FIC: Colliding by Design (Harry/Draco) 2/2
Part one here or whole thing on AO3!
xiv
Amor-tension
By Pansy Parkinson
Avid followers of Witch Weekly’s ‘Famous Flings’ section will know how closely we’ve been documenting the ups and downs of the relationship between war hero Harry Potter and rising Quidditch star Ginny Weasley.
Last week they made a rare public appearance together, sharing a cosy dinner at Diagon Alley’s popular vegetarian bistro, Dittany + Snowdrops (see p.74 for an exclusive voucher offering 5 Galleons off your meal!). Although they claim that they are now ‘just friends’, we know that our readers, and even some members of the WW team, have been not-so-secretly hoping that the couple are once again heading towards their happily ever after.
While some rumours are quick to put this hope to bed, claiming Potter has moved on with various lovely ladies (see “Potter? I hardly know her!” p.13), some sources close to the couple firmly believe there’s a chance that they’ll work it out.
Speaking exclusively to WW, our source claimed, “Harry and Ginny have been friends for a long time, and Ginny still dreams of them spending the rest of their lives together. She’s been making a real effort; going to visit him as often as possible with their packed schedules, and even giving him a season ticket to her games.” They went on to allege, “Ginny’s been so intent on getting him back on the same page that she’s been bringing love potions with her on their dates in the hopes of slipping some into his drink. She thinks a few sips will help him remember just how great they are together, and their genuine love and connection will take it from there.”
So far she seems to have been unsuccessful, but as we know from her status as the youngest Chaser ever to make the Holyhead Harpies’ first team, not to mention her contribution to the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley is tenacious. Keep reading Witch Weekly, your number one source of celebrity news, to see whether she gets her man!
43% of WW readers say they WOULD use a love potion if it meant they’d get to live happily ever after with Harry Potter. Send us an owl with your views now!
xv
Harry was so angry he decided to come in through the front door rather than the Floo, just so he could slam the door behind him as hard as possible. If it cracked Draco Malfoy’s immaculate paint job then that would be an added bonus. He stomped up to the drawing room and threw the copy of Witch Weekly down in front of Draco.
“What. The Fuck. Is this?” he ground out. Draco, the slimy bastard, looked genuinely confused for a second as he picked up the magazine.
“It seems to me that Pansy must really want that promotion. It’s nasty stuff, but I don’t know what you expect at this point. She’s probably still mad that you won’t let her into the house.”
“I’m well aware of all that. What I want to know is, where is she getting all her misinformation?” Harry leaned over and unerringly prodded the phrase ‘sources close to the couple’, probably so easy to do because he’d spent a lot of the afternoon running his finger over the words, getting more and more worked up.
Draco frowned for a moment. “First of all, you and I both know that Pansy’s right about Ginevra’s motives, even if the love potion stuff is total rubbish. Second, if you’re accusing me of something, you’d better have some grounds to back it up.”
“Oh, I have grounds. You live here; I’m sure you’ve overheard some of my conversations with Ginny. I’ve also confided in you because I thought you were my friend, but apparently your relationship with Parkinson trumps that.”
“Do you really think that because Pansy was all over me when we were fourteen my loyalty is going to be with her? After all the time I’ve spent complaining about how much she’s tried to exploit our friendship?”
“Yeah, you complain to my face - but I’ve got my doubts about you claiming not to care about your social status. Maybe being an anonymous source keeps you in the pureblood loop without you having any accountability. Sounds like just the kind of thing you’d do.”
“Correction: the kind of thing I’d have done six bloody years ago! I thought we were past all this childish nonsense; I didn’t realise I still had to work every day to prove myself worthy of the great Harry Potter’s trust. I’m your friend, for Merlin’s sake! Not to mention that you’re providing the roof over my head. What possible motive could I have to make up some hateful story and try to sell you out? I don’t even know Ginevra; we barely make small talk when she comes to visit you.”
Even though he knew this, Harry seized upon it. “You don’t know her or you don’t like her?”
Draco threw his hands in the air. “Okay, fine, a bit of both. I don’t like when she marches into this house as if she owns the place saying she’s ‘just popping in for chat’ and then kicks me off my spot on the settee for hours, and I certainly don’t like how much anxiety she gives you just by showing up, but that’s hardly grounds for a smear campaign.”
“Maybe it’s more than that, then. Maybe you’re jealous.” As Harry said it, he knew he’d crossed a line. He didn’t need the deafening silence to tell him that.
Draco’s face closed off, and he suddenly looked too much like the horrible, entitled little boy he’d worked so hard to leave in the past. Harry felt his stomach sink.
“Jealous.” Draco made that one word sound like a mouthful of broken glass.
Harry’s anger abandoned him just when he needed it, and was replaced by blind panic. All he could do was try to play it off as a terribly misjudged joke. “Yeah, you admitted to admiring my arse the other night. Maybe you want a piece of me for yourself.” He immediately realised there was no way Draco would think he was joking. His words were cruel: hollow at best, a betrayal at worst.
“Potter,” Draco said coldly, standing up so they were eye-to-eye, “Go fuck yourself.” He walked over to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and stepped into the flames, heading for his mother’s house. Every movement felt like a punch in the gut to Harry, and the worst thing was that he absolutely deserved it.
Parkinson could have been citing almost anyone, he knew that. Dozens of poor waiters and bar staff who’d overheard him and Ginny having awkward conversations; loads of their colleagues, and friends, and friends of friends, who saw how they were together, secondhand snippets overheard in the pub. He couldn’t remember why he had been so sure it was Draco in the first place.
xvi
“I think part of you is very uncomfortable with him knowing you so well, Harry,” Luna stated matter-of-factly, stirring her tea precisely seventeen and a half times. “I don’t think you were cross with him about this at all, actually. It didn’t matter who’d spoken to the press. You were looking for a reason to distance yourself.”
“Fat lot of good it does knowing that now, though,” Ron chimed in. Harry was grateful that Ron was at least trying to conceal his glee that Harry and Draco had fallen out, but he’d still been spectacularly unhelpful when it came to suggestions about how to fix things.
“Even if that’s the case, you didn’t have to be quite so nasty about it,” Hermione pointed out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss having Malfoy around, especially on pub nights. He’s the only person who’s even remotely useful at the quiz.” She put down her mug and looked at Harry. “Have you had any more ideas what to do to solve this? Clearly you need a new approach.”
Even after so many years, Harry couldn’t help squirming a bit inside under Hermione’s scrutiny. “Other than a Time-Turner, I’ve no idea. I’m sending the owl down a few times a week, but she always comes back in a terrible mood with the letters still sealed. I really need him back urgently now. The upstairs shower doesn’t work properly unless he’s in the house. He spent so much time renovating the bathrooms that the whole plumbing system likes him best.”
“So do you,” Luna added calmly.
Harry wasn’t surprised that no one argued with her, and he didn’t have the energy to fight his corner against all three of them. “Well?” he asked, “What should I do next?”
“You know him better than we do, mate,” Ron pointed out. “Though I remember at school he used to get those massive packages of sweets all the time, have you tried that?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, glumly. “I spent a fortune in the Honeydukes Gourmet section. He kept the gift but didn’t read the letter. That was three days ago and I’ve still heard nothing. Before that I even tried to ask Narcissa, but she sent me the most polite and beautifully handwritten ‘fuck off’ note I’ve ever read.”
“You could try and get Parkinson to publish something else,” Ron suggested. “I can see it now: ‘Harry Potter admits he’s a total prick, blames the trauma of war.’ I bet her readers would lap that up.”
“That’s not funny, Ron,” Hermione said. Harry gave Ron a weak smile, because it actually would’ve been funny if he hadn’t felt so rubbish. “Also, Harry, I did some research to make sure, and even if it’s an outright lie Pansy’s source is protected, and so is Pansy - she’s very clear that everything’s ‘alleged’; Witch Weekly are frustratingly good at weaseling out of accusations of libel.”
“I really appreciate you trying, but actually I don’t want to know who told her,” Harry said. “Part of trying to show Draco I trust him should be taking him at his word. If I tried to prove who did it, wouldn’t he just think I didn’t believe him and had to make sure?”
Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “That’s very insightful, Harry.”
“No need to sound so surprised,” he replied, nudging her with his elbow. “I’ve spent enough time trying to figure out how to unfuck this up: that’s just one of many fascinating thoughts I’ve had when I should have been working or sleeping.”
“You need a grand romantic gesture,” Luna said, totally seriously.
“I’m sorry, what?” Ron asked, aghast.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” she added, though the glance she shot at Harry indicated that she definitely did. “Draco’s a simple person, really. He craves attention, and he loves to be loved. I’m sure you can come up with something.”
“I’m pretty sure dozens of letters and sixty Galleons’ worth of chocolates tick some of those boxes, and he’s still not budging,” Harry pointed out, finishing his sentence over Ron’s choked whimper of, “You spent sixty Galleons on chocolate?”
“Perhaps - but Luna has a point,” Hermione agreed. “Maybe it would have been better if you’d showed up at his mother’s house yourself with the chocolates. He’d probably find some satisfaction in the extra mile you went to see him at - how did his design brochure describe it? - ‘an unplottable hideaway in the heart of French wine country’.”
“Not worth it, if you ask me.” No one had asked Ron. “I bet he’d bloody love knowing that you’d come all that way only for him to slam the door in your face.”
“Ron’s right,” Harry said, forlornly. “Besides, what then? I can’t just show up after what I said to him.”
xvii
Just a few days later, Harry was standing at the end of Narcissa Malfoy’s drive, wondering why he ever asked his friends for advice. The carefully-wrapped package levitating next to him, which had made Customs a total bloody nightmare, suddenly felt like overkill, like desperation. Another couple of hundred on chocolates would have done the trick, probably, along with a healthy amount of grovelling, but it was too late now.
“You killed the most evil wizard of our time; you can manage an apology to Draco Malfoy,” he told himself sternly, and, after only another couple of minutes’ hesitation, he walked up to the door and knocked firmly.
Draco answered, his face a blank mask, as if he’d known exactly who it would be. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. “I hope you understand that I’m not inviting you in. Mother is very protective of me, and if you took one step into her house she would probably have you castrated with a single flick of her wand.”
The two of them would have laughed at that image once. Now Harry didn’t know how to respond. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, trying to bring himself to look Draco in the eye.
“Well, go on, then,” said Draco. “Why are you here?”
Harry couldn’t curb his instincts when faced with the cold, aloof version of Malfoy he used to despise so much, and snapped, “Why do you think I’m here, you idiot?”
Draco, infuriatingly, just raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’re here to beg me for forgiveness. With lavish gifts.”
“Well done, Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin. Though I’ve got to say, after lugging this thing through Customs and the Portkey Bureau, not to mention trying to find this place, I’m hardly in the mood to throw myself at your feet.”
“Oh, forgive me, am I inconveniencing you? Has this been more or less torturous than the time you thought I’d sold you out to the papers?”
Harry wanted to tear his hair out. “You know what, I’m just going to find somewhere to stay tonight and come back tomorrow. There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this.”
“It’s not my responsibility to make this easier for you,” Draco said, entirely reasonably. “You were one hundred percent in the wrong and I am still waiting to hear a proper apology, and preferably a valid reason why you acted like the world’s biggest twat.”
“I really don’t know why I said those things,” Harry lied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out so I don’t do it again - you can ask everyone else if you don’t believe me; they’ve listened to me go on about this ever since you left.” Harry hoped Draco wouldn’t take him up on it, especially if Luna started getting into her theories, but he wanted Draco to realise how seriously he was taking the whole thing. “I was just angry at Parkinson, and at her mystery source, and even at Ginny a little bit, and it all got overwhelming and I took it out on you because you were there, and because I knew you could take it.”
“That sounds fair,” Draco remarked with a sneer.
“It’s not fair. And it’s not exactly what I meant. I’m making such a mess of this.” Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’d read any of the letters it would help; they were a lot more articulate.”
“I highly doubt it,” Draco muttered, and Harry thought - or perhaps just hoped - he could hear some affection in Draco’s voice, and decided to go for it.
“I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t know if anything can excuse what I said. What I do know is that I was wrong, and I’m sorry, and I miss you. The whole sodding house misses you! And I’m certainly not going to be able to make amends if you’re hiding all the way out here.”
“The house misses me?” At that point Harry knew he had Draco’s attention.
“You’re the one who keeps going on about how magical houses have their own personalities, and Grimmauld Place definitely misses you. The plumbing’s been awful, and there’s dust on the doorframes that just won’t budge.” He started to count the list on his fingers. “The sofa cushions keep deflating themselves so I can never get comfortable, the fires are constantly dying out for no reason, the kettle’s started whistling Celestina Warbeck songs when it’s not even on the boil; even the Dreamless Sleep stuff on the bed frame isn’t working any more.”
