? Not buying a house, obviously, but helping me find a good place.

Let me know. 

Yours, 
Harry

“Lucius Malfoy is outside,” Kreacher says, peering through the window. His eyes barely pass the frame.

“Okay,” Harry says, shaking his shoulders back. New shoes, gloves, mink coat, check. He’s had Ginny over to help him dress and style his hair, because ever since she found out about the Sirius thing she's been convinced all Harry needs in life is an older man. She said she’ll flay Lucius if he puts a toe out of line, but in the meantime she undid his top two buttons and braided his hair back from his face to make his “eyes bigger,” whatever that means. Eyes don’t exactly grow. 

Harry opens the door and there Lucius is, on his front stoop, gloved hands resting lightly on his cane. His eyes are piercingly grey, and he takes Harry’s extra bit of effort in in a quick blink. Harry shuts the door and faces Lucius, clasping his hands behind his back and tipping his head a bit so the piece of hair Ginny left loose brushes his chin. “Hi, Lucius,” he says. 

Lucius doesn’t respond for a moment. Then he bows shallowly towards Harry over his cane. “Harry. I see the boots fit well.” 

Harry extends a foot, admiring the shoe. “I love them.” 

Lucius clears his throat. “Ashmole is the best in London. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of setting up a fitting for you at a clothier’s this afternoon, and then arranged an appointment with my property broker.” 

Harry gives Lucius what Ginny has called his most endearing smile. “That sounds great. Thanks again for helping me so much with all this.”

“It is my pleasure,” Lucius says smoothly. He leads the way down the stairs.

Between Harry and his friends, they have decided that the most effective way to not have his heart broken, and to perhaps get a little of what Regulus Black was getting, is to make it clear to Lucius what he’s about. So as they begin to stroll towards the apparition point, Harry slips his hand through Lucius’ arm. 

Lucius’ step falters. Harry glances at him through the corner of his eye, and sees that he has succeeded in utterly blindsiding him. Grinning, Harry presses a bit closer, not enough to throw them off balance but enough that the hems of their coats brush. 

“I really do appreciate it,” Harry says softly. “All the trouble you’re going to.” 

Lucius looks at him once, quick as a flash, before staring ahead again. Lets out a hissing breath through his teeth. “As I said, Harry,” he finally replies. “It is … my pleasure.” 

Harry squeezes his arm, feeling a spark of victorious excitement kindle in his chest. Take that, Eliza Doolittle. 

Once they arrive at the clothier’s, the game is on. Harry flits back and forth from behind the curtained changing room, modeling pants and shirts and robes and cloaks. If it’s a buttoned shirt, he comes out with one too many buttons undone. If it’s a robe, he starts pulling it from his shoulders before he goes behind the curtain. He bites his lip and tugs his hair and tries to do alluring things with his cashmere-socked feet. At the end of it he has a new wardrobe to be delivered to Grimmauld Place, a new outfit to wear out of the shop, and Lucius Malfoy has just a hint of stress around his eyes. 

He chooses the closest-fitting items to wear for the rest of the day, slim trousers and a navy shirt with obliging buttons that compliments the mink coat. He strolls up to the counter in his new boots, feeling very pleased about everything in the world—even if Lucius is unwilling to pick up his hints, he’s never had this many clothes of his own before, and certainly not ones that were tailored to him. 

As he’s fishing in his pocket for one of his new cards with his bank information, however, Lucius appears at his side, pale fingers sliding his own card to the teller. 

Fire kindles in Harry’s stomach. “Lucius,” he murmurs, biting his bottom lip to stop his smile from showing. “Really, isn’t the point of this to teach me how to spend my own money?” 

Lucius evaluates him, head tilted like a bird of prey. “No,” he says, just as quietly. “I don’t think it is.” And as they walk out of the shop, he rests a hand on the small of Harry’s back. He feels it like a smoldering coal. 

They lunch on the second floor of a French restaurant, tucked away in a corner. Lucius pulls his chair out for him and helps him out of his coat, hands hot along his shoulders and upper arms. He orders for them both without asking, wine and braised duck, and then turns his keen gaze onto Harry.

Harry feels as if he’s died and gone to heaven. He wants to push his chair over beside Lucius’ and tilt his head onto his shoulder. Suck wine off his fingers. 

“Well, Harry,” Lucius says, his voice silky. “If I’d known that today was a date, not a shopping appointment, I would have come up with something quite different.”  

