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Chapter Text

It was two days before Christmas, but for the world’s best Quidditch players, Christmas meant the World Quidditch Championships. For Harry, it meant the chance to finally get a look at Draco Malfoy again.

Harry always thought Malfoy hadn’t changed much since they had finished school not too long ago, but oh how wrong he was.

Mercifully, Malfoy had put on significantly more weight and muscle since the end of the war, especially when one considered that he was practically skeletal during their final year. It wasn’t like Harry had fared much better, being on the run from an evil psychopath and all, but it was even more startling on the pointy git. Malfoy’s face had filled out again, making his cheekbones prominent, but not ghastly. That perfectly tousled blond hair was thicker and brighter, tempting Harry to run his fingers through it. Cords of muscles lined his forearms and every time he reached above his head, a sliver of muscled skin on his abdomen peeked through. 

All to say, every time Harry saw Malfoy, Malfoy seemed to mutate into something at least three times more attractive than their last encounter. It was infuriating and distracting and quite frankly, unjust. 

Apart from his irritatingly handsome appearance, Harry loathed Malfoy for other reasons, but the primary one was, of course, that they were bitter rivals to the very end. 

As Seeker for the Silvercoil Serpents, Draco Malfoy was Harry’s fiercest competitor. As much as Harry liked to win, he could also appreciate a worthy opponent. And playing with Malfoy had always given Harry the biggest rush. No one challenged or taunted him the way Malfoy did, which made his body sing with bloodthirst and determination. 

The sky was overcast, threatening to open up right above his head as he watched Oliver Wood, Lions’ captain, and Marcus Flint, Serpents’ captain, shake hands in the middle of the pitch. 

There had always been a ruthless rivalry between the two teams in particular. The Serpents had a reputation for being cunning and sly with all of their strategies. The Lions, on the other hand, were aggressive and forward. 

Of course, there was nobody who knew how to play against Malfoy better than Harry. But if he thought that that would give him any sort of competitive advantage, he was wrong. 

Over the last two years as a junior player, Malfoy had refined his skills beyond Harry’s wildest imagination. Though it pained Harry to acknowledge, Malfoy was an incredible Seeker, focused and skilled beyond all measure. Harry would never admit this out loud, but he had spent far too long studying tapes of Malfoy’s matches in order to study his technique and understand how he could beat his rival. But it didn’t matter how much he studied. Harry would never be able to perfect some of Malfoy’s moves. That being said, there was no earthly way that Malfoy would have been able to replicate many of Harry’s either. 

They were both incredibly skilled, but in very different ways, which made it even more infuriating to play against one another. They were constantly outsmarting the other with advanced and amateur tactics alike. 

Despite it all, Malfoy was the person Harry liked playing against the most. 

“Did you get hit by a ledger before this match or is that just your face?”

A ghost of a smile pulled on Harry’s lips, but he didn’t turn to look at the person now standing next to him. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned about my face, Malfoy.” 

“More concerned about your ability to see,” Malfoy drawled. “I can’t stand another boring match. I nearly fell asleep playing the Cannons last week.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. Only Malfoy would consider a match against the reigning champions boring, though in his defense, Malfoy had caught the Snitch within twenty minutes without breaking a sweat. “Oh don’t worry about that. I will make you work for it.” 

“Work for the win? Glad you acknowledge I’m still the one winning at the end of this.” 

Finally, Harry turned to look at the man head-on. Malfoy’s eyes glittered with a competitive sparkle, a smirk tugging at his mouth. It was like looking back at a memory, seeing Malfoy decked out in his emerald green kit while Harry’s was all red. It had been a massive joke in the papers for so long now, about how neither of them were able to let go of their rivalry since they were kids, but to Harry, it seemed like fate. 

Harry wanted to say something biting, but he had lost his ability to speak. This was why Malfoy’s newfound attractiveness was so infuriating. It deeply messed with Harry’s cognitive function. His mouth became dry and his palms became sweaty and his heart did this bizarre thing where it wanted to leap out of his chest. He hated feeling out of control, and that was exactly what Malfoy did to him.

Clearing his throat, Harry adjusted his gloves. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

Malfoy hummed, looking up at the overcast sky. “It does indeed. Scared?”

“If anyone is scared, it’s you. Worried about messing up that hair?”

“Potter,” Malfoy purred, “I didn’t realize you cared about my hair so much.”

“I don’t.”

Malfoy waved a nonchalant hand. “It’s alright to admit it.” 

“At least my hair doesn’t need 95 products just to look like that.”

Malfoy’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Ah, so you saw my new commercial!” 

“How could I miss it?” It had been plastered on every single surface across the country, after all. 

“If you want, I’d be happy to send you some free products,” Malfoy offered sagely. 

“No need.” It probably wasn’t worth mentioning that he was in fact the air of the Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion fortune, which notoriously didn’t work on Potter hair. 

“It would be my absolute honor,” Malfoy said sincerely, placing a hand over his chest. 

“Why don’t you save that for your adoring fans?”

“Fans want autographs, not hair products. You would know if you had any.” 

“You are the most infuriating individual alive.”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair assessment,” Malfoy countered. “Have you met every individual alive?”

It was like they were eleven years old again. Harry tried to find an insult but stepped on it once his captain made his way toward him. 

“Ready?” Wood asked, tilting his chin at Harry. The wind swept through his hair, but his eyes were focused and determined. It was comforting to know that Harry wasn’t the only person who took their rivalry as seriously as he did. 

Harry nodded, making himself focus on the match that was about to start. 

Wood turned to face Malfoy next, standing taller. “Best of luck, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy fluttered his lashes as Wood walked away. “And to you, Oliver.” 

If Harry wasn’t mistaken, he had rolled that last r unnecessarily long. 

A low whistle sounded from Malfoy. “Merlin, he’s a biscuit, isn’t he?” 

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Shut up.” 

“Admit it,” Malfoy murmured, still looking at Wood’s retreating arse. “He is one fine specimen.” 

If Harry ground his teeth any further, they would surely turn to dust. “Look at your own captain.” 

“Merlin, Potter,” Malfoy scoffed, sounding genuinely surprised. “Do you have a hard on for your captain? I didn’t expect that from the golden boy.” 

Godric, he was so annoying. “Do you find pleasure in running your mouth unnecessarily?” 

“Is there a reason why you’re avoiding my question?”

How was Harry supposed to explain that it wasn’t the idea of Harry fancying Wood that made his stomach churn? 

Inhaling a deep breath to study himself, he turned and stuck out his hand. “Best of luck.” 

Malfoy gripped it firmly, eyes never wavering from Harry’s. “And to you.” 

Harry forced himself to take three deep breaths and not look at Malfoy’s retreating body as he made his way over to the rest of his team. Merlin, the git was so cocky it was a wonder Harry hadn’t bashed his skull in yet. He had such a way of pushing Harry over the edge, rocking him to his core and utterly infuriating him. But he couldn’t focus on any of that now. He had a job to do, one that he loved. 

When the Brightclaw Lions had reached out to him right after Hogwarts with an offer to be their Seeker, Harry had taken it without a second thought. After the war, he no longer wanted to be an Auror. He had seen enough fighting and violence for one lifetime and wasn’t interested in running back to the arms of the Ministry after everything had occurred. Two years into the gig, he could confirm that he had made the right decision. 

There was nothing he enjoyed more than being on the back of a broom, feeling the wind in his hair as he raced through a new stadium each week, trying to catch the Snitch. It was liberating and exciting, just the right amount, that he could feel alive but not at the risk of constant death all the time. 

His only worry at the time had been Ron—namely, how his best friend would take it. They had planned to be Auror partners their whole lives, and now Harry was planning to leave him high and dry. But when Harry finally summoned the strength to share his news with Ron, Ron was so relieved he nearly collapsed into Harry’s arms, confessing that he wanted to work at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes anyway, but didn’t know how to approach Harry with that revelation. Hermione, of course, had just rolled her eyes at both of their stupidity but was very supportive of their individual career goals, and the fact that neither of them would interfere with her job at the Ministry, leading much-needed reform in the Wizengamot. 

Harry centered his mind, forcing himself to focus as Lee Jordan’s deep voice reverberated through the stadium. Slowly, the noise around him disappeared. There was nothing except for the pitch and him. He was fast. He was capable. And he was the best damn Seeker in the league.

But even as he told himself that, he looked over to the side where Malfoy was gearing up and unease settled deep into his stomach. But there was nothing more he could do than his absolute best. 

The match was a study in pursuit. 

Harry chased Malfoy through spirals and dives that scraped the edge of recklessness, muscles screaming as he forced his Firebolt to keep pace. Malfoy flew with maddening confidence, letting Harry close the distance again and again before slipping just out of reach. He was rolling his broom at the last second and cutting sharp angles that left Harry correcting midair. It felt intentional, like a challenge thrown over a shoulder. 

Catch up, Malfoy seemed to say with that infuriating sparkle in his eyes. If you can.

The Snitch appeared in fragments. Golden flashes between bodies, a glint near the sun, gone before Harry could commit. Each time, Malfoy hesitated just long enough to make Harry believe. When Malfoy finally broke formation and dove hard, Harry followed without thinking, wind tearing at his eyes as the pitch rushed up to meet them. The Snitch burst into full view, brilliant and close, and Harry surged forward, hand outstretched—

Too late.

The whistle shrieked, sharp and final. 

Harry pulled up violently, breath ripping from his lungs as he looked back and saw Malfoy slowing, Snitch clenched in his fist, already glancing over with something unreadable in his expression. Harry hovered there, heart pounding, knowing with sick clarity that Malfoy had led him exactly where he wanted him. 

And this time, Harry had lost.

As his feet hit the ground, Harry cursed under his breath, replaying every single move and all the ways he could have—should have—been better. He had been baited, fair and square. It was unacceptable. 

The players lined up to shake hands, a display of sportsmanship and civility. To Harry, it felt like walking on hot coals, but he kept his head held high. 

Malfoy’s grip was firm as he smiled, hiding something sinister. “Well played, Potter.” 

Even though his eye twitched, Harry said, “Yeah, you too.” 

Malfoy winked, causing rapid palpitations in Harry’s poor heart. “See you next year.” 

Despite himself, a small smile pulled on Harry’s lips. 

Next year. 

They didn’t hate each other, not really. 

What Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy shared was much more of a heated rivalry.

Chapter Text

A year later, Harry knew better than to pretend Malfoy was just another Seeker. 

Not that he ever did, of course.

The moment he spotted him hovering across the pitch, green banners snapping in the wind, something in Harry’s focus sharpened painfully. Playing Malfoy was never simple. It was fast and ruthless and personal in a way no other match ever managed to be.

The whistle blew and the pitch exploded into motion. 

Chasers tore forward, Bludgers screaming past in brutal arcs, but Harry barely registered any of it. His attention locked onto Malfoy as he shot upward, robes flaring, body aligned perfectly with the broom beneath him. 

Malfoy flew like he belonged there, loose and confident, every movement precise enough to look effortless. Harry chased instinctively, cutting across the air to match him, pulse roaring in his ears.

They crossed paths near the commentator’s box, close enough that Harry caught the flash of Malfoy’s grin. 

“Try to keep up this time, Potter,” Malfoy called, voice carrying easily through the wind. 

Harry snapped his broom into a tight turn in response, forcing Malfoy to adjust, and felt a vicious spark when Malfoy laughed, sharp and delighted. 

The Snitch stayed hidden, teasing them with absence. 

Harry tracked patterns, scanning the sun and the shadows, forcing his attention outward even as Malfoy kept drifting back into his peripheral vision. Malfoy flew closer than necessary, invading Harry’s airspace, daring him to react. Their shoulders nearly brushed during a steep climb and Harry had to grit his teeth, hands tightening on the handle as his body responded before his brain caught up.

Malfoy had changed in the last year. Though he would deny it if questioned, he had been paying attention to all the other advertisements and magazine covers that Malfoy had graced over the last year but seeing him in person was something else entirely. 

He was stronger now, broader through the shoulders, confidence settling into his movements like it had finally learned to stay. It was distracting in a way Harry resented deeply. The way Malfoy leaned into a dive, the clean line of his back, the sharp focus in his eyes when he glanced over. All of it pulled Harry’s attention off where it should be. 

He missed the Snitch once because of it, gold flashing past just out of reach while Malfoy laughed outright.

“That was sloppy,” Malfoy called, circling lazily above him. “Thinking about my hair again?”

Harry growled something unrepeatable and shot after him, anger fueling his speed. They wove through a cluster of players, Bludgers narrowly missing their heads, and for several frantic seconds it was just speed and instinct and refusal to give ground. 

Malfoy flew beautifully under pressure, Harry would give him that. Every feint was calculated, every hesitation designed to draw Harry into overcommitting.

The Snitch finally appeared near the far stands, glinting viciously in the sun. Harry and Malfoy spotted it at the same time. They dove together, wind tearing at Harry’s eyes as the crowd roared into a single, overwhelming sound. Malfoy cut across Harry’s path, close enough that Harry felt the wake of his broom, and Harry cursed, rolling hard to keep the Snitch in sight.

Malfoy glanced back mid-dive, eyes bright, mouth curved in a grin that promised trouble. He slowed just a fraction, baiting Harry into surging forward. 

Last year, Harry would have taken it. 

Last year, he had taken it.

This time, he didn’t.

Harry held back, just barely, forcing himself to breathe, to watch. 

Malfoy accelerated again, confident Harry would follow, and that confidence cost him. The Snitch juked sharply to the left and Harry was already there, broom screaming in protest as he pushed it harder than he had all match.

Malfoy swore, sharp and surprised, and corrected too late.

Harry’s fingers closed around cool metal and the world seemed to snap into clarity. The whistle blew almost immediately, shrill and unmistakable, and Harry shot upward on pure adrenaline, fist clenched tight around the Snitch as the roar of the crowd washed over him.

He hovered there, chest heaving, disbelief giving way to something fierce and triumphant. When he looked over, Malfoy was already slowing, expression unreadable as he drifted closer.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Malfoy tilted his head, eyes flicking briefly to the Snitch in Harry’s hand. 

“About time,” he said, voice low, carrying only to Harry. “I was starting to think you liked chasing me more than winning.”

Harry laughed, breathless and real, and for once did not bother to hide the satisfaction burning through him. “Careful, Malfoy,” he said. “You almost distracted me again.”

Malfoy’s mouth curved, sharp and pleased. “Always a pleasure, Potter.”

Harry shook the Snitch in his hand. “Pleasure’s all mine, truly.” 

A clear laugh rang through the air as Malfoy swooped down to meet the rest of his team. In the next second, Harry himself was swarmed in red, people patting his head and thumping his back aggressively. This continued through the post-match interviews and all the way to the pub that they had all decided they simply had to go to. 

The pub smelled of sweat, ale, and the faint tang of roasted meat, but Harry hardly noticed. He dumped his broom in the corner, brushing a hand over his hair, and let out a laugh that was more relief than anything else. 

Wood crowded around, clapping him on the back, shouting congratulations, and for a few minutes, the world felt exactly how it should: boisterous but victorious.

Later, Wood appeared beside him, arm slung over Harry’s shoulder, eyes glittering like he was about to interrogate rather than celebrate. “So,” he said, grinning, “another match against your bitter rival. You didn’t hold back, I hope?”

“I gave it everything,” Harry said, forcing a grin and swiping at a drop of sweat on his forehead. “Malfoy’s good, though. Faster than last year, cleaner turns. Made me work for it. He’s insanely good.”

Wood raised an eyebrow, grinning knowingly. “Insane, huh? You sound like you’re impressed.”

Harry shrugged, cheeks heating. “I am. You have to be, or you’d get destroyed. He makes you better just by being there, just by flying like that.”

Wood’s gaze was assessing as he leaned closer, voice low. “My word, Potter. I’ve never heard you this effusive with praise for anyone else. And you’ve defeated world champions without even blinking.”

Harry laughed, too quickly, and waved a hand as if to dismiss it. “No, no. Just sportsmanship and respect, that’s all. He’s good. Very good.”

Wood smirked, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Just good. Sure. If I didn’t know any better, it almost sounds as though you like playing against him.” 

Harry froze for a heartbeat, then forced a laugh and shook his head. “Like? No. He’s just… er, he’s brilliant in the air. That’s all.”

“Right,” Wood smiled. “Of course. Well, he’s been looking at you from across the bar if you wanted to go tell him that in person.” 

Harry nearly choked on his drink as his eyes swung across. Merlin, how had Harry not noticed him before? Of course it would be Malfoy, leaning casually against the bar, surveying the room with the same cool, effortless composure he always seemed to carry. 

The laughter and chaos of the victory celebration around him dulled, replaced by a focused awareness that Malfoy was there, and that everything about him still made Harry’s chest tighten in ways he didn’t entirely understand.

Deciding to be cordial, Harry made his way over, weaving past teammates who were too busy joking and teasing to notice, feeling that strange pull that always drew him to Malfoy in a way no one else could manage. 

Malfoy’s eyes lifted as he approached, sharp and calculating, and a slow, sly smile curved across his face. 

“Potter,” he said, voice smooth, teasing. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Really?” Harry replied, sliding onto the stool beside him. “You didn’t expect to find me here in the pub with my entire team?”

“Touché,” Malfoy chuckled, the word rolling off his tongue smoothly. It was just one word, but Harry couldn’t help it feel like the language was natural for him. 

“So, are you drinking because you’re that devastated that I beat you?” 

Malfoy laughed. “You caught me.” 

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Harry replied sagely. “I am very good, you know.” 

“Oh yes, I do know. Not many people can get the best of me.” 

“Only two in the last year, I believe,” Harry recounted. “Myself included.”

Malfoy smirked, tilting his glass. “Keeping tabs on me, Potter?”

Harry laughed, catching the glint in his eye. “As if you don’t?”

“Of course I do,” Malfoy said lightly, leaning casually against the bar. “Only gave up the Snitch three times in the last year and one of them was in the rain so the Colombians have an inherent advantage anyway. Shortest average game length and quickest turnaround as well. Not too shabby.” 

Harry’s stomach tightened. It was one thing to admire Malfoy on the pitch, watching him dominate the air like it was his natural element. It was another to realize that Malfoy was watching him too. He had been keeping track of Harry’s matches over the last year? Even Wood wouldn’t know those numbers by heart. 

Harry nodded toward the bartender.

“One for my biggest fan over here,” he said, nodding at Malfoy. “And one for me, obviously.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “You’re buying me a drink?”

“I figured it’s the least I can do,” Harry said, shrugging. 

Malfoy laughed, low and easy, the kind of laugh that made Harry forget to breathe for a second. Harry’s grin widened despite himself. 

He took a sip, letting the warmth of the drink fill him, and allowed himself a careful glance down the bar, noticing the way Malfoy’s robes were still damp with the chill from the pitch, clinging in all the right ways, his hair still catching the light in sharp lines. 

Focus, Harry reminded himself. He tried to push the thought away, and failed.

“So,” Malfoy said smoothly, shifting in his seat. “Do you watch every game I play, or just the important ones?”

Harry laughed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy smirked, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t play dumb. You watch. You always watch. Every turn, every dive, every tactic you think you can do better. Admit it.”

Harry’s throat went dry, but he forced a laugh. “Maybe. You make it hard not to.”

Malfoy leaned closer, voice teasing but low. “You know, I do the same. I notice when you improve, when you push yourself harder. You’re predictable, in the best ways.”

Harry froze for a moment, startled at how much that pleased him. Neither of them mentioned the long hours replaying games in their heads, the careful mental notes, the statistics they probably kept on each other without ever admitting it. 

But in the back of Harry’s mind, he noted it with sharp clarity: they were always watching. Always aware. Always trying to stay a little step ahead.

“I’m looking forward to our next match,” Malfoy said, voice softening slightly, almost conspiratorial, “I’m always eager to see what you do.”

Harry grinned, feeling that thrill again, the one that always came when Malfoy’s attention was trained on him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll give you a run for your money.”

Malfoy’s lips curved into a smirk, eyes sparkling with mischief and challenge. “We’ll see, Potter. We’ll see.”

It was in that exact moment that a woman came up to both of them, placing a dainty hand on Malfoy’s forearm. He tensed, just a little bit and Harry immediately knew that it was because she had touched him where his Mark was. It certainly did not escape his attention that Malfoy had always stuck to long sleeve shirts and even though Harry didn’t think that he needed them, he could understand why.

The woman was beautiful, curvy and blonde. Her red dress was tight fitting and accentuated all of her perfect features. Red painted lips, high cheekbones, and dazzling blue eyes. All of that did absolutely nothing for Harry.

But Malfoy’s eyes flickered with interest.

She leaned in, lips grazing the shell of Malfoy’s ear. “Bonsoir.” 

“Bonjour, ma belle,” Malfoy purred. 

“Il fait tellement froid ici. Je me demandais si tu avais envie d'aller te réchauffer quelque part?” 

Whatever she said made Malfoy grin wider than Harry had ever seen before. It was like Harry was forgotten, all of Malfoy’s attention solely on the woman. This was a side of Malfoy Harry didn’t really get to see. The suave womanizer that the papers claimed he was. Harry knew better than to take the Prophet’s word for it, but it wasn’t very hard to believe. Especially not now, when Malfoy was giving a woman bedroom eyes right in front of him. 

“Excellente idée,” Malfoy crooned, standing up. 

The woman hesitated, finally giving Harry a look. “Et ton ami?” 

Malfoy’s eyes rolled for a brief moment. “Vouliez-vous qu'il se joigne à nous?”

The woman swatted his chest playfully. “Je veux juste m'assurer que je ne dérange personne.”

Finally, Malfoy looked at Harry. His gaze was searching and Harry tried to remember to keep his expression blank even though his chest ached with something unidentified. 

“Ne t'inquiète pas,” Malfoy said, not taking his eyes off Harry. “Il n'est pas intéressé par moi. S'il l'était, on serait déjà en train de faire monter la température dans la pièce.”

“Whatever you’re saying, it doesn’t sound very nice,” Harry said, trying to sound harsh, but it only came out desperate. He needed to get a grip on himself and whatever this was. Malfoy was at perfect liberty to do anything he wanted with whoever he wanted. Why should Harry care?

Malfoy’s smile was icy. “ Have a good night, Potter. Thank you for the drink. Enjoy your success.” 

“Thanks.” Harry nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “See you next year.” 

“À l'année prochaine,” he said, eyes moving over Harry’s face. 

Malfoy barely spared him another glance as he walked away with his arm around the woman’s waist.

Harry drained his entire drink, pretending like his chest wasn’t hollow and caving in on itself. He didn’t feel like celebrating his win much after that. It felt, in fact, like he had lost something but he couldn’t quite place what.

Chapter Text

Photoshoots were a royal pain in the arse. 

As somebody who deeply disliked attention, Harry particularly hated when his agent booked these opportunities for him. However, he did know that they were important for his image and his team and that this was simply the life of a celebrity. He was no stranger to people taking his photo when he didn’t want to be photographed, but the concept of posing in his full kit was inexplicably even weirder than his privacy being violated.

The pitch was transformed into something sleek and unreal, banners arranged to flap gently, even though there was no wind. Floating lights hovered at carefully measured heights, warming the air and casting a flattering glow that made the whole place feel artificial. 

Harry adjusted the collar of his robes for the third time and immediately felt foolish for it.

This was not what he was good at.

He was good at speed, at instinct, at flying until his muscles burned and his thoughts narrowed to a single bright focus. Standing still while strangers scrutinized him from every angle was something else entirely. He shifted his weight, hands curling and uncurling at his sides, and tried to look like someone who belonged in a promotional spread rather than someone waiting for instructions he did not understand.

“Mr. Potter,” the photographer called, a clipboard tucked under her arm. “We’ll start with some individual shots. Just try to relax, alright? It will be over before you know it.”

Harry nodded, which did nothing to help. He mounted his broom, hovered a few feet off the ground, and attempted what he thought might pass for composed. The camera clicked incessantly as he was told to rotate approximately fifty times. He forced himself not to flinch every time the shutters sounded and someone made a comment about his appearance.

Then, all of a sudden, the atmosphere changed and Harry immediately knew why. 

He wasn’t alone on set. Since they were filming promotional materials for the World Cup, the league was pairing up rival Seekers to entice the audience. 

Naturally, that meant Harry was paired with none other than Draco Malfoy.

Harry felt it before he saw Malfoy, the subtle shift of attention pulling toward one point like gravity. When he turned, Malfoy was walking onto the pitch with infuriating ease, already mid conversation with one of the stylists. 

Merlin, he looked immaculate. His robes were tailored to within an inch of their lives, fitted in a way that emphasized long lines and quiet strength without ever looking restrictive. The fabric caught the light when he moved, dark and sleek against his pale skin.

Harry forgot to look away.

Malfoy greeted the photographer with a smooth nod and an easy smile, already at home in the role. He accepted a broom handed to him, testing the balance with a practiced hand, and when he finally glanced toward Harry, his eyes sharpened with interest.

“Potter,” he said, pleasantly. “Did they tell you to scowl, or does that come naturally?”

Harry snapped his mouth shut and dragged his gaze upward, meeting Malfoy’s eyes instead of the distracting lines of his body. “It’s my default emotion, of course.” 

“Of course,” Malfoy drawled. 

“Nice to see you again,” Harry said. “Ready to enjoy yourself?”

Malfoy’s smile widened just a touch. “Immensely.”

They were positioned together after that. 

Rival Seekers, the photographer reminded them, clapping her hands briskly. 

Tension. Awareness. Competition. 

Harry almost laughed at that. He could feel Malfoy beside him without looking, could sense the space he occupied with irritating clarity. 