“Do you think the last one might be your conscience keeping you awake, rather than some kind of house-wide vendetta?” Draco asked, unable to hide his amusement now.
Come to think of it, that made a lot of sense. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
They actually smiled at each other for a second, and Harry felt calm for the first time in what seemed like ages.
“All right then, Harry. I’m considering accepting your apology… but first, I’m dying to know what’s in that package.”
Harry’s embarrassment returned in full force. “It’s a bit much, really, but Luna kept going on about grand gestures, and I know you’ve wanted this - well, something like this - for ages. It took a lot of negotiating but it’s yours. Kind of a gift to the house, too. I figured maybe it’d start to like me as much as it likes you.”
Draco tilted his head to one side, clearly pondering all the possibilities.
“You should probably open it inside,” Harry added quickly. “It’s under environmental stabilising charms but that might be safest. That’s why I couldn’t shrink it.”
Draco’s eyes widened, realisation starting to dawn. “Harry, what did you do?”
“I couldn’t actually get your favourite: it’s still on display, and it belongs to some anonymous collector who’s even richer than you. But then I spoke to her agent, and threw my name around a bit to get into the studio. It turns out she’s a fan - of yours as well as mine, actually, and of the contents of my Gringotts vault - so she let me take my pick and I just bought the one that felt the most you; I really hope it’s okay.”
“Harry, do shut up, please.” Draco must have got closer while Harry was talking - well, babbling - and he put his hands on Harry’s arms, holding him in place, while he looked him in the eye and asked slowly. “Are you trying to tell me that under that brown paper is an original work by Georgianna Moonstone?”
Harry nodded mutely, idly wondering how much wider Draco’s eyes could get before they popped out of his head, like in the cartoons Dudley used to watch on a Sunday morning.
“You… are the most ridiculous, infuriating, wonderful person I have ever met,” Draco said eventually. He leaned in closer and murmured, “I’d already forgiven you, you know. The chocolate was more than enough.” Then, so quickly Harry wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it, Draco pressed a firm kiss onto his lips, before opening the front door with a flick of his wand and striding inside, with the painting following him obediently.
xviii
“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” Luna said, walking up close to take a proper look.
“Nice?” Draco replied, with barely concealed irritation. “It’s beyond nice. It’s a masterpiece. It’s possibly one of Moonstone’s greatest artistic accomplishments to date.”
Harry tried not to laugh. It had been like this ever since Draco had moved back in: he suspected that in a matter of weeks, everyone they knew would have been forced to traipse up the stairs to Draco’s room and admire his painting.
“Harry, tell her.”
To be honest, Harry did think it was beautiful. The colours were rich and vibrant, but it had enough open areas to balance the intensity. The artist’s signature moonstone-infused pigments seemed at first glance as if they’d been splattered on at random, but when you looked from different angles the areas where they glowed softly were clearly careful and deliberate, to create real depth.
Not that Harry knew the first thing about art. He’d just picked a painting that felt right and looked a bit like Draco’s favourite, ‘Eclipse in Jade’, and then hoped like hell it would fit in the smaller bedroom. It didn’t, really, but Draco had messed about with measuring charms for a while and then announced, “Sod it, it can be its own feature wall,” before letting it take up almost the whole space opposite the bed.
“Draco’s right,” Harry agreed. “In fact, I’m tempted to send an owl to Pansy Parkinson right now and invite her to do that Grimmauld Place special edition, solely in honour of this painting. Maybe Witch Weekly will give us some cash to make up for how high the insurance is on it.”
Draco hit him on the arm lightly. “Harry, don’t be a prick.”
Luna smiled indulgently at them, then turned back to the painting, tilting her head. “It looks like you, Harry.”
Harry tried angling his head to see what she saw, but to him it still looked like colours and shadows and spaces.
Draco was frowning. “It’s abstract,” he told her.
“Which means I can interpret it however I like,” she pointed out, “and it reminds me of Harry. How did the song go, again? ‘His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard’... those colours are here, and here, and there, and it shines like you.”
“‘I wish he was mine, he’s really divine; the hero who conquered the Dark Lord’,” Draco finished, nearly dissolving into hysterics. “That was such a good day.”
Harry groaned - some things definitely did not get less embarrassing with time. How did Luna, who hadn’t even been there at the time, still manage to know all the words to that horrible Valentine? “That’s not green like my eyes, that’s Slytherin green,” he pointed out, trying to change the subject, “and the silver bits are very Slytherin, too. I picked it because I thought Draco would like it.”
“I think he likes it because it looks like you,” Luna said patiently.
Draco’s residual laughter died down, and they all looked at the picture in silence for a moment. “Hold on, I’m starting to see what you mean about it reminding you of Harry,” Draco said eventually. “It’s a successful piece, but you can’t tell how much of that is deliberate and how much is a happy accident. To the untrained eye, it’s also a complete mess. That sums him up, really.”
Harry laughed, slightly indignantly, but Luna didn’t. She just looked at Draco intently. “What’s it like to the trained eye?” she asked.
Before Draco could reply, Sapphy appeared with a crack. Harry never would have pictured himself as a dinner party person, but with her as guest-chef and dining tables that felt a bit too big with just two of them, he actually didn’t mind hosting every now and again. Draco had to stay well away from the kitchen, though: his last and only attempt to cook something more elaborate than a stir fry ended when he launched a tray of potatoes across the room at Harry, yelling, “This is nothing like Potions, you absolute bastard!”
“When Master is ready, lunch is served,” Sapphy said with a sweeping curtsey, before Disapparating back to the kitchen.
“To answer your question,” Draco murmured as he started to usher Luna towards the stairs, “if you know what you’re looking at, it’s spectacular.”
Clearly Harry wasn’t meant to hear that, let alone be able to interpret it, so he chose to ignore both the remark and the weird fluttering feeling in his chest.
“We should get down there,” Draco continued, louder. “I don’t think Weasley will forgive me if the food gets cold while we’re up here ‘making googly eyes at that sodding painting again’.”
Harry cracked up at his spot-on rendition of Ron, who had refused to come and look at it for the ‘millionth time’, and even told Hermione, “If you love me you’ll keep me company down here: I’m starting to think you and Malfoy are going to run off together and move into some poncy art gallery.”
Luna stopped and looked between Harry and Draco. “It’s good that you two are together again. When it was only Harry here, the energy wasn’t right, and it’s not just because of all the Nargles you’ve got in the plants downstairs.”
Harry caught Draco’s eye and grinned, but for some reason Draco’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked away first. “What can I say? This house adores me. I’ve certainly changed things for the better round here."
“Oh, certainly,” Luna replied, casting a meaningful glance back at Harry before she continued seamlessly, “Rolf did tell me last time we were here that he was terribly worried about the Fiddle Leaf Fig in the dining room, though: we think that’s where the Nargles might be. It’s essential you take care of them now, because if they migrate to the Peace Lily your equilibrium may be threatened.”
Harry, feeling slightly off-balance for some reason that probably wasn’t to do with the Nargles, stayed back for a moment to carefully close the door to Draco’s room. It was weird, really, how easily he’d switched to thinking of it as Draco’s. He’d been so worried about moving into what had been Sirius’s room, even more so about letting Draco live just across the hall in Regulus’s, but he could barely recall that anxiety now. Sometimes he would open a door in the house and see a flash in his mind’s eye of what it used to be like, but all that did was make him more amazed at how seamlessly the dark, musty inheritance he’d never wanted had become his favourite place in the world.
xix
“You don’t have to go, you do realise that, don’t you?” Draco asked, handing Harry a glass of wine then pouring one for himself. “You don’t owe her anything.”
Harry brushed his hair back and sighed. He felt as if they had the same conversation every time he saw Ginny. “I know you don’t get it, but it feels like the right thing to do. Yes, maybe part of her does want us to get back together, but I can’t just refuse to see her. We’ve been friends for a really long time.”
Draco scoffed. “As if you’re going to remain friends if you carry on like this. You’ll either grow to hate each other or end up married within a year just because you were too nice to stand up for yourself.”
“Why do you always make it sound like I don’t have a choice in any of this?”
“Because every time she calls, you answer. Every time she Floos in, you stop whatever you’re doing to spend time with her. It’s admirable that you’re trying so hard to do the right thing, but where are your feelings in any of this? You’ve cancelled work drinks more than once because she showed up out of the blue, and been really annoyed about it, if you recall. In fact, you and I are meant to be having Muggle film night this evening, in case you’d forgotten. I got the only white wine you like and everything.” Draco folded his arms and pouted like a child who’d been deprived of his favourite toy. It would have been funny had Harry not felt so horribly guilty.
“I’m sorry. I can stay, if you want? She’s made reservations, but I can tell her I had plans already.”
Draco laughed, slightly unpleasantly. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you in that position. Unlike Ginevra, I won’t take it personally if you have a… scheduling conflict.” He pointed his wand at the half-full wine bottle, floating it along in front of him, and headed out of the kitchen, stopping in front of Harry. He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ll be here when you get back, if you decide you’re finally ready to have an honest talk with someone about all this. I’ll even try not to say I told you so.”
Harry sipped his wine and stared at the door. He knew Draco was right about Ginny - and so were Hermione, and the guys from work, and Pansy sodding Parkinson… even Ron, though he only spoke up when his sister had particularly annoyed him - but he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself. He’d loved her so much, back then, and he did owe her some level of...loyalty, whether his friends could understand that or not.
It had to mean something, though, that every fibre of his being would much rather spend the evening getting slightly pissed and listening to Draco Malfoy’s commentary on Muggle cinema.
xx
“I know that with my job too it’s a bit trickier, but I’ve been feeling loads better about the future - Harry, are you listening?”
Harry wasn’t entirely listening, but he gave himself a pass because Ginny had been saying the same thing in different ways since they’d sat down. “I’m listening, Gin, but -”
“No, don’t ‘but’ me. We’ve been going round in circles. I love you and think we would be great together, but for some reason you refuse to give it another try. Instead, we’re ‘trying to be friends’ or ‘seeing how it goes’, or whatever you want to call it, as if we don’t know each other inside and out.”
“That’s just it, Gin, we don’t know each other inside out any more.”
“That’s rubbish and you know it. You just don’t want to commit to me. You’re scared of marriage and kids and being a grown-up, but you don’t see that it’s another adventure for us to go on together.”
Harry could picture it, and she was right, it did scare him. He imagined standing by her side, seeing their children off on the Hogwarts Express, hating the fact that they were old enough to leave, because now he’d be alone at home with Ginny. Ginny, the supposed love of his life, who didn’t want to hear about his job because she found Auror work unnecessarily dangerous after their experiences in the war. Ginny, who didn’t want to meet his colleagues for that same reason, but forced him to have dinner with all her teammates, which he hated, because they were always on strict athletic diets and only wanted to talk about tactics.
“I don’t want that,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I don’t want that. Marriage, kids, everything else. I don’t want that with you.”
She stared at him, clearly trying not to cry, and he felt awful that one of the toughest people he knew had been reduced to tears by his words.
He pushed his hair off his face and forced himself to look at her. He knew that he owed her a proper explanation, something definitive and final, as much as he hated the idea of hurting her. “We’ve already tried and it’s not right between us. Our lives, our jobs, everything - they don’t work together. And neither do we, any more. I thought we agreed on that.”
She wiped the tears from her face and lifted her head up - Harry was proud, if he had any right to be, that everything they’d been through hadn’t diminished her strength. “I just… it all seems so perfect, in my mind. Like our future’s mapped out for us. I know it feels like ages ago that the war ended and you had to suddenly be an adult really fast, but it wasn’t. We’re only just starting to figure out who we are and who we can be together, and I think you’ve been too quick to write us off.”
Harry stared at her. “Gin, I’ve spent most of my life living what was mapped out for me, and it didn’t make me happy, a lot of the time. You and I were best together together when we were friends, and I reckon if we carry on like this, we won’t even be able to salvage that much.”
Ginny didn’t reply, just grabbed her bag and stood up. She paused, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end just squeezed his hand, hard, and was gone.
He was relieved, yes, but the adrenaline rush of finally saying the words, finally standing up for what he wanted - or didn’t want - wore off quickly and he just felt empty. Tired, drained, sad that someone so important to him for so long had drifted so far away. Witch Weekly were going to have a field day, too, which only made the whole thing worse.
xxi
After the evening he’d had, Harry was hoping to come in quietly and just go to bed without rehashing every detail of the disastrous dinner - but this was relying on Draco Malfoy not being a nosy bastard, and was, Harry realised, a plan doomed from the start.