Harry props his cheek on a hand, grinning lazily. “Yeah? Like what?” 

Lucius runs a finger across the rim of his wineglass. “From the signals I’ve been getting from you for the last three hours, perhaps a trip to a chalet would have been appropriate.” 

Harry beams. “My friends said I should be clear.” 

“Well, you have most certainly been that.” Lucius takes a sip of his wine, and Harry follows. “You said you were ill, in your letter.” 

The change of subject sends Harry plunging into cold water. He drops his hand from his cheek. “Oh. Yeah. Just head stuff, really.” 

“Head stuff,” Lucius says.

Harry waves a hand. “Yeah, I have bad days, you know? I wake up from nightmares and don’t remember where I am or what’s happening. They’ve gotten better—my friends help. But that’s why I’m looking for a new house. They think Grimmauld Place isn’t healthy for healing.” 

“No,” Lucius murmurs, “I don’t suppose it is. Rather dour place.”

Harry heroically does not mention how much time he knows Lucius has spent at Grimmauld, doing what. 

The duck arrives, and it is topped with sauteed cherries poured over the tender meat. Harry closes his eyes for the first few bites, and for the rest of the meal tries not to stare at Lucius’ mouth around his fork, thinking feed me feed me feed me so hard his head feels like it’ll explode. 

“Exquisite," Lucius says, as they finish their duck.

“Mmhm,” Harry agrees, licking cherry sauce from his bottom lip. He watches as Lucius spears his last cherry on his fork and considers it. Harry’s leaning forward before Lucius is, and then Lucius is delicately extending his fork. Harry takes the cherry between teeth and tongue and eats it. 

“Hm,” Lucius says quietly. He raises a single eyebrow. “Good boy.” It’s somewhat tentative, exploratory. 

Heat flashes up Harry’s spine. He grins stupidly at Lucius and sucks the tip of his pinky into his mouth. 

Lucius’ eyes darken. “What would you say to a drink at my London house after our appointment, Harry?” 

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I’d like that.” 

TOWNHOUSE, Harry sends on the coin, as Lucius pulls open the door to his London property for him. Harry has a file of properties to look over in his pocket, before he and Kreacher go see them in person, and is feeling utterly satisfied about every aspect of his day.

He suspects he’s about to feel a little more satisfied. 

The coin warms, and the response message reads GET IT. Laughing, he sticks it back in his pocket. He suspects Ginny. 

“Alerting your friends?” Lucius asks mildly. He takes Harry’s coat and hangs it beside his on a coatrack.

“Yeah,” Harry says, admiring the clean openness of the home. “Promised them I would.”

“Am I to assume they are … aware of what’s happening here?” Lucius leads them down a hallway to a small study. It’s warm and cozy with deep burgundies and browns, a leather couch by the fireplace and a large wooden desk by a curtained window. 

“They’re in support,” Harry says. He sits on the sofa as Lucius crosses to a cabinet to pull out drinks. “But they will kill you at the slightest opportunity.” 

“I suppose I would expect nothing less.” Lucius sits on the couch beside him, hands him a glass of caramel brandy. He’s in his shirtsleeves, hair coming away from its tail after a long day’s excursion, relaxed in his own home. “What, precisely, are they in support of?” 

Harry sips his brandy, humming at the bright taste, turning this question over in his mind. Then he puts his hand on Lucius’ knee. “Of me getting what I want,” he says quietly.

“I see.” Lucius continues to sip his drink, looking with interest at Harry’s hand. “I’ve come to understand, Harry, that you want quite a few things. Things that I can provide.” 

“Only if you want,” Harry says softly. 

“Oh,” Lucius says. “I do want.” He sets his glass down and takes Harry’s from his hand. Harry lets it go easily, swaying towards Lucius like a puppet on a string. Lucius tips the cup to the side and dips his fingers into the brandy.

Harry’s mouth is open before Lucius’s fingers get there. The brandy dabs rich and hot on his tongue, he closes his mouth and rolls his tongue across Lucius’ long fingers. “Good boy,” whispers Lucius. “Is that what you want to hear?” 

Harry whimpers around his fingers.  

“Open.” Harry opens. Lucius wets his fingers again and brings them back. “Do you know what you’re getting into, Harry? Are you sure of this?” 