Harry stood stiffly, broom held too tight, while Malfoy leaned with casual grace, one hip angled, posture relaxed but intentional. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a magazine illustration of confidence. The difference between them felt painfully obvious.

“Chins up,” the photographer instructed. “Eyes sharp. You are watching each other.”

Harry turned his head.

Mistake.

Up close, Malfoy was worse. Better. Merlin, he didn’t know. 

The tailored robes traced the strength in his shoulders, the way his stance spoke of balance and control earned through years of flying. His hair had been styled just enough to look effortless, and under the lights his eyes looked impossibly bright. Harry had to forcibly redirect his gaze before it dipped somewhere inappropriate.

“Hold,” the photographer said. “That is excellent. Wow. The passion, the tension.”

Harry’s heart was pounding, and not from exertion. He reminded himself to breathe.

Malfoy, meanwhile, did not seem fazed in the slightest. If anything, he looked amused, eyes flicking over Harry with open curiosity.

“Try not to look like you are waiting for a Bludger,” Malfoy murmured quietly.

Harry shot him a glare. “Why are you enjoying this so much, you peacock?”

Malfoy’s lips curved. “I always enjoy being looked at.”

They shifted through pose after pose. 

Facing off. Circling. Mounted on brooms as if mid chase. 

Each time Malfoy moved, it was with deliberate ease, every angle flattering, every position confident. Harry followed instructions as best he could, but his attention kept drifting despite himself. The set of Malfoy’s back when he leaned forward. The way his hands rested easily on the broom handle. The quiet strength in his thighs when he braced for a launch.

Harry caught himself staring more than once and had to tear his eyes away, heat creeping up his neck. It was absurd. He had flown against Malfoy for years. He had seen him in motion countless times. This should not have felt new.

And yet.

“Mr. Potter,” the photographer said, sounding mildly exasperated. “Please focus. The quicker we do this, the quicker you can leave!”

Embarrassed, Harry nodded quickly and forced himself into position. He mounted his broom again, letting muscle memory take over. This, at least, he understood. He leaned forward, posture settling, body aligning instinctively. The camera clicked rapidly.

When he glanced to the side, Malfoy was watching him openly now, head tilted, expression thoughtful rather than teasing.

“Tellement parfait,” Malfoy said quietly.

Harry nearly lost his balance. He still hadn’t learned French in the last year since he had seen Malfoy, but it wasn’t too hard to guess the words. He recovered quickly, cheeks burning, and muttered something noncommittal. Malfoy’s expression softened in a way Harry did not have words for.

By the time the shoot finally wrapped, Harry felt wrung out. Standing still had somehow been more exhausting than flying full tilt for an hour. Not to mention, controlling every single one of his expressions for the shots where he felt far too close to Malfoy. Or even Malfoy’s solo shots where his trousers hugged his arse in devastating ways as his shirt rode up just a little to catch that tantalizing sliver of skin on his stomach. 

Godric’s beard. Harry needed to get a hold of himself. This was not normal behavior. 

Malfoy, on the other hand, looked as though he could do another round without effort, thanking the crew, adjusting his cuffs, every movement polished and precise.

They were both in the changing rooms when Malfoy glanced over at him. “You hate this sort of thing.”

Harry huffed. “That obvious?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “You look like you would rather be anywhere else.”

“And you look like you were born for it.”

Malfoy smiled, faint and pleased. “Perhaps.”

“I feel like I need a shower after all those people touching me,” Harry groaned, pulling out clothes from his bag. 

“I might need one too,” Malfoy replied, running a hand down his face. “Too much makeup.” 

“I guess they decided you needed it more than me,” Harry said serenely. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but a small smile pulled at his lips anyway. 

Harry stripped out of his robes quickly, grateful for something familiar to do with his hands. His skin still felt too warm, charged with leftover nerves and the strange intensity of being watched for hours.

He turned the shower on and stepped under the spray, letting the water pound against his shoulders. Steam began to curl up almost immediately, softening the edges of the room. Harry closed his eyes, breathing out slowly, trying to shake the image of Malfoy under the lights. Those tailored robes, that easy confidence, that infuriating smile.

The water masked the sound of footsteps, but Harry sensed the change anyway.

Another shower turned on beside him.

Harry opened his eyes, heart giving a traitorous lurch. He stared at the tiled wall in front of him, resolutely not looking sideways, even though he knew exactly who stood on the other side of that thin divider. 

A soft chuckle sounded faintly through the stream and then Harry couldn’t help himself. He looked. And Merlin, how he wished he could look at that view forever. 

Water ran rivulets down each smooth plane of Malfoy’s torso, as if clinging to him with desperation. Harry understood their torment. He stood under the spray with his head tipped back slightly, water tracing clean lines down his neck and shoulders. His hair was darker now, slicked back, drops clinging to his lashes when he lowered his gaze. The steam softened him, blurred the sharpness just enough to make Harry’s chest feel tight.

Harry felt something creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the water. He adjusted his stance, turning slightly away from the divider, as if that might help. It did not. He could hear Malfoy moving, the quiet shift of weight, the sound of water hitting skin at a different rhythm than his own.

And then, as if drawn by Harry’s thoughts, Malfoy turned to look at him. 

Harry felt the heat rise before he could stop it, a slow, unmistakable flush creeping up his neck and settling in his cheeks. He was grateful for the steam, for the way it blurred everything, because he could feel himself blushing like an idiot. His heart had picked up a dangerous rhythm, thudding harder than it ever did before a match, and he pressed his palm briefly to the tile as if grounding himself might help.

“I told you I always enjoy being looked at,” Malfoy reminded him, voice smoky and low. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I—” 

But Malfoy didn’t wait to hear whatever pathetic excuse Harry was going to come up with. Instead, he turned off his own shower and then moved to Harry’s. The space was tiny, far too small for two grown men, let alone fit Quidditch players. It felt like all the oxygen around him had disappeared, and he was light-headed. 

His pulse refused to slow, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. He forced a steady breath, willing the warmth to be nothing more than heat, willing his heart to remember how to behave.

It did not.

Harry stayed very still, aware of every movement Malfoy made before him and wondered distantly when exactly Malfoy had learned how to undo him without even trying.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to drift lower to Malfoy’s cock. Merlin. 

It was perfect. Long and hard and almost certainly aroused. Not dissimilar to Harry’s own erection, which was currently straining toward Malfoy in a desperate plea for attention.

Harry’s breaths were shorter and faster as Malfoy slowly backed him against the wall, walking toward him in careful, confident strides. When they were just a hairsbreadth apart, Harry inhaled sharply, taking in Malfoy’s scent of green apples and sandalwood and sugar. How did he always smell so bloody good?

Malfoy’s hands came to rest gently on Harry’s waist, making him shiver despite the steam curling all around them. Leaning in, he whispered, “Say yes or no.” 

There wasn’t even a moment of hesitation before Harry replied, “Yes.” 

Malfoy dug his face into Harry’s neck as he grasped Harry’s cock in his fist tightly. Harry’s hips jerked as he thrust himself further into Malfoy’s palm. His skin was warm and calloused, not at all how Harry had imagined Malfoy to be. Not that he imagined what Malfoy would feel like frequently, of course. But if he did, he would have always imagined Malfoy was cold and slimy. Not hot and desperate and real. Not so bloody good. 

Malfoy’s teeth sunk lightly into Harry’s neck, sucking hard. Merlin, that was going to leave a mark but Harry didn’t have it in him to care. He kept stroking Harry slowly, letting the water fall around them like a curtain shielding them from the outside world. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Malfoy murmured. 

“Not—not with a man.” 

“Ah,” Malfoy murmured. “So I’m your first.” 

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry groaned. 

“So disrespectful,” Malfoy said condescendingly as he slowed his fist. “You’re going to have to ask nicely if you want something from me, Potter.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Not quite,” Malfoy taunted, slowing his fist even further. “Try again.”

Harry slammed his head against the wall, warring between his desire and his pride. But when his eyes fell on Malfoy’s silver ones, lit with lust and desire and something more, it wasn’t a fair fight at all. 

“Please.” 

Malfoy’s smile sent a jolt of arousal swarming through Harry’s body. “Good boy.” 

Oh, fuck. 

And then his fist sped up, hard and fast, up and down, jerking Harry perfectly. It was as if he knew exactly the way Harry would have wanted it, all the nights he slipped his hand under his pants and made himself come. But this was so much better, so much hotter. Fuck, it was too much, too hot, too perfect— 

Harry came all over Malfoy’s fist embarrassingly quick, but he couldn’t care less. That was the hottest moment of his entire life, whether he liked it or not. The sight of his come over Malfoy’s fist… fuck. It took a moment for him to catch his breath, staring at Malfoy’s flushed, triumphant face. 

“Did you like that?” Malfoy asked, but there was an edge to his voice, as if Harry’s answer really mattered. 

“Yes,” Harry replied, throat hoarse. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” 

Harry’s eyes dipped down to Malfoy’s erect cock, which was still leaking with pre-come. “Don’t you—”

“You can barely look at me, Potter,” Malfoy said, shaking his head. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.” 

He began to move away but Harry caught his wrist. Did he think Harry was disgusted? Or was it still about that damn Mark on his forearm? Malfoy’s eyes flickered with unsurety, and Harry hated that. He wanted to get rid of that immediately. And so, he did the only thing he could think of. 

He sank to his knees. 

“Potter—” 

Harry didn’t let him protest before he put his mouth on Malfoy’s cock. It was foreign, but not unpleasant. Salty and hard and warm. Malfoy tasted as good as he smelled, filling Harry’s mouth almost perfectly. He enjoyed the feeling far more than he thought he would. Granted, he had no idea what he was doing but he figured he would just do… what he liked being done to him. That had to be a safe bet, right? 

Suddenly insecure, he glanced up to look at Malfoy, expecting something like surprise, or disdain or even just unimpressed. Instead, he saw reverence and awe. Maybe even admiration. Malfoy’s chest heaved as he looked down at Harry. With shaking hands, he reached out to cup Harry’s jaw and stroked a thumb under Harry’s eye. Merlin, why was it so tender? 

Slowly, Malfoy began thrusting his hips further into Harry’s mouth, moving his hand from Harry’s jaw to his wet hair. A moan escaped Harry when Malfoy fisted a hand in Harry’s dark strands and tugged. All the while, he did his absolute best not to choke on Malfoy’s length. 

“Merde,” Malfoy rasped, not taking his eyes off Harry. 

It was such a heady feeling to have this man’s full attention on him, even though they had been in one another’s orbit for years now. This felt different. This felt important.

“I’m going to come,” Malfoy warned. 

Not feeling quite as ready to swallow a mouth full of come, Harry pulled off but didn’t stop stroking his cock. Malfoy’s knees buckled as he held himself upright with one hand on the tile behind Harry. Two more strokes and he was coming all over Harry’s face. It was obscene and inappropriate and Merlin, the hottest thing Harry had ever seen. This image was going to be imprinted in his mind for the rest of his bloody life. 

“Parfait,” Malfoy murmured, running his finger below Harry’s cheek again. 

Harry was speechless. 

Malfoy was still panting as he pulled Harry back to his feet. 

Silence hung heavy between the two of them, as awareness sunk in. 

What had they just done? 

 Harry opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Malfoy beat him to it. Taking a step back, he said, “I’ll see you in a couple months, yes? To kick off the year?” 

“Yes,” Harry said lamely. 

“Okay.” Malfoy took another step back, scratching his forearm as he kept it turned away from Harry. “Well, I’ll see you then, Potter.” 

“Happy holidays.” Harry swallowed. “I hope you have a good time with your family.” 

Malfoy’s expression shuttered for a moment, too quick for Harry to read much into it. It was only then that he remembered that Narcissa Malfoy had died not too long after the war. It was just Malfoy and his father now, and as far as Harry knew, Lucius had never come to a single match to support his son. 

Harry felt like a massive git. “I meant—” 

“Happy holidays, Potter.” 

Merlin, he had fucked up.

But at least this time, he only had to wait three months to see Malfoy again.

Chapter Text

Three months was long enough for the memory to slightly dull at the edges.

It was not, however, long enough to disappear.

Every time Harry went to bed at night, he could only remember those silver eyes boring down, looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the whole world. Every time he grasped his cock and slid two fingers inside himself, it was Malfoy’s name he was moaning into his pillow. 

No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the memory out of his mind. 

The terrifying thing was that he wasn’t even sure he wanted to. 

But there were smaller details that were evading him. Like exactly how Malfoy’s hand felt on Harry’s jaw. Like the sounds of Malfoy’s gasps and the feel of his fingers on Harry’s waist. He wanted to remember those things too. He wanted to relearn them all, and experience them all over again. 

It had been, without a doubt, the most erotic moment of his life and he doubted anything would ever top it. 

For Merlin’s sake, they hadn’t even kissed.

But Harry couldn’t dwell on that now. Not when he had a room full of reporters who were ready to document his every move, his every expression, his every word. 

Harry sat at the narrow table beneath the bright press lights, fingers resting loosely around the microphone stand. The room was smaller than usual, reserved only for headline players ahead of the World Cup season. 

Two chairs. 

Two name placards. 

No teammates to hide behind.

Harry James Potter.

Draco Lucius Malfoy.

Malfoy sat beside him, close enough that Harry could sense the warmth of his presence without looking. He smelled as lovely as he always did, like green apples and sandalwood and it made Harry’s mouth water. He hadn’t realized just how much he had missed that intoxicating scent. 

Malfoy did not fidget. He did not adjust his robes or clear his throat. He looked exactly as Harry remembered from the shower, composed and infuriatingly calm, as if proximity had never rattled him at all.

Harry told himself that meant nothing, even though his own organs were churning inside him. Was Malfoy not affected by him at all? Was Harry pathetic for thinking about Malfoy every single night while Harry was apparently forgettable? Not memorable? 

Merlin, he felt sick. 

“Good afternoon,” said Miranda Quell, senior sports correspondent for the Daily Broom. “Thank you both for being here to kick off the World Cup season.”

Cameras clicked, but Harry kept his gaze forward. This was his job, his career. He needed to focus on this now. 

“We thought it fitting,” Miranda continued, “to begin the season with two of the most closely followed Seekers in the league. Harry Potter of the Brightclaw Lions and Draco Malfoy of the Silvercoil Serpents.”

A murmur of agreement and excitement rippled through the room.

“Let’s start simple,” said Jonah Fleet from Wizarding Sport Weekly. “Harry, how are you feeling going into this season?”

Harry leaned slightly toward the microphone. “Ready,” he said. “Focused. I have put in the work, and I am looking forward to flying again.”

Jonah nodded. “And you, Draco?”

Malfoy’s voice was smooth and unhurried. “The same. I have been training consistently. The competition this year is strong, which makes it interesting.”

Harry resisted the urge to glance sideways. What was it about Malfoy that made Harry feel like he always had to look at him?

Miranda smiled. “You two have faced each other more than any other pair of Seekers currently active. Does that history change how you approach the season?”

Harry answered before he could overthink it. “You learn each other’s habits,” he said. “Their strengths and weaknesses. It raises the bar.”

Malfoy shifted then, just slightly, turning his head enough that Harry felt the movement rather than saw it. “It also removes excuses,” Malfoy added. “There are no surprises left between us.”

Harry’s pulse ticked up. That was not how he would have phrased it, at least not aloud.

“And yet,” Jonah said, scribbling quickly, “your matches are still some of the most unpredictable we see.”

“That is because Potter does not fly the same way twice,” Malfoy said calmly.

Harry finally looked at him.

Malfoy met his gaze without hesitation, silver eyes steady, expression unreadable. The compliment sat between them. 

Harry cleared his throat. “And Malfoy adapts faster than anyone I have played against,” he said. “You cannot rely on old tricks.”

Miranda’s eyebrows lifted. “That sounds like admiration.”

A few reporters laughed softly.

Harry felt heat creep up his neck. “It is respect,” he said. “There is a difference.”

Malfoy smiled then, faint and knowing, and did not contradict him.

“Do you watch each other’s matches outside of scheduled play?” Jonah asked.

Harry hesitated for half a second too long.

“Yes,” Malfoy said easily. “Of course.”

Harry nodded. “Same.”

Miranda leaned forward. “Statistics suggest you both adjust your flying patterns after the other plays. Is that a coincidence or is there something more there?”

Harry chose his words carefully. “You learn from the best competition you have.”

Malfoy tilted his head. “Ignoring your rivals would be irresponsible.”

The air felt tight and charged. Harry could feel the attention pressing in, every reporter sensing there was something just out of reach.

“One last question,” Miranda said. “If you meet in the finals this season, what decides the outcome?”

“Focus,” Harry answered without looking at Malfoy. 

Malfoy answered at the same time. “Control.”

They stopped, then glanced at each other, the smallest flicker of surprise passing between them.

Miranda smiled. “Sounds like we are in for an interesting season.”

The cameras clicked again. Harry sat back, heart beating a little faster than it should have, aware of Malfoy beside him in a way he had never quite learned to ignore.

Three months had passed.

Nothing had settled.

It only got worse at their match two days later. 

The roar of the stadium settled into Harry’s bones before the whistle even blew.

He hovered above the pitch, broom steady beneath him, eyes sweeping the stands once before fixing where they always did. 

Malfoy waited across the circle, robes immaculate, posture loose with confidence. He looked calm and focused. As if this were just another flight rather than a match watched by half the wizarding world.

Harry hated how much that still affected him.

The whistle sounded and the pitch exploded into motion. 

Chasers surged forward, Bludgers screamed past in brutal arcs, and Harry shot upward on instinct, scanning sun and shadow for the first glint of gold. He felt Malfoy move at the same time, their paths angling toward each other without discussion, without hesitation. It was always like this. A shared understanding that the match lived or died between them.

They crossed paths high above the pitch, close enough that Harry caught Malfoy’s eye. A smile flickered there, sharp and quick.

“Slow today, Potter,” Malfoy called lightly.

Harry did not answer. He banked hard to the right, forcing Malfoy to adjust, and felt a flare of satisfaction when Malfoy followed without hesitation. 

They climbed together, air thinning, the crowd a distant blur below. Harry spotted the Snitch first, a brief flash near the sun, and surged forward.

Malfoy was already moving.

They dove in tandem, wind tearing at Harry’s eyes as he pushed his broom harder. The Snitch veered sharply, darting toward the stands, and Harry rolled to follow. Malfoy cut across his path, precise and deliberate, not blocking him outright but forcing Harry to correct. It was clean flying. Infuriatingly clean.

“You’re predictable when you rush,” Malfoy said as they climbed again.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to slow, to breathe, to widen his focus. Malfoy wanted him to be reactive and chasing.

The Snitch vanished again, teasing them with absence. Minutes stretched. Then more. Harry tracked patterns, adjusted angles, refused to let his attention stray. 

Still, Malfoy kept slipping into his awareness. The way he flew just ahead, just close enough to tempt. The ease in his movements. The certainty.

They nearly collided during a sharp turn, shoulders missing by inches. Harry caught the flash of Malfoy’s grin, bright and delighted, and felt his pulse spike in response.

The Snitch reappeared near the far goalposts.

Harry saw it first this time and did not hesitate. He dove, body flattening against the broom, speed building until the world narrowed to gold and wind. He heard Malfoy behind him, felt the pressure of pursuit, and pushed harder.

The Snitch juked left.

Harry followed.

Malfoy did not.

In the split second it took Harry to realize, Malfoy had anticipated the turn. He rolled smoothly, cutting the angle Harry had committed to, and surged ahead with devastating efficiency. Harry tried to correct, muscles screaming as he forced the broom to respond, but it was already slipping away.

The whistle blew.

Harry pulled up hard, chest heaving, the sound slicing through the air with finality. He hovered there, heart pounding, watching as Malfoy slowed a short distance away, Snitch clenched in his fist.

For a moment, the noise of the stadium faded.

Malfoy looked at him across the space between their brooms, expression composed, eyes bright with something that was not quite smugness. Instead, it was something sharper and quieter. 

“Well flown,” Malfoy said, voice carrying easily.

Harry swallowed. It stung. Not because of the loss. Because Malfoy had earned it.

“Yeah,” Harry said, breathless. “You too.”

Malfoy inclined his head, the smallest acknowledgment, then turned toward his team as the crowd erupted. Harry watched him go, pulse still racing, aware with unwelcome clarity that losing to Malfoy somehow never felt like defeat.

Harry was tying his shoelaces on the pitch when Malfoy came to stand next to him after the teams shook hands. It wasn’t obvious. If anyone was looking at them, it would just seem like they were near one another. 

“Are you in a hotel tonight?” Malfoy asked. 

“Er, no,” Harry answered, not looking at him. “We’ve got a Portkey scheduled right after.” 

“Ah,” Malfoy said. He didn’t sound disappointed, just flat. But then again, Harry wasn’t looking at his face. “Well—”

“We play again later this year,” Harry said quickly. “Right?” 

It took Malfoy a moment to respond, and Harry wondered if he thought it was weird that Harry was planning nearly eight months in advance. “Yes, we do.” 

“I’ll have a room after that match,” Harry offered. “We have an extra night.” 

Malfoy hummed, considering.

Harry could feel his pulse thundering in his chest as he tried to remember how to tie his shoes. 

“Alright then,” Malfoy agreed. “See you in November, Potter.” 

Merlin. 

Another eight months.

Chapter Text

It was mortifying to admit, but Harry was not at his best during his next match against Malfoy. 

Harry hovered above the pitch, broom steady beneath him, eyes on the far end where Malfoy waited. The stadium buzzed with expectation, banners snapping, the crowd restless. 

This match mattered. 

Standings were tight. 

The season was nearing its sharpest edge.

And Harry could not stop thinking about later.

He forced his grip to loosen, flexed his fingers once, and drew in a breath. Focus first. Always focus first. He had done this hundreds of times. He knew Malfoy’s flying patterns, his preferred angles, the way he liked to bait before committing. 

He told himself that nothing had changed.

That was a lie.

The whistle blew and Harry shot upward, instinct carrying him into motion. Chasers streaked forward below, Bludgers carving loud, violent paths through the air. Harry scanned automatically, tracking light and movement, but his awareness kept slipping toward Malfoy.

Malfoy flew beautifully today. He always did, but there was something sharpened about him now, a quiet confidence that made Harry’s chest feel tight. His robes streamed cleanly behind him, posture relaxed, movements precise. He looked over once as they crossed paths, expression unreadable, and Harry’s pulse stumbled.

Later, his mind supplied unhelpfully. Away from this. No cameras. No crowd.

Harry cursed under his breath and veered sharply, refocusing. The Snitch flickered briefly near the stands, gone before he could commit. Malfoy had seen it too. They angled toward each other without discussion, without hesitation, the familiar gravity pulling them into the same airspace.

“You look distracted,” Malfoy called lightly as they passed.

Harry shot him a glare. “You wish.”

Malfoy’s smile said otherwise.

They climbed higher, air thinning, the crowd fading to noise. Harry tracked the Snitch again, forcing his thoughts back into order. 

Speed. Angle. Timing. 

He reminded himself that distraction was how Malfoy won matches. That anticipation could be used against him. And yet his mind kept slipping.

The memory of a quiet agreement at the end of their last match. The knowledge that Malfoy and him would be in a room of their own later, with promises of what was to come. 

Harry missed a turn by inches and swore aloud, jerking his broom back into line just as Malfoy cut smoothly past him.

“You are thinking too far ahead,” Malfoy said, almost kindly.

Harry surged forward in response, anger flaring hot and welcome. He chased Malfoy through a tight spiral, muscles burning, wind tearing at his eyes. Competition sharpened him, narrowed his focus, even as something else hummed beneath it.

The Snitch appeared again, this time close. Too close.

Harry lunged without thinking, fingers stretching, heart hammering. For one reckless second, he thought he had it.

Malfoy rolled cleanly beneath him, correcting with devastating ease, and Harry realized his mistake too late. He had committed too early and let himself be pulled forward.

The whistle blew.

Harry pulled up hard, breath ripping from his lungs as the sound cut through the air. He hovered there, chest heaving, watching Malfoy slow a short distance away, Snitch secure in his grasp.

The crowd erupted.

Malfoy turned, eyes locking onto Harry’s with quiet intensity. There was no gloating there. Just understanding. Just that familiar, unreadable look that always made Harry feel seen a little too clearly.

“Well,” Malfoy said, voice carrying easily. “That confirms it.”

Harry swallowed. “Confirms what?” 

Malfoy’s mouth curved, subtle and private. “That you’re terrible at pretending you are not thinking about later.”

Harry felt heat rise in his face, sharp and undeniable. He huffed a laugh, more breath than sound. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said. 

Malfoy inclined his head, satisfied. “Too late.”

As they descended toward the pitch, Harry’s pulse still raced, not entirely from the match. He knew he would replay this loss later, analyze every misstep, every moment he let his attention slip. But that would all have to wait. 

As the teams shook hands, Harry held onto Malfoy for just a second longer. “Room 904.” 

Malfoy didn’t reply but he didn’t need to. The smile on his face was enough. 

It felt like another eight months had passed before Harry heard the knock on his hotel room door. He had showered and cleansed and groomed every inch of him. He had even rubbed himself raw with some expensive lotion that Hermione had given him one year after she told him he wasn’t taking good enough care of himself. And still, he was nervous. If he kept pacing anymore, he was going to rub a hole through the carpet. 

Merlin, where was Malfoy? Had he gotten cold feet? Was he regretting everything? Bloody hell, Harry was such an idiot. He was such a fool. Why did he think this was going to happen again? It was just one time and it was a mistake and there was no possible way that Malfoy was interested in a repeat performance with an absolute amateur especially when Malfoy could have literally anyone he wanted in the entire— 

Knock knock knock. 