“You’re home early,” Draco commented from the sofa when Harry Flooed in.
“Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt - whatever you’re doing,” Harry replied lamely. Draco had clearly abandoned film night - it was rubbish by yourself anyway - and surrounded himself with dozens of seemingly identical fabric swatches. At that point Harry neither knew nor cared what so much yellow was doing in his drawing room.
“I’m trying to narrow down the curtains for Greg and Millie’s nursery, and you are a welcome distraction.” Draco put down the sample he was holding and looked at Harry for an uncomfortable moment. “You look like hell; what happened?”
Harry waved him off, “Oh, you know, just... a bad evening. I’m gonna make some tea and head to bed I think, do you want a cup?”
“Bad how? What happened with Ginevra?”
“She hates you calling her that, you know.”
“And I hate that she makes you come home looking ten years older. What happened?”
“I really don’t want to go into that now. You said you were here to talk if I’m ready, and I’m not ready for anything except a good night’s sleep.” Harry turned from the room and started towards the kitchen.
He made it about two steps before somehow - did he Apparate? - Draco was in front of him, arms folded. “I’m not trying to be pushy. But this thing with Ginevra - I don’t even want to call it a friendship - is making you miserable, and not only does that make the mood in this house oppressive and uncomfortable for me, but also -” Draco paused, put his hands on Harry’s shoulders to stop him from pushing past and running away - “every time you come home you just seem sadder and sadder, and I can’t sit back and watch anymore. She’s holding you hostage, and you deserve better.”
Harry could barely speak, just shook his head. "I told her how I feel, and I really think she got it. I’m not sad, not really. I know everyone seemed to think it was ‘meant to be’ or something, and it definitely wasn’t - but I’ve closed the door completely, now, and it’s hard. I suppose my future’s really all up to me, and this just makes it even more obvious that I haven’t got a clue what to do with it.”
Draco looked just as lost as Harry felt, and Harry couldn’t read his expression, couldn't look away. “I’m not going to be another person who tells you how to live your life. But, if I know one thing, it’s that you made the right choice. Ginny Weasley could never make you happy.” Draco closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “But I can.”
Harry knew his shock must show on his face. They’d been ignoring this, this thing between them for so long that sometimes Harry was sure it was all in his head. He just stared at Draco, watched as he licked his lips, swallowed, and repeated, more confidently this time, “I can make you happy. If you’ll let me.”
Harry wanted to cry, to run away, to throw his arms around the man in front of him and never let go... but all he could do was stand there, frozen, as Draco gently moved his hands up to Harry’s face, cradling his jaw as if he were something precious. Harry felt paralysed as Draco held his gaze and moved in closer, and it seemed like a lifetime before Draco’s lips brushed against his. Draco pulled back, just for a moment, resting their foreheads together, searching Harry’s eyes for some kind of signal.
Only then did something in Harry snap, and he was leaning in and suddenly he was kissing Draco Malfoy - holy crap, he was kissing Draco Malfoy - long and hard and deep, and somehow his arms ended up round Draco’s waist, pulling them even closer.
When they eventually broke apart, there was a kind of awe on Draco’s face and Harry knew his expression was the same.
“This is really happening,” Harry found himself muttering, as if still unsure, and Draco’s only response was to nod, whisper Harry’s name, and lean in to kiss him again.
Hours could have passed for all Harry knew as they stayed locked together, sometimes taking a moment to stare at each other in affirmation, but mostly just kissing each other as if it were as essential as breathing, trying to get as close as possible. Harry felt that maybe, if they did this long enough, it would somehow make up for all the time they’d lost by pretending this heat, this tension between them wasn’t there.
Some part of Harry eventually found the wherewithal to ask, “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”
“Not that I don’t want to - because I very, very much want to,” Draco replied, stroking Harry’s cheek, “but are you sure? You’ve had a stressful evening, and I understand if you’re not ready for anything else right now.”
“Draco. You’re being... weirdly nice, and I appreciate that after the night I’ve had, but right now I need you to shut up and come to bed with me.”
Draco laughed breathlessly. “Have I told you lately that I adore you?”
Harry was shocked. “I don’t think you’ve told me that ever.”
“Well, I do, you know.” Draco brushed back a lock of Harry’s hair, which promptly flopped back over his face.
Harry swallowed, feeling exposed, but managed to hold his gaze. Clearly seeing whatever he was looking for, Draco hugged him tight, and with a familiar crack they Apparated into Harry’s bedroom.
Harry let Draco push him back onto the bed and climb on top of him, and this was far, far better than before, feeling the weight of Draco’s whole body pressed against him, but it still wasn’t enough. He started trying to open Draco’s shirt, but the tosser always wore these expensive faerie-made things with stupidly tiny buttons.
He heard himself almost growl in frustration, and Draco said, “If you even think about tearing it, there’ll be hell to pay,” before somehow undong the whole thing one handed, and pulling Harry to sit up so he could tug his t-shirt over his head.
Although Draco wasn’t doing much flying or anything near Harry’s punishing training regime, he was still really bloody fit. The manual parts of his job were paying off especially, Harry observed, because Draco had very nice arms. He didn’t think he’d ever paid attention to anyone’s arms before… but then again, he hadn’t ever paid that much attention to another man’s body before. When he thought about it, though, his girlfriends had always been slim and athletic, too; perhaps he had a type. If he did, Draco was the perfect example; all pale and lean and gorgeous.
He was surprised to find that the faded Dark Mark on those amazing arms didn’t really bother him; but the feathery Sectumsempra scars down Draco’s chest did, and he took his time to kiss them, as if in penance.
“Sorry,” he said, and Draco tugged him into another intense kiss.
“Believe me, I’m over it,” he murmured reassuringly,
Harry was torn, as he pulled Draco back down, between wanting to get his hands and lips on every inch of skin and the need to look into Draco’s eyes, kiss his lips, reaffirm that this was actually happening between them; and every time they made eye contact, Draco was smiling that rare, fond, beautiful smile.
Harry thought he knew all there was to know about Draco, so it was exhilarating to learn that kissing the side of his neck made him inhale sharply, and that biting his ear elicited this choked-off gasping noise, which may have been Harry’s new favourite sound in the world. Even though - or perhaps, precisely because - they had spent years trading slurs and insults, there was something especially thrilling about Draco’s familiar cut-glass accent muttering swear words under the onslaught of pleasure.
They were both breathing heavily with the intensity now, hips rocking together, and Harry needed more, needed to feel all of Draco’s skin against his own, some coherent part of him aware that coming in his pants like a teenager wasn’t exactly what he wanted for their first time together.
He fumbled with Draco’s fly, and once again Draco took pity on him and undid it himself, climbing back off the bed to pull his trousers off and tugging at Harry’s, raising an eyebrow at Harry’s ratty old boxer shorts.
“It’s not like I was prepared for this, okay? Next time I’ll do laundry before I let you accost me,” Harry said defensively.
Draco just laughed, and Harry found himself laughing too - had he ever felt this joyful in bed with someone before? - stopping only to gasp when Draco pressed a proprietary hand onto his dick. Draco’s expression turned more intense, and he squeezed again with a smirk before bending down to pull Harry’s pants off completely.
Harry’s immediate instinct was to try and hide from the scrutiny, but there was nowhere to go, and it was reassuring and terrifying all at once to see Draco looking at him as if he were a three course meal, his eyes darting between Harry’s face and Harry’s dick, indecisive.
“Shit, I want -” he began, and leaned down to kiss Harry’s lips, his neck, his chest, his belly - Harry absently felt relieved that he still kept up with his training exercises; how embarrassed would he be right now if he’d skipped all those crunches? - sucking and licking and biting so slowly and intently that Harry thought he was going to lose his mind before finally, with no warning, he took Harry’s dick into his mouth.
Harry gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. He found himself muttering, “Fuck, please,” with no real idea what he was asking for other than for this not to end. He reached one hand down to push through Draco’s hair, pulling it out of its tie so it fell loose around his face. Though his eyes kept trying to close with all the sensations racing through him, all Harry wanted to do was keep watching: the sight of Draco, messy and gorgeous, sucking Harry’s dick with single-minded focus, just turned him on even more. He was practically hyperventilating, hips thrusting up into that warm, wonderful mouth almost of their own accord, and just when it was all getting to be overwhelming Draco sat back up, and Harry practically whined with disappointment.
“I’d much rather keep my hair back while I’m doing that, you know,” Draco said with no real reproach. He pulled off his own underwear, and Harry took a moment to admire the view before tugging Draco back down on top of him so they were pressed together, skin on skin, from head to toe, and this was what Harry wanted, not quite as good as Draco’s mouth - how could it be, really? - but amazing in its own right; every inch of him against every inch of Draco, perfectly matched.
Their kisses were sloppier now, hot and intense and messy, sometimes more like breathing the same air than actually snogging as they rocked against one another, the friction of their dicks pressing together at the centre of Harry’s awareness.
He was getting close again now, and he wanted Draco right there with him, so he reached one hand down between them and curled it around Draco’s dick. The angle was awkward, and Harry was vaguely aware that he had no idea what was doing, but he didn’t let that bother him as he followed his instincts, touching Draco as he would himself, and he was rewarded with gasps and a litany of, “Please, please, please...”
Then Draco reached down, too, and it was cramped and awkward and wonderful as they jerked each other; eyes fixed on one another, wrapped so tightly together that Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began, and suddenly it was all too much. He tried to tell Draco that he was coming but he couldn’t form words before his orgasm overtook him, but it was okay because Draco was crying out and shuddering against him, too, and he could feel them both shaking until the pleasure started to subside and reality crept back in around the edges of his awareness.
Draco lay down, still smiling, and stretched like a satisfied cat. “I think I left my wand downstairs,” he said eventually, gesturing between the two of them “Do you mind?”
Harry’s brain started working again and he leaned down to fumble for his wand in the pile of clothes, relieved to find his glasses down there too, perfectly intact. He cast a quick cleaning charm before flopping back onto the bed. Draco curled against him, head on Harry’s shoulder, their legs tangled.
“I can’t believe…” Harry began. “I mean, this. That was… You...”
“Articulate as ever,” Draco observed.
“Shut up,” Harry replied, turning to kiss him. “You’re going to be even more insufferable now, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said with a yawn. “I’m a delight. You love me.”
“Yeah.” Harry knew it was written all over his face. Everything he’d buried; everything he felt about Draco was right there in the open, and somehow, he wasn’t scared at all. “Yeah, I do, actually.”
“Good,” said Draco softly. “Same.”
“I know you love yourself,” Harry replied automatically, trying to adjust his pillows without dislodging Draco, who had made himself comfortable against Harry’s side, as if he were exactly where he belonged.
“This is what I get for trying to be nice,” Draco complained. “Maybe I should go back to being a total prat to you.” His voice changed to the sneer Harry remembered from school. “Of course I love myself, Potter; what’s not to love? I have a marvellous job, excellent bone structure, two living parents, and a bigger penis than you.”
Harry couldn’t keep a straight face. “Low blow, Draco, low blow.”
“Don’t worry; there aren’t any grounds for complaint,” Draco said with a small smirk. “Besides, I love you, remember?”
Harry felt as if his heart were going to beat its way right out of his chest. Somehow it was different to hear the words themselves, even though Draco had already sort of told him.
“I love you, too,” he whispered, tentatively.
Draco tightened his grip on Harry for a moment. “I must admit that I’m impressed,” he murmured eventually. “I was a little afraid I’d have to spend most of tonight nursing you through some kind of sexual identity crisis.”
Harry thought about it, because he hadn’t before. Then again, maybe that was because there wasn’t anything to think about. “You’re you,” he said simply, by way of explanation.
He was rewarded with that beautiful, soft smile, and leaned in for a long, deep kiss.
“We should get some sleep,” Harry said, reluctantly. “Bank Holiday pub crawl tomorrow.”
Draco groaned. “Do we have to? I have some much better ideas for how to spend the day, and they all involve staying in this bed.”
“It’s your tradition,” Harry pointed out.
“It’s Blaise’s tradition,” Draco corrected him. “Merlin knows why he started inviting your lot.”
“It’s because he thinks Ron’s a hilarious drunk. He’s not wrong.”
Harry remembered the first pub crawl: he’d been at the bar in The Thunderbird, trying to appear sober enough to order another round, when he’d looked at everyone and got a bit teary thinking how proud Dumbledore would have been of the inter-house unity. He’d said as much to Ron, who proposed a round of shots in Dumbledore’s honour, and it all got rather blurry from there.
“I don’t care how funny it is watching Weasley get smashed,” Draco said petulantly, “you can’t expect me to spend the whole day out drinking with our friends and not be able to touch you.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to touch me?” Harry asked with a frown.