He draws his fingers from Harry’s mouth so he can answer. Harry doesn’t want to let them go, nips Lucius’ fingertips as they slide out. “I know,” he says hoarsely. Lucius is dabbing at his fingers with a handkerchief. Then he folds it and traces around Harry’s mouth where he’s drooled. “Please, I want it.” 

“And what do you want?” 

Harry nestles closer to him, worms up inside his arm and rests his head on his shoulder. “Whatever you think I need,” he answers. 

“Ah.” Lucius sounds a bit breathless now. With Harry’s pressed so close, he can feel Lucius’ rapid heartbeat—trying to maintain the cool facade, but body betraying him. “I see,” he says. “You want someone to take care of you? See what you need and give it to you?” 

“Mmm,” Harry hums. He’s so hard. His blood has turned into an electric current. 

“You were an awful tease today at the clothier’s,” Lucius notes. His hand settles high on Harry’s thigh. “Flashing your shoulders and collarbone everywhere. Begging for attention. It wasn’t very polite of you, Harry.” 

“No,” Harry agrees, a smile pulling at his mouth. “Wasn’t.” 

“And if I said you needed to be punished?” Lucius’ fingers dig into his thigh, hard. “What would you say?” 

“I’d say,” Harry pants, “please, daddy.” 

The next few moments are a blur of arousal. He and Lucius get his new, tight pants unbuttoned and slipped down over his arse. He’s across Lucius’ lap but then Lucius needs to get up, so he tries to find a good position over the edge of the couch, knees on the rug and chest on the cushions. His dick is so hard, bobbing and leaking against the couch. Maybe Lucius will make him lick it up. 

Lucius comes back into the room, slightly breathless, and Harry turns his head to look at him—and he’s got Harry’s gloves in his hands. 

Harry’s head spins to the stars, and he lets out an embarrassing keen, fingers digging into the couch cushions. 

“Oh?” Lucius’ voice is unsteady with interest and arousal. “You like these, Harry?” he takes the gloves up and smacks them down into his own palm, the sound slapping against Harry’s skin. 

“Yes,” Harry groans. “Please, please, please.” 

Lucius stands over him. They’ve got all their clothes on, only Harry’s arse is exposed, his thighs trapped together by his pushed-down trousers. He comes to the first smack of the gloves against his ass, pleasure juddering through his body and sending him spinning heavenward. 

Lucius is waiting for him when he comes back down. “Shall I continue?” 

“Yes,” Harry sobs. It will take nothing to get him there again. 

Lucius bends over his ear, placing one firm hand on the back of his neck. “Yes, what?” 

Harry sobs. “Yes daddy, please daddy, please, please, please daddy—”

Down Lucius brings the gloves, not much real pain behind them, more like being stung by a towel, the leather thwapping against Harry’s hot skin, one-two, the second glove a millisecond behind. Lucius is steady and methodical as a metronome, spanking Harry until he’s hard again, sobbing into the couch cushions, feeling as if he’s experiencing divinity for the first time. 

Before he can come again, Lucius sets the gloves down on the table. Finishes his brandy in a long swallow. Harry watches him, teary eyed, hands clasped together on the couch cushions in front of him. 

Gently, Lucius tugs Harry up onto the couch. Guides him to straddle his lap and pushes his face into his neck. Wraps his hand around his cock and says “good boy” and lets Harry come all over his shirt. 

Harry briefly falls into a doze on the couch, and he thinks Lucius gets into a sort of haze as well, staring into the fire. Eventually Lucius flicks out his wand to clean up the mess they’ve made and Harry hangs onto his arm as they go to his bedroom.  

“Stay the night?” Lucius murmurs. “I confess I’m—rather exhausted.” 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. Lucius loans him a nightshirt and he crawls into Lucius’ massive bed like he belongs there. He remembers the coin just in time, and wandlessly summons it. GOT IT, he sends, grinning like a lunatic. SLEEP OVER.

The coin pulses with several responses, but he banishes it back to his coat and turns to face Lucius, who is coming out of the en-suite with a small pot in his hands. 

“Pants off,” he says, in a tone brooking no argument, and Harry is happy to comply, shimmying out of his boxers. Lucius guides him onto his stomach and smooths a cool cream onto his arsecheeks. He doesn’t think the gloves were hard enough to bruise, but he’s not going to complain about being taken care of. He doesn’t bother to put his boxers back on, just slides over to Lucius once he falls in bed, throws a leg around him, and falls asleep in an instant.