The steady thumping sounded against the wooden door in tune with his pulse. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Harry steadied his breaths as he walked to the door. He opened it, allowing Malfoy to slip inside like a shadow in the dark. In the next moment, Harry’s back was up against the door, slamming it shut again. 

“What took you so long?” Harry breathed as Malfoy pressed the entire length of his body against Harry. 

Malfoy’s voice was a provocative purr in his ear. “Eager, are we?” 

“No.” Yes. 

“No?” Malfoy leaned back. “So I should leave, then?” 

Harry’s hands scrambled for Malfoy’s belt loops, curling his fingers through them to pull Malfoy back against him. 

Malfoy chuckled, leaning in to run his hands through Harry’s hair. Harry tried to commit the feeling to his memory because it felt so good. 

“Your hair is atrocious,” Malfoy murmured, looking at it carefully. “Absolutely abhorrent.” 

“Well, I don’t have a hair company sponsorship.” 

“I offered you free products,” Malfoy volleyed. “You refused my help.” 

“I suppose you did,” Harry said, a smile pulling at his lips even though he tried to push it down.  

“But I must say, I’m not even sure those would help with this rat’s nest.” 

“Wow,” Harry gasped, pulling him closer by the belt loops. “Rat’s nest.” 

Malfoy grinned, holding Harry’s face in his hands. He ran his fingers across his cheek, in a way that seemed to be Malfoy’s favorite thing now. “You have freckles too.” 

“Oh,” Harry blushed. “Yeah. No one really notices them though.” 

“Comment quelqu'un pourrait-il ne pas remarquer cette beauté?”

Harry sighed. “I still don’t know French, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s smile was wicked. “Don’t worry,” he said. “By the time I’m done with you, I want you to forget English as well.” 

“Oh—” 

Malfoy spun them around so that he was backing Harry up against the bed. “Off.” 

Harry scrambled out of his clothes, pulling his shirt off and then his joggers. He moved upward on the bed, keeping his eyes on Malfoy the whole time. Malfoy himself stood at the edge of the bed, watching Harry with borderline predatory eyes. It was heady and exhilarating and terrifying and nervewracking all at once. The emotions swirled in his stomach like a bad batch of pumpkin juice. 

Malfoy, keen as ever, noticed. “Why are you nervous? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” 

“I know,” Harry replied. “I want to. Trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” Malfoy said, tipping his head to the side. “But tell me why you’re nervous so I can make it better.” 

Well, that was surprisingly considerate. “I just—I don’t have a lot of experience with this is all. I feel unprepared.” 

Malfoy nodded in understanding. “You said I was your first man, yes?” 

Harry swallowed, a blush slowly creeping up to his cheeks. “Yes.” 

A smile pulled on Malfoy’s mouth as he ran a finger across Harry’s freckles again. “I promise, everything we do will be good. And if it’s not good, we stop. No questions asked. There’s no expectations and no requirements. This is all just good fun and a way to blow off steam, right?” 

All just good fun.

A way to blow off steam. 

There was no reason for those words to hurt as much as they did. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t wrong, after all. They were just having fun and there was no need to put labels on anything quite yet. So Harry just nodded. 

“Okay,” Malfoy said, placing his knee on the bed to hover over Harry. “Now, say yes or no.” 

“Yes,” Harry affirmed. 

“Good,” Malfoy murmured. “Because I’ve been dreaming about returning the favor for months now.” 

He had been dreaming about it? Harry didn’t have a chance to ask clarifying questions because in the next moment, Malfoy was tugging his pants off and flinging them across the room. A low groan escaped his mouth before he swallowed Harry all the way to the hilt. 

“Oh fuck,” Harry groaned. 

A wicked spark lit in those silver eyes as Malfoy pulled off and then all the way back down again. Merlin, it was torturously good. Too good. The feeling of that hot mouth wrapped around him was unlike any other. Harry was mesmerized by the sight of it, unable to take his eyes off. It was torture, really, becuase he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and lose himself, but he didn’t want to forget a single memory of this experience. If it was all good fun, who knew when he would be able to experience this again? 

Merlin, he needed to push that aside now. Why was he so caught up in those words? Why did they matter so much to him? 

Malfoy was dedicated and passionate, never letting up on sucking Harry’s cock. It was sloppy and wet and it felt like the best thing Harry had ever experienced. He never wanted this to end. 

“You feel so good,” Harry moaned, gripping the sheets on either side of him. “Oh fuck, wow.” 

“You taste so good,” Malfoy told him, wrapping his hands around Harry’s thighs to keep him in place. He settled into the mattress, as if he didn’t have anywhere else to go. 

Well, at least all that cleansing did something. 

Malfoy kept sucking, refusing to give Harry a break and every time it seemed like he might be on the verge of tipping over, he pulled back and edged him even more. 

“Malfoy,” Harry warned, frustration building in his voice. “Please.” 

“I love it when you beg.”

“You’re a bastard,” Harry snapped. 

Malfoy just laughed.

Harry moved his hands to Malfoy’s hair, tugging hard as if that would do anything, but Malfoy seemed totally unbothered. He simply kept sucking hard on Harry’s cock and slipped one finger even lower to Harry’s arse. 

“Oh—”

“Relax,” Malfoy said, pressing a soft kiss against Harry’s inner thigh. “If you don’t like it, I will stop. But I think it will help you feel even better. Okay?” 

Even though he was hesitant, Harry nodded. It wasn’t like he was a total novice—he had done things to himself, after all—but he had never allowed anyone else to touch him there. 

“I need words, Potter.” The light scruff on his jaw rubbed against Harry’s thighs. 

“Yes,” Harry said. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Malfoy repeated and then pressed his finger lightly against Harry’s rim again. 

This time, Harry forced himself to take a deep breath and relax. He focused on the sensation of Malfoy’s mouth around his cock, making obscene noises all the way through. He didn’t know what to expect, or how this was different but he knew, at the very least, he trusted Malfoy. For better or for worse, he really did. 

Malfoy kept teasing his rim, circling slowly until Harry felt loose and open. When he finally pushed a finger inside, Harry came. Hard and fast, without a single bit of warning. But unlike the shower, he didn’t even have the courtesy to tell Malfoy to back off. In his defense, he was barely in control of his limbs at the moment. But Malfoy seemed more than pleased, maybe even smug, as he licked the remnants of Harry’s come off his cock as if it was a delicious treat. 

“Fuck, that was amazing,” Harry panted. 

“Just wait until I meet your prostate,” Malfoy winked. 

Despite everything they had just done, Harry somehow still blushed. “Can I return the favor?” 

Malfoy flopped on the bed beside him and nodded. “I would like that very much.” 

Dutifully, Harry spread Malfoy’s thighs and kneeled between them, pulling off his remaining clothes. Malfoy’s cock was already hard, leaking in his pants. 

“All of this, just from sucking me off?” Harry murmured. 

“Shut up,” Malfoy murmured, but Harry saw the heat rising to his cheeks. 

“You’re blushing,” Harry exclaimed, mouth open in shock. 

“I don’t blush,” Malfoy said, blushing. “ Now put your mouth on my cock and make me come.” 

Harry grinned, getting comfortable. “Alright then.” 

It didn’t take long for Malfoy to come, and this time he even tried to swallow. It wasn’t entirely successful, but it wasn’t awful either. It was honestly hotter to watch Malfoy’s stomach flex and his biceps tighten and his neck stretch as he tried to control himself. Harry could never tire of that gorgeous sight. 

They laid side-by-side on the bed, trying to catch their breath. 

Silence filled the room but it wasn’t awkward or demanding to be filled. In fact, it felt comfortable. 

“You let me beat you twice in a row now,” Malfoy murmured. “Not a good look.” 

Harry laughed. “I’ll get you next time.” 

“I have no doubt of that,” Malfoy replied. He didn’t even sound sarcastic and it warmed Harry’s heart in ways that he didn’t want to explore. 

Merlin, he was sleepy. He would absolutely kill for a curry right now. Maybe Malfoy would like one too? Sex was quite a vigorous activity, after all. 

“I should go,” Malfoy said, getting off the bed and shoving one leg into his pants. 

“Oh.” That didn’t even occur to Harry but of course. Of course he had to go. “Right.”

Malfoy looked back at Harry over his shoulder for a brief moment and then continued to pull his clothes on. “I’ll see you next year, Potter.” 

Merlin. 

Next year. 

But what other choice did they have?

“Yeah,” Harry said, pushing the words past his lips. “See you next year.”

Chapter Text

The Serpents won the World Cup that year. 

It was infuriating. But, even Harry had to admit albeit begrudgingly, that it was certainly deserved. 

The banquet hall glittered like it had been built for this exact moment.

Banners of every team hung from the high rafters, enchanted to ripple gently as if stirred by an unseen breeze. Tables gleamed with crystal and gold, and the Cup itself sat on a raised dais at the front, catching the light in sharp, triumphant flashes. 

All the teams were there, rivals shoulder to shoulder for one night, dressed in their finest and pretending not to size one another up.

Harry, unfortunately, had eyes for only one of them.

Malfoy stood with his team near the dais, tall and unmistakable in formal robes that looked as though they had been cut with him in mind. Deep charcoal, almost black, edged with subtle silver threading that caught the light when he moved. The fabric draped cleanly over his shoulders, fitted through the waist before falling in elegant lines to the floor. It was nothing like match gear. Nothing like the tailored suits he sometimes wore to press events, but no less devastating. 

Harry found himself cataloguing the details before he could stop himself. The way the high collar framed Malfoy’s throat. The smooth line of his shoulders. The confidence with which he wore something so undeniably traditional and still made it his own. He looked expensive and untouchable. Somehow, he also looked entirely at ease.

The ceremony began with polite applause and formal acknowledgments. Harry listened when required, clapped when appropriate, but his attention kept drifting back. Malfoy laughed easily with his teammates, head tipped back, pale hair catching the light. Harry was always worried he was going to get caught, but Malfoy acted like he didn’t even exist. Maybe he was trying to play it cool. Which Harry should probably be doing too. 

When the Serpents were announced as the Cup winners, the hall erupted. Cheers thundered off the enchanted ceiling, and Malfoy stepped forward amid applause that felt genuinely earned. He took the Cup briefly, lifted it just enough to satisfy tradition, then passed it along before turning to the podium.

Harry leaned forward without realizing it.

Malfoy rested one hand on the podium and let the noise die down on its own. When he spoke, his voice carried easily, smooth and confident.

“I’m told I’m meant to say something inspiring,” he began, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “This is unfortunate, as my team will attest that I’m rarely inspiring before 10 PM with a drink in my hand.”

Laughter rippled through the hall.

“I could thank our trainers, our supporters, our sponsors,” he continued. “And I will, briefly, because they are terrifying people who know where I live.”

More laughter. Harry smiled despite himself, warmth blooming in his chest.

“But mostly, I want to thank the teams we flew against,” Malfoy said, expression sharpening just slightly. “Rivalry makes the sport worth playing. Being pushed makes victory mean something. And losing, on occasion, builds character. Or so I’m told.”

The hall laughed again, louder this time, and Harry felt his breath catch. Malfoy’s eyes flicked toward his table for just a second before returning to the room. 

“We fly because it matters,” Malfoy finished. “Because it’s hard. Because it demands everything. This Cup belongs to all of us who dared to chase something moving at impossible speed and believed we could catch it.”

Applause thundered, sincere and overwhelming.

Harry clapped with the rest, hands stinging, pulse racing. He watched Malfoy step back from the podium, accept congratulations with easy grace, and rejoin his team.

Confidence looked good on him. It always had. But tonight, wrapped in formal robes and standing victorious under enchanted light, it was something else entirely. When had Malfoy become so irresistible?

After all the awards had been handed out, champagne appeared. Laughter rose and fell. People pressed in around Malfoy’s team, eager to congratulate, to be seen, to bask in reflected victory. Harry lingered near his own table at first, watching as Malfoy moved through it all with practiced ease.

Malfoy was brilliant at this. He smiled when required, shook hands, accepted praise with a tilt of the head that was neither too modest nor too arrogant. He listened intently, leaned close when someone spoke, laughed at the right moments. Sponsors, officials, former players, people whose names Harry half recognized all seemed to orbit him.

Harry waited for a glance or any sort of acknowledgement of his existence. 

It never came.

He told himself it meant nothing. Malfoy was busy. This was his night of glory after all. 

Still, unease crept in, quiet and unwelcome. Harry finished his drink and set the glass aside, then took a step forward. 

He timed it carefully, approaching when Malfoy was momentarily unoccupied, or so it seemed. But as Harry drew closer, Malfoy turned away, smoothly, already engaged in conversation with someone new. Harry slowed, then stopped, heat creeping into his face.

Fine, he thought. I can wait.

Minutes that felt like hours passed. 

Harry tried again, edging closer, only for Malfoy to shift position, his back angling just enough to exclude him. It was subtle and polite. Anyone else would have missed it.

Harry did not.

The hall felt louder now, the laughter sharper. Harry stood there with his hands loosely clasped, suddenly unsure where to put himself. He caught snippets of conversation. Praise for Malfoy’s flying. Jokes about contracts and endorsements. Someone clapped Malfoy on the shoulder and Malfoy smiled, effortless.

Harry felt something sink low in his chest.

He told himself not to take it personally. That Malfoy owed him nothing in a room full of witnesses. That whatever had existed between the bedsheets and late nights did not belong here. However, that did not stop it from hurting.

He tried once more, stepping forward just as Malfoy finished speaking. Their eyes met at last. For a heartbeat, something flickered there. 

Then Malfoy inclined his head, courteous and distant, and turned away.

Merlin, it was worse than being ignored outright.

Harry stood there, the space Malfoy had left behind feeling conspicuously empty. He swallowed, throat tight, and stepped back before anyone could notice how still he had gone.

Across the room, applause broke out again, and Malfoy lifted his glass, smiling as though nothing were amiss.

Harry looked down at his own hands, empty, and felt a sharp, unexpected ache. Not the clean sting of rivalry. Not the familiar burn of losing.

This was different. This felt like being shut out.

As the celebration continued around him, bright and unforgiving, Harry wondered when, exactly, he had started expecting more. What gave him the right to expect any more than what they were doing? 

He wandered aimlessly through the halls after that, not really in the mood to listen to Wood regale all of the team’s individual statistics. That, ironically, was when Harry finally found him. 

The corridor beyond the banquet hall was quiet, the noise of the celebration muted behind thick doors and stone walls. Harry turned a corner and nearly collided with Malfoy as he stepped out of a small antechamber, one hand braced against the door as if he had just closed it behind him.

They froze.

Malfoy’s expression shuttered instantly. Whatever ease he had worn in the hall vanished, replaced by something cool and guarded.

“Hi,” Harry said, relief and hurt tangling together. 

“Hello,” Malfoy said evenly. 

“Congratulations,” Harry said, forcing a smile. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy replied, already trying to make a break for it. 

“Wait,” Harry called, grabbing his bicep. “Can we talk?”

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. “Now is not the time.”

“You have been avoiding me all night,” Harry said, the words tumbling out before he could soften them. “I just want to know why.”

Malfoy’s hand fell from the door. He looked past Harry, down the corridor, then back again, calculating. 

“I’m not ignoring you,” he said curtly. “We aren’t people who interact in public.”

Harry’s chest felt tight. “Did I do something? Because if I did, I would like to know.”

Malfoy laughed softly, without humor. “Not everything is about you.”

“I’m not trying to say it is,” Harry said. “But we’re in the same league. We play together. It’s not like, out of the realm of possibility that you and I would share a few words in public. I just wanted to congratulate you.”

Malfoy folded his arms, posture rigid, every inch of him closed off. “And now you have.” 

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you being like this?” 

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “I’m not being like anything. You are reading too much into it.”

Harry took a step closer. “You wouldn’t even look at me in there.” 

“I don’t owe you anything, Potter,” Malfoy said, voice clipped and precise. “Did you expect I was going to hold your hand and parade you around?” 

That stung. Fuck, that stung. “No, but—”

“Whatever this is between us doesn’t belong in a room full of reporters and Ministry officials. It does not belong under chandeliers and sponsor banners.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I wasn’t asking for that. I just wanted you to acknowledge me.”

Malfoy’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Acknowledgment invites questions.”

“So you would rather pretend I just don’t exist,” Harry shot back.

“For one night,” Malfoy said sharply. “Yes.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, breath uneven. “I’m not trying to ruin anything for you,” he said. “I just thought I mattered.”

Malfoy’s composure cracked then, only for a moment. His gaze dropped, then lifted again, guarded but less sharp.

“Tu comptes beaucoup trop,” he said quietly. “C'est ça le problème.”

Harry felt the fight drain out of him, leaving only hurt and confusion in its wake. “I still don’t know French, Malfoy.” 

“Good thing we’re done talking then,” he said, but even he didn’t sound rude anymore. Just tired and exhausted. 

Harry did not remember the walk back. He only knew that at some point the noise of the celebration fell away, replaced by carpeted corridors and muted light. His feet carried him automatically, turning where they were meant to turn, until he stood outside the room he had rented for the night. For both of them.

He hesitated, hand hovering near the door.

Inside, the room was dim and carefully arranged, the kind of expensive neutrality meant to feel restful. The bed was turned down, two glasses sat untouched on the small table near the balcony doors, condensation still clinging to the bottle between them. Harry closed the door quietly behind him, the click echoing far too loud in the silence.

He stood there for a long moment, breathing. He was such an idiot. 

His chest felt tight, like something was pressing from the inside out. Every word from the small room replayed itself without mercy. 

Harry dragged a hand down his face and let out a shaky breath. 

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. Harry tried to push his thoughts away, but anxiety curled tighter instead. He replayed the evening again, searching for the moment he had misstepped, the thing he could have done differently. There was nothing. And that, somehow, made it worse.

He stood and moved to the balcony, sliding the door open just enough to let the cool night air brush his skin. The city lights glittered below, indifferent and distant. Harry leaned his forearms on the railing and closed his eyes. He wanted to understand. He wanted reassurance. He wanted Malfoy to walk through the door and prove that none of this was a mistake.

Instead, all he had was the quiet. Until the window rattled softly.

He looked up, heart stuttering despite himself, and crossed the room in three strides. When he opened it, a pale owl slipped inside, landing neatly on the back of a chair. A narrow envelope was tied to its leg, the parchment unadorned, the handwriting instantly recognizable.

Harry’s hands shook as he untied it. Inside, there was only one word.

Sorry.

The ink was neat, deliberate, the letters pressed carefully into the page. 

Harry let out a breath he had not realized he was holding and sank back onto the bed, parchment clutched loosely in his fingers. The word felt heavier than a longer letter ever could have been. 

Harry pressed the parchment flat against his palm, grounding himself in its texture. The hurt did not vanish, but it softened at the edges, easing into something quieter. Something that hurt because it mattered.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again, then at the closed door.

It was not enough. But it was something.

Harry folded the note carefully and tucked it into the bedside drawer, as if keeping it safe might make it truer. The owl hooted softly, impatient, and Harry crossed the room to let it back out into the night.

When the window shut again, the room felt less hollow.

When he finally lay down, he did so on his side of the bed, leaving space he could not bring himself to fill. His heart raced despite exhaustion, thoughts circling without rest. Every sound from the corridor made him tense, hope flaring and dying in quick succession.

Harry stared at the ceiling, anxiety humming through him, and wondered how something that felt so carefully built could suddenly feel so fragile.

Sleep evaded him for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Sweaty and exhausted, Harry collapsed on the bed with Malfoy over him.

After Malfoy’s apology letter, he sent approximately three more, all goading Harry into conversation. Like the weak fool Harry was, he finally gave in. They had gotten into the habit of sending each other short pointless notes after that, just because they could. 

Your hair looked especially terrible in the Prophet today. Is that a new style you’re trying? — DLM 

I probably would have caught that Snitch in 10 minutes but you were too busy powdering your nose. — HJP 

Your arse looks rather tight in those trousers. Been working it out for me? — DLM 

Who’s that man you were having dinner with in Portugal? You seemed rather cozy. — HJP 

Orange makes you look ghastly. Like a sickly orangutan. Please throw that sweater from your closet at once. — DLM

The owls hated the long distance of course, but they were well-rewarded for their troubles. Constant owls until they could finally meet again at their match today. 

Immediately after the match, they had booked it to the room like animals in heat. Malfoy had pushed Harry to his knees and fucked his mouth ruthlessly before shoving Harry onto the bed on his hands and knees. There, he had pushed his tongue into Harry’s arse for no less than an hour, refusing to let Harry come even though he was desperate and begging. It was absolute torture. After he had finally used Harry’s arse to rub himself off, he finally let Harry come with a hand around his waist. 

Usually, Malfoy was gentle with Harry because of his relative inexperience. But there was something different about him today. Malfoy was still respectful and considerate, asking yes or no as he always did, but there was something alarming about his behavior, especially after their last encounter at the award ceremony. Something tense that hung in the air. Harry was under no misconception that they were friends or anything outrageous like that, but he thought he knew Malfoy well enough to know that he was acting oddly. He seemed stressed and tense; certainly not like his usual cavalier, cocky self. 

Heavy breaths fell against Harry’s ear as Malfoy gathered himself, and then he slid off Harry without another word. Pulling on his pants, he stepped out onto the balcony of the hotel room Harry had for the evening. 

A pit of something dark formed in Harry’s stomach. He was already an anxious person, and every single thing that Malfoy was doing was only making it worse. It wasn’t his fault, of course. How could the man possibly know? But still, he felt sick to his stomach at the idea that he might have done something wrong to push Malfoy away. Was he bored with Harry? Was he tired of their sneaking around and once-a-year fucks that weren’t even full fucks?

The room was dark, curtains stirring faintly with the night air. Harry lay still for a moment, orienting himself and listening. The city below murmured distantly through the open balcony door. Light spilled in from outside so Harry pushed himself upright and followed it.

Malfoy stood on the balcony with his back to the room, forearms resting on the stone railing, looking out over the sleeping city. He did not turn when Harry stepped out barefoot onto the cool stone.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said quietly. Who was this man and what had he done with Malfoy?

Harry came to stand beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. “Don’t be,” he replied, though it was only half true. “Are you alright?” 

They stood in silence for a moment, the night stretching comfortably around them. Harry waited. He had learned that Malfoy spoke when he was ready, not when prompted.

“My father sent me a particularly lovely Owl after the match.”

Given that Malfoy had practically spat the word lovely out, Harry could safely assume it was anything but. “What did he say?”  

Malfoy exhaled slowly. “My father thinks what I do is a disgrace,” he said, voice even but tight beneath the calm. “Flying professionally. Wearing sponsors instead of family colors. Playing silly games instead of managing the estate and being a wretched human being in general, just like all the other Malfoys before me.”

Harry did not interrupt, even though his heart pounded at the fact that Malfoy was actually opening up to him.

“He believes it cheapens the name,” Malfoy continued. “That it’s unbecoming. He told me once that Malfoys should never perform for applause.”

“But you’re so good,” Harry protested. “The literal best in the game right now.”

“That doesn’t matter to him. I’m still a disgrace to the family name.” 

Harry felt something ache in his chest. “Is that what happened last time I saw you?” 

Malfoy let out a breath. “The day of the award ceremony he sent me a Howler, actually. Told me that it was embarrassing to see my name plastered all over the news even though the word champion was attached to it. Said that I was a horrible disgrace for soiling the family name with both my repugnant affinity for brooms and my abominable queerness.” 

Of course. Harry should have known that it would have taken something truly terrible for Malfoy to act that rudely to Harry. Naturally, those kinds of horrid words from his own father would put him in a sour mood, especially if Lucius had brought up Malfoy’s sexuality. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

Malfoy fingers tightened on the railing. “I have no excuse. I enabled it.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“All of our assets were seized after the war. Vaults frozen. Properties confiscated. What remains comes from my contracts, my winnings, my sponsorships and my endorsements. Everything he despises but I still send him money every month. Enough to keep him comfortable. Enough to keep him alive.” He gave a short, humorless breath. “He accepts it. Without comment or gratitude but still, what I do is despicable to him.”

Harry leaned his forearms on the railing too, mirroring him. “You’re a better person than most. Most people wouldn’t help a man like that even if he was their father.” 

Malfoy shook his head once. “It feels like nothing. Or worse, it feels like an obligation without forgiveness.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “He’s never come to a match. Never asked how I fly. He reads the papers only to be displeased by them.”

The city lights reflected faintly in Malfoy’s eyes when he finally turned his head. For a moment, the polished confidence Harry knew so well was gone. What remained was something tired and stripped bare.

“I don’t think he’ll ever be proud of me,” Malfoy said. “Not in this life.” 

Harry swallowed. He did not offer platitudes. He did not rush to fix what could not be fixed. Instead, he shifted closer and rested his hand on the railing beside Malfoy’s, their fingers brushing.

“I am,” Harry said simply.

Malfoy stared at him. “What?” 

“I’m proud of you.” 

“Potter—”

“You built this yourself even after everything that happened in school,” Harry continued. “You fly because you love it. You’re bloody brilliant at it. That matters. Even if he refuses to see it.”

“And what about the fact that I like men?” 

“Someone who really loves you would love you for everything that you are. Not despite.” 

Something in Malfoy’s expression cracked, just slightly. He looked away again, blinking once, then nodded. They stood there together as the night deepened, the quiet settling between them like a shared secret. 

“I’m sorry for all the times I said terrible things about your parents,” Malfoy said suddenly. “That was truly very wrong of me.”

“It’s all in the past, Malfoy.” 

“But still,” Malfoy urged. “It’s important to me that you know that.” 

Harry studied his sincere expression. “I know that.” 

Malfoy stared at him for a moment and then nodded again. “I feel silly complaining about my father being rude to you. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not really a problem, is it?” 