“Because, as much as I adore you, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to tell everyone we know about this before we’ve even been together for a day.”
“That makes sense,” Harry admitted, “I haven’t really got my head round it yet.”
Draco started laughing and Harry looked at him, confused. “‘Getting your head round it’ was one of my many exciting bedroom plans,” he clarified with a smirk.
Harry blushed. “I’ve no idea how to go about doing that,” he admitted.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“I know that, but…”
“Teeth behind your lips, breathe through your nose. Beyond that, it’s all down to practice. Trust me, I’m willing to let you dedicate many long, hard hours to practice.”
Harry knew he was still blushing, and was thankful that Draco had decided to punctuate his instruction with kisses against Harry’s collarbone rather than looking him in the eye. Somewhere between the thought of doing that and the sensation of Draco’s lips and teeth and tongue across his chest, Harry was starting to get turned on again. He gently tugged on Draco’s hair, drawing him up for a proper kiss. Draco made a small, incredibly hot moaning noise in the back of his throat, so Harry pulled his hair again, lightly, and was delighted to elicit the same response.
“We’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” Harry said, without a hint of remorse.
Draco laughed and kissed him again, deep and wet and filthy. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
xxi
They were at the fifth pub, pleasantly buzzed (and totally exhausted) when Harry realised just how bad an idea this was. It wasn’t only the fact that Sneezewort was a terrible microbrewery-cum-garden that made its own beers, inspired by commonly-used potions (Harry would rather be drinking drain cleaner than Skele-gro Stout): he was also having a very hard time keeping his hands off Draco.
Luckily, they were sitting next to each other, so it was easy to press their legs together under the rather cramped table with no one raising an eyebrow, but Draco looked especially gorgeous in the afternoon sunshine, and some of his shiny blond hair had come out of its ribbon on the walk over from the Leaky. It was taking all Harry’s willpower not to reach out and tuck it behind his ear: he absolutely couldn’t do that, though, because if he did he’d end up caressing Draco’s face, and then kissing him, and then trying to climb onto his lap and finish what they’d started this morning, before they heard Hermione’s shrill voice from the Floo downstairs telling them off for being late.
Focus, he thought. He tried to take an interest in the heated argument Draco was having with Hermione about house-elf living quarters.
“I’m just saying that any responsible decorator would be considering their needs.”
“I do consider their needs - and I can tell you for a fact that house-elves don’t need wardrobes. They don’t own any clothes!”
“I know that; it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Nutters, both of them,” Ron said from across the table.
“I can’t believe they’ve been going on about this for an hour already,” Zabini added in despair. “Weasley, can’t you call her off?”
“Impossible, when she gets going.” Ron was gazing at Hermione fondly. “Why don’t you just ask Malfoy to stop winding her up?”
“No one’s got that kind of power,” Zabini replied sadly, turning to his other side and starting a discussion with Goyle and Bulstrode about baby names.
“Draco,” Harry murmured, nudging him with his elbow.
To his surprise, Draco stopped in mid-sentence and turned to look at Harry, raising an eyebrow in question.
“How did he do that?” Zabini asked in awe.
“He’s the Malfoy whisperer,” replied Ron, giggling slightly over his Pepper-Up Pilsner.
Harry wasn’t really paying attention to the rest of the table, though, because now Draco was focused entirely on him, his gaze flicking down to Harry’s lips, and how they had thought they could keep this to themselves for even a few hours was beyond him.
“Oh,” said Hermione, rather loudly.
Harry could feel himself blushing, and Draco sighed with exasperation, but then smirked at Harry as if in challenge. Harry felt himself grinning back, wondering if he was really going to start snogging Draco Malfoy in the middle of the world’s worst beer-garden. When their lips met, it was to a chorus of shrieks and catcalls from their friends, and Harry didn’t care one bit.
When they finally broke apart - Harry was proud of them for finding the willpower to stop before things got too far, though he still found himself having to remove his hand from up Draco’s shirt - everyone at the table was staring.
“When did this happen, then?” asked Zabini.
“About eighteen hours ago,” Draco admitted.
“It’s been going on for ages,” Luna added calmly, “they were just being oblivious.”
Harry turned his attention to Ron, who was gawking at them in horror. “You and Malfoy. You,” he pointed at Harry, “and Malfoy,” he pointed at Draco, “together.”
“Ron,” Hermione said patiently, “we’ve talked about this.”
“You have?” Harry interjected.
“Of course we have, Harry,” she replied, as if it were perfectly obvious. Harry was amazed that the urge to run and hide was only now setting in. “Now, Ron, be nice.”
“I’m happy if you’re happy,” Ron recited dutifully. “If it’s possible to be happy with...him.”
“Weasley,” Draco interjected, thankfully sounding amused rather than insulted, “I’m sitting right here.”
“I can see that,” Ron said miserably, eying the arm Draco had draped around Harry’s shoulders with distrust.
“You’re lucky this place is so crap,” Zabini pointed out. “If there were any photographers around, you two would be toast.”
“Oh,” said Harry, “I hadn't even thought about that.”
“Really?” Draco asked, and Harry shook his head. “You’re an unbelievable idiot sometimes,” Draco told him affectionately.
“Do you think at any point in the last day I’ve been able to think clearly enough to come up with a PR strategy?” Harry retorted. Even Draco flushed at this, and Harry felt vindicated that he wasn’t the only one dying of embarrassment right now.
“Too much information, mate,” he heard Ron say in a strangled voice.
“Just one of the many, many reasons you’re lucky to be with me,” Draco announced, “is that you don’t have to worry about things like that: I’ve come up with a strategy for you. You’re not going to like it, though.”
xxii
The Boys Who Lived...Together?!
By Pansy Parkinson
Our first look inside the Potter-Malfoy residence reveals far more than just impeccable decor!
For a long time, readers of Witch Weekly and Witch Weekly Homes have been dying to see inside Harry Potter’s London residence, formerly the home of the esteemed Black family. At the end of last year, it underwent a complete renovation at the talented hands of Draco Malfoy, who even moved into the premises in order to fully oversee the project.
Draco, who was recently awarded ‘Designer of the Year’ by WWH, has remained living in the Islington home following its completion in May, citing the strain of commuting from his mother’s house on the continent.
Since its completion, neither Draco nor Potter have been willing to allow the press to see inside the house: Amelia Emmensworth, a former reporter for WW who tried to take a photograph through one of the front windows, was allegedly transfigured into a goat for her efforts. Ms Emmensworth declined to comment for this piece: rumour has it that she is still unable to complete a sentence without bleating.
This week, however, as a close personal friend of Draco Malfoy, I was granted exclusive access to the house (along with our trusty photographer Derek!), and even an interview with Potter himself. Potter has refused to respond to any of WW’s recent stories, including his former girlfriend Ginny Weasley’s whirlwind romance with her Quidditch coach and his friend Hermione Granger’s (suspiciously rapid) rise to power within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I was keen to give him a chance to go on the record and give our readers some exclusive insights into his home life.
This Sunday’s Witch Weekly Homes Special Edition contains twenty-six pages of high-quality images of the home, and there is very little my descriptions can do to reflect Draco’s extraordinary success in creating a space that is functional yet elegant, comfortable yet refined. It speaks to Draco’s ability to work with difficult clients that the house manages to retain the spirit of Potter’s notoriously relaxed style but also reflects Draco’s own, more elevated aesthetic.
While officially WW was not given access to the third and fourth floors of the house, privately I knew Draco wouldn’t mind me having a quick look. The master bedroom on the third floor is skillfully done: while the inviting queen-sized four-poster bed, clearly one of Draco’s iconic hand-crafted pieces, is the main feature of the room, my eye is immediately drawn to the way light from the large south-facing window creates a beautiful interplay with an intriguing piece of artwork on the wall, which appears to be an authentic Georgianna Moonstone. It sits perfectly in the space, not dominating but drawing one’s eye: it’s almost disappointing to see it juxtaposed against the pale gold paint, though this contrast is by no means as incongruous as the burgundy armchair in the corner. While the classic Phoenix Tear lamp floating above does help to create a very cosy reading area, I can’t help feeling that Draco may have let deference to his Gryffindor client override his normally unerring sense of colour in this instance.
On the fourth floor are the two final rooms; one of which is clearly Draco’s bedroom, judging by the snakes present throughout the decor and the warm grey walls - though this has widely become a trend in design circles, it was of course pioneered by Draco in his unforgettable transformation of the Zabini family’s summerhouse. I am somewhat surprised to see the room so sparse, empty but for the luxurious bed with matching nightstands, and a wardrobe worthy of any member of the WW Best Dressed List: it has been masterfully Expanded and houses a number of exquisite designer dress robes (see p.23 for this week’s Disrobed, in which our fashion experts turn their well-trained eyes on Draco Malfoy himself!).
As I move on, I am even more surprised at the second room on this floor. Perhaps it is intended to be an office of some kind, but even so it’s unexpectedly Spartan. Like the bedroom downstairs, its walls are gold, and its furnishings are all handcrafted in luxurious hardwoods, bringing an air of maturity to Potter’s own design sensibilities. These are limited, however, to a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, and a desk, above which are numerous pictures of Potter’s friends and family. My intention to peruse Potter’s reading material is sadly cut short by the menacing movements of a wooden stag figurine, which appears to be patrolling the shelves.
I ponder my findings as I descend the stairs, ready to interview Potter. While the decor is remarkable, more interesting to me, and to WW’s devoted readers, is the relationship between Draco and Potter. In all the years I’ve known Draco, I’ve witnessed many conflicts between the two of them, and many of our mutual friends have confessed to me that they’re concerned about the unusual friendship. “When the two of them are together, they bicker constantly,” one source told me. “It’s exhausting really; feels like we’re still at school.”
Talking to the pair, however, they dispute this.
“When I asked him to move in, I really didn’t expect us to get along this well,” Potter tells me. “I just thought it was ridiculous that he was travelling to and from his mum’s every day when I had so many spare rooms so close to his work. But I’ve got to say, it’s worked out brilliantly.”
“I suppose we do bicker sometimes,” Draco admits, “but there’s nothing malicious in it at this point. I imagine us more like an old married couple.”
“Steady on,” Potter says, “it’s a bit soon to be talking about marriage, isn’t it?”
I am on the edge of my seat. “Care to clarify that for my readers?”
Draco takes Potter’s hand. You could knock me down with a quill.
“It’s a bit unusual for couples to talk about marriage when they’ve only been together for a month,” Draco tells me. “At some point, maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Potter says, smiling at Draco.
I try to stay composed so I can gather all the facts, but even to someone who’s known Draco for such a long time this news is entirely unexpected. “How would the two of you define your relationship?”
“Romantic,” says Draco.
“I assume it’s serious,” I continue, despite his laconic answer, “as the two of you have clearly moved into the master bedroom together.”
“I told you we should have put some jinxes on the stairs,” Potter tells Draco. I remind them that I can (and probably will!) print everything they say.
“That is a bit of a shame,” Draco confesses, “because the fourth floor was looking wonderful. There is far better light for the Moonstone downstairs, though. Since Pansy’s already been nosing around, I suppose we can allow some photographs now.” (See next page for our unique peek into Harry Potter’s bedroom - you’re welcome, readers!)
“You and that painting,” says Potter. I for one am shocked at the dismissive tone he uses to refer to an artistic masterpiece, but Draco seems surprisingly tolerant, and is looking at Potter with uncharacteristic fondness.
“You love it, too. Harry gave it to me,” he tells me proudly, “as a grand romantic gesture.”
I am admittedly impressed that this piece was selected by Potter. It seems he does have some good taste after all, and it clearly goes beyond art: I’m sure our readers will agree that he has excellent t in men, too!
“That’s not quite -” Potter begins, but Draco cuts him off.
“It was, and you know it,” he says, holding Potter’s gaze before leaning in to kiss him.
Luckily for our readers, as you’ve doubtless seen on this week’s cover, the inimitable Derek returned from the master bedroom just in time to capture this tender moment.
I decide to take my leave at this point, with assurances from the couple that Witch Weekly will be the first to hear when wedding bells are in the air.
I remain shaken by this unexpected revelation as I depart.
“I suppose you can’t ever know what’s going on behind closed doors,” Derek tells me.
“No, you can’t,” I agree. But, as you know, dear readers, you can always rely on Witch Weekly to find out.
Don’t forget to pick up your special edition of Witch Weekly Homes this Sunday to see all the pictures of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s stunning residence.
In the rest of Witch Weekly: our experts examine the contents of Draco Malfoy’s bathroom to let you into all his haircare secrets (p.44)! Plus, Madam Mimosa turns her third eye upon Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter: what could be in store for the happy couple? All will be revealed on p.55…
xiv
Amor-tension
By Pansy Parkinson
Avid followers of Witch Weekly’s ‘Famous Flings’ section will know how closely we’ve been documenting the ups and downs of the relationship between war hero Harry Potter and rising Quidditch star Ginny Weasley.
Last week they made a rare public appearance together, sharing a cosy dinner at Diagon Alley’s popular vegetarian bistro, Dittany + Snowdrops (see p.74 for an exclusive voucher offering 5 Galleons off your meal!). Although they claim that they are now ‘just friends’, we know that our readers, and even some members of the WW team, have been not-so-secretly hoping that the couple are once again heading towards their happily ever after.
While some rumours are quick to put this hope to bed, claiming Potter has moved on with various lovely ladies (see “Potter? I hardly know her!” p.13), some sources close to the couple firmly believe there’s a chance that they’ll work it out.
Speaking exclusively to WW, our source claimed, “Harry and Ginny have been friends for a long time, and Ginny still dreams of them spending the rest of their lives together. She’s been making a real effort; going to visit him as often as possible with their packed schedules, and even giving him a season ticket to her games.” They went on to allege, “Ginny’s been so intent on getting him back on the same page that she’s been bringing love potions with her on their dates in the hopes of slipping some into his drink. She thinks a few sips will help him remember just how great they are together, and their genuine love and connection will take it from there.”
So far she seems to have been unsuccessful, but as we know from her status as the youngest Chaser ever to make the Holyhead Harpies’ first team, not to mention her contribution to the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley is tenacious. Keep reading Witch Weekly, your number one source of celebrity news, to see whether she gets her man!
43% of WW readers say they WOULD use a love potion if it meant they’d get to live happily ever after with Harry Potter. Send us an owl with your views now!
xv
Harry was so angry he decided to come in through the front door rather than the Floo, just so he could slam the door behind him as hard as possible. If it cracked Draco Malfoy’s immaculate paint job then that would be an added bonus. He stomped up to the drawing room and threw the copy of Witch Weekly down in front of Draco.
“What. The Fuck. Is this?” he ground out. Draco, the slimy bastard, looked genuinely confused for a second as he picked up the magazine.
“It seems to me that Pansy must really want that promotion. It’s nasty stuff, but I don’t know what you expect at this point. She’s probably still mad that you won’t let her into the house.”
“I’m well aware of all that. What I want to know is, where is she getting all her misinformation?” Harry leaned over and unerringly prodded the phrase ‘sources close to the couple’, probably so easy to do because he’d spent a lot of the afternoon running his finger over the words, getting more and more worked up.
Draco frowned for a moment. “First of all, you and I both know that Pansy’s right about Ginevra’s motives, even if the love potion stuff is total rubbish. Second, if you’re accusing me of something, you’d better have some grounds to back it up.”
“Oh, I have grounds. You live here; I’m sure you’ve overheard some of my conversations with Ginny. I’ve also confided in you because I thought you were my friend, but apparently your relationship with Parkinson trumps that.”
“Do you really think that because Pansy was all over me when we were fourteen my loyalty is going to be with her? After all the time I’ve spent complaining about how much she’s tried to exploit our friendship?”
“Yeah, you complain to my face - but I’ve got my doubts about you claiming not to care about your social status. Maybe being an anonymous source keeps you in the pureblood loop without you having any accountability. Sounds like just the kind of thing you’d do.”
“Correction: the kind of thing I’d have done six bloody years ago! I thought we were past all this childish nonsense; I didn’t realise I still had to work every day to prove myself worthy of the great Harry Potter’s trust. I’m your friend, for Merlin’s sake! Not to mention that you’re providing the roof over my head. What possible motive could I have to make up some hateful story and try to sell you out? I don’t even know Ginevra; we barely make small talk when she comes to visit you.”
Even though he knew this, Harry seized upon it. “You don’t know her or you don’t like her?”
Draco threw his hands in the air. “Okay, fine, a bit of both. I don’t like when she marches into this house as if she owns the place saying she’s ‘just popping in for chat’ and then kicks me off my spot on the settee for hours, and I certainly don’t like how much anxiety she gives you just by showing up, but that’s hardly grounds for a smear campaign.”
“Maybe it’s more than that, then. Maybe you’re jealous.” As Harry said it, he knew he’d crossed a line. He didn’t need the deafening silence to tell him that.
Draco’s face closed off, and he suddenly looked too much like the horrible, entitled little boy he’d worked so hard to leave in the past. Harry felt his stomach sink.
“Jealous.” Draco made that one word sound like a mouthful of broken glass.
Harry’s anger abandoned him just when he needed it, and was replaced by blind panic. All he could do was try to play it off as a terribly misjudged joke. “Yeah, you admitted to admiring my arse the other night. Maybe you want a piece of me for yourself.” He immediately realised there was no way Draco would think he was joking. His words were cruel: hollow at best, a betrayal at worst.
“Potter,” Draco said coldly, standing up so they were eye-to-eye, “Go fuck yourself.” He walked over to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and stepped into the flames, heading for his mother’s house. Every movement felt like a punch in the gut to Harry, and the worst thing was that he absolutely deserved it.
Parkinson could have been citing almost anyone, he knew that. Dozens of poor waiters and bar staff who’d overheard him and Ginny having awkward conversations; loads of their colleagues, and friends, and friends of friends, who saw how they were together, secondhand snippets overheard in the pub. He couldn’t remember why he had been so sure it was Draco in the first place.
xvi
“I think part of you is very uncomfortable with him knowing you so well, Harry,” Luna stated matter-of-factly, stirring her tea precisely seventeen and a half times. “I don’t think you were cross with him about this at all, actually. It didn’t matter who’d spoken to the press. You were looking for a reason to distance yourself.”
“Fat lot of good it does knowing that now, though,” Ron chimed in. Harry was grateful that Ron was at least trying to conceal his glee that Harry and Draco had fallen out, but he’d still been spectacularly unhelpful when it came to suggestions about how to fix things.
“Even if that’s the case, you didn’t have to be quite so nasty about it,” Hermione pointed out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss having Malfoy around, especially on pub nights. He’s the only person who’s even remotely useful at the quiz.” She put down her mug and looked at Harry. “Have you had any more ideas what to do to solve this? Clearly you need a new approach.”
Even after so many years, Harry couldn’t help squirming a bit inside under Hermione’s scrutiny. “Other than a Time-Turner, I’ve no idea. I’m sending the owl down a few times a week, but she always comes back in a terrible mood with the letters still sealed. I really need him back urgently now. The upstairs shower doesn’t work properly unless he’s in the house. He spent so much time renovating the bathrooms that the whole plumbing system likes him best.”
“So do you,” Luna added calmly.
Harry wasn’t surprised that no one argued with her, and he didn’t have the energy to fight his corner against all three of them. “Well?” he asked, “What should I do next?”
“You know him better than we do, mate,” Ron pointed out. “Though I remember at school he used to get those massive packages of sweets all the time, have you tried that?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, glumly. “I spent a fortune in the Honeydukes Gourmet section. He kept the gift but didn’t read the letter. That was three days ago and I’ve still heard nothing. Before that I even tried to ask Narcissa, but she sent me the most polite and beautifully handwritten ‘fuck off’ note I’ve ever read.”
“You could try and get Parkinson to publish something else,” Ron suggested. “I can see it now: ‘Harry Potter admits he’s a total prick, blames the trauma of war.’ I bet her readers would lap that up.”
“That’s not funny, Ron,” Hermione said. Harry gave Ron a weak smile, because it actually would’ve been funny if he hadn’t felt so rubbish. “Also, Harry, I did some research to make sure, and even if it’s an outright lie Pansy’s source is protected, and so is Pansy - she’s very clear that everything’s ‘alleged’; Witch Weekly are frustratingly good at weaseling out of accusations of libel.”
“I really appreciate you trying, but actually I don’t want to know who told her,” Harry said. “Part of trying to show Draco I trust him should be taking him at his word. If I tried to prove who did it, wouldn’t he just think I didn’t believe him and had to make sure?”
Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “That’s very insightful, Harry.”
“No need to sound so surprised,” he replied, nudging her with his elbow. “I’ve spent enough time trying to figure out how to unfuck this up: that’s just one of many fascinating thoughts I’ve had when I should have been working or sleeping.”
“You need a grand romantic gesture,” Luna said, totally seriously.
“I’m sorry, what?” Ron asked, aghast.
“Oh, I don’t mean it like that,” she added, though the glance she shot at Harry indicated that she definitely did. “Draco’s a simple person, really. He craves attention, and he loves to be loved. I’m sure you can come up with something.”
“I’m pretty sure dozens of letters and sixty Galleons’ worth of chocolates tick some of those boxes, and he’s still not budging,” Harry pointed out, finishing his sentence over Ron’s choked whimper of, “You spent sixty Galleons on chocolate?”
“Perhaps - but Luna has a point,” Hermione agreed. “Maybe it would have been better if you’d showed up at his mother’s house yourself with the chocolates. He’d probably find some satisfaction in the extra mile you went to see him at - how did his design brochure describe it? - ‘an unplottable hideaway in the heart of French wine country’.”
“Not worth it, if you ask me.” No one had asked Ron. “I bet he’d bloody love knowing that you’d come all that way only for him to slam the door in your face.”
“Ron’s right,” Harry said, forlornly. “Besides, what then? I can’t just show up after what I said to him.”
xvii
Just a few days later, Harry was standing at the end of Narcissa Malfoy’s drive, wondering why he ever asked his friends for advice. The carefully-wrapped package levitating next to him, which had made Customs a total bloody nightmare, suddenly felt like overkill, like desperation. Another couple of hundred on chocolates would have done the trick, probably, along with a healthy amount of grovelling, but it was too late now.
“You killed the most evil wizard of our time; you can manage an apology to Draco Malfoy,” he told himself sternly, and, after only another couple of minutes’ hesitation, he walked up to the door and knocked firmly.
Draco answered, his face a blank mask, as if he’d known exactly who it would be. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. “I hope you understand that I’m not inviting you in. Mother is very protective of me, and if you took one step into her house she would probably have you castrated with a single flick of her wand.”
The two of them would have laughed at that image once. Now Harry didn’t know how to respond. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, trying to bring himself to look Draco in the eye.
“Well, go on, then,” said Draco. “Why are you here?”
Harry couldn’t curb his instincts when faced with the cold, aloof version of Malfoy he used to despise so much, and snapped, “Why do you think I’m here, you idiot?”
Draco, infuriatingly, just raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’re here to beg me for forgiveness. With lavish gifts.”
“Well done, Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin. Though I’ve got to say, after lugging this thing through Customs and the Portkey Bureau, not to mention trying to find this place, I’m hardly in the mood to throw myself at your feet.”
“Oh, forgive me, am I inconveniencing you? Has this been more or less torturous than the time you thought I’d sold you out to the papers?”
Harry wanted to tear his hair out. “You know what, I’m just going to find somewhere to stay tonight and come back tomorrow. There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this.”
“It’s not my responsibility to make this easier for you,” Draco said, entirely reasonably. “You were one hundred percent in the wrong and I am still waiting to hear a proper apology, and preferably a valid reason why you acted like the world’s biggest twat.”
“I really don’t know why I said those things,” Harry lied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out so I don’t do it again - you can ask everyone else if you don’t believe me; they’ve listened to me go on about this ever since you left.” Harry hoped Draco wouldn’t take him up on it, especially if Luna started getting into her theories, but he wanted Draco to realise how seriously he was taking the whole thing. “I was just angry at Parkinson, and at her mystery source, and even at Ginny a little bit, and it all got overwhelming and I took it out on you because you were there, and because I knew you could take it.”
“That sounds fair,” Draco remarked with a sneer.
“It’s not fair. And it’s not exactly what I meant. I’m making such a mess of this.” Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’d read any of the letters it would help; they were a lot more articulate.”
“I highly doubt it,” Draco muttered, and Harry thought - or perhaps just hoped - he could hear some affection in Draco’s voice, and decided to go for it.
“I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t know if anything can excuse what I said. What I do know is that I was wrong, and I’m sorry, and I miss you. The whole sodding house misses you! And I’m certainly not going to be able to make amends if you’re hiding all the way out here.”
“The house misses me?” At that point Harry knew he had Draco’s attention.
“You’re the one who keeps going on about how magical houses have their own personalities, and Grimmauld Place definitely misses you. The plumbing’s been awful, and there’s dust on the doorframes that just won’t budge.” He started to count the list on his fingers. “The sofa cushions keep deflating themselves so I can never get comfortable, the fires are constantly dying out for no reason, the kettle’s started whistling Celestina Warbeck songs when it’s not even on the boil; even the Dreamless Sleep stuff on the bed frame isn’t working any more.”