“That’s not true,” Harry argued. “If it’s something that impacts you, it is a problem. And your father is a right prick for treating you that way.” 

Malfoy laughed and it sounded delightful. “You’re not wrong.” 

“I hardly ever am.” 

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

Harry shook his head, trying to think of something comforting to say. “I told Sirius that I wanted to fly a long time ago. It might have been fourth year.” 

Malfoy looked surprised. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. I told him that everyone wanted me to become an Auror and it made sense, didn’t it? It was sort of my whole personality for seven years. But then, once we left school, there was nothing I wanted to do less than fight people again. I didn’t want to fling myself into danger and I didn’t want to see all the terrible things in the world anymore. Is that selfish?” 

“Of course not,” Malfoy assured him with a rough edge to his voice. “I think you’ve done more than your fair share of keeping the world safe, Potter.” 

“It just felt like if I took that job I would be caged. I wouldn’t be able to do anything I really wanted. I would always be at the beck and call of someone else. But flying… it’s so…” 

“Free?” 

Harry smiled. “Exactly. When it’s just me and the air and the Snitch, I feel at home.” 

“Well, until I’m in the way of you and the Snitch, of course.” 

Harry shoved his shoulder lightly. “Git.” 

“What did Sirius say?” 

“He was excited for me. Said Dad would have been thrilled and that Mum would have had a panic attack every single match.” 

“Almost certainly,” Malfoy chuckled. “My mum worried even during my Hogwarts matches. It’s a mother’s job, of course, to worry and stress about everything under the sun.” 

Narcissa.

“I never got to tell you how sorry I was when she passed,” Harry admitted. “I was really sad to hear about it.”

“You did tell me,” Malfoy replied. “In a letter.”

Harry was shocked. “You never replied. I thought it never got to you.” 

“It did,” Malfoy confirmed. “But I wasn’t doing well then. My mum had just died and my father’s health was deteriorating. I didn’t know the first thing to say to you with all the history between us and all the apologies I had yet to make, so I just… didn’t reply. I do apologize. Terrible manners, I know.” 

“Consider yourself forgiven,” Harry said. 

“Incredibly generous of you, Potter,” Malfoy said through a shiver.

They were such idiots. There was a perfectly comfortable bed inside, but instead they were standing on a balcony in their pants. Harry cast a wandless Warming Charm over the two of them. 

Malfoy shivered again. “Your magic is so… powerful.”

Harry winced. “Sorry.” 

“No, it’s—it’s nice,” he admitted, and Harry caught the heat rising to his face again. 

Harry grinned. “You’re blushing.” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I don’t blush.” 

“You’re a filthy, rotten liar.” 

Malfoy shoved Harry’s shoulder. “You’re just filthy.” 

“Well, I learn from the best.” 

After a while, Malfoy leaned back just enough that his shoulder pressed into Harry’s. Harry didn't move away.

He let Malfoy rest against him, the weight light but meaningful, and thought that if this was all he could offer, it was still enough.

Chapter Text

“Yes or no?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.”

“We can stop—”

“Fuck me, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s eyes went dark instantly. He was hovering over Harry, arms braced on either side of him. Harry’s legs were wrapped around Malfoy’s waist. He was loose and stretched out, courtesy of Malfoy spending nearly an hour using his fingers and his mouth to tease Harry. Graciously, he had allowed Harry one orgasm already so he was honestly ready for anything that was to come. 

Ideally, Malfoy. Malfoy was about to come. From fucking him. 

Over the last couple years together, this was something that they had discussed and Harry had hoped for. But every time they met, they were too desperate to just get off. Maybe it was age or a different kind of desperation, but Harry wanted to have sex.

He wanted to know what it would feel like to have Malfoy inside of him. He wanted to watch that thick, perfect cock slide in and out of him. He wanted to feel Malfoy in every inch of his body and he couldn’t wait another minute.

Malfoy, irritatingly considerate as ever, had required that they wait until Harry didn’t have a match to play for at least a week so that he could recover. Harry had made a passing joke about how overconfident Malfoy was, but he was grateful for the thoughtfulness.

It was so unlike the Malfoy he had grown up knowing. Sure, in public he was still the cocky git who thought he was on top of the world, but in private he was the complete opposite. He was kind and gentle and considerate. But he kept that part hidden away from anyone who could see it. Except for Harry, who didn’t take that privilege for granted.  

After taking another couple moments to assess Harry’s face, Malfoy finally decided that it was time and thank Godric for that. Harry felt like he was about to explode from the anticipation. The relief from his previous orgasm had washed away entirely and he felt more than ready for Malfoy to wring another one out of him. 

“Alright,” Malfoy said carefully. “Tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

What an annoyingly considerate git. “I will. Now please will you fuck me?” 

“Vous n'avez aucune idée depuis combien de temps j'attendais d'entendre ces mots.”

“Someday you will remember that I really do not know French.” 

“I’ll teach you.” 

“Really?” 

But Malfoy didn’t answer because his gaze had dropped to Harry’s arse, ready and waiting. Harry’s thighs were wet from the egregious amount of lube that Malfoy had used on his own cock and Harry’s hole. 

Finally, Malfoy let out a sharp breath and then pushed himself slowly inside Harry.

Merlin. It burned. It hurt.

Harry tightened his hands around Malfoy’s biceps and hissed. 

“I know,” Malfoy purred against the shell of his ear. “But you’re doing so well. You're taking me so well.”

Harry exhaled a sharp breath and ordered, “Keep going.” 

Malfoy pushed another inch, easing his way in. He peppered kisses all over Harry’s face as he did, making every single inch sweeter than the last. Merlin, Harry had never felt so filled in his life. His hips were aching from where they were wrapped around Malfoy’s waist, but it felt good. This was what he was missing?

“Please tell me that’s all of you.”

“Almost.”

“Fuck,” Harry groaned and then took a deep breath. 

Malfoy took that opportunity to bottom out. “Merde.” 

“Oh.” 

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Full. Can you stay just like that for a minute?” 

Malfoy froze on top of him, as if a single breath would kill Harry. “Of course.”

Harry forced himself to take deep breaths as his body adjusted to the intrusion inside him. It was odd, but not unpleasant. Surprisingly, as the seconds ticked by, he felt warm and comfortable. And he especially liked how Malfoy’s unfiltered attention was entirely on him. That, perhaps, was the most addicting part of this.

“Alright, you can move now.”

Malfoy let out a relieved breath. “Thank Merlin.” 

And then, Malfoy began to thrust in earnest. He pulled himself all the way out and then back in. Over and over and over again. The sounds that filled the bedroom were obscene. Skin slapping on skin, lube squelching, and garbled moans that were broken and husky. Thank Merlin they were in Malfoy’s flat and not one of their usual hotels. Though Harry knew his magic was reliable, it was hard to keep up an effective Silencing Charm when Malfoy had his mouth anywhere near Harry’s cock. 

Malfoy lifted off Harry to use one arm to lift his hips higher and—

“Oh, fuck.” 

“There we go,” Malfoy grinned, looking like a predator. “Good?” 

“So bloody good.”

“You feel perfect. You feel too good to be real.”

Nothing but sincerity rang in Malfoy’s voice. The words were like a balm to Harry’s anxious mind. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that he had to be a good lay, or else Malfoy wouldn’t keep coming back for more. But in the back of his mind, he was well aware that they had never discussed anything about exclusivity. It would be naive to think that Malfoy was giving up his band of admirers just so he could fuck Harry in a hotel room once or twice a year. 

Never mind that Harry was doing exactly that. 

“Hey,” Malfoy called gently. “Where did you go?” 

“Sorry,” Harry blinked. When would his anxiety stop?

“If you’re still able to think then I’m not doing this right.” 

Harry felt ashamed. “No, it’s—”

“On your knees,” Malfoy ordered as he pulled out. 

Sighing, Harry obliged and turned around, raising his arse up in the air. Malfoy placed a tender kiss at the base of his spine and then spread him wider. Slowly, Malfoy fed every inch of his cock into Harry with the utmost patience. Harry groaned as he laid his head against the mattress and tried to relax. This angle was even deeper, somehow. He felt every single inch of Malfoy inside him, hitting that one spot that made him see stars. Malfoy kept thrusting into him slowly, each stroke building Harry’s orgasm up higher. 

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Malfoy rasped. “I imagined this a hundred times before but it isn’t even close to the reality.” 

“I—I imagined this too.” 

“Yeah? Did you make yourself come while thinking of me?” 

What was the point in lying? “Yes.” 

“Did you push your fingers inside yourself and imagine it was me?” 

“Yes.” That was precisely what Harry had done on an embarrassingly large number of occasions. “Only you.” 

“Fuck.”

When Malfoy wrapped an arm around Harry’s waist to pull his back against Malfoy’s chest, Harry nearly disintegrated. Malfoy hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder and rutted violently, as if he was desperate to feed every single inch inside Harry. It didn’t take long for Harry to feel his orgasm cresting at the base of his spine. He barely had a second to blurt out a warning before Malfoy wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked once, twice, and that was all it took. 

Harry came all over the sheets before collapsing into his own mess. 

“I need to—”

Looking over his shoulder, Harry said, “Come inside me.” 

Malfoy came instantly, thrusting so deep inside Harry that he could feel it in his stomach. He filled Harry up with his come, ensuring every last drop was inside Harry. Then, he collapsed on top of him without pulling out. 

“So,” Malfoy panted, “thoughts?” 

“Mediocre,” Harry grinned. “I have some notes.” 

Malfoy bit the shell of Harry’s ear. “Bastard.” 

Harry laughed, turning so he could look at Malfoy. “It was perfect. Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Malfoy huffed. 

“And how—how was it for you?” Harry asked, embarrassed at his own question but needing to know the answer anyway. 

Malfoy’s eyes softened as he brushed a lock of hair off Harry’s forehead. “Le meilleur que j'aie jamais eu.”

Harry groaned. “Come on.” 

Malfoy grinned, nipping Harry’s nose. “The best I ever had.” 

Harry’s chest filled with warmth that stayed even as Malfoy pulled out and cleaned them both up. Harry felt a pang of loss, but knew that was ridiculous. He reached over to pull his clothes back on. No doubt Malfoy would want him to leave. All these years and they had never stayed over. Never hung around longer than the sex. It drove Harry a bit insane, but he understood what this was. He may have wanted more but he wasn’t ready to ask for it. Certainly not when he knew the harsh words Malfoy had to endure from his father on a regular basis.  

Harry was just shoving an arm into his shirt when Malfoy interrupted. 

“You, uh,” Malfoy hesitated. “You can stay.” 

Harry nearly dropped his clothes. What did he just say? 

Malfoy rubbed the back of his head like an awkward schoolboy. “You don’t have a match, right? Neither do I.” 

“I—”

“You’re always bragging about your cooking. Maybe you can show me some of your skills. I’m starved.” 

“Ah, so you want me around to cook for you.” 

Malfoy scoffed as he pulled a pair of joggers on and then threw Harry a pair as well. “Obviously.” 

Whatever. Harry would take the invitation for what it was. He pulled on his own shirt and Malfoy’s joggers before following him into the kitchen. Making himself comfortable, he opened Malfoy’s fridge and looked through the ingredients. It was fairly well stocked, actually, even with the Indian ingredients that Harry was most familiar with. Malfoy must have someone to do his shopping for him. 

“How does daal sound to you?” 

“Divine,” Malfoy confirmed. 

Harry washed lentils and set them on the stove with water, turmeric, a green chili, and salt. On another stove, he set the rice and began making tea. He didn’t even realize that Malfoy was just sitting on the kitchen island watching him until he turned around to ask where the kettle was. 

“Oh sorry,” Malfoy played. “You looked so at home I just assumed you knew where it was.” 

Harry shook his head. “I like cooking.”

“I can see that. Did you always like to cook?” 

“I have a weird relationship with cooking.” 

“What does that mean?” 

Harry steadied himself as he put three spoons of sugar in one of the mugs. “When I was younger and lived with my Muggle family, the kitchen felt like the most unsafe place in the world. Every movement was watched and punished, almost like they wanted me to mess up so they felt justified in treating me like dirt. But I learned to reclaim it a little bit. I like when I can cook alone and there’s no one to yank a plate from my hands or yell at me when I burn something. I control the space, and when I have the time to do it myself, I like cooking again.” Realizing he had just rambled off about his trauma, Harry asked, “Does that make any sense?” 

“It makes perfect sense,” Malfoy said patiently. 

Harry’s heart felt a little bit lighter. “Cup of tea?” 

“Sure. I take it with—”

“Three spoons of sugar?” 

Malfoy blinked. “How did you know that?” 

Harry shrugged, feeling the blush creep up on his neck. Malfoy moaned with his first sip and the sound made Harry feel warm inside. 

“This is perfect.” 

“I’m glad,” Harry said, tugging on the hem of his shirt. 

Malfoy hid a smile behind his mug, watching Harry carefully. 

“What?” 

“Si mignon.”

Harry gave him an exasperated eye roll. “I don’t understand—” 

But Harry didn’t get to finish the sentence because Malfoy had pulled him into his arms, placed his hands on either side of Harry’s face and kissed him. 

Harry had imagined this moment so many times that it felt impossible it was finally real. Years of wanting condensed into a single breath, a single inch of space closing as Malfoy leaned in. 

When their lips met, it was not tentative or unsure. It was fireworks. It was every night Harry had lain awake pretending he did not ache for this, every careful glance and swallowed thought pouring into the simple press of Malfoy’s mouth against his.

The sensation rippled through him, sharp and overwhelming. Heat bloomed in his chest and raced outward, lighting every nerve like a struck match. Malfoy kissed him with measured confidence, slow and deliberate, as though he was savoring the moment as much as Harry was. The sound that slipped from Harry’s throat surprised him, soft and unguarded, and he did not try to take it back.

Malfoy shifted closer, and the world narrowed. Harry felt the warmth of him, the solid presence of his body fitting against Harry’s with startling rightness. His hands rose without conscious thought, framing Malfoy’s face, thumbs tracing the familiar angles of cheek and jaw as if committing them to memory. Malfoy’s breath ghosted across his lips, his head tilting just so, and the intimacy of it left Harry lightheaded.

When Malfoy settled fully against him, Harry’s pulse stumbled. The weight, the closeness, the unmistakable heat of another body pressed so near made his stomach tighten with want. He slid his fingers into Malfoy’s hair, gripping him closer. Every place they touched felt newly discovered, fragile and overwhelming all at once.

Harry’s hands moved slowly, reverently, mapping shoulders and back, following the rise and fall of Malfoy’s breath. He could hear it now, steady and close, and found himself unconsciously matching the rhythm. Their foreheads brushed, lips meeting again in lingering, unhurried kisses that felt endless. Harry wanted to remember everything. The sound Malfoy made when Harry touched him. The way his body leaned in, seeking more.

There was no urgency in it, no need to rush or fill the quiet. Each shared breath, each brush of skin, carried meaning enough. It felt like an unspoken promise, a shared admission of everything they had held back for far too long. Harry felt something warm and expansive settle in his chest, something that made time feel irrelevant.

When Malfoy kissed him again, deeper this time, Harry inhaled sharply and gave himself over to it. Hands tangled in his hair, grounding him, and Harry leaned closer, surrendering to the slow burn building between them. The world beyond the room dissolved entirely. His rice was almost certainly burning, but he didn’t even care. 

Right now, there was only Malfoy and Harry never wanted it to end.

Chapter Text

Holy shit. 

He’d won. 

He had actually won. 

After all these years of grueling work and practice and the wins and losses, he had won the cup. Harry thought he might actually burst from joy. 

The Cup gleamed from the table, catching the light every time he moved, which was often because standing still felt impossible. He paced, circled, doubled back, then stopped just to stare at it again. His chest felt too full, laughter bubbling up without warning, joy vibrating through him like leftover magic.

“We won,” he said again, to the empty room, to the Cup, to the night itself. “I won.” 

He kicked off his shoes, abandoned the rest of his formal wear wherever it landed, and ran both hands through his hair until it stuck up at impossible angles. He could still feel the dive in his bones, the snap of air, the weightless second before everything clicked into place.

He had celebrated way too hard with his team and was definitely a little tipsy, but nothing too insane. It was late, far too late, for anyone to be visiting him, which was why he was startled when the door to his room opened quietly.

Harry turned just in time to see Malfoy step inside, shutting it behind him with deliberate care. He looked immaculate as always, coat draped over one arm, expression carefully neutral. His eyes flicked to the Cup, then to Harry, and something unmistakably warm passed through them before he smoothed it away. “You don’t even ward your doors anymore?” 

Actually, he did, but Malfoy was always allowed through them these days. 

Harry grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Milan?” 

Malfoy shrugged, as if it was no big deal that he had traveled halfway across the world just to surprise Harry. “I thought I might come and see that little thing they gave you. Make sure it’s not any bigger than mine.” 

“Is that the only thing you wanted to compare sizes about?” 

“Don’t be so crass, Potter,” Malfoy sniffed. “We all know who is the better endowed here.” 

“And it’s me.” 

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy said, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

Harry couldn’t stop smiling, walking toward Malfoy. “Come here.” 

“No, you come here,” Malfoy said, even though he was already taking a step closer. 

“No, you come here,” Harry said petulantly, but in the next second he was grabbing Malfoy’s face and kissing that insufferably smug grin off his face. 

Harry’s hands settled easily at Malfoy’s waist, familiar and grounding. It was odd to touch someone so freely like this but it felt so right at the same time. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how they had gone so long without touching each other so casually. It was like that first kiss had burst the dam between them, letting everything else rush through with ease. 

Merlin, he tasted so good, like overly sweetened tea and Harry couldn’t get enough. Kissing Malfoy felt like a sugar high, one he never wanted to come down from. It was by no means a gentle reunion, but probably closer to a mutual mauling, since Malfoy was tugging on his hair and wrapping an arm around his waist, trying to pull him closer. Harry had both arms thrown around Malfoy’s shoulders, trying to climb like a bloody tree. The clothes, the distance—it was too much. He wanted to fuse himself to Malfoy, to never let him go. 

These month-long intervals were getting harder and harder to endure. He had no idea how they managed earlier, when they were seeing each other once a year at best. 

But every part of him knew it wasn’t normal. Normal people didn’t crave their lover like he did. He was addicted to every single part of Malfoy. It was hard to imagine what kind of life he ever led before he had these secret rendezvous they always planned. He didn’t plan to ever miss Malfoy, Merlin no. 

At first, it had been manageable. Harry told himself that this was what normal looked like. They had separate schedules. They were almost always in different cities. A match here, a charity appearance there. Life continued without constant proximity. And so, he filled his days with training, meetings, obligations that demanded his attention and left him pleasantly exhausted.

But missing Malfoy did not stay polite. It crept in during the quiet moments. Early mornings when the room was too still. Late nights when his thoughts had nowhere else to go. Harry found himself checking the window out of habit, half expecting an owl to arrive, some small sign that Malfoy had thought of him. Sometimes one did, but the letters were never long. A few lines written in Malfoy’s precise hand. A dry observation about a match Harry had played. A clipped remark about travel or weather. Once, a pressed clipping from the Prophet with a single word scribbled in the margin: impressive.

Harry kept them all.

He folded the letters carefully, tucked them into the same drawer, and read them more times than he would ever admit. They felt like proof, like reassurance that this was still real, even when the days stretched thin. 

Seeing Malfoy in the papers was worse.

A photograph would catch Harry off guard, printed large and glossy, Malfoy mid laugh or mid flight, confident and distant. Harry would linger over the image longer than necessary, tracing familiar lines with his eyes. The tilt of Malfoy’s mouth. The set of his shoulders. Always immaculate. Always just out of reach. It was getting harder not to see him.

Harry noticed it in the way his chest tightened when plans fell through. In the way anticipation flared at the sound of wings outside, only to fade when the owl was not for him. He missed Malfoy’s presence in small, specific ways. He missed the way Malfoy made the world feel narrower and more manageable, like everything important could fit into the space between them.

Harry had spent years thinking longing was something loud, desperate, and even obvious. He was learning now that it could also be quiet and constant, a low ache that followed him everywhere. Each day without Malfoy made it harder to pretend that glimpses and ink and distance were enough. He did not want fragments. He just wanted him.

When Harry finally pulled away, Malfoy whispered, “Congratulations.” 

Harry brushed his nose against Malfoy’s. “Thank you.” 

Malfoy’s hands came to rest at Harry’s sides, light but steady. “I always knew you would,” he said. “I merely waited for everyone else to catch up.”

Harry’s chest warmed at that, pride curling into something softer. “As if.” 

Malfoy brought one hand up to cup Harry’s cheek, running a thumb across his freckles, the way he always loved to do. “I’m being honest.” 

“Well,” Harry said, feeling shy. “Thanks.”

Malfoy chuckled. “How does it feel?” 

Harry shrugged. “You should know. You’ve got one of your own, haven’t you?” 

“Oh that old thing.” Malfoy waved a flippant hand. 

“Git,” Harry said, but he was grinning. “Thanks for coming.” 

He stepped back just long enough to grab Malfoy’s hands and tug him fully into the room, spinning them both once for no reason other than joy.

Malfoy stumbled slightly, then caught himself, laughing under his breath. “You’re delirious and drunk,” he said.

They drifted toward the table together, standing side by side as Harry reached out and touched the Cup again, fingertips grazing the cool metal. He felt Malfoy lean closer, shoulder brushing his.

“You flew beautifully,” Malfoy said quietly. “That last dive was reckless and brilliant.”

Harry glanced at him. “You sound proud.”

Malfoy looked away, then back, expression softer than he probably intended. “I am.”

Harry turned fully toward him then, unable to help himself, and wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace. Malfoy stiffened for half a second before relaxing into it, arms coming up around Harry’s back, firm and reassuring.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I wanted you here so badly,” Harry said finally, voice muffled against Malfoy’s shoulder. “I thought of you the whole time. I wished—I wanted you here but I knew you were in Milan and I didn’t want to bother you. 

“Tu n'es jamais un fardeau. Je m'arracherais le cœur si tu me le demandais.”

“Malfoy.” 

“You are always a bother. This is nothing new.” 

Harry laughed. “Tonight wouldn’t have felt right without you.”

Malfoy smiled, something twinkling in his eye. “Well, even though you didn’t get me anything when I won the Cup—”

“Was I supposed to?” 

“—I am going to offer you something I know you have been dying for.” 

Harry swallowed. He already knew what it was but he still asked, “Oh?” 

Malfoy grinned, placing a palm on Harry’s chest and walking him backward. Harry raised a brow but didn’t resist until he fell flat onto the mattress. Crossing his arms behind his head, he enjoyed the view of Malfoy standing at the edge of the bed, looming over him. Slowly, Malfoy undid the buttons on his shirt and tossed it aside. Just like every other time, Harry’s heart clenched at the sight of those criss-cross scars on his chest. 

Regret, yes. But also, embarrassingly, possession. That was his mark on Malfoy’s skin. No matter what, no one would ever replace that. Even when they were apart, there was a constant reminder of Harry etched into his skin.

Merlin, he was sick. 

Posh git that he was, Malfoy carefully placed his shirt and trousers to the side so they wouldn’t wrinkle. When his pants finally joined the rest of his clothes, Harry’s mouth nearly watered. Malfoy’s eyes twinkled as he snapped, Vanishing Harry’s clothes. 

“Hey,” Harry protested half-heartedly. 

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy whispered. “I have plans for it.” 

“Do you?” 

Malfoy grinned, snapping again so just Harry’s jersey reappeared. 

And then. 

Oh, and then.

In a sight that Harry never thought he would witness, Draco Malfoy, Seeker of the Silvercoil Serpents, pulled a Brightclaw Lions jersey over his head. 

“This is the only time I will ever wear a Lions jersey so don’t you dare forget it, Potter.” 

Was he joking? Harry was going to procure a Pensieve so he could replay this memory every single day for the rest of his life. He could do that, right? Hermione would find a way to help him, but she could never find out why. 

“Holy shit,” Harry gasped, breathless. He was mesmerized, bewitched, ensorcelled. He’d never seen anything more perfect. 

Malfoy’s smile was wicked. “Have I robbed you of your speech?” 

“You—I—holy—oh my—”

“Shh,” Malfoy chuckled. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Indeed,” Malfoy purred. “I intend to.” 

Malfoy whispered a spell to cover his fingers in lube, and then reached between his legs. 

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

Was this really happening? 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked like a blithering idiot. 

“My word, I really have broken your little brain.” But he didn’t stop pushing his fingers inside himself, scissoring them to stretch himself out. “It’s been a while for me.” 

Harry wanted to offer a hand (literally), but he was far too mesmerized at watching Draco fuck himself. There was something sinful about it. It was like a private treat that only he got to watch. Especially because Draco had said that it had been a while since he had bottomed. 

Once again, the question of exclusivity ran in Harry’s mind but he pushed the thought away. He was getting the best show of his life right now. There was nothing that was going to dampen his mood. 

When he was stretched out enough, he coated Harry’s cock in lube and then sank down inch by inch. He took it slowly, as if it was painful, but the way his lips parted showed that it was anything but. Harry steadied him with his hands on Draco‘s slim waist, trying to think of things so that he wouldn’t come too quickly. 

Measles. Spiders. The Muggle Queen. 

Merlin, this was impossible. 

Malfoy just looked so bloody good, so tempting. He was a vision to behold. Harry had truly never seen anything so resplendent as Malfoy when he was lost in pleasure. Except now, that pleasure was from Harry. Malfoy rested his hands on Harry’s chest as he adjusted himself on Harry’s cock. The collar of Harry’s jersey slipped off his shoulder, making him look even more salacious. Even more perfect. 

Once he’d gotten comfortable, Malfoy raised himself on his thighs and then sank back down again. And then he did it again and again and again.