“Do you think the last one might be your conscience keeping you awake, rather than some kind of house-wide vendetta?” Draco asked, unable to hide his amusement now.
Come to think of it, that made a lot of sense. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”
They actually smiled at each other for a second, and Harry felt calm for the first time in what seemed like ages.
“All right then, Harry. I’m considering accepting your apology… but first, I’m dying to know what’s in that package.”
Harry’s embarrassment returned in full force. “It’s a bit much, really, but Luna kept going on about grand gestures, and I know you’ve wanted this - well, something like this - for ages. It took a lot of negotiating but it’s yours. Kind of a gift to the house, too. I figured maybe it’d start to like me as much as it likes you.”
Draco tilted his head to one side, clearly pondering all the possibilities.
“You should probably open it inside,” Harry added quickly. “It’s under environmental stabilising charms but that might be safest. That’s why I couldn’t shrink it.”
Draco’s eyes widened, realisation starting to dawn. “Harry, what did you do?”
“I couldn’t actually get your favourite: it’s still on display, and it belongs to some anonymous collector who’s even richer than you. But then I spoke to her agent, and threw my name around a bit to get into the studio. It turns out she’s a fan - of yours as well as mine, actually, and of the contents of my Gringotts vault - so she let me take my pick and I just bought the one that felt the most you; I really hope it’s okay.”
“Harry, do shut up, please.” Draco must have got closer while Harry was talking - well, babbling - and he put his hands on Harry’s arms, holding him in place, while he looked him in the eye and asked slowly. “Are you trying to tell me that under that brown paper is an original work by Georgianna Moonstone?”
Harry nodded mutely, idly wondering how much wider Draco’s eyes could get before they popped out of his head, like in the cartoons Dudley used to watch on a Sunday morning.
“You… are the most ridiculous, infuriating, wonderful person I have ever met,” Draco said eventually. He leaned in closer and murmured, “I’d already forgiven you, you know. The chocolate was more than enough.” Then, so quickly Harry wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it, Draco pressed a firm kiss onto his lips, before opening the front door with a flick of his wand and striding inside, with the painting following him obediently.
xviii
“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” Luna said, walking up close to take a proper look.
“Nice?” Draco replied, with barely concealed irritation. “It’s beyond nice. It’s a masterpiece. It’s possibly one of Moonstone’s greatest artistic accomplishments to date.”
Harry tried not to laugh. It had been like this ever since Draco had moved back in: he suspected that in a matter of weeks, everyone they knew would have been forced to traipse up the stairs to Draco’s room and admire his painting.
“Harry, tell her.”
To be honest, Harry did think it was beautiful. The colours were rich and vibrant, but it had enough open areas to balance the intensity. The artist’s signature moonstone-infused pigments seemed at first glance as if they’d been splattered on at random, but when you looked from different angles the areas where they glowed softly were clearly careful and deliberate, to create real depth.
Not that Harry knew the first thing about art. He’d just picked a painting that felt right and looked a bit like Draco’s favourite, ‘Eclipse in Jade’, and then hoped like hell it would fit in the smaller bedroom. It didn’t, really, but Draco had messed about with measuring charms for a while and then announced, “Sod it, it can be its own feature wall,” before letting it take up almost the whole space opposite the bed.
“Draco’s right,” Harry agreed. “In fact, I’m tempted to send an owl to Pansy Parkinson right now and invite her to do that Grimmauld Place special edition, solely in honour of this painting. Maybe Witch Weekly will give us some cash to make up for how high the insurance is on it.”
Draco hit him on the arm lightly. “Harry, don’t be a prick.”
Luna smiled indulgently at them, then turned back to the painting, tilting her head. “It looks like you, Harry.”
Harry tried angling his head to see what she saw, but to him it still looked like colours and shadows and spaces.
Draco was frowning. “It’s abstract,” he told her.
“Which means I can interpret it however I like,” she pointed out, “and it reminds me of Harry. How did the song go, again? ‘His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard’... those colours are here, and here, and there, and it shines like you.”
“‘I wish he was mine, he’s really divine; the hero who conquered the Dark Lord’,” Draco finished, nearly dissolving into hysterics. “That was such a good day.”
Harry groaned - some things definitely did not get less embarrassing with time. How did Luna, who hadn’t even been there at the time, still manage to know all the words to that horrible Valentine? “That’s not green like my eyes, that’s Slytherin green,” he pointed out, trying to change the subject, “and the silver bits are very Slytherin, too. I picked it because I thought Draco would like it.”
“I think he likes it because it looks like you,” Luna said patiently.
Draco’s residual laughter died down, and they all looked at the picture in silence for a moment. “Hold on, I’m starting to see what you mean about it reminding you of Harry,” Draco said eventually. “It’s a successful piece, but you can’t tell how much of that is deliberate and how much is a happy accident. To the untrained eye, it’s also a complete mess. That sums him up, really.”
Harry laughed, slightly indignantly, but Luna didn’t. She just looked at Draco intently. “What’s it like to the trained eye?” she asked.
Before Draco could reply, Sapphy appeared with a crack. Harry never would have pictured himself as a dinner party person, but with her as guest-chef and dining tables that felt a bit too big with just two of them, he actually didn’t mind hosting every now and again. Draco had to stay well away from the kitchen, though: his last and only attempt to cook something more elaborate than a stir fry ended when he launched a tray of potatoes across the room at Harry, yelling, “This is nothing like Potions, you absolute bastard!”
“When Master is ready, lunch is served,” Sapphy said with a sweeping curtsey, before Disapparating back to the kitchen.
“To answer your question,” Draco murmured as he started to usher Luna towards the stairs, “if you know what you’re looking at, it’s spectacular.”
Clearly Harry wasn’t meant to hear that, let alone be able to interpret it, so he chose to ignore both the remark and the weird fluttering feeling in his chest.
“We should get down there,” Draco continued, louder. “I don’t think Weasley will forgive me if the food gets cold while we’re up here ‘making googly eyes at that sodding painting again’.”
Harry cracked up at his spot-on rendition of Ron, who had refused to come and look at it for the ‘millionth time’, and even told Hermione, “If you love me you’ll keep me company down here: I’m starting to think you and Malfoy are going to run off together and move into some poncy art gallery.”
Luna stopped and looked between Harry and Draco. “It’s good that you two are together again. When it was only Harry here, the energy wasn’t right, and it’s not just because of all the Nargles you’ve got in the plants downstairs.”
Harry caught Draco’s eye and grinned, but for some reason Draco’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked away first. “What can I say? This house adores me. I’ve certainly changed things for the better round here."
“Oh, certainly,” Luna replied, casting a meaningful glance back at Harry before she continued seamlessly, “Rolf did tell me last time we were here that he was terribly worried about the Fiddle Leaf Fig in the dining room, though: we think that’s where the Nargles might be. It’s essential you take care of them now, because if they migrate to the Peace Lily your equilibrium may be threatened.”
Harry, feeling slightly off-balance for some reason that probably wasn’t to do with the Nargles, stayed back for a moment to carefully close the door to Draco’s room. It was weird, really, how easily he’d switched to thinking of it as Draco’s. He’d been so worried about moving into what had been Sirius’s room, even more so about letting Draco live just across the hall in Regulus’s, but he could barely recall that anxiety now. Sometimes he would open a door in the house and see a flash in his mind’s eye of what it used to be like, but all that did was make him more amazed at how seamlessly the dark, musty inheritance he’d never wanted had become his favourite place in the world.
xix
“You don’t have to go, you do realise that, don’t you?” Draco asked, handing Harry a glass of wine then pouring one for himself. “You don’t owe her anything.”
Harry brushed his hair back and sighed. He felt as if they had the same conversation every time he saw Ginny. “I know you don’t get it, but it feels like the right thing to do. Yes, maybe part of her does want us to get back together, but I can’t just refuse to see her. We’ve been friends for a really long time.”
Draco scoffed. “As if you’re going to remain friends if you carry on like this. You’ll either grow to hate each other or end up married within a year just because you were too nice to stand up for yourself.”
“Why do you always make it sound like I don’t have a choice in any of this?”
“Because every time she calls, you answer. Every time she Floos in, you stop whatever you’re doing to spend time with her. It’s admirable that you’re trying so hard to do the right thing, but where are your feelings in any of this? You’ve cancelled work drinks more than once because she showed up out of the blue, and been really annoyed about it, if you recall. In fact, you and I are meant to be having Muggle film night this evening, in case you’d forgotten. I got the only white wine you like and everything.” Draco folded his arms and pouted like a child who’d been deprived of his favourite toy. It would have been funny had Harry not felt so horribly guilty.
“I’m sorry. I can stay, if you want? She’s made reservations, but I can tell her I had plans already.”
Draco laughed, slightly unpleasantly. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you in that position. Unlike Ginevra, I won’t take it personally if you have a… scheduling conflict.” He pointed his wand at the half-full wine bottle, floating it along in front of him, and headed out of the kitchen, stopping in front of Harry. He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ll be here when you get back, if you decide you’re finally ready to have an honest talk with someone about all this. I’ll even try not to say I told you so.”
Harry sipped his wine and stared at the door. He knew Draco was right about Ginny - and so were Hermione, and the guys from work, and Pansy sodding Parkinson… even Ron, though he only spoke up when his sister had particularly annoyed him - but he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself. He’d loved her so much, back then, and he did owe her some level of...loyalty, whether his friends could understand that or not.
It had to mean something, though, that every fibre of his being would much rather spend the evening getting slightly pissed and listening to Draco Malfoy’s commentary on Muggle cinema.
xx
“I know that with my job too it’s a bit trickier, but I’ve been feeling loads better about the future - Harry, are you listening?”
Harry wasn’t entirely listening, but he gave himself a pass because Ginny had been saying the same thing in different ways since they’d sat down. “I’m listening, Gin, but -”
“No, don’t ‘but’ me. We’ve been going round in circles. I love you and think we would be great together, but for some reason you refuse to give it another try. Instead, we’re ‘trying to be friends’ or ‘seeing how it goes’, or whatever you want to call it, as if we don’t know each other inside and out.”
“That’s just it, Gin, we don’t know each other inside out any more.”
“That’s rubbish and you know it. You just don’t want to commit to me. You’re scared of marriage and kids and being a grown-up, but you don’t see that it’s another adventure for us to go on together.”
Harry could picture it, and she was right, it did scare him. He imagined standing by her side, seeing their children off on the Hogwarts Express, hating the fact that they were old enough to leave, because now he’d be alone at home with Ginny. Ginny, the supposed love of his life, who didn’t want to hear about his job because she found Auror work unnecessarily dangerous after their experiences in the war. Ginny, who didn’t want to meet his colleagues for that same reason, but forced him to have dinner with all her teammates, which he hated, because they were always on strict athletic diets and only wanted to talk about tactics.
“I don’t want that,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I don’t want that. Marriage, kids, everything else. I don’t want that with you.”
She stared at him, clearly trying not to cry, and he felt awful that one of the toughest people he knew had been reduced to tears by his words.
He pushed his hair off his face and forced himself to look at her. He knew that he owed her a proper explanation, something definitive and final, as much as he hated the idea of hurting her. “We’ve already tried and it’s not right between us. Our lives, our jobs, everything - they don’t work together. And neither do we, any more. I thought we agreed on that.”
She wiped the tears from her face and lifted her head up - Harry was proud, if he had any right to be, that everything they’d been through hadn’t diminished her strength. “I just… it all seems so perfect, in my mind. Like our future’s mapped out for us. I know it feels like ages ago that the war ended and you had to suddenly be an adult really fast, but it wasn’t. We’re only just starting to figure out who we are and who we can be together, and I think you’ve been too quick to write us off.”
Harry stared at her. “Gin, I’ve spent most of my life living what was mapped out for me, and it didn’t make me happy, a lot of the time. You and I were best together together when we were friends, and I reckon if we carry on like this, we won’t even be able to salvage that much.”
Ginny didn’t reply, just grabbed her bag and stood up. She paused, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end just squeezed his hand, hard, and was gone.
He was relieved, yes, but the adrenaline rush of finally saying the words, finally standing up for what he wanted - or didn’t want - wore off quickly and he just felt empty. Tired, drained, sad that someone so important to him for so long had drifted so far away. Witch Weekly were going to have a field day, too, which only made the whole thing worse.
xxi
After the evening he’d had, Harry was hoping to come in quietly and just go to bed without rehashing every detail of the disastrous dinner - but this was relying on Draco Malfoy not being a nosy bastard, and was, Harry realised, a plan doomed from the start.
“You’re home early,” Draco commented from the sofa when Harry Flooed in.
“Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt - whatever you’re doing,” Harry replied lamely. Draco had clearly abandoned film night - it was rubbish by yourself anyway - and surrounded himself with dozens of seemingly identical fabric swatches. At that point Harry neither knew nor cared what so much yellow was doing in his drawing room.
“I’m trying to narrow down the curtains for Greg and Millie’s nursery, and you are a welcome distraction.” Draco put down the sample he was holding and looked at Harry for an uncomfortable moment. “You look like hell; what happened?”
Harry waved him off, “Oh, you know, just... a bad evening. I’m gonna make some tea and head to bed I think, do you want a cup?”
“Bad how? What happened with Ginevra?”
“She hates you calling her that, you know.”
“And I hate that she makes you come home looking ten years older. What happened?”
“I really don’t want to go into that now. You said you were here to talk if I’m ready, and I’m not ready for anything except a good night’s sleep.” Harry turned from the room and started towards the kitchen.
He made it about two steps before somehow - did he Apparate? - Draco was in front of him, arms folded. “I’m not trying to be pushy. But this thing with Ginevra - I don’t even want to call it a friendship - is making you miserable, and not only does that make the mood in this house oppressive and uncomfortable for me, but also -” Draco paused, put his hands on Harry’s shoulders to stop him from pushing past and running away - “every time you come home you just seem sadder and sadder, and I can’t sit back and watch anymore. She’s holding you hostage, and you deserve better.”
Harry could barely speak, just shook his head. "I told her how I feel, and I really think she got it. I’m not sad, not really. I know everyone seemed to think it was ‘meant to be’ or something, and it definitely wasn’t - but I’ve closed the door completely, now, and it’s hard. I suppose my future’s really all up to me, and this just makes it even more obvious that I haven’t got a clue what to do with it.”
Draco looked just as lost as Harry felt, and Harry couldn’t read his expression, couldn't look away. “I’m not going to be another person who tells you how to live your life. But, if I know one thing, it’s that you made the right choice. Ginny Weasley could never make you happy.” Draco closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “But I can.”
Harry knew his shock must show on his face. They’d been ignoring this, this thing between them for so long that sometimes Harry was sure it was all in his head. He just stared at Draco, watched as he licked his lips, swallowed, and repeated, more confidently this time, “I can make you happy. If you’ll let me.”
Harry wanted to cry, to run away, to throw his arms around the man in front of him and never let go... but all he could do was stand there, frozen, as Draco gently moved his hands up to Harry’s face, cradling his jaw as if he were something precious. Harry felt paralysed as Draco held his gaze and moved in closer, and it seemed like a lifetime before Draco’s lips brushed against his. Draco pulled back, just for a moment, resting their foreheads together, searching Harry’s eyes for some kind of signal.
Only then did something in Harry snap, and he was leaning in and suddenly he was kissing Draco Malfoy - holy crap, he was kissing Draco Malfoy - long and hard and deep, and somehow his arms ended up round Draco’s waist, pulling them even closer.
When they eventually broke apart, there was a kind of awe on Draco’s face and Harry knew his expression was the same.
“This is really happening,” Harry found himself muttering, as if still unsure, and Draco’s only response was to nod, whisper Harry’s name, and lean in to kiss him again.
Hours could have passed for all Harry knew as they stayed locked together, sometimes taking a moment to stare at each other in affirmation, but mostly just kissing each other as if it were as essential as breathing, trying to get as close as possible. Harry felt that maybe, if they did this long enough, it would somehow make up for all the time they’d lost by pretending this heat, this tension between them wasn’t there.
Some part of Harry eventually found the wherewithal to ask, “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”
“Not that I don’t want to - because I very, very much want to,” Draco replied, stroking Harry’s cheek, “but are you sure? You’ve had a stressful evening, and I understand if you’re not ready for anything else right now.”
“Draco. You’re being... weirdly nice, and I appreciate that after the night I’ve had, but right now I need you to shut up and come to bed with me.”
Draco laughed breathlessly. “Have I told you lately that I adore you?”
Harry was shocked. “I don’t think you’ve told me that ever.”
“Well, I do, you know.” Draco brushed back a lock of Harry’s hair, which promptly flopped back over his face.
Harry swallowed, feeling exposed, but managed to hold his gaze. Clearly seeing whatever he was looking for, Draco hugged him tight, and with a familiar crack they Apparated into Harry’s bedroom.
Harry let Draco push him back onto the bed and climb on top of him, and this was far, far better than before, feeling the weight of Draco’s whole body pressed against him, but it still wasn’t enough. He started trying to open Draco’s shirt, but the tosser always wore these expensive faerie-made things with stupidly tiny buttons.
He heard himself almost growl in frustration, and Draco said, “If you even think about tearing it, there’ll be hell to pay,” before somehow undong the whole thing one handed, and pulling Harry to sit up so he could tug his t-shirt over his head.
Although Draco wasn’t doing much flying or anything near Harry’s punishing training regime, he was still really bloody fit. The manual parts of his job were paying off especially, Harry observed, because Draco had very nice arms. He didn’t think he’d ever paid attention to anyone’s arms before… but then again, he hadn’t ever paid that much attention to another man’s body before. When he thought about it, though, his girlfriends had always been slim and athletic, too; perhaps he had a type. If he did, Draco was the perfect example; all pale and lean and gorgeous.
He was surprised to find that the faded Dark Mark on those amazing arms didn’t really bother him; but the feathery Sectumsempra scars down Draco’s chest did, and he took his time to kiss them, as if in penance.
“Sorry,” he said, and Draco tugged him into another intense kiss.
“Believe me, I’m over it,” he murmured reassuringly,
Harry was torn, as he pulled Draco back down, between wanting to get his hands and lips on every inch of skin and the need to look into Draco’s eyes, kiss his lips, reaffirm that this was actually happening between them; and every time they made eye contact, Draco was smiling that rare, fond, beautiful smile.
Harry thought he knew all there was to know about Draco, so it was exhilarating to learn that kissing the side of his neck made him inhale sharply, and that biting his ear elicited this choked-off gasping noise, which may have been Harry’s new favourite sound in the world. Even though - or perhaps, precisely because - they had spent years trading slurs and insults, there was something especially thrilling about Draco’s familiar cut-glass accent muttering swear words under the onslaught of pleasure.
They were both breathing heavily with the intensity now, hips rocking together, and Harry needed more, needed to feel all of Draco’s skin against his own, some coherent part of him aware that coming in his pants like a teenager wasn’t exactly what he wanted for their first time together.
He fumbled with Draco’s fly, and once again Draco took pity on him and undid it himself, climbing back off the bed to pull his trousers off and tugging at Harry’s, raising an eyebrow at Harry’s ratty old boxer shorts.
“It’s not like I was prepared for this, okay? Next time I’ll do laundry before I let you accost me,” Harry said defensively.
Draco just laughed, and Harry found himself laughing too - had he ever felt this joyful in bed with someone before? - stopping only to gasp when Draco pressed a proprietary hand onto his dick. Draco’s expression turned more intense, and he squeezed again with a smirk before bending down to pull Harry’s pants off completely.
Harry’s immediate instinct was to try and hide from the scrutiny, but there was nowhere to go, and it was reassuring and terrifying all at once to see Draco looking at him as if he were a three course meal, his eyes darting between Harry’s face and Harry’s dick, indecisive.
“Shit, I want -” he began, and leaned down to kiss Harry’s lips, his neck, his chest, his belly - Harry absently felt relieved that he still kept up with his training exercises; how embarrassed would he be right now if he’d skipped all those crunches? - sucking and licking and biting so slowly and intently that Harry thought he was going to lose his mind before finally, with no warning, he took Harry’s dick into his mouth.
Harry gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. He found himself muttering, “Fuck, please,” with no real idea what he was asking for other than for this not to end. He reached one hand down to push through Draco’s hair, pulling it out of its tie so it fell loose around his face. Though his eyes kept trying to close with all the sensations racing through him, all Harry wanted to do was keep watching: the sight of Draco, messy and gorgeous, sucking Harry’s dick with single-minded focus, just turned him on even more. He was practically hyperventilating, hips thrusting up into that warm, wonderful mouth almost of their own accord, and just when it was all getting to be overwhelming Draco sat back up, and Harry practically whined with disappointment.
“I’d much rather keep my hair back while I’m doing that, you know,” Draco said with no real reproach. He pulled off his own underwear, and Harry took a moment to admire the view before tugging Draco back down on top of him so they were pressed together, skin on skin, from head to toe, and this was what Harry wanted, not quite as good as Draco’s mouth - how could it be, really? - but amazing in its own right; every inch of him against every inch of Draco, perfectly matched.
Their kisses were sloppier now, hot and intense and messy, sometimes more like breathing the same air than actually snogging as they rocked against one another, the friction of their dicks pressing together at the centre of Harry’s awareness.
He was getting close again now, and he wanted Draco right there with him, so he reached one hand down between them and curled it around Draco’s dick. The angle was awkward, and Harry was vaguely aware that he had no idea what was doing, but he didn’t let that bother him as he followed his instincts, touching Draco as he would himself, and he was rewarded with gasps and a litany of, “Please, please, please...”
Then Draco reached down, too, and it was cramped and awkward and wonderful as they jerked each other; eyes fixed on one another, wrapped so tightly together that Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began, and suddenly it was all too much. He tried to tell Draco that he was coming but he couldn’t form words before his orgasm overtook him, but it was okay because Draco was crying out and shuddering against him, too, and he could feel them both shaking until the pleasure started to subside and reality crept back in around the edges of his awareness.
Draco lay down, still smiling, and stretched like a satisfied cat. “I think I left my wand downstairs,” he said eventually, gesturing between the two of them “Do you mind?”
Harry’s brain started working again and he leaned down to fumble for his wand in the pile of clothes, relieved to find his glasses down there too, perfectly intact. He cast a quick cleaning charm before flopping back onto the bed. Draco curled against him, head on Harry’s shoulder, their legs tangled.
“I can’t believe…” Harry began. “I mean, this. That was… You...”
“Articulate as ever,” Draco observed.
“Shut up,” Harry replied, turning to kiss him. “You’re going to be even more insufferable now, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said with a yawn. “I’m a delight. You love me.”
“Yeah.” Harry knew it was written all over his face. Everything he’d buried; everything he felt about Draco was right there in the open, and somehow, he wasn’t scared at all. “Yeah, I do, actually.”
“Good,” said Draco softly. “Same.”
“I know you love yourself,” Harry replied automatically, trying to adjust his pillows without dislodging Draco, who had made himself comfortable against Harry’s side, as if he were exactly where he belonged.
“This is what I get for trying to be nice,” Draco complained. “Maybe I should go back to being a total prat to you.” His voice changed to the sneer Harry remembered from school. “Of course I love myself, Potter; what’s not to love? I have a marvellous job, excellent bone structure, two living parents, and a bigger penis than you.”
Harry couldn’t keep a straight face. “Low blow, Draco, low blow.”
“Don’t worry; there aren’t any grounds for complaint,” Draco said with a small smirk. “Besides, I love you, remember?”
Harry felt as if his heart were going to beat its way right out of his chest. Somehow it was different to hear the words themselves, even though Draco had already sort of told him.
“I love you, too,” he whispered, tentatively.
Draco tightened his grip on Harry for a moment. “I must admit that I’m impressed,” he murmured eventually. “I was a little afraid I’d have to spend most of tonight nursing you through some kind of sexual identity crisis.”
Harry thought about it, because he hadn’t before. Then again, maybe that was because there wasn’t anything to think about. “You’re you,” he said simply, by way of explanation.
He was rewarded with that beautiful, soft smile, and leaned in for a long, deep kiss.
“We should get some sleep,” Harry said, reluctantly. “Bank Holiday pub crawl tomorrow.”
Draco groaned. “Do we have to? I have some much better ideas for how to spend the day, and they all involve staying in this bed.”
“It’s your tradition,” Harry pointed out.
“It’s Blaise’s tradition,” Draco corrected him. “Merlin knows why he started inviting your lot.”
“It’s because he thinks Ron’s a hilarious drunk. He’s not wrong.”
Harry remembered the first pub crawl: he’d been at the bar in The Thunderbird, trying to appear sober enough to order another round, when he’d looked at everyone and got a bit teary thinking how proud Dumbledore would have been of the inter-house unity. He’d said as much to Ron, who proposed a round of shots in Dumbledore’s honour, and it all got rather blurry from there.
“I don’t care how funny it is watching Weasley get smashed,” Draco said petulantly, “you can’t expect me to spend the whole day out drinking with our friends and not be able to touch you.”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to touch me?” Harry asked with a frown.