“You feel so good,” he moaned. 

“Yeah?” Harry managed. “Tell me more.” 

“You fill me up so well. You’re made perfectly for me.” 

“Oh, fuck.” 

“How does it feel to fuck me, Potter?” 

“You’re perfect,” Harry rasped. “Hot and tight and so fucking perfect.” 

Malfoy hummed, raking his nails down Harry’s chest. “Fuck, I could do this forever.” 

Forever? Harry was going to come. This was too much. Too perfect. Malfoy’s arse was too perfect and he fit like a glove, squeezing Harry’s cock for all it was worth. There was no way he was going to last. 

“Malfoy, I—”

“Don’t spoil my fun, Potter.” 

“But I—”

“No,” Malfoy warned, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I’m not done with you. You can’t come until I tell you to.” 

Fuck. 

Every single muscle in Harry’s body tightened as he tried to control himself. It was an impossible task. He’d already tried to think of unsavory things, but that didn’t work. 

“Open your eyes.” 

Harry hadn’t even realized he had shut them, but he snapped them open. 

“Eyes on me,” Malfoy said. “I want you to know exactly who’s riding you.” 

As if Harry could ever forget. 

“Malfoy, please—”

“That’s not fair.” Malfoy pouted. “You know I love it when you beg.” 

If that was all it took, Harry would get on his hands and knees for the rest of his life. But he couldn’t handle this site much longer. It was like a tapestry, like the most beautiful art he had ever seen.

It wasn’t just the sex. It was the fact that Malfoy was giving a part of himself to Harry that he didn’t often give to other people. It was the fact that he was wearing Harry’s jersey, accepting that claim on him. It was the fact that he had traveled all the way across the world just to be here for Harry on his special night, to celebrate with him. It was all the little things that he did, even though he acted like it meant nothing. 

It was everything about Malfoy. 

Everything that made it feel like Harry’s heart wasn’t truly his own anymore. 

“Let me fill you up.” 

Malfoy’s eyes lit with pleasure. “I want to feel you come inside me.” 

“I will,” Harry groaned. “Let me.” 

Malfoy bit his lip, bouncing on Harry’s cock with renewed vigor. 

“Please, Malfoy. Let me come.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy sighed, grasping his cock in one hand. “Come.” 

Harry broke in an instant, flooding Malfoy’s arse with everything he had to give. It was messy and sloppy and far too quick but he didn’t even care. He was pretty sure that he blacked out at the end of it, because the next thing he knew, Malfoy had sent a cleaning spell over the both of them and he was bringing him a glass of water. 

“Some top you are,” Malfoy muttered. “Not even a little bit of aftercare.” 

“Sorry,” Harry grinned sheepishly.

Malfoy shook his head, rubbing his thumb across Harry’s freckles. 

“Are you staying the night?” Harry asked, wondering if Malfoy could hear just how hopeful he was. 

Malfoy hesitated. “Do you want me to?” 

Harry tugged him close with a hand and Malfoy stumbled over, falling onto the bed. “Stay.” 

“I—”

But Harry didn’t listen, pulling Malfoy down again until he was curled up next to him. “Stay.” 

Malfoy sighed, allowing himself to be wrapped up in Harry’s embrace. “Fine. I’ll stay.” 

The World Cup and Draco Malfoy—both in his bedroom. 

Everything he wanted was right here. 

Harry couldn’t remember a single night when he’d slept better. 

Chapter Text

Malfoy did not so much enter Grimmauld as assess it.

Harry stayed where he was, perched on the arm of the sofa, while Malfoy wandered with slow, deliberate curiosity, hands clasped behind his back like he was inspecting an exhibit rather than the place Harry lived. His gaze snagged immediately on the scarlet banner draped over the back of a chair.

“Oh, good,” Malfoy drawled. “I was worried for a moment that you might have misplaced your personality.”

Harry smiled into his tea, placing a warming charm on Malfoy’s—with three spoons of sugar, of course—because he already knew this was going to take a while.

Malfoy flicked the edge of the fabric with two fingers. “Tell me, is this some kind of medical condition I should know about, or do you simply enjoy being surrounded by aggressively cheerful lions?”

“It’s my team mascot,” Harry said mildly. “You know that very well because you’re usually staring at it on the back of my jersey when you’re chasing me.” 

Malfoy snorted. “As if.” 

He moved on, inevitably finding the framed program from Harry’s first professional match, then the scarf tossed over the bookshelf, then the battered pennant tacked above the doorway. Thankfully, Harry had the presence of mind to hide all the Malfoy-related paraphernalia before he’d come over because it would look borderline psychotic. 

“This is excessive,” Malfoy declared. “You do realize that if I stay here long enough, I am contractually obligated to stage an intervention.”

Stay, Harry wanted to say. Stay as long as you want. 

Harry watched him with an affection that felt almost embarrassing in its intensity. The way Malfoy prowled through the room, sharp-eyed and animated, felt like a gift. He had not sat still since he arrived, energy humming under his skin, sleeves pushed back, hair falling into his eyes as he gestured and complained.

“It’s personality,” Harry said.

“It bloody well isn’t,” Malfoy replied instantly, then paused at the sight of a small lion plush perched on the windowsill. He picked it up between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with open disdain. “Why does it look like it’s judging me?”

Harry laughed, warm and helpless. “That one is for Teddy.”

Malfoy set it back carefully, a small smile on his face at the mention of his cousin. “I feel threatened.”

“It probably senses the Serpent in you.” 

“So then it should feel threatened.” 

“Lions aren’t afraid of anything.” 

“Except lionesses,” Malfoy played.

“That’s true,” Harry shrugged. “Molly scares me. Hermione scares me.” 

“You’re right to be scared by them.” 

Malfoy drifted closer, eventually, stopping near the coffee table, eyes softening as he took in the quieter details. Mug stains from tea, match statistics, and architectural building plans.

“What are these?” 

 Harry looked at the plans in his hand. “Oh, it’s my cottage.”

“A cottage?” 

“In the Cotswolds.”

“By the water?” 

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “It’s private and isolated.” 

“Secret,” Malfoy murmured. 

“Very.” Harry wondered if Malfoy was catching his drift without him having to say it. Come stay with me. It could be ours. “It should be done by the end of next year.” 

“That’ll be nice,” Malfoy said, flipping through the plans. “This is a big room.” 

“Yeah. Still trying to figure out what it would be good for.”

Humming, Malfoy kept flipping.

“What?” 

“Nothing.”

“Well, there’s obviously something so you might as well just tell me.” 

Malfoy shot him a sideways glance. “I was just thinking that a library would be rather nice there.” 

Harry’s jaw fell open. “A library? You?” 

Groaning, Malfoy said, “This is why I wasn’t going to say anything.” 

Harry snagged Malfoy by the waist and pulled him between his spread legs, not letting him escape. “I’m not making fun, I promise.” 

Malfoy raised a skeptical brow, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders loosely. “Aren’t you?” 

“Only a little,” Harry laughed, pressing a light kiss to Malfoy’s jaw. “What do you like to read?” 

“A little of everything,” Malfoy replied, shrugging. 

“Like?” 

“Oh, you know.” Malfoy flapped a hand. “Historical nonfiction and biographies and… atlases and dictionaries… other important, meaningful books.” 

Harry studied his face and then grinned wolfishly. “You read romances, don’t you?” 

Malfoy’s cheeks flamed. “I—”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Harry hastened to assure him. 

“I know there isn’t,” Malfoy snapped.

“So you do read romances,” Harry replied, knowing he had been caught. 

“Sometimes,” Malfoy admitted when he clearly meant all the time. 

“That’s great!” Harry said cheerfully. “Romances are very empowering. They offer hope and escapism, and a safe place to explore any number of complex relationships, communication, and even desire, while providing representation for diverse communities and validating experiences with the promise of a happy ending.” 

Malfoy blinked. “There’s absolutely no way you just came up with that.” 

“No, Hermione said it to me years ago and it sort of stuck.” 

“That sounds more like it.” 

“I’d like to read one of your books sometime.” 

“Do you even know how to read?” Malfoy asked, tapping Harry’s glasses sarcastically. 

Harry stuck his tongue out like a petulant child, but nothing could take the stupid smile out of his face. Merlin, Harry was so besotted with him. Draco Malfoy read romance novels. Bodice rippers, if he had to guess. All prim and proper Victorian ladies who would be scandalized at the slightest thing in public but then were absolutely raunchy in private. 

Malfoy glanced back and caught him staring.

“What?” Malfoy asked, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”

Harry shook his head. 

A blush rose on Malfoy’s face. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Can’t I look at you?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, pushing Harry’s face away, but Harry reached out and hooked his fingers into Malfoy’s sleeve, anchoring him there. Malfoy didn’t protest, his hand going immediately to Harry’s freckles, brushing his fingers across them. Harry tilted his chin up instinctively, looking for a kiss and Malfoy didn’t protest. His lips fell on Harry’s in an instant, as if he had just been waiting for an invitation. 

How should Harry tell him that he never needed one? That if he knew it was what Malfoy wanted, he would carve his heart out of his chest and lay it at Malfoy’s feet?

“I’m hungry,” Malfoy finally murmured against Harry’s lips. 

“Well, I made you tea that you didn’t drink.”

“Tea isn’t food,” Malfoy protested, even though he picked up his neglected mug. 

Harry linked his fingers through Malfoy’s free hand and pulled him to the kitchen. “I was going to make something,” he said. “Nothing complicated. Pasta, probably.”

“I’ll do it,” Malfoy offered. “You can be moral support.”

Harry whirled around, surprised. “You can cook?” 

Malfoy blushed faintly. “A little.” 

“I can help chop things.”

Malfoy flapped a hand. “Let’s not get reckless.”

“I have cooked for you before, you know?”

“And I lost my next match. Coincidence?”  

“Ah yes, my master plan to feed you spicy daal so you lost your match against the Cannons.” 

“I knew I’d get you to confess.” 

Rolling his eyes, Harry leaned back against the counter with his arms folded, watching as Malfoy rolled up his sleeves. The sight of it made something warm settle in Harry’s chest. He hadn’t realized how much he liked seeing Malfoy so unhurried and comfortable.

Malfoy opened cupboards, surveyed their contents, and clicked his tongue softly. “You have an alarming amount of tea,” he observed.

Because you like variety. “I’m a good host.” 

Malfoy snorted. He set water to boil and began chopping onions with neat, efficient movements. Harry found himself tracking the line of Malfoy’s shoulders, the way he shifted his weight, the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated.

“Who taught you how to cook? I always assumed you had house elves.” 

After a moment, Malfoy spoke again, voice quieter. “My mum used to let me help sometimes.”

“Your mum cooked?” 

“On special occasions,” Malfoy explained as he sliced garlic. “My birthday was one of them. And some of the holidays when it was just the three of us.” 

“That sounds really nice.” 

“Yeah. Some of my favorite memories are cooking with her. That’s why I don’t do it often, really. Makes me think of her too much and then I get all sad and weird.” 

“I don’t think it’s weird.” 

“That’s because there’s no tears yet.” 

“Blame it on the onions.” 

Malfoy winked. “I usually do.” 

Harry’s heart fluttered in his chest. 

The kettle clicked off. Malfoy poured the water, steam rising between them. The kitchen filled with warmth and the smell of home-cooked food. 

“She always said food tasted better when you knew who you were making it for,” Malfoy added, softer now.

Harry’s chest tightened; not painfully, but full. “I think she was right.”

Malfoy smiled faintly at that, something unguarded passing over his face before he turned back to the stove. “Elle a dit que ça avait encore meilleur goût quand on les aimait.”

Harry sighed. “What does that mean?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

Harry smiled, watching him. He realized he hadn’t moved since Malfoy took over, content to stay exactly where he was and to let Malfoy fill Harry’s space. 

“You look good like this,” Harry said before he could stop himself.

Malfoy froze for half a second, then scoffed. “Cooking?”

“In my space,” Harry corrected.

Malfoy’s ears went pink, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. He didn’t turn around. “Flattery will not get you extra portions.”

Harry laughed softly, warmth spreading through him. The kitchen felt smaller now, cozier somehow. It was perfect. He could imagine this forever, but that was a dangerous thing. 

Malfoy was a total diva about plating the food, slapping Harry’s hand away when he tried to steal an olive off the plate. He dusted it with parmesan and extra red chili flakes for Harry, remembering his affinity for spicy food. When Harry was finally allowed to take a bite under Malfoy’s watchful eye, it turned out that Malfoy was a fairly decent cook, after all. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal outside of the Weasley’s and there was something so poignant about it that he didn’t care to name. 

“Vous en avez sur le visage, mon amour.” 

“Malfoy, am I going to have to learn French to be around you?” 

“I certainly hope not,” Malfoy smirked, reaching out to wipe sauce off Harry’s face with a napkin. 

“Why? Don’t want me to learn your heathen language?”

“Definitely not. I’m always talking badly about you, of course.”

“Yeah, but you do that in English too. What difference does it make?” 

“Touché.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Do you have any other plans while you’re in London?” Foolishly, he hoped the answer was no. They barely had a day together, and he wasn’t keen on giving that time up. 

Malfoy shook his head. “I thought I might see Theo, but you keep me busy enough.”

 Call it intuition, but the way Malfoy said Theo’s name was enough to put a sour taste in Harry’s mouth. He had never considered himself a jealous person before but none of his reactions were ever normal when it came to Malfoy. He had a tendency to throw Harry into disarray entirely. 

“Theo?” 

“Theodore Nott? You might remember him from school but then again he was in Slytherin so maybe not.” 

Harry’s throat tightened for reasons he didn’t want to explore. “You know him well?”

“Our families have known each other forever.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” 

Malfoy studied him carefully. “Yes, I know him well.” 

“How well?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

Malfoy looked at him for a moment and then seemed to realize that it was, in fact, important to Harry, so he picked his words carefully. “We fooled around in school. On and off ever since. It’s always been casual, but he’s convenient. We both feel the same about one another.” 

Something ugly reared its head in Harry’s chest. It was a stupid thing to fixate on. Harry knew that. He told himself that even as the thought kept circling, stubborn and sharp.

Nott was someone who had always been there, woven into the background of stories Harry was only just beginning to be allowed into. Someone who knew Malfoy in ways Harry didn’t yet, in contexts that predated everything Harry and Malfoy were building now.

It wasn’t about attraction. At least Harry didn’t think it was. It was about history. About shared corridors and childhood summers and the kind of familiarity that came from growing up side by side in a world Harry had never experienced. Nott had been there for the awkward years, the sharp ones, the years that had shaped Malfoy before Harry had ever truly seen him.

Harry hated the small, traitorous twist of envy that came with that.

He hated imagining someone else knowing the quiet versions of Malfoy. The ones that existed before the polish, before the careful control. Someone who had seen him fail and sulk and laugh without restraint. Someone who didn’t have to earn those glimpses, because they had always been his by right of time and proximity. When would Harry ever get to see those parts of him? How many years had it taken for Malfoy to finally open up about his father just a little bit? And how many more years would it take for him to open up fully? Would Harry even be around then?

Harry told himself it didn’t matter. But he wanted, irrationally, to be the first in something. The one who understood. The one Malfoy reached for without thinking. And it unsettled him to realize how much he cared that he wasn’t.

“Potter,” Malfoy called, breaking Harry out of his anxious trance. “Are you—”

Harry didn’t really want to hear the rest. He didn’t want to talk at all. He just wanted to forget everything, actually and feel Malfoy all over him in some animalistic, possessive claim. He snapped his fingers to Vanish the food off the table and hauled Malfoy up to his feet, slamming their mouths together in a fierce kiss. Though Malfoy was initially surprised, he quickly caught up and kissed back with equal fervor. 

Harry kissed him deeply, as if he was trying to bury himself within Malfoy’s own body and take residence inside his heart the way Malfoy had already done to him. This obsession was crushing. Devastating. It felt like Malfoy was the very air Harry needed to survive. 

Tugging Malfoy’s clothes off, he dragged them both to the kitchen counter until it was digging into his back. Without any preamble, he spun around and bent over, laying his cheek against the cool countertops. “Do it.” 

Malfoy’s palm smoothed down his spine in a tender caress. No, he didn’t want him to be gentle right now. He wanted it to be rough and dominating so he could push these jealous thoughts out of his mind. “Do you want to go to the bedroom or somewhere more comfortable—”

“No,” Harry bit out. “Here. Now.”

Malfoy hesitated for a moment, but when Harry arched his back and pushed his hips against Malfoy’s, he didn’t resist. Malfoy stretched him open slowly with a finger, taking his sweet time. 

“Just do it.” 

“No,” Malfoy said firmly. “I’m going to hurt you.” 

“I don’t care,” Harry snapped.

Malfoy’s voice was even more terse when he said, “Well, I do.” 

Fuck, he had never used that voice with Harry before. Especially when they were being intimate, he was nothing but patient and gentle and kind. Why was Harry like this? Why did he let his own anxiety ruin everything? Malfoy had just said that he wasn’t spending time with Theo so that he could be with Harry, didn’t he? 

It was as if Harry’s mind wanted to sabotage a good thing before it had a chance to ruin him, just so he could maintain some semblance of control over the situation.

Harry stayed still as Malfoy dropped to his knees and used his tongue against Harry’s hole, stretching him out slowly and carefully. By the time Harry was panting for it, Malfoy was pushing himself inside. Malfoy pulled out and thrust in again. This angle allowed him to hit so deep, hitting that one spot that made Harry see stars every single time. Malfoy was so attuned to his body, knew every single motion that made Harry’s body bow in pleasure. No one had ever made him feel like this before and he was fairly certain that no one else ever would. There was no comparison to the kind of pleasure and control that only Malfoy had over him. Malfoy’s fingers dug hard into Harry’s hips, sure to leave red marks against his skin by the morning. He was thrusting hard now, almost ruthlessly as if he was taking his frustration out on Harry’s body. 

“Fuck, Harry.” 

Everything froze.

He said Harry.

Harry. 

Oh, fuck.

Tears threatened to fall from Harry’s eyes. “Draco.”

Malfoy’s rhythm stuttered for a moment, but then he restarted with a renewed vigor. “Comment se fait-il que je me sente de plus en plus comme si c'était à moi à chaque fois?” 

 Harry knew better than to ask for a translation so he just chose to say his new favorite word. “Draco, please.” 

“I know what you want, mon amour. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything you need.” 

Not everything, Harry’s unhelpful mind provided. 

“I’m going to—” 

“Come,” Malfoy ordered. “Come for me.” 

Harry did, groaning into the counter as Malfoy flooded his arse. He felt so full, so good, so complete whenever Malfoy was inside him. It was usually such a blissful feeling, but this time, it felt tainted. The anxiety in Harry’s chest only seemed to grow. 

Harry barely waited for Malfoy to finish before he pushed off the counter and pulled his pants on. Fuck, his eyes burned. His heart was pounding. His head was hurting so badly he wanted to cry. 

“I don’t—” Harry ran his hands through his fair, feeling frazzled as he paced around the kitchen. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” 

Malfoy seemed startled, panting as sweat glistened distractingly on his chiseled torso. “Potter—” 

“I can’t.” The world closed in around Harry as his heart beat at an unsteady pace. He felt dizzy, like one light push could knock him right off his feet. “I can’t do this.” 

Malfoy stretched out a hand toward him. “Potter.” 

“You should go,” Harry said abruptly, sharp and unmistakable.

A flicker of hurt flashed across Malfoy’s face. “What?” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “I just—I can’t do this.” 

Harry ran upstairs and hid in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror and finally letting the tears fall. Below, he heard the Floo after a couple minutes and it made him cry even harder. He traced his fingers over the red marks on his hips and the blood on his lip. 

He didn’t heal any of them.

Chapter Text

The music was relentless, a steady thrum that vibrated through Harry’s ribs and into his bones. Lights swept across the dance floor in lazy arcs, catching on raised hands and flushed faces, turning everything into motion and color. 

Ginny moved easily with the beat, confident and bright, her hands warm where they rested at his shoulders.

Was dating Ginny the smartest thing he had ever done? No. But he had been sad and lonely and depressed after the last time he had seen Malfoy at Grimmauld and told him that he couldn’t do whatever it was they were doing anymore. The whole exclusivity issue had always been bothering him in the back of his mind and hearing Malfoy talk about Theodore Nott… it made him snap. It made him realize that whatever inconvenient feelings he had clearly were not reciprocated and he was the fool who was acting like this was anything more than what it was. What had Malfoy said that one time? 

All just good fun.

A way to blow off steam. 

Merlin, it still hurt. And then he made the terrible mistake of visiting the Weasley’s so it was blatantly obvious to everybody that he was dealing with some sort of heartache. 

He didn’t tell anybody anything, but Ginny brought up how they had always meant to try again after the war when they were in a better place. Harry vaguely remembered that agreement, but it had been quickly pushed out of his mind once he had met Malfoy all those years ago. Now, however, he didn’t really have a great excuse. 

And so they had gone on a date. And then another. 

They were both extremely busy, what with Ginny’s position on the Harpies so she understood a professional athlete schedule better than most people. Even nicer, they didn’t need to hide. 

Harry laughed when she spun beneath his arm, the sound easy and practiced. He let himself follow her rhythm, let the noise carry him, let the night be what it was meant to be. He told himself this was good. This was where he was supposed to be.

Ginny leaned close, shouting something into his ear, and Harry nodded, smiling even though he only caught half of it. She pulled him back into the crowd, bodies pressing close, music surging higher. He focused on the feel of her hand in his, the familiar ease of moving together.

Then something shifted.

It was subtle at first, just a sense of being watched. Harry glanced toward the bar without thinking, and the world tilted.

Malfoy stood there, half lost in shadow, a glass held loosely at his side. The club softened him in strange ways. His hair was less precise, collar open, sleeves pushed back just enough to make him look unguarded. He looked older somehow, as if the world had taken its toll on him finally. 

Their eyes met and everything else fell away.

The music dulled to a distant echo, the press of bodies fading until there was only the space between them. Malfoy did not react at first. He simply looked back, expression unreadable, gaze steady and unflinching. The connection snapped into place with painful familiarity.

Harry’s chest tightened.

Ginny laughed at something, her hand sliding up his arm, and Harry felt the contrast sharply. Warmth at his side. Distance across the room. 

He didn’t pull away from her. 

He didn’t move toward Malfoy.

He just stood there, caught.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked briefly to Ginny, then back to Harry. There was no anger or accusation in his expression, but rather something restrained and heavy, like a truth they both carried and didn’t know where to put.

People moved between them, breaking the line of sight in flashes. Each time Harry lost him, his stomach dropped. Each time the crowd shifted again, Malfoy was still there, watching.

Fuck.

It felt like time stretched. Harry wondered if Malfoy could see it on his face. The way all the feelings rose up, uninvited. The way longing did not fade just because circumstances changed. He wondered if Malfoy felt it too, or if this was something Harry carried alone.

Ginny leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, murmuring something about another song. Harry nodded automatically, eyes still locked across the room.

Malfoy’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like he might move. Like he might cross the space between them and say something reckless and honest. Instead, he turned away and the moment fractured.

Is this what they were now? Just two people who saw one another across the room and didn’t acknowledge one another anymore? There was a time in school when that was all they were, so why did it now feel like Harry’s chest was being slit with a knife?

After that, Harry was in no mood to dance and begged Ginny to go home. Despite her initial protests, she obliged and they both Apparated to Grimmauld. Anxiety curled in his chest, threatening to burst. He wanted nothing more than to curl into his bed and sleep for fourteen hours but Ginny had already planned to stay the night, and he couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse to make her leave. 

Still, she didn’t say a word when he slipped under the covers and took off his glasses. 

Ginny picked up the book Harry kept on his bedside table. “New hobby?” 

“Just something I was trying out.” 

“Didn’t work?”

“Don’t think we were compatible,” Harry remarked, but his throat closed up.

Ginny smirked, setting the book back down and turning off the light. Harry turned over and stared at the cover of French 101: A Beginner’s Guide to the Language of Love for what felt like hours before he could sleep.  

Morning arrived slowly, light slipping in through the curtains as if unsure whether it was welcome. Harry lay on his back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft clink of a kettle in the kitchen. Grimmauld smelled faintly of tea and last night’s rain drifting in through a cracked window.

Ginny moved easily through the space, familiar in a way that should have felt comforting. She brought two mugs over and handed one to him before sitting on the arm of the sofa, her knee brushing his thigh. She wore one of his jumpers, sleeves pushed up, hair loose and messy, looking perfectly at home.

Harry’s chest tightened with something like guilt.

It had been a few months of them dating and Harry hated to admit it, but he felt exactly the same as he did the last time they tried this: friendship. Nothing more, nothing less. He really liked her, but he wasn’t sure how this was supposed to progress into anything more, especially when now, he had something else to compare it to. 

When she was around, he didn’t feel like the entire world dimmed except for her. 

When she sent him an owl, he didn’t feel like he was the luckiest person alive. 

When she kissed him, he didn’t feel anything. 

With Malfoy, he was the only person Harry could ever see. 

Merlin, he was the worst person alive. 

But he didn’t know how to end this with Ginny without breaking her heart and perhaps even his. Not to mention, Ron was never going to forgive him for doing this to his sister twice. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just find a nice girl and settle down like literally everyone else?

They drank in silence for a while. It was not awkward exactly, but it was heavy. The kind of quiet that had been building for weeks, layered with unsaid things neither of them had wanted to be the first to name.

Ginny was the one who finally did. “So,” she said lightly.

Harry huffed a breath. “That sounds serious.”

She smiled into her mug. “It is a bit.” She glanced at him, then away again. “I have been thinking about us.”

Oh. 

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I don’t think this is really working,” she said earnestly. “And I don’t mean that in a dramatic way. Just that something is off.”

Harry stared down at his hands. Well, it turned out he didn’t need to figure out how to bring it up after all. 

“And not off in the way that it was last time in that we were young and traumatized,” she explained. “But a different kind of off. And since it’s off in two ways, I think we can safely assume this isn’t meant to be.”

“I agree,” he said quietly. “I think we are both trying very hard.”

Ginny hummed, thoughtful. “You’re physically here, Harry,” she said. “But sometimes it feels like your head is somewhere else entirely.”

Harry’s heart stuttered. His mind, traitorous and unhelpful, filled instantly with flashes he did not invite—pale hair, silver eyes, and a devastating smile. The way missing him could feel physical, like pressure beneath him ribs. 

How was it that seeing Malfoy for one minute made him feel more than Ginny ever did in six months? It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with her. He would go so far as to say she was pretty perfect, actually. Just… for someone else. 

Ginny watched his expression shift anyway. She always had been good at reading him.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry, you fool,” she said, bumping his shoulder. “We’re just not meant to be, that’s all.” 

Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered but the word came out choked.” 

She set her mug aside and turned toward him fully. “Harry, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Harry said, though his pulse picked up.

She hesitated, then said, “Do you think part of this is because you might like men?”

Harry laughed uneasily. “What?” 

“You don’t have to lie.”

“Why would you ask me that?” 

Ginny raised a brow. “Blaise Zabini in third year?” 

“He got an earring,” Harry protested. “That’s unfair, he’s like a child of Aphrodite.” 

“Okay fine. Oliver Wood in fifth year?” 

“Oh, come on, everyone thought he was attractive.”

“And then there was Malfoy in sixth year, the way you were literally obsessed with him.” 

Harry’s heart sank in his chest but he spluttered, “I was not obsessed with him.” 

“Yes you were!” Ginny swatted his arm. “You still are. You think I don’t see the way you save clips of the Prophet if he’s mentioned? Or how you’re always looking for more news about him?” 

“That’s because he’s my biggest rival,” Harry said weakly.

“Do you even believe yourself when you say rubbish like that?” 

Harry frowned. Malfoy was his biggest rival. That wasn’t a lie. 

“Anyway,” Ginny said, taking a deep breath. “The question, Harry, in case you forgot, was do you think you might like men?” 

There really wasn’t any use hiding now, was there? Harry let out a slow breath. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

Ginny nodded immediately, because evidently she had already known the answer. “Okay.”

Relief washed through him so sharply it almost made him dizzy. 

She smiled at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I should have earlier,” Harry said. “I just didn’t know how.”

Ginny shrugged. “There’s no timeline to this, Harry. You’re allowed to take your time figuring yourself out.” She smirked faintly. “I just wish you hadn’t tried to do it while dating me.”

Harry laughed, soft and rueful. “That’s fair.”

Ginny studied him for a long moment. “Is there someone else?” 

“What?”

“The reason why you’ve been so unhappy all these months. There’s someone else, isn’t there?” 

Fuck. 

Harry nodded, throat tight. He didn’t say who, but the ache in his chest answered for him the way it always did. It had been growing steadily worse lately. It was harder not to see him. Harder to settle for glimpses in the paper or watch a match with his teammates, pretending he didn’t know every inch of that perfect body. 

“I think,” Ginny said gently, “that you owe it to yourself to stop pretending this will fix itself.”

Harry stared at the floor. “I’m so bloody tired of pretending,” he admitted.

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Then you have your answer.”

She stood a few minutes later, pulling on her coat. At the door, she paused and looked back at him, her expression soft. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I hope you find whatever it is you have been missing.”

When the door closed behind her, Grimmauld fell quiet again. Harry sat there with his cooling tea, sunlight warming his hands, and the familiar, aching absence pressing in around his heart. What could he do? What was possibly left between them? He supposed there was only one way to find out. 

Harry went to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper. 

And he wrote a letter to Draco.

Chapter Text

Unsent letters from the desk of H. J. Potter. 

Malfoy, 

How are you? It’s been a while and I just wanted to reach out to see how you were doing. It’s been great watching you play these last couple months. You seem to be getting better and better. What’s your secret? Would you share it with me?

Would you ever want to grab a drink sometime? As friends? We can be friends, right?

I hope you write back. 

Best, 

Harry 

+ + + 

Malfoy, 

Congrats on your win against the Cannons! That’s huge, even though I remember you saying it was boring a couple years ago. Was this one boring too? You seemed to be sweating by the end of it so at least they made you work. That triple spin maneuver you did at the end was wicked. You’re going to have to teach me that sometime. 

Can I buy you a celebratory drink? Or a cup of tea? I’ll even make sure it has three spoons of sugar. 

Best, 

Harry

+ + + 

Malfoy, 

I keep writing these Owls and not sending them to you. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but I can’t seem to stop. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I hope you’re doing well. 

I miss you.

Harry

+ + + 

Draco, 

You didn’t even look at me in our match today. You barely shook my hand. I hated that it made my heart hurt, but I can’t lie about it. There would be no point anyway. You didn’t say a single word, and I realized that this is how you treat everyone else. Somehow, that hurt me more than you hating me. You treated me like everyone else. But I’m not everyone else.

No one has ever made me feel the way you have. No one ever. I can’t stand this distance between us. I know it’s my fault but I don’t know how to fix it. 

What are we doing? What is this?

Are you still seeing Nott?

Are you seeing other people?

Because there’s no one else for me but you. There’s always only been you. 

I fucking hate this.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this when we both know I’m never going to send it to you anyway. 

+ + + 

Draco. Happy Birthday. I just want to talk to you. I just want to see you again. Why is this so hard? Why does this have to be so bloody difficult?

+ + + 

I need to see you. I want to see you again. When can I see you?

+ + + 

I miss you so much that it hurts to breathe when you’re not around. I think I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.

Chapter Text

The nicest thing about a match in Brighton was the beach. 

The air tasted like salt and summer and something faintly sweet from the cocktails being mixed behind the bar. Music drifted lazily from hidden speakers, the kind that blended into the sound of waves rather than competing with them. The ambiance was serene and Harry should have been utterly relaxed, except he wasn’t because Malfoy was at the bar, nursing a drink. 

It felt like September 2001 when he was at the pub, looking at Harry as if he was waiting for him to come over. Only this time, Malfoy stood near the edge of the deck, one hip resting against the railing, a drink in his hand. He wore pale trousers and a loose, open-collared shirt, the fabric moving with the wind, hair pushed back in a way that looked careless and yet perfectly deliberate. Sunlight caught on his cheekbones, on the line of his throat, on the familiar, unfairly elegant curve of him. He was relaxed in a way Harry had rarely seen before, as if he belonged to this easy, golden place.

Harry’s breath caught before he could stop it. Merlin, why was he so perfect?

He walked over to him before he could stop himself. 

“Hi,” he said, and the word felt entirely insufficient. 

People laughed around them, voices carried on the breeze, but the sound seemed distant, muted, like Harry was standing in a bubble of his own making.

Malfoy turned, surprise flickering across his face, then something more guarded, more careful. “Potter,” he said. 

Back to Potter, it seemed. 

They stood there, a few feet apart, the space between them thick with all the things they hadn’t said, all the months that had passed without resolution. The sea crashed gently below them, steady and indifferent.

“How are you?” 

“I’m good,” Malfoy said diplomatically. “And you?” 

“I’m good too.” 

Godric, this was painful. How had they become like this? Had Harry really ruined them beyond repair?

“You look…” Harry searched for the word and failed to find one that didn’t sound too much like the truth. “Good. Really good.” 

“So do you.” Malfoy looked him up and down. “Are you having your clothes tailored now?” 

Harry sighed. “Yeah. My agent seemed to think I needed a stylist.” 

“Your agent is smart.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I saw your new hair commercial. The old brand wasn’t working out anymore, huh?”

“Pansy seemed to think they were underpaying me.” 

“Your agent is Pansy Parkinson?” Harry gaped. “The same girl who tried to sell me to Voldemort?” 

“Clearly, she’s gotten better at selling people,” Malfoy said dryly. 

“Obviously if she’s selling you.” 

“I’m extremely sellable,” Malfoy said haughtily. 

A woman walked past them, eyeing them oddly before they realized it was the two biggest Seekers in professional Quidditch. Then, she just gawked at them shamelessly. 

“How’s it going?” Harry said awkwardly. 

She continued to stare at them until her friend dragged her off forcefully. 

“So many women, such little charm,” Malfoy taunted. 

“Shut up,” Harry murmured. “I do fine.” 

Malfoy took a sip of his drink, eyes flicking briefly to the horizon before returning to Harry. “So I’ve heard.”

Harry felt the familiar tightening in his chest at the implication, not with pain exactly, but with the residue of something that had never quite fit and what it meant for the two of them. “We broke up,” he said. “A while ago.”

Malfoy’s expression shifted, subtle but unmistakable. “Oh?”

“We weren’t right for each other,” Harry added, because the silence seemed to ask for more. “Not compatible.”

Malfoy studied him for a moment, as if trying to read the spaces between the words. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Harry shook his head. “Don’t be. It was the right thing.”

The wind picked up, tugging at Malfoy’s shirt, lifting it slightly against his frame. Harry had to force himself not to stare, not to catalogue the familiar lines of him, the way his posture had relaxed, the way the sea and the sun made him look like he belonged to a different, gentler world. 

“How did you realize you weren’t compatible?” Malfoy asked. 

Harry swallowed, looking out at the beach. “I think you know the answer to that.” 

Another charged pause settled, the kind that hummed under the skin. Harry was acutely aware of how close they were, of the warmth radiating from Malfoy’s body, of how easy it would be to close the distance and how impossible it felt at the same time.

“Want to take a walk?” Malfoy suggested. 

“Sure,” Harry agreed, because it seemed like a peace offering and he would be a fool to turn it down. 

They walked along the water’s edge, shoes in hand, the sand cool and damp beneath their feet. The sky had begun to deepen into evening, blues and pinks melting together over the horizon. The noise from the bar faded behind them, replaced by the steady hush of the tide.

For a while they talked about small things. Their recent matches, how exhausting travel could be sometimes and even the weather, which felt almost funny coming from the two of them. It was a careful easing back into familiarity, each of them testing the ground, rediscovering the sound of the other’s voice in close proximity.

Harry kept finding his attention snagging on details he didn’t even realize he had been missing. The way Malfoy’s voice softened when he laughed. The way he kicked at the surf absentmindedly, trousers darkening at the hem. The way the wind pulled his hair loose, brushing it across his eyes.

“I like your hair a little longer,” Harry commented, looking at the place where it curled behind his ear.

Malfoy smiled. “Yeah?” 

Harry nodded. “Makes you look younger.”

“Are you calling me old?” 

“I mean, you are older than me.”

“By a month,” Malfoy sighed. 

“Ancient,” Harry murmured. 

They sat down in the sand, leaning back on their arms as they admired the golden hues of the sunset. 

When the conversation lulled, Harry asked quietly, “How’s your father?”

The change in Malfoy was immediate, subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders stiffened, and his gaze shifted out to sea, as if it were easier to look at the endless horizon than at Harry.

“Still dreadful,” he said lightly. “Still rude. Still convinced I’ve ruined the family legacy by choosing a life that doesn’t revolve around bloodlines and ancient expectations.”

Harry felt something hot and sharp coil in his chest.

“He’s never going to be proud of me,” Malfoy continued, voice even, controlled. “I gave up on that expectation a very long time ago. But is it so wrong of me to want him to just tolerate me? To accept that this is what I want to do with my life and that there’s nothing he can do about it? To acknowledge that this is what makes me happy and that after a lifetime of following everyone else’s orders and nearly dying, maybe playing Quidditch isn’t the worst thing in the world?” 

“I don’t think that’s unreasonable at all,” Harry said softly. 

“Well, that makes one of you.” 

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak right away. He watched the waves break and retreat, felt the wind tug at his clothes, and underneath it all, felt a familiar protective fury rise. 

“He doesn’t get to decide your worth,” Harry said finally, the words low and steady. “Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

Malfoy blinked, clearly unprepared for the intensity in his tone.

Harry shuffled a little closer, close enough that he could feel Malfoy’s warmth through the evening chill. 

“You’ve built something for yourself,” he went on. “A life. A name that’s yours, not just inherited. You’ve survived things that would have broken most people, and you did it with your head up. That matters. You matter.”

Malfoy’s composure wavered, just a little. The polished ease slipped, revealing something rawer beneath. “Careful,” he murmured. “You make it sound like you actually believe that.” 

“I do believe that,” Harry said fiercely. “And it makes me angry that he can’t see what’s right in front of him.”

The wind rushed between them, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed and summer. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I still send him money,” Malfoy admitted quietly. “Keep him comfortable. Keep him alive. Not because he’s kind, but because he’s my father. And because… I don’t know. I suppose some part of me still hopes. Foolish, right?”

Harry’s throat tightened. He knew that kind of hope. The stubborn, aching kind that refused to die even when it probably should.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Harry said. “But I understand why you can’t stop caring.”

“It is very hard to stop caring about people even when you should,” Malfoy said quietly, and Harry suddenly felt like they were talking about more than Lucius Malfoy. 

Slowly, Harry edged his fingers closer to Malfoy’s, brushing his thumb over Malfoy’s fingers. Malfoy didn’t move, allowing the gentle touch as his eyes shuttered closed. 

Merlin, he was so beautiful. Always, but especially like this—bathed in the sunset glow, the wind gently tousling his hair, and his expression serene. He looked at peace, and Harry wanted to believe that his presence had something to do with that. 

Heart twisting in his chest, Harry summoned the courage to ask, “What room are you in?”

Malfoy shook his head and stood up, dusting the sand off his palms. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked away and Harry’s heart sunk with every step. 

So that was it, then. This was the end of them. 

Fuck, how was Harry supposed to just go on with his life? How was he ever going to get over Malfoy? The last few months without him alone were agony. His gut twisted as he strategized how to subtly ask Hermione to Obliviate him without telling her about Malfoy at all. She’d be fine with it, right? She wouldn’t ask—

“2481.” 

Harry’s neck practically snapped as he whipped around. Malfoy looked over his shoulder and winked at Harry before Apparating, presumably to his room. All of Harry’s anxiety dissipated in a moment as he smiled to himself. 

This was the moment, he realized. Or at least, it was a moment. One of those thin places in time where you either stepped forward or let everything slip back into silence again.

He was tired of pretending this was anything but what it was. He had spent years pretending. Pretending that the pull in his chest was just a habit. That the way his attention always found Malfoy first in a room was coincidence. That the jealousy, the protectiveness, the way his heart seemed to tilt toward him without permission, were all things that could be reasoned away if he tried hard enough.

Because it wasn’t. It was wanting. It was missing. It was the quiet, stubborn truth that he liked Malfoy, had liked him for a long time, in a way that refused to fit into any harmless, convenient shape. Liked him in a way that went far beyond rivalry, beyond history, beyond whatever they used to be to each other. Liked him in a way that made his pulse quicken when Malfoy smiled, that made his chest ache when Malfoy talked about disappointment and family and loneliness. Liked him in a way that had never really faded, only gone quiet, waiting.

Harry dug his fingers into the sand, grounding himself, staring out at the darkening water. The tide rolled in and out, relentless, unconcerned with how carefully he had tried to keep everything contained.

Could he keep doing this? Smiling, joking, circling the truth without touching it? Letting moments pass because they were safer that way? Letting Malfoy walk away again, carrying all the unspoken things with him?

He closed his eyes, listening to the sea, and let the decision settle.

He couldn’t pretend anymore.

Not after the way his chest still ached with the absence of him.

When Harry knocked on his door, Malfoy opened it in a second, as if he was waiting on the other side of the door. He looked freshly showered and had changed into joggers and a tight shirt, delectable as ever. 

“Took you long enough,” Malfoy commented as he leaned on the door.

“Did you miss me already?” 

Rolling his eyes, Malfoy opened it wider and let Harry in. 

Harry stepped in slowly, taking in the room. He wanted to push Malfoy onto the large, inviting bed and have his way with him, but the decisions he had made on the beach were still firm in his mind. Instead, he sat on the corner of the bed while Malfoy leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest. The fabric of the shirt strained over his muscles, pulling over his biceps. Harry wanted to bite them. 

“I think I’m bi,” he blurted out. 

Malfoy blinked. 

“Bisexual,” Harry clarified, just in case there was any confusion. 

“I know what bi means.” 

“Well, you didn’t say anything. I didn’t know if you’d heard me.” 

“I did.” 

“Okay,” Harry said. “Thoughts? Questions?” 

Malfoy blinked again. “Was this supposed to be news to me?” 

“I’m just saying.” 

“Okay. Congratulations?” 

“You’re such a git,” Harry huffed. 

“Potter, I’ve had my cock down your throat and up your arse within the same twenty minutes. I don’t know what reaction you were expecting from me, but this isn’t exactly breaking news.” 

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud so it’s kind of a big deal for me.” 

“Again, congratulations.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Salazar,” Malfoy huffed, pressing two fingers to his eyes.

“Sorry, am I inconveniencing you?” Harry snapped.

“Si tu n'étais pas si adorable, je te mettrais à la porte.”

“Oh great, now the French.”

Malfoy chuckled and pushed himself off the door, coming to sit by Harry. “So, what are you going to do with your newfound bisexuality?” 

Harry had been annoyed, but it was hard to stay mad when Malfoy was so close to him. He had planned for this. He had practiced. He was going to be honest, because that was all he had left. “I’m going to tell you that I don’t want to keep pretending anymore.” 

Malfoy went very still. “Potter—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, placing a finger on his lips. “It’s my turn to talk.” 

Malfoy blinked slowly and nodded. 

Harry cupped his face gently and whispered, “I’m so tired, Draco. I can’t keep doing this. It’s been years of this now and every time I have to say goodbye to you, my heart hurts so much I think I’m going to die. I don’t want to keep living a lie.” He took a deep breath. “I just—I can’t keep pretending that I don’t like you.” 

“You don’t like me.” 

“I do. Draco, I—I like you so much. Maybe even too much.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said roughly. 

“Don’t you dare tell me how I feel,” Harry growled. “I am perfectly capable of deciphering my feelings.” 

“You don’t understand. You can’t like me. You shouldn’t like me. I’m not—” Draco’s voice cracked as he looked away. 

Oh, fuck. Was he—was he crying? 

“Draco,” Harry called. “Hey. Look at me.”

Draco shook his head, moving to get off the bed but Harry straddled him, keeping him in place with his knees on either side of Draco’s hips. 

“Look at me, love,” Harry whispered. “Please?” 

Tears clung to Draco’s eyelashes when he finally turned to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry brushed them aside slowly, overcome with emotion. His throat tightened as he looked at Draco’s face. He had never seen him cry before, and honestly, he never wanted to see it again because it hurt far too much. But this was another milestone. Another barrier breaking down between them. How could they keep pretending after this?

Harry leaned in, pressing his forehead against Draco’s as he inhaled deeply. Slowly, Draco’s arms wrapped around Harry to keep him in place. Harry just held him while he broke down, soaking Harry’s shirt in tears. Fuck, Harry could practically hear his own heart breaking inside his chest, shattering all over the floor into glass shards. If he could take Draco’s pain and endure it all himself, he would do it in a heartbeat. It didn’t matter what he had dealt with in his entire life. This felt like the worst form of torture. 

Holding Draco’s face in his hands as if he was precious, Harry leaned in to kiss him, tasting the salt from his tears. It was the softest kiss they had ever shared and somehow, the heaviest too, filled with words both said and unsaid. There was so much more between them, so much more they needed to get through and so much they needed to figure out but for now, this was a start. Harry would take it; he would take anything.

“We’re going to figure this out, Draco,” he whispered against his lips. “Do you hear me?” 

Draco buried his face in Harry’s neck, unable to reply, but he nodded. 

“We’re in this together,” Harry vowed. “And I am not letting you go.”

Chapter Text

Oliver Wood’s flat smelled faintly of coffee, parchment, and broom polish, the holy trinity of any Quidditch discussion. The coffee table was completely buried under diagrams, moving miniatures of players looping in tight formations, and a battered notebook that had seen more seasons than most professional Chasers.

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning over one of the charts while Wood paced in front of him, wand in hand, occasionally tapping a figure to make it dart or spin.

“If Puddlemere keep running that staggered Hawk formation,” Wood said, “their Seeker’s going to try and pull you wide, force you to overcommit to the left. It’s subtle, but it opens a lane for their second Beater to box you in.”

Harry nodded, tracking the movement with his eyes. “So I stay higher, let him think he’s got space, then cut in once the Snitch drops altitude.”

“Exactly.” Wood flashed a proud grin. “You’ve got the instincts for it. You always have. I just want the rest of the team ready to react the second you move.”

He flicked his wand and the tiny Seeker representing Harry shot upward, then dove sharply. Two opposing players tried to close in, but a miniature Chaser intercepted one of them.

“Timing’s everything,” Wood said. “You hesitate, you lose the line. You commit, you force them to scramble.”

Harry leaned back on his hands, studying the pattern. “They’re aggressive this year. Fast. But they get sloppy when they’re frustrated.”

Wood’s eyes lit up. “Which is where you come in.”

Harry smiled faintly. Strategy always grounded him. The clean logic of angles and speed and instinct was easier than the messy tangle of feelings he’d been carrying lately. Here, it was just the pitch, the air, and the next move.

“Alright,” Harry said, leaning forward again. “Show me what happens if they switch to a vertical screen instead. I want to see how tight the gap really is.”

Wood began rearranging the tiny figures on the board, muttering about spacing and angles, when the window banged softly and a tawny owl swept in, wings brushing the curtain as it circled once before landing neatly on the back of the sofa.

Harry blinked. “Quite the dramatic entrance.”

Wood paused, then looked up. “Oh.”

The owl stuck out its leg. Wood detached the letter, thanked it absently, and the bird took off again, disappearing into the evening. He unfolded the parchment, eyes scanning quickly.

Harry watched his face change.

The intense, furrow-browed concentration melted into something lighter and warmer. And then, unmistakably, into a proper grin. The kind that lifted the corners of his mouth and softened his eyes. Was his captain smiling at a letter?

Harry leaned back against the table, arms folding. “What the fuck is that?” 

Wood glanced up. “What.”

“Your face?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“That face,” Harry gasped. “Is that… is that a love letter?” 

Wood scoffed, but his ears were already turning pink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is pretending you didn’t just light up like the stadium on Cup night,” Harry said. “Who is it?”

“It’s no one,” Wood insisted, folding the letter a bit too carefully and setting it aside.

Harry’s grin widened. “Isn’t it?”

Wood shot him a look. “We were in the middle of something.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Harry said. “But now we’re in the middle of something far more important, which is your secret admirer.”

“They are not an admirer.”

“Oh so it’s a lover.”

Wood groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrible at lying,” Harry replied cheerfully. “Go on. Friend. Teammate. Captain. Who’s making you grin like you’ve just won a Cup final?”

Wood picked up his wand again, clearly trying to reclaim authority. “We need to look at their Seeker’s tendency to drift right under pressure.”

Harry didn’t budge. “After you tell me why you’re suddenly in such a good mood.”

There was a beat. Then Wood sighed, resigned. “It’s just someone I’ve been talking to. That’s all.”

“Is that so,” Harry cooed. “Talking regularly enough to warrant parchment and personal owls and that soft little smile you’re pretending you don’t have?”

Wood’s blush deepened. “Can we please talk about Quidditch?”

“This is Quidditch,” Harry said solemnly. “Team morale. Captain’s emotional well-being. Very important.”

Wood snorted despite himself. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Immensely,” Harry agreed. “It’s not often I get to watch you be flustered. Usually it’s the entire team.”

Wood shook his head, laughing under his breath, and finally tucked the letter into his pocket. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, completely,” Harry said. “Relentlessly. It’s what friends are for.”

“Friends, huh?” Wood smirked. “Alright, then. What about you? Anyone sending owls your way, or are you too busy brooding over formations and statistics?”

Harry choked on a sip of water, coughing as Wood’s grin widened. “I—what? No. Definitely not.”

“Oh, come on,” Wood pressed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t notice the way you’re distracted half the time? Always running off after matches and sending owls?” 

Harry’s ears warmed. He tried to focus on the miniatures, rearranging a Chaser in a tight circle, but his mind had already gone elsewhere. “It’s no one.” 

“Okay,” Wood drawled.

Harry winced, caught somewhere between wanting to smile and wanting to disappear into the floor. “It’s complicated,” he amended.

Wood smiled, kind and understanding. “Okay. You know you can always talk to me, right?” 

“I know,” Harry smiled. “Thank you.” 

“Always. Isn’t the Serpents’ match starting soon?” 

Harry glanced at the clock. “In a couple minutes, I think,” he answered, as if he didn’t have Draco’s entire schedule memorized. 

Wood leaned toward the wireless on the shelf and flicked the switch. Static hissed, then Lee Jordan’s unmistakable voice filled the flat. 

“Good afternoon, folks, witches and wizards of all ages! We’re coming to you live from the grand Puddlemere Stadium, where the Serpents are set to face the team in what promises to be an electrifying match! The crowd is packed to the rafters, the sun is shining, and the pitch is looking absolutely pristine today. Expect speed, expect flair, expect those daring moves that make the stands erupt because these two teams are anything but ordinary!” 

“Yeah, because they’re bizarre,” Wood murmured under his breath. 

“The Serpents have been building momentum this season, their coordination and agility practically unmatched, but Puddlemere are no slouches. This is the sort of match that could go down to the last Snitch. Speaking of, ladies and gentlemen, a quick update before we kick off. The Serpents’ star Seeker, Draco Malfoy, will be sitting this match out.” 