“Because, as much as I adore you, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to tell everyone we know about this before we’ve even been together for a day.”
“That makes sense,” Harry admitted, “I haven’t really got my head round it yet.”
Draco started laughing and Harry looked at him, confused. “‘Getting your head round it’ was one of my many exciting bedroom plans,” he clarified with a smirk.
Harry blushed. “I’ve no idea how to go about doing that,” he admitted.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“I know that, but…”
“Teeth behind your lips, breathe through your nose. Beyond that, it’s all down to practice. Trust me, I’m willing to let you dedicate many long, hard hours to practice.”
Harry knew he was still blushing, and was thankful that Draco had decided to punctuate his instruction with kisses against Harry’s collarbone rather than looking him in the eye. Somewhere between the thought of doing that and the sensation of Draco’s lips and teeth and tongue across his chest, Harry was starting to get turned on again. He gently tugged on Draco’s hair, drawing him up for a proper kiss. Draco made a small, incredibly hot moaning noise in the back of his throat, so Harry pulled his hair again, lightly, and was delighted to elicit the same response.
“We’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” Harry said, without a hint of remorse.
Draco laughed and kissed him again, deep and wet and filthy. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
xxi
They were at the fifth pub, pleasantly buzzed (and totally exhausted) when Harry realised just how bad an idea this was. It wasn’t only the fact that Sneezewort was a terrible microbrewery-cum-garden that made its own beers, inspired by commonly-used potions (Harry would rather be drinking drain cleaner than Skele-gro Stout): he was also having a very hard time keeping his hands off Draco.
Luckily, they were sitting next to each other, so it was easy to press their legs together under the rather cramped table with no one raising an eyebrow, but Draco looked especially gorgeous in the afternoon sunshine, and some of his shiny blond hair had come out of its ribbon on the walk over from the Leaky. It was taking all Harry’s willpower not to reach out and tuck it behind his ear: he absolutely couldn’t do that, though, because if he did he’d end up caressing Draco’s face, and then kissing him, and then trying to climb onto his lap and finish what they’d started this morning, before they heard Hermione’s shrill voice from the Floo downstairs telling them off for being late.
Focus, he thought. He tried to take an interest in the heated argument Draco was having with Hermione about house-elf living quarters.
“I’m just saying that any responsible decorator would be considering their needs.”
“I do consider their needs - and I can tell you for a fact that house-elves don’t need wardrobes. They don’t own any clothes!”
“I know that; it’s the principle of the thing.”
“Nutters, both of them,” Ron said from across the table.
“I can’t believe they’ve been going on about this for an hour already,” Zabini added in despair. “Weasley, can’t you call her off?”
“Impossible, when she gets going.” Ron was gazing at Hermione fondly. “Why don’t you just ask Malfoy to stop winding her up?”
“No one’s got that kind of power,” Zabini replied sadly, turning to his other side and starting a discussion with Goyle and Bulstrode about baby names.
“Draco,” Harry murmured, nudging him with his elbow.
To his surprise, Draco stopped in mid-sentence and turned to look at Harry, raising an eyebrow in question.
“How did he do that?” Zabini asked in awe.
“He’s the Malfoy whisperer,” replied Ron, giggling slightly over his Pepper-Up Pilsner.
Harry wasn’t really paying attention to the rest of the table, though, because now Draco was focused entirely on him, his gaze flicking down to Harry’s lips, and how they had thought they could keep this to themselves for even a few hours was beyond him.
“Oh,” said Hermione, rather loudly.
Harry could feel himself blushing, and Draco sighed with exasperation, but then smirked at Harry as if in challenge. Harry felt himself grinning back, wondering if he was really going to start snogging Draco Malfoy in the middle of the world’s worst beer-garden. When their lips met, it was to a chorus of shrieks and catcalls from their friends, and Harry didn’t care one bit.
When they finally broke apart - Harry was proud of them for finding the willpower to stop before things got too far, though he still found himself having to remove his hand from up Draco’s shirt - everyone at the table was staring.
“When did this happen, then?” asked Zabini.
“About eighteen hours ago,” Draco admitted.
“It’s been going on for ages,” Luna added calmly, “they were just being oblivious.”
Harry turned his attention to Ron, who was gawking at them in horror. “You and Malfoy. You,” he pointed at Harry, “and Malfoy,” he pointed at Draco, “together.”
“Ron,” Hermione said patiently, “we’ve talked about this.”
“You have?” Harry interjected.
“Of course we have, Harry,” she replied, as if it were perfectly obvious. Harry was amazed that the urge to run and hide was only now setting in. “Now, Ron, be nice.”
“I’m happy if you’re happy,” Ron recited dutifully. “If it’s possible to be happy with...him.”
“Weasley,” Draco interjected, thankfully sounding amused rather than insulted, “I’m sitting right here.”
“I can see that,” Ron said miserably, eying the arm Draco had draped around Harry’s shoulders with distrust.
“You’re lucky this place is so crap,” Zabini pointed out. “If there were any photographers around, you two would be toast.”
“Oh,” said Harry, “I hadn't even thought about that.”
“Really?” Draco asked, and Harry shook his head. “You’re an unbelievable idiot sometimes,” Draco told him affectionately.
“Do you think at any point in the last day I’ve been able to think clearly enough to come up with a PR strategy?” Harry retorted. Even Draco flushed at this, and Harry felt vindicated that he wasn’t the only one dying of embarrassment right now.
“Too much information, mate,” he heard Ron say in a strangled voice.
“Just one of the many, many reasons you’re lucky to be with me,” Draco announced, “is that you don’t have to worry about things like that: I’ve come up with a strategy for you. You’re not going to like it, though.”
xxii
The Boys Who Lived...Together?!
By Pansy Parkinson
Our first look inside the Potter-Malfoy residence reveals far more than just impeccable decor!
For a long time, readers of Witch Weekly and Witch Weekly Homes have been dying to see inside Harry Potter’s London residence, formerly the home of the esteemed Black family. At the end of last year, it underwent a complete renovation at the talented hands of Draco Malfoy, who even moved into the premises in order to fully oversee the project.
Draco, who was recently awarded ‘Designer of the Year’ by WWH, has remained living in the Islington home following its completion in May, citing the strain of commuting from his mother’s house on the continent.
Since its completion, neither Draco nor Potter have been willing to allow the press to see inside the house: Amelia Emmensworth, a former reporter for WW who tried to take a photograph through one of the front windows, was allegedly transfigured into a goat for her efforts. Ms Emmensworth declined to comment for this piece: rumour has it that she is still unable to complete a sentence without bleating.
This week, however, as a close personal friend of Draco Malfoy, I was granted exclusive access to the house (along with our trusty photographer Derek!), and even an interview with Potter himself. Potter has refused to respond to any of WW’s recent stories, including his former girlfriend Ginny Weasley’s whirlwind romance with her Quidditch coach and his friend Hermione Granger’s (suspiciously rapid) rise to power within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I was keen to give him a chance to go on the record and give our readers some exclusive insights into his home life.
This Sunday’s Witch Weekly Homes Special Edition contains twenty-six pages of high-quality images of the home, and there is very little my descriptions can do to reflect Draco’s extraordinary success in creating a space that is functional yet elegant, comfortable yet refined. It speaks to Draco’s ability to work with difficult clients that the house manages to retain the spirit of Potter’s notoriously relaxed style but also reflects Draco’s own, more elevated aesthetic.
While officially WW was not given access to the third and fourth floors of the house, privately I knew Draco wouldn’t mind me having a quick look. The master bedroom on the third floor is skillfully done: while the inviting queen-sized four-poster bed, clearly one of Draco’s iconic hand-crafted pieces, is the main feature of the room, my eye is immediately drawn to the way light from the large south-facing window creates a beautiful interplay with an intriguing piece of artwork on the wall, which appears to be an authentic Georgianna Moonstone. It sits perfectly in the space, not dominating but drawing one’s eye: it’s almost disappointing to see it juxtaposed against the pale gold paint, though this contrast is by no means as incongruous as the burgundy armchair in the corner. While the classic Phoenix Tear lamp floating above does help to create a very cosy reading area, I can’t help feeling that Draco may have let deference to his Gryffindor client override his normally unerring sense of colour in this instance.
On the fourth floor are the two final rooms; one of which is clearly Draco’s bedroom, judging by the snakes present throughout the decor and the warm grey walls - though this has widely become a trend in design circles, it was of course pioneered by Draco in his unforgettable transformation of the Zabini family’s summerhouse. I am somewhat surprised to see the room so sparse, empty but for the luxurious bed with matching nightstands, and a wardrobe worthy of any member of the WW Best Dressed List: it has been masterfully Expanded and houses a number of exquisite designer dress robes (see p.23 for this week’s Disrobed, in which our fashion experts turn their well-trained eyes on Draco Malfoy himself!).
As I move on, I am even more surprised at the second room on this floor. Perhaps it is intended to be an office of some kind, but even so it’s unexpectedly Spartan. Like the bedroom downstairs, its walls are gold, and its furnishings are all handcrafted in luxurious hardwoods, bringing an air of maturity to Potter’s own design sensibilities. These are limited, however, to a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, and a desk, above which are numerous pictures of Potter’s friends and family. My intention to peruse Potter’s reading material is sadly cut short by the menacing movements of a wooden stag figurine, which appears to be patrolling the shelves.
I ponder my findings as I descend the stairs, ready to interview Potter. While the decor is remarkable, more interesting to me, and to WW’s devoted readers, is the relationship between Draco and Potter. In all the years I’ve known Draco, I’ve witnessed many conflicts between the two of them, and many of our mutual friends have confessed to me that they’re concerned about the unusual friendship. “When the two of them are together, they bicker constantly,” one source told me. “It’s exhausting really; feels like we’re still at school.”
Talking to the pair, however, they dispute this.
“When I asked him to move in, I really didn’t expect us to get along this well,” Potter tells me. “I just thought it was ridiculous that he was travelling to and from his mum’s every day when I had so many spare rooms so close to his work. But I’ve got to say, it’s worked out brilliantly.”
“I suppose we do bicker sometimes,” Draco admits, “but there’s nothing malicious in it at this point. I imagine us more like an old married couple.”
“Steady on,” Potter says, “it’s a bit soon to be talking about marriage, isn’t it?”
I am on the edge of my seat. “Care to clarify that for my readers?”
Draco takes Potter’s hand. You could knock me down with a quill.
“It’s a bit unusual for couples to talk about marriage when they’ve only been together for a month,” Draco tells me. “At some point, maybe.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Potter says, smiling at Draco.
I try to stay composed so I can gather all the facts, but even to someone who’s known Draco for such a long time this news is entirely unexpected. “How would the two of you define your relationship?”
“Romantic,” says Draco.
“I assume it’s serious,” I continue, despite his laconic answer, “as the two of you have clearly moved into the master bedroom together.”
“I told you we should have put some jinxes on the stairs,” Potter tells Draco. I remind them that I can (and probably will!) print everything they say.
“That is a bit of a shame,” Draco confesses, “because the fourth floor was looking wonderful. There is far better light for the Moonstone downstairs, though. Since Pansy’s already been nosing around, I suppose we can allow some photographs now.” (See next page for our unique peek into Harry Potter’s bedroom - you’re welcome, readers!)
“You and that painting,” says Potter. I for one am shocked at the dismissive tone he uses to refer to an artistic masterpiece, but Draco seems surprisingly tolerant, and is looking at Potter with uncharacteristic fondness.
“You love it, too. Harry gave it to me,” he tells me proudly, “as a grand romantic gesture.”
I am admittedly impressed that this piece was selected by Potter. It seems he does have some good taste after all, and it clearly goes beyond art: I’m sure our readers will agree that he has excellent t in men, too!
“That’s not quite -” Potter begins, but Draco cuts him off.
“It was, and you know it,” he says, holding Potter’s gaze before leaning in to kiss him.
Luckily for our readers, as you’ve doubtless seen on this week’s cover, the inimitable Derek returned from the master bedroom just in time to capture this tender moment.
I decide to take my leave at this point, with assurances from the couple that Witch Weekly will be the first to hear when wedding bells are in the air.
I remain shaken by this unexpected revelation as I depart.
“I suppose you can’t ever know what’s going on behind closed doors,” Derek tells me.
“No, you can’t,” I agree. But, as you know, dear readers, you can always rely on Witch Weekly to find out.
Don’t forget to pick up your special edition of Witch Weekly Homes this Sunday to see all the pictures of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s stunning residence.
In the rest of Witch Weekly: our experts examine the contents of Draco Malfoy’s bathroom to let you into all his haircare secrets (p.44)! Plus, Madam Mimosa turns her third eye upon Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter: what could be in store for the happy couple? All will be revealed on p.55…