Harry froze. What?

“Reports indicate a family emergency. Tragically, his father, former Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, has passed away. Malfoy has returned to their family home in France to pay his respects. It’s a heavy loss, and our thoughts go out to him at this difficult time. No word yet on who will be filling in, but you can bet the rest of the team will be pulling together for their Seeker today.”

Harry froze, the wireless suddenly too loud and too small at the same time. His chest tightened, and the room felt simultaneously too big and too close.

“Shit,” Wood muttered. “That’s awful.” 

“Yeah,” Harry swallowed, staring down at his hands. He didn’t know what to say. “Listen, I—”

“Go,” Wood said, giving him a knowing look. “Get out of here.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for. Go now.” 

Harry gathered his things faster than his erratic heartbeat and Apparated back to Grimmauld. Merlin, why didn’t he get one of those Muggle cellphones that everyone seemed to have these days? He ran to his desk and scribbled a quick letter. 

Just heard. Floo call me when you can, please? I’m so sorry. — HJP 

He sent it off with the owl and fell on his sofa, holding his head in his hands. He had known that Lucius’ health had been deteriorating, but no one ever expected the worst. Even if Draco had a hundred problems with his father, it was never going to be easy. 

Hours passed by as Harry paced in his sitting room, waiting for the Floo call. He ate cold paranthas with ghee and washed it down with buttermilk just to keep himself awake. He wished he was there for Draco, however he needed him to be. Draco was such an independent person, but he just wanted to hold his hand and stand by his side. Maybe give him a hug. 

“Harry?” 

Harry shot off the sofa and fell to the hearth. 

Draco’s tired face gleamed through the flames. “I’m sorry it took so long to call.”

“Don’t be,” Harry said immediately. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

“Are you alright?”

Draco shrugged. “As much as I can be.” 

“I’m so sorry.” 

Sighing, Draco said, “Thank you. It’s all over now.” 

“It must feel so weird.” 

“It does,” Draco admitted. “It’s like… I don’t know. I know we didn’t have the best relationship but I can’t help but wish we had more time, you know? Like maybe if we did, there was some opportunity to fix it. Foolish, I know, but maybe things would have changed. Maybe he would have grown and seen how playing Quidditch actually wasn’t the worst thing in the entire world.”

Harry didn’t think that was very likely, but he would never say that out loud. 

“And I just feel like it’s not fair. He still got everything he wanted in the end, didn’t he? He had me providing for him and doing everything he wanted. He was selfish and cruel and had archaic ideals and yet I still provided for him and cared for him and did everything I possibly could for him. So who’s the joke really on? It’s still me.” 

“Draco,” Harry said gently. “That reflects negatively on his character, not yours.” 

“But it still hurts.” 

“I know, love.”

Draco pressed his fists to his eyes. “I hate him. Merde.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “I wish I was there.” 

“I’m glad you’re not here,” Draco snapped and Harry’s heart sank. “I don’t want you anywhere near this vile man. He doesn’t deserve to be near you.” 

Oh. 

“I want to be there for you.” 

“You are here for me,” Draco said with a weak smile. “You’re right here.” 

Harry smiled back. 

“J'aurais aimé que tu sois là aussi.” 

Ah, the French again. Harry didn’t have it in him to protest. If it made Draco feel better to speak in French then so be it. 

“J'aimerais que tu sois avec moi tout le temps. C'est ça le problème. Je te désire constamment. Je te désire partout. Je te désire depuis des années. Je te désire depuis si longtemps que je ne me souviens même plus de ce que c'est de ne pas te désirer. Je désire chaque parcelle de toi et je ne veux jamais te laisser partir. Je te veux dans ma maison, dans mon lit, dans mon cœur. Je te veux de toutes les manières possibles. Je suis tellement amoureux de toi et je ne sais pas quoi faire.”

Harry sighed. “One day, I’m going to learn French and you’re going to be totally screwed, Draco.” 

Draco chuckled. “J'espère que nos enfants apprendront le français.”

Harry propped his chin on his fist. “Totally agree.” 

“Je veux trois enfants. Au moins un garçon et une fille. Pour le troisième, peu importe que ce soit un garçon ou une fille.”

“Right exactly.” Harry nodded emphatically. “I’ve always said that.” 

“Si nous avons un garçon, je veux l'appeler Léo.”

“Oh absolutely,” Harry gasped. 

Draco’s silver eyes glimmered with something unspoken. “Merde, je suis tellement amoureux de toi.” 

“Hmm, maybe olives? I’m not particular.” 

Draco barked out laughing at that one. Of course, he had no idea what Draco was saying, but the smile on his face was absolutely worth it.

Someone called Draco's name and said something else in French. Draco replied and then sighed. “I’ve got to go.” 

Harry pouted just a little. “Okay. When are you coming home?” 

“A couple more days.” 

“Can you come to Grimmauld?” 

“If you want me to.” 

“I do,” Harry confirmed. 

“Then I’ll be there.” 

“If you want to call me again during any of these days, you should feel free.” 

Draco’s smile was slow. “I will feel that freedom.” 

“Git.” 

Draco pressed a kiss to his fingers and waved them. "See you at home, darling."

Chapter Text

“Good evening, witches and wizards, and welcome back to a stadium that is absolutely crackling with anticipation.” 

Lee Jordan’s voice boomed across the pitch, warm and electric.

“We’ve got a classic on our hands tonight. Serpents versus Lions, green and silver against scarlet and gold, and yes, you heard right, folks, it’s the matchup everyone’s always waiting for. Malfoy versus Potter, Seeker against Seeker, rivals in the air and, if rumors are to be believed, rivals in just about every other way too.”

The crowd roared as the two teams swept out of their tunnels, brooms glinting under the floodlights. “Now, let’s talk form,” Lee continued. “The Serpents are riding high after a string of decisive wins, and their Seeker is back where he belongs, cutting through the sky like he owns it. Malfoy has been in devastating shape this season, sharp turns, fearless dives, and a sixth sense for the Snitch that’s made even veteran Seekers sweat. But the Lions are not here to roll over. Not with Potter on the pitch.”

A cheer rose, louder, wilder, as Harry shot upward, already circling, already scanning. “Potter’s speed is legendary, his reflexes almost unfair, and when these two lock eyes across the pitch, you can feel the tension all the way up in the stands. Different styles, different tempers, same ruthless focus. This isn’t just another league match, folks. This is pride, history, and a whole lot of unfinished business, all about to be settled in the air.”

Harry spotted Draco almost immediately, pale hair bright against the blue of the sky, posture loose and confident as he cruised in a lazy arc near the center of the pitch. When their eyes met, Draco tipped his broom in a small, mocking salute, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Scared, Potter?” Draco asked. 

Harry grinned, and it took everything in him not to kiss that smug smile off Draco’s face. “You wish.” 

“Took you long enough,” his voice carried when they crossed paths. “I was starting to think you’d overslept.”

Harry snorted and angled closer, matching his speed. “You’d miss me too much.” 

Draco’s laugh was quick and soft, almost lost in the wind. “I would.” 

They banked hard as a Bludger tore between them, both of them twisting instinctively, so close their sleeves brushed. The contact sent a strange, warm jolt through Harry’s chest that had nothing to do with adrenaline. 

Draco glanced over, eyes bright, clearly amused. “So,” Draco said casually, as if they were strolling down a corridor instead of flying at breakneck speed, “what’s for dinner later? I’m thinking of paneer.”

Harry barked a laugh, nearly losing altitude. “You’re unbelievable. We’re in the middle of a match.”

“Yes, and you’re still very capable of answering,” Draco replied smoothly, rolling onto his side to track a glint of gold near the far stands. 

The Snitch flickered, then vanished again. Both of them surged forward, brooms cutting through the air in perfect, competitive sync. They chased it through a cluster of players, weaving and diving, sometimes gaining, sometimes losing, neither willing to give the other an inch. When Draco suddenly feinted left, Harry followed, only to realize a second too late that it had been a tease.

Draco shot upward, laughing. “Honestly, Potter, you’re too easy.”

“Git,” Harry shot back, pushing his broom harder. 

They looped the pitch, trading playful barbs between sharp turns and near collisions.

Draco commented on the weather. 

Harry accused him of showing off. 

At one point, Draco drifted close enough to murmur, “If I win, I get to eat your arse for at least an hour before I let you come,” before darting away again, robes snapping in the wind.

“Cocky bastard,” Harry swore under his breath, but he was smiling. 

The Snitch finally streaked low near the stands, and this time there was no joking, only pure, shared focus. They dove together, shoulder to shoulder, the world narrowing to a flash of gold and the sound of their own breathing. Harry stretched, fingers brushing metal, nearly closing around it. He didn’t see the Bludger.

It came out of nowhere, a dark blur at the edge of his vision. There was a sickening crack of impact, a jolt that tore the air from his lungs. Pain flared white-hot through his side, and the world lurched violently. 

His grip slipped. 

The sky spun. 

Sound stretched and warped, Draco’s voice shouting his name from somewhere impossibly far away. Harry tried to right himself, to reach for his broom, but his limbs wouldn’t respond the way he wanted them to.

The stadium rushed up to meet him, a wash of green and color and noise.

Harry drifted in and out of awareness, the world fading to black in fragments. Voices overlapped, urgent and muffled, the rush of feet on the pitch, the creak of a stretcher. There was the sharp, clean scent of healing potions and something metallic in the air that made his stomach turn.

“Careful with his head,” a witch said somewhere near his ear.

“He’s awake. Harry, can you hear me?”

Harry tried to answer. His tongue felt too heavy, his thoughts slow and slippery, but one thing cut through the fog with startling clarity: Draco’s voice.

“Is he alright?” Draco was saying, sharp with panic, the smooth confidence gone. “What do you mean you don’t know yet? He was fine a second ago. He was right there. You can’t just—move, let me see him.”

There was a scuffle, someone gently but firmly holding him back. “Sir, please, we need space to work.”

Harry’s chest tightened. He tried to lift his head and immediately regretted it, a wave of dizziness washing over him. 

“Draco,” he tried to say, but it came out as a weak rasp.

The mediwitch leaned closer. “Easy, Mr. Potter. You’ve taken a hard hit. Don’t strain yourself.”

“Tell him,” Harry murmured, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Tell him I’m okay.”

Another wave of black crept in at the edges of his vision, but Draco’s voice was still there, insistent, frightened. “Just tell me if he’s conscious. I need to know if he’s—”

“I’m okay,” Harry whispered again, more urgently now, as if the words themselves could reach across the space between them. “Please. He’s going to worry. Tell him I’m fine. Tell him I’m okay.”

Someone squeezed his hand, grounding and warm. “We will.”

As the darkness pulled him under, the last thing Harry heard was Draco’s name on his own lips. 

When he finally opened his eyes again, it was to a ceiling he didn’t recognize.

For a long moment, he wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d got there. Everything felt muffled, as if he were underwater, the edges of the world softened and slow. The light above him was too bright, making him squint, and when he tried to move, a dull, insistent ache spread through his ribs and down his side.

Fuck. St Mungo’s, of course. 

Fragments drifted back. The match. Draco’s voice in his ear, teasing about dinner. Then… pain. The sickening impact. Falling.

Ugh. How inconvenient. 

He lay still, listening to the quiet hum of wards, the distant clink of glass, the low murmur of voices somewhere beyond a curtain. His head felt heavy, thoughts sliding around instead of lining up properly. His stomach twisted. He lifted a hand, slow and unsteady, and was vaguely surprised to find it wrapped in bandages. The motion made the room tilt, and he let it fall back to the mattress with a soft, frustrated breath.

“Why do you sound so upset?” 

Harry’s neck snapped to the voice. 

Draco was sitting on a rather uncomfortable looking chair in the corner of the room, staring at him. He looked ghastly, with dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a long time. 

Harry grinned so wide that his head began to throb. “Dracoooooo.” 

Draco stood up and moved closer to the bed. “Hi.” 

Harry gave him a dopey smile. “How’s it going?” 

“How’s it going?” Draco sounded a little angry. “That Bludger nearly took your head off, Harry. What were you thinking?” 

Harry blinked. His brain was a bit sluggish but he was pretty sure he didn’t ask to be incapacitated. “Well, that’s not really my fault, is it?” 

Draco let out a breath, rubbing his eyes. “No.” His voice gentled as he said, “No. I’m sorry. Fuck. You—just scared me so much, darling and I thought you were—”

“Heyyyyyyyy.” Harry stretched a hand out. “Come here.” 

Draco sighed and took his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed. Brushing his fingers across Harry’s freckles, he whispered, “You scared me so much.” 

“I’m sorry,” Harry yawned. “I really was excited about dinner with you.” 

“It’s alright,” Draco said. “We’ll have dinner when you get out of here.” 

“I also wanted to ask you something,” he slurred.  

“Maybe you should just rest—”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” 

Draco’s smile was gentle as he brushed his fingers across those freckles over and over again. “Finally finished construction?” 

“Yessss,” Harry hissed. “It’s really nice and private. No one will bother us. Just you and me and the water. And a bed.” 

“So we can catch up on some sleep?”

“Not likely.” 

Draco laughed, leaning forward to press a kiss to Harry’s lips. “We’ll see.” 

Harry pouted, but kissed him back. . “That’s not a yes.” 

“Let’s focus on your recovery, please.” 

“Aw, are you worried about me?” 

“Yes, Harry,” Draco said sternly. “I am.” 

“Who won the match?” 

Draco rolled his eyes as he laid down next to Harry. “It was suspended.”

“Wood’s going to be pissed,” Harry observed, running a hand through Draco’s hair.

Casting a Tempus charm, Draco hummed. “I’m pretty sure he’s doing a press conference right now, actually.” 

Harry frowned. “Why?” 

Draco waved his wand toward the wireless on the bedside table. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Alright, settle down, settle down,” Wood’s voice crackled through the wire, a little rougher than usual, but steady. “Before we get into questions about the upcoming fixtures, I want to address what everyone’s really thinking about. Harry Potter is stable. He’s conscious, he’s in good hands at St Mungo’s, and the mediwitches are optimistic about his recovery. He took a nasty hit, but he’s strong, and if there’s anyone I’d bet on bouncing back, it’s him. On behalf of the Lions, I just want to say we’re all wishing him a speedy recovery, and we’ll be waiting for him to fly again when he’s ready.”

Draco nuzzled his cheek, pressing a kiss against his jaw. 

“Before I take any more questions,” Wood said, “I need to say something personal. And I’m saying it today because what happened to Harry put a lot into perspective for me. I’m not trying to take advantage of his injury and I’m sure that, after he hears what I have to say, he wouldn’t think that I was either.” 

Draco turned to him, frowning. “Do you know what this is?” 

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted, forcing his groggy brain to focus. 

“When you watch someone you care about get knocked out of the sky, when you’re standing on the sidelines not knowing if they’re going to wake up, it does something to you. It reminds you how fast everything can change. How nothing is guaranteed. How stupid it is to keep parts of yourself hidden just because it feels easier or safer.”

Harry could almost picture him, hands on his hips, shoulders squared, the way he stood before a big match.

“I’ve spent a long time being open about tactics, about leadership, about pushing my players to be brave in the air. But I haven’t always been as brave about my own life. And I don’t want to live like that anymore. Life’s too short to stay in the shadows, especially when you’ve seen how quickly it can all be taken away.” 

Harry’s heart pounded in his chest. 

“I’m gay.” 

What. The. Fuck?

Draco stared at him with his jaw dropped. 

“For the past year, I’ve been in a relationship with Adrian Pucey. Yes, former Serpents Chaser, now Quidditch analyst for the Prophet, and the man who has somehow put up with my obsessive match replays, my 3 AM strategy rants, and my inability to talk about feelings without turning it into a team meeting. He’s been my support this year in ways I can’t properly put into words. Through the pressure, the losses, the injuries—all of it. I’m proud of who I am, and I’m proud of who I love. And I don’t want to waste another day pretending that’s something to be quiet about.” Wood cleared his throat, voice softening just a little. “So, yes. We’ll talk about formations and replacements and the next match, but I wanted to say that first. Because courage isn’t just what you do on a broom. Sometimes it’s standing up and saying, this is my life, and I’m done hiding it. I am done hiding it. I don’t want to anymore. So yeah, that’s my announcement, I guess.”

There was silence for a long moment until Wood broke it again. 

“Any questions?” 

Reporters clamored over one another, shouting for attention. 

Draco leaned over and turned the wireless off. 

“Well,” Harry said into the stunned silence. “That’s a game changer.”

Chapter Text

The cottage sat tucked into a fold of the Cotswolds.

Low and wide, built from warm, honey-colored stone, it looked centuries old at first glance, though the lines were clean and the magic woven into it hummed with quiet newness. The roof was thick with weathered slate and a soft spill of moss, sloping gently under the weight of climbing roses and wisteria that Harry had coaxed into bloom. In spring and summer, they tangled over the eaves in pale pinks and violets, scenting the air and softening the stone until the whole place looked like something out of a painting. 

A narrow path of uneven flagstones curved toward the front door, half-swallowed by grass and tiny white flowers that nodded in the breeze. Beyond it, the ground opened into a broad, gentle sweep of daisies, their white petals and bright yellow centers scattered thickly around the cottage like fallen stars. Harry tended them himself now that his arm had healed, coaxing them to grow in wide, careless drifts, kneeling in the earth with dirt on his hands and a quiet, stubborn patience. They framed the house on all sides, brushing against the stone walls and the path, turning the whole place into an island of soft color and light. The daisies were his pride and joy, and he would never stop talking about them. 

The door itself was solid oak, dark and polished by years of use, with a brass handle that caught the sun and a small, round window set high in the wood, always glowing faintly at night with the warmth of wards and hearthfire.

Behind the cottage, the land fell away into rolling fields and low stone walls, sheep grazing in slow, peaceful lines. A stand of old trees sheltered one side, their branches murmuring in the wind, while the other opened to wide sky, where the sunsets turned everything gold and rose and soft.

It was deliberately quiet. No roads in sight, no neighboring houses close enough to intrude. Just the hush of grass, the distant call of birds, and the gentle movement of the daisies Harry had planted and cared for, as if the cottage and the field were breathing together.

Harry watched Draco walk through the cottage slowly, smiling to himself as he looked at the Lions paraphernalia still littered everywhere. But, Harry had even gone out of his way to have some Serpents’ gear here and there just so Draco wouldn’t be able to turn his nose up too much. It wouldn’t be Draco if he didn’t scoff just a little, after all. 

“It’s beyond lovely,” Draco commented. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” 

Warmth filled Harry’s chest at the praise. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“How could I not?” 

Harry slipped his fingers through Draco’s. “I have one more room to show you.” 

“All six of the bedrooms, two of the broom sheds and the Quidditch pitches weren’t enough?” 

Harry ignored him and dragged him to the largest room in the house. Well, save for the outdoor Quidditch pitch, of course. “This is the library.”

Draco stopped in his tracks. “Oh mon dieu.”

The library was Harry’s quietest, most deliberate gift to Draco. It was intended to be a space designed not just for reading, but for him to exist as if it was his. He wanted Draco to feel like he was at home here, however he needed to convey that message.

It was tucked at the far end of the cottage, a room with tall, vaulted ceilings and narrow windows that let in just enough daylight to make the dust motes hover like tiny sparks. The walls were lined with dark, polished oak shelves, floor to ceiling, the ladders on sliding rails hinting at grandeur while still being practical. 

Most of the shelves were bare, but some were filled with the first editions and classics Draco had once mentioned in passing. He figured Draco’s collection of raunchy bodice rippers would take up most of the space anyway. 

The furniture was low and inviting: a pair of high-backed chairs, soft but structured, set near a small marble fireplace, and a chaise longue. Cushions were muted in color, fabrics luxurious but restrained, just the way Draco preferred. A small, elegant writing desk sat in a corner, with a single brass lamp, and drawers stocked with parchment, quills, and ink that Harry had selected himself. 

Everywhere Harry looked, he had imagined Draco moving through the space: brushing his fingers along the spines of books, tilting his head in thought, sinking into a chair with a romance novel in hand and his hair falling just so across his forehead.

It was Harry’s way of saying, without words, please call this home. 

“You built a library?” 

Harry rested his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “Yep.” 

“For me?” 

“For us.” 

“Do you even know how to read?” 

Harry chuckled. “You’ve used that joke before.” 

“My brain is short circuiting,” Draco complained. 

“Well then what’s the point of the library?” 

Draco made an exasperated noise and kissed Harry’s temple. “It’s perfect.” 

Harry grinned. “I’m glad you like it, love.”

Walking through the shelves, Draco picked up French 101: A Beginner’s Guide to the Language of Love and raised a brow. “What’s this?”

Harry shrugged. “You leave me no choice.” 

“Learning a language from a book does you absolutely no good. I’ll teach you.” 

“I’ll be a very good student,” Harry purred. 

Draco blushed and shook his head. “J'ai l'impression de ne pas mériter cela.”

“Classes haven’t begun yet, Draco,” Harry chided. 

“I feel like I don’t deserve this,” he translated. 

 Harry’s heart hurt at the amount of insecurity in his voice. “You deserve everything.” 

Draco swallowed, looking at Harry carefully, like he didn’t believe those words but he didn’t argue, just said, “I’d kill for a cuppa.” 

“I’ll make you one,” Harry offered. “Want to start a fire?

Draco nodded. “Perfect.”

Ten minutes later, the fire crackled softly in the hearth, the orange glow brushing the walls with warmth. Draco was already sitting on the sofa with a blanket draped over his legs when Harry handed him a steaming mug. 

“Three spoons of sugar, as ordered,” Harry confirmed.

“Thank you, darling.” 

Harry slid in opposite him. They both stretched their legs across the sofa so their feet met in the middle. For a long moment, they just sat, the quiet of the cottage wrapping around them like a shield from the outside world. It was rare for them to have quiet moments like this, where they could just coexist without pretending. 

“Theo called me the other day,” Draco said apropos of absolutely nothing. 

Harry glared at him, feeling something sour twist inside his gut. “Oh?” 

“He wanted to grab dinner.” 

Harry wanted to kill him. “How was that?” 

“Fine,” Draco shrugged, eyeing him over the rim of his mug. “Pansy asked me if we were finally dating because I hardly ever engage in his interest like that. Pansy reckons he’s fancied me since Hogwarts, can you believe it?” 

Harry’s mouth went completely dry as tears threatened to fall. What the fuck? Had he been misinterpreting all of this? Was he delusional? No, he couldn’t be. Anxiety thrummed in Harry’s throat as it closed in on itself. Fuck, he hated talking about Nott. He hated talking about anyone who was able to lay claim to Draco in a way Harry wasn’t. It didn’t seem fair, and yet Harry knew he had no ground to stand on. Draco seemed to be oblivious to Harry’s turmoil because he just kept babbling on. 

“And it’s true, you know? I don’t ever engage with anyone, even though all these people always throw themselves at me. So many beautiful women and handsome men.” 

“It must be so difficult to be you,” Harry snapped.

“It really is,” Draco drawled. “Want to know why?” 

Did he? Harry wasn’t sure. But he was a self-destructive fool so he asked anyway. “Why?” 

“Because every time I’m around any of these people or really, anyone at all, I can only think of this one agitatingly slow Seeker with these devastating green eyes and gorgeous freckles.” 

Time slowed to a complete halt. 

“I can’t get him out of my head, really. I’m always thinking about him, always comparing everyone to him because no one ever comes close. No one could even try.” Draco gave him a lopsided smile. “It’s a terrible problem, isn’t it?” 

Harry’s heart thundered as the previously dropped anvil lifted itself off his chest. Fucking Draco, always trying to give him a bloody heart attack. 

“Do you want that problem to go away?” 

Draco’s smile softened. “I don’t ever want that problem to go away.” 

How were they going to make this work? Two rival Seekers, traveling for matches, always competing, always comparing… and somehow trying to keep a life together in the middle of it all. It seemed impossible. He imagined schedules that barely overlapped, long hours apart, the strain of expectations from teammates, from fans, from themselves. Could they handle the intensity of being both lovers and competitors, constantly measuring, pushing, teasing?

He thought about Draco’s sharp confidence, the way he carried himself like he owned every room he walked into, and the quiet vulnerability that Harry had glimpsed too many times now to ignore. Whatever it was, they had to figure it out together. 

“What are we going to do, Draco?” 

Draco sighed, resting his head against the cushion. “I think…” 

“Come on,” Harry encouraged when Draco didn’t say anything more for a moment. “We have to communicate. We have to be honest with one another. Otherwise this is never going to work.”

“How very mature of you.” 

Harry swallowed. “I’m serious. I have really awful anxiety, Draco. Honestly, I’ve probably had it my whole life. When I was younger, I obviously had other things going on such as the raving lunatic who wanted to kill me and half the wizarding world and so I didn’t really have time to address it but I know that I’m an anxious person. So for the sake of my mental health and general wellbeing, I need to know where we are. I need to know what we’re doing. This isn’t casual for me.” 

Draco pressed his foot against Harry’s. “This isn’t casual for me either.”

“Okay, good.” Harry let out a breath. “See? That’s a start.” 

Smiling, Draco put his mug to the side and crawled over to Harry. “I seem to remember a rather large and comfortable bed in one of the many bedrooms I was shown on the tour.” 

Harry smiled as Draco peppered kisses down his neck. “Which one? I need to check if it’s available.” 

“Whichever one I can fuck you in,” Draco rasped against his jaw. “I’ve been waiting for so fucking long, Harry. And I want you in every single position I can think of so I can make you come over and over again until you’re begging me to stop.” 

Well, how was Harry supposed to deny an invitation like that? 

Feeling rather impatient with the promise of orgasms, Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and Apparated them to the nearest bedroom he could picture clearly, which took some level of effort. Within a second, Draco had him pinned to the mattress and stripped of his clothes. Their hips were sliding against one another, cocks brushing with force. 

“Slow down or I’m going to come,” Harry warned. 

“Already?” Draco teased. 

“Fuck off,” Harry groaned. “You said it yourself; it’s been a long time.” 

“Poor darling,” Draco purred. “Have I been neglecting you?” 

“Very much,” Harry answered. 

“Let me make it up to you then.” 

Draco rose to his knees and spread Harry’s legs wide, sending an array of spells through his body. Harry shivered at the feeling of Draco’s magic coursing through his body, but he was hot all over when he coated his hand in lube and slowly stroked himself as he watched Harry laid out on the bed like an offering. 

Harry raised himself on his elbows to watch, licking his lips. “You’re so perfect.”

Draco hummed. “If perfection is what you want, you should look at yourself.” 

Harry disagreed, but it was impossible to describe Draco. Yes, he was beautiful but in an ethereal kind of way. He was… Draco was just impossibly beautiful. 

Not just in the way anyone else might notice—the way his hair caught the light, pale and shining, or the curve of his jaw, sharp and elegant—but in the way he moved, in the tilt of his head when he laughed, the lazy, effortless grace in the way he did everything. Every little gesture carried a poetry Harry could read without words, a rhythm he wanted to memorize.

It wasn’t just beauty, it was the way Draco seemed to fill the space around him, pulling attention and light and warmth into his orbit, making it impossible for Harry not to notice.

Merlin, the way he loved him. It wasn’t the vague, half-formed feeling of teenage crushes or passing infatuation. This had been years in the making—nearly a decade. 

He loved Draco with the quiet fierceness that built in his chest like a storm, the kind of love that made him hold his breath when Draco’s gaze lingered, that made his stomach twist when he imagined a day without him.

Every mark along Draco’s cheek, every faint line of concentration across his brow, every subtle exhale through parted lips. All of it struck Harry like music he’d never heard before, a melody he didn’t want to stop. He could get lost in it for hours, tracing it with his eyes, with his hands, with his thoughts.

The thought of loving him, fully and without pretense, left Harry breathless. Draco’s beauty wasn’t just in his face, or his body, or the way he carried himself. It was in the way he could make Harry feel seen, known, utterly and entirely understood, and in return, Harry wanted to give him everything.

Draco kissed him sweetly as he slid into him, pulling a moan through Harry’s throat. Every single one of his sensations felt heightened, as if all of it mattered even more this time. It was like putting the final pieces of a puzzle together, completing something to make it whole.

“Draco,” Harry moaned. 

“Mine,” Draco whispered, sliding his fingers into Harry’s and interlocking them as he pressed Harry against the sheets. “You are mine.” 

“I’m yours,” Harry vowed. “I’ve always been yours. From the start.” 

“Je t’aime,” Draco said furiously, desperately. “Je t’aime.” 

Harry groaned as the orgasm curled in the base of his spine, and Draco—because he was attuned to every single thing about Harry—reached between them to stroke Harry’s cock. Harry came all over Draco’s chest and felt when Draco followed him over the edge not too long after, filling Harry’s arse with his come. Holding himself deep inside Harry for a minute, Draco panted and then collapsed beside Harry, instantly pulling Harry into his side and pressing a kiss to his sweaty hair. 

Harry moved his hand to clean Draco off but Draco grabbed his wrist and pressed a kiss to it, shaking his head. “Leave it.” 

“Filthy,” Harry murmured, throwing a leg over Draco. 

For the first time, they slept together without a discussion about if they would stay, knowing that when morning came, they would both still be there. 

Though when Harry woke up the next morning, the bed was empty. He might have panicked if the cottage didn’t smell like tea and something savory. Stretching his sore muscles with a smile, he pulled Draco’s shirt over his body and padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Draco was standing at the stove in Harry’s joggers, sipping from a mug and flipping something with his wand. 

Harry slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist. “Good morning.” 

Draco knocked his head against Harry’s. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

“I was hoping to wake up next to you.” 

“I wanted to wake you up with breakfast.” 

“I was going to have you for breakfast.” 

Laughing, Draco offered, “You still can.” 

He turned in Harry’s arms and kissed him, holding his face tenderly and brushing his fingers across Harry’s freckles. If Harry had one wish, it would be that every single one of his mornings for the rest of his life started exactly like this. Nothing but the love of his life and peaceful serenity—

“Harry, why in Merlin’s name is your Floo blocked?” 

Ron’s voice cut off abruptly.

There was a long, stunned silence.

Harry became aware, in a very sudden and mortifying way, that he was pressed chest to chest with a half-naked Draco, as Draco’s hands held his face. He was also aware that somehow, his best friends had gained access to the cottage through a back door and were now staring at him and Draco caught in a rather intimate embrace. 

“What am I looking at?” Ron whispered.

Hermione blinked. “Um. It’s a bit hard to say.” 

Harry took a small step back. “Er. Hi guys. What are you doing here?” 

“We—we haven’t seen you since the accident and you disappeared off the grid,” Hermione explained. “We asked around and somehow, you told Oliver Wood you were going to be at this cottage and not us so we decided to check in to make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch.” 

“I’m not,” Harry said.

“I might be,” Ron added. “Because I think I’m seeing things.” 

Harry made a small, strangled sound. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Really? Because it looks like you’re snogging Malfoy in a cottage surrounded by daisies.”

Harry blinked. “Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like.” 

“I need to sit down,” Ron said weakly. Hermione dutifully accompanied her husband to a nearby sofa. 

Harry turned around and looked at Draco, who hadn’t said a single word through this entire fiasco. To his credit, he looked equal parts concerned and amused. 

“I’m sorry about this.” 

Draco shrugged. “They’re your friends.” 

Harry blinked. “You don’t mind?” 

Draco looked him right in the eye and said, “I have nothing to hide, Harry. I’m not pretending anymore.” 

Merlin, he was not going to cry. Harry stepped closer and intertwined his fingers through Draco’s. “Okay. Let’s go have a terribly awkward conversation with my best friends.” 

“Oh, joy,” Draco muttered under his breath. 

They ended up on opposing sofas in the sitting room, tea forgotten on the low table as Ron and Hermione kept glancing between Harry and Draco like they were still trying to make sure this was real.

“So I guess I owe you two an explanation,” Harry started. 

“Use small words, please,” Ron requested. “My head is still reeling.” 

Hermione smacked his arm. “Go on, Harry.” 

“Draco and I have been seeing each other for nearly ten years,” Harry said quietly. 

Saying it out loud felt strange and enormous, like setting something fragile and precious down where others could finally see it.

Ron’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Ten. Years.” 

“Technically nine,” Draco added helpfully. 

“You’re telling me you’ve been secretly, romantically involved with Malfoy for nearly a decade and you never thought to mention it to your best mate?”

Harry winced. “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

“Mate, I tell you when I change broom polish,” Ron said faintly. “You didn’t tell me you were in a long-term relationship with our school nemesis.”

Draco sniffed. “I was hardly your nemesis. I was a mild inconvenience at best.”

Hermione shot him a look. “You tried to hex him off a staircase in fourth year.”

“A youthful misunderstanding,” Draco said smoothly.

Harry let out an exasperated breath. “Can we perhaps focus?” 

“On your decade-long secret relationship?” Ron suggested. 

“It wasn’t like we planned to keep it secret forever. We had no idea what to call it ourselves. It didn’t have a name, really. We were sneaking around and I was trying to figure myself out in between there.” 

“Hang on,” Ron interjected. “Didn’t you and Ginny try dating again? Were you cheating?”

“No,” Harry said vehemently. “We were on a break of sorts. It’s complicated.” 

“That’s one word for it.” 

Harry threw his head in his hands, feeling terribly guilty all of a sudden. All these years, he had kept such a massive secret from his closest friends, the one who defied death to be there with him through the absolute worst and this was how they had to find out? Anxious thoughts made his stomach drop and his heart rate escalate. Merlin, was he a terrible person?

“Darling,” Draco’s voice came from beside him, slipping his palm into Harry’s. “It’s alright.” 

“I’m fine. I’m just anxious.” 

“I know,” Draco said soothingly. “It’s okay. It’s alright. It’s going to be okay.” 

“How do you know?” Harry asked miserably. 

“Because your friends—even if they may be in shock and therefore are doing a bad job of showing it—love you and support you. They’re here for you. I’m here for you. Everything’s going to be fine. No one’s mad. No one’s upset. Right?” 

“Right,” Ron and Hermione repeated. 

“Just surprised, Harry,” Hermione enforced. 

Harry took a deep breath and dropped his hands. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really am.”

Ron studied the way Draco’s thumb rubbed gentle circles over Harry’s knuckles and something in his face gentled. “So this is serious,” he said. 

Draco’s mouth curved. “Unfortunately for you, yes.”

Harry bit down on a smile. “We are. I want this—him—for the rest of my life. He means everything to me. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. This is it for me. He is it for me.”

There was a pause, then Ron huffed out a breath. “Blimey. Ten years.” 

Harry rubbed a hand over his face. It was rather mad, to be fair. 

Hermione sighed, getting up. “Well, we’ll leave you to it, shall we?” 

Ron added, “And we’ll be sure to call ahead repeatedly before we stop by.” 

“See that you do,” Draco said. 

Ron still looked a little shell-shocked when Harry walked them to the door but he gave Harry a hug nonetheless. “Are you happy?” 

Harry nodded. “Very.” 

Hermione kissed his cheek. “Then we’re happy for you.” 

“Ten bloody years,” Ron murmured. 

“Technically nine,” Harry parroted. 

“Godric, they even sound alike now.”  

Hermione laughed, dragging her husband away as they Apparated back to their home. 

Sighing fondly, Harry went back to Draco and wrapped him into a hug. “Hi.” 

“That was something.”

“I’ll say,” Harry scoffed. 

“So,” Draco started, pulling back to brush his fingers across Harry’s freckles. “You want me for the rest of your life, huh?” 

Harry’s cheeks flamed. He had said that, hadn’t he? “Yes.” 

Draco’s smile widened. “Fuck, Harry. As-tu la moindre idée de ce que tu me fais?” 

Harry poked him in the center of the chest. “And you?” 

“And me, what?” 

Letting out an exasperated breath, Harry groaned, “Draco—” 

“Je t’aime.”  

Harry frowned because that sounded familiar. “Answer the question—” 

“I love you.” 

Harry’s heart stopped. 

“What?” 

“Je t’aime, Harry. I love you.” 

The words didn’t land all at once. They echoed, soft and stunned, like a spell that had gone slightly wrong in the best possible way.

Harry just stared at him for a second, heart stuttering so hard it felt like it might actually trip over itself. Draco said it like it was simple. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous, precious thing anyone had ever handed him.

Shock came first, bright and dizzying. 

Draco Malfoy loved him. 

Then happiness flooded in, warm and almost painful, swelling in his chest until he had to drag in a breath. It felt too big for his ribs, too bright for the quiet room, like he might start glowing if he didn’t do something with it.

Merlin, he loved him too. He had for so long it felt woven into his bones, but hearing it returned made his hands tremble.

He laughed, a soft, breathless sound, because crying would be too much and silence would be unbearable. He reached for Draco without even thinking, like his body knew before his mind caught up.

“Are you going to say it back?” Draco asked. “You’re giving me a bit of a complex here.” 

“Of course I love you.” 

Draco’s eyes lit with happiness. “You do?” 

“Draco,” Harry said, swallowing hard. “I’m in this for the long game. I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want everyone to know how important you are to me, because you are. I want a life with you, out in the sun. I want you in every single way that I can have you.” 

Draco kissed him, sweet and gentle, but filled with hope and promise. “In for the long game, huh?” 

“For the rest of our lives,” Harry vowed.

Beyond the scorched air of rivalry, there was a quiet cottage and a field of daisies in bloom, and in that softness, love finally had a place to land.

Chapter Text

“Leo, this is the last time I’m going to tell you before I take the broom away and lock it up in the cupboard for a month—slowly.” 

Leo James Potter-Malfoy was born on a blistering summer day, looking equally like both his parents. Wild, untamable hair paired with discerning, gray eyes. Pointy facial features on a much warmer skin tone. A blinding, aloof smile in contrast with the cunning, sharp remarks that came out of it. Yes, he was the perfect mix. Just perfect, really. Draco loved him ever so. 

From the moment Leo could walk, he was climbing, scrambling, launching himself off furniture with reckless confidence and an instinctive understanding of balance that made Draco go pale as Harry pretended not to worry. By five, he was begging for a broom. By six, he was circling the garden, laughing into the wind, dark hair a wild banner behind him, grey eyes bright with concentration and delight.

He flew like Harry, all daring and intuition, trusting his body to know where to go before his mind caught up. But there was Malfoy precision in it too. The careful adjustments of angle and speed, the way he studied the air currents, the way he learned quickly and remembered everything. Grace layered over fearlessness. Strategy beneath instinct.

Watching him, Draco sometimes had to sit down as he studied the striking similarities and how easy it was to pinpoint precisely which parent he had gotten them from. 

Leo cut through the sky with the same ease Harry once had, the same hunger for height and motion, for the feeling of the world falling away beneath him. And when he landed, breathless and flushed, grin sharp and triumphant, there was something so achingly familiar in the tilt of his mouth, the sparkle of mischief, the unshakeable confidence that he belonged wherever he chose to be. 

“But Papa,” Leo groaned, a pout forming on his angelic face. “Dad said I could practice the triple turn.” 

Draco was going to murder his husband. “Your dad learned that trick when he was in his twenties. Are you twenty?” 

“But—”

“Are you?” 

“No.”

“Okay then. You can learn then too.” 

“That’s not fair,” Leo complained. 

“It’s not safe,” Draco argued. “Now, you may practice sharp turns and spins but that is all. Am I understood?” 

Leo sighed as if he was being denied the entire world and everything in it. “Yes, Papa.” 

Because Draco couldn’t help himself, he pulled Leo into his arms and kissed his ruddy nose. “Je t'aime tellement.”

“Je sais.” Leo rolled his eyes. “Je t’aime aussi.” 

Chuckling, Draco turned him around and sent him off with a kiss to the back of his head. Leo wasted absolutely no time running off with his broom, ready to practice again. Merlin knew it wasn’t going to be long before he was doing that blasted triple turn again. Where was his husband anyway? Draco had an execution to schedule. 

He was just reaching for Velvet Sin on the High Seas—his current bodice ripper that was mercifully just starting to heat up—when Daisy waddled over to him, carrying something in her hand. With Draco’s luck, it was probably mud. 

Daisy Narcissa Potter-Malfoy was the sweetest little angel who lived up to her name. She was so beautiful Draco could get lost just looking at her sometimes, spending hours staring at that little face. She had Draco’s pale hair, fine and silvery-blond in the sunlight, and Harry’s eyes, a clear, impossible green that missed nothing. Where Leo was motion and wind, Daisy was stillness and observation. She watched before she acted, listened before she spoke, and when she did speak it was often with a seriousness that made adults blink and children obey.

She loved the garden. Loved the cottage and the field of daisies that had given her her name, running small fingers through the petals Harry tended so carefully. She talked to the flowers as if they could hear her, and Draco suspected they did, because they always seemed to bloom a little brighter where she lingered.

Magic hummed in her in a different way than it did in her brother. Leo’s magic flared and leapt and rushed skyward. Daisy’s settled and rooted and grew. Things mended more easily when she was near. The air felt calmer. Even Draco’s old scars ached less when she curled against him with a storybook for Draco to read to her, warm and solemn and impossibly gentle.

She had Malfoy elegance in the way she held herself, small chin lifted, back straight, already graceful, already composed. But she had Harry’s fierce and loyal heart. 

She looked up to her brother, as if he had hung the sun and her brother took very good care of her. Leo was protective and kind, always wanting to share his things with Daisy and made sure she was getting her fill of the world. Daisy was young still, but she always had a smile on her face and was a much better sleeper than Leo had been. No doubt she would make her fathers pay in some other way when she was a teenager.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est, ma belle?” 

“Flower,” Daisy announced proudly, even though there was certifiably no flower in her hand but rather a fist full of weeds. 

“En français, s'il vous plaît,” Draco requested. If he wanted his kids to learn French, he needed to start early. Leo had been a quick learner, but Daisy was even faster. 

Daisy’s brow scrunched for a moment as she thought about it and then she yelled, “Une fleur!” 

“Très bien! C'est magnifique.”

Daisy beamed at him, running off to no doubt dig up even more mud. Harry was going to have to have a lovely time ensuring the daisies weren’t too damaged after her excavation. 

It was no matter. Ten years later and Harry loved the garden, after all.

Harry was no longer Seeker for the Lions, now a coach for the team instead. According to their late night conversations, once the children were asleep and the daisies nodded in the dark, the victories no longer burned the way they once had. After all, he had won everything there was to win. Cups, titles, records, seasons that would be replayed and remembered long after he was gone. 

“I think it’s my time,” he had said one night in bed. “I’ll always love it, but I think I’m done. I want to teach, maybe. Coach kids or something like that. But I can’t keep the competitive pace up much longer.” 

Draco had understood immediately because of course he had. He’d just reached for Harry’s hand, his thumb brushing over knuckles roughened by years of flight, and said, “Any student would be lucky to have you, darling.” 

Draco, however, was very much still in the thick of it. He was still the team Seeker, flying with the same cold precision and ruthless force that he had all those years ago but now, he was tempered by his experience. His foresight helped him read the pitch like a chessboard, always thinking three moves ahead. Or maybe that was just all the chess he played with Ron Weasley over the years. 

Most importantly, their rivalry had never truly ended. It was legendary, even more so after they had come out, announced they were dating, and even gotten married. It had simply grown older, wiser and was threaded with a shared bed, shared children and a cottage wrapped in daisies. 

Draco opened his novel again, trying to find his spot on the page when the door to the backyard burst open. Fatherhood had significantly cut into his reading time, he had realized. But he couldn’t even complain because he knew exactly who was walking through that door. 

“Causing a ruckus?” 

“Well they’re your kids, so… yes,” Draco drawled. 

“That part must have come from you.” 

“No chance,” Draco replied.

Harry scoffed, coming to stand over Draco’s deck chair. 

Merde. As it did every single time, Draco’s heart skipped a beat. 

Somehow, Harry had only grown more devastating with time. 

The sharp angles of youth had softened into something stronger and more sure. Those broad shoulders of his filled out doorways. There were lines at the corners of his eyes from too much laughter and too much sun, each a testament to a life fiercely lived. 

And then, of course, there was his ring. 

Simple gold, worn with the years, glinting against skin that had seen battle and wind and warmth. It sat on Harry’s ring finger like a promise, catching the light when he curled his hand around a mug of tea, when he caught the Snitch, when he reached for Draco’s hand to intertwine their fingers. Draco found himself ensorcelled with it far too often, the way it marked him as chosen and claimed and loved. It made him unbearably, infuriatingly attractive. 

“Hello, love,” Harry murmured as he leaned down for a kiss. 

“Bonjour,” Draco murmured, kissing him back. “How was practice?” 

“Good. There’s a new Seeker I’m training. Her name’s Alicia Chapman. She’s absolutely brilliant. I think she could be the next big thing.” 

“With you as her coach, I’m sure of it.” 

“So kind,” Harry smiled before dropping it immediately. “Am I in trouble?” 

“Absolutely,” Draco grinned. “Did you tell our son you would teach him the triple turn?” 

Harry’s eyes widened as he took a step back. “What? That does not sound familiar at all.” 

“Harry, combien de fois dois-je te le répéter—”

“Dad!” Leo exclaimed, dropping his broom and running right into his father’s arms. Harry caught him above his head, grinning as he pretended to bite his feet. 

“Hello, sweetheart.” 

“Dad, Papa won’t let me learn the triple turn but you said I could learn it and I really want to learn it because I was watching your old match against Puddlemere and you did it then and you won so I really want to learn but Papa said I can’t do it until I’m twenty because you didn’t do it until you’re twenty but that just doesn’t seem fair because—”

“Easy, killer,” Harry chuckled. “What do we always say?” 

Leo sighed dramatically. A Malfoy trait, obviously. “We always do what Papa says.” 

Draco turned his nose up. “It’s not my fault I’m always right.” 

Harry grinned, biting Leo’s cheek. “Sorry, sweetheart.” 

Daisy came running up to Draco again with another fistful of mud, proudly waving it at him. Draco picked her up just in time to see Harry whispering the word eighteen to Leo. 

Salazar. Harry spoiled their kids to no end, but how was Draco supposed to deny him when now, he knew every single detail of Harry’s childhood and understood that all Harry ever wanted was to ensure that his kids never felt unloved or unwanted for even a single moment in their lives? Draco would never fault his husband for loving Leo and Daisy too much. He simply couldn’t. 

Harry leaned in to kiss Daisy’s forehead. “Hi, gorgeous.” 

Daisy blushed. “Hi.” 

“Did you help me in the garden today?” 

“I planted lots of flowers for you.” 

Harry raised a brow. “Did you?” 

Daisy nodded. Draco subtly shook his head. Harry just laughed. 

“Papa,” Leo mused.

“Oui?” Draco asked skeptically because Leo had that mischievous look on his face which meant absolutely no good. Draco wished he didn’t know his kids as well as he did. 

“It’s been a while since you and Dad had a Seeker’s match. I think it’s high time for a rematch.” 

Harry’s eyes glinted with mischief as he turned to Draco. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’m not sure if your Papa still has it in him.” 

“I’m sorry,” Draco apologized facetiously. “Who’s the one still the Serpents Seeker while the other is the Lions coach?” 

“The kids keep me plenty young, love,” Harry played. 

“My professional teammates keep me young too, darling.” 

Harry’s eyes flashed with competitive spirit. “You know what? I think it is time for a rematch.” 

Leo grinned, scrambling out of Harry’s grip. Daisy wriggled out of Draco’s too and grabbed her brother’s hand as they both got situated in deck chairs next to one another. Merlin, their competitive spirit really never died down no matter how many years had passed. 

They took a second to pick their brooms of choice and then met in the middle of the backyard again. They marked a temporary pitch with wards and flags because it really was that serious. Leo and Daisy were perched safely on their chairs, cheering and clapping with every dive and turn, voices full of delight.

Draco’s eyes were sharp and teasing as always, calculating, precise. “Try not to fall behind, Potter,” he said lightly. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry shot back. 

Draco was about to take off when Harry stopped him. “What?” 

“What are the stakes?” 

Draco huffed a laugh. “The stakes?” 

Harry nodded, a sincere look in his eyes. 

After all these years, Draco was attuned to every single thing about his husband. There was something specific he was after. 

“What do you want?” Draco asked in a low voice.

“If I win,” Harry proposed, “we have another baby.” 

Merde. 

Draco’s heart was pounding in his chest. 

It was something they had discussed in passing, but could never figure out the right timing. Leo and Daisy were a handful, but they were the most perfect children. And every single time Harry and Draco looked at them, they were reminded of everything good in the world, and the reason why life was worth living. Yes, the baby stages were rough but they had been more than worth it. Draco was more than happy to do it all over again. 

“Yes or no?” Harry asked, using Draco’s line against him. 

Draco smiled. “Yes.” 

Grinning, Harry stuck out his hand and Draco shook it. 

Neither of them seemed to notice that there were no counterstakes because it didn’t matter. Draco had always wanted three kids, anyway. 

They took off together, the way they always did. 

The Snitch Harry had released darted upward, a flash of gold against the unmarred blue sky, and both of them turned in unison. 

Harry flew with that familiar, joyful recklessness, cutting tight arcs, trusting the air to hold him. Draco countered with precision, clean lines and perfect angles, never wasting motion, never losing sight of his target. They circled, crossed paths, exchanged a look that was pure challenge and something softer underneath.

“Left,” Draco called coolly, even as he feinted right.

Harry barked a laugh and followed anyway, because he knew the trick and loved it. “You’re predictable.”

“And yet, you still fell for it,” Draco shot back, already banking hard, forcing Harry to mirror him or lose ground.

Below them, Leo was shouting advice that made no tactical sense whatsoever. Daisy clapped every time one of them made a sharp turn, as if each maneuver were equally worthy of applause. The garden rang with their voices, with the rush of wind, with the low, familiar hum of brooms.

For a moment, Harry surged ahead, fingertips brushing the wake of the Snitch’s flight. 

For a moment after that, Draco slid past him smoothly, stealing the line with ease. 

They laughed as they chased, years of rivalry and love and shared sky wrapped together in every turn.

Draco tilted his head, just a fraction, stretching for the Snitch that seemed to be right there… and then it wasn’t. Because Harry closed the distance and swept in, pushing him entirely off balance. 

He had barely regained it when Harry came up right in front of him and pressed his lips to Draco’s. The kiss was quick and laughing and perfectly balanced, stolen in midair, their brooms steady beneath them, the garden spinning slowly below. 

Wind brushed their faces, the world wide and blue and open around them, and for a heartbeat there was nothing but the press of Harry’s mouth against his, the shared breath, the quiet certainty that this was where they both belonged.

Below, Leo whooped in triumph and Daisy’s delighted giggle rang out like a blessing.

Their family. His family. 

If Leo was the sky, then Daisy was the earth that kept them all grounded.

Harry and Draco—rivals, lovers, soulmates. 

“Je t’aime,” Harry whispered.

Draco grinned. “I love you too.” 

Above it all, the Snitch darted on, unclaimed, gleaming in the sun, while the two former rivals hovered together above the daisies. 

Draco felt every single moment, every single year that had passed between them and knew, with a clarity that left him breathless, that their love had only grown undeniably fireproof in the scorched air.